Analytic and Continental Philosophy

Publications of the Austrian

Ludwig Wittgenstein Society
New Series (N.S.)

Volume 23
Analytic and
Continental
Philosophy
Methods and Perspectives. Proceedings
of the 37th International Wittgenstein Symposium

Edited by
Sonja Rinofner-Kreidl, Harald Wiltsche
ISBN 978-3-11-044834-4
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Table of Contents

Sonja Rinofner-Kreidl & Harald A. Wiltsche

Introduction 1

Wittgenstein

Peter Hacker
Can You Have My Pain? 11

Martin Kusch
Wittgenstein’s On Certainty and Relativism 29

Christian Helmut Wenzel

Wittgenstein and Free Will 47

Joachim Schulte
Wittgenstein’s Last Writings 63

Metaphilosophy and Methodology

Dan Zahavi
Analytic and Continental Philosophy: From Duality Through Plurality to (Some
Kind of) Unity 79

Charles Siewert
For Analytic Phenomenology 95

Steve Fuller
Towards a New Foundationalist Turn in Philosophy: Transcending the
Analytic-Continental Divide 111

Guillaume Fréchette
Two Phenomenological Accounts of Intuition 129
VI Table of Contents

Julia Jansen
Imagination and 4E Cognition: An Analytic-Continental Exchange 143

Thorsten Streubel
Intuition und Argumentation – zum Verhältnis von intuitiver und diskursiver
Vernunft 157

Uwe Meixner
Truth against Reason, and Reason against Truth 173

Philosophy of Mind

Jan Slaby
Don’t beep me, bro’! – A Worry About Introspection 187

James N. McGuirk
Metaphysical and Phenomenological Perspectives on Habituality and the
Naturalization of the Mind 203

Thomas Fuchs
Embodied Knowledge – Embodied Memory 215

Michel Bitbol
Panpsychism in the First Person 231

Karl Mertens
What Is It Like to Be an Angel?
The Importance of Corporeally-Situated Experience for Our Concept of
Action 247

Social Philosophy and Collective Intentionality

Thomas Szanto
Do Group Persons have Emotions – or Should They? 261

Alessandro Salice
Collective Intentionality and the Collective Person in Max Scheler 277
 Table of Contents VII

Hans Bernhard Schmid

Being Well Together – Aristotle on Joint Activity and Common Sense 289

Michela Summa
Pretence and the Inner. Reflections on Expressiveness and the Experience of
Self and Other 309

Hanne Jacobs
Socialization, Reflection, and Personhood 323

Robert Hugo Ziegler

‘Vaulting Ambition’ – Machiavelli’s Emtpy and Impure Concepts 337

Ethics and Value Theory

Marcia Baron
The Distinction between Objective and Subjective Standards in the Criminal
Law 351

Inga Römer
Gibt es einen kantianischen Intuitionismus in der Ethik? 369

Roberta De Monticelli
Sensibility and Values Toward a Phenomenological Theory of the Emotional
Life 381

Kathi Beier
Stolz und Vorurteil. Über einige Schwierigkeiten der ethischen
Selbstbewertung 401

Index of Names 413

Index of Subjects 419

Sonja Rinofner-Kreidl & Harald A. Wiltsche
Introduction
Much ink has been spilled over attempts to specify the nature and significance of
the infamous distinction between continental philosophy (henceforth: CP) and an-
alytic philosophy (henceforth: AP). In the eyes of some, the AP/CP distinction does
not merely reflect gradually different orientations within one discipline. Rather, CP
and AP are sometimes said to be more like incommensurable paradigms, each con-
stituting fundamentally distinct modes of thought that have little, if anything, in
common. According to Michael Dummett, for instance, “[i]t’s no use now shouting
across the gulf [because] we have reached a point at which it’s as if we’re working in
different subjects” (Dummett 1993, p. 193). More recently, Anthony Quinton has ex-
pressed similar sentiments, writing that there is “no perceptible convergence be-
tween the two philosophical worlds” (Quinton 2005, p. 172). And A.J. Ayer’s autobio-
graphical remarks about his interactions with Maurice Merleau-Ponty seem to
corroborate both Dummett’s and Quinton’s views:

We did […] attempt it [to find some common ground for philosophical discussion] on sev-
eral occasions, but we never got very far before we began to wrangle over some point of
principle, on which neither of us would yield. Since these arguments tended to become
more acrimonious, we tacitly agreed to drop them and meet on a purely social level,
which still left us quite enough to talk about. (Ayer 1977, p. 285)

If we take all this at face value, then contemporary philosophy indeed appears to
be “A House Divided” (cf. Prado 2003). However, as our cautious tone already
indicates, we are not entirely convinced that this is really the case.¹ Perhaps

 It is interesting to note, however, that those who believe in the existence of two in-
commensurable philosophical paradigms hardly ever offer arguments as to why this should
necessarily be a bad thing. Looking at the history of the sciences, for instance, we find several
examples of conflicting paradigms that battled for ascendancy and definatory power at the same
time. In many cases, the differences extended well beyond the level of theory-construction and
involved fundamental questions concerning methodology, standards of rationality or divergent
views about what constitutes scientific evidence, thus making cross-paradigmatic communica-
tion a real challenge. Would anyone be surprised if, say, Galileo had complained that he and his
Aristotelian opponents “have reached a point at which it’s as if we’re working in different
subjects”? Of course, the point is not to draw conclusions about philosophy on the basis of the
historical record of the sciences. The point rather is that competing frameworks can instill a
fruitful dynamics in pondering philosophical issues and can push ahead philosophical debates
even on condition that the opposing parties do not directly interfere with one another. Though
framework transgressing recognition of peers is no trivial problem that deserved separate dis-
2 Sonja Rinofner-Kreidl & Harald A. Wiltsche

the picture of two neatly separated camps is, at least in part, an illusion or, as
one nowadays prefers to say, a collective narrative. Of course, it makes sense
to ask for the functions such narratives meet. In our view, there is overwhelming
evidence that these are primarily institutional and practical functions in a wider
sense. To draw a clear-cut distinction between AP and CP may help, for example,
in understanding how academic networking, research dissemination strategies
and job markets function. But there are good reasons for being skeptical
about whether the distinction bears much philosophical impact. It is remarka-
ble, for instance, that although the distinction is still widely used, no one
seems to know how to draw it in a sufficiently clear and non-arbitrary way. As
a former organizer of the International Wittgenstein Symposium has rightly ob-
served, one feels reminded of Saint Augustine’s puzzlement about the concept of
time (Reicher 2005, p. 12): As long as we are not asked what it is, we seem to un-
derstand the AP/CP-distinction perfectly well; but if we are pressed to explain it
in detail, we find it hard to give a satisfactory answer.
In our experience, philosophy students are able to determine the extensions
of the terms “AP” and “CP” at a relatively early stage of their studies. AP is, they
seem to learn, the kind of philosophy we find in the writings of Frege, Russell,
Carnap, Quine, Davidson, Kripke or Anscombe. And, in the vast majority of
cases, it is also the sort of philosophy that is encountered when browsing
through the latest issues of Mind, Philosophical Studies or Nous. CP, on the
other hand, is what students are told to find in the writings of Heidegger, Sartre,
Jaspers, Gadamer, Derrida, Foucault, Deleuze or Butler. There are, to be sure,
tricky cases such as Husserl, Rorty, Feyerabend or Wittgenstein. But, by and
large, it is, it seems, not too much of a challenge even for undergraduates to
put a given philosopher in one of the two available boxes.
But what are the grounds on which these (or slightly different) classificatory
schemes work? We all know that there exist several well-known stereotypes about
what it takes to belong to either of the two camps: Depending on one’s own prefer-
ences, AP is characterized by its rigour, its clearness, its level of sophistication, or by
its dullness, its artificiality and its remoteness from real-life problems. CP, on the
other hand, is characterized by its concreteness, its relevance for fields outside of
philosophy, its rootedness in the life-world, or by its obscureness, its lack of preci-
sion and its hostility to science. But it is clear that none of these characterizations is
sufficiently neutral or precise to serve as a basis for a classificatory practice that is
worthy of a discipline like philosophy.

cussion, it is indeed sometimes enough to notice an opponent’s radically different views to feel
pressed to work hard on one’s own arguments.
 Introduction 3

Perhaps it is more promising to distinguish between AP and CP on the basis

of the topics they typically address. According to Simon Critchley, for instance,
CP is “marked by a strong consciousness of history” (2001, p. 57). But, although
there is certainly some truth in this, consciousness of history is hardly exclusive
to thinkers associated with CP. As early as in 1962 Norwood Russell Hanson
claimed that, while “history of science without philosophy of science is blind,
[…] philosophy of science without history of science is empty” (1962, p. 580).
In the meantime, after the pioneering work of Imre Lakatos, Thomas Kuhn,
Ernan McMullin and others, a strong consciousness of history is commonplace
in philosophy of science – an area usually regarded as one of the strongholds
of AP. On the other hand, it is simply not true that all philosophical movements
that are usually associated with CP show a particular interest in history that goes
beyond the usual backward looking “identity construction”, i. e., historical legit-
imization of one’s own philosophical project. Such identity construction, though
it may include considerable efforts in terms of fencing-off opposite traditions
and enclosing relevant historical forerunners, does not necessarily indicate “a
strong consciousness of history”. In any case, this holds if “strong” is meant
to express a serious interest in history as a self-standing object of philosophical
concern and analysis. For instance, such a strong and systematic interest certain-
ly is a driving force behind Heidegger’s philosophical work. Yet this interest is of
a very specific stamp. It must not be understood in terms of an interest in the
history of philosophical (or other) ideas which Heidegger refers to as “history”
(Geschichte), but in terms of a historically unfolded existentialist interpretation
of temporality (Geschichtlichkeit). It is only the latter that, according to Heideg-
ger, is a philosophical topic or, to be more precise, philosophy’s very origin. (It is,
of course, part of the history of the AP/CP divide to quarrel about the precise
meaning of “precise” methods of doing philosophy. Among the contested mean-
ings that are proposed on part of CP, as indicated in the present context, are the
following: “being faithful to the phenomena” and “authentically responding to
the phenomena”.) As distinct from this Heideggerian engagement with Ge-
schichtlichkeit, Husserl’s early anti-historicist and his later recourse to so-called
intentional history in his Crisis both are motivated by a far more restricted the-
oretical concern for history. The latter still is guided by distinctions (e. g. between
static and genetic modes of analysis) that Heidegger, from a thoroughly critical
point of view, would consider representative of Husserl’s life-long struggling
for a “philosophy as science”. The upshot of this very roughly sketched compar-
ison of Husserl’s and Heidegger’s stake in history is that merely indicating a
more or less strong or conspicous interest in history cannot do the job of clarify-
ing the AP/CP divide. As soon as we try to specify the respective interest in his-
tory we, once again, realize that our expectation to approach a clear-cut demar-
4 Sonja Rinofner-Kreidl & Harald A. Wiltsche

cation between AP and CP is bound to be frustrated. Rather, it turns out that, as

far as the philosophical relevance of history is concerned, there is much more
disagreement than agreement within the camps of both AP and CP.
Another frequently heard proposal is that the development of AP is deeply
influenced by the “linguistic turn” that was prompted by the writings of Frege,
Russell and Wittgenstein and that shifted philosophical interest towards con-
cepts and language. According to Michael Dummett, for instance, “what distin-
guishes analytical philosophy […] from other schools is the belief, first, that a
philosophical account of thought can be attained through a philosophical ac-
count of language, and, secondly, that a comprehensive account can only be
so attained” (Dummett 1993, p. 4). However, in our view, this proposal is no
more convincing than the previous one. Firstly, it is commonly agreed that phi-
losophy of language lost its place at the center of AP during the 1970ies. Al-
though the study of language is, of course, still part of the canon, its leading
role has been superseded by philosophy of mind, epistemology and metaphysics.
Secondly, several philosophers in the continental tradition took language no less
seriously than their pre-Quinean colleagues in AP. Gadamer’s claim that “man’s
relation to the world is absolutely and fundamentally verbal in nature” (Gadam-
er 2004, p. 471) or Derrida’s remark that “there is no outside-text” (Derrida 1976,
p. 158) may serve as a case in point.
Yet another suggestion is to look for meta-philosophical differences in order to
draw a meaningful distinction between AP and CP. However, this suggestion, too, is
fraught with difficulties. As far as AP is concerned, a natural assumption would be
to regard the method of analysis as basic for philosophical inquiry. But this provokes
a number of obvious follow-up questions: What, precisely, is analysis? And what is
it that ought to be analyzed? Is the analysandum of AP linguistic in nature? Without
doubt, many (though not all) proponents of AP in the first half of the 20th century
would have answered in the affirmative. But as indicated earlier, it is no secret that
the analysis of language (ideal or ordinary) has lost its supremacy in AP. Conceptual
or linguistic analysis has been supplanted by, for instance, “the method of thought
experiments or, as it might also be called, the appeal to conceivability arguments”
(Massey 1991, p. 287). More recently, proponents of the so-called “X-phi”-movement
even went one step further, urging analytic philosophers to “employ methods that
are better suited to the careful study of philosophical intuitions, namely, the meth-
ods of the social and cognitive sciences” (Alexander 2012, p. 28). As one would ex-
pect, the situation is no less complicated in CP. Here too, one is faced with a ple-
thora of different methodological approaches, ranging from intentional analysis
over deconstruction and hermeneutical interpretation to different varieties of a pri-
ori and/or transcendental reasoning.
 Introduction 5

Where does all this leave us? Is the point of the previous remarks that there is
nothing to say about the AP/CP distinction except that it is still a powerful institu-
tional, sociological and psychological factor in professional philosophy? Not quite.
For one thing, it would be somewhat incongruous to assemble an anthology on a
topic that the editors believe to be unworthy of philosophical attention from the
very start. Secondly, we do not deny that attempts to chart the contemporary phil-
osophical landscape will have to acknowledge real divergences in philosophical
outlook and method – divergences that are not wholly reducible to sociological
factors alone. Yet, what we are skeptical of is the idea that issues pertaining to
the AP/CP distinction can be fruitfully discussed in abstracto, i.e. independently
from the actual contents over which philosophers working in different frameworks
disagree. On our view, a more productive way to bridge existing rifts in contempo-
rary philosophy is to identify concrete topics of shared interest and to reconstruct
the ways in which these topics are introduced and analyzed within different phil-
osophical frameworks. Of course, it would be naïve to assume that this approach
is capable of doing away with all disagreements and disputes that separate mod-
ern philosophy. This, however, is not the point. Our hope is rather that working
through concrete problems will lead to a more realistic and less ideologically
biased assessment of the AP/CP divide.
In general, talk about different frameworks may turn out to be useful and
protective by warding off too naïve a comparison. Take for instance the issue
of intentionality which, at first glance, seems to represent a topic that is perfectly
suited to bridge the gap and reunite the opposing parties. However, the mere fact
that we find core groups of philosophers on both sides of the AP/CP divide who
are concerned with this topic does not indicate substantial agreement on the un-
derstanding of intentionality. Let us pick out one crucial issue. While advocates
of AP tend to deal with issues of intentionality and phenomenality as if they
marked two neatly separable problems of a philosophy of mind, phenomenolo-
gists usually argue that the variety of intentional modes of being directed at dif-
ferent things and states of affairs (or different aspects thereof, respectively) is in-
trinsically connected with varying modes of phenomenality. Given this basic
difference, one may broach the issue whether intentionality, typically conceived
of in AP style, and intentionality, typically conceived of phenomenologically,
really does represent the same phenomenon. Contrary to the opponent’s best in-
tentions and (largely or mostly?) unnoticed by them, “dialogue” und mutual ap-
proachment may easily turn into talking past each other.
Similar objections suggest themselves if we, for instance, take note of the gap
that opens up on occasion of discussions on truth. In AP it has been considered nat-
ural to stick to a propositional framework when dealing with truth. Relevant parts of
CP have resisted to follow this prevailing approach. As Heidegger has shown in his
6 Sonja Rinofner-Kreidl & Harald A. Wiltsche

famous § 44 of Being and Time, it is a core interest of his specific brand of a phe-
nomenological ontology to make explicit those presuppositions that one must al-
ready have acknowledged in order to ponder truth exclusively in terms of the doc-
trine of propositionality. Hence the obvious fact that advocates of AP and CP use a
partly overlapping philosophical terminology (e. g. referring to “consciousness”, “in-
tentionality”, “phenomenality”, or “truth”, “evidence”) does not at all convey sub-
stantial agreement on how to take a grip on the problems at issue and how to figure
out their nature and impact. There is no easy way of understanding relevant differ-
ences between AP and CP. Among others, one has to be cautious not to overlook
deep differences lurking behind a terminological surface that seems to partly coin-
cide though this may turn out to be entirely illusive. On the other hand, one must
not ignore or deny similar methodological interests or similar philosophical theses
(e.g. Frege’s and Husserl’s objections against logical psychologism) even if they do
not fit into the same overall philosophical projects. The gist of the above is that there
is ample room for misconceiving the relation between AP and CP because (dis)
agreement does not come wholesale. Entering a more detailed comparison and dis-
tinguishing different types and different levels of (dis)agreement it therefore does
make sense to argue that we both risk to overlook deep disagreements and to falsely
assume total disagreement. In our understanding, presumptions about the so-called
gap between AP and CP are less interesting if they are uttered at the level of a gen-
eral idea of doing philosophy. What is much more important and informative is to
dig into concrete philosophical stuff and to deliver fine-grained comparisons that
bring to light similarities and differences, and do so with regard to particular topics.
We appreciate that virtually all contributors who devote their papers to the
general conference topic have followed our lead to address the AP/CP-distinction
by focussing on concrete problems rather than by discussing it in the abstract.
We are aware of the fact that this way of approaching the issue may not be
the most straightforward one. We believe, however, that opting for a less direct
route is sometimes necessary in order to prevent oversimplifications, sterile di-
chotomies and ideological entrenchments.

Bibliography
Alexander, Joshua (2012): Experimental Philosophy. An Introduction. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Ayer, A.J. (1977): Part of my Life. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Critchley, Simon (2001): Continental Philosophy. A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Derrida, Jacques (1976): Of Grammatology. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press.
Dummett, Michael (1993): Origins of Analytic Philosophy. Cambridge: Harvard University
Press.
 Introduction 7

Gadamer, Hans-Georg (2004): Truth and Method. London/New York: Continuum.

Hanson, Russell Norwood (1962): The Irrelevance of History of Science to Philosophy of
Science. In: The Journal of Philosophy 59/21, pp. 574 – 586.
Massey, Gerald J. (1991): “Backdoor Analyticity”. In: Tamara Horowitz & Gerald Massay (eds.):
Thought Experiments in Science and Philosophy. Savage: Rowman & Littlefield,
pp. 261 – 272.
Prado, C. G. (ed.) (2003): A House Divided: Comparing Analytic and Continental Philosophy.
Amherst: Humanity Books.
Quinton, Anthony (2005): Continental Philosophy. In: Ted Honderich (ed.): The Oxford
Companion to Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 161 – 163.
Wittgenstein
Peter Hacker
Can You Have My Pain?
Protagonists:
Gottlob Frege
John Searle
Ludwig Wittgenstein
Peter Strawson
Wolfgang Künne

The setting is an Oxbridge Common Room in Elysium, where the shades of the
dead and of the living are conversing after dinner. The French window is open
to a great lawn, and the stars are just beginning to show in the twilight. All ex-
cept Wittgenstein are seated in comfortable, dark brown leather armchairs,
around a low table on which their post-prandial drinks are placed. Wittgenstein
is seated on a wooden chair, drinking a glass of water. Frege is smoking a pipe.
There are some books on the table, some of them open.

Wittgenstein: You know, philosophical problems really are like knots we tie in our
understanding. The smaller the knot, the harder it is to unravel. If you tug on the
thread, the knot gets smaller and smaller – and it becomes the very devil to untie.

Frege: Ja, Wittgenstein; we all know that you spin lovely metaphors and similes.
What exactly do you have in mind?

Wittgenstein: Well, actually, I was thinking of something you wrote?

Frege: So! And what displeased you?

Wittgenstein: Oh no – what you wrote did not displease me. In fact, it intrigued
me. Language lays the same traps for us all, but we do not all fall into them. If
you, of all people, fell into this one, then it must be very hard to avoid. In your
paper, “Der Gedanke” (“Thoughts”), which, you may remember, I didn’t like at
the time, you wrote:

Even an unphilosophical man soon finds it necessary to recognize an inner world distinct
from the outer world, a world of sense impressions, of creations of his imagination, of sen-
sations, of feelings and moods, a world of inclination, wishes and decisions.
12 Peter Hacker

and you went on to call the inhabitants of this “world” of yours “ideas”.

Frege: Ach, Wittgenstein – it is not just my world. Everyone has such a world. It
is the world of consciousness. And what this world contains are objects that are
of a mental nature. In this I am in agreement with your John Mill.
[He leans forward and picks up an open copy of Mill’s An Examination of Sir
William Hamilton’s Philosophy from the table]
Here is what he wrote

I observe that there is a great multitude of other bodies, closely resembling in their sensible
properties […] this particular one, but whose modifications do not call up, as those of my
body do, a world of sensations in my consciousness. Since they do not do so in my con-
sciousness, I infer they do it out of my consciousness, and that to each of them belongs
a world of consciousness of its own, to which it stands in the same relation in which
what I call my body stands to mine, […]. Each of these bodies exhibits to my sense a set
of phenomena (composed of acts and other manifestations) such as I know in my own
case, to be effects of consciousness, and such as might be looked for if each of the bodies
has really in connection with it a world of consciousness.

So Mill. Now surely, what he says is undeniable! I disagree with John Mill about
the nature of logic and of number, but I am in complete agreement with what he
says here.

Searle: Yeah! I think that John Stuart Mill and Frege here are right. But I think
that we can now put it more precisely. I don’t much like this talk about worlds
– I think that there is only one world. As Virginia Woolf said “One of the damned
things is quite enough”. But there are things in the world belonging to different
ontological categories. There are objective things, and there are subjective things.
And by this I don’t mean epistemic modes – as when we distinguish between
subjective opinion and objective fact. What I mean are ontological categories.
Now what Frege calls “ideas” are in fact conscious experiences or conscious
states. What I am talking about, and what you [he turns to Frege] and Mill
were talking about, is ontological subjectivity. What characterizes all conscious
phenomena is subjectivity. Consider, for example, the statement, “I now have
a pain in my lower back”. That statement is completely objective in the sense
that it is made true by the existence of an actual fact and is not dependent on
any stance, attitudes, or opinions of observers. However, the phenomenon itself,
the actual pain itself, has a subjective mode of existence.

Künne: John, I really don’t understand what you mean by “subjective mode of
existence”.
 Can You Have My Pain? 13

Searle: OK, let me put it differently. We’re talking about conscious states. All
conscious states have a qualitative character that is experienced by the person
that has them – by the subject. Conscious states are ontologically subjective.
Consciousness has a first-person ontology. It exists only as experienced by a
human or an animal subject and in that sense exists only from a first-person
point of view.

Wittgenstein (indignantly): A first-person point of view? What is a first-person

point of view? When you have a pain, do you have it from a point of view? I
know what it is to express a judgement from a moral, or a political, or an eco-
nomic point of view – or from my own point of view, when I give my opinion.
But what it is to have a pain from a point of view!!

Strawson: (trying to calm him down) Wittgenstein, I sympathize with your objec-
tion to the phrase – but it really doesn’t matter, and it will divert us from our
theme – which is what Searle is calling “ontological subjectivity”. What is
your reaction to what Searle said, Frege?

Frege: I think that what Searle is saying is very similar to what I wrote in my old
paper that Wittgenstein didn’t like. Let me put it so: physical objects are actual
and objective. Abstract objects are no less objective – they are real, but non-ac-
tual. But objects in the inner world are quite different. They are subjective – as
Searle says. I wrote, “It seems absurd to us that a pain, a mood, a wish, should
go around the world without an owner, independently. A sensation is not possi-
ble without a sentient being. The inner world presupposes somebody whose
inner world it is.” Maybe Searle is right that talk of worlds here is misleading.
What I meant was that, for example, one cannot find pains in the room –
only people in pain. One cannot find hopes or fears in the cupboard – only
cups; or perceptual experiences in the street – one can only have them in the
street. What I meant by “inner objects” are conscious experiences that essential-
ly belong to someone. Ideas or conscious experiences are had. So, for example,
one does not perceive one’s perceptual experiences – one has them. What one
perceives are what one’s experiences are experiences of, but one has the experi-
ences. Ideas or experiences are essentially owned. Things of the outer, physical
world, are essentially independent.

Searle: Yeah, that’s what I meant when I said that subjectivity is an ontological
category. Experiences have a subjective mode of existence. They exist only when
they are experiences had by a human or animal subject. In this respect they dif-
14 Peter Hacker

fer from nearly all of the rest of the universe, such as mountains, molecules, and
tectonic plates, which have an objective mode of existence.

Frege: So. Now, such inner objects are not only owned, they have only one owner
and they cannot change ownership. I cannot transfer my ideas to you. One can-
not bring together in one consciousness a sense-impression belonging to one
consciousness and another sense-impression belonging to another conscious-
ness. An object within one inner world – such as my pain – can no more
enter another inner world than it can escape to the outer world.
Now, just as mental objects need an owner, so too, they cannot have more
than one owner and cannot change owners. That is why I wrote “Nobody else
has my pain. Someone may have sympathy with me, [He chuckles] but still my
pain belongs to me and his sympathy to him. He has not got my pain, and I
have not got his feeling of sympathy.” [He laughs] Not only can’t you have my
pain when I have it, you can’t have my pain even when I cease to have it! If I
cease to have a pain, then it ceases to exist – the pain has not only passed, it
has passed away. [He chuckles again; the others laugh. Wittgenstein isn’t amused.]

Wittgenstein: Frege, do you really not see any difficulty here? Why can’t I give
you my pain? Is it because it is so difficult? Could I try to give you my pain?

Frege: Ach, Wittgenstein – can’t you see that it is not possible. You can kick your-
self in the shins and then kick me in the shins – but your pain will be your pain
and my pain will be mine.

Wittgenstein: You mean that it is “metaphysically impossible” to give you my pain?

Searle: Well, I don’t know about metaphysically impossible – but it is certainly

ontologically impossible. It is just a plain fact that pain has a subjective mode of
existence. Now, what does this mean? It means that because of its subjective
mode of existence, its existence is a first-person existence. It must be somebody’s
pain; and this in a much stronger sense than the sense in which a leg must be
somebody’s leg, for example. Leg transplants are possible; in that sense pain
transplants aren’t. This is a general truth about conscious states. I have a special
relation to my conscious states, which is not like my relation to other people’s
conscious states. And they in turn have a special relation to their conscious
states, which is not like my relation to their conscious states.

Frege: Ja, Ja. That’s right.

 Can You Have My Pain? 15

Wittgenstein: No, no. It’s not right at all! It is not as if we could conceive of un-
owned pains, only we don’t come across any. Nor is it as if we can’t come across
unowned pains because of some limitation in our constitution. We don’t even
know what it would be like to come across a pain that wasn’t someone’s pain. If
someone were to say “I found a pain under my bed yesterday”, we should have
no idea what he meant. What Searle calls “ontological impossibility” is not a pos-
sibility that is impossible. So both of you have to explain what this impossibility
is. After all, it is not a brute fact that could be otherwise – it seems to be a
super-fact, a meta-physical fact. And neither of you have explained what that
means.

Strawson: Well, I agree that invoking metaphysical or ontological possibilities and

impossibilities is unhelpfully mystifying. It is not something I go in for at all. I think
that Frege and Searle have not really got to the bottom of the matter. For the issue is
not an ontological or metaphysical one. It is, in a generous sense of the term, a log-
ical one. It is a matter of the identification and re-identification of particulars.
It is not helpful to say that it is impossible for there to be an unowned pain,
or that it is impossible for me to have Frege’s headache – for all that does is to
leave us bewildered by the nature of these putative impossibilities. The truth of
the matter is that it makes no sense to speak of pains that are no one’s pains, or
to suggest that the identical pain which was in fact one’s own might have been
another’s. We are not up against adamantine impossibilities. Rather, we have ar-
rived at the bounds of sense. I hope you will indulge me a little and allow me
read to you what I wrote on the matter years ago in my book Individuals, for I
don’t think I could put it better today.
[He leans forward and picks up a copy of Individuals from the table and pages
through it until he finds the passage he is looking for]
Yes, here it is on page 97. This is what I wrote:

We do not in fact have to seek far in order to understand the place of this logically non-
transferable ownership in our general scheme of thought. For if we think […] of the require-
ments of identifying reference in speech to particular states of consciousness, or private ex-
periences, we see that such particulars cannot be identifyingly referred to except as the
states or experiences of some identified person. States, or experiences, one might say,
owe their identity as particulars to the identity of the person whose states or experiences
they are. From this it follows immediately that if they can be identified as particular states
or experiences at all, they must be possessed or ascribable […] in such a way that it is log-
ically impossible that a particular state or experience in fact possessed by someone should
have been possessed by someone else. The requirements of identity rule out the logical
transferability of ownership.
16 Peter Hacker

It seemed to me then, and it seems to me now, that this logical account renders it
perfectly intelligible that we should say that there cannot be unowned pains,
and that another person cannot have my pain, while avoiding the dubious intel-
ligibility of appealing to metaphysical or ontological impossibilities. The appa-
rent impossibility is actually a limitation of sense which is not an arbitrary con-
vention, but has its rationale in the requirements of reference and identification.
Pains, and experiences in general, are identifiability-dependent upon the per-
sons whose pains and experiences they are.
[He lights a cigarette, inhales slightly nervously, and looks at Wittgenstein]

Wittgenstein: I see. [Pause. He puts his face in his hands. ]

We must think this through. [Another pause]
Now, Strawson has nicely transformed what appeared to be a meta-physical
mystery into a logical, or as I would prefer to put it, a grammatical, claim

Strawson: [sotto voce] I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.

Wittgenstein: [continues, without paying attention to Strawson’s muttering] … a

grammatical claim of identity-dependence of pains on owners. He thinks that
the identity of pain turns on whose pain it is, and therefore another person
can’t have my pain. I may have a headache. If you also have a headache, it
seems, we call what you have “another headache”, and we do not say “You
have my headache”. This is because the identity of the particular that is your
pain depends upon your identity. So I can’t have your pain. Now, trying to getting
rid of meta-physical necessities is no doubt admirable. But have we put the ques-
tion marks deep enough down?

Künne: Can’t Strawson’s argument be strengthened by reflecting on pain-loca-

tion? It is clearly constitutive of physical pain to have a bodily location. It always
makes sense to ask “Where is the pain?” or “Where does it hurt?” – and many
pains are differentiated by their bodily location. One can’t have a headache in
one’s back or a backache in one’s head. The location of pain is obviously one
criterion of identity of pain. So, if Jack has a toothache and Jill has a backache,
then they certainly have different pains, since a backache is a different pain from
a toothache. Now, if you grant this much, then you must surely grant that two
people can’t have the same pain. For Jack’s pains are the pains in his body
and Jill’s pains are the pains in her body. And Jack’s body is different from
Jill’s body. If there is a pain in Jack’s knee, it is Jack’s pain. Jill may have a similar
pain in her knee. But since her knee is not Jack’s knee, the pains are in different
places. So it is obvious that two people can’t have the identical pain. Difference
 Can You Have My Pain? 17

of location surely implies numerical difference of pains. Their pains may be qual-
itatively identical, but they can’t be numerically identical. They are, as Strawson
says, different particulars. They are owned by different people and they have dif-
ferent locations.

Wittgenstein: Hmm. Philosophers should greet each other with the words “Take
it slowly”. We must slow down. [He takes a sip of water and pauses for thought]
We distinguish, with respect to things like chairs, between the same and
being exactly alike. This chair [he thumps the chair he is sitting on] is the very
same chair I sat on last night when we were talking about logical connectives.
It hasn’t even been moved from its place. But if it needs repair, it can be replaced
with another chair from the same set that is exactly alike. Now, what makes it
possible to draw this distinction in this kind of case?

Strawson: Well, it is surely this: material objects consist of matter. The chair you
are sitting on consists, let us suppose, of fifteen pounds of mahogany. The other
chairs of this set likewise consist of fifteen pounds of mahogany. But of course,
the wood from which your chair is made is a distinct specific quantity from the
specific quantities of wood from which the other chairs are made. Two chairs
are material space-occupants of the same general kind, but they consist of differ-
ent specific quantities of matter that cannot occupy the same place at the same
time. But, of course, the chairs may, to all intents and purposes, share all their
other properties. So they are numerically distinct, but qualitatively identical.

Wittgenstein: Hmm. That is on the right lines, although the jargon may be mis-
leading.
We do distinguish, when we speak of things like chairs, between being the same
and being exactly alike. If you wish, you may dress that up in the jargon of numer-
ical identity as opposed to qualitative identity. But that can be misleading.

Strawson: Why so? I don’t see anything misleading here.

Wittgenstein: Look! Replacing the expression “the same” by “identical” or “nu-

merically identical” is a typical expedient in philosophy. It makes it look as if we
were talking about fine shades of meaning, and are just looking for the right
words to hit on the correct nuance. But that is not what is going on here at all.
What is going on here is the transposition of an element of one language game
into another, where it has no place – like introducing a knight piece into draughts.
It is much easier to tempt ourselves that the headache that two different peo-
ple have is qualitatively the same but numerically distinct than it is to persuade
18 Peter Hacker

ourselves that they are exactly similar but not the same. We are perfectly familiar
with the distinction between being the same and being exactly similar in the do-
main of things like chairs. We are not familiar with its application to experiences
in general or pains in particular. We know what it is for two people to have the
same headache, but if we are told that A’s headache is exactly similar to B’s, but
nevertheless different – we would not understand what we were being told. If
your headache and my headache really are exactly similar, we should naturally
respond, then there is no difference between them.

Künne: Of course, pains are not material things. It is people’s bodies that are
material things. And two people cannot occupy the same space at the same
time, just as two chairs cannot occupy the same place at the same time. Now,
isn’t there at any rate an analogy with pains? You are sitting over there, and I
am sitting here. Suppose you have a pain in your knee, and I have a similar
pain in my knee. Then you have a pain in a different place from me! The
pains may be exactly alike, that is, to use the jargon you dislike, they may be
qualitatively identical, but they are obviously not the same – they are numerical-
ly distinct, since your pain is in your knee and mine is in my knee.

Wittgenstein: All right. Let’s not quarrel over the jargon. First of all, reflect on how
we determine the location of another person’s pain? It is clear that the criterion for
where a person has a pain is where he says it hurts, where he points when he’s
asked where it hurts, and what part of his body he assuages. If two people say
that their knee hurts, if they both point at their respective knees when asked
where it hurts, or if they both rub their respective knees to assuage their pain,
then each has a pain in the knee. And now, isn’t this what it is for different people
to have a pain in the same place? Isn’t this exactly what we call ‘having a pain in the
same place’? So isn’t wrong to say that different people cannot have a pain in the
same place because their bodies are in different places?

Frege: Now, Wittgenstein, it is you who is going too fast. [He relights his pipe and
puffs on it] All your argument shows is that in ordinary language the phrase
“pain in the same location” means the same as “pain in the corresponding loca-
tion”. But as I wrote many years ago, “Someone who wants to learn logic from
language is like an adult who wants to learn how to think from a child. When
men created language, they were at a stage of childish pictorial thinking. Lan-
guages are not made so as to match logic’s ruler.” A corresponding location is
NOT the same location!
 Can You Have My Pain? 19

Wittgenstein: Well, I disagree with your attitude towards ordinary language and
towards logic. But we don’t want to go down that road now. Let me show you
that the business of location is not the real issue here. There is an easy way to
sidestep the matter of location. Suppose two Siamese twins are joined at the
knee. If both have a pain at the point of juncture, then they both have a pain
in the knee. But now it is the very same knee to which they point when asked
where it hurts. Here one cannot say that twin A can’t have the same pain as
twin B, because A’s pain is in his knee and B’s pain is in his knee, for they
have the very same knee. So if they describe the pain in exactly the same
terms, must you not admit that they have the same pain?

Frege: No! – I don’t see that at all. A cannot have B’s pain, and B cannot have A’s
pain. That’s the end of the matter. Another person’s pain is another pain!

Wittgenstein: Good. Very good. [He pauses for thought, hand on brow]
What your response shows is that the question of pain-location is really a
red-herring. The decisive point that moves one to deny that different people
can have exactly the same pain has nothing to do with the location of pain. It
is because, as one insists Mine is mine, and yours is yours. What determines
the identity of a pain is above all the person. Having a pain, Strawson suggested,
is a matter of logically non-transferable ownership. So two people cannot have the
identical pain, only a similar one. Is that not what you want to argue, Strawson?

Strawson: Yes. That is indeed what I thought, and I am still inclined to think it
now. You can’t have the same pain as I – the numerically identical pain – be-
cause you can’t own my pain. But, of course, you can have the qualitatively iden-
tical pain.

Wittgenstein: Yes. [He gets up to pour himself another glass of water from the jug
on the sideboard, takes a sip or two, and stands still, thinking for a few moments.]
You all seem to agree on three points. First, that to have a pain is to stand in a
relation to what Strawson calls a “particular”. I won’t say anything about the
idea of a particular, Strawson, although I have grave qualms about it. Secondly,
that this relation is a relation of ownership. And that thirdly, this kind of own-
ership is logically non-transferable. Now, … where should we begin? … [He paus-
es, and then sits down again]
Let’s first enquire into the notion of “logical ownership”. Ordinary ownership is
a legal relation between a person and the thing owned. The car I have belongs to me
– it’s mine. But I might sell it to another. Then it will belong to him – it will be his.
20 Peter Hacker

So ownership is transferable. I might share my car with another. Then we would

both own – both have – the very same car. So ownership is shareable.
Now, how do we come by the idea of logical ownership of pain, or, more gen-
erally, of experience? We think that having a pain signifies a logical relation of
ownership between the sufferer and his pain, just as having a car signifies a
legal relation of ownership between an owner and a chattel. Similarly, we
think that the car’s being mine signifies a legal relation of possession, and so
too, the pain’s being mine signifies a logical relation of possession.
[He pauses, holding his head in his hands]
Look! We might say that possession is the representational form of experi-
ence (and hence too of pain). This is how we present pain to ourselves in the
grammar of our language, just as we present meaning something by what we
say in the form of an act, and we present thinking in the form of an activity.
But surface grammar here is deeply misleading. It is remarkable how the auxil-
iary verb “to have” can lead us astray. Someone’s having chattels is indeed a re-
lation of ownership between a person and his chattels. But we also speak of hav-
ing a father and siblings, and we speak of “my father” and of “my sisters”. This
does not signify any relation of ownership, but filial and fraternal relationships.
We speak of having a promissory obligation. That too is a relation, but not a re-
lation of ownership. It is not a relation between us and what we have, namely an
obligation. It is rather a normative relation between us and the person to whom
we made the promise. We speak of having in hundreds of other different kinds of
case in which having does not signify ownership of any kind. And in many cases,
such as having a sharp tongue, having a sense of humour, having a good mind,
having a good time, having a train to catch, not only is no ownership is in ques-
tion, no relation of any kind is in question either.

Searle: But Professor Wittgenstein, can’t you see that each one of us, each sub-
ject of experience, stands in a special relationship to his or her experience. OK,
you convince me that talk of ownership here may be misleading. But still, the
relation of every person to their own experience is unique. Now I don’t mean
that each person has what used to be called privileged access to their own expe-
rience and only to their own experience. I agree that this is just another can of
worms. And I don’t mean that each person can introspect their own and only
their own experiences. That’s just another confused metaphor. What I mean is
that experiences, and consciousness in general, are essentially subjective.
They have a first-person ontology. They exist only as experienced by a human
or animal subject.
 Can You Have My Pain? 21

Wittgenstein: Well, if you mean that sentient beings are sometimes in pain, that
when they cut themselves in the hand, their hand hurts – and that trees and
stones are not sentient beings, and so there is no such thing as a tree’s hurting
itself or a stone’s being in pain, then of course that is correct. If you mean that
when I injure myself, I am in pain and you are not, then that too is normally cor-
rect. But that does not imply that having a pain is a relation between a person
and a pain.
To have a headache is for your head to ache – but is that a relation? Between
your head and its aching? If you cut your hand, your hand bleeds. Is that a re-
lation between your hand and bleeding?

Searle: But what about conscious experience in general. Isn’t it obvious that
each person stands in a special relation to his own conscious experiences?
The person who has an experience feels the qualitative character of that very ex-
perience – and no one else does. That is the subjective character of experience.

Wittgenstein: We shall have to talk more about the qualitative character of ex-
perience. But, honestly, not now. Look, to have what you are calling a “conscious
experience” is not to stand in a relation to something called an experience. To
experience fear, or joy, or anger is to be frightened, joyous, or angry. To have a
visual experience is to see – but it is not to stand in a relation to seeing. Of
course, it may also be pleasant or unpleasant – but to enjoy looking at some-
thing is not to stand in any relation to looking. But let’s leave all these side-
roads for some other evening, and get back to our high-road.
To have a pain is not to stand in a relation to a pain. Pain is not a relatum –
it is not a kind of object at all. That is why I wrote in my Investigations that pain is
not a something, although, of course, it is not a nothing either. To have a pain is
not to own anything.

Strawson: [lighting another cigarette] I can see that the terminology of owner-
ship is perhaps misleading. But it seems to me that I can abandon this unfortu-
nate turn of phrase, and yet still continue to argue that different people cannot
have the same pain – the numerically identical pain – since pains are identity-
dependent upon the person who is suffering. We can only refer to a particular
pain in so far as we can identify the person who has the pain. We can only iden-
tify a particular pain by reference to who has it.

Wittgenstein: Let’s pause a moment and see where we’ve arrived. We know from
the Siamese twins that the question of pain-location is really not the crucial
issue. We’ve cast doubt on the idea that having a pain is a relation between a
22 Peter Hacker

sufferer and a pain. We’ve repudiated the thought that the subject of pain is the
owner of pain. Good. [He pauses]
Now, what remains of the claim that my pain must differ from yours – that
we cannot have the very same pain? If my pain tallies with yours in phenomenal
qualities, such as burning, throbbing, stinging, nagging, if it has the same inten-
sity, and has a corresponding location, what differentiates my pain from yours?

Frege: Wittgenstein, you are just going round in circles. You have come back to
the original point I made: You can’t have my pain, because mine is mine and
yours is yours!

Strawson: Or to put it in the logical mode: pain is identifiability-dependent

upon the person who has the pain. That is why different people can of course
have an exactly similar pain – that is, a qualitatively identical pain – but not
a numerically identical pain.

Wittgenstein: Yes, that is the heart of the matter. What this amounts to is that
the property that differentiates my pain from yours is the property of being
mine. That is, even if there is no difference between my pain and your pain in
respect of location, intensity and phenomenal characteristics, still it is a different
pain because your is yours and mine is mine. Someone might even say that by
Leibniz’s Law that makes it a different pain. But this, in effect, is to treat the sub-
ject of pain as the differentiating property of the pain. But that is absurd. I am not
a property of my pain. Nor is being mine. A substance is not an identifying prop-
erty of its properties. Nor is belonging to a given substance an identifying prop-
erty of its properties. Let me explain.
Belonging to me can be said to be a property of my car, precisely because
legal ownership is a genuine relation. Belonging to me is a relational property
of my car, which the car now has, and will lose when I sell it. But, as we have
seen, belonging to me is not a property of my pain, precisely because having a
pain is not a relation and a pain is not a relatum.
Look: to say that being mine or being yours is a relational property of a pain
is like saying that an identifying property of the brown colour of your armchair is
that it belongs to your armchair. No one would want to say that – for then you
would have to say that your armchair cannot have the same colour as my arm-
chair. One can’t argue that two different objects can’t have the same colour be-
cause the colour of A belongs to A and the colour of B belongs to B. That is ab-
surd, because it treats the chair – or “belonging to the chair” – as a
differentiating property of its colour.
 Can You Have My Pain? 23

Searle: Yeah, why not? The colours are different tokens of the same colour. The
token colour of this chair is a different token from the colour of that chair.

Wittgenstein: No, no. Perhaps we can accept Peirce’s distinction between type
and token words – although it is not without its problems. But how could we dis-
tinguish type and token colours? If there are three blue patches on the wall and
two red patches – there are five different coloured patches, but only two different
colours, not five. Types and tokens are just a red-herring.
Now, if two objects have a colour of the same hue, intensity and saturation,
then they have the same colour. The distinction between being identical and
being exactly similar but not the same has no application to colours – or for
that matter to weights or lengths.

Strawson: Wittgenstein, I don’t quite see. And I can’t see that you have shown
that I was mistaken to say that pains are identifiability-dependent on the subject
of pain. Surely, we cannot identifyingly refer to particular experiences, such as
pains, or visual experiences, or emotions, except as the states or experiences
of some identified person.

Wittgenstein: Well, of course I can refer to your headache and then go on to say
that it is getting worse. But do you mean that the phrase ‘my pain’ or ‘your pain’
identifies a pain?

Strawson: Quite so.

Wittgenstein: But not at all! Does the phrase ‘the colour of Smith’s chair’ iden-
tify a colour? When I tell you that I want to buy cushions that are the same colour
as Smith’s chair, do you know what colour the chair is? The phrase “The colour
of Smith’s chair” does not identify a colour at all – and no more does the phrase
“my pain” identify a pain. “My pains” – what pains are they? What counts as a
criterion of identity here? – Certainly not being mine! If I tell you I have a pain,
you still have no idea what pain I have, just as if I tell you that I have a coloured
glass goblet, you do not know what colour the goblet is. You don’t “identifyingly
refer to a colour” by the phrase “its colour”.

Strawson: But surely there is a difference. Material particulars can be identified

and referred to without reference to any other kind of entity. That is why I wrote
that material objects are basic particulars in our conceptual scheme. By contrast,
individual events and processes are dependent particulars – for they can be
identifyingly referred to only by reference to the material things – the substances
24 Peter Hacker

– that are undergoing change. The event or process of this chair changing its col-
our is identified by reference to the chair whose colour fades. It is a different
event or process from that chair’s fading – precisely because they are different
chairs, and the processes of fading are identified by reference to the two different
chairs. Now isn’t it just like that with pains or experiences?

Wittgenstein: Why should it be? A pain is a sensation, not an event. You may
have a pain in your tooth, but a pain in your tooth is not an event in your
tooth. The occurrence of a sharp stab of pain in your tooth might be said to be
an event – but the pain you have is not an event. If your toothache gets
worse, it is not an event that gets worse, and a throbbing toothache is not a
throbbing event. After all, the colour of your hair is not an event, even though
your hair’s changing colour – being dyed for example – is.

Künne: Professor Wittgenstein, I think that you are mistaken. Of course, we say
such things as “Ann and I have the same pain, a throbbing headache in the tem-
ples”. But if this were a true identity statement to the effect that Ann’s pain is my
pain (rather than to the effect that the kind of pain Ann has is the kind of pain I
have), then her pain could not have begun before mine, it could not get worse
without mine getting worse, and an executioner could remove her headache
by beheading me. Now, in your Blue Book dictation, on pages 54– 5, you said
that this is no argument. But I don’t think that is much of a counter-argument.

Wittgenstein: Of course it is no argument! The counter argument is obvious! If by

‘a true identity statement’ you mean an identity statement such as ‘This is the
same chair as the one you saw in the auction last week – I bought it’, then of
course ‘I have the same pain as you’ is not what you are calling a true identity
statement. For what you mean by that phrase is a statement of what you have
been calling numerical identity. And to be sure, what I have been urging you
all along is that the distinction between being the same and being exactly sim-
ilar, or, as you and Strawson put it, being numerically and being qualitatively
identical cannot intelligibly be applied to pains, or, for that matter, to colours.
You are assuming, without any warrant whatsoever, that because “I have the
same pain as you” is not a case of numerical identity, therefore it is a case of
qualitative identity. But that is precisely to beg the question.
[He jumps up excitedly]
Look, Ann and I have the same colour hair. That does not mean that when
Ann dyes her hair red, my hair turns red too – it simply means that we had the
same colour hair and now we no longer have the same colour hair. This armchair
[Wittgenstein thumps on the arm of Künne’s armchair] is the same colour as that
 Can You Have My Pain? 25

armchair [he thumps Strawson’s armchair] – it is not “numerically” the same col-
our, nor is it “qualitatively” the same colour (there is no such distinction here). It
is just the same colour – for both chairs are dark brown. Similarly, if Ann and I
have the same headache, a dull throbbing headache in the temples, and Ann
takes an aspirin which puts an end to her headache, of course that does not
mean that my headache will also stop. It means that we’ll cease to have the
same headache.

Künne: Well, I’m not sure. … But let me try another tack. You said that to suggest
that pains are individuated by their owners is tantamount to the bizarre claim
that the person who suffers is a property of the pain she has. But that can’t be
right. I do not declare the Earth to be a property of its axis by saying that the
axis of the Earth is, just as such, different from that of any other heavenly
body. I do not declare Socrates to be a property of his death by saying that
the death of Socrates is, just as such, different from the death of any other
human being.
Actually, I don’t think that you are right to compare pains to chairs at all, you
should have compared pains to axes of objects or to deaths of human beings.

Wittgenstein: Come now, Künne. I contrasted pains with chairs and compared
them with colours. But I hope everyone realizes that I am not suggesting that the
grammar of pain is just like the grammar of colour – it most certainly is not.
After all, you can be blue all over [he smiles] like the ancient Britons, but you
can’t be pain all over. But there is an important analogy between having a pain
and being of a certain colour – an analogy made visible by the similarity of their
grammars with respect to sameness and difference. The fact that this chair was
painted green later than that chair, does not show that they are different in colour,
just as the fact that your headache began later than mine does not show that we do
not have the same headache – a mild throbbing pain in the left temples.

Künne: Why shouldn’t we consider pains to be in the same boat as grins? Jack’s
grin is identity dependent on him. That’s why Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire cat is
funny – for no cat, no smile. So too a person’s pain is identity-dependent on
the person.

Wittgenstein: Well, Jack’s grin lasts as long as Jack is grinning. When he stops
grinning he doesn’t have a grin on his face any longer. But, of course, Jack’s son
may have his father’s grin. The reason the Cheshire cat amuses us is because
there are no grins without grinning faces, no smiles without smiling faces –
26 Peter Hacker

not because the grinner or smiler supplies us with a criterion of identity for grins
and smiles.
Now let me get back to your previous two analogies – between pains and
events and between pains and axes of rotation. I have already explained why
pains are not comparable to events. I agree that the death of Socrates is a unique
event, but Socrates’s headache is neither unique nor an event – it is a sensation.
I suggested that, in order to shed light on the identity of pains, we should com-
pare the grammar of sensation with that of colour. You suggested that we should
compare pains to axes of rotation? Well, is it even true that the axis of rotation of
the Earth is, as you put it, just as such, different from that of any other heavenly
body? What is the axis of the Earth? Do you mean the axial tilt? Well, what is it?

Searle: As far as I remember, it’s 23 or 24 degrees.

Wittgenstein: Just so. And suppose that one of the many moons of Jupiter also
has an axial tilt of 23 to 24 degrees. Won’t it then have the same axis as the Earth?
[silence]
Or do you mean the length of the Earth’s axis?

Searle: That’s about 7, 900 miles.

Wittgenstein: So. There are no other planets in the solar system with that axial
length – but among the billions of planets scattered throughout the universe, it
is more than likely that many will have exactly the same axial length.
Künne, the simple fact is that the phrase “the axis of rotation of the Earth”
does not say what axis of rotation the Earth has. No criterion of identity is asso-
ciated with the phrase “the axis of the Earth”. But if you tell us that the axial tilt
of the Earth is 23 degrees and its axial length is 7,900 miles, then there is no rea-
son why some other heavenly body should not have exactly the same axis of ro-
tation. And to be sure, the axis of the Earth can and does change – and if it does,
it will still have an axis – indeed its axis, but no longer the same axis. And if it
had the same axis as the planet Lauflin, then after its tilt diminishes, it will no
longer have the same axis as Lauflin.
The phrase ‘axis of the Earth’ refers to the axis of rotation of the earth, just as
the phrase “A’s pain” refers to A’s pain – but neither phrase identifyingly refers.
If you say “No other heavenly body can have the same axis of rotation as the
Earth”, we can ask you what the axis of rotation of the Earth is, what its tilt
and length are – and when you answer, you give us criteria of identity for its
axis – and, of course, other heavenly bodies may have the same axis. Similarly,
Jack’s pain refers to the pain Jack has, but it does not specify what pain Jack has.
 Can You Have My Pain? 27

Once you specify the pain as a throbbing headache in the left temple, then we
have a criterion of identity, and another person may well have the same pain.

Frege: [waving his pipe indignantly] But Wittgenstein, do you really mean to say
that you can have my pain? Surely that is nonsense.

Wittgenstein: Well, it depends what you mean. If A has eaten some bad food, he
might get a headache. Now B may eat the same food, and half an hour later he
may have a headache with exactly the same phenomenal features, and say to A:
“Now I’ve got your headache”. What he means is that now he has the same head-
ache A had. That is innocuous. It doesn’t mean that A’s headache has ‘migrated’
from A’s head to B’s head. It doesn’t imply that A has ceased to have a headache.
If someone in such circumstances were to say ‘I have your headache’, we might
well take him to mean that he now has the same headache as you – and that
makes perfectly good sense, as long as we don’t conceive of having a pain as
a relational property between a person and a pain. The fact that A’s head started
to hurt before B’s does not mean that A had a different headache than B – only
that the event of A’s head starting to ache is a different and prior event from B’s
head staring to ache. So too, your armchair may have become brown before
Strawson’s did – if the leather on your armchair was dyed before the leather
on Strawson’s armchair. But that does not show that the two chairs are not ex-
actly the same colour.

Strawson: But Wittgenstein, surely the phrase “I have your headache” grates –
and we are inclined to want to exclude it as senseless. We are all inclined to say
“You can’t have my headache”.

Wittgenstein: Yes. That’s all right. You can exclude this misbegotten phrase from
currency. But only on two provisos. First, that this does not imply that we can’t
have the same headache. Secondly, that you realize that if you can’t have my
headache, then I can’t have my headache either.

Frege: Ach, Wittgenstein, what on earth do you mean?

Wittgenstein: What I mean is that if the phrase “I have” does not have the log-
ical multiplicity to accept “your pain”, then it doesn’t have the logical multiplic-
ity to accept “my pain” either. Isn’t that obvious?

Frege: No.
28 Peter Hacker

Wittgenstein: But it is obvious. Look: what does “my pain” mean? It means “the
pain I have”. But if so, then “I have my pain” means “I have the pain I have”,
which says nothing about my pain (just as “Either it’s raining or it’s not raining”
says nothing about the weather).

Künne: I’m exhausted

Strawson: I think we all are. Let’s have another glass of this excellent fortified
nectar, and go out into the garden and look at the dazzling stars.

Frege: Ja, I need a large schnapps after that!

Searle: Wittgenstein, thank you – that was fun. Let’s go and watch the night sky.
[The others all pour themselves fresh drinks and wander out into the garden.]

Wittgenstein [to himself]: Very interesting. Very interesting. I wonder… [He fol-
lows them through the French windows with his glass of water]
Martin Kusch
Wittgenstein’s On Certainty and Relativism
Abstract: One important strand in the contemporary debate over epistemological
relativism focuses on the question whether, and to what extent, Wittgenstein in On
Certainty (1969) leaned towards this position. This paper is a contribution to this
strand. My discussion has four parts. I shall begin by outlining my interpretation
of Wittgensteinian certainties. Subsequently I shall briefly introduce some central
arguments for and against attributing epistemic relativism to On Certainty. This
will be followed by a sketch of the cluster of ideas that – on my analysis – define
important versions of the doctrine in question. And finally I shall give my own in-
terpretation of On Certainty in relation to epistemic relativism.

1 On Certainty – A Brief Reminder

On Certainty describes as its central interest “cases in which I rightly say I cannot
be making a mistake […]” And the passage continues: “I can enumerate various
typical cases, but not give any common characteristic.” (§ 674) In this section I
shall offer a classification of these “various typical cases”. On my count these
cases fall into five epistemic categories. These categories differ in how certainties
relate to evidence, justification and knowledge.
Category I consists of beliefs for which we have evidence that is both over-
whelming and (at least in good part) dialectically mute. There are eight types
of such cases:
(I.1) Perceptual/proprioceptive beliefs about one’s own body (e. g. “[…] here is a
hand.” § 1)
(I.2) Perceptual beliefs about close familiar medium-size objects (e. g. “I believe
there is an armchair over there.” § 193)
(I.3) Introspective beliefs (e. g. “I am in pain.” § 178)
(I.4) Memory beliefs of salient features of one’s autobiography (e. g. “I have lived
in this room for weeks past.” § 416)
(I.5) Beliefs based on simple deductive reasoning; e. g. calculations (e. g.
“12x12=144” § 43)
(I.6) Simple inductive beliefs, e. g. about familiar simple objects (“After putting
a book in a drawer, I assume it is there […]” § 134)
(I.7) Testimonial beliefs based on parents’ or textbook testimony (“[…] textbooks
of experimental physics […] I trust them.” § 600)
(I.8) Semantic beliefs (e. g. “My name is L.W.” § 425)
30 Martin Kusch

The epistemic status of category I cases – (I.1) to (I.8) – can be summed up as fol-
lows. The confidence with which we hold these beliefs is “empirically based”
(Wright 2004, p. 36). I have, for instance, a lifelong experience of being called “Mar-
tin Kusch”. I also have a lengthy experience of the flat I live in. And I have a pro-
tracted experience of me being regarded as calculating reliably and reasoning com-
petently both deductively and inductively. And yet, even though our evidence is
overwhelming in these cases, much of it is not accessible. Most of it lies outside
our present point of view; most of it is forgotten. And thus it cannot be disclosed
and shared. This is the reason why I call it “dialectically mute”: we cannot marshal
it against someone who denies our certainties of this category.
Category II is the class of mathematical propositions that have “officially
been given the stamp of incontestability” (§ 655). As Wittgenstein explains at
greater length in the Lectures on the Foundations of Mathematics, mathematical
propositions are based on the overwhelming empirical evidence of experiments:
for example, the experiment showing that two balls and two balls balances four
balls. We turn such initially empirical propositions into mathematical proposi-
tions by immunizing them against empirical refutation (Wittgenstein 1976, p. 98).
Category III cases are fundamental empirical-scientific beliefs (e. g. “The
earth is round.” § 291; “Water boils at 100 °C.” § 293). Here too we have very
strong and tractable evidence for the beliefs. And again we take the strength
of the evidence as a reason to go further and immunize the beliefs. Other than
in the case of mathematical propositions however, we do so not “once and for
all” but only “for the time being”. In other words, our readiness to give up
one of these beliefs is greater than with respect to Category II. Note that Wittgen-
stein is willing to say that certainties in Category III can be known:

291. We know that the earth is round. We have definitively ascertained that it is round. We shall
stick to this opinion, unless our whole way of seeing nature changes.

Category IV embodies beliefs that constitute what we might call “domains of

knowledge”. I mean certainties like “[…] the earth has existed for many years
past” (§ 411), or “[…] the earth exists” (§ 209). These beliefs do not fit the
model of “beliefs supported by strong empirical evidence transformed into cer-
tainties via immunization”. Category IV beliefs are beyond empirical confirma-
tion. Or, put differently, only by presupposing them can we show them to be true.
Finally, Category V consists of fundamental religious beliefs, like “Jesus only
had a human mother.” (§ 239) As Wittgenstein emphasises in the Lectures on Re-
ligious Belief of 1939: “Reasons [for religious beliefs] look entirely different from
normal reasons. They are, in a way, quite inconclusive.” (Wittgenstein 1966,
 Wittgenstein’s On Certainty and Relativism 31

p. 56; cf. Kusch 2011) There are reasons and evidence in this realm too, but they
are of a different kind from the evidence in the other categories.

2 For and against epistemic relativism

in On Certainty
The debate over the question whether On Certainty leans towards epistemic rel-
ativism is not new. And thus there already exist a number of arguments pro and
contra. I now shall try to give a brief summary of these arguments. I begin with
the “pro” case and shall focus on three authors, Paul Boghossian, Anthony Gray-
ling and Rudolf Haller. All three base their argument on specific passages. Gray-
ling and Haller cite the following paragraphs in evidence:

65. When language-games change, then there is a change in concepts, and with the concepts
the meanings of words change.
95. The propositions describing this world-picture might be part of a kind of mythology.
99. And the bank of the river consists partly of hard rock, subject to no alteration or only to an
imperceptible one, partly of sand, which now in one place now in another gets washed
away, or deposited.
166. The difficulty is to realize the groundlessness of our believing.
256. On the other hand a language game does change with time.
336. But what men consider reasonable or unreasonable changes.

§§§ 65, 99, 256, and 336 all emphasize the occurrence of fundamental change: in
language-games, concepts, word meaning, and rationality. This for Grayling is
“classically strong relativism” since it “constitutes a claim that the framework
within which claims to knowledge and challenges of doubt equally make
sense is such that its change can reverse what counted as either” (2001,
p. 308). §§§ 94, 95, and 166 in turn raise the question “what if the background
– e. g. your picture of the world – [were] different?” (Haller 1995, p. 229) Does
not Wittgenstein imply that there is nothing that can be said about such a sce-
nario? At least nothing evaluative? It appears that “we remain without any
ground for the decision between conflicting judgements based on different
world pictures” (Haller 1995, p. 230).
Boghossian suggests that it is first and foremost paragraphs §§§ 609 – 612
that express a commitment to epistemic relativism (2006, p. 107):

609. Suppose we met people who […] instead of the physicist […] consult an oracle. […] – If we
call this ‘wrong’ aren’t we using our language-game as a base from which to combat theirs?
32 Martin Kusch

610. Are we right or wrong to combat it? Of course there are all sorts of slogans which will be
used to support our proceedings.
611. Where two principles clash that cannot be reconciled with one another, then each man
declares the other a fool and heretic.
612. I said I would ‘combat’ the other man,—but wouldn’t I give him reasons? Certainly; but […]
at the end of reasons comes persuasion. (Think what happens when missionaries convert
natives.)

Boghossian’s take can be supported by the following considerations. § 609 sug-

gests that our criticism of the tribe’s use of an oracle is based on the biased back-
ground of our own language-game. § 609 also hints that our negative response
invariably has an unduly aggressive character: we are not just stating our view,
we are “fighting” (bekämpfen) their central beliefs. § 610 leaves it open whether
our fight is justified or not. Indeed, the “of course” (freilich) even raises the pros-
pect that our attack may be supported by nothing else than “all sorts of slogans”.
§ 611 might be taken to say that there are no worldview- or system-independent
considerations in virtue of which one knowledge system – our or the tribe’s –
can be said to be more correct than any other, and that name-calling is the
only option. And § 612 seems to capitalize on the limits of reasoning across cul-
tural boundaries. The members of the tribe cannot be rationally convinced, they
can only be persuaded or converted.
Authors opting for “contra” also often invoke specific passages in On Cer-
tainty to make their case. First, Michael Williams argues that Wittgenstein oppos-
es relativism in § 286 of On Certainty (Williams 2007, p. 108):

286. We all believe that it isn’t possible to get to the moon; but there might be people who be-
lieve that that is possible and that it sometimes happens. We say: these people do not
know a lot that we know. And, let them be never so sure of their belief – they are
wrong and we know it.

If we compare our system of knowledge with theirs then theirs is evidently the
poorer one by far.
Second, Williams also finds Wittgenstein opposing relativism in § 108 where
it is claimed that we “should feel ourselves intellectually very distant from some-
one who said” that “it isn’t possible to get to the moon; but there might be peo-
ple who believe that it is possible and that is sometimes happens” (Williams
2007, p. 108).
Third, Georg-Henrik von Wright (1982) believes that Wittgenstein rejects, or
at least limits, relativism in § 92:
 Wittgenstein’s On Certainty and Relativism 33

92. […] Remember that one is sometimes convinced of the correctness of a view [here a world-
view; MK] by its simplicity or symmetry, i. e., these are what induce one to go over to this
point of view.

This passage seems to treat simplicity and symmetry as values that are valid
across worldviews.
Fourth, a number of interpreters hold that Wittgenstein’s talk of “persua-
sion” or “conversion” does not call for a relativistic rendering. These passages
(§§§ 92, 612) are no more than reminders that the tribesmen need to learn a lot
of physics. Even though, as a matter of fact, our scientific considerations are
not recognized by the tribesmen, the latter should accept the former (Putnam
1992, p. 176; M. Williams 2007, p. 108).
The fifth argument insists that it is the very way in which Wittgenstein ties
meaning to specific language-games that blocks the route to relativism. In order
for the members of two cultures to disagree, they must be able to grasp the same
thought or conceptual content. After all, relativism is often tied to the idea of “fault-
less disagreement”. But for there to be a disagreement, there has to be a common
content to disagree over. For instance, for you and me to disagree (faultlessly) over
the taste of rhubarb, we must give conflicting answers to the question ‘does rhubarb
taste good?’ As long as we are within the same culture, there is no problem. Alas,
the situation changes once we talk about different cultures. As the second anti-rel-
ativistic argument has it, Wittgenstein’s thinking on languages and language-games
simply does not allow for the identity of conceptual content across cultures. And
hence there is no space for cultural relativism (Dilman 2004, p. 176).
Sixth, epistemic relativists assume that there can be, and perhaps even are,
fundamentally different epistemic systems or practices. But a number of inter-
preters of Wittgenstein deny that he allows for the possibility of such fundamen-
tal differences. This line goes back to Bernard Williams (1981) and Jonathan Lear
(1984). More recently, Annalisa Coliva (2010a, p. 201; 2010b, p. 20) and Duncan
Pritchard (2009) have claimed that at least some certainties have to be universal,
and that disagreements between cultures can always be rationally resolved on
that shared basis. And thus there is no space for epistemic relativism.

3 What is epistemic relativism?

In order to adjudicate the debate over epistemic relativism in On Certainty we
need a more precise rendering of what this “ism” amounts to. In this section I
propose such a rendering. I have arrived at this account by collecting definitions
and characterisations of relativism from both friends and foes of the view, in-
34 Martin Kusch

cluding Barry Barnes and David Bloor (1982), Paul Boghossian (2006), Gilbert
Harman (Harman and Thomson 1996), Gideon Rosen (2001), Frederick. F.
Schmitt (2007), Bernard Williams (1981), and Michael Williams (2007). Wittgen-
stein’s texts were not consulted. My aim was to have an independent and stable
standard against which to measure Wittgenstein’s position. The characterisation
could of course be developed at much greater length than I have space for here.
(1) Dependence: A belief has an epistemic status (as epistemically justified or
unjustified) only relative to an epistemic system or practice (=SP). (Cf. Williams
2007, p. 94).
I write “epistemic system or practice” (subsequently “SP”) in order to indi-
cate that Dependence is compatible with both a “generalist” and “particularist”
understanding of epistemology. Dependence also allows for a further choice re-
garding SPs. In saying that a belief has an epistemic status (as justified or unjus-
tified) only relative to an SP, the relativist might refer to either the SP of the rel-
evant believer, or to the SP of the attributor or evaluator. (Cf. White 2007;
Williams 2007; Boghossian 2006, p. 72).
(2) Plurality: There are, have been, or could be, more than one such epistemic
system or practice.
Given Plurality, relativism is compatible with the idea that our current SP is
without an existing alternative. Moreover, Plurality permits the relativist to be
highly selective in choosing those SPs with respect to which relativism applies.
She might for example restrict her relativistic thesis to just two SPs. For instance,
one can be a relativist about science and religion, considering each an SP in the
sense of Dependence.
(3) Exclusiveness: SPs are exclusive of one another. This can take two forms:
(a) Question-Centered Exclusiveness: There are sets of yes/no questions to
which SPs give opposite answers.
(b) Practice-Centered Exclusiveness: There are no yes/no questions to which
SPs give opposite answers since their concepts and concerns are too different.
SPs exclude each other in that the consequences of one SP include such actions
or behaviors as are incompatible with the actions and behaviors that are conse-
quences of other SPs. Users or members of one SP are not able to fully under-
stand the actions and behaviors common in other SPs. (Williams 1981; 1985)
Exclusiveness tries to capture the sense in which – under a relativistic concep-
tion of their relationship – SPs have to conflict. This idea is in tension with the fur-
ther assumption, made by some authors, that relativism concerns incommensurable
SPs (here such incommensurability involves differences in categories that rule out
an identity of propositional content across these SPs). The option of Practice-Cen-
tered Exclusiveness covers this eventuality. Two SPs can be compared, and can con-
flict, when they lead to, or require, incompatible forms of action and behavior in an
 Wittgenstein’s On Certainty and Relativism 35

at least roughly specifiable area of human affairs. The requirement that the area of
human affairs be specifiable safeguards that there is a certain degree of compara-
bility. And the demand that the forms of action and behavior involved are incompat-
ible, makes sure that the condition of conflict is met.
(4) Notional Confrontation: It is not possible for a group G holding an epis-
temic system or practice SP1, to go over to an epistemic system or practice SP2 on
the basis of a rational comparison between SP1 and SP2. But G might be convert-
ed to SP2 without losing its hold on reality. (B. Williams 1981, 1985)
A “notional” confrontation differs from a “real” confrontation; in the case of
the latter a rationally motivated ‘switching’ is possible. A conversion is not an
altogether irrational event. Being converted to a cause is not the same as
being self-deceived, brainwashed or drugged. There is no assumption that a con-
version is a phenomenon of psychological or social pathology. This idea is cap-
tured by the phrase “without losing its hold on reality” (Williams 1981, p. 139).
(5) Symmetry: Epistemic systems and practices must not be ranked.
Symmetry can take a number of different forms that are worth distinguishing.
(a) Methodological Symmetry: All SPs are on a par vis-à-vis social-scientific
investigations.
The best-known version of Methodological Symmetry is perhaps the “Symmetry”
or “Equivalence Postulate” of the “Strong Programme” in the “Sociology of Scien-
tific Knowledge”: “… all beliefs are on a par with one another with respect to the
causes of their credibility” (Barnes and Bloor 1982, p. 23). I generalize this “postu-
late” in order to detach it from the requirement that explanations must be causal.
(b) Non-Neutrality: There is no neutral way of evaluating different SPs.
Non-Neutrality is the main consideration usually invoked in defense of Sym-
metry. It does not preclude the possibility that some SPs agree on the standards
by which their overall success should be judged. What Non-Neutrality denies is
that such local agreement justifies the hope for a global or universal agreement.
(c) Equality: All SPs are equally correct.
Most characterizations of relativism – by friends and foes alike – take Equality
to be the natural consequence of Non-Neutrality and thus the best way to spell out
Symmetry. But Equality makes a stronger claim than Non-Neutrality. This becomes
easy to appreciate once we remember the typical challenge to Equality: what is
the point of view from which Equality is asserted? On the face of it, Equality appears
to presuppose a neutral point of view from which we can somehow see that all SPs
are equally correct. And this very claim jars with Non-Neutrality.
(d) Non-Appraisal: For a reflective person the question of appraisal of (at
least some other) SPs does not arise.
Non-Appraisal seems to avoid the problems of Equality, while capturing the
important core of Non-Neutrality. It is motivated by the thought of “intellectual
36 Martin Kusch

distance”: the idea that a reflective person holding one SP might come to the
conclusion that her own “vocabulary of appraisal” simply does not get a proper
grip on the judgments and actions of another SP. It is not that this vocabulary
could not possibly be applied at all – it is rather that such application seems
forced, artificial and contrived (Williams 1981, pp. 141– 142).
Dependence, Plurality, Exclusiveness, Notional Confrontation and Symmetry are
(in some version or other) essential features for relativism. The remaining four ele-
ments are not essential, though they are its very frequent, almost regular, bed-fel-
lows. They are: Contingency, Underdetermination, Groundlessness and Tolerance.
(6) Contingency: Which epistemic system or practice a group G or individual
finds itself holding is a question of historical contingency.
If the history of G had been different – for instance, if G had encountered
certain other groups at certain points, or if G had lacked the means to engage
in certain types of costly investigations – G’s current SP would be substantially,
perhaps even radically, different from what it is now. The contingency might
reach deep: even those beliefs that one ordinarily deems ‘self-evident’ or ‘com-
pletely certain’ can be discovered to be contingent. Becoming aware of the con-
tingency of one’s views in this sense can, but need not, undermine the strength
of one’s conviction (Rosen 2001).
(7) Groundlessness: There can be no non-circular epistemic justification of
one’s own epistemic system or practice.
Groundlessness is rarely formulated as a distinct ingredient of epistemic rel-
ativism. But it is sometimes invoked in arguments meant to establish the truth of
relativism. For instance, it is occasionally put forward that epistemic relativism
results from the recognition that all SPs are on a par insofar as none of them
is able to justify itself without moving in an (illegitimate) circle (cf. Williams
2007, p. 95). (Needless to say, it might well be possible to advocate a form of rel-
ativism that permits such circularity.)
(8) Underdetermination: Epistemic systems and practices are not determined
by facts of nature.
Underdetermination is not to be confused with the thesis that the world has
no causal impact on SPs at all. The relativist is not – or need not – be committed
to the view that SPs are completely arbitrary. His point is rather that (many) more
than one SP is compatible with the given causal impact of the world.
(9) Tolerance: Epistemic systems or practices other than one’s own, must be
tolerated.
 Wittgenstein’s On Certainty and Relativism 37

4 Relativistic themes in On Certainty

Having introduced above my interpretation of Wittgensteinian certainties, the ar-
guments pro and contra a relativistic rendering of On Certainty, and my charac-
terization of epistemic relativism, I can at last turn to my own assessment of
whether Wittgenstein in his last notebooks sympathizes with this position. I
take it to be a shortcoming of previous discussions of the issue, that they
build a reading of On Certainty on the basis of just a few select passages. This
jars with the fact that the book collects material for a “well-ordered synopsis”
(übersichtliche Darstellung) (Wittgenstein 2001, § 122) of our – primarily Wittgen-
stein’s own – responses to people who deny, or who seem to deny, one or more of
our certainties in different circumstances. The point of this well-ordered synopsis
is to emphasise the variety of, and patterns in, our responses to such denials.
Some of our responses are relativistic, others are not. It is easy to see that, if I
am right about this, then it must be a mistake to count the book as a whole
as either relativistic or anti-relativistic.
There are about thirty scenarios in On Certainty in which someone denies, or
seems to deny, a certainty. Each of these requires a more detailed discussion. I
offer such details in a book in progress. Here I have to confine myself to a
brief summary of some of my central results. In order to do this most economi-
cally, I need to introduce the idea of varying cultural distance between Wittgen-
stein and the certainty-denying people he imagines encountering. The coarse-
grained categorisation of distance Wittgenstein seems to work with can be cap-
tured in Figure 1.
The centre of the concentric circles is occupied by Wittgenstein himself. In
the following rings around him, at increasing distance, are friends (e. g. G.E.
Moore) in his own culture, strangers in his own culture, and children. The re-
maining rings are people outside of Wittgenstein’s culture. Ring a is for members
of other cultures that Wittgenstein is willing to treat as virtual members of his
own culture. The outmost ring c is for members of other cultures that are too dis-
tant to be counted as virtual members of Wittgenstein’s own culture, and that
nevertheless are too intelligent to be dismissed. They are not properly appraisa-
ble. Finally, there are members of other cultures that have an ambiguous status
(Ring b). Our interest is with the person in the centre. How does he or she re-
spond to people at varying social-cultural distances that seem to deny what
are certainties of various types for the him or her?
I will now give examples of Wittgenstein’s own responses. When a friend –
e. g. Moore – straightforwardly denies a certainty then Wittgenstein is inclined to
regard him as “demented” or “insane”.
38 Martin Kusch

Figure 1

71. If my friend were to imagine one day that he had been living for a long time past in such
and such a place, etc. etc. [where I know he has not lived; MK], I should not call this a mis-
take, but rather a mental disturbance, perhaps a transient one.
155. […] If Moore were to pronounce the opposite of those propositions which he declares cer-
tain, we should not just not share his opinion: we should regard him as demented.

Wittgenstein treats other adult members of his own culture similarly to how he
treats friends.

217. If someone supposed that all our calculations were uncertain and that we could rely on
none of them […] perhaps we would say he was crazy.
257. If someone said to me that he doubted whether he had a body I should take him to be a
half-wit. […]
 Wittgenstein’s On Certainty and Relativism 39

Children receive a more charitable treatment. In their case – at least regarding

some categories of certainties – Wittgenstein is willing to offer arguments, ex-
planations, criticism, and education.

310. A pupil and a teacher. The pupil will not let anything be explained to him, for he contin-
ually interrupts with doubts, for instance as to the existence of things, the meaning of
words, etc. The teacher says “Stop interrupting me and do as I tell you. So far your doubts
don’t make sense at all”.
322. What if the pupil refused to believe that this mountain had been there beyond human
memory?

We should say that he had no grounds for this suspicion.

Moving further outwards in the system of concentric circles gives me an oc-
casion to revisit some of the key paragraphs cited as evidence by advocates and
opponents of relativistic readings of On Certainty.
I agree with Michael Williams that § 286 shows little inclination towards rel-
ativism. Wittgenstein clearly thinks that sometimes we are willing – or have no
choice but – to dismiss member of other cultures as ignorant and as lacking in
knowledge. Thus the tribesmen who in 1950 insist that someone has been to the
Moon – and who thereby deny one of our fundamental empirical-scientific be-
liefs – are “people who do not know a lot that we know”.
Note however that the situation changes in a context in which the tribesmen’s
statement does not deny one of our scientific certainties. These are contexts in which
the statement belongs to the domains of religion or magic. Thus § 92 considers a
king who has been told since childhood that “the earth has only existed … since
his own birth.” Wittgenstein likens the king’s belief to magical beliefs about one’s
ability to make rain. This suggests to Elisabeth Anscombe (1976) that the king of
§ 92 is best thought of as a religious leader such as the Dalai Lama. Wittgenstein
imagines Moore trying to convince the king of Moore’s certainty that the earth
has existed since long before our birth. And he goes on:

92. […] I do not say that Moore could not convert the king to his view, but it would be a con-
version of a special kind; the king would be brought to look at the world in a different way.

Remember that one is sometimes convinced of the correctness of a view by its

simplicity or symmetry, i. e., these are what induce one to go over to this point
of view. One then simply says something like: “That’s how it must be.”
What is striking here is the absence of any “they are wrong and we know it”
(§ 286). It is also noteworthy that “simplicity” and “symmetry” are not intro-
duced as universal principles adjudicating between systems of belief. They
40 Martin Kusch

“sometimes” help to convince us, sometimes they do not. That makes it doubtful
whether § 92 is an argument against relativism, as von Wright assumes.
This is confirmed by another passage in which someone like “the Dalai
Lama” is at issue again:

238. I might therefore interrogate someone who said that the earth did not exist before his birth,
in order to find out which of my convictions he was at odds with. And then it might be that
he was contradicting my fundamental attitudes, and if that were how it was, I should have
to put up with it.

To “put up with it” is to accept that our categories of evaluation do not get a proper
grip on this system or practice. Our response is thus one of “Symmetry as Non-ap-
praisal”, in line with Practice-centred Exclusiveness and Notional Confrontation.
Interestingly enough, having convinced himself that this is indeed the proper
response to certain disagreements in the realm of magic and religion, Wittgenstein
then goes on to draw an analogy between the disagreements between believers and
unbelievers on the one hand, and our response to past periods with their different
conceptions of the reasonable and the unreasonable, on the other hand:

336. But what men consider reasonable or unreasonable alters. At certain periods men find rea-
sonable what at other periods they found unreasonable. And vice versa.
But is there no objective character here?
Very intelligent and well-educated people believe in the story of creation in the Bible, while
others hold it as proven false, and the grounds of the latter are well known to the former.

Wittgenstein here seems to suggest that “Symmetry as Non-appraisal” might

have application not just in our encounters with certain forms of religion and
magic, but also in other areas, for instance in our relationship to past forms
of science.
Recall that Michael Williams also cites § 108 as a piece of evidence against
relativism in On Certainty. This is the section where Wittgenstein considers some-
one who claims to have been to the moon, but who cannot tell us how he man-
aged to get there. Wittgenstein comments: “We should feel ourselves intellectu-
ally very distant from them.” I am unconvinced that this comment expresses
opposition to relativism. The relativist too can feel “intellectually very distant”
from someone who denies one of his certainties. Indeed, in light of the above,
we could read the “we should feel ourselves intellectually very distant from
them” as an expression of Symmetry as Non-appraisal rather than as a dismissal
of relativism. We are dealing with a response based on unfamiliar principles of
reasoning and we do not know how to evaluate the response or these principles.
 Wittgenstein’s On Certainty and Relativism 41

This leaves the longish consideration stretching from § 608 until § 612. I am with
Boghossian and others who find strong relativistic sentiments expressed in these
paragraphs. I cannot see the strengths of Putnam’s and Williams’s suggestion ac-
cording to which Wittgenstein means to insist that the tribesmen need to learn
our science. If that is the upshot of these paragraphs then why didn’t Wittgenstein
say so explicitly? At the same time, I am willing to grant that these five sections do
not all point one way: there is a dialogue going on here. One of the voices calls the
tribesmen “primitive” for consulting oracles (§ 609) and declares itself willing to
“combat” these men (§§§ 609 – 610). And yet, the conversation terminates in the
thought that we can do no better than “persuade” (rather than convince) the natives.
And this “persuasion” is compared to religious conversion (§ 612).
I also need to briefly comment on the two more general arguments against
attributing relativism to On Certainty. One was that Wittgenstein cannot be advo-
cating relativism since he denies identity of propositional content across lan-
guage games (and thus cultures). I have three brief replies. First, it seems to
me historically inaccurate to restrict relativism to the idea of a disagreement be-
tween two cultures (contexts, epistemic or moral systems) over one and the same
propositional content. Many self-proclaimed relativists of the past were relativ-
ists in a wider sense that includes Practice-centred Exclusiveness. Second, in
On Certainty Wittgenstein never emphasises that, say, “the earth has existed
since long before my birth” expresses different propositions for him, or Moore
and the king (or the Dalai Lama). And third, Wittgenstein is generally not com-
fortable with dilemmas of the form: either two sentences express the same prop-
osition or they express altogether different ones. His general thought style in the
Philosophical Investigations and On Certainty is to emphasise degrees and con-
tinuities rather than sharp boundaries.
Finally consider the argument that there is no space for relativism since we
cannot make sense of alternative ways of “being minded”, or of a culture that
shares none of our certainties. I shall not here rerun Barry Stroud’s (1984) famil-
iar arguments against Bernard Williams (1971/1981). I therefore confine myself to
a comment on Coliva and Pritchard. I agree with the idea that we would be un-
able to understand a culture that shared none of our certainties. But I do not see
why this idea blocks anything but the most absurdly radical form of relativism.
Relativist anthropologists, sociologists or philosophers have never denied that
there may be, or indeed are, some contingent universals. But they have denied
that these contingent universals suffice to determine which other certainties
we ought to adopt. Coliva and Pritchard (as well as Boghossian 2006) assume
that provided only that some certainties are shared, disagreements over other
certainties cannot permanently persist amongst people who are willing to
argue rationally. But why should this be so? We can agree that the earth exists
42 Martin Kusch

or that 2+2=4. But why would agreement on these certainties help us negotiate
our different certainties in the religious domain?
Details aside, what kind and strength of relativism is discernible in On Cer-
tainty? The most important lesson of the above is, I take it, that Wittgenstein is
not trying to defend or develop a global or comprehensive form of epistemic rel-
ativism. Instead, he is trying to sensitive us to the variety of our responses in the
variety of cases in which our certainties are, or seem to be, denied by others.
Sometimes our response is dismissal. Sometimes our response is education.
But there is also a space for epistemic relativism of a form in which Practice-cen-
tred Exclusiveness, Notional Confrontation and Symmetry as Non-appraisal
loom large. Wittgenstein seems to think that this form of epistemic relativism
is at least permissible when encountering disagreements at the borderline be-
tween current science on the one hand, and magic or religion, or fundamentally
different conceptions of rationality, on the other hand.
To give this form of relativism a name, I propose calling it a “relativism of
distance” – a term introduced by Bernard Williams in a different context
(1981). Williams emphasizes two central elements in this type of relativism.
First, the confrontation with the other culture is merely “notional”. That is to
say, going over to the other side is not a real or “live” option for oneself. One can-
not imagine adopting the view of the other side without making an endless num-
ber of changes to one’s system of beliefs or values. And second, one’s own “vo-
cabulary of appraisal” seems out of place: “[…] for a reflective person the
question of appraisal does not genuinely arise […] in purely notional confronta-
tion.” (1981, pp. 141– 142) Take once more an encounter with a Dalai Lama who
denies that the world has existed since long before his birth. This qualifies as a
notional confrontation for me since to adopt his attitude towards the existence of
the world would involve a complete reordering of what for me are now real op-
tions. It is hard for me to imagine what kind of argument could possibly incline
me to accept this option. Moreover, my vocabulary of appraisal seems inappro-
priate in this encounter. I feel too distant to assess the Dalai Lama’s beliefs, and
thus I have no real choice but to “put up” with his views.

5 Epistemic contingency and groundlessness

In the last section it emerged that versions of Dependence, Pluralism, Exclusiveness,
Notional Confrontation, Symmetry, and Tolerance can all be found as elements of
Wittgenstein’s relativism of distance. But I have not yet made reference to Contin-
gency, Groundlessness and Underdetermination, and their relationship to the
other elements of Wittgenstein’s relativism. In this section I turn to this task.
 Wittgenstein’s On Certainty and Relativism 43

Note, first of all, that Underdetermination, Contingency and Groundlessness

are central throughout Wittgenstein’s writings from the 1930s onwards. Here are
some striking paragraphs from On Certainty. §§§ 131 and 512 express Underdeter-
mination, §§§ 94, 107, 166, and 336 Contingency and Groundlessness:

131. No, experience is not the ground of our game of judging. Nor is its outstanding success.
512. Isn’t the question this: “What if you had to change your opinion even on these most fun-
damental things?” And to that the answer seems to me to be: “You don’t have to change it.
That is just what their being ‘fundamental’ is.”
94. […] my Weltbild […] is the inherited background […]
107. Isn’t this [i.e. our commitments to certainties; MK] altogether like the way one can instruct
a child to believe in a God, or that none exists, and it will accordingly be able to produce
apparently telling grounds for the one or the other?
166. The difficulty is to realize the groundlessness of our believing.
336. But what men consider reasonable or unreasonable changes.

What role do these paragraphs and thus Underdetermination, Contingency and

Groundlessness play in Wittgenstein’s relativism? On Certainty does not say
much about these connections but it seems plausible to suggest something
like the following consideration.
The question is how we are affected by the realization that our epistemic sys-
tem or practice is contingent, groundless and underdetermined: our common-
sense certainties would have been different if history had been different; they
are not justifiable as a whole; and they are not fixed by the way the world is.
The discussion over the past few sections shows that Wittgenstein’s answer to
this question is not uniform. The effects of the realization of Contingency,
Groundlessness and Underdetermination are different in different domains.
In the realm of science, it seems, the realization in question does not lead to
relativism or skepticism. For instance, the thought that, had our upbringing or
our circumstances been different, we would not now take it for granted that
water boils at about 100C°, or that humans did not visit the moon before
1969, does nothing to weaken our readiness to believe both of these propositions.
Nor does an encounter with another culture – past or present – a culture that
seems to deny these certainties, lead us to think that these certainties are
true-for-us (or justifiable-for-us) but false-for-them (or unjustifiable-for-them).
Our natural instinctive response – the response we find ourselves compelled
to give – is to credit ourselves with the epistemic luck that derives from having
been exposed to the right kind of education needed for learning what it takes
to appreciate the truth of modern science and its preconditions.
The effects of realizing that our religious (un‐)believing is groundless, con-
tingent and underdetermined are different. An atheist who recognizes that her
44 Martin Kusch

unbelief is groundless, contingent and underdetermined does not act irrationally

if she draws the conclusion that the attitude of Non-Appraisal is a permissible
intellectual response towards religious thought. This response will be particular-
ly natural if, first, the atheist has every reason not to doubt the intellectual abil-
ities of the believers, and second, if she feels that the way of seeing the world of
the believers is not, or not fully, accessible to her. This is Wittgenstein’s response
in Lectures on Religious Belief and it also looms large in On Certainty.
It thus seems plausible to say that recognizing the force of Contingency,
Groundlessness and Underdetermination, regarding our epistemic system or prac-
tice, leads Wittgenstein to a kind of relativism with respect to religion and magic.
But Wittgenstein is not tempted by a relativism that extends to natural science
and competing ways of explaining natural events. With respect to these areas
he accepts at most a form of methodological or heuristic relativism: not to ap-
praise, and to treat as equally correct, might be the best way of identifying
what is specific about such practices.
This is still not quite the full story, however. Over the past three paragraphs I
have explained that for Wittgenstein we somehow cannot help taking an anti-rel-
ativistic stance in the case of natural science, but that we are able to choose the
option of non-appraisal in the case of a confrontation with religion or magic. The
idea is that ultimately our “nature” – social and natural – will not allow for rel-
ativism when it comes to questions to do with empirical investigation of natural
phenomena. Putting the point in this way ought to sound familiar. It recalls Sir
Peter Strawson’s one-time explanation of Wittgenstein’s allegedly Humean argu-
ment against epistemic skepticism:

According to Hume the naturalist, skeptical doubts are not to be met by argument. They are
simply to be neglected […]. They are to be neglected because they are idle; powerless
against the force of nature, of our naturally implanted disposition to belief. (1985, p. 13)
[…] In spite of the greater complication of Wittgenstein’s position, we can, I think, at
least as far as the general skeptical questions are concerned, discern a profound commun-
ity between him and Hume. (1985, p. 19)

I am not here concerned with the question whether Strawson’s interpretation of

Wittgenstein’s anti-skeptical argument is correct. I am rather interested in the criti-
cism that has sometimes been levelled against this proposal. I mean the criticism
according to which Strawson’s idea in fact “concedes the sceptic’s theoretical invul-
nerability” (M. Williams 1988, p. 416; cf. M. Williams 1986; Sosa 1998). By insisting
that the sceptic can be defeated only on the practical ground of our de-facto inabil-
ity to live skepticism, Strawson concedes that the sceptic wins the theoretical argu-
ment. As far as rational arguments go, skepticism stands undefeated.
 Wittgenstein’s On Certainty and Relativism 45

The issue for us is not skepticism, but relativism. But the parallel should be
clear. There is nothing but our (social) nature that stands between us and the sceptic
(says Strawson). There is nothing but our (social) nature that stands between us and
a relativistic substantive attitude towards natural science and its competitors. There
is no non-circular rational argument in favor of our attitude; there is only “some-
thing animal” (§ 359), “instinct” (§ 475), “the favor of Nature” (§ 505), and “our
life” (§ 559). Relativism is not defeated by a theoretical-rational argument.

Acknowledgement
Research for this paper was made possible by ERC Advanced Grant 339382, “The
Emergence of Relativism”.

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Christian Helmut Wenzel
Wittgenstein and Free Will
Abstract: In this essay I wish to do three things. First, I wish to discuss a statement
from the Tractatus which says that our free will consists in our ignorance of future
actions: “The freedom of the will consists in the impossibility of knowing actions
that still lie in the future. We could know them only if causality were an inner ne-
cessity like that of logical inference.” (5.1362)¹ I think this statement might well be
inspired by a claim Moore made in connection with free will in his 1912 book Ethics:
“We can hardly ever know for certain beforehand, which choice we actually shall
make”.² But I think Moore’s claim in favor of free will is not convincing. Second,
I wish to discuss a question raised in Philosophical Investigations. Wittgenstein
asks what remains if we “subtract” the fact that my arm goes up from the fact
that I raise my arm, and he adds in brackets: “Are the kinaesthetic sensations
my willing?” (621)³ This added reflection is a reaction to ideas put forward by Wil-
liam James. Wittgenstein opposes these ideas. He argues that we should not think of
the will as a cause at all, kinaesthetic or not, but rather as something embedded in,
and constituted by, certain contexts of learning, expectation, practice, and lack of
surprise. This is a strong claim. He also returns to the question about the predicta-
bility of the future: “When people talk about the possibility of foreknowledge of the
future they always forget the fact of the prediction of one’s own voluntary move-
ments” (629).⁴ The question is whether Wittgenstein has solved, or dissolved, the
problem of free will. Some think that this is the case. I doubt it is. This is the
third point I wish to discuss.

 “Die Willensfreiheit besteht darin, dass zukünftige Handlungen jetzt nicht gewußt werden
können. Nur dann könnten wir sie wissen, wenn die Kausalität eine innere Notwendigkeit ware.”
 G.E. Moore, Ethics , p. .
 “Was ist das, was übrigbleibt, wenn ich von der Tatsache, dass ich meinen Arm hebe, die ab-
ziehe, dass mein Arm sich hebt? ((Sind nun die kinaesthetischen Empfindungen mein Wol-
len?))” That Wittgenstein here opposes ideas by William James about the will and kinaesthetic
feelings, has been argued by Peter Hacker (), Stewart Candlish (), and John Hyman
(). Hacker discusses James’ “ideo-motor theory” and Wundt’s “innervations theory” in
this context (Hacker , pp.  – , especially  – ,  – ).
 “Wenn Leute über die Möglichkeit eines Vorherwissens der Zukunft reden, vergessen sie
immer die Tatsache des Vorhersagens der willkürlichen Bewegungen.”
48 Christian Helmut Wenzel

1 Free will in the Tractatus

In the Tractatus Wittgenstein is still somewhat under the spell of Schopenhauer,
especially regarding the notion of “will”. Schopenhauer in turn is very much in-
fluenced by Kant. He thought that Kant’s “solution” of the problem of free will by
means of the distinction between phenomena and noumena – things as they ap-
pear and as they are in themselves, was one of the greatest achievements in phi-
losophy. Part of this “solution” is the idea of an “intelligible” or “noumenal”
choice (intelligible Wahl), by means of which you choose the whole world (of ap-
pearances). You choose your empirical world. Through your “intelligible charac-
ter” you choose your “empirical character” – and then are stuck with it. One can
also say that through your intelligible choice you choose, once and for all, your
empirical choices, all the moral choices and moral decisions you are going to
make in the course of your life. This Kantian idea is, I think, reflected in the Trac-
tatus. “If the good or bad exercise of the will does alter the world, it can alter
only the limits of the world… In short the effect must be that it becomes an al-
together different world” (6.43). World and will are “equivalent” to each other
(Tagebücher 4.11.16). Another will means another world. Here it appears as if
the will stands outside the world, comparable to a noumenal self. Also the sol-
ipsism that we find in the Tractatus can be argued to have its roots via Schopen-
hauer in Kant, because it is through my (solitary) “intelligible choice” that I
choose my whole empirical world. This view can be found in Kant’s First Critique.
But also in Kant’s moral philosophy, the idea of a reflection about the universal-
izability of maxims and the question whether I can really will such maxims, we
find a solipsistic flavor: “Act only in accordance with that maxim through which
you can at the same time will that it become a universal law”.⁵ Even though you
think of others universally, you have to think alone, by yourself. The “real” sub-
ject is not part of the phenomenal world, as the intelligible character is not part
of the empirical character. Rather, the former is the noumenal “cause” of the
latter.⁶ This idea is an integral part of Kant’s transcendental theory of “causality

 “Handle nur nach derjenigen Maxime, durch die du zugleich wollen kannst, dass sie ein all-
gemeines Gesetz werde.” (Immanuel Kant, Academy Edition vol. , page ) The expression
“wollen kannst” (can will) is often overlooked. But I think it is essential. It makes Kant’s
moral philosophy less formal and more personal. But it also gives it a solipsistic flavor. You
have to think of others, but you think by yourself. You have to ask yourself whether you really
want that maxim you are now considering. Besides universality (can will) there is an element of
willing (can will). You have to ask yourself whether you really want the maxim in question.
 Kant is here stretching the concept of causality, because strictly speaking it applies only to
phenomena, and noumenal causality is not a phenomenon. Noumenal causality cannot be ex-
 Wittgenstein and Free Will 49

of freedom”, and this theory might well be, via Schopenhauer, part of the back-
ground of Wittgenstein’s statements such as “I am my world” (5.63) and “The
subject does not belong to the world; rather, it is a limit of the world” (5.632).
A transcendental subject that chooses the (his or her) phenomenal world can
be understood as the “limit” of this world, or as “being” this world. But all
this is rather speculative philosophy, and I do not want to go too deep into
this kind of philosophy here.
When Wittgenstein talks of free will, which he explicitly does only once in
the Tractatus, I do not believe he is thinking of Kant’s “causality of freedom”.
In Kant this is essentially moral freedom, and it is a form of causality. But in
Wittgenstein I believe there is no intended connection with morality when he
says “The freedom of the will consists in the impossibility of knowing actions
that still lie in the future” (5.1362). He distances himself from any kind of causal-
ity. Rather, there might be a reference to G.E. Moore, whose book Ethics of 1912 he
might well have known, or at least he might have been familiar with the ideas
expressed in it. The context of 5.1362 is an elaborate theory about propositions,
truth functions, and elementary propositions (5), and the way the truth of a
proposition follows from another proposition (5.13). I will briefly lay out this con-
text. Wittgenstein claims that there is no way to draw conclusions from facts or
situations [Sachlagen] to totally different facts: “There is no possible way of mak-
ing an inference from the existence of one situation to the existence of another,
entirely different [gänzlich verschiedenen] situation” (5.135). The question is of
course how “entirely different” given situations actually are, and this becomes
crucial in the sentences that follow. He immediately claims that such inferences
have nothing to do with causality: “There is no causal nexus to justify such an
inference” (5.136). Like Hume, he thinks that causal relations fall short of logical
relations.⁷ But the question is what “such an inference” refers to and what it
does not refer to, i. e. when two situations are “entirely different”. After the intro-
duction of the idea of a causal nexus follow immediately the statements about

perienced. At best the effect is a phenomenon (the world chosen), but the cause (the noumenal
subject) is not. The cause is the transcendental subject as a thing in itself. It is not part of the
phenomenal world. In general, for Kant things in themselves are not additional things. They are
the usual phenomenal things considered as independently of time and space. In this way we
should try to make sense of “noumenal causality”. The same applies to Kant saying that we
are “affected” by things in themselves.
 Cyril Barrett () has pointed out that Wittgenstein goes even further than Hume. Whereas
Hume argued that we cannot perceive a causal nexus (but only constant conjunction), Wittgen-
stein, like the “Ockhamites, Nicholas of Autrecourt and John of Miracourt”, says that “from one
event another cannot be deduced: there is no entailment, no necessary connection between
them.” Wittgenstein goes “far beyond” the “Humean line” (p. ).
50 Christian Helmut Wenzel

the future and about freedom of the will with which I am concerned in this essay:
“We cannot infer the events of the future from those of the present. Belief in the
causal nexus is superstition [Aberglaube]” (5.1361), and then: “The freedom of
the will consists in the impossibility of knowing actions that still lie in the fu-
ture” (5.1362). There is no causal nexus, hence we cannot know the future,
and hence we are free.
Does Wittgenstein subscribe to the last statement (5.1362)? Does he believe in
such freedom of the will? Or does he think such belief is nonsense? This is not
made explicit in that passage.⁸ But there is a similar epistemic move in Moore’s de-
fense of freedom of the will, and Moore does believe in such freedom of the will.
Moore in his Ethics of 1912 discusses free will in a separate chapter. In the
book as a whole he develops a theory of right and wrong that depends on what
an agent can do, and all that is necessary for this theory, Moore says, is an under-
standing of the word “can” expressing what an agent can do if he so chooses. No
sense of any agent that “absolutely can” is required (198). But Moore also express-
es doubt and reservation about his theory. He is not sure whether it adequately
grasps what is right and wrong (202). In any case he thinks that free will is ordi-
narily understood to require that we have “the power of acting differently from the
way in which we actually do act” (203). He thinks it is clear that we often “can, in
some sense, do what we don’t do” (204). To show this he gives the following exam-
ple: “I could have walked a mile in twenty minutes this morning, but I certainly
could not have run two miles in five minutes. I did not, in fact, do either of
these two things; but it is pure nonsense to say that the mere fact that I did
not, does away with the distinction between them, which I express by saying
that the one was within my powers, whereas the other was not” (206). To make
this distinction possible, we need a “generic” meaning of “could”. Moore on
other occasions has walked a mile in twenty minutes, and that justifies his saying
that he could have done it this morning, too. In another sense of “could”, a “par-
ticular” sense of “could”, it might be true to say that he could not have done it this
morning. If one is a determinist, thinking that everything has a preceding cause
from which it necessarily follows, then one might think so. The word “could” is
simply ambiguous. We can thus rescue free will by saying that we sometimes
“could” (in the generic sense) have done what we did not do; and that, if deter-

 Georg Henrik von Wright () said in his  Woodbridge Lectures: “The idea that human
freedom is relative to human ignorance is familiar from the history of thought. […] It was given
an aphoristic formulation in modern times by Wittgenstein when he wrote in the Tractatus
(.): ‘The freedom of the will consists in the fact that future actions cannot be known
now’.” (p. ) He says that Wittgenstein gave it a “formulation”. I do not know whether he
thinks Wittgenstein subscribed to this formulation, or even believed in the existence of free will.
 Wittgenstein and Free Will 51

minism is true, we “could not” (in the particular sense) have done what we did not
do (211). In this way, free will and determinism are compatible.⁹
There are two things I wish to add here. One is that G.E. Moore hints that he
is ready to give up determinism and the principle that everything has a cause
(pp. 209 – 210). The other is that he is content with the understanding of “free
will” as merely requiring that we could have done otherwise if we had chosen
otherwise (and that no “absolutely could” is necessary). He is content with say-
ing that in that sense of the term we “really have” free will (p. 217). Moore thus
has been struggling with the issue. But he is not yet finished. He next faces the
objection that some might require that we could not only have acted differently
but also have chosen differently. Could we have chosen what we did not choose?
To this he gives two answers. One is that indeed we “should have chosen to do a
particular thing if we had chosen to make the choice” and he gives some kind of
evidence for this. It can for instance be seen when we make an “effort to induce
ourselves to choose a particular course” (p. 219). The other answer is that “we
can hardly ever know for certain beforehand, which choice we actually shall
make” (p. 219). This is the sentence I wish to point out in relation to Wittgen-
stein’s statement in the Tractatus: “Freedom of the will consists in the impossi-
bility of knowing actions that still lie in the future” (5.1362).
Moore thinks the word “possible” is “not ambiguous” (p. 209) and that this
implies that “some things, which did not happen, could have happened”
(p. 209). In his eyes this contradicts the principle that everything has a cause
(a preceding cause that is an event), and he is ready to “give up this principle”
(p. 210). This intuition underlies also his defense of our ability to freely choose
among alternatives:

One of the commonest senses of the word ‘possible’ is that in which we call an event ‘pos-
sible’ when no man can know for certain that it will not happen. It follows that almost, if
not quite always, when we make a choice, after considering alternatives, it was possible
that we should have chosen one of these alternatives, which we did not actually choose;
and often, of course, it was not only possible, but highly probable, that we should have
done so.

I find it difficult to follow Moore’s intuitions at this point. He makes the notion of
possibility depend on our epistemic limitations. These limitations justify our way
of using the word “possible”. If nobody can know for certain that an event will
not happen, we may call the event “possible”. This makes good sense, it seems to

 Smart () makes a similar distinction and speaks of a “specific” and an “ordinary”, every-
day sense of the word “can”.
52 Christian Helmut Wenzel

me. But how do we know that nobody can know for certain that an event will not
happen? This is something that worries a determinist. And why does it “follow”
that it was possible that “we should have chosen one of these alternatives, which
we did not actually choose”? I think he thinks of this case in a parallel way as he
thinks of the generic meaning of “could”. It reflects the way we think and use
words. But a determinist will not be impressed by this.
If we assume that Wittgenstein was familiar with the arguments Moore had put
forward in his 1912 book Ethics, what conclusions can we draw regarding 5.1362,
where Wittgenstein says: “The freedom of the will consists in the impossibility of
knowing actions that still lie in the future”? Wittgenstein flatly dismisses belief in
the principle of causality: “We cannot infer the events of the future from those of
the present. Belief in the causal nexus is superstition.” (5.1361)¹⁰ Moore is ready
to dismiss belief in the principle of causality. But he does not flatly reject it. Wittgen-
stein’s criticism is much stronger and more radical than is Moore’s. It seems he sub-
scribes to Moore’s intuition that “we can hardly ever know for certain beforehand,
which choice we actually shall make” and that “no man can know for certain what
will happen” (p. 219). What 5.1361 says about free will at least expresses such an in-
tuition. But for Moore this does not define free will. Far from doing so, “it goes no
way to justify us in saying that we have Free Will” (p. 219). Moore is instead relying
on our everyday use of the expression “could” in the generic sense. He thinks that
this usage makes sense and cannot be given up. The epistemic move about our ig-
norance is thus not central to his justification of free will. But for Wittgenstein the
freedom of the will “consists” in this ignorance, i.e. “the impossibility of knowing
actions that still lie in the future”. At least this is what 5.1362 says. Whether this im-
plies that Wittgenstein himself believes in free will and that it “consists” in this ig-
norance is another question.
In the Tractatus we thus find on the one hand a radical dismissal of causal-
ity and on the other hand that the will and the self still play roles in ways in-
spired by Kant and Schopenhauer that are very speculative. Wittgenstein later
distances himself from such speculative philosophy, but he keeps the dismissal
of any understanding of will as having causal powers. Not much is left for will to
do in the Tractatus. As a phenomenon it is “of interest only to psychology”

 I am not saying that Wittgenstein is influenced by Moore regarding his view of causality. The
source might well be David Hume, who argued that we observe a “uniform and regular conjunc-
tion” between events in nature and that our idea of a necessity in this conjunction is merely the
result of a “determination of the mind to pass from one object to its usual attendant, and infer
the existence of one from that of the other” (Treatise, Book II, Part III, Section I Of Liberty and
Necessity, p. ). Thus the inference is psychological, not logical. I thank Peter Hacker for
pointing this parallelism between Hume and Wittgenstein out to me.
 Wittgenstein and Free Will 53

(6.423). This dismissal is again similar to Kant, to whom rational psychology does
not have much to say, and who in the first Critique is not interested in empirical
psychology. But regarding ethics, according to the Tractatus it is “impossible to
speak about the will” (6.423), and this is different from Kant, who wrote a whole
ethical theory in which the will plays an important role. Kant talks about the
good will and causality of will. But in the end, even Kant has little to say
about the will understood as cause, because as free will it must be noumenal
and not much can be said about the noumenal self. Kant insists on the possibil-
ity of “causality of freedom”, but this remains speculative and empty in spite of
all his efforts to give it a more substantial and positive meaning. The third part of
the Groundwork clearly shows how Kant cannot fully achieve what he set out to
do (prove the existence of free will). Wittgenstein in 5.631 writes “There is no
such thing as the subject that thinks or entertains ideas”. Kant in the First Cri-
tique develops a transcendental account of “original synthetic unity of appercep-
tion” and in his Lectures a few years before the publication of the First Critique
he is reported to have said that “When I say: I think, I act, etc, then either the
world “I” is used wrongly or I am free”.¹¹ This sounds more optimistic and sim-
ilar to Moore and his analysis of how we use the word “could”. But this 1778 – 9
argument is not taken up in the 1781 First Critique. In general, Kant became in-
creasingly skeptical about how much we can justifiably say about freedom of
thought, freedom of will, and freedom of action. But he did not give up his
moral theory and what he says about good will.
Contrary to Moore and possibly Wittgenstein, I think the epistemic defense
of free will that is based on our ignorance of the future is not a strong defense.
Spinoza had already attacked this view severely in the 17th century.¹² It is true

 “Wenn ich sage: ich denke, ich handle, usw.; dann ist entweder das Wort Ich falsch ge-
braucht, oder ich bin frei … Ich thue, als actio, kann nicht anders als absolute frei gebraucht
werden. Alle praktischen Sätze hätten keinen Sinn, wenn der Mensch nicht frei ware.” (Metaphy-
sics Lectures Pölitz, around  – , Academy Edition vol. , p. )
 Cyril Barrett () observes that “Spinoza and Wittgenstein are saying opposite things”
(p. ). Spinoza is a determinist believing in causality and thinking that our belief in free
will is an illusion. Wittgenstein on the contrary thinks it is our belief in causality that is an illu-
sion (ein Aberglaube), and that, as Barrett reads Wittgenstein, “it is because we are free that nei-
ther we nor anyone else can predict what we are going to do until we decide to do it” ( – ,
footnote ). But differently from Barrett, I see an unresolved tension, if not a contradiction, be-
tween this deciding to do something (apparently in the world) on the one hand, and the idea
that “the world is independent of my will” and that I am “completely powerless” on the
other (p. ). The problem comes up, I think, also in Barrett’s discussion of Anscombe’s criti-
cism. Anscombe says that Wittgenstein seems to her to get it “obviously wrong” (p. ) when
he talks about the relationship between action and intention. Barrett defends Wittgenstein by
54 Christian Helmut Wenzel

that if a Laplacian demon could predict our future action, he should better not
tell us, because then we could do otherwise and contradict his prediction. But if
such a demon keeps the knowledge to himself or if there are natural laws, un-
known to us but according to which our future actions are fixed, free will
seems empty. This is so even if Moore’s analysis or our ways of talking of abilities
and our use of the phrase “he could (in the generic sense) have done otherwise”
still make sense. In the Tractatus, will as causal power is rejected, but in a tran-
scendental sense it still plays a role. What status “free will” actually has, or
might have, is not said.

2 Free will in the Philosophical Investigations

In the Philosophical Investigations Wittgenstein discusses will and willing in sec-
tions 611 to (around) 641. This is not a separate topic. It is embedded in contin-
uous discussions of various mental acts and mental states such as expecting,
feeling, meaning, remembering, recognizing, describing, and intending. We
often lack the words for describing feelings and things, for instance the aroma
of coffee (610). It is immediately after such a topic as describing the aroma of
coffee that Wittgenstein begins to talk about the will. He usually speaks of the
“act of willing” (das Wollen), but sometimes also of the “will” (der Wille). The
dismissal of any kind of causal account of will that we found in the Tractatus
can also be found in the Investigations. But instead of a Kantian and Schopen-
hauerian transcendental account of self and will, we find emphases on contexts,
situations, and familiar practices. This I think is the basic shift in comparison
with the Tractatus. Speculative, transcendental accounts and reflections are
completely out of the picture now. Nevertheless, several examples that Wittgen-
stein thought about in his Notebooks during October and November 1916 appear
again in the Philosophical Investigations, such as the example of lifting one’s

saying on the one hand that the intention is part of the action (p. ) and on the other that “the
action itself” (p. ) has no moral value and is independent of the intention. But I cannot see
how he can have it both ways. It seems to me that without the intention an action is not an ac-
tion any more. Wittgenstein wants to keep the will, especially the ethical will, completely out of
the world. But how can Barrett then make sense of the idea of “renunciation” (p. ) as a way of
achieving freedom of the will? It seems to me that an act of renunciation is part of this world.
After all, it has effects in the world, as does our thinking and desiring. Kant runs into similar
problems when he tries to make sense of the freedom of the will in his moral theory.
 Wittgenstein and Free Will 55

arm, or deciding to do so in five minutes.¹³ Wittgenstein is here conversing with

his earlier self. In the Notebooks he wrote of Willensakt, Wollen, and Wille. In the
Investigations he only writes of Wollen and Wille. There is no talk of Willensakt
any more. The reason might be that he has abolished any idea of a separate
act of will that precedes and causes voluntary actions so thoroughly that he
does not even speak of Willensakt any more. But he still writes of voluntary
acts as willkürliche Handlung (616, 627) and willkürliche Bewegung (614, 629).
“Willkürlich” contains the word “Wille”, but this is problematic.
The German expression “willkürliche Bewegung” is translated as “voluntary
movement”. This makes good sense, because in English we say “I move my
arm”, and in German we say “Ich bewege meinen Arm”. But movement, or mo-
tion, is not an action. John Hyman has criticized Wittgenstein for confusing
the two: “Wittgenstein’s second major mistake was his failure to distinguish be-
tween action and motion, or to consider how they are related” (Hyman 2011,
p. 466). “[L]ike many of his predecessors, including Schopenhauer, he confuses
action and motion” (467). But I do not think Wittgenstein made such a mistake.
In the example Hyman is focusing on (Investigations 627), Wittgenstein considers
two sentences: “I form the decision to pull the bell at 5 o’clock, and when it
strikes 5, my arm makes this movement,” and “See, my arm is going up.”
Hyman is right in saying that what is wrong with the second sentence is not
only that the surprise (“and see!”) is out of place but that also that the expres-
sion “my arm is going up” is inappropriate. I raise my arm when I pull the bell. It
does not “go up”. Wittgenstein points out the former (that there is no surprise),
but not the latter (that we should say “I raise my arm” and not “My arm goes
up”). Hyman thinks Wittgenstein was unaware of the latter. But I doubt this is
the case. Why should he have been unaware of it? I see no evidence for this.
Rather, I think Wittgenstein was content with pointing out the former mistake
(describing the situation as if it were a surprise). He does not need to point
out the latter mistake too. Thus I think it is wrong to say of Wittgenstein: “It
does not occur to him that ‘my arm is going up’ describes the motion of my
arm, and that the action and the motion – the Handlung and the Bewegung –
are different things” (Hyman 2011, p. 467). To the contrary, I believe he knows
very well that these are two different things. Although it is true that Wittgenstein
“shifts back and forth between Handlung and Bewegung” (467), I do not think he
does so “without considering whether there is a difference between the two”
(ibid). Firstly, I think he is aware of the difference and very much interested in

 See Notebook entries . .  and . .  and Philosophical Investigations , ,
, , and .
56 Christian Helmut Wenzel

it, because he wants to bring out what we mean by talking of the voluntariness of
an action as if it were some kind of mystical inner event or action. Secondly, lan-
guage is not reliable here. We say “Ich bewege meinen Arm”, although this is an
action and not just a movement, or motion. So he is justified in sometimes using
the word “Bewegung”.
In 621, Wittgenstein asks “What is left over if I subtract the fact that my arm
goes up from the fact that I raise my arm?” The difference is not some kind of
kinaesthetic sensation, as William James has suggested. It is not my trying either.
Nor is it my deciding. The difference is – this is Wittgenstein’s new suggestion –
one of context, learning, expectation, familiarity, lack of surprise. John Hyman
has illustrated this well: “For example, we regard the movements of a child play-
ing with a doll as voluntary, not because we postulate invisible acts of will or
images of kinaesthetic feelings preceding them and making them occur, but be-
cause we know that the child has learned how to make these movements, be-
cause the movements are coordinated and purposeful, because the child attends
to what it is doing, is not alarmed or surprised or distressed by its own move-
ments, and so on. If we feel the need to postulate a hidden cause, it is because
we ignore these features of a movement and its context, which are for the most
part in plain view” (459). Hyman also argues that there is voluntary passivity and
not just voluntary activity and that this has usually been overlooked. “Children
are sometimes picked up and carried voluntarily” (460). They let it happen and
do so voluntarily. I think we may say that letting it happen is an action of some
sort, too. But in any case, all this fits well into what Wittgenstein is after, namely
pointing out contexts instead of hidden causes.
Wittgenstein focuses on examples like raising one’s own arm, or getting out
of bed (Brown Book, p. 151). He questions our understanding of will and willing
as causal events or causal powers, and he questions, or even dissolves such an
understanding by pointing out the contexts in which the actions occur. He ar-
gues that such contexts are all that is required to understand what will and will-
ing are. But we should notice that when he discusses voluntary actions, he most-
ly talks of moving arms and limbs. He does not talk of moral actions. As he did in
the Tractatus, he stays away from ethics. This is very different from Kant, who
thinks we have free will mainly in moral actions and who is not interested in
any other kind of (empirical or psychological) will. This is also different in Aris-
totle, who begins book III of his Nicomachean Ethics with a discussion of virtue
by observing that when we praise and blame we presuppose voluntariness:

Since virtue is concerned with passions and actions, and on voluntary passions and actions
praise and blame are bestowed, on those that are involuntary pardon, and sometimes also
pity, to distinguish the voluntary and the involuntary is presumably necessary for those
 Wittgenstein and Free Will 57

who are studying the nature of virtue, and useful for legislators with a view to the assigning
both of honours and punishment. [Translation Sir David Ross.]

We see that in Aristotle voluntary passions are included, not just actions.¹⁴ Fur-
thermore, voluntariness is related to blame and praise, whereas Wittgenstein
merely focuses on moving arms and legs without any ethical contexts. The
Greek expression Aristotle uses is rendered into English as “voluntary” and
into German as “freiwillig” (or wollend, absichtlich). It is not just will but free
will that is at issue here. Free will is required for praise and blame, honors
and punishment, not just will. It seems to me this context is lost in Wittgenstein.
Aristotle goes on by saying:

Those things, then, are thought involuntary, which take place under compulsion or owing
to ignorance; and that is compulsory of which the moving principle is outside, being a prin-
ciple in which nothing is contributed by the person who is acting or is feeling the passion,
e. g. if he were to be carried somewhere by a wind, or by men who had him in their power.

The context is very wide here from the start. But at the same time there is talk of
“moving principles” and of such principles being “outside” and “inside,” depend-
ing on how much the “person” is contributing. Thought about moving principles
historically led to discussions of causality and determinism, which Wittgenstein
wants to talk us out of. But the context of person and ethics he leaves out.
Wittgenstein wants to do away with any kind of causal explanations of the will,
or free will, and he is often skeptical about talk of the inner. The discussion regard-
ing voluntariness gets thin, because he excludes ethical contexts. Aristotle did none
of this. He wrote about blame and praise. Kant preceded Wittgenstein in the former
(finding problems with free will and the inner), but he did not precede Wittgenstein
in the latter (excluding morality). Kant wrote a moral philosophy. Will, considered in
the Investigations without the context of ethics, threatens to shrink to a mere point:
“Doing itself seems not to have any volume of experience. It seems like an exten-
sionless point, the point of a needle” (620). At least this is true when we search
for a momentary act of will as first cause and phenomenon. We easily become un-
certain about ourselves when we question our intentions, for instance what we
wanted to say or do at a certain moment in the past. “How can you be certain
that for the space of a moment [einen Augenblick lang] you were going to deceive

 “Passions” is only one of several possible translations of πάϑη. Others are “emotions”, “feel-
ings”, and “affections”. I thank John Hyman for pointing this out to me. πάϑη usually indicates a
negative feeling or state of mind, something unfortunate that happens to you. πάϑη is different
from action (πρᾶξις).
58 Christian Helmut Wenzel

him? Weren’t your actions and thoughts much too rudimentary?” (638) Thus Witt-
genstein keeps emphasizing the necessity of epistemic contexts and concrete situa-
tions to understand what we think of as inner experiences such as wishing, willing,
and intending. “Then the ‘inner experience’ of intending [des Wollens] seems to van-
ish again. Instead one remembers thoughts, feelings, movements, and also connex-
ions with earlier situations” (645). The situations considered are epistemic and not
moral. Will and free will are here not related to what we mean by being a “person”.
When Wittgenstein wants to correct our “wanting to think of willing as an immedi-
ate non-causal bringing-about” (613), he is still struggling with his own former self
when he was under the influence of Schopenhauer and Kant, for whom the phe-
nomenal world was causally determined and “causality of freedom” somehow
had to make sense and “bring about” something in this world. But since Wittgen-
stein does not believe in this kind of transcendental philosophy any more, willing
and voluntariness completely disappear as acts: “‘Willing’ is not the name of an ac-
tion; and so not the name of any voluntary action either” (613). Instead, it must be
part of the action that is carried out and not an action that precedes it and takes
place in the mind, as John Locke thought of it.
It is in this context that we must also understand what Wittgenstein says
about the predictability of the future. In the Tractatus he said: “The freedom
of the will consists in the impossibility of knowing actions that still lie in the fu-
ture” (5.1362) (and I am not sure whether this was really his own opinion then or
not), and this epistemic understanding of free will was put forward in the con-
text of a general opposition to any kind of belief in causal connections as neces-
sary. Now in the Investigations, in the context of lifting one’s arm and pulling a
bell (627), he notes: “When people talk about the possibility of foreknowledge of
the future they always forget the fact of the prediction of one’s own voluntary
movements” (629). This sounds as if there were a special first-person access
and certainty available in this case. Maybe I can predict what I will do next
with more certainty than I can predict a solar eclipse? But I think this is not
what Wittgenstein wants to say here. We can see this if we consider the context
in which 629 stands. “Doing itself […] seems like an extensionless point, the
point of a needle” (620), and willing is not a “kinaesthetic sensation” (621).
He questions such momentary certainty. A moment of time (ein Augenblick,
636, 638, 642) is as extensionless as the “point of a needle” (620)! We need
more context, temporal as well as spatial context. Thus he inserts the observa-
tion that when we touch an object with a stick, we have “the sensation of touch-
ing in the tip of the stick, not in the hand that holds it” (626), which is an obser-
vation about our feeling regarding space; and he discusses recognition (625),
deciding to do something at 5 o’clock (627), prediction (630 – 632), and memory
(633 – 645), which are all observations involving time. To understand willing we
 Wittgenstein and Free Will 59

need to broaden the view in both time and space. The theme is always that we
need contexts, antecedents, and stories (eine Vorgeschichte 638). If you recall
what you felt or wanted to do, you need to recall the circumstances. Thus also
“the prediction of one’s own voluntary movements” (629) depends on knowledge
of familiar circumstances. One is not surprised that one raises one’s arm and the
bell sounds at 5 o’clock, because one has done similar things on similar occa-
sions. There is no act of will that causes the movement of the arm. One does it
voluntarily, because one does not have a divided mind about it. One is familiar
with the action, one has learned how to do such a thing, and one does not regret.
All this brings us back to Aristotle again.
Thus if we combine the observation about free will in the Tractatus, that
“freedom of the will consists in the impossibility of knowing actions that still
lie in the future” (5.1362) with the discussion of will and predictability (but
not “free” will) in the Investigations, we arrive at the suggestion that if there is
such a thing as free will, it must be understood in the wider contexts of practices
in our daily lives, in the various contexts of promising, predicting, expecting, re-
calling, intending, and expressing what we want.

3 Concluding remarks
Wittgenstein does not much deal with free will. But he is concerned with will.
This is peculiar, because free will plays a central role in Kant and Schopenhauer
who had a large influence on Wittgenstein. Why is that? I think the main reason
is that Wittgenstein from the start excluded ethics, at least in his writings. He
preferred to keep quiet about it and tended to equate it with aesthetics and reli-
gion. Such conflations and Horizontverschmelzungen can lead to blind spots. He
wrote about the soul and delicate problems such as meaning-blindness. But did
he have a blind spot for ethics? If one prefers to be quiet about something, there
is always the danger that one lives with one-sided pictures and it will not be easy
for others (like us) to judge what such a person (like Wittgenstein) really thinks.
In Aristotle the problem of free will and voluntariness (ἑκουσιοις is translat-
ed as “voluntary” and “freiwillig”) was tied to virtue, blame, and praise. For that
it does not matter whether will is understood as a causal power or not. Aristotle
later talks about the source or “moving principle” of an action, and he distin-
guishes the case where it is in the agent from the case where it is outside of
the agent. But this comes later. First we observe that people praise and blame
each other for what they do. Depending on whether the act was done voluntarily
or not (or the passion or emotion had voluntarily or not), we excuse, pardon,
pity, or we don’t. This aspect, it seems to me, was not in Wittgenstein’s focus
60 Christian Helmut Wenzel

of interest from the start, and this has consequences regarding to what extent we
can say he was dealing with the problem of free will at all, even though he was
thinking about the problem of what will and willing is.
According to Aristotle we are acting involuntarily, or at least non-voluntarily,
if we act under compulsion or with ignorance. If a tyrant threatens you and or-
ders you to do something, you might be said to do it involuntarily and you might
be pardoned or pitied. If you are in a storm on a ship, you might involuntarily
throw goods overboard hoping that this will make it less likely that the ship
will sink. Many actions are “mixed” as Aristotle says. Partly, or in certain re-
spects, we do them voluntarily, partly we do them involuntarily. It also matters
whether we regret what we have done or not. It matters how much control we
have over the action. In so far as “the moving principle” is in the person and
in his power, the action or passion, feeling, or affection is voluntary. In so far
as it is outside of the person, it is involuntary. Such considerations can be
very complicated in particular cases and will involve us in questions of charac-
ter, person, personal identity, ascription, justice, human rights, and many other
topics. If we see free will in these respects, it becomes more understandable that
Kant thought we can be free only in the light of morality. But Kant was also
under the influence of Newton and the natural sciences. Regarding the phenom-
enal world, he understood the “moving principle” in the person as a form of nat-
ural causality, which he thought to be deterministic, where every cause has an-
other cause. Hence he tried to save freedom by distinguishing phenomena and
noumena. Schopenhauer followed him, and Wittgenstein tried to get out of
this. But he never held on to the ethical aspect, which was the starting point
in Aristotle and still strong in Kant and Schopenhauer, be it in form the catego-
rical imperative or in the form of compassion. Thus by exorcizing the causal un-
derstanding of the will, free will went overboard as well. Wittgenstein saw free
will only as will, which was a one-sided picture. Wittgenstein in the Investiga-
tions rightly points out contexts and circumstances, but limits himself to episte-
mological questions about knowledge and certainly and does not consider moral
questions. He talks about drill and Abrichtung, not moral education. In the light
of this observation we can see another source of Hyman’s criticism. I do not
think that Wittgenstein does not see the difference between action (Handlung)
and movement (Bewegung). He does distinguish between the two. He sees the
epistemic differences. But I think he abstracts from the moral dimension and
thereby misses the moral differences which might be the most important ones.
One might object to my criticism of Wittgenstein by saying that we can study
questions about will and free will independently of questions about morality.
One might say that such questions come first and morality can be discussed
 Wittgenstein and Free Will 61

later.¹⁵ This may be true. But it might also be false. I feel uncomfortable with ex-
cluding something that was so important to Aristotle and Kant for instance. Also
Peter Strawson in his discussion of freedom and resentment focuses on our re-
actions in moral contexts. Without the ethical dimension something is lost,
and it seems to me that what is lost might be essential.
For comments and corrections I wish to thank Thomas Bernöster, Peter Hacker,
Herbert Hanreich, John Hyman, Kai Marchal, Stephen Priest, and Joel Schickel.

Bibliography
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Candlish, Stewart (2001): “The Will”. In: Hans-Johann Glock (ed.): Wittgenstein: A Critical
Reader, Malden: Blackwell, pp. 156 – 173.
Candlish, Stewart/Damnjanovic, Nic (2013): “Reasons, Actions, and The Will: The Fall and the
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Hacker, Peter (1996/2000): Wittgenstein: Mind and Will. Volume 4 of an Analytical
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Hume, David (1984): A Treatise of Human Nature. New York: Penguin Classics.
Hyman, John (2011): “Action and the Will”. In: Oskari Kuusela and Marie McGinn (eds.): The
Oxford Handbook of Wittgenstein, Oxford: Oxford University Press 2011, pp. 451 – 471.
Moore, G.E. (1912): Ethics. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Savigny, Eike von (ed.) (1995): Wittgenstein über die Seele, Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp.
Savigny, Eike von (1996): Der Mensch als Mitmensch. Wittgenstein’s Philosophische
Unversuchungen. Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag.
Schneider, Hans Julius (2009): “Das muste ja so kommen! Libertinarische Willensfreiheit und
Handlungsdetermination”. In: Erwägen, Wissen, Ethik 20/1, pp. 57 – 58.
Schröder, Severin (2006): Wittgenstein. The Way Out of the Fly Bottle. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Smart, J.J.C. (1961): “Free Will, Praise and Blame”. In: Mind 70/279, pp. 291 – 306.
Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1963 [1961]): Tractatus Logico-Philosopicus. Translated by D.F. Pears
and B.F. McGuinness, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1958 [1953]): Philosophical Investigations. translated by G.E.M.
Anscombe, Malden: Blackwell.

 Peter Hacker and Stephen Priest pointed this out to me. They made this criticism. Indeed,
Kant wrote his Critique of Pure Reason before he wrote his Critique of Practical Reason, and
he discussed transcendental, cosmological freedom first independently from morality. But I
think he wrote about the former with the latter in mind.
62 Christian Helmut Wenzel

Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1960 [1958]): The Blue and Brown Books. New York: Harper
Torchbooks.
Wright, Georg Henrik von (1974): Causality and Determinism. Woodbridge Lectures Delivered at
Columbia University in October and November of 1972. New York: Columbia University Press.
Wright, Georg Henrik von (1985): “Of Human Freedom”. In: S. M. McMurrin (ed.): The Tanner
Lectures on Human Values, Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, pp. 107 – 170.
Joachim Schulte
Wittgenstein’s Last Writings
Abstract: This sketch of a survey of Wittgenstein’s manuscript writings between
ca. 1946 and his death in 1951 attempts to do two things: (1) some comments are
made on the basis for, and the possible justification of, editorial decisions taken
by Wittgenstein’s heirs; (2) a few topics are identified as particularly characteristic
of Wittgenstein’s late thought and selected for more extended philosophical discus-
sion. Here, the chief question raised is whether, in Wittgenstein’s eyes, a satisfactory
distinction can be drawn between ‘empirical’ and ‘logical’ propositions.

To draw a sketch of the later Wittgenstein’s philosophical attitude one will be well-
advised to begin with an examination of his writings. True, there is plenty of mate-
rial in addition to his manuscripts and typescripts, such as records of conversations
and notes taken by students during or after his lectures as well as other kinds of
reports by people who knew him. But experience will show again and again that
Wittgenstein’s own writings can be relied on in a completely different and evidently
much more dependable way than those other types of record.
The period about which I want to talk in this paper starts with the comple-
tion of the typescript of the final version of Philosophical Investigations. While the
exact time at which this typescript was finished is not known, we can be sure
that its last page was dictated and typed sometime in the first half of the year
1946. This is the same time at which Wittgenstein was (as far as we know)
busy discussing problems belonging to the philosophy of psychology. Now,
this expression “philosophy of psychology”, which may sound a little unfamiliar
to modern ears, is Wittgenstein’s own term. To be sure, most philosophers would
be content to style this sphere of discussion “philosophy of mind”. But Wittgen-
stein for his part does not use this name. An additional consideration may con-
cern the two main sources on which Wittgenstein draws in his lectures and writ-
ings, viz., William James and Wolfgang Köhler. For, in spite of their obvious
philosophical interests, these two authors saw themselves primarily as scientific
psychologists for whom empirical methods of research were second nature.
But, however relevant this consideration may be, from 1946 to the summer
of 1947 — that is, up to the time at which Wittgenstein withdrew from his official
teaching post — there are many unmistakable parallels to be found between his
lectures and his written work. Great parts of these lectures are extremely well
documented, which renders it easy to make comparisons between Wittgenstein’s
writings and these lectures. But just because they are so easy to compare readers
of these records will feel that what they are confronted with are not only two dif-
64 Joachim Schulte

ferent styles of presenting the same, or closely related, material but two funda-
mentally different approaches. And the extent to which they differ may be such
that one may find it difficult to speak of “the same, or closely related, material”.
In view of this state of things it may appear natural to arrive at the following con-
clusion: on the one hand, Wittgenstein took his obligations as an academic
teacher very seriously indeed and, in his lectures, spared no effort to get certain
ideas, problems and ways of dealing with these problems across to his students.
On the other hand, in his writings he was not in the least concerned to render
plausible the contents of certain doctrines or views or theses. No, he declared
himself a radically anti-dogmatic thinker who was chiefly concerned to show
what is problematic about typically philosophical ways of thinking about various
supposedly philosophical kinds of question and to cast a critical eye on claims
regarding the legitimacy of such kinds of question.
Once one sees the enormous diversity between the work of an academic
teacher, on the one hand, and a philosophical writer, on the other, it will not
be difficult to understand that at one point or another the conflict between
these two ways of proceeding was no longer bearable. It seems likely that Witt-
genstein gained the impression that his work as a teacher had damaging effects
on his work as a writer. And as he evidently preferred to promote work on his
writings, it was surely in accord with this preference to decide that he should re-
tire from his professorial chair and get on with his manuscripts. As a result, he
moved to the solitariness of remote Irish cottages to do some writing.
At any rate, the greater part of the year 1948 as well as the first half of 1949
were spent in Ireland, partly in County Wicklow, partly in Galway, and partly in
Dublin, where Wittgenstein regularly saw his friend and former pupil M. O’C.
Drury. It was in Ireland that Wittgenstein completed a series of notes written
down in nine consecutive manuscript volumes, apparently displaying a degree
of continuity and unity of subject matter which in an author of Wittgenstein’s
kind may seem almost astonishing. Most readers will know some of the central
themes from a fragment on the philosophy of psychology which was first publish-
ed as what used to be called “Part II” of the Investigations. This fragment consists
of an extract from the nine volumes mentioned before — an extract Wittgenstein
selected in the spring of 1949. Here, he deals with notions like “grief” or “hope”,
with questions of perception, in particular the perception of aspects, as well as
connected problems concerning what Wittgenstein calls meaning-blindness. And
this notion raises a number of questions that can be seen to be of considerable
relevance to certain issues in the field of aesthetics, for instance.
This way of emphasizing problems belonging to the province of the philos-
ophy of psychology must not mislead us into overlooking the fact that at the
same time Wittgenstein was concerned with questions of quite different kinds
 Wittgenstein’s Last Writings 65

such as what he called Moore’s paradox, for example. What he meant by this is
the obvious but not easily explained absurdity of utterances like “It’s raining,
but I don’t believe it”. From Wittgenstein’s point of view, this paradox is
bound up with Frege’s idea of separating the assertoric force from the proposi-
tional content of a given assertion. And here it is not difficult to see that it is also
bound up with the very idea of propositional attitudes, and hence with an idea
which in its turn forms an essential ingredient in all kinds of speech-act theory.
Yet another topic addressed by Wittgenstein in this context is characterized
by questions concerning the appropriateness or the relativity of the formation of
our concepts. This is a topic closely connected with ideas entertained by Wittgen-
stein in the late 1930s and the first half of the 1940s in the context of his remarks
on the foundations — or rather: the dispensability of foundations — of mathe-
matics. Thus we see that, even if it is correct to say that in his late writings rel-
atively new ideas like his reflections on seeing aspects stand at the centre of his
attention, these ideas are at the same time embedded in questions and insights
which — as for example his reflections on Frege’s judgement stroke — reach as
far back as Wittgenstein’s earliest philosophical notebooks.
Many authors agree in seeing the summer of 1949 as a kind of break in Witt-
genstein’s life and thought. And surely this way of looking at the matter is not
unjustified. For, first of all, this is the time at which the aforementioned se-
quence of nine volumes on the philosophy of psychology comes to an end. Sec-
ond, in July Wittgenstein embarks on his second voyage to America, where on
this occasion he will spend almost three months in the home of his friend and
former pupil Norman Malcolm. Here, on the one hand, he experiences a dramat-
ic decline in the state of his health while, on the other, he gets involved in dis-
cussions about the topic “certainty” and, in particular, about Malcolm’s response
to G. E. Moore’s “Defence of Common Sense” and “Proof of an External World”.
Both events are, if one wishes to put it this way, signs of things to come. For, first
of all, after his return from America to Cambridge Wittgenstein learns that he is
suffering from an incurable form of cancer and, second, in many of his remarks
written down during the last year and a half of his life he deals with questions
that can be seen as deriving directly or indirectly from those papers by Moore
and, in particular, from Malcolm’s perspective on these papers.
Soon after his having learned about his own incurable disease in November
1949 Wittgenstein undertakes his third post-war journey to Vienna, where he ar-
rives shortly before Christmas to spend time with his oldest sister in her last ill-
ness. He stays in Vienna for three months before returning to England in the
spring of 1950. At first he lives in Cambridge for a short while; afterwards he
moves to Oxford to live in the house of his former pupil Elizabeth Anscombe.
Still in Vienna, he happens to come across a copy of Goethe’s Theory of Colours,
66 Joachim Schulte

which stimulates him to write down first notes on this topic on a few loose dou-
ble sheets of paper. There is a somewhat greater number of sheets of the same
type filled with notes on questions that were raised in the course of Wittgen-
stein’s discussions with Malcolm in the American summer of 1949. This latter
group of remarks is what we know as §§1– 65 of the volume On Certainty. The for-
mer group was published as part II of the book Remarks on Colour.
In this way, that is, by pointing out the fact that the editors of Wittgenstein’s
writings tore his Viennese notes apart in the fashion described I have reached
one leitmotif of my considerations. This is the question whether and, if so, to
what extent this way of editing his notes has shaped our picture of Wittgenstein.
But before getting down to discussing this question I shall briefly conclude the
story of Wittgenstein’s life.
After his return from Vienna he, in spite of his fragile state of health, continues
to work with some regularity on his manuscripts. Results of this work are the so-
called third part of Remarks on Colour, §§66– 299 of On Certainty as well as a certain
number of remarks that were published by Wittgenstein’s editors in volume II of
Last Writings on the Philosophy of Psychology (subtitled The Inner and the Outer)
or in Culture and Value. Possibly, the selection of remarks printed as part I of Re-
marks on Colour was also put together during this period. Shortly before the end
of the last-mentioned sequence of remarks published in On Certainty we encounter
the first remark in this book bearing a date (§287). It was written on 23 September
1950 and speaks about squirrels that get along without relying on a law of induc-
tion. It would not surprise me if this remark had been provoked by relatives of
those squirrels about which he repeatedly discoursed while walking across Christ
Church Meadow in the company of Bouwsma (cf. Bouwsma 1987, pp. 66– 7). A
few days later he embarks on his last trip to Norway, from which he returns to Eng-
land in the middle of November. This autumn journey and his subsequent state of
health make it impossible for him to continue working on his manuscripts. But all of
a sudden, on Saturday, 10 March 1951, he begins to write down a series of almost
daily remarks which only terminates on 27 April, that is, two days before his
death. Evidently, this flow of thoughts came quite as a surprise to Wittgenstein him-
self, who almost regarded it as a kind of miracle. For on 16 April, less than two
weeks before his death, he writes in a letter to Malcolm:

About a month ago I suddenly found myself in the right frame of mind for doing philoso-
phy. I had been absolutely certain that I’d never again be able to do it. It’s the first time after
more than 2 years that the curtain in my brain has gone up. – Of course, so far I’ve only
worked for about 5 weeks and it may be all over by tomorrow; but it bucks me up a lot
now. (16 April 1951; WiC, p. 479)
 Wittgenstein’s Last Writings 67

To sum up: The writings extant from the period we are looking at comprise the
following: first, there is a sequence of almost nine volumes from Wittgenstein’s
last Cambridge terms and the year and a half spent in Ireland. In addition, there
are two or three smaller notebooks whose contents were partly but by no means
entirely absorbed into those nine big volumes. The second group of papers we
have consists of six or seven middle-sized manuscript volumes from the time be-
tween Wittgenstein’s return from America and his death. The first point to make
is that neither of these two sequences of writings has, even approximately, been
published in the form in which they have come down to us. Of course, all this
material can be found and consulted in the Bergen Electronic Edition of Wittgen-
stein’s Nachlass. But what we know of the first group in printed form are only
two volumes of Remarks on the Philosophy of Psychology, one volume of Last
Writings on the Philosophy of Psychology and the fragment Philosophy of Psychol-
ogy (the former Part II of the Investigations). Most of these publications contain
material selected by Wittgenstein himself and dictated by him to a typist.
The editors’ decision to publish, not the complete sequence of nine manu-
script volumes, but only the selections mentioned may have been based on
the following train of thought: “The remarks selected by Wittgenstein himself
must, in his eyes, have been of better quality than the remarks he discarded.
Hence, printing this discarded material would go against his more or less explicit
wishes. Consequently, we should publish Wittgenstein’s selections.” — Ex-
pressed in this abstract fashion, this argument may seem convincing. But
quite apart from the fact that Wittgenstein’s motives in “discarding” certain re-
marks may have been much more complicated than envisaged here, people fa-
miliar with the manuscript material will hasten to reply that by proceeding in
this fashion an editor will deprive prospective readers of these texts of two cru-
cial advantages:
(1) Readers will be prevented from gaining a comprehensive overview of what
Wittgenstein wrote at the time in question.
(2) One must not forget that only familiarity with the manuscript material in its
entirety will allow readers to retrace the development of Wittgenstein’s
thought. That is, only if you know it all will you have a chance of grasping
his reasons for moving from A to B and of forming a reliable judgement
about the question whether or not he actually had a good reason for the
transition from A to B. In other words: if a number of links in Wittgenstein’s
original chain of reasoning are missing, it will in some, or many, cases be
impossible to arrive at an accurate and trustworthy picture of his reasoning.

Naturally, if you go into the details of the matter, the story is much more complex
and complicated than my rough exposition. But I hope that the basic thought
68 Joachim Schulte

has become clear: without taking into account the complete text of the aforemen-
tioned nine volumes you cannot form a reliable picture of Wittgenstein’s ideas —
his arguments pro or anti certain views, his reconstructions and criticisms of typ-
ical ways of thinking —, to say nothing of the significance of his allusions, puns
and metaphors.
A further point that should be mentioned will prove particularly relevant in
dealing with Wittgenstein’s writings from the last year and a half of his life. This
is the fact that the volumes published have been given an orientation towards cer-
tain subject matters. By placing the volumes of the Remarks on the Philosophy of
Psychology and the Last Writings on the Philosophy of Psychology through this choice
of titles squarely in the ambit of the philosophy of mind readers will be confirmed in
their tendency to forget about or overlook certain connections between some re-
marks from the last five years of Wittgenstein’s life and earlier writings. Here, I
only wish to point out what may seem to be a minor example. But if you think
about it, it will soon gain in importance. A theme which occurs again and again
in some manuscripts from the relevant time is the possibility given to man to sim-
ulate emotions and sensations and in this way to create an impression which does
not correspond to reality (if you want to put it this way). One context in which Witt-
genstein treats this topic is the context of his reflections on concepts and concept-
formation. Thus, at one point after having discussed various aspects of our notion of
pretending to be in pain Wittgenstein says:

One has to look at the concepts ‘to be in pain’ and ‘to simulate pain’ in the third and first
person. Or: the infinitive covers [[is backed – or supported – by]]¹ all persons and tenses.
Only the whole is the instrument, the concept.
But what then is the point of this complicated thing? Well, our behaviour is damned
complicated, after all. (LW II, p. 37)

True, some of the things Wittgenstein says at this point are well-known from
other writings of his. But our understanding of his words will not remain unaf-
fected by the contextualisation resulting from the editors’ decision to call the vol-
ume from which this quotation is taken “Last Writings on the Philosophy of Psy-
chology” and to add as a subtitle “The Inner and the Outer”.
This straightening of readers’ perspective can easily distort their view. Thus,
they may not only lose from sight that here there are connections with certain
general as well as more specific questions. One of these general questions
would be: to what extent may Wittgenstein’s way of looking at things be in-
formed by instrumental images or instrumentalist prejudices? A more specific

 [[…]] denotes alternative translations in this contribution.

 Wittgenstein’s Last Writings 69

issue would concern the highly interesting question of what one may want to call
the “shape” of our concepts — and this is a question Wittgenstein mentions in a
number of other manuscripts from this period. Thus, he speaks in more or less
metaphorical ways of the “slopes” and “inclinations” of our concepts. By this
means he aims to characterize certain ways of moving from one thought to an-
other or of continuing A by proceeding to B that are made possible or facilitated
by concepts at our disposal. These transitions, however, are essential tools for
structuring our way of viewing the world and will have to be taken into account
every time we make an attempt at comparing our concepts and those of a for-
eign, or alien, community of speakers.
This is a subject to which Wittgenstein makes an inimitably brief and at the
same time puzzling contribution by recommending, on the last page but two of
the former second part of the Investigations, to compare concepts with ways of
painting. If one wishes to deal with questions raised in this fashion, it may no
doubt be helpful to take into account Wittgenstein’s above-quoted idea that
“Only the whole is the instrument, the concept”. And in order to take it into ac-
count it will surely be necessary to make good sense of his words. What is obvi-
ous is that assigning these observations to the context of questions concerning
“The Inner and the Outer” — and hence to a determinate, perhaps ontologically
tinged sub-area of the philosophy of mind — will not contribute to successfully
dealing with the task of making sense of those words.
But there is at least one further respect in which the idea of dividing Wittgen-
stein’s remarks into those on the philosophy of psychology, on the one hand, and
those on other sorts of subject, on the other, turns out to be a drawback. Let us
return to the notion of pretending as well as the closely connected image of our
hidden inner life and have a look at the following passage:

The inner is hidden from us means that it is hidden from us in a sense in which it is not
hidden from him. And it is not hidden from the owner in this sense: he utters it and we be-
lieve the utterance under certain conditions and there is no such thing as his making a mis-
take here. And this asymmetry of the game is brought out by saying that the inner is hidden
from someone else.
Evidently there is an aspect of the language-game which suggests the idea of being pri-
vate or hidden – and there is also such a thing as hiding of the inner.
[…]
If I can never know what he is feeling, then neither can he pretend.
For pretending must mean, after all, getting someone else to make a wrong guess as to
what I feel. But if he now guesses right and is certain of being right, then he knows it. For of
course I can also get him to guess right about my feelings and not be in doubt about them.
(LW II, pp. 35 – 6)
70 Joachim Schulte

There are two reasons for quoting these remarks at such length and as represen-
tative of many other ones. First, the quotation shows nicely that Wittgenstein
himself in explicitly dealing with questions concerning the inner and the outer
will straightaway proceed to establish connections with other areas of discus-
sion. Here, for instance, he soon leaves the philosophy of mind to consider
the idea of language-games. And he continues to make connections with the no-
tion of privacy — which is well-known from and obviously central to the argu-
ment of Philosophical Investigations — by underlining a certain detail, viz., the
point that what is private in the relevant sense will tend to be understood as
being hidden.
The second point I want to make seems particularly important to me. The
quoted passage makes it perfectly clear that Wittgenstein has reasons for occu-
pying himself with the concepts of knowledge and error that result from his deal-
ing with questions of the relation between the inner and the outer or, rather, with
questions concerning our conception of this relation. The insights into our con-
cepts of knowledge and error gained by dealing with these questions will, at
least for the time being, remain quite independent of Wittgenstein’s responses
to problems raised by G. E. Moore or Norman Malcolm. And here we should re-
member the originality of Wittgenstein’s approach as opposed to the relative con-
ventionality of the questions at the root of Moore’s and Malcolm’s epistemolog-
ical problems and their efforts to refute sceptical objections to our knowledge
claims.
Now, while it is not possible to specify the exact date of the remarks quoted
just now, they can be found in a manuscript of which we can be certain that it
was not written before 1949 and which contains a fair number of remarks whose
wording and substance will remind readers of the material published in On Cer-
tainty. It is against this background that it appears quite natural to ask the fol-
lowing question: in which way should we read this material if the published
book did not begin (as it does now) with a quotation from Moore and a corre-
sponding note by the editors? — if, for example, it began with the manuscript
on the inner and the outer just quoted from or with an extract from this manu-
script focusing on the subject matter of On Certainty?
Accordingly, readers of Wittgenstein’s latest writings should never lose sight
of the fact that the organisation of the published volumes we are familiar with
mirrors the state of philological knowledge and the philosophical preferences
of the editors to an extent which, at least in some cases, may justify our speaking
of arbitrariness or whim. The orientation of the book On Certainty towards epis-
temological and specifically Moorean questions has already been mentioned,
and we have also observed that the second volume of Last Writings on the Phi-
losophy of Psychology contains a fair number of remarks that might find equally
 Wittgenstein’s Last Writings 71

(or better) accommodation in the volume On Certainty. What may come as a sur-
prise is that analogous observations apply to the book Remarks on Colour. While
it is true that its first part derives from a selection made by Wittgenstein himself
and that, at a pinch, one might consider the title “On Colour” appropriate to this
first part, the much longer part III would surely find a more adequate home in
the same volume as On Certainty. In other words, it would have been much
wiser if, half a century ago, the editors had made up their minds to publish Witt-
genstein’s late manuscripts in their probable chronological order without mak-
ing any attempt at dividing this material into thematic groups that have little
or nothing to do with Wittgenstein’s own understanding of his way of doing phi-
losophy.
But even among the remarks selected by Wittgenstein himself and published
as part I of Remarks on Colour one will find illuminating observations on the
topic I should like to make the centre of the rest of my comments. This is a
topic which is commonly associated with the book On Certainty, but here I
should like to remind you that, in one form or another, it has been a lifelong oc-
cupation of Wittgenstein’s. In the following passage (which is rarely quoted) he
writes:

Sentences are often used on the borderline between logic and the empirical, so that their
meaning changes back and forth [[sense crosses back and forth]] and they count now as
expressions of norms, now as expressions of experience.
(For it is certainly not an accompanying mental phenomenon – this is how we imagine
‘thoughts’ – but the use, which distinguishes the logical proposition from the empirical one
[[a logical sentence from an empirical one]].) (RC I, §32, cf. RC III, §19)

This quotation is remarkable in several respects:

(1) It should be observed that here Wittgenstein speaks of the use of Sätze —
sentences —, which is something he does comparatively rarely. In emphasiz-
ing this point I am not concerned about a question of idiom; what concerns
me is giving a correct description. For what we do in most ordinary cases is
that we use words to form sentences in order to communicate something by
means of them or to fulfil some other purpose. To be sure, as speakers of a
language we do have a repertoire of words that we can make use of, but we
do not in the same sense have command of a repertoire of sentences. Some
speakers — such as politicians or other people compelled to make numerous
public statements — will indeed have a repertoire of set phrases and oft-re-
peated sentences. But there are many situations in life where even these
speakers will not help themselves from this supply but express themselves
more or less spontaneously (as we like to put it). Accordingly, we should un-
derstand Wittgenstein’s talk about “using” sentences as an abbreviation for
72 Joachim Schulte

the cumbersome but presumably more accurate phrase “use of words to

form and utter sentences”. The idea of a repertoire of sentences, however,
is one to which I shall come back.
(2) If you think about it, you will get the impression that, in talking about a sense’s
moving back and fro across the border between the realms of the empirical and
the logical, Wittgenstein steps forward on difficult, perhaps even dangerous ter-
rain. If sense crosses over first to this and then to that side, it will have to be one
and the same sense that can be found first here and then there. But if the sense
remains the same, the sentence will have to be understood in the same way on
both occasions, that is, as saying the same thing both times. But in spite of this
Wittgenstein writes that the sentence in question is on one occasion to be re-
garded as expressing a norm and on another occasion as expressing something
empirical). But isn’t there an enormous difference between an empirical sen-
tence and a normative one such as an instruction or a rule? And if there really
is such a difference, doesn’t it concern the content of the relevant sentence, and
hence its sense — that is, what it amounts to?
(3) To discover an answer to this question we should have a close look at the
end of the quoted remark. It is here that Wittgenstein emphasizes that it is
its employment (Verwendung) which distinguishes a logical sentence from
an empirical one. In the original, unrevised version of this remark Wittgen-
stein adds that this employment is something “surrounding” or “envelop-
ing” a thought or a sentence. This addition clarifies what may well be obvi-
ous anyway, viz. that the way a sentence is to be understood — either as a
norm or as an empirical statement — will depend on the context of utter-
ance. This would be compatible with the idea that a sentence, while retain-
ing the same sense, can none the less play different roles. Just think of an
example like the following claim discussed in Wittgenstein’s Remarks on Col-
our: “There is no such thing as transparent-white glass.” One person may
understand this as an empirical report, another one may think that it is a
rule guiding our use of words, and a third person may interpret it as an an-
alytic or a conceptual truth. Which of them is right is a question whose an-
swer will depend on the relevant circumstances, that is, on features of the
situation of utterance. But even if we accept it as true that only one of
them can be right, this would not necessarily mean that each of the three
hearers really means something different by these words, that is, assigns a
different sense to the sentence.

As far as Wittgenstein’s last writings are concerned, his probably best-known ex-
amination of the issue just broached can be found in the context of his develop-
ment of the metaphor of the riverbed, which, in On Certainty, serves him to elu-
 Wittgenstein’s Last Writings 73

cidate the notion of a world-picture. This is not the place to quote the whole se-
quence of relevant remarks, nor will it be to the point to explain its whole sig-
nificance. Here, I shall content myself with quoting three paragraphs, and
even these few paragraphs will only be discussed to the extent necessary to
throw some light on our previous quotation. Wittgenstein writes as follows:

It might be imagined that some propositions (Sätze), of the form of empirical propositions,
were hardened and functioned as channels for such empirical propositions as were not
hardened but fluid; and that this relation altered with time, in that fluid propositions hard-
ened, and hard ones became fluid.

The mythology may change back into a state of flux, the river-bed of thoughts may shift. But
I distinguish between the movement of the waters on the river-bed and the shift of the bed
itself; though there is not a sharp division of the one from the other.

But if someone were to say “So logic too is an empirical science” he would be wrong. Yet
this is right: the same proposition may get treated at one time as something to test by ex-
perience, at another as a rule of testing. (OC, §§96 – 8)

Like most, or possibly all, the well-known images to be found in On Certainty,

this metaphor of the riverbed is a metaphor involving movement and being at
rest: the unyielding, immobile elements at rest make it possible for the mobile,
fluid (or flowing?) elements to move. Here, the hard elements correspond to “log-
ical” sentences or “rules” (as Wittgenstein sometimes calls them), while the
fluid, flowing, mobile elements correspond to empirical sentences.
A closer look will reveal a number of differences between the quotation
taken from Remarks on Colour and the metaphor of the riverbed from On Certain-
ty: the metaphor does not involve anything which would really fit the borderline
mentioned in the earlier quotation. Of course, one might want to say that the bed
itself — that is, the hard part — forms a kind of barrier obstructing the flow of the
water, the fluid element. But in reality it only forms a barrier to the extent it de-
termines the direction of the flow of the river. It doesn’t prevent access — on the
contrary, as Wittgenstein points out, there are transitory states and boundaries
are fluid. For only certain parts of the bank of the river are unyielding; they con-
sist “of hard rock” and permit no water to penetrate. Other parts, however, can
blend with water, they let it pass into the harder substances which are then car-
ried off until they settle at a different place, where they may stay for a while. In
the earlier quotation, the freedom of movement consisted in this: that the sense
of a sentence was allowed to cross over from one side of the border to the other
one. The riverbed, however, is in unrestricted flux, for even its most rigid ele-
ments are not as resistant as a borderline drawn in the abstract. To be sure,
there is (as Wittgenstein underlines) a distinction between the everyday traffic
of fluid waters (or ordinary empirical statements) and the supporting, very slowly
74 Joachim Schulte

shifting movement of the riverbed (that is, the logical scaffolding). On the other
hand, there is no “sharp division” between them — an expression which is varied
and pointedly repeated in Wittgenstein’s manuscripts of this period. As a result
of our comparison between these two passages we may hence come to the con-
clusion that not only the border between the two areas in question — that is, be-
tween the empirical and the logical — has turned out to be fluid. It also becomes
clear that the sentences themselves are not rigid. And this means that their roles
are not given once and for all: some of them are in a state of transition while
other ones are moving in this direction or in that.
By employing this metaphor of the riverbed particular importance is given to an
historical, developmental perspective. But would it not be possible to cut through
the development to record by means of a picture of a certain moment in time
which sentences belong to the set of (more or less) rigid ones and which to the
set of (more or less) fluid sentences? In other words, is there not, at least in theory,
a possibility of specifying which sentences are subject to empirical examination and
which function as rules guiding or governing such an examination?
At first blush these questions may sound quite reasonable. But at the same
time these questions express a certain inclination which goes against the grain
of Wittgenstein’s own remarks. The inclination I mean comes to the fore in a pop-
ular interpretation of another famous metaphor from Wittgenstein’s On Certainty.
Here I am alluding to the idea of hinges, and hence to yet another metaphor for
movement and staying at rest. For it is the fixed and immobile hinge which
makes it possible for the door to turn freely. This thought is articulated in the fol-
lowing remarks:

[…] the questions that we raise and our doubts depend on the fact that some propositions
are exempt from doubt, are as it were like hinges on which those turn.

[…] If I want the door to turn, the hinges must stay put. (OC, §§341, 343)

Now, it seems that these remarks are often read as meaning that in Wittgenstein’s
view there is a certain class or type of sentences which for us as speakers of a
given language L or members of a certain culture C fulfil the function of hinges
by means of which all the other sentences are given the possibility to turn. Ba-
sically, we should then be dealing with a variant of the classical picture of foun-
dations. For the hinges would be analogous to foundations supporting certain
sentences and thus allowing them to evolve and serve certain functions.
In some areas of recent discussion the metaphor has acquired independent
suggestive power which has led a number of authors to speak of “hinge propo-
sitions” or “hinges” simpliciter. No doubt this way of talking, which implies the
existence of determinable sets of such propositions, suits the general conception
 Wittgenstein’s Last Writings 75

of some of these authors, but it is not a conception favoured by Wittgenstein in

this or any other passage. For Wittgenstein does not say that specific sentences
belonging to a given repertoire need to stand firm for our everyday sentences to
be able to move freely and thus to do their ordinary work. What he does say is
that there have to be some sentences whose standing firm allows other sentences
to move. These immobile sentences may vary from speaker to speaker and from
one situation of utterance to another. In addition, there are a few passages where
Wittgenstein indicates that a hinge may turn out to be something like a con-
structed or an inferred axis.
At any rate, it is important to understand that from Wittgenstein’s perspec-
tive there is no determinate list — no repertoire — of basic or foundational prop-
ositions. This claim, however, is quite compatible with the requirement that
some sentences (such as “Water boils at 100°”) play a role analogous to articles
of faith and are learned like the catechism (see the obvious “creed” in OC §234).
And it is also compatible with Wittgenstein’s claim that equations and other
mathematische Sätze are, as he says, placed in the archives, that they are as it
were “fossilized” and given the official “stamp of incontestability” (OC §§657,
655). Sentences of these types do belong to a given repertoire which everyone
may draw on and which everyone should conform to. But many sentences
whose peculiar role in an individual’s life attracts Wittgenstein’s attention
don’t in the least belong to this category. Just think of examples like “I know
that my name is Joachim Schulte”, “These last weeks I have had a shower
every day” and so on. From my point of view, such sentences can throw an in-
teresting light on my world picture, on my system of investigation and judgement
as well as on my understanding of this system. But it should be obvious that sen-
tences of these kinds are in no way general, they are not mandatory, and they
belong to no repertoire which all members of a culture or a linguistic community
are supposed to swear by.
On the contrary, the notion of such a repertoire may tend to prevent us from
really appreciating two ideas that are particularly characteristic of the later Witt-
genstein. The first idea is this: that, on the one hand, a distinction between log-
ical and empirical sentences will involve the notion of a sharp boundary be-
tween them. But, on the other hand, such a distinction will have to work in a
context of tensions and conflicting near-certainties which, from an historical
point of view as well as regarding interpersonal applicability, can rely neither
on any clear nor on any generally acknowledged boundaries. Wittgenstein him-
self summarizes this as follows. He writes that
76 Joachim Schulte

there is no sharp boundary between methodological propositions and propositions within a

method. […] The lack of sharpness is that of the boundary between rule and empirical prop-
osition. (OC §§318 – 19)

The second idea comes to the fore in the immediately following remark which
says that we should remember that the notion of a sentence itself is not a
sharp one. Well, we want to say that one and the same sentence can play differ-
ent — as it were, logically, different — roles. At the same time, however, we are
tempted to describe this sort of difference in a way which is not in harmony
with our conception of the identity of the sentence. As Wittgenstein suggests,
this is a situation which we shall have to live with. For it is our situation. This
is, as I have implied, an insight foreshadowed in earlier writings by Wittgenstein.
But nowhere is it expressed as strikingly and with such metaphorical succinct-
ness as in his last manuscripts.

Bibliography
Bouwsma, O. K. (1986): Wittgenstein: Conversations 1949 – 1951. Edited by J. L. Craft and
Ronald E. Hustwit. Indianapolis: Hackett.
McGuinness, Brian (ed.) (2012}: Wittgenstein in Cambridge: Letters and Documents
1911 – 1951. Revised edition. Malden, MA, and Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. [=WiC]
Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1974): On Certainty. Edited by G. E. M. Anscombe and G. H. von Wright
1969; reprinted with corrections. Oxford: Blackwell. [= OC]
Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1977): Remarks on Colour. Edited by G. E. M. Anscombe. Oxford:
Blackwell. [= RC]
Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1980): Remarks on the Philosophy of Psychology, Volume I. Edited by
G. H. von Wright and Heikki Nyman. Oxford: Blackwell.
Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1980): Remarks on the Philosophy of Psychology, Volume II. Edited by
G. H. von Wright and Heikki Nyman. Oxford: Blackwell.
Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1982): Last Writings on the Philosophy of Psychology, Volume I. Edited
by G. H. von Wright and Heikki Nyman. Oxford: Blackwell.
Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1992): Last Writings on the Philosophy of Psychology, Volume II. Edited
by G. H. von Wright and Heikki Nyman. Oxford: Blackwell.
Wittgenstein, Ludwig (1998): Culture and Value. Third revised edition. Oxford: Blackwell.
Wittgenstein, Ludwig (2000): Wittgenstein’s Nachlass: The Bergen Electronic Edition. Oxford:
Oxford University Press.
Wittgenstein, Ludwig (2009): Philosophical Investigations. Revised fourth edition by P. M. S.
Hacker and Joachim Schulte. Malden, MA, and Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell.
Metaphilosophy and Methodology
Dan Zahavi
Analytic and Continental Philosophy:
From Duality Through Plurality
to (Some Kind of) Unity
Abstract: In the paper, I assess some of the categorical claims that over the years
have been made regarding the relation between analytic and Continental philoso-
phy. I will argue that many of these statements involve stupendous oversimplifica-
tions and overlook many significant differences. I next compare ideas found in phe-
nomenology with ideas found in analytic philosophy of language and analytic
philosophy of mind respectively and ultimately argue that the right way to overcome
the analytic-Continental divide is by embracing plurality rather than unity.

1 Perplexing hostility
What should we make of the distinction between analytic and Continental phi-
losophy? Although the latter term is a more recent invention, the alleged division
has been around for a while. My aim in the following contribution is not to trace
and review its historical origin, nor do I intend to examine to what extent de-
bates and disputes between seminal figures like Frege and Husserl, Russell
and Bergson or Carnap and Heidegger might have helped to shape and cement
the division. My focus will be different and more direct. Is it at all an informative
distinction? Does it label a real divide, a divide between what might have be-
come two incommensurable conceptions of philosophy? That this is indeed a
view held by some is easy to exemplify.
In Origins of Analytical Philosophy, Dummett refers to the divide which he ar-
gues had widened to a point where “[i]t’s no use […] shouting across the gulf”
since “it’s as if we’re working in different subjects” (Dummett 1996, p. 193). Now,
Dummett regrets the divide and suggests a way of repairing it – primarily by
going back to the beginning of the divergence in order to examine the partially over-
lapping projects of Frege and Husserl, including their shared rejection of psycholo-
gism. Others, however, have accepted the existence of the split, but have seen no
particular reason to regret or amend it. According to R.M. Hare, for instance, Ger-
man philosophers have created “monstrous philosophical edifices” and produced
‘verbiage’ disguised as “serious metaphysical inquiry”, and he contrasts the virtues
of British philosophy, namely “clarity, relevance and brevity”, with the “ambiguities
and evasions and rhetoric” that are the “mark of a philosopher who has not learnt
80 Dan Zahavi

his craft” (Hare 1960). Jack Smart is even more condemning and declares that “I
have moments of despair about philosophy when I think of how so much phenom-
enological and existential philosophy seems such sheer bosh that I cannot even
begin to read it” (Smart 1975, p. 61). For a quite recent statement of the same senti-
ment, consider Quinton’s entry on Continental philosophy in The Oxford Companion
to Philosophy. Quinton opines that there is “no perceptible convergence between the
two philosophical worlds” since all varieties of Continental philosophy “rely on dra-
matic, even melodramatic, utterance rather than sustained rational argument”.
And, as he then concludes, for analytic philosophers, it can at most be “the object
of occasional startled observation, like that of a nasty motor accident viewed from a
passing car” (2005, p. 172)
Such dismissive and ridiculing remarks are, however, by no means exclusive
to analytic philosophers. In Negative Dialectics, Adorno remarked that without
dialectics, arguments deteriorate into a mere technique that “is now spreading
academically in the so-called ‘analytical philosophy,’ which robots can learn
and copy” (2004, p. 30) and, in a newspaper article from 2013, Zabala & Davis
have concluded that

Analytic philosophy is passé because its method is too conservative to transgress the pre-
suppositions on which it is based. This is not only why analytic philosophy is “anal” (in the
Freudian anal-retentive sense), but its conservative nature binds it to a method that has al-
ready died. (Zabala & Davis 2013)

More examples could be found, but enough has been said to show that many do
indeed believe in the existence of a divide, perhaps even an unbridgeable one,
between analytic philosophy and Continental philosophy. But what then does
the difference amount to? Over the years, a variety of proposals have been
made. The most immediate suggestion might be to look for a difference in
focus. Analytic philosophy and Continental philosophy differ in virtue of the
themes and topics they work on. The moment one sits down to actually list
which topics are unique to each of the traditions, it becomes evident, however,
that such a listing is doomed from the start. As Overgaard et al aptly put it:

Hardly any feature held to be characteristic of one of the two camps is universally shared by
all who belong to the camp in question. And most features…are shared by philosophers
from the other side of the divide. (Overgaard et al. 2013, p. 113)

But perhaps we are looking in the wrong direction. Perhaps the relevant differ-
ence is not one of topic, but rather one related to method. But, again, a mo-
ment’s reflection will show that this proposal is equally problematic. Philoso-
phers usually considered to belong to the Continental camp do not use one
 Analytic and Continental Philosophy 81

specific method (what should unite phenomenologists, critical theorists and

poststructuralists?), and most contemporary analytic philosophers are methodo-
logical pluralists. They are no longer committed to the ‘linguistic turn’ and would
hardly accept the suggestion that a “primary method of philosophy is the exami-
nation of the uses of words in order to disentangle conceptual confusions”
(Hacker 2007, p. 133).
What else might the difference consist in? As Bernard Williams once re-
marked, analytical philosophy doesn’t have a distinctive subject matter, but is
rather characterized by a certain style (2006, p. viii). Again, it is unclear what ex-
actly this difference should amount to. Is the idea that philosophers belonging to
the Continental camp write like novelists, whereas analytic philosophers seek to
emulate the style of scientific papers? Or is the idea that the writing of analytic
philosophers is distinguished by its clarity, whereas that of Continental philoso-
phers is distinguished by its obscurity? In his book, What is analytic philosophy?,
Glock considers and exemplifies the style of various analytic philosophers and
eventually concludes: “the speech of many contemporary analytic philosophers
is as plain as a baroque church and as clear as mud” (Glock 2008, p. 171). A clos-
er look at the actual writings of many of the leading figures will quickly show
that there is no easily determinable stylistic commonality. It is quite unclear
what should unite the writing style of Apel, Adorno, Cassirer, Husserl and Der-
rida. Do Nagel and Peacocke, Dennett and McDowell, Wittgenstein and Searle
or Cavell and Tye really write in the same style? The answer is obviously no.
Are there other promising proposals regarding the alleged difference? Let me
just mention one more, which, although inane, certainly possesses an elegant
simplicity: the difference between analytic philosophy and Continental philoso-
phy is a difference in quality. As Leiter puts it,

It is fair to say that what gets called “analytic” philosophy is the philosophical movement most
continuous with the “grand” tradition in philosophy, the tradition of Aristotle and Descartes
and Hume and Kant. Only analytic philosophers aspire to the level of argumentative sophisti-
cation and philosophical depth that marks the great philosophers. (Leiter 2011)

As was quite clear from the quote by Smart given above, the intensity of such
ridicule is often correlated with a lack of familiarity with the target of criticism.
Perhaps a more well-informed conclusion to draw is that there really isn’t any
philosophical difference to speak of – although nobody would deny the sociolog-
ical and institutional persistence of the divide. As Putnam writes, “why can we
not just be philosophers without an adjective?” (Putnam 1997, p. 203) This is a
sympathetic response, but one, I think, that is not only misguided, but also po-
tentially harmful. Our philosophical approach is not ahistorical, but is shaped
82 Dan Zahavi

and formed by the tradition(s) of which we are part and, as critical thinkers, we
ought to remain aware of where we come from and of how that background and
framework influence the questions we engage with and the conceptual options
we consider. Simply thinking of ourselves as philosophers is not going to help
us remain mindful of these facts.
Let me get down to my own core proposal. As I see it, the right way to ques-
tion the divide between analytic philosophy and Continental philosophy is not
by denying the difference, but by multiplying it. The main reason we ought to
reject any talk of a divide between analytic philosophy and Continental philos-
ophy is that such a division is far too coarse-grained and commits the mistake of
regarding both (sets of) traditions as reified monolithic entities. Consider for a
moment the following list, which certainly isn’t exhaustive: Philosophy of life,
Neo-Kantianism, Phenomenology, Hermeneutics, Existential philosophy, Critical
theory, Structuralism, Psychoanalytic theory, Post-structuralism, Deconstruc-
tion, Speculative realism. What is the commonality here? (Were one to claim
that genealogy – rather than substantial agreement – is enough to constitute
the unity of a tradition, we would all be Platonists). Perhaps it could be retorted
that, whereas Continental philosophy is indeed a mixed bag of assorted theory
formations with no clear unity, matters are different when it comes to analytic
philosophy. Consider, for instance, Dummett who first describes Frege as “the
fountain-head of analytical philosophy” (1978, p. 440), and who then continues:

Only with Frege was the proper object of philosophy finally established: namely, first, that
the goal of philosophy is the analysis of the structure of thought; secondly, that the study of
thought is to be sharply distinguished from the study of the psychological process of think-
ing; and, finally, that the only proper method for analysing thought consists in the analysis
of language. […] The acceptance of these three tenets is common to the entire analytical
school. (Dummett 1978, p. 458)

More recently, Hacker has taken issue with Dummett’s characterization of Freg-
e’s contribution to the linguistic turn – which he insists is radically mistaken
(Hacker 2007, p. 134) – and has argued that we ought to reserve the term ‘analytic
philosophy’ as a label for a quite specific period in the history of philosophy
(centered around the cities of Cambridge, Vienna and Oxford). On Hacker’s con-
strual, the most influential version of analytic philosophy is found in the work of
Oxford philosophers such as Ryle, Austin, and Strawson, who broadly agreed on
three issues (Hacker 2007, p. 126 – 127):
– Philosophical understanding must proceed through an investigation of the
use of words;
 Analytic and Continental Philosophy 83

– Metaphysics understood as a philosophical investigation into the objective,

language-independent nature of the world is an illusion;
– Philosophy is not continuous with but altogether distinct from science.

Hacker’s definition of analytic philosophy is fairly precise, but it is also a quite more
narrow and circumscribed use of the term, and it certainly doesn’t capture the way
the term is used when referring to the current divide between analytic philosophy
and Continental philosophy. To put it differently, quite a number of contemporary
philosophers who call themselves analytic philosophers would reject the linguistic
turn, happily engage in metaphysics, and even argue that philosophy is continuous
with science and ought to be thoroughly naturalized.
There is, in short, plenty of diversity. Recognizing this diversity, recognizing
that, just as Althusser, Scheler and Deleuze differ, so do Austin, Korsgaard and
Churchland, should not only caution us against postulating a unity where there
isn’t any, but might also and more importantly allow us to discover unity where
we didn’t expect it. We should search for overlaps that are not merely within, but
also between the traditions. Depending on the kind of philosophical work one is
engaged in, one might turn out to have more in common with people working in
“the” other (set of) tradition(s) than with people working in one’s own.
The moment we abandon the attempt to adopt a bird’s eye perspective from
which we can compare and contrast analytic and Continental philosophy as a
whole and instead start to engage with the actual texts themselves, interesting
and unexpected convergences will be revealed. Compare for example Husserl’s
early work on intentionality with more recent contributions by Searle, Strawson,
Kriegel and Crane. Take Heidegger’s and Merleau-Ponty’s exploration of our
being-in-the-world and compare that to the recent debate on 4E cognition
found in the work of Clark, Noë, Rowlands, Menary and Hutto. Or consider
the analyses of shared affects and we-intentionality found in Scheler, Walther,
Stein and Schütz and compare that to contributions to philosophy of action
and collective intentionality made by authors such as Bratman, Gilbert and Tuo-
mela. Sure, there are important differences, but to claim that any attempt at dia-
logue is doomed from the start since people will necessarily be talking at cross
purposes due to the endorsement of too divergent methodological and meta-
physical commitments is surely mistaken.
Let me in the following discuss two concrete examples in somewhat more
detail. I will first consider the relation between transcendental phenomenology
and classical philosophy of language, and then compare ideas found in more re-
cent philosophy of mind with themes found in phenomenology.
84 Dan Zahavi

2 Phenomenology and philosophy of language

At first sight, the difference between phenomenology and analytic philosophy of
language seems obvious. Whereas the latter is precisely concerned with lan-
guage, the former is typically taken to investigate structures of experience. Sup-
posedly, this difference was also highlighted at one of the rare meetings where
proponents of both traditions met.
At the famous 1958 Royaumont meeting, Gilbert Ryle, J.L. Austin, W.V.O
Quine, Bernard Williams and Peter Strawson met with phenomenological nota-
bilities such as Jean Wahl, Maurice Merleau-Ponty and H.L. van Breda.¹ The
meeting was no success. As Charles Taylor, who was also in attendance, subse-
quently reported, it was “a dialogue that didn’t come off […]. [F]ew left it much
wiser than they came – at least as far as the subject of the conference was con-
cerned” (Taylor 1964, p. 132– 132). At one point during the meeting, P.F. Strawson
expounded on his own view of what the principal task of philosophy is, and in-
sisted that language use is the only experimental datum philosophers possess if
they want to inquire into the way in which our thoughts and concepts work
(Strawson 1992, p. 324). This proposal was resisted by Van Breda who interrupted
Strawson with the outburst “But you have to distinguish what you are doing from
what the philologist does!” (quoted in Strawson 1992, p. 327) Van Breda’s criti-
cism was certainly based on a misunderstanding. Strawson’s philosophy is nei-
ther to be conflated with philology nor sociolinguistics. But it is a revealing mis-
interpretation, especially since it mirrors an often-repeated criticism of
phenomenology, according to which phenomenological investigations of experi-
ence employ introspection and suffer from the same kind of fatal weakness as
introspectionism. Why are both criticisms mistaken? Because they both overlook
the transcendental agenda of the targeted positions.
As Merleau-Ponty points out in Phénoménologie de la perception, phenomen-
ology is distinguished in each of its characteristics from introspective psycholo-
gy, and this is because they differ in principle. Whereas the introspective psy-
chologist considers consciousness one sector of being, and tries to investigate
this sector in the same way the physicist tries to investigate his, the phenomen-
ologist realizes that an investigation of consciousness cannot take place as long
as the absolute existence of the world is left unquestioned. Consciousness can-
not be analyzed properly without leading us beyond common-sense assump-
tions and towards a transcendental clarification of the constitution of the
world (Merleau-Ponty 2012, p. 60 – 61). One way to understand Merleau-Ponty’s

 I am here drawing on an excellent contribution by Overgaard ().

 Analytic and Continental Philosophy 85

point is to see him insisting that the critical stance proper to philosophy neces-
sitates a move away from a straightforward metaphysical or empirical investiga-
tion of objects to an investigation of the very framework of meaning and intelli-
gibility that makes any such straightforward investigation possible in the first
place. Rather than departing from the objective world as a given, phenomenol-
ogy asks how something like objectivity is possible. How is objectivity constitut-
ed? How is it that the world can be manifested or revealed to us in the first place?
This was also a question of central concern to Husserl, whose claim was that, if
we really want to understand meaning, knowledge, truth and objectivity, we
have to investigate the intentional structures of the cognizing and acting sub-
jects. As he declared in Krisis, thereby summarizing his lifelong endeavor:

The first breakthrough of this universal a priori of correlation between experienced object and
manners of givenness (which occurred during work on my Logical Investigations around 1898)
affected me so deeply that my whole subsequent life-work has been dominated by the task of
systematically elaborating on this a priori of correlation. (Husserl 1970, p. 166)

It is not difficult to see some affinities between such a view and one that argues
that philosophy offers a kind of understanding that is distinctively different from
the one offered by the sciences. Philosophical questions are second-order ques-
tions, reflective questions about the concepts used in, for example, scientific
fields; they are not first-order questions within a particular scientific field. Phi-
losophy is not concerned with matters of fact, but with matters of meaning. It
is concerned with logical possibilities rather than with empirical actualities.
Its province is not the domain of empirical truth or falsehood, but the domain
of sense and nonsense. To put it differently, philosophy clarifies what does
and does not make sense. It investigates and describes the bounds of sense:
that is, the limits of what can coherently be thought and said. Conceptual ques-
tions antecede matters of truth and falsehood. They are presupposed by any sci-
entific investigation, and any lack of clarity regarding the relevant concepts will
be reflected in a corresponding lack of clarity in the questions posed, and hence
in the design of the experiments intended to answer them (Bennett & Hacker
2003, p. 2, 399, 402). As Hacker writes:

Philosophy is not an extension of science. It is not a kind of conceptual scullery maid for
the sciences, as Locke supposed. Nor is it superior to the sciences – a super-science of all
possible worlds, to be investigated by means of “thought-experiments” from the comfort of
the armchair, as contemporary revisionists suppose. (Thought-experiments are no more ex-
periments than monopoly-money is money.) It is, as Kant intimated, the Tribunal of Sense.
So: back to the linguistic turn. (Hacker 2007, p. 139)
86 Dan Zahavi

Perhaps some would at this stage object that the focus on language surely points
to one significant difference between phenomenology and analytic philosophy.
That is indeed an important difference, but, then again, we shouldn’t be so
naïve as to think that phenomenology has nothing to say about language.
That Heidegger (and Gadamer) is concerned with language is after all common
knowledge, but so was Husserl, as the following quote shows:

A communal life of humans becomes possible as life of a linguistic community, which is of

a completely different kind than the communal life of animals. The homeworld of humans,
which is the fundamental element for the structure of the objective world for <them> (…) is
essentially determined by language (Husserl 1973, p. 224– 5).

I am far from suggesting that there is no significant difference between the re-
spective approaches. My point is rather that the moment we leave the simplistic
caricatures behind, and start to engage with the actual writings and sayings of
the protagonists, we will start to discover unforeseen similarities as well as un-
expected differences. Consider, for instance, Hacker’s view on the relationship
between conceptual and empirical issues. For him, philosophy is of much great-
er importance to science than vice versa. While philosophers can clarify the con-
cepts used in science, and thereby offer an immense service to science, it is a
mistake to think that science could have much of an impact on philosophy. In
fact, Hacker even considers the supposition that scientific evidence may contra-
vene a philosophical analysis ridiculous (Bennett & Hacker 2003, p. 404). In his
view, we should not commit the mistake of confusing metaphysical or epistemo-
logical theories with empirical claims which can be corroborated by some exper-
imentum crucis. Thus, the relation between philosophy and empirical science is a
one-way enterprise. It is an application of ready-made concepts. There is no rec-
iprocity, and there is no feedback. The application does not lead to a modifica-
tion of the original analysis.
This is certainly one type of response to the challenge posed to philosophy
by naturalism. It is perhaps not entirely without reason that the style of analyt-
ical philosophy defended by Hacker has occasionally been accused of promoting
a kind of semantic inertia and conceptual conservatism. It is not obvious, how-
ever, that phenomenology would respond in the same way as Hacker. To let an
examination of ordinary language-use be our primary, if not exclusive, guide to a
philosophical investigation is quite restrictive and seems to underestimate the
extent to which ordinary language might simply reflect common-sense metaphy-
sics. It impedes concrete phenomenological analyses that might reveal features,
aspects and dimensions that are not simply available to any reflection on com-
 Analytic and Continental Philosophy 87

mon sense (consider for instance Husserl’s investigations of the structures of

time-consciousness or pictorial consciousness).
I have elsewhere discussed various proposals regarding a naturalisation of
phenomenology and also highlighted the extent to which transcendental phe-
nomenology differs from Kantian transcendental philosophy (Zahavi 2010,
2013, 2015). So let me not repeat myself in extenso here, but instead simply
make a brief reference to Merleau-Ponty, which can highlight one significant dif-
ference between his conception of philosophy and Hacker’s. In his first major
work, The Structure of Behavior, Merleau-Ponty engages with such diverse au-
thors as Pavlov, Freud, Koffka, Piaget, Watson, and Wallon. The last sub-chapter
of the book carries the heading “Is There Not a Truth in Naturalism?” It includes
a criticism of Kantian transcendental philosophy and, on the very final page of
the book, Merleau-Ponty calls for a redefinition of transcendental philosophy
that pays heed to the real world (Merleau-Ponty 1963, p. 224). Thus, rather
than making us choose between either an external scientific explanation or an
internal phenomenological reflection, a choice which would rip asunder the liv-
ing relation between consciousness and nature, Merleau-Ponty asks us to recon-
sider the very opposition, and to search for a dimension that is beyond both ob-
jectivism and subjectivism.
What is interesting and important is that Merleau-Ponty didn’t conceive of
the relation between transcendental phenomenology and empirical science as
a question of how to apply already established phenomenological insights to
empirical issues. It wasn’t merely a question of how phenomenology might con-
strain positive science. On the contrary, Merleau-Ponty’s idea was that phenom-
enology itself can be changed and modified through its dialogue with the empir-
ical disciplines. In fact, it needs this confrontation if it is to develop in the right
way. And Merleau-Ponty held on to this view without thereby reducing phenom-
enology to merely yet another empirical science, without thereby dismissing its
transcendental philosophical character.

3 Phenomenology and philosophy of mind

An increasing number of analytic philosophers of mind now hold the view that a
careful study of the first-person perspective is indispensable for a philosophical
investigation of consciousness. More specifically, a number of authors have
made significant strides on the relation between phenomenal consciousness,
self-experience, and selfhood. That such a development offers new possibilities
for dialogue should be evident. Let me briefly present a few ideas found in the
work of Galen Strawson and Uriah Kriegel.
88 Dan Zahavi

Over the years, Strawson has argued that if we wish to answer the metaphys-
ical question concerning whether or not the self is real, we will first need to know
what a self is supposed to be. In order to establish that, our best chance is to look
at self-experience, since self-experience is what gives rise to the question in the
first place by giving us a vivid sense that there is something like a self. Thus, as
Strawson readily concedes, the metaphysical investigation of the self is subordi-
nate to the phenomenological one. The latter places constraints on the former:
nothing can count as a self unless it possesses those properties attributed to the
self by some genuine form of self-experience (Strawson 2000, p. 40). In a subse-
quent move, Strawson has argued that a phenomenological investigation can pro-
ceed in several ways. One possibility is to investigate what ordinary human self-
experience involves; another is to investigate the minimal form of self-experience.
What is the least you can make do with to still call something a(n experience of)
self? Strawson is primarily interested in the latter task, and he defends the view
that any experience involves an experiencer, i. e., a subject of experience. Experi-
ence necessarily involves what-it-is-likeness, and experiential what-it-is-likeness is
necessarily what-it-is-likeness for someone (Strawson 2009, p. 271). In short, expe-
rience is experiencing, and experiencing involves a subject, just as a branch-bend-
ing involves a branch (Strawson 2011, p. 260). Importantly, Strawson doesn’t sim-
ply take this to be a conceptual and metaphysical claim. It is also an experiential
or phenomenological claim: the subject of experience is something that is essen-
tially present and alive in conscious experience (Strawson 2009, p. 362). Moreover,
we are dealing with a quite minimal notion. A subject of experience isn’t some-
thing grand. It is minimal in the sense that it is what is left when everything
else except the being of experience is stripped away (Strawson 2011, p. 254). In
fact, it is something of such a kind that it is true to say that there must be a subject
of experience wherever there is experience, even in the case of mice or spiders, or
sea snails—simply because selves are just subjects of experience and experience is
essentially experience-for (Strawson 2009, p. 276, 401).
Along somewhat related lines, Kriegel has argued that phenomenal charac-
ter involves both qualitative character, e. g., the bluish component of ‘x’, and
subjective character, i. e., its for-me component (Kriegel 2009, p. 8). Kriegel fur-
ther describes the subjective character as that which remains invariant across all
phenomenal characters, and argues that, while a phenomenally conscious
state’s qualitative character is what makes it the phenomenally conscious state
it is, its subjective character is what makes it a phenomenally conscious state
at all (Kriegel 2009, p. 2, 58). More specifically, Kriegel has argued that the sub-
jective character (and experiential for-me-ness) amounts to a special kind of self-
consciousness. On his account, we need to distinguish two types of self-con-
sciousness, transitive and intransitive self-consciousness. Whereas transitive
 Analytic and Continental Philosophy 89

self-consciousness designates the case where a subject is self-conscious of her

thought that p (or of her perception of x), intransitive self-consciousness can
be captured by saying that the subject is self-consciously thinking that p (or per-
ceiving x). What is the difference between these two types of self-consciousness?
Kriegel initially lists four differences, and claims that, whereas the first type is
introspective, rare, voluntary, and effortful, the second is none of these. Howev-
er, he then also points to another crucial difference: whereas transitive self-con-
sciousness is a second-order state that is numerically distinct from its object,
namely the respective first-order state, intransitive self-consciousness is a prop-
erty of the first-order state itself (Kriegel 2003, p. 104– 105). Moreover, insofar as
there would not be anything it is like for a subject to be in a mental state she is
unaware of being in, intransitive self-consciousness must be considered a neces-
sary condition for phenomenal consciousness (Kriegel 2003, p. 106).
Kriegel’s proposal bears an obvious similarity to the phenomenological dis-
tinction between and discussion of pre-reflective and reflective self-consciousness,
just as Strawson’s reference to a minimal self resonates well with ideas found in
phenomenology. Consider for example the following quote from Sartre: “pre-re-
flective consciousness is self-consciousness. It is this same notion of self which
must be studied, for it defines the very being of consciousness” (Sartre 2003,
p. 100). The basic idea defended by several phenomenologists is that conscious-
ness is characterized by a basic dimension of selfhood precisely because of its
ubiquitous self-consciousness (cf. Zahavi 1999, 2005, 2014). To phrase it in more
contemporary terms, it has been proposed that phenomenally conscious episodes,
episodes characterized by a subjective what-it-is-likeness, are not merely episodes
that happen to take place in a subject, regardless of whether or not the subject is
aware of it. Rather, such episodes are necessarily pre-reflectively self-conscious in
the weak sense that they are like something for the subject. Indeed, for every pos-
sible experience we might have, each of us can say that, regardless of whatever it
is precisely like for me to have this experience, it is for me that it is like that to have
the experience. To that extent, what-it-is-like-ness is properly speaking what-it-is-
like-for-me-ness. This for-me-ness does not denote a specific experiential content;
rather, it refers to the first-personal presence of experience. It refers to the fact that
the experiences I am living through present themselves differently to me than to
anybody else. When I have experiences, I have them minely, so to speak. The
claim is that this first-personal presence, this for-me-ness, amounts to a primitive
and minimal form of selfhood. As Henry formulates it, the most basic form of
selfhood is the one constituted by the very self-manifestation of experience
(Henry 1963, p. 581; 1965, p. 53).
Given this manifest overlap in terms of topics and arguments, it is increas-
ingly hard to take the verdict seriously that analytic philosophy and phenomen-
90 Dan Zahavi

ology constitute two distinct and incommensurable conceptions of philosophy.²

All of this is not to deny that one cannot also find significant and interesting dif-
ferences. Kriegel has, for instance, insisted that intransient self-consciousness is
a form of object-consciousness, whereas Strawson has defended the claim that
the self is not only an object, but a thing as physical as a cow (Strawson 1997,
p. 425). Both claims are in conflict with views espoused by phenomenologists,
who would typically insist that the self is first and foremost a subject, rather
than an object, of experience, and that object-consciousness is singularly unsuit-
ed as a model for self-consciousness proper, since it necessarily entails a distinc-
tion between that which appears and that to whom it appears, between the ob-
ject and the subject of experience. Sometimes disagreements are more
terminological than substantial, however. This might, at least partially, be the
case here. Strawson has, for instance, argued that for something to be an object
simply means that it is a strong unity (Strawson 2009, p. 298), whereas Kriegel
has admitted that the relationship between inner awareness and what it is
aware of is far more intimate than the standard relationship between a represen-
tation and what it represents (Kriegel 2009, p. 107– 8), and that it therefore
amounts to a very unusual form of object-consciousness. The question is obvi-
ously whether the difference between a highly unusual form of object-conscious-
ness and a non-objectifying form of self-consciousness is all that substantial.

4 Conclusion
As I have tried to show in the preceding, it is possible to locate some significant
and fertile overlaps between phenomenology and various (rather different)
trends in analytic philosophy. One interesting, and perhaps slightly surprising,
outcome of this comparison is that phenomenologists might have slightly
mixed feelings about the recent turn in analytic philosophy away from philoso-
phy of language and towards philosophy of mind. With few exceptions, the re-
cent analytic interest in the study of consciousness has gone hand in hand
with a strong commitment to naturalism. Whereas classical analytical philoso-
phy of language might have been less interested in consciousness, its basic con-
ception of language as a framework of intelligibility could easily be given a tran-
scendental philosophical twist. Rather than engaging in first-order claims about
the nature of things (which it left to various scientific disciplines), it concerned

 Such a verdict is also countered by the existence of co-authored publications (cf. Zahavi &
Kriegel ).
 Analytic and Continental Philosophy 91

itself with the conceptual preconditions for any such empirical inquiries. The sit-
uation is now more or less reversed by those philosophers of mind who consider
their own work to be more or less continuous with the natural sciences. For phe-
nomenology, however, it is important to retain both aspects: a concern with sub-
jectivity and experience as well as the transcendental perspective.
Let me sum up: it is a mistake to carve up the philosophical landscape into
two distinct (and incommensurable) traditions. The mistake is both one of over-
simplification and reification. There are far more than two traditions (let us also
not forget the existence of Asian philosophical traditions) and, when it comes to
analytical philosophy and Continental philosophy neither (set of) tradition(s) is
monolithic. Acknowledging the diversity allows us to recognize the presence of
unexpected similarities as well as fruitful and productive differences. Despite the
undeniable sociological and institutional reality of the divide, however, the fu-
ture looks more promising. An increasing number of philosophers are now active
bridge-builders. They work in and with different traditions and are actively pur-
suing philosophical insights wherever they are to be found.

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Charles Siewert
For Analytic Phenomenology
Abstract: This chapter explains and defends the basics of an approach to the
philosophy of consciousness here labeled “analytic phenomenology.” Its most
salient feature is its reliance on critical first-person reflection to address theoret-
ical issues concerning the character of experience. The defense proceeds princi-
pally via responses to two challenges to it implicit in recent philosophy. The first
is a radically third-person approach to the study of consciousness advocated by
Daniel Dennett, which he calls “heterophenomenology.” The second is a skepti-
cism about reliance on introspective judgment put forward by Eric Schwitzgebel.
The argument focuses on these authors’ treatment of first-person judgment re-
garding the richness or detail of ordinary visual spatial experience. While they
purport to undermine a basic use of first-person judgment in trying to determine
facts about such experience, their practice implicitly vindicates a critical reliance
on it, and so illustrates and supports the practice of analytic phenomenology.

The philosophical project I will defend here I call “analytic phenomenology.”

This label may suggest a union of two philosophical orientations usually seen
in opposition – “analytic” and “continental” – insofar as phenomenology has
been identified with the latter. My main interest, however, lies not in this noto-
rious contrast, but simply in putting forward a worthwhile approach to the study
of consciousness.
I will start with some general remarks about what motivates this approach,
roughly what it is, and why it seems reasonable to think of it as both analytic and
phenomenological. Then I’m going to argue for its legitimacy, by contrasting it
with some other views with respect to what I see as a basic issue – namely,
the use of first-person reflection in inquiry about consciousness. Specifically,
I’m going to contrast my position on this with Daniel Dennett’s self-styled “het-
ero”-phenomenology and Eric Schwitzgebel’s skepticism about introspection.
This will help me illustrate my approach, so as to further clarify and promote it.
To concentrate on methodology I will have to narrow the applications I con-
sider. My focus here will be specifically on our approach to questions about how
much richness or detail we ordinarily experience in vision. I choose this topic
partly because it lends itself a bit better to brief discussion than others, and fig-
ures prominently in the two mentioned authors I will take as foils. This may seem
to provide only an isolated, even toy example. But I think it is a significant issue,
and I will eventually say a little about why.
96 Charles Siewert

Analytic phenomenology grows from a recognition that inadequate or diver-

gent understandings of the terms we use to express questions about the mind
hinder our ability to answer them. The obscurities and differences in interpreta-
tion of terms like “consciousness” or “representation”, for example, are not al-
ways minor or merely terminological, but sometimes reflect substantive disputes.
And if sometimes they are largely terminological, finding that out can take some
work, and play a key role in locating substantive issues. For these reasons, intel-
lectual responsibility requires we try to explain carefully what we mean by such
pivotal terms, as part of addressing the questions in which they appear. Analytic
phenomenology takes up this challenge. But in clarifying distinctions, it also at-
tends closely to concrete reality, and brings argument to bear on issues that give
it a point. The issues I have in mind include: what consciousness is; how it is
related to self-consciousness and intentionality; the character of perceptual, cog-
nitive, emotional and agentive experience; and how these relate to mind, lan-
guage, knowledge, selfhood, and value.
In this investigation, I make explicit appeal to first-person reflection. That is,
in order to illustrate and thus to improve understanding of the concepts in need
of clarification, I rely on first-person judgments applying them in both actual and
hypothetical cases. Now, if such application of these concepts is really to im-
prove understanding, it must enjoy some degree of warrant. And so I do hold
that the first-person judgments relied on enjoy at least some degree of warrant,
in the absence of contrary evidence. In other words, I operate under the assump-
tion that we enjoy a default first-person authority for some of what we say about
our own experience. But I do not, as a methodological matter, assume a partic-
ular positive view of what accounts for this authority, an explanation of what
gives us a distinctively first-person warrant for judging about our experience. I
believe such an account is possible, but can emerge only from the practice of
phenomenology – so it is not where we start. However, one can, in advance of
this, say something to legitimize my methodological assumption, and I offer to
do so in what follows.
Please notice the assumption is not that some first-person judgments about
experience are infallibly correct, or that they are incorrigible (in the sense of
being warranted in a way that cannot be overridden). One or the other claim
might be true, but it is not to be assumed at the outset. Though I see myself
as continuing something of the phenomenological tradition of Brentano and
Husserl, my initial methodological starting point are perhaps more modest
than those of either the first (with his appeal to the infallibility of inner percep-
tion), or the second (with his appeal to apodictic evidence).
There is another potential difference worth noting between the kind of phe-
nomenology I want to do and Husserl’s. On one reading at least, Husserl tried to
 For Analytic Phenomenology 97

detach the epistemic standing of his philosophical claims from commitments to

all assertions about particular spatial or temporal matters of fact, by universally
suspending these in his famous methodological bracketing, or epoche. I do not
want to enter into exegetical questions about whether this, together with a pure
apriorism, is indeed fundamental to his phenomenology. I just will say it is not
essential to mine. For I do not try to clarify the relevant distinctions in some way
that floats free of our capacity to correctly apply them in concrete instances. And
I do not think it desirable to insulate phenomenological inquiry from experimen-
tal and clinical findings in psychology.
But there is another part of the Husserlian tradition, as I understand it, I def-
initely do want to embrace. My primary interest lies not in making explicit con-
cepts alleged to be already at work in pre-philosophical, ordinary or commonsense
thought. Rather, the point is to develop concepts that will best serve us in address-
ing philosophical questions about the mind. These will of course grow out of an
initial ordinary understanding and usage. But it is not my goal to provide an anal-
ysis of meanings in general circulation. I am not aiming to say what people gen-
erally (or what “we” – whoever “we” are) mean by words like “experience”,
“know” and “perceive” much more precisely and explicitly than people usually
try to do. My phenomenology is not in the business of that sort of “conceptual
analysis”. However, my practice is “analytic” insofar as I do try to be explicit
about what I mean and about the form of my arguments in ways I think would
likely seem “analytic” to those familiar with the use of that label – and insofar
as my arguments engage with philosophers who would likely attract this label,
if only because they can be placed in a certain historical lineage. In saying this,
I do not, however, mean to suggest that phenomenology in the Brentano-Husserl
tradition is “purely descriptive” and so unconcerned with philosophical reasoning.
Though again, I will leave exegetical questions to the side here.
In any case, phenomenological reflection as I conduct it is not purely de-
scriptive in that sense, but involves an open-ended critical process. I do rely on
the idea that some sincere first-person judgments about experience initially de-
serve respect. But I also see them as subject to critical reconsideration and revi-
sion, on the basis of further first-person reflection, in response to pointed ques-
tioning, and attention to relevant distinctions and implications. This critical
process, incorporating a practice of first-person reflection, may either decrease
or increase the initial default warrant presumptively granted specific instances
of it. What my recommended practice of first-person reflection comes to will I
think be a clearer if I now proceed, as promised, to contrast my stance with Den-
nett’s “hetero-phenomenology”.
On Dennett’s official method for studying consciousness, first-person reports
and beliefs about experience are presumed to have no authority at all – unless
98 Charles Siewert

and until their accuracy is confirmed by third-person theorizing. This sometimes

overlooked aspect of his view becomes particularly vivid in an analogy he draws
with a fantasized anthropological study. Dennett asks us to imagine that the
members of some cultural group worship a “tree god” they call “Feenoman”.
Then he observes: good anthropologists studying the Feenoman culture would
not grant any – even defeasible – authority to its members’ assertions about
the existence and actions of their tree god. Analogously, if we are to be good con-
sciousness researchers, we will grant no authority at all to any of a subject’s be-
liefs about his or her experience. Rather, while remaining thoroughly “neutral”
or “agnostic” about their truth (Dennett 1991, p. 82– 83), we should seek to de-
termine what, if anything, in them is correct, by trying to explain them in the
light of whatever evidence this neutrality permits us to gather from an observ-
er’s, third-person point of view. And so, we are each of us to consider even
our beliefs about our own experience as if they were another’s, to which we
granted no authority, and of which we required external justification. In this
sense all legitimacy for speaking of your own experiential life must derive ulti-
mately from the viewpoint of another, whose interest in you lies entirely in ex-
plaining your observed behavior. Hence the “hetero” in “heterophenomenology.”
Though Dennett acknowledges that to proceed in this way is alien to our practi-
ces in ordinary life, he believes that science demands it of us.
Part of my disagreement with Dennett lies in the fact that I do not think that
the experimental study of experience – such as is found in work on imagery and
visual illusions – actually does require his “no default first-person authority”
epistemology. And we can reject his methodology without rejecting science.
Right now, however, I will focus on a different, general concern. Dennett is con-
fident that his method holds us to high standards without risk of losing anything
valuable we should want. “Why not live by the heterophenomenological rules?,”
he asks “[…] Nobody has yet pointed to any variety of data that are inaccessible
to heterophenomenology.” (Dennett 2003, p. 39) I want to challenge this confi-
dence. I have two objections.
The first one is this. According to heterophenomenology, I can (and should)
study the beliefs I hold about my experience while remaining thoroughly neutral
as to their truth. But this study of my beliefs can remain truly neutral only if I can
understand what I mean by their expression well enough for the purposes of in-
vestigation without ever relying on their truth. Suppose, for example, I say I feel
itchy. If Dennett’s methodology is correct, I should be able to understand what I
mean by “itchy feeling” well enough to investigate and try to explain my belief
that I feel an itch, without relying on my correctly telling when, if ever, I actually
feel an itch. And indeed, the same would hold true for any and every notion with
which I might purport to say how my experience is. To investigate what I mean,
 For Analytic Phenomenology 99

and hence what I believe, in saying I feel pain, am troubled by persistent

thoughts, amused by your remark, or see a Gestalt switch, I must depend not
at all on an ability to tell correctly when these happen to me.
This assumption is highly questionable. For it is highly questionable whether
normally you can do anything to demonstrate – to yourself or anyone else – how
you understand, for example, “itchy feeling” in self-attribution, which doesn’t in-
volve correctly identifying an itchy feeling in your own case. Would I understand
“itchy feeling” as I do if, when I said, sincerely, “I feel itchy” I never or rarely did
feel itchy? It is at least reasonable to think I would not. And I would maintain that
the same holds, directly or indirectly, whenever we are dealing with concepts
whose self-application suffices for a first-person judgment about experience. If
this is right, it is reasonable to think you can understand experiential notions
as you do in applying them to yourself only if you regularly apply some of
them accurately. And of course you can know what beliefs you express only if
you understand the terms you use to express them. So it is also reasonable to
think you can know what beliefs you hold about your experience, only if you reg-
ularly form accurate ones. All this calls into question whether we can be strictly
neutral about our capacity to form true beliefs about our own experience, and
still maintain we understand what we mean in speaking of it, and know what
we believe about it. So there is reason to suspect Dennett’s radical third-person ap-
proach will not, as he maintains, leave all the relevant data accessible. For, on rea-
sonable assumptions, this approach, in refusing to grant we make true judgments
about our own experience, renders experience unintelligible to us, and deprives us
of the very beliefs it was supposed to study and explain. If one asks: “What variety
of data does a heterophenomenological study of experience render inaccessible?”,
the answer would be: its entire subject matter.
My criticism here is not that it’s fully clear that the relevant grasp of expe-
riential concepts is in fact inseparable from their successful first-person applica-
tion. Nor does analytic phenomenology assume that this is so. The argument is
simply this. Suppose we have a choice between: (i) a methodology like Dennett’s
that depends on a highly questionable assumption, which, if false, would render
its ostensible subject matter unintelligible; and (ii) an approach like the one I
propose that does not thus court its own self-defeat. Then, if there is no compen-
sating advantage to (i), we should go with (ii). And there is no evident critical
superiority to Dennett’s approach that would overcome this. For there is no legit-
imate criticism to which his approach subjects first-person judgment from which
my alternative shields it. Thus we have reason to favor my method’s provisional
reliance on subjective judgment over Dennett’s radical third-personalism.
Here is my second, related reason for this conclusion. Not only does Den-
nett’s approach risk alienating us from its own ostensible subject-matter, it
100 Charles Siewert

would take from us the very tools we need – by his own implicit admission – to
think critically and responsibly about the issues it aims to address. To see this,
consider what Dennett thinks naïve reflection tells people about their own visual
experience. We tend to believe, he thinks, that “the visual field [is] uniformly de-
tailed and focused from the center out to the boundaries” (1991, p. 53). Leave
aside for now whether people actually do believe such a thing, or why Dennett
thinks they do. Just suppose that someone does indeed hold such an erroneous
introspective belief. Now ask: how is one supposed to correct it?
Dennett says the following “simple demonstration” will do the trick. First, fix
your gaze dead ahead, while holding a previously unexamined playing card out at
the periphery of your visual field. Then, without moving your eyes to look at the
card, slowly bring it towards your point of visual fixation, and notice how close
you have to get before you can make it out well enough visually to report what
type of card – say a seven of diamonds – it is. But now notice: Dennett’s suggested
procedure for correcting our alleged introspective belief itself relies on introspec-
tion. For the “simple demonstration” apparently presumes I am entitled to at
least some of my introspective judgments about experience. If the demonstration
is to work, I need to be warranted in saying things like “I am now looking straight
ahead, not at the card” and “The card now looks nearer to the spot I’m looking
at”. But I seem to have no right to rely on such judgments, if I am truly playing
by “heterophenomenological rules”. For these rules demand total neutrality to-
wards the truth of my first-person judgments about experience until they have
been somehow vindicated from the outside in a way that yields nothing to first-
person authority. Without such vindication, the most I have done is just to gather
more beliefs about my experience, which have no standing to correct anything.
One might object: “Dennett isn’t using introspection to correct itself but to
show it up as fatally liable to contradictions it can’t resolve”.¹ However, it is
clear from the quote above that Dennett, at least, regards the demonstration
as establishing the falsity of the initial claim of naïve reflection, and he seems
to allude to this finding later when he remarks that he has earlier shown the rich-
ness of consciousness to be an illusion (1991, p. 362). You might, however, pro-
pose that we could use Dennett’s example to make introspection “self-destruct”
(even if he does not). In response I would say that the “equally detailed all the
way out” generalization about the visual field (if anyone really is tempted by it)
comes from a failure to ask certain legitimate questions, which, once posed to
reflection, readily disconfirm it. So the “always equal detail all the way out”
and the “detail falls off a lot from the point of fixation” judgments – even if

 Thanks to Chris Georgen, Eric Schwitzgebel, and Leopold Stubenberg for each pressing this point.
 For Analytic Phenomenology 101

both are in some sense “introspective”, are not epistemically on par, since the
second is based on considerations that were neglected in forming the first.
My point here is not to endorse Dennett’s “card trick” debunking of naïve
reflection. In fact, as I will explain, I think it is flawed. Right now the point is
this. The sort of thing Dennett is trying to do here is legitimate. He’s trying to
show that some would-be introspective claim about the character of experience
is mistaken, by appeal to more searching first-person reflection. He does this by
focussing on implications of the target claim, and then reflectively interrogating
experience in a previously neglected fashion, so as to correct a superficial initial
notion with one more critical. This is fine by my lights – in fact, to do this is to
engage in analytic phenomenology. The problem is that “hetero” phenomenolo-
gy would prevent us from engaging in this legitimate practice, since it accords no
epistemic status to the judgments the demonstration evokes that would give
them the power to correct. Thus, if we really did follow the heterophenomenolog-
ical rules – as not even their author actually seems to do –we would rob our-
selves of the opportunity to improve introspection by critical reason. (And
this, perversely, in the name of scientific rationality.)
I hope this clarifies to some extent the character of the analytic phenomen-
ology I recommend, by contrasting it with Dennett’s radical third-personal meth-
odology. The former is preferable to the latter for at least two reasons. First, what
Dennett calls heterophenomenology threatens to undermine our understanding
of the concepts of experience that figure in our first-person beliefs about it. So it
threatens to deprive us of the subject matter it is supposed to reveal, and offers
us no special advantages that would make this risk worthwhile. Second, a truly
consistent heterophenomenology would paralyze the sort of critical first-person
reflection by which (as Dennett himself recognizes) we rightly attempt to im-
prove those beliefs. My approach, by contrast, suffers from neither problem: it
does not invite self-defeat, and it affirms and encourages self-examination.
Let me turn now, as promised, from Dennett to a second sort of challenge to
my approach. This lies in Eric Schwitzgebel’s withering assessment of introspec-
tion. He considers various questions about experience regarding which, he ar-
gues, introspection returns mistaken, uncertain or conflicting judgments. From
this he concludes that introspection fails us: “[…] not only in assessing the caus-
es of our mental states […]. We make gross enduring mistakes about even the
most basic features of our currently on-going conscious experience, even in fa-
vorable circumstances of careful reflection, with remarkable regularity.”
(Schwitzgebel 2011, p. 118 – 119) Now this seems pretty discouraging. For appa-
rently, even when conditions are favorable, and even when we strive to be care-
ful, first-person reflection persistently and regularly leads to huge errors about
even the most elementary matters. If Schwitzgebel is right, it would seem analyt-
102 Charles Siewert

ic phenomenology is doomed. For it tries to draw on an irremediably unreliable

source of information.
I should say right away Schwitzgebel’s full attitude here is more ambivalent
than this suggests. Though he sees most as too timid in their critique of intro-
spection, he also indicates he finds it crucial to the study of consciousness.
(Schwitzgebel 2011, p. 118) And it is notable that he calls the introspection he dis-
parages “naïve” – suggesting perhaps there may be another, sophisticated form
that merits respect. However, Schwitzgebel does not explicitly embrace the idea
that there is a respectable form of introspection, and tell us what it is. Rather, he
seems to leave us with a kind of “can’t live with it, can’t live without it” perplex-
ity. And if favorable conditions and carefulness won’t help us, it is very hard to
see how there could be a legitimate practice of first-person reflection.² So I want
now to take up the challenge of showing how indeed there is, by examining one
of Schwitzgebel’s star witnesses against introspection: our reflective impression
of the richness or detail in visual experience.
Somewhat like Dennett, Schwitzgebel finds just here a prime example of
gross introspective blunder. However, I will argue that his treatment – also some-
what like Dennett’s – ultimately points away from the negative conclusion that
he draws from it, and sails us into the arms of analytic phenomenology.
Schwitzgebel poses the “richness” issue this way: how much, he asks, “pres-
ents” itself to you “at any one moment” as “clearly in visual experience” “with
shapes, colors and textures all sharply defined”? (Schwitzgebel 2011, p.125) He
thinks the answer that you are (introspectively) likely to deliver is this: a “fairly
wide swath” of what’s before you. Notice this claim isn’t nearly as shockingly
reckless as the “equal detail all the way out” one that Dennett tries to pin on
us. Still, Schwitzgebel maintains what introspection tells us is far enough re-
moved from the truth about experience to constitute a “gross” error about basics.
The truth is that the at-a-moment area of clarity in visual experience is not “fairly
wide”. In fact, it is only “tiny” (Schwitzgebel 2011, p.126).
Now, just what is supposed to show people do hold the “wide swath” belief
about visual-clarity-at-a-moment, and that it is grossly mistaken? Schwitzgebel’s
procedure is this. First, he instructs us, “fixate on a point […], hold your eyes
steady while you reflect on your visual experience” of what you’re not visually
“fixating” on. Then “take a book in your hands and let your eyes saccade around

 In correspondence, Schwitzgebel clarifies that he wants to hold the door open to a kind of
carefulness that would make introspection legitimate, perhaps involving the sort of training
that Titchener discussed in his manuals from the early th century. Still, Schwitzgebel seems
ultimately non-committal. At any rate, I wish to explain here how the right kind of care has
more to do with philosophical sensitivity than with laboratory technique.
 For Analytic Phenomenology 103

its cover while you think about your visual experience in the regions away from
the precise point of” fixation. At this point, Schwitzgebel says most people seem
to discover “that […] the center of clarity [of visual experience] is tiny, shifting
rapidly around a rather indistinct background”. And he says, they “confess to
error in having originally thought otherwise” (Schwitzgebel 2011, p. 126).
I myself doubt that Schwitzgebel really has shown that people ordinarily go
around forming grossly erroneous beliefs about how much they clearly experi-
ence visually in an instant.³ But first I want to make a point parallel to the
one I just emphasized about what Dennett is trying to do. I agree with Schwitz-
gebel that we should not trust just whatever claim about our experience pops
into our heads on first consideration of just whatever question is thrown at
us. We should instead consider the possibility of error in such judgments and
seek to confirm or correct them, by posing the right questions and reconsidering
the matter. Whether or not Schwitzgebel has found just the right questions and
drawn the right conclusions, I applaud what he is aiming to do here. But notice
now: this seems ultimately to undermine his official thesis. If in fact we can cor-
rect the “wide swath in a moment” claim by the means Schwitzgebel proposes,
then we should not, after all, say with him that introspective error endures even
in “favorable circumstances of careful reflection”. For whether the circumstances
are favorable and the reflection is careful depends on what questions we pose
and how well we understand them. The alleged error arises in unfavorable circum-
stances that are deficient in careful reflection, and is dispelled when we introspect
carefully in more favorable circumstances. Schwitzgebel then is, in effect, pro-
posing a good introspection to correct errors to which the careless sort gives rise.
So, it is not that introspection is some hopelessly error-prone faculty that
cannot right its own wrongs even if we try to use it with care. Rather: while
we may be disposed to make inaccurate judgments about our own experience,
there are ways to engage in first-person reflection carefully, so as to either re-
place an initial erroneous pronouncement with something more accurate, or at
least avoid claims we have no business making.
As I’ve said, although I gladly embrace the general idea of self-correcting
first-person reflection, I’m not happy with how Dennett and Schwitzgebel try
to implement it. I now would like to say a little about this. This will allow me
to further illustrate the practice of analytic phenomenology as I understand it.
First, a word about Dennett. He thinks our surprise at the weakness of our pe-
ripheral vision in his playing card demonstration shows that we usually think we

 In recent correspondence, Schwitzgebel tells me that his considered view is that people rarely
make such judgments.
104 Charles Siewert

see a lot more detail than we do. But it doesn’t really show this. Much less does it
show that we think that everything that appears to us from the center to the boun-
daries normally appears to us in equal detail and focus. We do think – correctly –
that normally we can tell quite a bit about shapes, sizes, and colors visually. But we
often don’t realize how much this depends on our restless, naturally wandering
gaze. For we often take very little notice of how much we ordinarily shift our gaze
to see as much and as well as we do. And so, when artificially, we deliberately sup-
press our near-tireless impulse for visual exploration, and freeze our gaze, we may
well expect that the ease with which we usually visually identify things will carry on
pretty well. But that expectation does not hold up. This explains our surprise better
than this “equal focus and detail all the way out” notion Dennett imagines we hold.
I conclude his purported correction of first-person reflection fails, for failure to find
an appropriate target.
Now to Schwitzgebel’s argument. First, I would be skeptical about his idea
that people, without some prompting, really do regularly form judgments about
the size of the area of visual clarity they experience in little temporal snippets. I
doubt we even can, on the basis of introspection, make sufficiently consistent
judgments about the “area of clarity” size experienced in uniform split second
intervals to accurately compare these. What I don’t doubt is that Schwitzgebel’s
subjects, when they followed his instructions, began to notice something they
didn’t notice before about their visual experience. They begin to notice their
gaze is shifting around on what appears before them much more quickly and
often than they noticed before. And they begin to notice, more than they did pre-
viously, that there are frequent, rapid changes in how well or clearly they see the
shapes and spatial arrangements of what appears before them. But I don’t see
why they should interpret this as forcing a big abandonment of previously
held beliefs about how much they saw when, rather than a discovery, through
heightened reflection, of facts previously ignored.
Let me take stock. Dennett’s total subordination of first-person judgment
about experience to a third-person perspective, and Schwitzgebel’s views
about the hopeless unreliability of introspection, would apparently rule out
the practice of analytic phenomenology. For this relies on a default, but correc-
tible first-person authority in the investigation of consciousness. I have defended
analytic phenomenology against these authors’ views. In the process I have
shown how they implicitly partake of it, in evident defiance of their official po-
sitions. And while I approve of their phenomenological impulses, I have ex-
pressed misgivings about just how they express them. That is, I criticized the
way they ask us to interrogate our experience, in order to form an accurate reflec-
tive understanding of its character – an understanding specifically, of how quick-
ly how much of our environment becomes visually apparent to us. And I criti-
 For Analytic Phenomenology 105

cized the inferences they drew from this interrogation to impugn “naïve” intro-
spective judgment.
Now suppose I am right about all this. Still, what is my positive idea about
how to examine visual experience to address questions about its richness? And
what results do I hope to get out of this – if not the usual belittlement of intro-
spection?
First, here is how I would recommend reflecting on your visual experience to
think about these “how much how fast” questions raised in Dennett and
Schwitzbegel. Let’s begin by bringing this talk of “visual fields”, “saccading”
and “areas of clarity” of “visual experience” a bit more down to earth, by ap-
proaching the matter with a little ordinary word, “look”. Let’s agree that one
way to report your “visual experience” of something, as distinct from your belief
or judgment about it, is to talk about its looking some way to you – and when it
looks somehow to you, it appears somehow to you. Now notice in concrete cases
that you often change what you’re looking at and where you’re looking. You do
not often look at one thing fixedly, without looking at diverse parts of it for very
long. The gaze is typically restless, moving on – to this, now this, now this. And,
as your gaze shifts, as you look at different things, as where you look changes,
the way things look to you also changes. As this happens, not all of what’s before
you that looks to you somehow is something you are also simultaneously look-
ing at. For example, when you’re reading, the words on the page you’re looking
at are not all that then looks somehow to you. Some of the area ahead and be-
hind and around them also looks somehow to you, as your gaze capers along.
Now, arrest your gaze on a word, and ask yourself, does it not look or appear
differently to you now than any word (even the same word) appears to you
when it is to the side of what you’re looking at? More generally, is it not the
case that what you’re looking at appears quite differently to you than what
you’re not looking at, but lies in an area that still looks somehow to you? Specif-
ically, would you not say that what you’re looking at appears to you in much more
detail, more clearly, its shape, boundaries, location are more apparent to you,
than what you are not looking at?
Let us assume that your answer is yes. Return now to the notion that Dennett
attributes to us – that the visual field appears in equal detail and focus all the way
out from center to the boundaries. What you’re looking at is at the “center of your
visual field”, I presume. And the area before you that you’re not looking at, but
which is still apparent to you, includes the “out to the boundaries” part of the
“field”. But then the idea that Dennett thinks we find introspectively appealing
should, on the contrary, strike us as introspectively preposterous. For it should be
clear to us from first-person reflection that how much is apparent to us of the spatial
106 Charles Siewert

features – the shape, location, size – of what looks somehow to us over time varies
enormously with whether we are, at any given time, looking at it.
Suppose you arrive at some such phenomenological reflections. What lesson
do I wish to suggest you draw? First, I think they show how responsible, critical
first-person reflection, in reasoned dialogue with others, is feasible, after all. Sec-
ond, even if (as I claim) they don’t reveal and disabuse you of some huge illusion
about yourself, still, this doesn’t mean they leave you just where you started. For
they may awaken a heightened appreciation of the character of your visual ex-
perience, which prepares you to consider issues that might have escaped you be-
fore. That is the proximal result that phenomenology aims to achieve – a new or
enhanced reflective awareness of how you experience things that primes you for
further thoughts – thoughts that promise to place what you now notice in the
context of reasoning that gives it positive philosophical import, and draws you
on to yet further such noticings.
All right, but just what further thoughts might these starting reflections facili-
tate, on my view? Their positive import lies largely, I think, in their value as a start-
ing point for thinking about the intentionality of visual experience – that is, its di-
rectedness or reference to an object. I think this because I think once you have
noticed the kind of change in appearance I’ve been discussing, you are ready to
go on to notice the following. As you change what you’re looking at, how it
looks to you changes – how, for example, its shape looks to you varies. But what
appears to you does not then appear to you to change shape, but to remain the
same in shape. In other words, there is an experience of shape constancy in vision
through attentional variation in perspective. This phenomenal constancy, I would
argue, provides the phenomenal basis for the intentionality or object-directedness
of experience: this makes it possible for visual experience to make apparent to us
objects that “hold fast” amid changes in our experience, and thus that go beyond
or transcend its perspectival limitations.
So a phenomenological response to the “how much experience” issue prepares
us for an understanding of constancy, which illuminates the objective reference (or
intentionality) of visual experience. Once we have this, we can begin to address
questions about its epistemic role – how sense experience warrants judgment,
and how it enables us to understand demonstrative reference. And we can investigate
not only how experience yields objects for us to judge but how it enables us to con-
firm or correct our classification of them – we can explore the phenomenology of
perceptual recognition. What we find here can then recast our approach to how
we think and know about experience itself. To what extent, if at all, does the phe-
nomenology of self-awareness parallel that of sensory awareness of one’s surround-
ings? Such inquiry bears further on just what experience – consciousness – is. For
 For Analytic Phenomenology 107

example, it bears on issues regarding what sort of self-consciousness, if any, is in-

herent to any consciousness whatsoever.
This indicates something of the path my own thought has been following in an-
alytic phenomenology (in, e.g., Siewert 2012, 2013, 2015). I explicitly admit that I
don’t pretend to be breaking new trails here. Many of the points I have been making
– or hinting at – have recognizable analogues in Husserl, and maybe should even
count as reformulations of things he said. But it is not alien to analytic phenomen-
ology to explicitly seek to appropriate, revise and reformulate its intellectual herit-
age. I would just say we need to take care that textual exegesis does not substitute
for first-person reflection. Otherwise we are not ourselves doing phenomenology, but
only commenting on phenomenologists.
I hope to have done something to explain, defend and illustrate analytic phe-
nomenology as a philosophical approach. In closing, I want to comment briefly on
something that often comes up when the use of introspection is considered, and
that commonly worries philosophy as well – the elusiveness of consensus.
It is true that there are general questions about experience about which first-
person reflection does not readily produce agreement, even where it seems im-
plausible that this simply reflects individual variation in experience. And
Schwitzgebel is right to note that recent discussion of so-called cognitive phe-
nomenology provides a case in point. But that is not because of some deep de-
fect in “introspection” that prevents our using it responsibly. Rather it has to do
with whatever it is about philosophy that seems to promote interminable dispu-
tation, and makes it difficult. For this reason, contrary to what Schwitzgebel sug-
gests (Schwitzgebel 2011, p. 128), we shouldn’t expect introspection always to be
“easy”, wherever it genuinely has a place. For some questions, the right conduct
of first-person reflection (“introspection”) involves philosophical skill. So the
sources of the relevant disagreement lie, I think, in our inadequate or divergent
pursuit of philosophical inquiry. This is evident in the case on which I’ve fo-
cused – the differences in the views Dennett, Schwitzgebel and I take on the
question about the character of visual experience. We all rely in some way, it
turns out, on first-person reflection in constructing our views. These diverge,
not because we each have in our heads some introspector mechanism that weird-
ly churns out arbitrarily diverse and incompatible answers to the very same
questions about the mental life we all share. They diverge rather, because we
ask different questions, proceed from different background assumptions, and
operate with different or differently interpreted terms – influences to which we
can all be oblivious, even willfully blind, and stubbornly committed.
This style of analysis can be extended to other cases (about emotion and
thought) Schwitzgebel uses to illustrate introspective failure. He asks, for exam-
ple: whether emotions occur unfelt; whether they are always experienced to have
108 Charles Siewert

bodily location; whether they consist entirely in feelings of bodily arousal; and
whether there is a distinctive phenomenology of thought. In each case he invites
us to note introspective uncertainty and disagreement. While a full discussion of
these cases is not possible here, the form of a response is clear. We first should
see that to answer Schwitzgebel’s queries through reflection, we need to address
further questions, like these: is it even appropriate to expect introspection to de-
tect unfelt emotions? What do we include under the term ‘feeling,’ and what do
we count as “emotion”? What would it mean for emotional experience just to
“consist in” states of bodily arousal? What’s the relation between this issue
and the question about “localization”? Do these issues depend on how one re-
solves the question about “cognitive phenomenology”? And just what is that
issue – what is implied by saying that thought has a phenomenology of its
own, or that, on the contrary, the phenomenal character of thought is reducible
to that of purely sensory states?
We can account for the disagreements or uncertainties Schwitzgebel’s ques-
tions occasion by noting that these can be answered properly only by addressing
the additional ones I just listed, and these – like a lot of philosophical ques-
tions – are hard to answer, and easily neglected. Once their relevance is acknowl-
edged, then patience, serious intellectual effort, and at least a little creativity
must be applied to answer them. They are, in any case, the sort of questions
that will be approached differently by different people, who may reasonably dis-
agree about how well each has done the job (provided they even take serious
notice of each other’s efforts). Thus if Schwitzgebel’s questions occasion doubt
and dispute, this is due not to some special flaw in “introspection”, but to the
fact that answering them requires we engage in philosophical – what I have else-
where (Siewert 2011) called “Socratic” – introspection. And that is something we
are liable to do inadequately, unequally, and divergently.
It may thus be unrealistic to hope that the relevant differences can be suffi-
ciently exposed and ironed out to secure broad and deep professional consensus
about all or most basic matters regarding consciousness. If that is so, then nei-
ther phenomenology, nor philosophy generally, will ever be anything like a text-
book science, but will likely remain rife with idiosyncratic clashes and misunder-
standings, and plagued by failures of attention and imagination. Even so, at
least we can reasonably strive individually for some success in overcoming
these problems, mustering as much integrity as we can. And we ought to remem-
ber that – particularly in philosophy – disagreement can also be a sign of intel-
lectual vitality.⁴

 I am grateful for the interesting feedback I received on this material from the audience for my
 For Analytic Phenomenology 109

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Schwitzgebel, Eric (2011): “The Unreliability of Naïve Introspection”. In: Perplexities of
Consciousness, MIT Press: Cambridge, MA.
Siewert, Charles (2011): “Socratic Introspection and the Abundance of Experience”.
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Debating Descriptive Experience Sampling (DES) Vol. 18, No. 1, pp. 63 – 91.
Siewert, Charles (2012): “On the Phenomenology of Introspection”. In: Declan
Smithies/Daniel Stoljar (eds.): Introspection and Consciousness. Oxford: Oxford
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Siewert, Charles (2013): “Phenomenality and Self-Consciousness”. In: Uriah Kriegel (ed.):
Phenomenal Intentionality. Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 129 – 165.
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presentation at the th Wittgenstein Symposium in Kirchberg, Austria, and from my students at
Rice University. Also, special thanks to Steve Crowell, Chris Georgen, Sonja Rinofner-Kreidl,and
Eric Schwitzgebel for their helpful comments.
Steve Fuller
Towards a New Foundationalist Turn
in Philosophy: Transcending the
Analytic-Continental Divide
Abstract: I present a defence of foundationalism as a signature attitude in phi-
losophy. I begin with an account of my own way into the topic, which was to do
with trying to reconcile the two leading approaches to foundationalism in the
post-Second World War period, namely, analytic and continental philosophies.
What makes both ‘foundationalist’ is their requirement of a ‘clearing’ for thought
prior to philosophizing. In practice, this means a removal of all prima facie epis-
temic privileges from the special sciences, a position that had characterised such
‘school philosophies’ as Neo-Kantianism and Neo-Thomism. The failed founda-
tionalism of early 19th century German idealism plays a pivotal role in this nar-
rative, with its path-dependent sense of teleology, in which alternative possibil-
ities are eliminated over time. (This was the original meaning of ‘epistemology’.)
This restricted sense of teleology proved to be modern foundationalism’s
Achilles’ heel, not least because the 20th century world-historic events cast
doubt on the feasibility – and even the desirability – of a world-order unified
under the scientific method; hence, the varieties of ‘postmodern’ anti-founda-
tionalism expressed in the final quarter of the 20th century. However, in the
final section of the paper, I use the two main modern approaches to the empiri-
cal study of human beings – hermeneutics and naturalism – as a launch pad for
renewing the foundationalist project with a much more expanded and open-
ended (‘reversible’) sense of agency and teleology, one fitting for the being
I’ve called ‘Humanity 2.0’.

1 My route into Foundationalism and

Idealism’s pivotal role
Throughout my professional career it has been common to both recognize and
decry the analytic-continental divide in philosophy. As someone who was
trained in the analytic tradition (at Columbia, Cambridge and Pittsburgh) but
whose philosophical interests more closely matched continental aspirations, I
spent much of my time as a Ph.D. student trying to bridge the divide – that is,
when I wasn’t working on my Ph.D. thesis (Fuller 1985)! My general strategy
112 Steve Fuller

was to recast the continental side in analytic terms, which seemed sensible,
given the balance of power between the traditions in the American academy.
For example, one of my first pieces, jauntily entitled ‘A French science with Eng-
lish subtitles’, tried to make Derridean deconstruction sound like Michael Dum-
mett’s brand of antirealism (Fuller 1983). In this venture I was inspired by Ri-
chard Rorty’s more publicized manoeuvres along related lines. Actually, Rorty
served as a negative example for me, in that I thought that he sold the continen-
tals short by reading them as simply commenting on the history of philosophy,
which in an anti-Quinean gesture he happily equated with philosophy as such.
To be sure, Rorty was probably projecting his own professional ascent, since he
was hired at Princeton to teach the history of modern philosophy, which amount-
ed to slumming it in the top ranked – and resolutely analytic – American depart-
ment (Gross 2008). This helps to explain the structure of Rorty (1979), which
began life as notes prepared for his history classes.
For my own part, philosophers who were coming into their own in the early
1980s, such as Jon Elster (1979, 1984) and Ian Hacking (1975a, 1975b), appeared to
be much better bridge-builders in their willingness to insinuate continental con-
cerns more directly into analytic ones. They were not simply trying to establish
the convertibility of continental and analytic positions, which was Rorty’s modus
operandi. Rather, they were showing how continental insights could nuance an-
alytic positions in some presumed common philosophical project. At least, that
is how I understood matters thirty years ago. (Perhaps I was too optimistic?) In
any case, the existence of a common philosophical project between the two tra-
ditions perhaps explained their mutual antagonism, an animus that did not ex-
tend to, say, Neo-Kantianism, Neo-Thomism or, for that matter, Pragmatism –
movements that were tolerated on all sides in the sense of being politely ignored.
What the self-identified ‘analytic’ and ‘continental’ philosophers share is a vi-
sion of philosophy as concerned with – for a lack of better word – foundations.
Even when philosophers in these two traditions grant that we must begin philos-
ophizing in medias res, we should somehow try to access some ultimate level of
being. The path to this state may be paved by heroic abstraction, linguistic reflec-
tion or logical presupposition. But once that point is reached, then philosophy
properly begins.
One telling mark of foundationalism as a philosophical attitude is to note
the reluctance of Bertrand Russell, despite his avowed empiricism and natural-
ism, to embrace William James’ observation that the mind’s default state is one
of ‘blooming, buzzing confusion’ (Russell 1946, chap. 29). It was not that Russell
failed to recognize the experience. Rather, he refused to accord it philosophical
significance. For Russell, this state of confusion was not itself a starting point but
a problem to be resolved in some fashion, so that philosophy may then begin in
 Towards a New Foundationalist Turn in Philosophy 113

earnest. It is this gesture – that the mind’s clutter needs to be cleared before phi-
losophy takes flight – that is the mark of the foundationalist turn. In this respect,
the early 17th century founders of the scientific method, Bacon and Descartes,
were clearly foundationalists by virtue of their desire to strip away the prejudices
and traditions in which people were normally immersed and which inhibited the
expression of their God-given powers of reason. By the early 18th century, Locke
had articulated a proto-positivist version of foundationalism when he described
himself as an ‘underlabourer’ who clears the way for the true founders – the
‘master builders’ of thought, whose job description better fit his friend Newton’s
than his own. My long-standing disagreement with Locke on this point lies sim-
ply in the self-deprecating role he assigns to himself in a vision of knowledge
that I otherwise largely accept. Rather like Popper, I hold that the division of la-
bour between the philosopher and the scientist should not be so sharp – the lat-
ter is simply a technologically enhanced version of the former (Fuller 2000:
chap. 6.)
Thus, the most striking feature of foundationalism is its requirement of a
clearing before philosophy can happen. In other words, it presupposes a sort
of space in which an intellectual edifice (aka knowledge) can be built. In the
late 17th century, this space was formally recognized by the Cambridge Platonist
Ralph Cudworth as ‘consciousness’. The term was designed to capture the char-
acter of the place where humanity interfaces with the cosmos. In the Christian
context, this meant our relationship with God. There are two general ways of
thinking about this space, both of which can be found on either side of the an-
alytic-continental divide. In one case, consciousness is the stage in which you
are the dramatist; in the other, you are the spectator of what transpires on the
stage. In the former, we live up to our divine entitlement by creating in con-
sciousness as God creates in reality more generally, which is to say, as a form
of self-affirmation. (Putting it this way nowadays conjures images of ‘virtual re-
ality’.) In this context, consciousness is the site in which human agency is enact-
ed, where decisions of existential import are taken. Here Descartes and Pascal –
often portrayed as antagonists – find themselves on the same side: Where Des-
cartes posits the cogito, Pascal makes a leap of faith. The other way is to see con-
sciousness as a site for the delivery of being or the revelation of truth – aletheia
in Heidegger’s sense, but also ‘evidence’ in the sense invoked by analytic episte-
mologists to mean a self-certifying experience (drawn from Brentano’s Evidenz).
In this case, the human is more passive, submissive, even abject. Nevertheless,
this vision is arguably more in line with the receptiveness required for ‘enlight-
enment’ in the great Eastern religions and even Islam, in which Muhammad is
presented principally as a divine vessel.
114 Steve Fuller

While the 17th century thinkers were largely responsible for a conception of
the mind that permitted this foundationalist turn in philosophy, it is Kant to
whom we owe the modern idea that philosophy provides the foundation for
all the other academic disciplines. This was a role previously occupied by that
‘queen of the sciences’, theology, which was increasingly ill-suited to a rapidly
secularizing world, in which the classic professions of law and medicine were
vying for academic superiority. Kant’s polemical contribution to this discussion,
The Contest of the Faculties of 1798, inspired Wilhelm von Humboldt to re-launch
the University of Berlin as a vanguard national university with philosophy en-
sconced as the unifying subject for all courses of study. This was the environ-
ment in which German idealism flourished, with Fichte, Schelling and Hegel in-
forming the paths that both the human and the natural sciences took in the
second half of the 19th century, the period when modern academic disciplines
began to acquire their present shape. Indeed, this was probably the period
when philosophers had the most substantive impact on the development of
first-order fields of inquiry (Fuller 2013).
German idealism is rarely given credit for having seeded the panoply of mod-
ern disciplines, notwithstanding the valiant effort of Cassirer (1950). On the con-
trary, the movement has been stereotyped as scholastic and even anti-scientific,
mainly because its seemingly rigid adherence to the ‘dialectical method’ placed
a priori limits on the path of disciplinary development – specifically by declaring
the ‘impossibility’ of various properties and objects that were later demonstrated
to exist. The most notorious cases in point concerned mathematics, including
transcendental numbers, infinite sets and, perhaps most strikingly, non-Eucli-
dean geometry, which paved the way for Einstein’s revolution in physics. It is
hardly surprising, then, that originators of the most recent round of philosoph-
ical foundationalism – the ‘analytic’ Gottlob Frege and the ‘continental’ Edmund
Husserl – both trained as mathematicians in the late 19th century, a period when
the field sought independence from practical concerns in order to explore the
conceptual limits of its own objects (Collins 1998, chap. 13). To be sure, Frege
and Husserl charted the appropriate ‘transcendental’ standpoint rather different-
ly: Whereas Frege followed the conditions under which a judgement is made in
possibility space (i. e. logic as algebraic function), Husserl abstracted from an ac-
tual object to capture its essence, understood as all the conditions under which
an object can appear: the former top-down, the latter bottom-up. They form of
the two halves of the Cartesian legacy, which together presented philosophy as
canvassing a universe well beyond the delivery of experience and its default pre-
suppositions (cf. Solomon 1977).
Nevertheless, there is no denying that the original German idealists tied their
philosophical foundationalism to an image of the ends of knowledge becoming
 Towards a New Foundationalist Turn in Philosophy 115

more conceptually specified, integrated and unified over time – not one open to
new and potentially strange possibilities. Indeed, the idealists operated with a
conception of progress that presumed path-dependency, a focusing of world-his-
toric options that was equated with reality’s ever greater self-realization. Where
the idealists differed – quite substantially – was over the correct characterisation
of the agent of this process: Ego (Fichte), Nature (Schelling) or Spirit (Hegel).
Ironically, the one legacy of idealism that survived intact in the 19th century
was the functional differentiation of disciplines – except without the overarching
systemic vision that was supposed to be philosophy’s unique epistemic contribu-
tion (Schnädelbach 1984, Chap. 1). Indeed, James Ferrier coined ‘epistemology’
in English as the leading branch of metaphysics in the mid-19th century to cap-
ture this point just as it was losing its institutional force (Fuller 2015, Introduc-
tion).
Without philosophy’s second-order comprehension of interdisciplinary divi-
sions, which had been idealism’s signature style of foundationalism, a more
complex version of the situation that Kant addressed in The Contest of the Fac-
ulties was allowed to re-emerge in the second half of the 19th century. These con-
flicts were characterized as Werturteilsstreit and Methodenstreit in the German-
speaking world, especially when the battles were fought at the interface of the
human and natural sciences (Proctor 1991, Part II). Typically the dynamic of
these disputes resembled jurisdictional conflicts, in which attempts were made
to extend the proper empirical domain of disciplines into totalizing world-
views – as if to fill the philosophical void left by idealism. (If in doubt, read
the multi-volume Merz 1965.) In the 20th century, terms such as ‘reductionism’,
‘scientism’ and even ‘imperialism’ came to be used to capture this spirit, usually
with quite specific disciplines in mind, especially physics and economics. How-
ever, the late 19th century witnessed much more of a ‘war of all against all’ atti-
tude, in which, say, ‘psychologism’ functioned as a multi-purpose shibboleth to
impugn virtually any discipline’s or school’s scientific credentials, or claims to
objectivity more generally (Kusch 1995). From this standpoint, the cross-discipli-
nary allegations of ‘relativism’ raised in the late 20th century might be seen as an
ironic reversal of this strategy, whereby disciplines or schools come to be ac-
cused of not being sufficiently imperialistic in their epistemic ambitions!
In the context of a downsized, post-idealist philosophy, the most that philos-
ophers can hope to do is to referee cross-disciplinary disputes by aligning each
discipline with a set of distinctive methods and objects which, when taken to-
gether, enables a peaceful coexistence in the academy without requiring ideal-
ism’s superordinate sense of epistemic authority. Neo-Kantianism and Neo-
Thomism were the secular and sacred versions of this orientation that developed
in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Both are very much ‘school philosophies’
116 Steve Fuller

for whom epistemology recapitulates academic bureaucracy (Fuller 2009,

chap. 2). However, the institutional dominance of non-foundationalist philoso-
phies was effectively subverted in the First World War, when Germany, the nation
with the most advanced higher education system, suffered a devastating defeat,
despite its widespread support across the academic community. This included
not only the human and natural sciences but also theology, which had played
a formative role – via the higher education minister and prominent Church his-
torian Adolf von Harnack – in establishing the original state-industry-university
(‘triple helix’) complex, now known as the Max Planck Institutes. It was this per-
haps justified – but ultimately defeated – confidence that sparked a new era of
foundationalism in the postwar era, most notably logical positivism and existen-
tial phenomenology. Common to these two movements – notwithstanding their
increasing differences following their Nazi-provoked transatlantic exile – was
greater attention paid to the ‘sceptic’ as a philosophical opponent. Thus, early
modern figures such as Descartes, Hume and Kant were given a new spin in
the philosophical canon: less about paving the way to science and more about
assuaging the sceptic’s doubts.

2 Reappraising and updating Idealism’s legacy

In most histories of philosophy the need for an intellectual clearing prior to the
laying down of epistemic foundations is presented as going against the grain of
the idealists’ brand of philosophizing. However, on closer inspection, this differ-
ence is of a rather specific nature, since both are indeed foundationalists. Rus-
sell followed the early modern line – championed by Bacon, Descartes and
Locke – that treated the clearing of the mind and the provision of foundations
as two distinct and separate tasks. Nowadays we would assign the first task to
a kind of cognitive psychology-led pedagogy, which aims to divest us of our bias-
es and liabilities, and the second task to the rigorous application of ‘the scien-
tific method’, however that is defined. Unsurprisingly, ‘philosophy’ as a disci-
pline has a minimal role in this enterprise, other than ushering people from
one phase to the next. In contrast, what Russell saw as two tasks, the Idealists
saw as proceeding together as two indivisible parts of one overarching task, an
ongoing disentanglement and purification of one’s understanding of the world.
Equally unsurprisingly, ‘philosophy’ now turns out to be the discipline that en-
compasses all disciplinary knowledge. Yet, both Russell and the idealists would
be in agreement that philosophy’s endgame should involve the most comprehen-
sive, systematic, rational vision of the world, in which science is brought to ul-
 Towards a New Foundationalist Turn in Philosophy 117

timate fruition. Considering the various assaults on the supremacy of ‘science’ in

our postmodern times, this is not a trivial point of convergence.
To appreciate idealism’s modus operandi, one may think at the dawn of in-
quiry that unicorns exist because we can form an idea of a horned horse because
we’ve seen horses and we’ve seen horned animals. Such imaginative associa-
tions are the stuff of myth and fiction. However, as we learn more biology, we
realize that such a thing could not exist, given the actual course of evolutionary
history, etc. In other words, as we weave together our expanding empirical base
under a common conceptual framework, what we originally thought were contin-
gent facts (e. g. it so happens that unicorns do not exist, but they could have ex-
isted) metamorphose into something more closely resembling rational necessity
(i. e. evolution makes it highly unlikely that unicorns would come into being). In-
deed, Spinoza’s slogan, adapted from the Stoics, is apposite: ‘Freedom is the rec-
ognition of necessity’. Human progress consists in learning to desire that which
we will come to discover must be the case, so that by the time we come to the
‘end of history’ there is no discrepancy between expectation and outcome, as be-
lief converges with fact in absolute knowledge.
This account of the idealist modus operandi, clearest in Hegel, was revived
by Alexandre Kojève and Alexandre Koyré in 1930s Paris, and reinvented by
Francis Fukuyama (1992) for post-Cold War America in the 1990s. In both
these 20th century incarnations, the idealist project was presented as a founda-
tional course of study for aspirant philosopher-kings or, as the novelist Tom
Wolfe sarcastically called them in the 1980s, with a tilt to Wall Street, ‘masters
of the universe’. Indeed, by the time of Fukuyama, not only had capitalism tri-
umphed but also Communism had come to be seen as, so to speak, a political
unicorn with no chance of sustainability. Against the backdrop of this line of
thought, so-called ‘post-structuralist’ or ‘postmodern’ strains in recent French
thought, which have done so much to shape ‘critical theory’ in the English-
speaking world for the past half-century, should be understood as an internally
diverse backlash (cf. Descombes 1980). What Kojève and Koyré, two émigré Rus-
sian Jews, promised in the 1930s was an alternative reading of world history that
delivered a different outcome from the one that the Nazis predicted. In one ob-
vious sense, they were proved correct. However, the character of the Second
World War’s ending – mass aerial bombings of Germany and Japan, culminating
in the dropping of two atomic bombs – immediately caused a crisis of confidence
on the idealist side, which throughout the Cold War was given most articulate
expression in Jean-Paul Sartre’s brand of Existentialism. The ‘postmodern turn’
involves suspending a key assumption of this entire trajectory, namely, that his-
tory has an ‘end’ that somehow resolves diverse claims to legitimacy in a single
ultimate regime with absolute authority – what epistemologists call ‘The Truth’.
118 Steve Fuller

Nevertheless, what makes ‘postmodernism’ in this broad sense interesting to

‘foundationalist’ thinking in philosophy – and why it deserves the unqualified
honorific term ‘theory’ for its activities in the English-speaking humanities – is
that it continues to operate at a ‘big picture’ level that tries to probe more ‘deep-
ly’ into matters than ordinary empirical inquiry would normally permit. If we
take the two strands of modern philosophy that Kant identified at the end of
The Critique of Pure Reason, the idealists may be seen as having stressed the ra-
tionalist side and the postmodernists the empiricist side of the divide. Moreover,
Kant’s original discussion (where the ‘empiricists’ are represented by Epicurus)
gets to what is at stake in the contemporary discussion. The rationalists are com-
mitted to a foundation based on rules (or ‘laws’) that can be laid down by some
means or other. While we may not have created these rules (God perhaps did), we
nevertheless are in a position to enforce them, once they have been discovered.
On the other hand, the empiricists believe that the only rule that we shall ever
discover is that there are always exceptions, in turn reflecting the ultimate elu-
siveness of reality from our grasp and control. Thus, where rationalists veer to-
wards dogmatism, empiricists veer towards scepticism in their respective ac-
counts of foundations.
A brief look at five major strains of broadly ‘postmodern’ thought in recent
France brings this point out well. All are ‘empiricist’ in the sense that Kant meant:
1. Derrida – Modernity self-destructs conceptually because it can only repress
but never fully contain whatever opposes its dominant tendency.
2. Foucault – Modernity self-destructs empirically because it becomes unsus-
tainable in the face of overwhelming anomalies to its regime of knowl-
edge-power.
3. Deleuze – Modernity mutates into something unexpected, perhaps even per-
verse, yet it remains an outgrowth of modernity’s original logic.
4. Lyotard – Modernity is falsified by the history that it claims on its own be-
half, which does not have the teleological character that modernists claim.
5. Latour – Modernity is an organized form of self-deception by which humans
try (unsuccessfully) to separate themselves out from the rest of nature.

But suppose one remains sympathetic to the idealist take on foundationalism –

as I do. Can we make a less totalizing diagnosis of its problems than our five
French postmodernists do? Two interrelated but potentially tractable problems
come to mind.
The first problem is the one that 19th century thinkers had already under-
stood, which is related to idealism’s apriorism. Aprorism has been historically
tied to infallibilism (aka epistemic certainty), perhaps in deference to the deity
whose path we recreate when we think about things from first principles. Yet,
 Towards a New Foundationalist Turn in Philosophy 119

logically speaking, it is not self-contradictory to say that inquiry must begin with
clearly stated universal propositions, which nevertheless may need to be revised,
perhaps even radically, as they encounter the particulars of empirical reality. (In-
deed, from a strictly theological standpoint, this may just the right pose to strike,
given Original Sin.) Of course, this is just another way of characterizing what
Popper called the ‘hypothetico-deductive method’, precedents for which can
be found in William Whewell’s version of Kant. Thus, science operates by a
kind of fallibilistic apriorism, which Charles Sanders Peirce famously character-
ized as ‘corrigibilism’ (Laudan 1981, chap. 14). Yet, like the idealists, Peirce con-
tinued to believe that all paths of inquiry, however divergent in their hypotheses,
would ultimately converge on the same representation of reality, which he oper-
ationalized as the consensus of scientific opinion. Even Popper seemed to back a
version of this view, albeit in a more muted and vaguer way – and perhaps in
spite of his vaunted anti-historicism (Popper 1957). In this respect, Kuhn (1970)
posed an interesting challenge to this entire line of thought by introducing the
Darwin-inspired idea that the history of science – if not history as such – may
indeed be path-dependent, and in that sense ‘irreversible’, yet without heading
to a specific predetermined end-state. Instead, the same original intellectual tra-
jectory may be subject to refraction as it encounters various local obstacles to its
passage, resulting in an increasingly complex and disunified scientific enter-
prise. So on what terms, if any, is a unification of knowledge possible (cf. Fuller
2007, Part II)?
This brings us to the second problem, which is related to the idealists’ over-
estimation of history’s irreversibility. It led them to read the arrow of time as a
relatively straightforward empirical indicator of history’s ultimate end. Thus,
dominant tendencies were widely seen as permanently eliminating possibilities,
albeit in the name of a more rational form of freedom. This particular bias on the
part of the idealists becomes less surprising, once we consider that the philoso-
phy was conceived in the early 19th century, prior to the widespread scientific ac-
ceptance of the atomic world-view, which only occurred a century later – not
least in biology, in which Wilhelm Johannsen expressly coined ‘gene’ in 1905
to refer to an ‘atom of life’. Atomism’s relevance here, especially in biology, is
that in principle – and increasingly in practice – it opens the door to a re-engi-
neering of the fundamental elements of matter to produce durable properties
and objects that would otherwise not arise spontaneously in nature – either be-
cause they would never arise again or they would have never arisen at all. The
use of ancient DNA to resurrect extinct species illustrates the former point, the
synthesis of new life-forms from novel expressions of the genetic code illustrates
the latter (cf. Church and Regis 2012, Schrödinger 1955). In both cases, the path
dependency of evolutionary history is effectively subverted, thereby opening up
120 Steve Fuller

the future to multiple realizations. Even the mythical status of the unicorn may
be reversed by actualizing the relevant atomic combinations to render it as a ‘ge-
netically modified’ horse. Taken to the limit, in the future the Earth itself may be
organized as an artificial environment (‘geoengineered’ in the broadest sense) to
enable the maximum diversity of species to flourish in what self-described ‘eco-
modernists’ call ‘a good anthropocene’ (Nordhaus and Shellenberger 2007).
Thus, the sort of ‘foundations’ to which science allows us access via the
atomic world-view may enable us to live in an increasingly reversible world.
Today, there are already moves along these lines vis-à-vis nanotechnology,
whereby chemical agents (‘nanobots’) are released into polluted waters to
make them effectively self-cleaning (Fuller 2011, chap. 3). One may take the
point still further – into what it will mean to be ‘human’ in the future. According
to a certain vision of ‘Humanity 2.0’, genuine human progress is marked by our
capacity to live in different worlds, perhaps even in radically different material
forms – what transhumanists call morphological freedom (Fuller and Lipinska
2014, chap. 3). In that case, our personal identities would migrate across
media, say, from carbon to silicon – and perhaps back again? This vision has
also attracted the attention of physicists who propose that the very defiance of
entropy – i. e. every change of phase state manages to keep at least same number
of options open from the agent’s standpoint – may be a marker of intelligence at
the cosmic level (Wissner-Gross and Freer 2013).
At one level, this principle revives the efficiency imperative associated with
the chemist Wilhelm Ostwald’s failed early 20th century attempt to accord energy
a metaphysical import that would have normative consequences (Fuller 2000,
chap. 2). But at a deeper level, it represents a step in the direction of ‘function-
alizing’ our conception of substance, which Cassirer (1923) regarded as the signa-
ture revolutionary move in modern thought. In other words, we come to see con-
crete things not as instantiations of fixed essences but as moments in the
confluence of factors in a mathematically defined space. In the first half of the
20th century, it was common to speak of this as the ‘Galilean’ break from the Ar-
istotelian world-view. (From this standpoint, Frege is a more ‘progressive’ foun-
dationalist than Husserl.) In that case, one becomes concerned less with main-
taining a particular state than a particular dynamic, which may require a
periodic change of state, e. g. a quest for the ‘new normal’, which has been
the hallmark of ‘progressive’ politics (Fuller and Lipinska 2014, chap. 1). So
whereas to be a fully functioning human in 1950 – à la American suburbia –
may have required a detached house with a front lawn and a garage for the
car, in 2050 greater human functionality may be achieved by taking up much
less space and consuming much less energy. Moreover, such ‘ephemeralization’,
as the visionary engineer Buckminster Fuller memorably called this tendency in
 Towards a New Foundationalist Turn in Philosophy 121

the history of technology, may open one to a greater diversity of ‘normal’ states
of being human, simply because less matter and energy would need to be invest-
ed in realizing any of them – especially given the anticipated improvements in
virtual reality devices.
In the final section, I discuss the philosophical anthropology that is required
to recognize humans as beings as capable of providing philosophical founda-
tions. It turns out that the two main approaches to the study of human beings
– hermeneutics and naturalism – offer faltering glimpses of the relevant philo-
sophical anthropology, which I will tease out and then develop further, focussing
on technology’s role in radically reconfiguring the human condition.

3 Recognizing humans as beings capable

of philosophical foundations
One of the conceits of the human sciences is that the subjects under investigation
normally live their lives as tacit investigators of their own life-worlds. In other
words, people are presumed to display a sufficiently high level of epistemic en-
gagement to be considered reliable witnesses, what the sociologist Anthony Gid-
dens (1984) dubbed ‘knowledgeable agents’. Put another way: The highest compli-
ment that academics can pay non-academics is to say that they always already
think like academics. Thus, scholarly appeals to empathy and sympathetic under-
standing (Verstehen) have carried a faintly patronizing if not narcissistic quality –
especially in an era when people no longer believe that they are descended from
the same God in whose ‘image and likeness’ they were created. In the days of
Schleiermacher, and possibly even Dilthey and Gadamer, it would have been tan-
tamount to a divine offense for me not to accord you the same degree of perspi-
cacity as I do myself (Schnädelbach 1984, chap. 4). But without a theory of com-
mon spiritual descent, the chain of epistemic command goes horizontal: You, dear
subject, must be a close observer of your surroundings because I, your investiga-
tor, am a close observer my own surroundings – and hopefully yours as well. Var-
ious notions like ‘charity’ (Quine) or ‘humanity’ (Davidson), evoking – or parody-
ing? – their religious origins, have been invoked. In any case, the ‘interpretive
principles’ cover up the implied methodological egocentrism, whereby you, dear
subject, are deemed rational by virtue of basking in my own reflected epistemic
glow (Fuller 1988, chap. 6).
What I have just described is, broadly speaking, the ‘hermeneutical’ ap-
proach to the human condition. As I have already suggested, it imputes to people
a much greater sense of mindfulness than they normally have, as if we behaved
122 Steve Fuller

like actors fully conscious of the scripts in which we variously perform. Some of
my earliest work was concerned with debunking this imputation – even when
applied to scientists – from a broadly ‘naturalistic’ standpoint (Fuller 1993).
But more to the point, a relatively unremarked feature of the hermeneutical ap-
proach is its implicit delegitimization of the foundationalist philosophical proj-
ect, including its scientistic extensions, à la Locke or Russell. (Rorty deserves
credit for having emphasized this point.) Hermeneutics presupposes that knowl-
edge claims are ultimately grounded in the claimant’s life circumstances. While
this may seem like a truism, the word ‘ultimately’ discounts the possibility that
claimants might have access to some deeper reality, be it characterised in causal
or transcendental terms. Put bluntly, the very idea that people may know, in
some respects, more about times and places they have not directly experienced
than the ones they have experienced is a hermeneutical non-starter. Thus, peo-
ple are rendered ‘transcendental dopes’ (Fuller 2015, chap. 6, esp. p. 241).
Here hermeneutics betrays its own roots in historical-critical theology, with
its radically demystified view of religious language as ‘symbolic’ in its referential
capacity. Whatever else ‘symbolic’ might mean in this context, it certainly means
‘non-literal’. In the shadow of late imperial anthropology, this non-literalism was
read positively as implying that the natives’ beliefs were not false, but with the
ascendancy of science and technology studies it was read negatively as implying
that the scientists’ beliefs were not true; hence the ‘Science Wars’ of the 1990s
(Fuller 2006). In any case, the epistemic neutrality (or ‘symmetry’) of hermeneu-
tics reflects the field’s own, often failed, diplomatic efforts to chart a course for
theological scholarship that does not interfere with the pastoral mission of the
churches (Collins 1998, chap. 12). Marx’s The German Ideology may be under-
stood as an attempt to derive some profound lessons from one such failure, re-
sulting in the original ‘science war’, fought in Marx’s early adulthood, which fo-
cused on the political responsibility of academic theology. One conclusion that
Marx (rightly) drew was that if we can indeed talk and act sensibly vis-à-vis a
world that lies beyond our normal existential horizons, hermeneutics is incapa-
ble of discovering it. Marx was a foundationalist.
In the history of the human sciences, experimental psychology is normally
presented as an anti-hermeneutical ‘naturalistic’ approach to the human condi-
tion. However, it is easy to forget that experimental psychology began as the psy-
chology of the scientist, understood as the ultimately self-conscious human sub-
ject (Fuller 2015, chap. 3). Indeed, until the advent of behaviourism in the early
20th century, virtually all of the subjects used in psychology experiments outside
of strictly medical settings were scientifically trained people, typically the psy-
chologists themselves. The classic history of experimental psychology (Boring
1950) highlights astronomers’ scrupulous recording of the ‘personal equation’
 Towards a New Foundationalist Turn in Philosophy 123

in observational error as an inspiration for Gustav Fechner to conceive of the

study of the mind as the human response to apparatus, aka ‘perception’. Indeed,
much of the early history of statistical inference turned on whether variation in
response to a fixed stimulus – be it the product of a natural or an artificial en-
vironment – should be interpreted as itself normal or, rather, deviations from an
implied ‘natural norm’ (Porter 1986). Moreover, whereas astronomers’ training of
their telescopic vision reasonably promotes more accurate observations, thereby
supporting the idea of a ‘natural norm’, it is far from clear that the same applies
to psychological subjects trained to respond more effectively to specific appara-
tus-based protocols (Hatfield 1991). Indeed, behaviourists – and such early phil-
osophical admirers as Bertrand Russell (1927) – discredited the original psycho-
logical method of ‘introspection’ (as this controlled inspection of one’s own
mental processes was called) for producing experimental ‘artefacts’: i. e. results
that were valid only in the laboratory setting.
In their rather different ways, both the hermeneutical and naturalistic ap-
proaches to the study of humans turn the subjects under study into an extension
of the investigator’s own epistemic horizon. In the hermeneutical case, princi-
ples of interpretive charity and humanity can be seen as an abstract version of
the sorts of arguments that were used to justify the ‘civilizing mission’ of impe-
rialism in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. After all, had it not been assumed
that apparent world-view differences are surmountable through adequate com-
munication, education, etc., the disruption and violence that often resulted
from European expansion into Asia and Africa would have been taken much
more at face value – and hence would have probably ended much earlier. How-
ever, as long as the imperialists believed that the resistance they encountered
simply reflected a misunderstanding between two groups of people who ‘always
already’ share the same fundamental beliefs and perhaps even desires, they felt
justified in their persistence – especially since the natives were by no means uni-
formly resistant and often improved their living conditions by adopting the Euro-
peans’ self-avowed ‘objective’ standards.
In the case of the naturalistic approach, the situation is a more complex but
also more interesting from the standpoint of what might be called a ‘Humanity
2.0’ style of foundationalism (Fuller 2011). However, a certain conception of ‘natural-
ism’ needs to be set aside at the outset – one which started to become prominent in
the late 19th century in the wake of Darwin’s demonstration of the continuity of
human and animal life. It is that science is simply an extension of common
sense, perhaps a more self-critical application of ‘animal faith’, as George Santayana
fashioned it. This position, usually associated with Pragmatism (especially John
Dewey’s account of the scientific method but also carried over into Quine), under-
estimates – in a way Francis Bacon never did – the profoundly transformative role
124 Steve Fuller

of technology in the constitution of who we are and our relationship to nature. In

most general terms, the increased instrumental mediation of our most valued way of
knowing changes the world in which knowledge is made possible – not least be-
cause we will have changed in the process; hence, ‘Humanity 2.0’.
In this spirit, the claim of ‘artefactuality’ that led psychologists to abandon
the introspective method shortly after the First World War acquired a second life
as a thesis in philosophical anthropology: namely, that technology is the exten-
sion of the human senses, in which case it may be desirable for us to become
more attuned to our apparatus, especially if it is capable of making us more sen-
sitive to the larger world than we would otherwise be, just left to the sensory or-
gans of our birth. In short, a liability of the laboratory – artificially induced ex-
perience – came to be recast more positively once apparatus was seen as
enhancing, rather than distorting, human capabilities. Nowadays, this argument
would be read as a transhumanist defence of our becoming cyborgs. But it can
already be found in that great American populariser of German idealism, Ralph
Waldo Emerson. Emerson (1870) saw the US Patent Office as building a national
exo-physiology – what by the mid-20th century would be called a ‘superorganism’
or a ‘noösphere’ – which organizes the products of human inventiveness to max-
imize their interconnectivity and fertility, the inexhaustible source of prosperity
promised to beings whose creativity is underwritten by having been created ‘in
the image and likeness of God’ (Fuller 2012, chap. 3). Even before Marshall Mc-
Luhan (1965) adopted Emerson as his patron saint – with the television replacing
the telegraph in his techno-cosmology – Emerson’s original vision was system-
atically developed by the German founder of the philosophy of technology,
Ernst Kapp, who lived in the United States when Emerson’s influence was at
its peak in the mid-19th century (Brey 2000).
Not only McLuhan’s media theory but also cybernetics and contemporary
transhumanism represent developments in this line of thought. To be sure, the
philosophical anthropologists who first charted this intellectual trajectory after
the First World War were its opponents, notably represented by Oswald Spengler
and Arnold Gehlen. They stressed the dehumanization that allegedly results from
the calibration of humanity’s life rhythms to society’s increasing mechanization.
It was in this context that the concept of ‘sensory overload’ was first introduced
(Fuller 2012, chap. 5). But such critiques overlooked that the ‘machine world-
view’, so to speak, opens up new avenues of thought and being, even as it per-
haps loses some of the older ones. In this respect, the distinction that bioethi-
cists commonly draw between ‘restorative’ and ‘enhancing’ medical treatments
is misconceived for humans living in a technologically extended state – as ‘cy-
borgs’, if you will. Very few prosthetic devices ‘restore’ to the body to some
prior ‘natural’ state. Rather, they compensate for what cannot be ‘restored’, in
 Towards a New Foundationalist Turn in Philosophy 125

any strict sense, while at the same time opening the door to the development of
new capacities not available to the natural organism. This is the spirit in which
Neil Harbisson started the Cyborg Foundation in 2010 to facilitate the voluntary
transition of humans to ‘cyborg’ status, a version of ‘Humanity 2.0’ that is likely
to appear more attractive in the future – even among those ‘Humanity 1.0’ beings
not especially in need of prosthetics (Wittes and Chong 2014).
When the history of the hermeneutical and naturalistic approaches to the
study of human beings are taken together, it becomes clear that the initial impulse
to access our untapped potential – namely, that we have the capacity to be more
than what is already visible to the naked eye – was lost in its institutionalization.
On the hermeneutical side, this potential had been clearly represented by the
theological notion that humanity’s recovery from the Fall involves our developing
an ability to see the divinity in others, which in secular terms amounts to the rec-
ognition that we are meaning-making creatures who know more than may be ap-
parent from our words and deeds; hence, the concept of ‘hermeneutical depth’.
However, as hermeneutics became more secularised and academicised in the
19th and 20th centuries, this impulse was sublimated in more inward notions of ‘re-
flexivity’ which resulted in an ultimate scepticism about meaning (à la Derridean
deconstruction) rather than any sense of transcendence. On the naturalistic side,
the situation has been more hopeful. Here our untapped potential relates to hid-
den powers of mind that may be elicited under the right conditions. To be sure, it
is a strategy that has inspired a variety of experimental interventions from peda-
gogy (including IQ tests) to psychiatry (including biomedical treatments) which
have been deployed just as often to inhibit as to enable human thought and ac-
tion. However, an honest appraisal of the situation must include the caveat that
what counts as ‘inhibition’ and ‘enablement’ is relative to the envisaged range
of appropriate end states for a decent human existence.
In any case, in both the hermeneutical and naturalistic approaches, the em-
pirical study of human beings has always hinted at means of self-transcendence.
As people have become self-conscious of how they have been restricted – be it by
historical context, genetic programming or simply laboratory conditions – they
have also learned what lies on the other side of those restrictions, which in turn
enables them to survey the full range of possibilities available prior to action in
the future. In this context, technology plays a decisive role in two ways, which
are captured by two systems-theoretic conditions: equifinality and plurifinality.
The former refers to alternative means to the same ends, the latter refers to the
same means resulting in multiple ends. In the history of biology, these conditions
were represented, respectively, by the ‘preformationist’ and ‘epigeneticist’ perspec-
tives on development (Fuller 2012, chap. 2). When applied to the history of technol-
ogy, they constitute two phases by which humans come to a greater sense of their
126 Steve Fuller

own morphological freedom, which provides – so to speak – an ontological clear-

ing necessary for a ‘Foundationalist 2.0’ approach to philosophy. In the first phase,
technology shows how the same ends might be achieved more efficiently by hu-
mans alienating (we would now say ‘offloading’) their functions to artefacts
which they then incorporate into a more comprehensive sense of the human life-
world. In the second phase, the inherent powers of those artefacts are exploited to
open up new possibilities for human development (e.g. as cyborgs). The result is a
foundationalism that is fit for the sort of ‘extended mind’ beings that ‘Humanity
2.0’ is already becoming (cf. Clark 1997).

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Guillaume Fréchette
Two Phenomenological Accounts
of Intuition
Abstract: Phenomenological accounts of intuition are often considered as signif-
icantly different from, or even incommensurable with most of the conception of
intuitions defended in analytical philosophy. In this paper, I reject this view.
Starting with what I consider to be a relatively neutral phenomenological ac-
count of intuition, I first present the main features of Husserl’s and Brentano’s
accounts of intuition, showing the structural similarities and differences be-
tween these two views. After confronting them, I finally come back to what uni-
tes the two views in order to outline a map of the problem of intuition in which
both traditions, the analytical and the phenomenological, appear as two comple-
mentary takes on one and the same problem.

1 The philosophical dignity of intuitions

A widely-accepted view in the more or less recent philosophical literature on in-
tuitions is that intuitions are a kind of mental state in which a proposition
seems – or is presented as – true. Intuitions in this general sense would be a spe-
cific attitude towards a proposition, such as:
i) it is impossible to believe both p and non-p
ii) it is right to help people in need
iii) Kirchberg is in Austria
iv) etc.

Another usage of the term ‘intuition’ that is also quite common applies it not to
mental states, but to the objects of such states. Then propositions like i) to iii)
also qualify as intuitions insofar as they are the object of the corresponding at-
titude. At this point the question arises how one might characterize this attitude
apart from describing it as the attitude involved in an intuition. One might de-
scribe it as a state of believing, or as an act of forming a belief without inference,
or as a disposition to believe. In addition, the following accounts of the attitude
involved in intuition have been offered in the past years:
i) seeming (Bealer 1998)
ii) intellectually seeming (Huemer 2001; 2005)
iii) being pushed by (Koksvik 2011)
130 Guillaume Fréchette

iv) being presented by (Chudnoff 2013)

v) etc.

This analysis of the structure of an intuition matches its usual presentation in

the literature as a piece of evidence or source of knowledge that p. Thus the phil-
osophical dignity of intuitions is often, if not essentially, measured by its episte-
mic credentials. This would explain the pro and contra positions discussed in De-
Paul and Ramsey (1998), where ‘intuitionists’ like Bealer (1998) argue for a
specific sense of philosophical intuition distinct from the empirical sciences,
and where ‘anti-intuitionists’ like Gopnik and Schwitzgebel (1998) characterize
intuition as the result of not fully explicit consciously-observable reasoning proc-
esses, making it an instable and thereby suspect source of knowledge, if it has
justificatory force at all.¹
In this context, if intuitions have any place in philosophical discourse, they
must have some epistemic credentials that other attitudes lack, otherwise there
would be no point in distinguishing intuitions from these other attitudes. Since
having epistemic credentials is a property that is also shared by propositions,
theories, beliefs, or sets of beliefs, it is natural to think that intuitions are a
kind of propositional attitude.
As I have pointed out, if intuitions are to be epistemically efficient, they must
act as evidence for something, either in the form of a prima facie support (the intu-
ition that sugar is soluble is confirmed by experiment) or in the form of defeasible
evidence against a theory (the intuition that Mary learns something when she comes
out of the room in black and white contravenes the theory that Mary knew all phys-
ical facts). In this sense, having an intuition that p is our (at least prima facie) jus-
tification for believing that p. Here again, if intuitions are justifications for our be-
liefs, they must fit the propositional form of the latter.
These two very general considerations seem to be presupposed by most ad-
vocates of intuition in recent debates, to the extent that for most philosophers
dealing with intuitions, the use of the term ‘intuition’ in a non-propositional con-
text is simply a derivate use of the expression, which bears only superficial sim-
ilarities with the philosophical concept, and which may be discarded from phil-
osophical analysis for that reason. Here are some typical examples expressing
this view: “Intuitions always take propositions as their objects” (Pust 2012);
the view that one could intuit objects concerns a “different phenomenon” alto-
gether (Koksvik 2011, p. 19); basically, all philosophical views of intuition
agree that “intuition has representational content” (ibid.), where “representa-

 See Cummins ().

 Two Phenomenological Accounts of Intuition 131

tion” means an explicit conceptual representation as one typically associates it

with propositional attitudes; “no extant philosophical account of the nature of
intuition contests this assumption [that intuition has conceptual or representa-
tional content]” (Koksvik 2011, pp. 7– 8). Since often no distinction is made be-
tween representational and propositional content, there would seem to be no
“extant philosophical account” of the nature of intuition that doesn’t assume
that these are propositional attitudes.
Phenomenologists like Brentano or Husserl, on the other hand, do not gen-
erally measure the philosophical dignity of intuitions by their justificatory power
and do not see them as mental states typically carrying a propositional content.
In fact, most phenomenologists would deny this for at least some intuitions. Ac-
cording to them, it is not necessary for intuitions to have a propositional content,
or to have justificatory power. However, I don’t take this to mean that there is a
deep gap between the phenomenological and the analytical conceptions of intu-
ition, or that these conceptions are (phenomenologically or analytically) incom-
mensurable, either for ideological or methodological reasons.² What I would like
to suggest is that there is an advantage in thinking of these perspectives as com-
plementary. This advantage becomes more evident when one considers the diver-
sity of phenomenological accounts of intuition, particularly the accounts of
Brentano and Husserl. Thinking of both of these accounts as ‘phenomenological’
in some way leads to a more comprehensive account of intuitions which, in our
view, is preferable to incommensurablist views.
In what follows I shall first present the main lines of what I consider to be a
relatively neutral phenomenological account of intuition. By ‘neutral’, I mean
that features of this account match various conceptions of phenomenology—
such as descriptive psychology, metaphysical realism, and transcendental ideal-
ism. Second, I will detail the main features of Husserl’s and Brentano’s accounts
of intuition. I will show that there are many structural similarities between these
two views. After confronting them, I will finally come back to what unites the
two views in order to outline a map of the problem of intuition in which both
traditions, the analytical and the phenomenological, appear as two complemen-
tary takes on one and the same problem.

 Incommensurabilist views among phenomenologists are rarely presented in these terms. Such
a view is to be found in Sokolowski (). We also find a similar view in Cobb-Stevens ().
For a recent incommensurabilist account of intuition, see Wiltsche ().
132 Guillaume Fréchette

2 The Unity of Phenomenological Accounts

of Intuition
Before distinguishing the two different accounts, let me first identify the com-
mon grounds, from (a) to (e), on which they are based.
a) Intuition is the most basic form of experience in phenomenology. Following
Husserl in his introduction to the second volume of the Logical Investigations,
phenomenology works according to an “intuitive procedure” (intuitives Verfah-
ren) (Hua XIX/1, p. 6). Following Brentano, it is the paradigmatic case of presen-
tations, which are the most basic mental states.
b) Intuition is immediate. When I see the Eiffel Tower before me, or as Husserl
says, in propria persona (LI V, §2, §11, §14: Hua XIX/1, pp. 356 ff.; 384 ff.; 394 ff.),
something is given to me in a direct, immediate, and unmediated way. Brentano
characterizes this immediateness in terms of “proper presentation.” According to
him, intuitions are proper presentations of sensory content. A proper presenta-
tion is a presentation of which the parts of the content are real attributive parts.
c) Intuition is akin to perception. Phenomenologists like Brentano and Hus-
serl generally characterize intuition (Anschauung) as a special form of percep-
tion, in opposition to intuitive beliefs, or inclinations to believe, or some other
belief-like propositional attitude. In this sense, for Husserl and Brentano, intui-
tive acts are perceptual, although what counts as perceptual goes over and above
sensory perception (for Husserl).
d) Intuitions are not infallible. Both Brentano and Husserl agree that the in-
tuitivity of an act doesn’t warrant the infallibility of the perception. If I see what I
take to be a woman in a wax museum, my sensory intuition is basically the
same, whether I see it as a wax figure or as a real person. Brentano argues, sim-
ilarly, that one can have an intuition of a red square when confronted with a dif-
ferent colored geometrical figure.³
e) Intuitions fulfill (Husserl) or satisfy (Brentano) our meaning intentions (Hus-
serl) or our interest (Brentano). For Husserl, intuition plays a central role in knowl-
edge in virtue of its capacity to fulfill what requires or admits of fulfillment. Accord-
ing to him, perception is an interpretation of intuitive contents. These contents

 In Brentano’s view, intuitions are in normal cases accompanied by an interpretation (Deutung)

thereof. Cases of optical illusions best illustrate this: in the case of the Müller-Lyer illusion, the
intuitions at the basis of my conviction that the lines are unequal are not faulty in themselves –
the lines do appear unequal to me not because I would not look at them correctly, but because
the content of perception is interpreted incorrectly. On this case, see Brentano (; ;
). On similar cases where no optical illusions are involved, see Brentano (,  ff.).
 Two Phenomenological Accounts of Intuition 133

fulfill, to a greater or lesser degree, the meaning intention. In Husserl’s terms, my act
of assertion expressed by “crows are black” has a meaning intention. The assertion
involves concepts – the concept of a crow, the concept of something black – that
constitute the meaning (Bedeutung) of the intention and would be the same in
your act of asserting “crows are black.” The idea that intuition has a ‘fulfilling’ func-
tion comes from an idea developed by Brentano in his Vienna lectures, which Hus-
serl attended, according to which interest, a mental operation distinct from mere
presenting, is satisfied or fulfilled by intuitions and their parts. Thus Husserlian in-
tentions, insofar as they can be fulfilled by given intuitions, are just like the phe-
nomena of ‘interest’ (Interesse) in Brentano, where this interest is always directed
at a specific part of the fulfilling content.⁴

3 The specific accounts: Husserl

Now that the general phenomenological concept of intuition has been sketched,
let me turn to the elements specific to Husserl’s account of intuition.
a. Intuition is not only sensory. It is widely known that Husserl’s concept of
intuition doesn’t attribute any priority to sense perception or empirical intuition.
Intuition comes in many varieties: there are sensory intuitions, like hearing a
tone or seeing a color, but there are also intuitions of generality: by using a
method of variation, for instance, I can have the intuition of a triangle in general.
In this case, the sensory intuition of a color is accompanied by the eidetic intu-
ition of the triangle, a general sense of “seeing,” “seeing in the universal sense
as an originally presentive consciousness” (Ideas, §19: Hua III/1, p. 41 ff.).
b. Intuition is immediate experience (consciousness). Husserl uses the term
“intuition” or its adjectival form “intuitive” to characterize the immediateness
of an experience. How should we understand immediateness? One way of
doing so would be to conceive of our experience as it is given to us before

 On Husserl’s early discussion of fulfillment in relation to interest, attention, or pleasure in no-

ticing —a terminology borrowed from Brentano and Stumpf, see Hua XXII, and particularly the
Psychologische Studien of , where he describes the relation between representation and in-
tuition as a relation between “Meinung und Erfüllung” (Hua XXII, p. ). When we go from the
intuition to the representation, we experience “wie der Mangel beseitigt, wie die Leere ausge-
füllt, wie die Hemmung gelöst, die Unbefriedigung zur Befriedigung wird” (Hua XXII, ).
The fulfilling of the intention is a “Lösung der Spannung” (Hua XXII, pp. , ), a “Be-
freiung,” “Erlösung der Hemmung (Hua XXII, p. ), Entlastung (Hua XXII, p. ); but he
also describes Erfüllung or fulfillment as a “rein im Gegenstand aufgehende Lust am Bemerken”
(Hua XXII, pp. , ). On Brentano’s description of interest and its satisfaction, see the Vien-
na logic lectures (EL), pp.  ff.
134 Guillaume Fréchette

and beyond any interpretation that we usually bestow upon it. Take as an exam-
ple a particular experience (of mine) of drinking coffee: coffee – you might also
call it a medium-dark roast of a specific blend – is “immediately experienced” in
the same basic and “immediate” way as my thinking that it will be raining to-
morrow. The adjective “immediate” on this reading serves the purpose of under-
lining the fact that the experience has not been reflected upon: immediate expe-
rience is experience “on the go”, as it happens. Immediacy is a feature equally
present in all intuitions – it is not derived from sensory experience. I experience
the coffee “immediately” not because of the felt bitterness when I taste it – al-
though the bitterness is also experienced immediately – but simply because
“the coffee” is the object of my experience. All objects of experience – sensory
or not – are experienced immediately.⁵
c. Intuition has a fulfilling function. In the Ideas and elsewhere, Husserl often
uses the expression “originary giving intuition” (originär gebende Intuition). The
“giving” feature mentioned here characterizes what is usually called fulfillment
or the fulfilling function of intuitive acts. Let’s come back to the experience of
the coffee. My act of thinking the content of the proposition expressed by “the
coffee is a Kenyan blend” is what Husserl calls a signitive act. As such, taken
in isolation, it is an empty intention. In my experience of tasting the coffee
and thinking about it, we could distinguish (among other things) between two
moments: my empty signitive act of thinking “the coffee is a Kenyan blend”
and the fulfilling intuition, i. e. my experiencing the qualitative properties of
Kenyan blends, e. g. the strong acidity, the bitterness, and the tartness of the
blend, which make it different from a Brazilian blend, for instance. An intention
may or may not be optimally fulfilled – there might be some non-Kenyan beans
in the blend, for instance. In this sense, fulfillment is not an “all or nothing”
business; it rather comes in degrees. My empty intention, the thought of the
proposition “A is red,” may thus be partly fulfilled by an intuition of a green
A (see Hua XIX/2, p. 562).
d. Intuition has evidence. “Fulfillment” is a functional characterization of
what an intuition is. An intuition may or may not fulfill, to different degrees.
But these different degrees of fulfillment do not correspond to the different
kinds of evidence involved in intuition. Suppose I am thinking of a specific
china cup full of coffee. My signitive intention is only fulfilled when I am pre-
sented intuitively with this specific cup. But a cup, like all three-dimensional ob-

 The immediateness of intuition does not mean that all intuitions are thereby originary. Your
intuition is still immediate even if you simply recollect something, or if you imagine something.
The distinction between originary and non-originary does not pertain to the immediateness of
intuition.
 Two Phenomenological Accounts of Intuition 135

jects, is always given under some perspective. The problem here is that percep-
tual intuition, even when it gives me all that it can (I perceive the cup under the
best lighting conditions, from a very short distance), is still a structurally limited
kind of evidence. It is open to revision at a later stage of experience. In an ideal
situation I would be given perfectly adequate evidence of the cup, but as in all
normal perceptual cases, evidence is only more or less adequate. My thinking
that the three angles of a triangle sum up to 180 degrees is fulfilled by the eidetic
intuition of triangles. But in this case there is no degree of fulfillment. The evi-
dence characterizing such a type of fulfillment is called apodictic evidence.
To put it simply, evidence is a property of intuitions, of which fulfillment is a
function. It is thanks to this property that intuitions are said to provide pieces of
knowledge. To know that the knife is on the table is to have a meaning intention
(expressed by the sentence “the knife is on the table”) fulfilled by the corre-
sponding intuition.

4 The specific accounts: Brentano

a) Intuition as the paradigmatic case of presentation. Brentano’s philosophy of mind
takes intuition as its most fundamental element. In his architecture of the mind, pre-
sentations constitute the most basic components. These components form the basis
of a second mental category: judgments; and for a third as well: acts of love and
hate, or, more generally, emotions. Contrary to judgments and acts of emotions, pre-
sentations have no valence. However, there are different kinds of presentations, dis-
tinct from one another by degree of clarity: the purest form of presentation, as we
may call it, is intuition (Anschauung). They have a high degree of clarity: the colors I
see and the tones I hear are, in Brentano’s sense, intuitions. Brentano’s examples in
his lectures on aesthetics, which Husserl also attended, are the following: I have an
intuitive presentation when I see a red square. I have an unintuitive presentation
when I think of a round square. But I also have an unintuitive presentation when
I think of a red square.
In some sense, one could say that all presentations are either intuitions or
are based on (in the sense of being partly constituted by) an intuition. Brentano
holds a similar thesis regarding mental activities more generally: they are either
presentations or based on presentations.
b) Intuition vs imagination. What happens when I first see a red square and
then imagine a red square? According to Brentano, the first act is a pure intuitive
presentation, while the second one is unintuitive, although it has some degree of
intuitivity. How is this to be understood? Brentano, relying on Aristotle, says that
the content of these acts is different, although they seem to have the same
136 Guillaume Fréchette

content.⁶ Only in an improper (uneigentlich) way – i. e. in the way they seem to

be – is it correct to say that they have the same content. But in fact, the imagi-
nation has as its content a thought with an intuitive kernel. Accordingly, intu-
ition and imagination are not distinct modes of presentation, but differ in virtue
of the properties of their contents: intuitions, for instance, have a degree of in-
tensity that non-intuitive presentations lack.
c) Intuition and attention. Like Mill, Brentano rejects the idea that there are
general concepts. Acknowledging only one mode of presenting, of which intu-
ition is the paradigmatic case, Brentano proposes an alternative account of
how we represent things or properties like triangularity. In his Vienna lectures
on logic of 1884/85 (mentioned earlier), Brentano explains his theory in the fol-
lowing way:

[I]n relation to the question of universals, it appears that when I also have no other presen-
tations than individual presentations, in a certain way, I do have them [i. e. universals] –
namely as partial presentations circumscribed through a particular interest – and this
way is sufficient to give to the general name not simply a plurality of equivocal individual
meanings, as the nominalists wanted, but rather a unitary, truly general sense. (Brentano
EL 72, p. 12349)

As such, there is a sense in which we can say that Tom, Dick and Harry all form
the same general concept of red, provided that they focus their attention on the
same features of some presented object. In this way, the abstract term “color” is
not a simple fiction. Instead, it has a “truly general sense”, without requiring the
acceptance of an abstract entity corresponding to the term ‘color’.
This account introduces general presentations as having abstracta as inten-
tional entities, isolated on the basis of an act of interest. These acts of interest
take as their objects some parts of a presentation contents that are not intuitive
as such. In other words, redness as an object of presentation is constituted by
intuitive and non-intuitive parts: the intuitive parts are the visual content or in-
dividual presentations and its properties (hue, brightness, constancy, etc.), while
the non-intuitive parts (the property of being a colour) are co-present in the pre-
sentation content, but are not accessible in presentations as such. Thanks to an
act of interest in the relevant part of the presentational content, we can isolate
the abstract presentation, which otherwise would simply be an indistinct part
of the intuitive presentation of the red colour. Partial presentations focus upon
the object of a particular interest (Interesse), a term that Brentano uses here as

 See Brentano (: Lecture ) and (, p.  ff.).

 Two Phenomenological Accounts of Intuition 137

a German translation of Descartes’ notion ‘admiratio’.⁷ This interest, also called

“attention” (Aufmerksamkeit) is often characterized as a pleasure in noticing
(Lust am Bemerken). Concepts are then defined as partial presentations that
may serve as mediators for further psychical activities, but they are concepts
on the sole basis of the act of interest directed towards them. No parts of presen-
tations are intrinsically conceptual; they are made conceptual by an act of inter-
est. As Brentano puts it:

[T]here is only one mode of presenting activity, […] [but] through the detaching and unify-
ing force of a particular interest, directed exclusively upon one or certain parts of the com-
plete presentation, these parts of presentation can become mediators of nomination and
the presentational basis of judgings and emotional activities. (Brentano EL72, p. 12340)⁸

Following this account, when I see a red table, the presentation I have of the red
table is a partial presentation, which in itself is not intuitive: what I actually see
are only patches of colour. But this partial presentation contributes to the indi-
viduation of the object of my presentation. This contribution is not effected on
the basis of a new mental activity – it’s just that this “partial presenting” be-
comes the object of an act of attention. This attention has the character of a judg-
ment: I see the red table and I judge that ‘this presenting shows a red table’ or
that “this presenting of a red table exists”. The focus thus bestowed upon the
partial presentation of the table “elevates”, so to speak, the partial presentation
to the level of a mediator (Vermittler) or a sign. According to this account, con-
cepts are to be considered as modified intuitions: they are modified thanks to the
focus bestowed upon them by specific judgments or acts of interest or attention.
d) Intuition as acceptance: Another important feature of Brentano’s concep-
tion of intuition is its “indissoluble” connection with acceptance. Brentano’s stu-
dent Anton Marty describes this connection as follows: “the sensation is an act
which contains two mutually inseparable parts, the intuition of the physical phe-
nomenon and assertoric accepting thereof.”⁹
Intuitions never come in isolated form: they are always indissolubly tied to
the assertoric acceptance of what is presented in the intuition. The idea here is
that I cannot but accept what is given intuitively: my intuition of red roses cannot
occur without my somehow “accepting” the red roses.
This act of acceptance may still be more primitive than the judgment that
there is a red rose before me. One reason for drawing this distinction is that

 See EL , p. .

 Marty (/, p. ) uses the exact same sentence.
 As quoted from Kraus (Engl. , p. ).
138 Guillaume Fréchette

while in a presentation I can only accept what is presented to me, in an act of

judgment I can either accept or reject what is presented. Intuitions do not
have a valence, for this reason, even if an acceptance is involved in them:
there is no possible alternative – the acceptance involved in intuition cannot
possibly turn into rejection. Second, my judgment that a rose is before me is
based on the fact that I cannot be mistaken that I have a presentation of a
rose in making this judgement. It is therefore not a ‘blind’ judgement that
lacks this inner perception of a presentation on which it is based. The difference
between blind acknowledgement, as a primitive cognitive activity, and judgment
per se as a higher cognitive activity allows Brentano to argue in cases like the
Müller–Lyer illusion that we blindly acknowledge the different lengths of the
lines, but recognize them as being equal on a higher level of cognitive activity.¹⁰

5 Confronting the Views

As suggested above, Brentano and Husserl share the “neutral” and more general
phenomenological view of intuition according to which intuition (a) is a form of
or based on perception; (b) is immediate (“present” in Husserl’s terminology;
“proper” in Brentano’s); (c) is a source of knowledge; (d) is the basis of imagina-
tion; and (e) comes together and is completed with an “empty” intention (a “mei-
nen” in Husserl’s terminology, or an act of attention or interest; a “pleasure in
noticing,” in Brentano’s).
These five core features together form the ‘neutral’ phenomenological ac-
count. But what distinguishes the two accounts? From what we have discussed,
three main differences emerge. First, Husserl and Brentano disagree on the tie
between intuition and acceptance. Husserl rejects the idea that presentations in-
clude any doxastic element, be it assent or judgment proper. Second, Husserl ac-
cepts two kinds of perception, according to which one can also perceive univer-
sals. Brentano and the Brentanists reject this.
The third and most important difference between these two positions is that
for Husserl intuition is (a mode of) consciousness while for Brentano intuition is
a presentation. Husserl often describes the “fulfilling” experience of intuition as
a “peculiar consciousness of fulfillment” (LI VI, §8, p. 694). In the Ideas in partic-
ular – and also afterwards when Husserl describes the activity of intuition – he
speaks of perceptual consciousness. This is to be contrasted with what Husserl
from early on calls “representation” (Repräsentation), but also from acts of

 See for instance Brentano (), p. .

 Two Phenomenological Accounts of Intuition 139

meaning. Perceptual (fulfilling) acts and meaning acts constitute two fundamen-
tally different categories of acts.
At this point Husserl clearly departs from Brentano. According to the latter,
the difference between an intuition and a non-intuitive presentation originates in
the nature of the object presented, and not in the mode of consciousness through
which the object is given. According to Brentano, intuitions are proper presenta-
tions, while a surrogate presentation (my presentation of a figure with 1000
sides, for instance) is an improper presentation.
This difference is visible in Husserl’s arabesque example. Imagine that you look
at some arabesque. First you see it merely as a decorative symbol. At some point,
you realize that it represents a linguistic symbol.¹¹ Or, alternatively, take Fig. 1.

Figure 1

What happens between the moment you see the arabesque (or the smiling face in
Fig. 1) as mere decoration or picture and the moment when you realize that it is a
linguistic symbol (in this case the word “old”)? “The whole mode of consciousness
changes,” says Husserl: “you see the sign, but you are not focusing on it, you are not
intuiting it” (Hua XXII, pp. 115– 116). In some sense, one could say that the seen ob-
ject is “dimmed” when the switch happens: it remains the same object, the same
content of perception, but one’s attitude towards it is different.
Brentano would answer that the only difference is that, driven by some
changing interest, you focus your attention on a different part of the object.
This is the only change that occurs. The object is not ‘dimmed’ as a whole;
parts of it are simply ‘shut down’ in order to better focus on one part of it.
The explanation is quite simple: the sign that you perceive is ‘in’ the picture,
though at all times you continue to see the picture.
If we leave some of these descriptive differences aside, it might seem as if
this difference concerning intuition is not particularly important. After all, Bren-
tano speaks of a change of interest, or a focus of attention, where Husserl speaks
of a different mode of consciousness. But this change in the mode of conscious-
ness is for Husserl also an indicator of intentionality. For Husserl, when you look
at the face, and then look at the word, the content doesn’t change: both have the
same intuitive content. What changes is the object perceived, and this change is
registered in the different ways in which the intuitive content is intended.

 See also Hua XIX/, p. ; XIX/, p.  – .

140 Guillaume Fréchette

Brentano would say that these “ways in which a content is intended” are
simply parts of a single whole, but that the way this single whole is perceived
doesn’t change. The mode of “intentional relation” remains the same in all cases.

6 Remapping the Problem

As we have seen, we arrive at an account of intuition with a far wider scope when
we accept the core common theses that unite these two phenomenological ac-
counts of intuition – particularly the first thesis, according to which intuitions
are perceptions (and perceptions are not propositional attitudes). Such an ap-
proach also allows us to appreciate the complementarity of the phenomenolog-
ical and the analytic accounts of intuition. Indeed, it allows us to see analytical
and phenomenological accounts of intuition branching out from one single root:
where analytic philosophers argue for or against the thesis that intuitions are sui
generis mental states, phenomenologists like Brentano and Husserl argue for or
against the thesis that intuition is a particular mode of consciousness. This
branching out could be illustrated as in Fig. 2
According to the analytic account of intuition discussed above, only the two
right branches of the schema have philosophical dignity, while for at least some
phenomenologists, the two left branches are philosophically relevant. My discus-
sion of Brentano and Husserl in sections three to five showed that basically the
same distinctions are made in phenomenology and analytic philosophy when in-
tuitions are classified either as presentations or as beliefs or as a sui generis mode
of consciousness or a sui generis mental state. In both cases, the distinction covers
a range of answers to the question of whether intuitions form, in themselves, a
category of mental states. On this point, advocates of the view that intuition in-
volves an intellectual seeming and defenders of a categorial intuition in phenom-
enology both answer in the affirmative. Whether this kind of mental state is essen-
tially propositional and/or perceptual is at this point secondary. The important
point is that the complementarity view advocated here allows us to use the resour-
ces of one sibling node (e.g. phenomenological description) to address issues
from the other sibling node (e. g. conceptual analysis), and vice versa. Analytic
philosophers have started to acknowledge this kind of complementarity.¹² It is
to be hoped that phenomenologists will do likewise.¹³

 For a recent contribution in this direction, see Chudnoff .

 This paper was written with the support of the Austrian Science Fund (FWF: Project M-
G). Thanks to Johannes Brandl for helpful comments and suggestions.
 Two Phenomenological Accounts of Intuition 141

Figure 2

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Julia Jansen
Imagination and 4E Cognition:
An Analytic-Continental Exchange
Abstract: The interdisciplinary field of phenomenology and cognitive science is
thriving. Recently, it has gained even further ground through the rise of a new clus-
ter of paradigms in philosophy of mind and cognitive science, which can be col-
lectively referred as the model of “4E cognition”. This model takes cognitive proc-
esses to be Embodied, Enactive, Embedded, and/or Extended. Those 4 e’s enable
fertile crossovers between analytic and continental approaches in philosophy of
mind, phenomenology, and cognitive science. All of this is very promising indeed.
However, despite the irrefutable significance of these new developments, more
work needs to be done to ease up constraints and limitations that attest to the last-
ing effects of “common sense” naturalist, or positivist biases in philosophy of
mind and the cognitive sciences. These biases may have little effect on research
focused on perceptual cognition, but they pose noticeable constraints on research
focused on imagination. In this paper, I identify and then challenge some of these
biases with a view to making the model of 4E cognition more obviously applicable
to issues of imagination. However, I believe it is important to acknowledge that
other obstacles also hamper imagination research in significant ways and for
more than merely philosophical or scientific reasons.

The interdisciplinary field of phenomenology and cognitive science is thriving.

Recently, it has gained even further ground through the rise of a new cluster
of paradigms in philosophy of mind and cognitive science, which can be collec-
tively referred as the model of “4E cognition”. This model takes cognitive proc-
esses to be Embodied, Enactive, Embedded, and/or Extended. Those 4 e’s enable
fertile crossovers between analytic and continental approaches in philosophy of
mind, phenomenology, and cognitive science. All of this is very promising in-
deed. However, despite the irrefutable significance of these new developments,
more work needs to be done to ease up constraints and limitations that attest
to the lasting effects of “common sense” naturalist, or positivist biases¹ in phi-
losophy of mind and the cognitive sciences. These biases may have little effect on
research focused on perceptual cognition, but they pose noticeable constraints

 I use the term “positivism” in order to point to a cluster of approaches, which also include
naturalism, scientism, realism, etc. and which are widespread far beyond academic circles in
society at large. I will give specific examples in the second section of this paper.
144 Julia Jansen

on research focused on imagination. In this paper, I identify and then challenge

some of these biases with a view to making the model of 4E cognition more ob-
viously applicable to issues of imagination. However, I believe it is important to
acknowledge that other obstacles also hamper imagination research in signifi-
cant ways and for more than merely philosophical or scientific reasons. I there-
fore begin with some observations concerning such general impediments to
imagination research and their cultural history with specific reference to the re-
ception of Kant’s and Husserl’s account of imagination. Second, I turn to con-
temporary research in 4E cognition in order to show some limitations of that
model, which, however, I believe are corrigible. Third, I offer some reflections
on a possible inclusion of issues of imagination in the model of 4E cognition,
which could, in my view, constitute a genuine exchange between analytic and
continental thinking on cognition and consciousness.

1 Historical difficulties and some reasons

for optimism: Responses to Kant’s
and to Husserl’s accounts of imagination
At least since the late 19th century, Kant scholarship was dominated by epistemo-
logical and logical readings that have been, at best, unfavourable and, at worst,
outright hostile toward Kant’s notion of imagination. Heidegger’s powerful inter-
pretation of Kant (Heidegger 2010) is a famous exception but remains just that:
an exception that only further proves the rule. When Kant began to attract new
interest amongst analytic philosophers in the 1960s (P.F. Strawson 1966; Bennett
1966), older neo-Kantian influences were sustained or replaced by new efforts to
salvage Kant’s “transcendental arguments” from his flawed metaphysics and his
misguided faculty psychology. Both neo-Kantian and analytic readings therefore
eclipsed the imagination from their “proper,” that is, “properly philosophical”
reconstructions in an attempt to purge Kant’s philosophy from its “unphilosoph-
ical” psychologistic elements.
Husserl, at least initially, was also very dismissive of Kant’s philosophy and
especially of his notion of a transcendental synthesis of the imagination. There is
nothing surprising about this. Husserl came to philosophy in a thoroughly neo-
Kantian climate and formulated his phenomenology, in part, in opposition to it.
In the neo-Kantian light of the day, it was almost inevitable that Husserl would
regard Kant’s philosophy as a prime example of the kind of abstract and formal-
istic metaphysics that he, Husserl, was working against. The fact that his teacher
Franz Brentano considered the Kantian position “decadent” (Körner 1987, p. 11)
 Imagination and 4E Cognition: An Analytic-Continental Exchange 145

would have only added to Husserl’s antipathies. Moreover, Husserl’s own con-
cerns with psychologism led him to reject Kant’s notion of the imagination in
particular as “mythical” and “anthropological” (Husserl 1956, p. 228). Husserl’s
early negative assessment of Kantian philosophy stuck with some phenomenol-
ogists after him,² even though Husserl himself later revised it substantially –
based upon his own comparatively intensive study of Kant’s first Critique and
upon his equally intensive relation to his neo-Kantian colleague Paul Natorp.
When Husserl was rediscovered by analytic philosophers in the second half of
the twentieth century (Føllesdal 1969; Smith & McIntyre 1975, 1982; Dummett
1993) he was read alongside Frege as a philosopher who was concerned with dis-
tinctions between sense and reference and with the truth conditions of proposi-
tions; or alongside Brentano as a proponent of a representationalist theory of
mind. Other elements of Husserl’s work were downplayed, among them most
prominently his appropriation of the notion of synthesis, which in his later
works he had praised as Kant’s “great discovery” (Husserl 1970, p. 103 f.). Simi-
larly, Husserl’s own account of imagination, which he developed under the title
phantasy” (Phantasie) as a phenomenologically clarified alternative to Kant’s
“mythical” notion of imagination” (Einbildungskraft) (Husserl 1980), has received
little attention to this day (although interest is increasing). Husserl’s own claims
of the systematic and methodological importance of the imagination and his
declaration of fiction as the “vital element” (das Lebenselement) of phenomen-
ology (Husserl 1950, p. 132) appear to have caused considerable embarrassment
amongst Husserlians and is often left aside.³ Too heavy, it appears, weigh the nu-
merous criticisms of Husserl’s method of “eidetic variation” – which was at least
one reason for the vital importance for phenomenology Husserl ascribed to the
imagination – as neo-Platonic “metaphysical frippery” (Kraft 1957) or dangerous
“irrationalism” (Adorno 1982).
Behind much of the discomfort with the topic of imagination stands an even
greater scepticism towards Kant’s and Husserl’s declared idealisms. In fact, it is
hard to find aspects of Kant’s philosophy that have caused as much irritation

 For example, much of Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s Phenomenology of Perception is written

against what he took the Kantian (and Cartesian) thesis, namely the thesis of the constitutive
power a transcendental apperception (or ego cogito): that “I could not apprehend anything as
existing, unless I, first of all, experience myself as existing in the act of apprehending it” (Mer-
leau-Ponty , p. ix).
 Husserl anticipated that his statement regarding the “vital element” of phenomenology would
be mocked. In a footnote directly referring to that phrase he remarks that it “would be particu-
larly well suited as a quotation to ridicule, from a naturalistic point of view, the eidetic manner
of knowing” (Husserl , p.  fn.).
146 Julia Jansen

and found as little appreciation as his ideas on idealism. Although this has not
always been the case – the idealists and romanticists of the 19th century certain-
ly were enthusiastic aficionados – it certainly has been the case since the early
20th century. The standard rejection of Kant’s idealism thus dovetails nicely with
a widespread consensus amongst 20th century and contemporary philosophers
about the untenability of idealism in general. Remember also that G.E. Moore’s
and Bertrand Russell’s rejections of idealism is considered one of the founding
moments of analytic philosophy (Moore 1903). Around the same time, Neo-Kant-
ian philosophers, especially of the so-called “Marburg school” attempted to go
back behind neo-Hegelian philosophical excesses in order to retrieve realist,
meta-scientific aspects of Kant’s work for a new “reasonable” philosophy. And
it is fair to say that Husserl’s phenomenological approach had initially found
such eager followers in part because it promised a new realism that would final-
ly put an end to 19th century flights of fancy that were seen to have misled phi-
losophy into the quagmire of unjustifiable speculation and metaphysical con-
struction. All the greater was the disappointment amongst Husserl’s disciples,
of the Göttingen and Munich schools and beyond, who saw no other way but
to turn their backs on him when he himself “came out” as an idealist with his
1907 lectures on The Idea of Phenomenology, in which he also introduced the
idea of a phenomenological “reduction” (Husserl 1973).
These many coincidences are unlikely to be mere coincidences. The vehe-
ment dismissal of Kant’s and Husserl’s idealisms and of their notions of imagi-
nation can only become routine in a milieu that – influenced by a general ma-
terialistic-realistic Zeitgeist – may now have been, under different guises, biased
against idealism for over a hundred years.
That said, the field of Kant studies has undergone significant changes. Amongst
them, a widely noticed resurgence of interest in Kant’s transcendental idealism as a
genuine alternative to pre-Kantian idealisms and contemporary representational-
isms (Allais 2015; Allison 2004; Hanna 2006; Langton 1998; Schulting & Verburgt
2011); and an increasing recognition of Cartesian (and Lockean) biases in 20th cen-
tury analytic interpretations of Kant (Abela 2002). It is therefore fair to say that a
“new Kant” is emerging from the most current scholarship. This new, or as Bird
has put it, “revolutionary Kant” (Bird 2006) has been accompanied by some
steps towards a rehabilitation of Kant’s notion of a “transcendental synthesis of
imagination” (Makkreel 1990; Gibbons 1994; Longuenesse 1998; Banham 2006).
While this recent development has not yet been officially recognized as a paradigm
shift in Kant studies, but is instead being observed by proponents of the “standard
picture” as a very interesting and especially lively sub-debate, it might indeed lead
to substantial corrections of that picture with regard to questions of idealism as well
as imagination in Kant.
 Imagination and 4E Cognition: An Analytic-Continental Exchange 147

In a parallel move, the field of Husserl studies has changed considerably

since the late twentieth century. A “new Husserl” (Welton 1998, 2003) has
emerged from a line of interpretation that emphasizes Husserl’s later, only rela-
tively recently published and translated, “genetic” works. In opposition to the
“old” accepted view that Husserl advanced a representationalist, idealist theory
of consciousness, this new reading takes Husserl as concerned not with mental
items and their relations amongst each other (as Husserl’s earlier “static analy-
ses” were first taken to suggest), but instead with the processes in which mean-
ing is first of all generated and in which consciousness constitutes itself. For this
“genetic” account, the idea of synthesis is indispensable – and so overly rash
dismissals of post-Kantian elements in Husserl’s work had to be reviewed. More-
over, this new reading of Husserl has also led to a more positive reappraisal of
his project of an expressly transcendental notion of phenomenology (Moran
2008; Zahavi 2002) and even, considerably more reluctantly, to a more sympa-
thetic assessment of his transcendental idealism (Luft 2011; Naberhaus 2007;
Bernet 2004). Since the 2005 publication of John Brough’s English translation
of Husserl’s lectures on Phantasy, Image Consciousness, and Memory (Husserl
2005), there has even been some renewed interest in Husserl’s reflections on
the imagination. However, so far, this interest has mostly focused on Husserl’s
descriptions of imagination as a specific act of consciousness (i. e., “phantasy
consciousness”), and less on the systematic role that the imagination plays in
Husserl’s phenomenology.
Old biases are still operative, and perhaps also conscious or unconscious de-
sires to present phenomenology in the most “respectable” realist light, which
might be easier if we avoid the idea of a fundamental systematic methodological
function of the imagination at the heart of the project. And yet, there are reasons
for optimism. The recent developments in both Kantian and Husserlian circles
mean that old biases are slackening their grip. This allows for new interpreta-
tions of the role of imagination and of related issues concerning transcendental
idealism in Kant and Husserl. What’s more, given the interchanges and feedback
loops between more continental, historical and more analytic, thematic ap-
proaches, the loosening up of those circles also has effects on the contemporary
interdisciplinary field of phenomenology, philosophy of mind and cognitive sci-
ence (and vice versa).
148 Julia Jansen

2 Current difficulties and some reasons

for optimism: “4E” biases
The model of 4E cognition facilitates a lively exchange between continental and
analytic philosophical ideas. In fact, phenomenological approaches can be con-
sidered (not exclusively, but perhaps most obviously) “antecedents” of 4E cogni-
tion, and of situated models more generally (Gallagher 2009). After all, the
claims that cognition is in part

constituted by features of embodiment; actively performed and not simply instantiated be a

mental or neurological state; embedded in a surrounding environment; and, finally, as an
activity, extended not only beyond the brain but often beyond the limits of the body

are much closer to, albeit not identical with, views that are central to continen-
tal, and in particular to phenomenological models of consciousness than earlier
disembodied, internalist, and computationalist paradigms in philosophy of
mind and cognitive science. However, at least initially, this “new science of
the mind”, which is said to be “sweeping the planet” (Rowlands 2010), was leav-
ing issues of the imagination behind. Research on the imagination in this newly
emerging field has been hampered by biases that are partially grounded in prac-
tical limitations of experimental science but also, in my view, obviously facilitat-
ed by a general social milieu that endorses and enforces positivistic, scientistic,
naturalistic views. Amongst these biases are:
1. A lingering indebtedness to behaviourism: Note that 4E cognition is precisely
a model of cognition, not of consciousness. By cognition, researchers in cog-
nitive science and in related debates in philosophy of mind, usually mean
information processing.
2. Within the dominant functionalist framework, cognition is not tied to a spe-
cific (human or non-human) processing architecture, but crosses over boun-
daries between human, animal and A.I. cognition. Researchers are mostly
concerned with subpersonal processes associated with adaptive flexible,
not necessarily human, behavior.
3. These processes must, of course, be 3rd-person observable.
4. Moreover, in line with the persisting power of the functionalism model, in-
tentionality is often regarded in isolation from phenomenal consciousness. In-
tentionality is then understood simply as the “aboutness” of, for example,
mental or neural states or processes and computational symbols (also refer-
red to as “representations”). Phenomenal consciousness is then attributed to
 Imagination and 4E Cognition: An Analytic-Continental Exchange 149

experience only in so far there is “something it’s like” subjectively to under-

go it (i. e., to “qualia”).
5. In this context, philosophical debates have shifted significantly from tradi-
tional concerns with representational contents to (scientifically testable)
questions about (experimentally observable) vehicles of content (for exam-
ple, neural or algorithmic vehicles).
6. All of this leads, not necessarily intentionally, but effectively to what we
might call the “perception bias” in 4E cognition (Jansen 2013). For much re-
search is committed to the investigation of “densely coupled” processes that
facilitate observable “adaptive flexible” behavior in the “presence of a tan-
gible target”. What is taken to be at stake is “real-world action and interven-
tion”, which involves problem-solving observable according to “task relevant
inputs and outputs” (Clark 2005, p. 233 f.; Wilson 2002, p. 626).

None of this bodes well for imagination.

Sure, imagination may involve problem-solving (think of thought-experi-
ments, for example) and may be in this sense target-related. But even when it
is, and there are a lot of cases of imagining where it isn’t, it need not involve
any observable behavior; or at least it is difficult to identify reliably the behavior
that correlates with the “mental” exercise of imagining. For the same reason, it is
difficult to determine the mental vehicles that “transport” specific episodes of
imagining. Further, the imagination prima facie seems to resist at least a strongly
functionalist approach since even those who have no difficulty in thinking of
cognition as a process that may be instantiated in human and non-human
minds, are often much more reluctant to “functionalize” the imagination to
the same extent. Moreover, imagining is generally seen as involving conscious
states, which makes it hard to integrate it in a model that largely deals with sub-
personal intentional processes, but that does not necessarily extend to phenom-
enal consciousness. If we were to think of it as “extended” in some way, this
would bring on the idea of phenomenal externalism, that is, the idea that the
phenomenal quality of a given experience depends upon more than just states
or processes internal to the brain of the experiencer. This may be seen as a far
more radical idea than even the idea that cognition is extended in this way,
and thus faces even more resistance.
And so it seems to be the tacit conclusion drawn, imagining must be an “in-
ternal” mental activity after all, involving good, old-fashioned “internal” repre-
sentations (Clark and Torribio 1995; Shapiro 2011). It appears, then, that imagi-
nation does not qualify for integration into the new field of research. There is,
so it seems, no 4E imagination.
150 Julia Jansen

However, this is not the last word on the matter. Phenomenologists have rich
resources at their disposal to correct common ideas about the imagination – resour-
ces offered, for example, by Husserl (2005) and Sartre (2004). Moreover, recent re-
search in philosophy of mind also reveals a richer and much more refined account
of imagination than the one tacitly assumed in early 4E cognition. Far from being an
“off-line” internal viewing of mental imagery, largely disconnected from the “actual
goings-on” of practical life, imagination is increasingly seen as central to important
modes of knowing and as critical for access to the modal articulation of cognition,
which cannot be reduced to actual events in the immediate, perceptual environment
of a cognizing system (Kind 2016; Kind and Kung 2016). These new insights into the
complex nature of imagination, if introduced into the model of 4E cognition, are
bound to lift some of the constraints hitherto imposed on applications of that
model to cases of imagination.

3 4E Imagination?
An Analytic-Continental exchange
It is not possible here to deliver a new comprehensive account of imagination
that integrates phenomenological resources and recent analytic research, and
also to demonstrate how this account leads to an inclusion of imagination
under the model of 4E cognition. I therefore restrict myself to a few pointers,
which, however, in my view quickly show that the idea of a 4E imagination can-
not easily be dismissed.
First, even just a look at the phenomenological account of the imagination
offered by Husserl, already challenges the common internalist model, which
leaves imagination “representation-hungry” (Clark and Torribio 1995). Husserl
proposes a notion of imagination (“phantasy”) as an unfolding dynamic and
complex activity of imagining. Imagining, according to Husserl, is not an aware-
ness of internal representations, but the active engagement with objects, events
and environments in the mode of simulation (“quasi-perception”). Imagining,
like perceiving, is an intuitive (“anschauliche”) or sensory (“sinnliche”) experi-
ence – only, it engages the world not in the mode of actuality, but in the
mode of possibility (Husserl 2005; Jansen 2015). As simulation of a possible ex-
perience, imagination may be just as embodied as perceptual cognition. What’s
more, simulated “quasi-perception”, involves not only an intentional directed-
ness towards, but also an embodied engagement with objects that are taken
by the imagining subject (or, more functionally speaking, “imagining system”)
to be unreal, absent, or possible, but nonetheless “external”, i. e., different
 Imagination and 4E Cognition: An Analytic-Continental Exchange 151

from the system itself and, while not located in the actually present perceptual
field, nonetheless situated in a simulated environment. Furthermore, imagina-
tion, better: imagining, is a temporally extended activity that cannot occur in iso-
lation from other activities. Although we may be more or less aware of it, when-
ever we are imagining we are also continuing to perceive. In fact, Husserl claims
that some – however minimal – awareness of the difference between my imag-
ining and my perceiving, and between the simulated and the actual environ-
ment, is even constitutive of genuine experiences of imagining (as opposed to
experiences of dreaming or hallucinating). Typical “snapshot” analyses of imag-
ination obscure these complexities and encourage the idea that imagination con-
sists solely in taking oneself “out” of one’s body, or out of the perceptually pres-
ent actual context or environment. However, even though my imagining might be
taking me out of “my” body and into a body that can fly, or a body that is ten feet
tall, etc., imagining, in the Husserlian sense of phantasy, cannot get me out of
embodiment in general; neither can it take me out of any environment in
general.⁴ It is also for this reason that imagining, as simulation of possibly expe-
rience, is not the same as conceiving a possibility in thought.
Much more can and must be said about imagining, of course. And our un-
derstanding would be significantly enriched if we were to combine this phenom-
enological model with current imagination research in philosophy of mind. How-
ever, even this quick and cursory look at Husserl’s account alone, shows us that
imagination might fit the 4E model much better than we might at first believe.
What could that mean? It could mean that imagining is

embedded in simulated and, possibly, also actual environments; enacted as a, possibly, skilful
activity (rather than a mere state); embodied, i.e., in part constituted (enabled and constrained)
by features of embodiment; and, finally, extending not only beyond the brain, but often beyond
the limits of the body and into the (possibly and/or actual) environment.

I take it that the last claim, viz. imagining may be extended, is the least imme-
diately plausible of the four. Let’s therefore consider it.
Here the “enactive” view of imagining offered by Husserl may ease concerns
we might have regarding phenomenal externalism: While it may be difficult to
see how imaginative mental states could occur “outside” the head, or could
even constitutively rely on events or processes “outside” the head; it might be
somewhat easier to see how the activity of imagining could be extended beyond
the “head”, that is, how it might not only use “external” objects and structures,

 In fact, as Sartre () emphasizes, imagining always occurs in a relation to a reality I must
be able to deny.
152 Julia Jansen

but also be partially constituted by them. As Andy Clark has recently pointed out
in a rarely cited article (Clark 2005), imagining may be described as “extended”
in exceptional cases, in which it involves and requires, for example, models. In
these cases, such models do not function as external aids for imagining, but play
a constitutive role in imagining. Clark is here thinking exclusively of “real world”
models in the actual perceptual environment of the imagining system. However,
if we let go of the idea that imagined objects and environments are internal to
the mind, and if we instead think of imagining as an activity that simulates
the engagement with external objects and environment, then we might be able
to lift the “perception bias” that limits Clark’s important insight. Imagined ob-
jects and scenarios themselves may serve in a constitutive role for further imag-
inings. Put differently, simulated environments may ease the mental burden of
having to represent all elements of an imagined object internally.
Furthermore, we may also think of these processes as intersubjectively ex-
tended. Imagined objects and simulated environments are not private mental
items. In fact, we are all familiar with cases in which we share them. Think of
fictions, for example. After all, it makes little sense to say that sleeping beauty
is a private mental image in my head. From a Husserlian perspective, we can ac-
count for intersubjective sharing of imagined objects by means of a notion of the
ideality of sense in general, which Husserl also uses against the psychologism of
his day. According to this model, the sense of objects that are not, like public
perceptual objects, individuated in space and time, is not therefore reducible
to mental events. We not only co-perceive spatio-temporary objects, we are
also able to co-intend the number “2”, whose sense is neither physically (publi-
cally, objectively) nor psychologically (privately, subjectively) real, but ideal and
thus intersubjectively sharable. The more interesting question is therefore not
whether and how it is possible to share imagined objects, but whether and
how it is possible to share in the imagining of those objects. Again, I believe
we all know examples that suggest that imagining may be extended intersubjec-
tively even in this respect. Consider what we call “brain storming”, which we
may do individually, but which more often than not is a collective event. It
may also help here to think of imagining in more obviously embodied ways. Con-
sider the activity of collectively and creatively imagining a piece or style of
music, let’s say in shared improvisation; or consider the emergence of a dance
in the inter-action and inter-responsiveness of dancing.
 Imagination and 4E Cognition: An Analytic-Continental Exchange 153

4 Conclusion
I have tried to make explicit some of the historical and current biases that have
constrained imagination research in general and the inclusion of the imagina-
tion in the 4E model in particular. I have also pointed to as of yet largely untap-
ped resources in phenomenology as well as current philosophy of mind that
could help ease those constraints. However, perhaps the biggest stumbling
block to accepting the idea of 4E imagination might be our reluctance to give
up a tacit investment in the idea that imagination is a specifically human crea-
tive power that is immune not only to functionalist accounts, but also to exten-
sions beyond the individual “free” mind of the imagining subject. While I believe
that in important respects it remains the case, even if we use a 4E model, that I
am the free author of my imaginings, I also believe that it is important to ac-
knowledge that this view requires some qualification. Imagining is, at least part-
ly, a distributed process which may involve extra-mental factors as well as social
institutions, such as language, culture, ideologies, scientific paradigms, etc.
(Gallagher 2011). This means that what enables and constrains my supposedly
“free” imagination is not merely myself, not even only my embodied self. It
also includes the natural and cultural landscapes in which I am embedded,
and in which my imagining is embedded, as well as the activities I am able to
perform, and the various “extensions” I have at my disposal. In other words,
what is imaginable and what is not imaginable at any given time, has to do
with far more than with the imaginer’s subjective abilities, which ultimately is
not only an academic or scientific issue, but also a political one.

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Thorsten Streubel
Intuition und Argumentation –
zum Verhältnis von intuitiver und
diskursiver Vernunft
Abstract: Intuition and argumentation – on the relation between intuitive and dis-
cursive reason. In contemporary philosophical discussions participants often
refer to their “intuitions” related to a special topic. Amazingly, “intuition” is
nowadays by no means a clear epistemic or methodological concept, although
there is a long tradition (from Plato to Husserl and Scheler), that understands
intuition as a basic kind of reason. In this paper I want to rehabilitate “intuition”
– through a historic anamnesis (Descartes, Kant, Husserl) – as an epistemic-
methodological concept.

In kaum einer anderen philosophischen Richtung wurde und wird so häufig von
Intuitionen gesprochen wie in der Analytischen Philosophie. Man würde daher mit
Fug annehmen, dass es sich um ein klar definiertes epistemisches und/oder
methodisches Konzept handeln würde. Dem ist aber erstaunlicherweise nicht so.
Anders als etwa in der Phänomenologie (in Form von Husserls Methode der ei-
detischen Variation) gibt es in der Analytischen Philosophie keine vergleichbar
ausgearbeitete Methodologie und Epistemologie der Intuition.¹ Allerdings wird
der Terminus ‚Intuition‘ in analytisch geprägten Diskussionen auch nicht völlig
beliebig gebraucht, sondern zumeist in dem Sinne, dass es sich bei Intuitionen um
Überzeugungen handelt, die irgendwie aus direkter Sacheinsicht herrühren, in-
dessen in der Regel unmethodisch gewonnen und noch nicht hinreichend ge-
rechtfertigt wurden. Anders verhält es sich hinsichtlich der Theoretisierung des-
sen, was mit Intuition gemeint ist, in der alteuropäischen Nous-Tradition von
Platon/Aristoteles bis Husserl und Scheler. Intuition (noein) meinte hier so etwas
wie geistige Einsicht in das, was ist. So konnten die obersten Seinsprinzipien wie
etwa das Widerspruchsprinzip (ausgedrückt im Satz vom Widerspruch²) oder
mathematische Axiome, aber auch die Erfassung des Eidos einer Sache nicht auf
rein diskursivem Wege gewonnen werden, sondern nur unter Zuhilfenahme der
noetischen Intuition. Intuition wird hierbei nicht im Sinne von spontanen Ein-

 Zur analytischen Diskussion des Intuitionsbegriffs vgl. z. B. Cappelen () und Chudnoff
().
 Vgl. Met. b ff.
158 Thorsten Streubel

fällen und Eingebungen verstanden, sondern als höchste Form der Sacheinsicht.
Die Fähigkeit zur Intuition oder zur intellektuellen Sachverhalts-Einsicht wurde
dabei als ein Monopol des Menschen verstanden, die ihm kraft seiner Geistnatur
(Nous-Habe) zukam. Noch Scheler wird hierin die Sondernatur des Menschen
erblicken. Zugleich gab es aber auch immer wieder Bemühungen die Intuition
methodisch zu disziplinieren und einen methodologischen Begriff der Intuition zu
erarbeiten. Ansätze hierzu finden sich bereits bei Platon und Aristoteles, beson-
ders aber bei Descartes (in den Regulae), bei Kant (mathematische Methodik) und
natürlich bei Husserl. Die Philosophie macht sich hiernach ein Grundvermögen
des Menschen methodisch zunutze, um zu echter, aus „den Sachen selbst“ ge-
schöpfter, Erkenntnis zu gelangen.
Um den durchaus rationalen Aspekt des Intuitionsbegriffs herauszustreichen,
möchte ich im Folgenden zwei Vernunftbegriffe unterscheiden: Intuitive und
diskursive Vernunft. Mit intuitiver Vernunft meine ich dabei eben dasjenige Ver-
mögen, welches die Tradition als Nous oder Intellekt bezeichnet hatte, also eine
Art unmittelbarer Einsichtsfähigkeit. Die intuitive Vernunft wäre damit die an-
geborene Disposition zu möglichen Intuitionen als noetischen Leistungsvollzü-
gen. Unter ‚diskursiver Vernunft‘ möchte ich dagegen die Fähigkeit verstehen,
Sätze oder Urteile in einen logischen Begründungszusammenhang zu bringen,
also im logischen Sinne zu argumentieren und zu schließen, aber auch die hierbei
vorausgesetzte Fähigkeit, zu urteilen.³ – Allerdings ist gleich vorweg darauf hin-
zuweisen, dass die diskursive Vernunft konstitutiv auf die intuitive Vernunft bei
ihren Vollzügen angewiesen ist und daher nicht einfach in einen Gegensatz zur
Intuition gebracht werden darf.
Mir geht es nun im Folgenden um vorbereitende Überlegungen zur Gewinnung
eines scharf umrissenen und methodisch brauchbaren Intuitionsbegriffs. Im
Rahmen einer ausgearbeiteten Theorie der Intuition gälte es dann mindestens die
folgenden drei Aufgaben zu bewältigen:
Es wäre erstens zu zeigen, dass die intuitive Vernunft in einem zweifachen
Sinne konstitutiv für alle Formen der Diskursivität ist:
a) Ohne intuitive Vernunft gäbe es auch keine diskursive Vernunft, da schon der
Spracherwerb sowie einfache Begriffsbildungen das Einsichtsvermögen vor-
aussetzen.
b) Auch das aktuelle Verstehen von sprachlichen Äußerungen sowie die Erfas-
sung logischer Zusammenhänge kann als Form der intuitiven Erfassung

 So besteht die phänomenologische Deskription darin, Urteile aufgrund von anschaulichen

Gegebenheiten und mit Hilfe der Intuition zu fällen, ohne dass die einzelnen Urteile in einem
deduktiven Zusammenhang stünden.
 Intuition und Argumentation 159

verstanden werden, so dass Diskursivität ohne Intuition (als hermeneutische

Fähigkeit des unmittelbaren Verstehens und Erfassens) auch synchron un-
möglich wäre.

Zweitens wäre zu zeigen, dass echte Begründungen letztlich nicht immer wieder
auf weitere Sätze rekurrieren können, da dies einen unendlichen Regress impli-
zieren würde. Vielmehr sind es die (freilich revisionsfähigen) anschauungsfun-
dierten Sätze, in denen alle diskursiven Begründungen terminieren müssen. Diese
aber sind ohne Anschauung und intuitive Einsicht nicht zu gewinnen.
Drittens gälte es, die Intuition als methodisches Konzept innerhalb der Phi-
losophie wieder fruchtbar zu machen. Der unreflektierte und undisziplinierte
Gebrauch von Intuitionen (oder auch die bloßen Appelle an die Intuition) sollte
durch eine methodische Praxis der Intuition ersetzt und diese daher zu einem
grundlegenden methodischen Instrument entwickelt werden.
Aufgrund des knappen Raumes werde ich hier versuchen, anhand dreier
historischer Beispiele zu zeigen, welche Leistungen die Intuition vollbringen soll
und kann. Die historische Anamnese dient dabei einzig und allein dazu, den
Intuitionsbegriff von seinem irrationalen Beigeschmack zu befreien und ihn als
brauchbares methodisches Konzept zu rehabilitieren. Eine umfassende Theorie
der Intuition kann ich hier freilich nicht liefern. Ich werde im Folgenden vielmehr
Schlaglichter auf drei prominente Autoren der abendländischen Philosophiege-
schichte werfen, bei denen sich methodologische Überlegungen zur Intuition
finden: nämlich Kant, Descartes und Husserl.
Dass ich mich auch auf Kant beziehe, mag insofern erstaunlich anmuten, als
gerade Kant das Konzept einer intuitiven Vernunft als eines anthropologischen
Vermögens strikt abgelehnt hat. Die menschliche Vernunft ist nach Kant ein rein
diskursives Vermögen, welches sowohl in theoretischen wie in praktischen Zu-
sammenhängen die Leitung in den menschlichen Angelegenheiten besitzen sollte.
Er identifiziert es unter anderen mit folgenden Fähigkeiten: Urteilen, Schließen,
Berechnen, Gründe geben und fordern, Gesetzgebung im Bereich der Natur und
des Handelns, Abwägen von Handlungsalternativen, Maximenbildung, Ent-
schlussfassung etc. Die Vernunft als ein diskursives Vermögen zu verstehen be-
deutet hiernach, sie als die Fähigkeit zu verstehen, propositionale Gehalte zu
erzeugen, die sie dann aufeinander zu beziehen und dadurch neue Propositionen
zu generieren vermag, die entweder selbst das Ziel ihrer Tätigkeit bilden oder
handlungsermöglichende und handlungsdirigierende Funktion haben. Je nach-
dem welches dieser Ziele man verfolgt, bedient man sich der Vernunft in theo-
retischer oder praktischer Absicht. Und aus diesen unterschiedlichen Verwen-
dungen resultiert die funktionale Unterscheidung zwischen theoretischer und
praktischer Vernunft. Sowohl theoretische als auch praktische Vernunft verfahren
160 Thorsten Streubel

diskursiv. Und doch spielt die Vernunft als intuitives Vermögen der Sache nach bei
Kant eine zentrale Rolle – nicht nur in der Mathematik, sondern auch im Bereich
der empirischen Erfahrung. Hier tritt sie verdeckt unter dem Namen der Urteils-
kraft auf (worauf ich hier aber nicht näher eingehen kann). Ich werde mich im
Folgenden auf die Rolle der Vernunft im Rahmen von Kants Philosophie der
Geometrie konzentrieren.

1 Kant
Kant behauptet in der Kritik der reinen Vernunft apodiktisch: „Der Verstand vermag
nichts anzuschauen, und die Sinne nichts zu denken. Nur daraus, dass sie sich
vereinigen, kann Erkenntnis entspringen.“ (KrV B 75) Dieses zentrale Lehrstück
Kants, so überzeugend es auf den ersten Blick sein mag, ist bei genauerem Hin-
sehen jedoch höchst problematisch, ja aus meiner Sicht unhaltbar, zumal Kant
selbst diese rigorose Funktionenaufteilung insbesondere in seiner Theorie der
Mathematik relativiert. Nicht dass die Sinne in der Mathematik anfangen zu
denken, aber die Vernunft ist hier plötzlich fähig, anzuschauen – oder sagen wir
besser: Einsicht zu nehmen in mathematische Sachverhalte.
Die Mathematik ist zwar nach Kant „ein reines Produkt der Vernunft“ und
„durch und durch synthetisch“ (Prol. § 6). Im § 7 der Prolegomena heißt es jedoch:

Wir finden aber, dass alle mathematische Erkenntnis dieses Eigentümliche habe, dass sie
ihren Begriff vorher in der Anschauung und zwar a priori, mithin einer solchen, die nicht
empirisch, sondern reine Anschauung ist, darstellen müsse, ohne welches Mittel sie nicht
einen einzigen Schritt tun kann; daher ihre Urteile jederzeit intuitiv sind, anstatt dass Phi-
losophie sich mit diskursiven Urteilen aus bloßen Begriffe begnügen und ihre apodiktischen
Lehren wohl durch Anschauung erläutern, niemals aber daher ableiten kann. Diese Beob-
achtung in Ansehung der Natur der Mathematik gibt uns nun schon eine Leitung auf die erste
und oberste Bedingung ihrer Möglichkeit; nämlich es muss ihr irgendeine reine Anschauung
zum Grunde liegen, in welcher sie alle ihre Begriffe in concreto und dennoch a priori dar-
stellen oder, wie man es nennt, sie konstruieren kann.

Was Kant damit meint, erläutert er ausführlich im ersten Hauptstück der Tran-
szendentalen Methodenlehre ⁴ der Kritik der reinen Vernunft (der Disziplin der reinen
Vernunft), wobei sich die Sachlage für Geometrie, Arithmetik und Algebra jeweils
unterschiedlich darstellt. (Ich werde mich hier, wie gesagt, auf Kants Theorie der
geometrischen Erkenntnis beschränken).

 „Ich verstehe also unter der transzendentalen Methodenlehre die Bestimmung der formalen
Bedingungen eines vollständigen Systems der reinen Vernunft.“ (KrV B )
 Intuition und Argumentation 161

Die reine Mathematik wird dabei von Kant methodisch sowohl von der Me-
taphysik als auch der Physik abgegrenzt. Im Unterschied zur Metaphysik und
ähnlich wie die Physik kann und muss die Mathematik auf die Anschauung re-
kurrieren. Die mathematischen Sätze werden aber – anders als die Hypothesen der
Physik – nach Kant nicht erst nachträglich durch das Experiment bewährt oder
falsifiziert, sondern die Mathematik ist methodisch fast durchweg anschau-
ungsgebunden. In der Mathematik wird die Vernunft plötzlich selbst anschauend
(einsehend) – und bleibt doch auf die (sinnliche) Anschauung als ihr funktionales
Komplement angewiesen. Und das ist in Bezug auf Kants sonstige Auslassungen
zum Thema Vernunft äußerst bemerkenswert. In gewisser Weise wird die
menschliche Vernunft nämlich in der Mathematik zu einer Art intuitus originarius,
also zu einer Vernunft, die ihre Objekte im Anschauen selbst erzeugt – oder
präziser: die im Erzeugen der Objekte mittels Einbildungskraft diese Objekte an-
schaut und deren intelligiblen Strukturen erfasst. Nur Gott, falls es ihn gibt,
verfügt eigentlich nach Kant über eine solche Vernunft, aber auf gar keinen Fall
der Mensch. In seiner Philosophie der Mathematik feiert jedoch die von ihm selbst
mit großem Aufwand und Aplomb eigenhändig gekreuzigte und beerdigte intel-
lektuelle Anschauung ihre österliche Wiederauferstehung. Totgeglaubte leben
länger, sagt der Volksmund. Und auch wenn es hier zunächst nur um das Fortleben
eines Konzepts in einer prominenten philosophischen Gesamtkonzeption geht, so
beweist doch Kants Theorie der Mathematik selbst augenfällig, dass wir über eine
intuitive Vernunft oder den Nous verfügen, von dem Aristoteles überzeugt war,
dass er das Göttliche im Menschen ist. In Kants Theorie der Mathematik wird die
Existenz des Nous im Menschen de facto anerkannt, wenngleich ansonsten offi-
ziell bestritten.
Inwiefern wird nun die Vernunft in der Mathematik nach Kant anschauend,
inwiefern verfährt sie intuitiv?

Die philosophische Erkenntnis ist die Vernunfterkenntnis aus Begriffen, die mathematische
aus der Konstruktion der Begriffe. Einen Begriff aber konstruieren, heißt: die ihm korre-
spondierende Anschauung a priori darstellen. Zur Konstruktion eines Begriffs wird also eine
nicht empirische Anschauung erfordert, die folglich, als Anschauung, ein einzelnes Objekt ist,
aber nichts destoweniger, als die Konstruktion eines Begriffs (einer allgemeinen Vorstellung),
Allgemeingültigkeit für alle mögliche Anschauungen, die unter denselben Begriff gehören, in
der Vorstellung ausdrücken muss. (KrV B 741)

In Bezug auf die Geometrie heißt das nun Folgendes: Ausgangspunkt des geo-
metrischen Beweises ist ein Begriff, etwa der des Dreiecks. Nach Kant haben die
mathematischen Begriffe ihren Ursprung nicht selbst in der Anschauung oder gar
in der empirischen Erfahrung, sondern als genuin mathematische Begriffe ent-
springen sie den jeweiligen Definitionen. Vor der Definition gibt es in der Ma-
162 Thorsten Streubel

thematik keine Begriffe. Mathematische Definitionen können daher nach Kant

„auch niemals irren. Denn, weil der Begriff durch die Definition zuerst gegeben
wird, so enthält er gerade nur das, was die Definition durch ihn gedacht haben
will.“ (KrV B 759) (Dass dies so nicht stimmen kann, werden wir gleich noch se-
hen.) Kant definiert nun den Begriff des Dreiecks als „Begriff von einer Figur, die in
drei geraden Linien eingeschlossen ist“ (KrV B 744).
Das spezifisch mathematische Beweisverfahren nennt Kant Demonstration
(von demonstrare: zeigen, darlegen, beweisen), da es beweist, indem zugleich
etwas aufgezeigt wird, etwa ein mathematischer Sachverhalt, der zu einem syn-
thetischen Urteil apriori, dem sog. Mathemata, führt (oder ein solches zumindest
beweisend bestätigt) und zugleich die Quelle seiner Wahrheit ist.⁵
Die geometrische Demonstration beginnt also mit der Konstruktion eines
mathematischen Begriffs in der Anschauung, entweder durch Imagination oder
mittels Zirkel und Lineal auf Tafel oder Papier. Dies ist der eigentümliche Sche-
matismus der mathematischen Begriffe, der nicht mit dem Schematismus der
reinen Verstandesbegriffe verwechselt werden darf. Der mathematische Begriff ist
aber nach Kant, wie die meisten Begriffe, eine Erzeugungsregel für die Einbil-
dungskraft. Und daher ist er, wie die meisten Begriffe, selbst eine Art Schema. Der
Begriff ist die Erzeugungsregel seines Umfangs, also des Inbegriffs derjenigen
möglichen Gegenstände, die unter ihn fallen. Das, was unter einen Begriff fällt,
wird durch den Begriffsinhalt bestimmt. Der Begriff des Dreiecks ermöglicht dem
Mathematiker nun, alle möglichen Dreiecke in der Anschauung zu erzeugen.

So konstruiere ich einen Triangel, indem ich den diesem Begriffe entsprechenden Gegen-
stand, entweder durch bloße Einbildung, in der reinen, oder nach derselben auch auf dem
Papier, in der empirischen Anschauung, beidemal aber völlig a priori, ohne das Muster dazu
aus irgendeiner Erfahrung geborgt zu haben, darstelle. Die einzelne hingezeichnete Figur ist
empirisch, und dient gleichwohl den Begriff, unbeschadet seiner Allgemeinheit, auszu-
drücken, weil bei dieser empirischen Anschauung immer nur auf die Handlung der Kon-
struktion des Begriffs, welchem viele Bestimmungen, z.E. der Größe, der Seiten und der
Winkel, ganz gleichgültig sind, gesehen, und also von diesen Verschiedenheiten, die den
Begriff des Triangels nicht verändern, abstrahiert wird. (KrV 741 f.)

Auch wenn Kant nicht hinreichend deutlich zwischen einem empirischen Dreieck
und einem singulären idealen geometrischen Dreieck unterscheidet, so ist doch
klar, dass es nach ihm auf den idealen Gehalt der empirischen Figur ankommt und
auf die Tatsache, dass auch ein ideales Dreieck die Vereinzelung des allgemeinen
Begriffs „Dreieck“ darstellt. Der Gegenstand des geometrischen Begriffs ist je-

 „Nur ein apodiktischer Beweis, so fern er intuitiv ist, kann Demonstration heißen.“ (KrV B )
 Intuition und Argumentation 163

denfalls nach Kant nicht die perzeptiv oder imaginativ vorstellige Figur – diese ist
nur das „Schema“⁶ eines idealen Dreiecks. Ein einzelnes ideales Dreieck ist da-
gegen weder eine empirische noch eine begriffliche Größe, wenngleich es selbst
ein Moment des Begriffs(umfangs) „Dreieck“ ist. Es ist eine ideale Figur im Raum,
die ihre anschauliche Präsenz freilich nur über ihr sinnliches Schema, das em-
pirische Dreieck, gewinnt.
Im Unterschied zur Metaphysik nun, die das Besondere nur im Allgemeinen,
also durch rein begriffliches Denken, erfassen kann, betrachtet die Mathematik
„das Allgemeine im Besonderen, ja gar im Einzelnen, gleichwohl doch a priori und
vermittelst der Vernunft“ (KrV B 742; herv. T.S.).
Kant illustriert seine These von der Anschauungsfundiertheit der Mathematik
am Beispiel des Beweises von der Innenwinkelsumme euklidischer nichtsphäri-
scher Dreiecke. Den durch Definition gebildeten Begriff kann man freilich ana-
lysieren und das zum Vorschein bringen, was man zuvor in ihn investiert hat. Aber
man erhält hierdurch keine valide Auskunft über den gesuchten geometrischen
Sachverhalt. Begriffszergliederung führt zu analytischen, nicht aber zu syntheti-
schen, also erkenntniserweiternden Urteilen. An dieser Stelle wird freilich deut-
lich, dass Kants These von der Infallibilität mathematischer Begriffe schlicht
falsch ist: Denn wenn ich einen Begriff des Dreiecks bilde, bei dem die Innen-
winkelsumme größer oder kleiner als 180° beträgt, dann habe ich einen unrich-
tigen Begriff gebildet. Auch die Möglichkeit mathematischer Gegenstände – als
Korrelate mathematischer Begriffe – muss daher die Anschauung verbürgen.
Dreiecke haben eben eine Eigennatur, die nicht von Menschenvernunft gemacht
oder willkürlich geändert werden kann.
Um zu zeigen, wie groß die Innenwinkelsumme bei allen euklidischen
nichtsphärischen Dreiecken ist, wird der Geometer also ein einzelnes Dreieck
konstruieren.

Weil er weiß, dass zwei rechte Winkel zusammen gerade so viel austragen, als alle berührende
Winkel, die aus einem Punkte auf einer geraden Linie gezogen werden können, zusammen, so
verlängert er eine Seite seines Triangels, und der bekommt zwei berührende Winkel, die zweien
rechten zusammen gleich sind. Nun teilet er den äußeren von diesen Winkeln, indem er eine
Linie mit der gegenüberstehenden Seite des Triangels parallel zieht, und sieht, dass hier ein
äußerer berührender Winkel entspringe, der einem inneren gleich ist usw. Er gelangt auf solche
Weise durch eine Kette von Schlüssen, immer von der Anschauung geleitet, zur völlig ein-
leuchtenden und zugleich allgemeinen Auflösung der Frage. (KrV B 744 f.)

 Der Schemabegriff wird bei Kant nicht immer einheitlich gebraucht: Schema kann einerseits ein
Begriff sein, insofern er die Erzeugungsregel seines Umfangs darstellt. Andererseits aber be-
zeichnet Kant mit Schema schematische sinnliche Gestalten.
164 Thorsten Streubel

Dieser Beweis wird zwar nur an einem einzelnen Dreieck geführt, aber er wird
dadurch zugleich für alle Dreiecke geführt. Und diese reine Induktion kann nur die
ideative intuitive Vernunft leisten: Am Ende des Beweises muss man einsehend
erfassen, dass eine Variation der Winkel und Seitenlängen des Dreiecks niemals
den Beweis und seine Beweiskraft selbst affiziert. Und jeder muss es selbst ein-
sehen. Die Einsicht wird demonstrativ ermöglicht und kann durch didaktisches
Geschick erleichtert werden, aber „Sehen“ muss jeder für sich. Niemandem kann
der Akt der Einsicht abgenommen werden. Aber nicht erst der gesuchte Sach-
verhalt muss einsehend erfasst werden, sondern die ganze Demonstration muss
intuitiv-diskursiv nachvollzogen werden.
Man sieht, bei der geometrischen Demonstration sind mehrere Erkenntnis-
funktionen involviert: Die Anschauung, die Einbildungskraft, Vorwissen, diskur-
sive Vernunft – und eben die Fähigkeit, Sachverhalte in der Anschauung intuitiv
(ein-sichtig) zu erfassen. Man muss hierbei nicht nur sinnlich sehen, sondern auch
„geistig“, eben mit der intuitiven Vernunft. Man muss sehend-erfassend Ein-Sicht
nehmen können in das, was (gegeben) ist. Anschauung und diskursive Vernunft
wären zwei unverbunden sich drehende Räder, wenn sie nicht über ein Drittes
immer schon verbunden wären. Und diese Verbindung leistet einzig und allein die
intuitive Vernunft, ohne die jeglicher Schematismus ins Leere liefe, da durch
Schematisierung zwar der Begriffsumfang erzeugt werden kann, aber dadurch
allein noch lange nichts erkannt wird. Im Erkenntnisprozess müssen Anschauung,
intuitive und diskursive Vernunft produktiv zusammenwirken, um Einsichten
hervorzubringen. Aber die Kärrnerarbeit hat die intuitive Vernunft zu verrichten.
Sie sorgt für die Bodenhaftung. Sie ist der Blick ‚nach unten‘, auf die „Sachen
selbst“. Jegliches Erschautes muss jedoch auch in einem diskursiven Urteil ter-
minieren, wenn die Erkenntnis zum bleibenden Besitz werden und nicht auf
halbem Wege stecken bleiben soll. Daher wäre Intuition ohne Diskursivität zwar
weder blind noch leer, aber doch stumm im wörtlichen Sinne: sprachlos.
Bleibt noch zu ergänzen, dass nach Kant auch die Axiome der euklidischen
Geometrie nicht selbstevident sind, sondern aus der Anschauung geschöpft
werden. Die mathematischen Axiome („z. B. zwischen zwei Punkten kann nur eine
gerade Linie sein“) werden „nur in der reinen Anschauung“ erkannt (KrV B 356 f.).
Sie sind nicht in sich wahr, sondern drücken räumliche Grundsachverhalte aus,
die nur durch Rückgang auf die Anschauung erfasst werden können. Das unter-
scheidet die euklidische Geometrie von allen nichteuklidischen Geometrien: Nur
ihre Axiome und synthetischen Urteile a priori sind anschaulich fundiert und
drücken nachvollziehbar bestehende Sachverhalte aus, während alle nichteukli-
dischen Geometrien zunächst einmal reine Konstruktionen sind, welche durch
Variation der euklidischen Axiome generiert werden und lediglich durch ihre
Nützlichkeit im Rahmen naturwissenschaftlicher Theoriebildungen gerechtfertigt
 Intuition und Argumentation 165

sind, aber deshalb nicht unbedingt ontologische Sachverhalte beschreiben. Man

sollte sich daher vor deren vorschnellen Ontologisierung hüten (etwa: ‚Der
wirkliche Raum ist nichteuklidisch‘). Der einzige Raum, der wirklich im strengen
Sinne originär erfahrbar ist, ist der Anschauungsraum. Und in diesem allein
konstruiert die euklidische Geometrie ihre Begriffe und gelangen auch nichteu-
klidische Räume zur Darstellung.⁷
Was lernen wir aus Kants Theorie der Geometrie für das Verhältnis von in-
tuitiver und diskursiver Vernunft? Auch wenn beide Funktionen miteinander
verflochten sind, so wäre doch eine rein diskursive Vernunft völlig blind (und
nicht nur leer), wenn sie nicht über eine anschauende-einsehende Vernunft mit
der Anschauung verbunden wäre. Die Anschauung mag ohne Begriffe blind sein.
Aber ohne intuitive Vernunft wäre eben auch die diskursive Vernunft völlig blind.
Erst die intuitive Vernunft lässt die diskursive Vernunft ‚sehen‘ und dann über das
Eingesehene urteilen. In unserem Beispiel wusste der Geometer zwar von Anfang
an, wonach er zu suchen hatte, aber dass die Innenwinkelsumme genau 180°
beträgt, wurde weder diskursiv bewiesen noch empirisch gemessen, sondern
musste anhand der anschaulichen Konstruktion eingesehen werden.

2 Descartes
Anders als Kant versteht Descartes die Intuition noch als grundlegende und nicht
nur auf die Mathematik eingeschränkte Vernunftfunktion. Descartes geht von der
Einheit des Intellekts aus, der sowohl intuitiv als auch diskursiv zu verfahren
vermag. Und beide intellektiven Betätigungsformen gilt es methodisch zu diszi-
plinieren und so miteinander zu verknüpfen, dass die Erlangung echten Wissens
gewährleistet ist. In den Regulae ad directionem ingenii führt Descartes Intuition
und Deduktion als die beiden Verstandeshandlungen an, aus deren Zusammen-
spiel gesichertes Wissen und damit Wissenschaft entspringen soll. Der Intuition
kommt dabei der methodische Primat zu, denn die Deduktion soll nicht nur von

 Allerdings ist hierzu zu sagen, dass die Geometrie natürlich alles andere als eine Phänome-
nologie des Raumes darstellt. So wie sie sich nicht für empirische Dreiecke, sondern nur für ideale
interessiert, so beschreibt sie insgesamt den idealen Raum, den man sich als entperspektivierten
Anschauungsraum vorstellen muss. So wie ein ideales Dreieck nur in einem empirischen zur
Darstellung kommen kann, so der euklidische Raum nur im Anschauungsraum, etwa als Koor-
dinatensystem, das selbst nur einseitig-perspektivisch gezeichnet werden kann. Das beein-
trächtigt aber nicht den Wahrheitsgehalt der euklidischen Geometrie, da der euklidische Raum
immerhin perspektivisch zur Darstellung kommen kann, während nichteuklidische Räume nur
euklidisch dargestellt werden können.
166 Thorsten Streubel

(durch Intuition gewonnenen) evidenten Einsichten ausgehen, sondern der de-

duktive Übergang, also das eigentliche Deduzieren, ist nach Descartes selbst nur
durch Intuition in die jeweiligen logischen Verhältnisse möglich. Und hieraus wird
schon ersichtlich, dass die Deduktion bei Descartes keinen autonomen Vollzug
darstellt, sondern konstitutiv durch die Intuition realisiert wird. Während De-
scartes unter Deduktion „all das [fasst], was aus etwas anderem sicher Erkannten
mit Notwendigkeit erschlossen wird.“ (R 3, 8), versteht er unter Intuition

nicht das schwankende Zeugnis der sinnlichen Wahrnehmung oder das trügerische Urteil der
verkehrt verbindenden Einbildungskraft, sondern ein so müheloses und deutlich bestimmtes
Begreifen des reinen und aufmerksamen Geistes, dass über das, was wir erkennen, gar kein
Zweifel übrigbleibt, oder, was dasselbe ist: eines reinen und aufmerksamen Geistes unbe-
zweifelbares Begreifen, welches allein dem Lichte der Vernunft entspringt […]. So kann jeder
intuitiv mit dem Verstande sehen, dass er existiert, dass er denkt, dass ein Dreieck von nur
drei Linien, dass die Kugel von einer einzigen Oberfläche begrenzt ist und Ähnliches. (R 3, 5)

Außerdem erfasst die Intuition die Begriffe einfacher Naturen wie Figur, Aus-
dehnung, Dauer und deren (onto)logische Verhältnisse zueinander (wie etwa:
jeder Bewegung kommt notwendig eine Dauer zu bzw. zum Begriff der Bewegung
gehört der Begriff der Dauer).
Aus dem Bisherigen wird nun dreierlei deutlich:
(1) Der Intellekt ist primär ein Vermögen der Einsicht (Intuition), die auch
funktional das einsichtige Deduzieren mitermöglicht. Mit dem Verstand kann man
„ein-sehen“, d. h. etwas erfassen, was es unabhängig vom Einsehen und Erfassen
des Verstandes gibt. Er ist somit kein intuitus originarius im Sinne Kants, aber
eben auch kein rein diskursives Vermögen.
(2) Damit steht die Intuition (als Erkenntnisakt) für Descartes in einer funktio-
nalen Mittelposition: Sie ist weder die bloße anschauliche (sei es perzeptive oder
imaginative) Präsenz von etwas, noch verfährt sie nach Descartes selbst deduktiv,
sondern eben intuitiv. Indem sie aber einfache Sachverhalte erfasst, kann sie An-
schauung und diskursives Denken (bzw. die Deduktion) verknüpfen. Dies setzt freilich
voraus, dass sie den Übergang zur Diskursivität dadurch bewerkstelligt, dass sie
entweder das Fällen entsprechender prädikativer Erkenntnisurteile eigenständig
vollzieht (und damit selbst diskursiv wird) oder dieses zumindest konstitutiv er-
möglicht. Auch wenn Descartes auf dieses Problem nicht näher eingeht, so sind doch
intuitive und diskursive Vernunft für ihn keine völlig getrennten Fakultäten, sondern
Betätigungsformen des einen Geistes (ingenium, intellectus).
(3) Descartes identifiziert somit Intuition und Deduktion nicht miteinander
oder erklärt die Deduktion zu einer besonderen Form der Intuition, aber er betont
doch die funktionale Abhängigkeit des Schlussfolgerns und Deduzierens selbst
von der Intuition:
 Intuition und Argumentation 167

[Die] Evidenz und Gewissheit der Intuition [wird] nicht allein bloß für Aussagen, sondern
auch für jedes beliebige folgernde Denken erfordert. Denn wenn man z. B. diese Schluss-
folgerung nimmt: zwei und zwei ergeben dasselbe wie drei und eins, so muss man nicht nur
intuitiv sehen, dass zwei und zwei vier ergeben und dass drei und eins ebenfalls vier ergeben,
sondern darüber hinaus, dass aus diesen beiden Propositionen jene dritte mit Notwendigkeit
folgt. (R 3, 7)

Die Intuition stellt also nicht nur evidente Axiome, Prinzipien, Prämissen und
klare und deutliche Begriffe für die Deduktion bereit, sondern spielt auch bei
jedem schlussfolgernden Denken eine konstitutive Rolle. Und dies ist vor allem
auch normativ gemeint: Descartes sucht ja nach einer verbindlichen wissen-
schaftlichen Methode. Je weniger Intuition im Schlussfolgern zum Einsatz kommt,
desto höher wird die Fehlerwahrscheinlichkeit (die allerdings durch selbst ein-
sichtig begründete Rechenmethoden wieder minimiert werden kann). Für De-
scartes ist es ein und derselbe Verstand (intellectus), der einsieht, urteilt und
schlussfolgert. Und beim Urteilen und Schlussfolgern sollte die Intuition maß-
geblich beteiligt sein, da diese diskursiven Akte sonst blind vollzogen würden und
daher keine eigentlichen Erkenntnisvollzüge mehr darstellten.
Die Intuition ermöglicht also die Erfassung einfacher Naturen (wie Figur,
Dauer etc.) und deren Verbindung in einfachen Sachverhalten (z. B. die notwen-
dige Ausgedehntheit von Körpern), die hierauf gründende Bildung von einsich-
tigen (evidenten) Urteilen (Körper sind notwendig ausgedehnt), das Deduzieren
neuer Erkenntnisurteile aus evidenten Urteilen und (in Verbindung mit der Fä-
higkeit zur Diskursivität) sogar das Verstehen von sprachlichen Äußerungen:
Denn diese beiden Fähigkeiten (zur Intuition und Deduktion) sind bei aller me-
thodischen Disziplinierung vorausgesetzt. Und könnte sich der Verstand ihrer
„nicht schon vorher bedienen, [würde er] keine noch so einfache Vorschrift selbst
der Methode verstehen“ (R 4, 2). Und letztlich müssen auch die Prinzipien der
Logik ein Fundament in der Anschauung und der darauf bezogenen Intuition
haben. Das heißt, nicht nur die logischen Beziehungen innerhalb bestimmter
Urteilszusammenhänge müssen intuitiv erkannt werden, sondern etwa auch die
apodiktische Wahrheit (und Reichweite) des Satzes vom Widerspruch, der Iden-
tität und vom ausgeschlossenen Dritten.
Die beiden entscheidenden Voraussetzungen des cartesischen Intuitionismus
sind dabei, dass der Mensch über ein angeborenes „Licht der Vernunft“, also die
Einsichtsfähigkeit (intellectus) als Disposition, verfügt (1); und dass die Erkennt-
nisgegenstände eine Eigennatur besitzen (2). Und nur weil letzteres der Fall ist,
lässt sich auch herausfinden, ob gewisse begriffliche Zusammenhänge wesens-
notwendig („Körper sind ausgedehnt“) oder nur empirisch notwendig („Körper
sind schwer“) sind. Über wesensnotwendige Sachverhalte sagt Descartes, dass sie
notwendig dann sind,
168 Thorsten Streubel

wenn der eine Sachverhalt gewissermaßen in einer solchen Verschlingung in den Begriff des
anderen verwickelt ist, dass wir keinen von beiden deutlich vorstellen könnten, falls wir
urteilen sollten, sie seien voneinander getrennt. Auf diese Weise ist die Figur mit der Aus-
dehnung verbunden, die Bewegung mit der Dauer oder der Zeit etc.; denn weder lässt sich
eine Figur, der jede Ausdehnung fehlt, denken noch auch eine Bewegung ohne jede Dauer.
Ebenso ist, wenn ich sage, 4 und 3 sind 7, diese Zusammensetzung notwendig, denn wir
können die Anzahl Sieben nicht deutlich vorstellen, wenn wir nicht die Anzahlen Drei und
Vier gewissermaßen verschlungen in sie einschlössen. Und überhaupt steht alles, was über
Gestalten und Zahlen bewiesen wird, auf diese Weise mit dem in notwendiger Verbindung,
worüber man es aussagt. Auch findet sich diese Notwendigkeit nicht nur in den Gegen-
ständen der sinnlichen Wahrnehmung, sondern auch, wenn z. B. Sokrates sagt, er zweifle an
allem, so folgt hieraus notwendig: also erkennt er wenigstens dies, dass er zweifelt, und
gleichfalls: also erkennt er, dass etwas wahr oder falsch sein kann usw., das ist nämlich mit
der Natur des Zweifels notwendig verknüpft. (R 12, 17)

Das letzte Beispiel (Sokrates) zeigt wiederum, dass auch die diskursive Entfaltung
von logischen Implikationen evidenter Einsichten bzw. Sätzen auf die intuitive
Erfassung derselben angewiesen ist. Zu diesen Erkenntnissen kann natürlich nur
ein kompetenter Sprecher kommen. Aber die Einsicht in die Wahrheit und Rich-
tigkeit der so gewonnenen Erkenntnisse hängt nicht von der jeweiligen empiri-
schen Sprache ab, sondern von der Natur der Sachen und den logischen Bezie-
hungen der verwendeten Begriffe, die (also die logischen Beziehungen) eben nicht
auf empirisch-grammatikalische Regeln relativiert werden oder gar mit diesen
identifiziert werden dürfen. Aber natürlich gilt, dass auch die Erfassung gram-
matischer Strukturen nicht ohne die Intuition auskommt, da sie der unmittelbare
Blick auf jegliche vorgegebene Gehalte ist – mögen diese nun bereits sprachlich-
begrifflicher Natur sein oder nicht.
Nun spielt die Intuition bei Descartes zwar, wie wir gesehen haben, eine
buchstäblich fundamentale Rolle im Rahmen seiner Methodologie, doch findet man
bei ihm keine echte Phänomenologie und Epistemologie derselben. Insbesondere
der Zusammenhang von einsichtiger Erfassung und dem Urteilen über das ein-
sichtig Erfasste bleibt bei Descartes im Dunklen. Zudem findet man bei Descartes im
Grunde auch keine ausgearbeitete Methodologie der Intuition als eines geistigen
Vollzugs. Sie wird zwar im Rahmen der cartesischen Methodologie insofern me-
thodisch diszipliniert, als sie auf die Erfassung der einfachen Naturen und deren
Verbindungen sowie auf das einsichtige Schlussfolgern verpflichtet wird. Aber das
Einsehen und die intuitive Erfassung selbst werden weder als weiter methodisch
regulierbar verstanden noch in ihrer Natur aufgehellt. Mir scheint, dass erst im
20. Jahrhundert von Husserl der Versuch unternommen worden ist, eine umfas-
sende Phänomenologie und Methodologie der Intuition als solcher zu geben.
 Intuition und Argumentation 169

3 Husserl: eidetische Variation und

vorprädikative Erfahrung
Husserl thematisiert die Intuition als Erfassung des begrifflich Allgemeinen so-
wohl als vorphilosophische (alltägliche) Leistung (paradigmatisch: Wahrneh-
mung von etwas als etwas, aber auch Symbolverständnis) und als Grundvermögen
des Menschen (Begriffsbildung) als auch als Möglichkeitsbedingung der Phäno-
menologie selbst. Die Phänomenologie (im husserlschen Sinne) zielt (rein formal
betrachtet) auf die Gewinnung adäquater Beschreibungsbegriffe und die Fest-
stellung notwendiger Zusammenhänge im Bereich des Phänomenalen ab. Daher
gilt es, die Intuition als eingeborene Fähigkeit hinsichtlich ihrer Leistung phä-
nomenologisch aufzuklären und methodisch fruchtbar zu machen. Dass hier
freilich schwierigste Probleme vorliegen, dürfte schon allein daran sichtbar
werden, dass bei einer Methodologie der Intuition die Gefahr eines Begrün-
dungszirkels insofern besteht, als die Phänomenologie sich durch ihre Methode
allererst konstituiert, die sie jedoch selbst zuvor zu begründen hat. Ich kann hier
aus Platzgründen auf diese methodologischen Schwierigkeiten leider nicht im
Einzelnen eingehen, sondern nur darauf hinweisen, dass der Begründungszirkel
dann vermieden werden kann, wenn man zwischen der Phänomenologie als
methodisch begründeter Wissenschaft und der Phänomenologie als begründen-
der Wissenschaft, d.i. als Methodologie, unterscheidet.⁸ Stattdessen geht es mir
hier lediglich darum, zu zeigen, dass die Intuition kein irrationales, dem ratio-
nalen Argumentieren entgegengesetztes, mysteriöses Schauen ist, sondern eine
Form der Vernunft, ohne die auch die diskursive Vernunft undenkbar wäre.
Die ausführlichsten Analysen widmet Husserl einerseits dem Verhältnis von
Wahrnehmung, vorprädikativer Erfahrung und prädikativer Erfahrung, anderer-
seits der Methode der eidetischen Variation, die dazu dient, die reinen Begriffe der
Phänomenologie zu konstituieren. Beide Bereiche gehören insofern zusammen,
als auch die eidetische Variation als intuitives Verfahren in Prädikationen ter-
minieren muss.
Ein wesentliches Ziel der eidetischen Variation ist es, die eidetischen Bezie-
hungen und Verflechtungen dieser Begriffe zu erfassen. Oder gegenständlich
ausgedrückt: Wie Descartes fragt Husserl, inwiefern bestimmte phänomenale
Verhältnisse empirisch kontingent (bzw. hypothetisch notwendig) und inwiefern
sie eidetisch-notwendig sind. Mit Letzterem ist gemeint: dass etwas gar nicht
anders sein kann, dass sein Gegenteil unmöglich ist (in allen möglichen Welten).

 Vgl. hierzu detailliert Streubel ().

170 Thorsten Streubel

Dass Wahrnehmung immer Wahrnehmung von etwas ist, ist hiernach wesens-
notwendig, weil eine Wahrnehmung von radikal gar nichts unmöglich wäre. Dass
eine Wahrnehmung dagegen visuelle Inhalte aufweisen kann (oder eben nicht), ist
empirisch kontingent, wie das Beispiel der Blindgeborenen beweist. Um zu vali-
den Aussagen über notwendige Zusammenhänge zu gelangen, bedarf es auch
nach Husserl der Intuition, von der er zeigt, dass ihre methodische Anwendung
nicht in einem einfachen Hinblicken und Erfassen bestehen kann wie Descartes
(und auch noch der Husserl der Logischen Untersuchungen) glaubte, sondern in
einem systematischen Variieren von Teilmomenten der untersuchten Gegeben-
heiten. Um z. B. herauszufinden, was zur sinnlichen Wahrnehmung notwendiger
Weise gehört, muss ich alle faktischen Momente variieren: die verschiedenen
Arten der inhaltlichen Qualitäten, die Formen ihrer Gegebenheit (Raum, Zeit), ihre
Klarheitsgrade, den Leib (d.i. dessen Struktur und kinästhetischen Funktionen)
als Wahrnehmungsvoraussetzung, die begrifflichen Gehalte etc. Hier wird sofort
deutlich, dass es nicht nur einen sehr allgemeinen Begriff von Wahrnehmung
überhaupt zu bilden gilt, sondern auch spezifische Wahrnehmungsbegriffe. Es
handelt sich hier um eine potentiell unendliche Aufgabe, wenngleich es durchaus
möglich ist, einfache Notwendigkeitsbeziehungen zu konstatieren (etwa: kein
Wahrgenommenes ohne Dauer). Die husserlsche Phänomenologie ist daher nicht
nur eine analytische Wissenschaft des Wirklichen, sondern auch des prinzipiell
Möglichen (und in beiden Bereiche gibt es notwendige, kontingente und un-
mögliche Zusammenhänge).
Intuitiv ist diese Methode nun deshalb, weil nicht einfach zweifelhafte Ar-
gumente angeführt werden, was aus irgendwelchen anfechtbaren Gründen der
Fall sein muss, sondern weil die „Sachen selbst“ analysiert werden, ohne dass
damit aber ein genereller Infallibilismus verbunden wäre. Doch ist es eben ein
Unterschied, ob man sich die Dinge, über die man spricht, genau anschaut oder
nicht. Die „Sachen selbst“ sind jedoch, wie gesagt, nicht nur die aktuell vorlie-
genden, sondern alle möglichen, soweit man sie sich prinzipiell anschaulich
vorstellen kann. Daher dient etwa eine aktuelle Wahrnehmung (um bei diesem
Beispiel zu bleiben) nur als Ausgangsexempel, dessen einzelne Momente um-
fingiert werden, um so die eidetischen Beziehungen der einzelnen Momente
einsichtig zu erfassen. So kann ich etwa die Inhalte der aktuellen Wahrnehmung
beliebig variieren, stets bleibt die Wahrnehmung eine Wahrnehmung, solange sie
überhaupt irgendwelche Inhalte hat. Nur wenn ich jeglichen Inhalt versuche
wegzufingieren, um die Vorstellung einer leeren Wahrnehmung zu erhalten, dann
sehe ich sofort, dass mit dem Inhalt auch die Wahrnehmung verschwindet. Es ist
unmöglich, sich eine inhaltslose Wahrnehmung vorzustellen – und dies liegt nicht
an der Begrenztheit des Vorstellens, sondern weil die Natur der Wahrnehmung es
unmöglich macht, sich etwas vorzustellen, was unmöglich ist. Diese sachliche
 Intuition und Argumentation 171

Unmöglichkeit wird selbst einsichtig erfasst im scheiternden Versuch, sie sich klar
und deutlich als Möglichkeit vorzustellen. So ist es auch keine nur subjektive
Unmöglichkeit sich unausgedehnte Körper (oder dauerlose Töne) vorzustellen,
sondern unausgedehnte Körper sind keine Körper (sondern, wenn überhaupt,
punktuelle Entitäten) – und dies wird evident, indem man sich unausgedehnte
Körper vorzustellen versucht und erkennt, dass Ausdehnung etwas ist, was zur
Natur der Körper und damit zu ihrem Wesensbegriff gehört.
Husserls methodologischer Grundgedanke in Bezug auf die Intuition ist also,
dass das Erfassen einfacher Naturen und notwendiger Sachverhalte nicht selbst
einfach ist, nicht durch ein bloßes Hinblicken geschehen kann, sondern nur durch
die Erzeugung von Varianten, um so Inhalt und Umfang von Begriffen und die
notwendige Verbindung von Begriffen (und den Begriffsgegenständen) an-
schaulich zu erfassen.
Und was das Verhältnis von Anschauung, Intuition und Urteil betrifft, so kann
dies wiederum nur durch Intuition und Deskription in der Reflexion aufgeklärt
werden. Schon jedes einzelne prädikative Wahrnehmungsurteil beruht auf Wahr-
nehmung und präprädikativer Erfahrung als einem bestimmten intuitiven Vollzug
am Gegebenen. So setzt das Wahrnehmungsurteil ‚Diese Rose ist rot‘ voraus, dass in
der Wahrnehmung eine räumliche Gestalt von bestimmter Form und Farbe gegeben
ist und dass diese Gestalt eine bestimmte sinnliche Struktur aufweist: nämlich dass
sie eine Ganzheit von Stücken und Momenten ist. Und dieses Verhältnis muss zu-
nächst wahrnehmend erfasst werden, um dann auch zum Ausdruck gebracht
werden zu können. Und zwar indem zunächst vorprädikativ die Ganzheit erfasst
wird und dann der geistige Blick ein Moment der Ganzheit als dessen Teilmoment
erfasst: „Das unbestimmte Thema S [etwa eine sinnliche Gestalt; Anm. T.S.] wird in
der Entfaltung zum Substrat der hervorgetretenen Eigenschaften, und sie selbst
konstituieren sich in ihr als seine Bestimmungen.“ (EU, 126) Erst durch dieses
präprädikative Explizieren des Wahrnehmungsgegenstandes wird es möglich ein
prädikatives Urteil zu fällen. Die Koplula ‚ist‘ des prädikativen Urteils drückt dabei
die ontologische Struktur von Ganzheit und Teilmoment des Gegenstandes aus, die
die vorprädikative Explikation als intuitiver Vollzug offenbart hat. Mittels der Ko-
pula und der Prädikate geben wir wieder, wie der Gegenstand partiell ist: rot,
blättrig, einen Stil habend etc. Ich muss jedenfalls, bevor ich prädizieren kann,
gesehen haben, dass das Dies-da eine Rose ist und dass sie rot ist – und dieses
vorprädikative Sehen ist bereits eine geistige (apperzipierend-explizierende) Leis-
tung und kein bloßes Perzipieren. Und es ist die konstitutive Voraussetzung für das
Fällen eines Wahrnehmungsurteils.
Der Hauptunterschied zwischen (einfachen) Wahrnehmungsurteilen, empi-
risch-induktiven und rein-induktiven (also eidetischen) Urteilen besteht darin,
dass in den letzten beiden Fällen noch zusätzliche Leistungen erbracht werden
172 Thorsten Streubel

müssen. Im Falle des empirisch-induktiven Urteils müssen mehrere gleichartige

Erfahrungen zusammengenommen werden, bei den eidetischen Urteilen muss
zusätzlich die eidetische Variation dazwischentreten.

Zusammenfassung und Ausblick

Ich hoffe hier beispielhaft gezeigt zu haben, dass die Intuition als Akt der Einsicht
die Leistung einer grundlegenden Vernunftfunktion darstellt und daher vom Ruch
des Irrationalen befreit werden sollte. Der Nous (bzw. die intuitive Vernunft) ist
dasjenige geistige Grundvermögen, welches Begriffsbildung und Prädikation ur-
sprünglich ermöglicht.Wenn dies aber richtig ist, dann muss die intuitive Vernunft
als eine notwendige Möglichkeitsbedingung der diskursiven Vernunft (und somit
schon des Spracherwerbs) verstanden werden. Die obigen Ausführungen legen
aber m. E. sogar eine radikalere These nahe: dass es nämlich nicht zwei grund-
legende Arten von Vernunft gibt (intuitive und diskursive Vernunft), sondern nur
eine Vernunft als eingeborene Disposition, und zwar die intuitive Vernunft, und
dass somit die diskursive Vernunft letztlich nichts anderes als eine besondere
Anwendungsform der intuitiven Vernunft selbst darstellt. Es ist letztlich die in-
tuitive Vernunft, die durch Sprach- und Wissenserwerb auch zu diskursiven
Vollzügen fähig wird.

Bibliographie
Aristoteles (1995): Metaphysik (übers. v. H. Bonitz). Hamburg: Meiner. (= Met.)
Cappelen, Herman (2012): Philosophy Without Intuitions. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Chudnoff, Elijah (2013): Intuition. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Descartes, René (1993): Regulae ad directionem ingenii (übers. v. Lüder Gäbe). Hamburg:
Meiner. (= R)
Kant, Immanuel (2001): Kritik der reinen Vernunft. Hamburg: Meiner. (= KrV)
Kant, Immanuel (2001): Prolegomena zu einer jeden künftigen Metaphysik. Hamburg: Meiner.
(= Prol.)
Husserl, Edmund (1999): Erfahrung und Urteil. Hamburg: Meiner. (= EU)
Streubel, Thorsten (2016): Kritik der philosophischen Vernunft. Die Frage nach dem Menschen
und die Methode der Philosophie. Wiesbaden: Springer VS.
Uwe Meixner
Truth against Reason, and
Reason against Truth
Abstract: The paper explores the general relationship between reason (here:
epistemic rationality) and truth. It centers on the question of whether there
can be conflicts between reason and truth, and on the forms such conflicts
may take. Are there philosophically interesting examples of such conflicts?

Rationality is a normative concept, and the language of obligation is as appli-

cable to it as it is to morality. Consider, in particular, epistemic rationality. The
language of obligation applied to epistemic rationality enables us to distinguish
the following four pairs of prominent constituents of epistemic rationality:

1. being rationally obligated (O) to believe p;¹ being rationally obligated not to
believe p; or in other words: O(Bp); O(ØBp);
2. being rationally obligated to believe non-p; being rationally obligated not to
believe non-p; or in other words: O(BØp), O(ØBØp);
3. being rationally permitted (P) to believe p; being rationally permitted not to
believe p; or in other words: P(Bp); P(ØBp);
4. being rationally permitted to believe non-p; being rationally permitted not to
believe non-p; or in other words: P(BØp); P(ØBØp).

There are logical equivalence relations between some of these eight constituents.
On the basis of the general schematic principles P(A) ≡ ØO(ØA) and P(ØA) ≡
ØO(A), we have:

P(Bp) ≡ ØO(ØBp) P(ØBp) ≡ ØO(Bp)

 Note that “p” is here a variable for propositions (and not a schematic letter that represents a
sentence). As a consequence, the expression “that p” is nonsensical (in contrast to the ex-
pression “that (p is true)”): “that”, in the relevant function, must be followed by a sentence, a
closed sentence or an open one, not by a singular term. An expression that has the form “that A”
is – for any true or false (English) sentence that is substituted for “A” – a name of a proposition,
and can be substituted for “p”. In what follows, “O(…)” will be treated as a sentence-operator
(forming a sentence from a sentence), “B…”, however, as a predicate (forming a sentence from a
singular term). For the sake of brevity, the symbol of negation “Ø” will be used in a double
function: as a sentence-operator (ØA: not-A) and as the negation-functor for propositions (Øp:
non-p). Both uses occur side by side in O(ØBØp), for example.
174 Uwe Meixner

P(BØp) ≡ ØO(ØBØp) P(ØBØp) ≡ ØO(BØp).

These equivalence relations allow us to reduce the four permission-constituents

to the negations of the four obligation-constituents. Furthermore, on the basis of
the general schematic principle P1: O(A) ⊃ ØO(ØA), and its contrapositive P1c:
O(ØA) ⊃ ØO(A) (which is logically equivalent to P1), we have:

P1.1 O(Bp) ⊃ ØO(ØBp) P1.1c O(ØBp) ⊃ ØO(Bp)

P1.2 O(BØp) ⊃ ØO(ØBØp) P1.2c O(ØBØp) ⊃ ØO(BØp).

In other words:

O(Bp) is contrary to O(ØBp)

entails entails
ØO(ØBp) is subcontrary to ØO(Bp)

O(BØp) is contrary to O(ØBØp)

entails entails
ØO(ØBØp) is subcontrary to ØO(BØp)

There are, finally, logical implication relations between some of the eight constit-
uents which, in contrast to the previously considered logical relations, connect
“Bp” with “BØp”, and which are, in contrast to the previously considered logical
relations, specific to epistemic rationality, that is, to the type of rational obliga-
tion and permission that concerns propositional belief:²

P2 O(Bp) ⊃ O(ØBØp) P2c ØO(ØBØp) ⊃ ØO(Bp)

P3 O(BØp) ⊃ O(ØBp) P3c ØO(ØBp) ⊃ ØO(BØp)

The eight constituents of epistemic rationality

O(Bp) ØO(Bp) [:= P(ØBp)]

O(ØBp) ØO(ØBp) [:= P(Bp)]
O(BØp) ØO(BØp) [:= P(ØBØp)]

 It would perhaps have been more appropriate to speak of doxastic rationality. On the other
hand, the designation “epistemic” emphasizes very appropriately that the rationality in question
has something to do with truth.
 Truth against Reason, and Reason against Truth 175

O(ØBØp) ØO(ØBØp) [:=P(BØp)]

can be combined in 16 not obviously self-contradictory ways to form states of

epistemic rationality with respect to the proposition concerned (that is, with re-
spect to the proposition p). The possible states of epistemic rationality are
those that are marked “consistent” in the following listing:

O(Bp) O(ØBp) O(BØp) O(ØBØp)

Y(es) Y Y Y inconsistent
Y Y Y N(o) inconsistent
Y Y N Y inconsistent
Y Y N N inconsistent
Y N Y Y inconsistent
Y N Y N inconsistent³
Y N N Y consistent
Y N N N inconsistent
N Y Y Y inconsistent
N Y Y N consistent
N Y N Y consistent
N Y N N consistent
N N Y Y inconsistent
N N Y N inconsistent
N N N Y consistent
N N N N consistent

In other words,

R1: O(Bp) ∧ ØO(ØBp) ∧ ØO(BØp) ∧ O(ØBØp) i. e., O(Bp)

R2: ØO(Bp) ∧ O(ØBp) ∧ O(BØp) ∧ ØO(ØBØp) i. e., O(BØp)
R3: ØO(Bp) ∧ O(ØBp) ∧ ØO(BØp) ∧ O(ØBØp) i. e., O(ØBp) ∧ O(ØBØp)
R4: ØO(Bp) ∧ O(ØBp) ∧ ØO(BØp) ∧ ØO(ØBØp) i. e., O(ØBp) ∧ ØO(BØp) ∧
ØO(ØBØp)
R5: ØO(Bp) ∧ ØO(ØBp) ∧ ØO(BØp) ∧ O(ØBØp) i. e., ØO(Bp) ∧ ØO(ØBp) ∧
O(ØBØp)
R6: ØO(Bp) ∧ ØO(ØBp) ∧ ØO(BØp) ∧ ØO(ØBØp) [not simplifiable]

are the six possible states of epistemic rationality (with respect to the proposition
p, and with respect to a certain – implicit – subject of belief [believer] and a cer-
tain – implicit – moment of time).

 To see the inconsistency in this line, consider that O(Bp) ⊃ ØO(BØp) is a logical consequence
of P and P.c.
176 Uwe Meixner

On the other hand, there are four possible states of belief (with respect to the
proposition p, and with the respect to the same – the aforementioned – subject
of belief and moment of time):

F1: Bp ∧ BØp
F2: Bp ∧ ØBØp
F3: ØBp ∧ BØp
F4: ØBp ∧ ØBØp

The possible states of epistemic rationality, as listed above, are consecutively num-
bered: R1 – R6, and the possible states of belief, as listed above, are also consecu-
tively numbered: F1 – F4. In what follows I will refer to those numberings.
A possible state of belief F is rational with respect to a possible state of epis-
temic rationality R if, and only if, F fulfils all the rational obligations that are in-
trinsic to R.
Thus, F1 – that is, Bp ∧ BØp – is not rational with respect to R1, R3, R5, since
F1 does not fulfil the obligation O(ØBØp), which is intrinsic to R1, R3, R5. And F1
is also not rational with respect to R2, R3, R4, since F1 does not fulfil the obliga-
tion O(ØBp), which is intrinsic to R2, R3, R4. It may seem that F1 is rational with
respect to R6. Not so; for O(ØBp ∨ ØBØp) is an obligation that is intrinsic to every
state of epistemic rationality, since it is purely a matter of the logic of rational
obligation;⁴ F1 does not fulfil that obligation.
Now, F2 – that is, Bp ∧ ØBØp – is not rational with respect to R2, R3, R4,
since F2 does not fulfil the obligation O(ØBp), which is intrinsic to R2, R3, R4.
But F2 is rational with respect to R1, R5, R6.
In turn, F3 – that is, ØBp ∧ BØp – is not rational with respect to R1, R3, R5,
since F3 does not fulfil the obligation O(ØBØp), which is intrinsic to R1, R3, R5.
But F3 is rational with respect to R2, R4, R6.
Finally, F4 – that is, ØBp ∧ ØBØp – is not rational with respect to R1, R2,
since F4 does not fulfil the obligation O(Bp), which is intrinsic to R1, and not
the obligation O(BØp), which is intrinsic to R2. But F4 is rational with respect
to R3, R4, R5, R6.
These results can be perspicuously summed up in a diagram:

 Note that O(ØBp ∨ ØBØp) is logically equivalent to O(Bp ⊃ ØBØp). O(Bp) ⊃ O(ØBØp) – that is,
P – can be taken to follow logically from O(Bp ⊃ ØBØp).
 Truth against Reason, and Reason against Truth 177

F F F F

R NR R NR NR
R NR NR R NR
R NR NR NR R
R NR NR R R
R NR R NR R
R NR R R R

The six possible states of epistemic rationality R1 – R6 and the four possible
states of belief F1 – F4 can be combined to form 24 possible epistemic-rationali-
ty-and-fact situations: R1 ∧ F1, R1 ∧ F2, …, R6 ∧ F4. Each of these epistemic-ra-
tionality-and-fact situations either has the character “rational” or the character
“irrational”. Which one of these two characters it has can be read off the above
diagram: What, for example, is the rationality-character of R3 ∧ F3? Go to the row
R3 and the column F3, and look were they intersect: There is an “NR” there, and
therefore R3 ∧ F3 has the character “irrational”. In the same way it can be deter-
mined that R4 ∧ F4 (say) has the character “rational”. It is easily seen from the
diagram that ten of the epistemic-rationality-and-fact situations are rational, and
fourteen irrational. Observe also that some possible states of epistemic rational-
ity allow more rational freedom than others (count the “R”s in their rows), and
that some possible states of belief are logically more likely to be rational than
others (count the “R”s in their columns).
Since R1 – R6 logically exclude each other, and also F1 – F4 logically exclude
each other (with respect to the same subject of belief and moment of time, and
the same proposition p), only one of the 24 possible epistemic-rationality-and-
fact situations can be actual – with respect to the same subject of belief and mo-
ment of time, and the same proposition p. Which one of the 24 possible episte-
mic-rationality-and-fact situations will be the actual one depends on the propo-
sition p, on the subject of belief concerned and the relevant moment of time,
and, of course, on the pertinent normative facts of epistemic rationality and
non-normative facts of belief. Note that only if it is specified which of the 24 pos-
sible epistemic-rationality-and-fact situations is the actual one, can one speak
simpliciter of the epistemic rationality or irrationality of a given subject of belief,
at a certain time, with respect to a given proposition.
Philosophical positions arise. Consider radical skepticism. For radical skeptics,
epoché is the rationally obligatory epistemic attitude with respect to any proposition.
In other words, radical skeptics hold that, for any proposition p and any (intelligent)
178 Uwe Meixner

human subject of belief ⁵ and any time, it is rationally obligatory not to believe p,
and also rationally obligatory not to believe non-p. In other words again, radical
skeptics hold that R3 – i.e., O(ØBp) ∧ O(ØBØp) – is the obtaining (or actual)
state of epistemic rationality for any proposition p, no matter what is the time
and who (among us human beings) is the subject of belief.
If R3 is the obtaining state of rationality for all propositions, then most of us
cannot escape being irrational with respect to some propositions; for most of us
cannot avoid believing some propositions, positive and negative ones. I, for ex-
ample, cannot avoid believing that I exist, and that 2 is not identical with 1. (You
may have your own favorites.) Indeed, the rationality of the radical skeptics
themselves is undermined by their very position if it is true; for they themselves,
qua radical skeptics, certainly believe a certain proposition (namely, the propo-
sition that, for all propositions p and all times, one is rationally obligated not to
believe p and also rationally obligated not to believe non-p).⁶ This means that
radical skeptics, if they are right (i. e., if radical skepticism is true), are bound
to be epistemically irrational with respect to the very proposition they qua rad-
ical skeptics believe (for the truth of that proposition requires that, rationally,
they ought not to believe that proposition – but they do). It is important to
note that there is no inconsistency here. If a radical skeptic believes that, for
all propositions p and all times, one is rationally obligated not to believe p
and also rationally obligated not to believe non-p, and if it is true that, for all
propositions p and all times, one is rationally obligated not to believe p and
also rationally obligated not to believe non-p – then there is no inconsistency
in this; then the skeptic is simply right. But he is also epistemically irrational.
The case of the radical skeptic who is right in his skepticism is a particulary
striking example of how truth and reason may collide: Someone believes what is,
in fact, true; but the logical consequence of his believing what is true is that he is
being epistemically irrational (in the sense that he is not fulfilling obligations of
epistemic rationality which are incurred by the very fact that what he believes is
true). Here is another example of a possible conflict between reason and truth,
an example which is much more commonplace than the previous one. Suppose
it is rationally obligatory, for any (human) subject of belief, to believe that God
does not exist. If so, then R2 is the obtaining state of epistemic rationality with
respect to the proposition that God does not exist, and there is only one way for a

 In what follows it is assumed, for the sake of brevity, that all subjects of belief – in particular,
all human beings – are always intelligent.
 If with every proposition p also non-p is a proposition (as seems right), the radical skeptics’
position can also be expressed by “for all propositions p and all times, one is obligated not to
believe p”.
 Truth against Reason, and Reason against Truth 179

subject of belief to be rational about that proposition: this is F3, that is, not to
believe that God exists, and to believe that God does not exist. Many people, usu-
ally philosophers, have no difficulty at all to comply with the requirements of
reason here. But suppose now that God does exist – in spite of the (supposed)
fact that it is rationally obligatory to believe that God does not exist. This
would mean that reason requires one to believe something that is not true.
Can true reason counsel, indeed decree, against truth? Can it be rationally obli-
gatory to believe something that is not true?
One is tempted to say “no” and to postulate the following principles that
connect the rational obligation to believe a proposition with the truth of that
proposition:

P4 O(Bp) ⊃ p is true [i. e., Øp is not true]

P5 O(BØp) ⊃ Øp is true [i. e., p is not true]. [pair 1]⁷

These postulates may even be strengthened:

P6 O(ØBØp) ⊃ p is true [i. e., Øp is not true]

P7 O(ØBp) ⊃ Øp is true [i. e., p is not true]. [pair 2]⁸

The first pair of postulates follows from the second pair in view of the uncontro-
versial principles

P2 O(Bp) ⊃ O(ØBØp)
P3 O(BØp) ⊃ O(ØBp)

that have already been introduced and made use of. And one can argue for the sec-
ond pair in the following manner: Can it be rationally obligatory not to believe
something even though it is true? Can true reason counsel against truth? It seems
not. Thus, if reason says “Thou shalt not believe that p” and is right, p has to be
not true, and non-p, therefore, true. And if reason says “Thou shalt not believe
that non-p” and is right, non-p has to be not true, and p, therefore, true.

 Pair  obviously entails ØO(Bp) ∨ ØO(BØp), or in other words: O(Bp) ⊃ ØO(BØp) – which is an
unproblematic principle that is also a consequence of P in combination with P.c: O(Bp) ⊃
O(ØBØp) and O(ØBØp) ⊃ ØO(BØp).
 Pair  obviously entails ØO(ØBp) ∨ ØO(ØBØp), or in other words: O(ØBp) ⊃ ØO(ØBØp) –
which, if true, would for every proposition render skepticism (or agnosticism) impossible as
an obligation of epistemic rationality; for according to O(ØBp) ⊃ ØO(ØBØp), R cannot be an ob-
taining state of epistemic rationality for any proposition.
180 Uwe Meixner

Principles P4 – P7, if accepted, have interesting consequences. The moral ob-

ligation to do something, or not to do something, does not entail that it is done
in fact, or not done in fact. Correspondingly, the rational obligation to believe, or
not to believe, a certain proposition does not entail that it is believed in fact, or
not believed in fact. But, if P4 is accepted, the rational obligation to believe a
certain proposition entails that it is true, and if P7 is a accepted the rational ob-
ligation not to believe a certain proposition entails that it is not true. There is no
parallel of this on the side of morality; it is peculiar to epistemic rationality.
What are other consequences of accepting P4 – P7? For one thing, it be-
comes quite impossible to justly accuse people of being irrational because
they believe a certain proposition. For example, the atheist or agnostic cannot
with justice tell the believer that she is being irrational by believing that God ex-
ists. For the believer can legitimately defend herself by answering that there is no
rational obligation for her (or anybody) not to believe that God exists, and there-
fore no rational obligation to believe that God does not exist, either. Why? Be-
cause, says the believer, it is just not true that God does not exist.⁹
The dilemma is this: On the one hand, the rational obligation to believe p is
to be a good epistemic indicator of the truth of p. For that seems to be the whole
point of the rational obligation to believe a certain proposition. On the other
hand, the truth of p is to be a conditio sine qua non of the rational obligation
to believe p. For it would seem that true reason cannot decree against truth.
But if the rational obligation to believe p is to be a good epistemic indicator
of the truth of p, then the truth of p cannot also be a conditio sine qua non of
the rational obligation to believe p. For if the truth of p were a conditio sine
qua non of the rational obligation to believe p, then the rational obligation to be-
lieve p would be drawn into in question already by a sincere claim that p is not
true – and indeed already by a mere uncertainty whether p is true. Clearly, under
such circumstances the rational obligation to believe p cannot be a good episte-
mic indicator of the truth of p.
Consider a similar case, but a case where there is no dilemma. The truth of p is
a conditio sine qua non of knowing that p is true; one cannot know that p is true
without the truth of p. But this makes it quite impossible for knowledge to be a
good epistemic indicator of truth. If one is uncertain whether p is true, one cannot
reasonably say to oneself: “Person X certainly knows that p is true; this indicates
that p is true.” For the uncertainty whether p is true is ipso facto an uncertainty
whether anybody knows that p is true – since the truth of p is a conditio sine qua

 She is using the contrapositives of P and P (i. e., Pc) to arrive at her conclusions: Ø(Øp is
true) ⊃ ØO(ØBp) and ØO(ØBp) ⊃ ØO(BØp).
 Truth against Reason, and Reason against Truth 181

non for knowing that p is true. But of course one can reasonably say “It is true. I
know it to be true” or “It is true. N.N. said that he knows it to be true”. The first
is merely an emphatic way of saying “I believe it to be true”, and the second is mere-
ly a compendious way of saying “N.N. believes it to be true, and I share his belief
because N.N. is in this matter an authority for me”.
In resolving the above-presented dilemma for rational epistemic obligation –
which dilemma is a consequence of conflicting conceptual aims – we should,
after all, not follow the example set by knowledge. The similarity between ration-
al obligation to believe and knowledge is far from being strong. Saying that it is
rationally obligatory (for subject X) to believe p is just another way of saying that
there cannot be any reasonable doubt (for X) about p’s being true.¹⁰ But how can
it be the case that there cannot be any reasonable doubt about p’s being true if
this impossibility of reasonable doubt can only be the case if p is true? If the
truth of p were a conditio sine qua non of the rational obligation to believe p,
then, except for the epistemically special propositions (the uncontroversially
true propositions in logic and mathematics),¹¹ it would never be rationally obli-
gatory to believe p; for one must always allow (except in the case of an epistemi-
cally special proposition) that the believed or surmised non-truth of p can rea-
sonably be held against the alleged rational obligation to believe p.
But if the truth of p is not in general a conditio sine qua non of the rational
obligation to believe p, then, indeed, in a considerable number of cases the
claim that there is a rational obligation to believe a certain epistemically non-
special proposition may be true. We may even come to the point that 99.9 % of
such claims are true: that in 99.9 % of the cases in question there is indeed,
as is claimed, a rational obligation to believe a certain epistemically non-special
proposition – for example, just for the sake of the argument, that God does not
exist, that everything is physical, that there is no incompatibilist freedom of the
will, that life has no ultimate meaning, that there are no objective moral obliga-
tions. But, note, the claim that it is, e. g., rationally obligatory to believe that God

 Saying that it is not rationally obligatory (for subject X) to believe p is just another way of
saying that there can be reasonable doubt (for X) about p’s being true. Saying that it is rationally
obligatory (for X) not to believe p is just another way of saying that there is reasonable doubt (for
X) about p’s being true.
 The proposition that I exist is another epistemically special proposition – a very special one.
It is rationally obligatory to believe that I exist – but it is so only for me: there is no rational
obligation for anyone else (who is human) to believe that I exist. I cannot reasonably doubt
(the truth of) the proposition that I exist, but anyone else (who is human) can reasonably
doubt that proposition. In contrast, it is rationally obligatory for anyone (who is human) to be-
lieve the proposition that +=; no one (who is human) can reasonably doubt that +=.
182 Uwe Meixner

does not exist is now in a peculiar sense fallible. By this I do not merely mean that
the obligation-claim itself may be false (I think that it is false, but I have just now
proposed, for the sake of the argument, that it is true); I mean that the claim, though
true, may be nothing more than an imperative of reason against truth.
Consider, finally, a telling parable. By accidental contact with human be-
ings, the idea that there are human beings has touched a population of intelli-
gent termites; call the termites in that population “the alpha-termites”. Yet, in
the course of their history (in which further contact with human beings is for
a very, very long period non-occurrent), the alpha-termites ultimately come to
the following claim: There cannot be any reasonable doubt that there aren’t
any human beings. In other words, it is rationally obligatory, for every alpha-ter-
mite, to believe that human beings do not exist. And this obligation-claim is
even true: It is, indeed, rationally obligatory, for every alpha-termite, to believe
that human beings do not exist. How could it be not rationally obligatory for an
alpha-termite to believe this, given that the truth of a proposition, as was finally
determined in this paper, is not a conditio sine qua non of the rational obligation
to believe it?¹² But, as we human beings know, the imperative of termite-reason in
question is an imperative against truth. The alpha-termites, by the way, never
learned the truth; they were destroyed by human beings before they had any
chance to learn it – which goes to show that there are certainly worse things
than being irrational: being wrong is one of them.

Appendix
(I) Principles in full explicitness: With time-index and subject-index added, P2 –
O(Bp) ⊃ O(ØBØp) – (for example) turns into: Os,t(Bs,tp) ⊃ Os,t(ØBs,tØp). If also the
quantification involved is made fully explicit, P2 turns into "s"t"p(Os,t(Bs,tp) ⊃
Os,t(ØBs,tØp)).

 Still, readers may wonder why there cannot be any reasonable doubt – for the alpha-ter-
mites – that there aren’t any human beings. The savants of the alpha-termites would tell poten-
tial doubters among the alpha-termites (and the savants would tell the truth): () There is not a
shred of dependable evidence for the assumption that there are human beings; () every phe-
nomenon in the (alpha-termite) world can be perfectly explained without assuming that there
are human beings – and entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem; () it is even “inco-
herent” to assume that there are human beings, for human beings “just don’t fit in”. This may
leave one with the impression that it is merely rationally obligatory for every alpha-termite not to
believe that there are human beings – and not that it is rationally obligatory for it to believe that
there aren’t any human beings. But the difference which looks big in logic is very small in prac-
tice – given the truth of (), (), and ().
 Truth against Reason, and Reason against Truth 183

(II) If radical skepticism is true, then the radical skeptic is irrational:

() "s"t"p(Os,t(ØBs,tp) ∧ Os,t(ØBs,tØp)) [thesis of radical skepticism]

() q* := that "s"t"p(Os,t(ØBs,tp) ∧ Os,t(ØBs,tØp)) [definition]
() B(s*,t*q*) ∧ ØB(s*,t*Øq*) [s* is a radical skeptic at t*]
() Os*,t*(ØBs*,t*q*) ∧ Os*,t*(ØBs*,t*Øq*) [instantiation of ()]
() s* is irrational at t* with respect to q* [from () and ()]

Here the actual state of epistemic rationality is of the type R3 and the actual state of
belief is of the type F2; therefore the actual situation-of-rationality-and-fact is of the
type R3 ∧ F2 – which is irrational, since F2 is irrational with respect to R3. Replacing
(3) by (3′) – B(s*,t*q*) ∧ B(s*,t*Øq*) – does not help. The only way to escape irration-
ality in the face of (1) is replacing (3) by (3″): ØB(s*,t*q*) ∧ ØB(s*,t*Øq*). But if this is
the actual state of belief of s* at t*, then s* can hardly be called “a radical skeptic”;
otherwise, the famous “man on the street”, who never thinks about epistemological
matters, would turn out to be a radical skeptic.

(III) Prima facie it may seem that “p is true ⊃ O(Bp)” (the converse of P4) is a valid
principle. However, if p is true and it is nevertheless impossible to believe p (for
example, because p just cannot be grasped by the subject of belief) then there is
no obligation to believe p. Likewise, if p is true and p is totally irrelevant for the
subject of belief, then there is no obligation to believe p. Thus, “p is true ⊃
O(Bp)” is certainly not a valid principle; but other valid principles are implicit
in the considerations that show its invalidity, for example: O(Bp) ⊃ ◊(Bp).
Philosophy of Mind
Jan Slaby
Don’t beep me, bro’! –
A Worry About Introspection¹
Abstract: I argue against the feasibility of certain employments of introspection as
a method in psychological experience research. The chief mistake that dooms these
attempts is a deep-seated misconstrual of human experience, namely, the omission
or under-appreciation of the role of agency in experience. Adopting a line of thought
that is prominent in Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations and that was later
elaborated by Richard Moran, I argue that self-constitutive agency is the linchpin
of a viable understanding of the human mind. I then illustrate how missing out
on this essential aspect of our mindedness hampers one prominent recent attempt
to revive introspection as a method in psychology – Russ Hurlburt’s experience sam-
pling method. In closing, I hint at some broader considerations concerning the dan-
gers involved in scientific objectifications of the mind.

1 Introduction: Return to the fly bottle?

Wittgenstein famously said that his aim in philosophy was “to show the fly the
way out of the fly bottle” (PU, § 309). His philosophical aspiration was to surpass
a problematic mentalism that lets each of us be encaged in our own minds. Witt-
genstein undertook it to liberate us from a pervasive and pernicious framework
of thought that would lead to skepticism about other minds and to skepticism
about knowledge in general – a framework centered around the idea that all in-
dividual thinkers ever have mental access to is their own inner representations. It
is easy to slip back into a version of this framework, as the many exemplary ep-
isodes and ways of speaking that Wittgenstein discusses in his later writings
abundantly testify. Modern thought in general is prone to fall into the Cartesian
trap, which consists in inappropriate ontologisations of an important insight,
namely that individual perceptions, thoughts or judgments might be mistaken
and thus stand in constant need of rational scrutiny. To conclude from the con-
stant possibility of error that there must be ontic mediators between thinking

 As the present paper grew out of a conference presentation, I have kept some of the informal
spoken style of in the hope that this might rekindle in the reader some of the performative force
of what was a partly polemical, discussion-provoking oral presentation.
188 Jan Slaby

subjects and objective reality is the master mistake in this area (cf. McDowell
1995).²
The worry that I will point to in the following is that some lines of empirical
work in psychology and the cognitive sciences may unwittingly contribute to
leading Wittgenstein’s fly back into the bottle. In its eager attempt to capture
conscious experience in its “full qualitative richness”, this kind of work is in
acute danger of misconstruing the mind – so that it ultimately amounts to a
giant leap backwards for philosophy as well as for science, fields that have by
and large been liberated, quite laboriously, from the worst of their mentalistic
obsessions. Accordingly, I will revisit some of the reasons for why the mental
cannot be empirically captured by introspective self-observation in the way re-
quired for scientific research, regardless of how “qualitative” and how subtle
and refined one’s experimental methods and set-ups might be. There is some-
thing flawed, or at any rate highly problematic in the very idea of first personal
description of mental life.
I will discuss my worry by bringing it into relatively sharp relief, i. e. I will
deliberately state both the views I critique and my own alternative in relatively
stark, rigorous and explicit terms. My hope is that the clarity of the contrast
will outweigh the losses in fine detail.³

2 An innocent-seeming assumption
The well-meaning philosopher reflecting about experimental work in cognitive
neuroscience might come up with the following advice: A scientific investigation
of mind-enabling bodily mechanisms had better find a role for careful, first-per-
sonal characterizations of mental states, for only then can researchers be sure to
be targeting the right kinds of explananda for their empirical investigations. The
aim is to capture mental states as they unfold so as to get a better grip on their
material foundations. It is a highly non-trivial task to individuate, and authenti-

 The following is among Wittgenstein’s most pointed statements in this domain of his thought:
“Wenn wir sagen, meinen, dass es sich so und so verhält, so halten wir mit dem, was wir meinen,
nicht irgendwo vor der Tatsache: sondern wir meinen, dass das und das – so und so – ist.” (PU § )
 A more detailed and somewhat more balanced elaboration of the problem space I address in
the following is the excellent chapter on methodology in Shaun Gallagher’s and Dan Zahavi’s
landmark book The Phenomenological Mind (). Among its many merits is a detailed dem-
onstration that the founding fathers of phenomenology, notably Husserl and Merleau-Ponty,
were quite innocent of – and themselves arduous critics of – the conceptual and methodological
flaws that are discussed in the present paper.
 Don’t beep me, bro’! – A Worry About Introspection 189

cally characterize, human mental states or mental processes. Failing to do so

would doom the sciences of the mind from the outset, because of descriptive in-
adequacy – researchers would simply look for the wrong things. Accordingly, let
experimental subjects introspect and self-report on their introspection. For this to
succeed, it is crucial to give subjects the time and resources needed to elaborate,
in enough detail and precision, on their experiences. Make use of the rich rep-
ertoire of phenomenology – and maybe meditation and mindfulness techniques
and other established methods – to refine subjects’ first-personal access to their
experience, and – if possible – train your subjects in these modes of access,
endow them with the right kinds of concepts and techniques of self-observation
so as to reap from them maximally accurate descriptions. With these enriched
descriptions in hand, investigators stand much better chances to be on target
in their search for the mind-enabling machinery.⁴
One striking example is the so-called experience sampling method developed
by the psychologist Russell Hurlburt (see, e.g., Hurlburt & Heavey 2006; Hurlburt
& Schwitzgebel 2007; Hurlburt 2009). Experimental subjects are provided with an
electronic device – a beeper – that will emit a beeping sound at various random
times during a day, upon which subjects are required to immediately halt what
they are doing and instead write down as accurately as possible what was going
on “on their minds” in the very moment that they heard the beeper go off. As it
is rather difficult to introspect accurately in this manner, Hurlburt and his collabo-
rators work hard at training their subjects so as to make them less prone to mistakes
during self-observation. All too easily, according to Hurlburt, subjects “contami-
nate” their introspective reports with retrospective interpretation, background
knowledge or temporal misattribution. With the right kind of training, so the think-
ing goes, will subjects be increasingly able to report accurately on what Hurlburt tell-
ingly calls “pristine experience” (Hurlburt 2009).
Doesn’t this sound reasonable and innocent enough, and doesn’t it make
good sense from an empirical standpoint? What can possibly be wrong with ap-
proaches like this? I think a lot goes wrong here, and quite fundamentally at

 A number of different proposals can be found in the literature. Much of it was kick-started by
Francisco Varela and his naturalized phenomenology movement (see, e. g., Varela et al. ;
Depraz et al. ; Varela & Shear ) A small step removed from the Varela roots but still
carrying echoes of it are Jack & Roepstorff (), Petitmengin () and Bitbol & Petitmengin
(). No discernibly background in the naturalized phenomenology tradition has Russell
Hurlburt, whose proposal is a particularly apt target for my present critique (see Hurlburt &
Heavey ; Hurlburt ).
190 Jan Slaby

that. Thus the title of the present paper, which expresses my central message to
Hurlburt, his team, and to all like-minded researchers: Don’t beep me ‘bro! ⁵

3 Two worries about introspective research

The problem with this introspective research strategy is that its starting point is
still fundamentally Cartesian, regardless of the often-voiced materialist convic-
tion that mind is physically realized in bodily mechanisms. One key assumption
– sometimes tacit, sometimes, as in Hurlburt, explicit – is that the mind is an
individual experiential space, accessible first-personally, that in some as of yet
unknown way maps onto processes in the brain and organism of the individual.
On this assumption, each of us is the star witness to the goings-on in a private,
inner experiential space. Accordingly, something like introspection has to be the
method of choice, it is the only real avenue to access what is of interest here.
Two related things are worrisome here. First, this understanding of the mind
leaves in place a great portion of the original Cartesian framework, viz. the in-
ward retreat of experience. The first-personal descriptive strategy assumes a
mental space, separated from the rest of the world, to which each of us has ex-
clusive, or in any case privileged access. This is fundamentally unsatisfying for
several reasons. This framework notoriously invites skepticism, and it seems to
fly in the face of much that seems evident about our predicament as situated
worldly beings.
Second, and more importantly for present purposes, this understanding of
the mind construes the relation each of us has to their own mind in terms of
a passive stance of bearing witness to mental processes and contents. It assumes
that it is an authentic predicament to be an observer of oneself, even an “inner”
observer, beholding mental goings-on on an inner stage or arena of experience.
This foregrounding of a spectatorial relationship as a model for subjective expe-
rience and self-knowledge is fundamentally misleading – a pernicious picture
that still keeps some of us captive. Crucially, such a picture of the mind is at

 This alludes to a slogan first yelled in desperation by a student in Florida moments before
police uses a taser to restrain him: Don’t tase me bro’! The slogan quickly went viral and created
some buzz, ending up on t-shirts and elsewhere (see, e. g. http://www.wired.com///dont-
tase-me-br/; visited on June , ). Obviously, part of my point is that the assumptions about
the human mind build into Hurlburt’s experience sampling research design are not altogether
outside the ambit of a mind-control-fantasy with a ring of thought police. Views of the
human mind are usually laterally entangled with visions of the political – a fact that many pres-
ent-day philosophers of mind are quite good at blocking from view.
 Don’t beep me, bro’! – A Worry About Introspection 191

odds with the all-important way in which our agency is implicated in our mental
lives – or so I will argue in the following.

4 The centrality of agency

The fact that we are agents is fundamental to an appropriate understanding of
the human mind.⁶ Wittgenstein himself said it succinctly, namely that “im An-
fang war die Tat” (ÜG, 402). Agency in the soon-to-be-specified sense is the
one focal concept that we cannot omit or reduce, it is quite simply the deepest
and most essential component of our self-understanding as mindful creatures.
The mental is inextricable from agency, in the strong, ontological sense that
the mental is itself fundamentally agentive. This is not meant in the weak sense
that mental contents are de facto often acted upon, and not in the even weaker
sense that there often is a kind of spontaneous mental activity going on in us, but
in the strong sense that what we have “on our minds” is in fact in important
parts shaped – often even literally produced – in the act, i. e. in, as and by our
own doing. In crucial respects, our relationship to our own mental states – if
we allow us to speak in this objectifying manner – is one of agency rather
than one of observation. Much of our self-consciousness comes in a package
with agency: it is the activity of making up one’s mind and the possibility of act-
ing, and being called upon to act, so as to resolve conflicts, assume a stance,
make a decision, resist or give way to an impulse, follow or break off a line of
thought, keep oneself composed, attentive, on the ready, and so on. Observation
– being a witness of one’s mental life – is secondary at best to this fundamen-
tally active, future-oriented dimension.
I adopt this centrality-of-agency position for the most part from Richard Mor-
an’s immensely illuminating elaboration of it (in his 2001 book Authority and Es-
trangement). Moran’s point is that we gain an adequate understanding of the
human mind when we place a certain form of agency at the center of the ac-
count. To have a mind is to be a mind, and to be a mind is to be a rational
agent – an agent undertaking and living up to epistemic commitments, such
as beliefs, and likewise undertaking and living up to conative commitments,
such as desires. Thus, the agency in question, when it comes to what gets usually
called “mental states”, is chiefly the making up of one’s mind about what is true
(the result will be our beliefs) and likewise making up of one’s mind about what
is worthy of our pursuit (the result will be our desires). Accordingly, mental

 In this section, I substantially draw on considerations developed by Richard Moran ().

192 Jan Slaby

states are not objective items in an inner theater of some sort, but the various
active stances adopted by a rational agent.
Take the case of being asked what you believe about some non-trivial matter
X. Do you respond to this question by looking inside yourself, to see what it is
that you believe about X? No, you rather look into the world, toward X, and
make up your mind about it – you deliberate, for instance by actively recalling
what you know about X, by judging and weighing options – thereby you shape,
actively, your attitude towards whatever is at issue. And when you avow your be-
lief, you thereby undertake a commitment that includes, among other things, a
readiness to defend your view when challenged, and to assent also to what fol-
lows from your belief, and so on. It is not a matter of just finding yourself sad-
dled, passively, with ready-made mental contents. A self-ascription about a mat-
ter X meets what Richard Moran, echoing Gareth Evans, calls the transparency
condition when it is made by consideration of the facts about X itself. Belief is
transparent to the world in this way; it is the ability to let one’s epistemic stance
be controlled by what is the case (cf. Moran 2001, p. 92– 93).
When we act and decide to resolve conflicts, we make up our minds on what it is
we should think, judge, or feel in a given situation, we adopt a stance towards things
that we’re ready to live up to against obstacles, we commit to a future course of ac-
tion, actively hold on to it or revise it in the light of new experiences, exercise guid-
ance with regard to our intending and acting in line with what we intend. Take the
case of an intention to act: in the salient cases, we do not observe an intention just
welling-up passively within us; rather, we form the intention, sometimes through
conscious deliberation, but always by way of holding on to a thought, making it rel-
evant for what we are going to do, taking and living up to a stance of intending.
Surely, there might be an element of mere impulse or inclination in the formation
of an intention, but we have an important say in letting it determine or affecting
the course of our action. Likewise, memory: we actively remember, make up our
minds about some past event, over and above merely “recalling” past sequences
of experience. There is an element of mere recall, and we depend in our remember-
ing on things popping into our mind, but the act of remembering is centrally an ac-
tive stringing together of a past episode, the activity of relating, the act of assuming
a stance to what once was and an active readiness to work it into shape for the pres-
ent encounter. And certainly thought: thinking is in an important sense an activity, a
piecing together of thought contents, drawing out relevant connections, taking a
firm stand on an issue, and also one of holding back distracting influences, actively
focusing on a topic, keeping one’s attention at the right spot, and so on.
Even emotion is in no small part a matter of agency: think of being in a difficult
social situation – is it so out of the question to ask yourself what you should feel in
this situation, and then actively resolve the issue by committing to a specific emo-
 Don’t beep me, bro’! – A Worry About Introspection 193

tional response, i.e. making a scene, bursting into anger, displaying visible anxiety,
or deflating a moment of awkward tension with a joke, etc.? But even in less con-
fusing or ambivalent situations, emotion – with the exception of primitive reflex
emotions such as panic, surprise etc. – usually is dependent upon the agent’s con-
tinuing an initial impulse by way of committing to an emotion’s evaluative and agen-
tive trajectory, to keep enacting the emotion, acting in line with its evaluative and
practical orientation. Thereby, the situation and one’s own stance in it as a partic-
ipant is actively shaped in the emotion, a certain situational value is crystallized,
made and kept manifest (cf. Slaby & Wüschner 2014).
Of course there are predominantly passive mental goings-on – sensations
such as itches, stabs, tickles and of course pains are paradigmatic –, and also
cases such as “being struck by a thought”; but even here: we don’t just register
these neutrally and leave it at that; rather, we encounter a sensation with an at-
titude, we adopt a stance towards it. There is a “take-it-or-leave-it”-moment even
with regard to initially passive mental occurrences. It makes a crucial difference
to the sensation how we let it affect us, or how we take a thought that has
“struck us” into our strides, how we go on rolling with it (cf. Helm 2001, ch. 3).
In a word: Agency is inextricable from the constitution of the kind of men-
tality that we can credit ourselves with. This all too easily gets lost on a self-ob-
servation model of mental access. Without us in this way active, called upon to
make up our minds, to resolve conflicts, adopt or sustain attitudes, to constantly
clear up the “mess inside” (Goldie 2012) as best we can, actively unify diverging
currents of experiences etc., there would be no mind as we know it. The highly
problematic metaphor of a stream of consciousness is half-way adequate only if
we acknowledge that this stream is not a subject-less transpiring, but something
that comes with a keeper, a guardian – an instance that keeps house, as it were.
The agent needs to be in the picture, on pains of missing out on what is distinc-
tive about minds like ours.
That is also why ascriptions of mental contents to a person always come with
a limited warrant, as there is never a fixated, definite content on any person’s
mind as long as the agentive core is in operation. This is because every assumed
content that becomes mentally manifest is by default subject to active shaping,
to dismissal or transformative endorsement – the mind is no chamber, field or
screen on which definite “items” make their appearance. Instead, it is the do-
main of doing – an ever-changing, active process. As Richard Moran writes
with a nod to Sartre: “no attitude or impulse apprehended by reflective con-
sciousness has any right to continued existence apart from one’s free endorse-
ment of it” (Moran 2001, p. 140). So whatever mental structures, drives, or traits
of character I am confronted with in my self-consciousness, in becoming con-
scious of them I’m both in the position to distance myself from them – I must
194 Jan Slaby

be able to see myself as distinct from these various facticities in my conscious-

ness – and I must be able to temporarily bracket off their psychic reality, I can
disengage from them so that it is now up to me to either newly endorse them,
or fight them, work against them, or acquiesce in them, or some such. To be
sure, this does not mean that I am free to choose whatever character traits or psy-
chic features I would like to possess – the view expressed here is not a crude
version of voluntarism. Rather, it means that as long as I am a reflectively
self-conscious agent, nothing I become conscious of will drift entirely free of
my endorsing, dismissing, engaging or disengaging with it. To be conscious in
the way persons are conscious is to be a self-responsible agent with regard to
whatever one becomes conscious of – and this is true even in those situations
where what one becomes conscious of is an overwhelming facticity that one
has little choice but to “put up with” in one way or other. Nothing I become con-
scious of is a foregone conclusion insofar as I am to adopt an attitude toward it
(cf. Moran 2001, p. 140).

5 An aside on the limits of empathy

The centrality of agency for our mental lives likewise tends to get lost or down-
played on models of interpersonal interaction that build on simulation or empa-
thetic perspective shifting (i. e. those “higher” forms of empathy that are some-
times called cognitive empathy as they require the complex maneuver of
projecting oneself into the shoes of another; see Coplan 2011 for clarification):
what can exactly not be simulated in empathic interaction is the agency at the
heart of the other person’s perspective on the world – the way the person com-
mits herself, takes a stand, bestows evaluative weight on the momentary options
she has, seizes opportunities, resolves conflicts among discordant thoughts or
feelings, and so on. The problem with empathetic perspective-shifting is that
the one who is shifting perspective can only ever bring her own agency to
bear (Goldie 2011; cf. Slaby 2014). Trying to simulate another’s mental states is
a kind of foreign imposition, a move close to patronizing the other because
one inevitable will take what is in fact one’s own agency (or would-be agency)
for the agency in which the other person’s mental states are constitutively anch-
ored. As agents, we are in a crucial sense “irreplaceable”; agency is in each case
essentially someone’s, there is an ineliminable moment of authentic ownership,
or Je-Meinigkeit, to use Heidegger’s term (Heidegger 1927, p. 41).⁷

 In Slaby () I have developed these skeptical considerations with regard to the prospects
 Don’t beep me, bro’! – A Worry About Introspection 195

Thus we see that this line of thought reaches back to the existentialist tradi-
tion, especially to Sartre and Heidegger. Being an agent means quite literally
being it yourself, as nobody can take over your agency and decide and live in
your stead. Following Joseph K. Schear, we can put a still slightly different
gloss on this crucial thought and frame it in the following way: being a
human subject means “being able to fail at being a subject” (Schear 2009,
p. 105; emphasis added). Subjectivity in the full human sense is an existential
task, something that has to be actively undertaken and actively kept up as
long as one continues to exist as a person. There is a constant doing, a constant
holding-it-all-together and composing oneself, keeping oneself on track, at the
ready, in the here-and-now – on pain of, quite literally, “loosing oneself”.⁸

6 Situating the agent

The agentive perspective on the mind points towards a way to resolve the first
worry I expressed above – that of the inward retreat of experience into a peculiar
“mental space”. As we have already seen, the predicament of the agent is utterly
misdescribed if we construe it as a case of dealing with mental contents – let
alone with contents that are fixated like material items, or contents individually
purified, separated from one another and stripped of their entanglements with
the world. Much rather, the correct picture is closer to this one: The agent has
to be seen as situated in the midst of worldly circumstances – circumstances
that present him or her with opportunities, obstacles, dangers, solicitations, af-
fordances – invitations or demands to act. Accordingly, when the task is to un-
derstand someone, it is advisable to ask people not about what’s going on “in
them”, but rather about their situation, their lives, about what goes on with

of empathetic perspective shifting in more detail, drawing on Moran and Goldie. There, I also
make clear that these critical considerations will not doom every understanding of empathy.
For instance, phenomenological interaction theory – based on the direct sharing of a situation,
often situations of joint agency – might offer a much more promising route to an understanding
of empathy that does not involve the vexed operation of mental perspective-shifting as in “imag-
ining-being-the-other”. On interaction theory, see Gallagher () and Krueger ().
 That to be a subject means to be able to actively fail at being one leads back in a straight line
to Aristotle’s extremely rich concept of hexis. Some of the ways in which this concept can help to
better capture the involvement of agency in our mental and personal lives are tentatively ex-
plored, with a focus on the emotions, in Slaby & Wüschner (). It may well be that this spe-
cific way of holding-oneself, of actively keeping one’s perspective on the world in play and in
shape, is exactly that which gets catastrophically eroded in cases of severe depression (see
Slaby et al.  and Ractliffe ).
196 Jan Slaby

and around them – how they are effectively situated in the world, wrapped-up in
their place, as it were. Thereby, we bring into view a broader practical context –
the concrete possibility space of the agent instead of a subjective realm of expe-
rience. Only a focus on the situation in which a person finds herself brings the
agency aspect of the mental properly into view – the existential fact that we are
called upon to act in or respond to a particular situation that we are currently
embedded in. So in the end, we do not inquire about a person’s mind, but
about a person’s life – a stance much more adequate to the kinds of active
and situated beings that we are.
This brings the view that I have sketched here in line with the theory of en-
action in the philosophy of mind and in cognitive science (see, e. g., Varela et
al. 1991; Noë 2004; Thompson 2007). Enactivism assumes a constitutive interre-
latedness of organism and environment, which presumably grounds a “deep con-
tinuity” of mind with processes of life (Thompson 2007). Crucially, the term “en-
action” refers to the specific process mode in which an organism, as part of its
self-organizing and self-preserving metabolic activity, meaningfully relates to
its surroundings – a relatedness whose working principle is not representation,
but activity in the form of viable sense-making: effective conduct aimed at sus-
taining and promoting the organism’s identity as a living being. Transposed into
the realm of adult human mentation, this means that what it is to be a mindful
being is to be understood in terms of activity in the world, not in terms of alleged
inner representational states that are about the world. The verb “to enact” is em-
ployed in a double sense, taking two different classes of objects – what is enact-
ed is both what is on the object side of a relating activity (world, a domain, a
realm of significance), and also the subjective mode of conduct, the mode of re-
lating to the object: consciousness, perception, mind etc. are enactive, i. e. they
unfold as meaningful activities in the world. Enaction thus establishes a funda-
mental mutuality: the agent and her agentive conduct on one side, and a specif-
ically enacted practical domain, an agent-specific environment on the other side.
For present purposes, obviously, the biological dimension of this, the dynamic
organism-environment mutuality, is of lesser importance. What is central is
the understanding of the mental as fundamentally agentive. Mental activity, ac-
cording to enactivism, is viable conduct in the world; being a minded creature is
nothing other than to continuously self-sustain and realize oneself in the act.⁹

 Much of this has been already developed in sophisticated ways by Merleau-Ponty, whom Evan
Thompson in particular credits as a crucial precursor to enactivism (see especially Merleau-
Ponty ).
 Don’t beep me, bro’! – A Worry About Introspection 197

7 The wrong angle on the mind

Of course there is something going on “in us”, we all also just have certain men-
tal states, we all find ourselves with mental goings-on that we’re not bringing
about directly by our own conscious agency. So I am certainly not claiming
that it is completely absurd to focus inwardly, to introspect, or even to refine
our conceptual capacities in this regard, so as to learn to discern patterns and
structures that would not be noticeable without a specifically focused or even
trained self-observation. And of course it might be possible to do empirical re-
search on this. My point is this: What we thereby reveal provides at best a
one-sided, limited angle on the human mind. Just a fraction of what is key
about being a human agent is brought in view in this way, by focusing on isolat-
ed mental episodes. One may put the point even stronger: If we take the passive-
ly generated, the naturally occurring, the “merely observable” as our paradigm
mentality, we in fact come close to framing or construing a different mind
from the one that comes in view when we take agency as the kernel of the men-
tal. This observational mind is a mind without agent, without owner, without re-
sponsibility – a realm of agent-less unfoldings, of mere happenings. It is not
much more than a series of isolated snapshots; the all important processual
core, the heart of the matter is quite simply left out.

8 Is the experimentalists’ mind made-up?

There is a particular danger here. Some experimental uses of introspection – and
many experimental settings in general – actively encourage a suspension of
agency. There are many experimental designs that urge subjects to refrain
from acting, from actively interfering in the course of their experience, in
order to just behold what “happens in them”. Many experimental settings
limit or delimit agency. One might say that the experimenter actively puts his
subjects into a passive position. This is quite pronounced in Hurlburt’s work,
where the experimentalist is at pains to stop subjects from “contaminating”
their carefully prompted self-reports from all sorts of actively added ingredients,
such as self-interpretation, reflection, comparisons with previous mental epi-
sodes, and so on. Or think of many fMRI experiments in cognitive or affective
neuroscience: It is hard to imagine a more restrictive, more agency-inhibiting sit-
uation than lying still in a brain scanner. Nonetheless, work based on fMRI ex-
periments has given rise to dominant and ever-expanding research paradigms,
for instance in social and affective neuroscience – fields that have been close
198 Jan Slaby

to the forefront of a massive scientific reframing of personhood. If the mind-as-

agency thesis as defended here is even half-way correct, these approaches effect
the opposite of what they aim at. Instead of accessing the mental “as it is” (sure-
ly a problematic idea in and of itself!), they introduce a highly artificial element
of passivity. They suspend what is most crucial about minds like ours – our self-
constitutive agency – and help build up what is indeed a partially objectified,
passive mental space.
So the risk is, in effect, that we contribute to producing, in experiments mak-
ing use of introspection, the very passive, self-objectifying subjects that are as-
sumed on those problematic mentalistic theories. That this is even possible is
an effect of our being self-interpreting animals (Taylor 1985). We can make spec-
ifications of ourselves true by taking them at face value, by, as it were, imple-
menting them in our modes of conduct and ways of life (that is what it means
to be able to commit to stances, to ways of being etc.). It is a paradoxical, or,
at any rate, highly ironical situation: The fact that the passivist mentalistic pic-
ture is misguided – the fact that our mind is exactly not a ready-made inner
sphere of passively generated contents, but rather a matter of self-constitutive
agency – comes strikingly to the fore in a process of shaping our mental lives
whose outcome may exactly be the initially wrong picture: a passive, self-ob-
sessed, objectified mind – a mind that stops considering itself as the (partial) au-
thor and sustainer of itself, stops considering itself as the instance called-upon
to actively ensure the unity, coherence and direction of a dynamic perspective on
the world. This is possible, because a deep truth about our minds is that we can
indeed shape ourselves, actively, in all sorts of existential directions, so poten-
tially even in the direction of a highly artificial passivity. In case the institutional,
discursive and technological environment that supports this framing and shap-
ing is robust and powerful enough, as might be the case with a dominant strand
of the experimental human sciences, the self-constitutive agent might be consid-
erably impeded, potentially even up to the point of vanishing entirely.¹⁰

9 The passivized mind – A product of our times?

This points to a fundamental worry familiar from recent critiques of the “psycholo-
gistic complex”: i.e. that the PSY disciplines – and their various customers and pro-

 Fortunately, this assessment might be a little premature, as indications point in the direction
of the global neuro-hype of the past two decades coming to a halt (see Slaby  and Slaby &
Gallagher  for more on this).
 Don’t beep me, bro’! – A Worry About Introspection 199

moters – create their subject matter much more than they reveal something truly
pre-existing (see, e.g. Brinkmann 2008; de Vos 2012; Slaby 2010). This pertains
also to the “self” of the “self report” in many experimental approaches in psychol-
ogy and cognitive neuroscience. How can we prevent dealing with an experiential
structure that we ourselves have framed and ushered into being in our experimental
set-ups? Let me stress one thing about this: what is thereby created might be abso-
lutely real. It is not that we just deal with a bunch of conceptual confusions that
might have little effect, as austere adherents of ordinary language philosophy some-
times tend to assume. Instead, we have to read constructivist proposals in an emi-
nently realist way. When the material and discursive surround is robust enough,
then what is conceptually constructed can be as real as anything, and so even con-
ceptual confusions can have eminently real consequences.¹¹
This has wider ramifications.¹² Could it be that today’s culture at large is in-
creasingly calling forth a passive, consumerist, self-objectifying self – so that
what we are doing in the neuroscience or psychology labs is congenial to
what is going on in globalized, capitalist societies, in companies, universities,
administrations? Is the self-conscious, reflective, responsible agent on the way
to become a relic from a bygone era – a relic from a time where there still
were significant cultural spaces for individual agency? Whereas in our time –
a time where bosses are flourishing – autonomy and rational self-determination
are on the way to becoming idle academic fictions: less and less a real option in
the socio-technological landscapes that make up today’s lifeworlds – and thus
likewise less and less real as a fundamental characteristic of ourselves. After
all, it might well be that the self of the self-report in introspective psychology
and cognitive neuroscience is “neuronal man”, the ideal template of 21st century
subjectivity. Every era has the science it deserves.

Bibliography
Bennett, Maxwell R./Hacker, Peter M. S. (2003): Philosophical Foundations of Neuroscience.
Oxford: Blackwell.

 In part, this goes against the grain of Bennett & Hacker’s () otherwise impressive Witt-
gensteinian critique of the neurosciences, in which the authors sometimes seem to imply that
nothing much in the way of “real consequences” can come out of the usual assortment of con-
ceptual confusions that neuroscientists are prone to get tangled up in. I do not think this is so,
but I cannot discuss this point any further here.
 The following is the barest of sketches; I say more on this line of thought in Slaby ().
200 Jan Slaby

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James N. McGuirk
Metaphysical and Phenomenological
Perspectives on Habituality and
the Naturalization of the Mind
Abstract: It is a commonplace amongst neuroscientists and philosophers to con-
sider habit to be a ‘naturalization’ of the mind, in which ways of thinking and
ways of acting sink below the level of conscious reflection and become thought-
less, blind, uncritical and unthinking. This paper seeks to challenge that view,
not by rejecting the idea of habit as naturalization of the mind, but by challeng-
ing the received view of what such naturalization entails. Drawing on the work of
Felix Ravaisson, and more specifically phenomenologists Maurice Merleau-
Ponty, Paul Ricoeur and Gaston Bachelard, the paper argues that close attention
to the role of embodiment and temporal unfolding in habitual acting demand a
more nuanced understanding of habit as well as of the relationship between
mind and nature generally.

In a recent article on the neuroscience of habits in Scientific American, the fol-

lowing standard test for establishing the presence of habits is described:¹

A group of rats is placed in an experimental box, and trained to press a lever, which releas-
es food as a reward. When the rats are returned to their cages, the experimenters ‘devalue’
the reward in the box either by arranging it such that the rats can eat to oversatiation, or by
injecting them with a drug that induces nausea when they eat the food. When the rats are
then returned to the experimental box, the presence of a habit is identified on the basis of
whether the rat continues to press the lever and eat the food or not. If they do so, in spite of
the fact that the reward is now unpleasant, they are said to have formed a habit. If, on the
other hand, they do not, they are said to be ‘mindful’ of the alteration in the situation and
are said not to be acting habitually.

Researchers then studied the neurological processes in play in the rats acting ha-
bitually in order to gain insight into the neuroscience of habits generally. While
there is much of interest that can be said about the details of this research, it is
not something we can go into in any detail here.
What is striking, however, is that this experiment or versions thereof, re-
mains the standard way in which habits are assessed in neuroscientific research

 Research carried out at the Graybiel laboratory at MIT (Graybiel & Smith )
204 James N. McGuirk

on the topic. It is interesting because it reveals several key assumptions about

the nature of habits. These include:
1. that habits involve actions which are carried out “thoughtlessly”
2. that this thoughtlessness is so comprehensive that even negative outcomes
will not alter habitual behaviors (or do so only very slowly)
3. that habits are actions triggered by external stimuli and involve unchanging
responses to these stimuli.
4. that the behavior of rats in an experimental box is for all intents and purposes
adequate to drawing conclusions about the habitual behavior of human beings.

These assumptions about habit are not, however, explicit hypotheses to be test-
ed. They are rather taken for granted as truisms precisely because they are so
deeply embedded in ordinary discourse on the nature of habit, something
which in its turn is at least as indebted to the filtering down of philosophical the-
ories of habit as it is to ordinary experience. Spinoza considered habits the ex-
pression of intellectual laziness, while Kant identifies them with moral torpor.
David Hume sees in habituality the persistent enactment or thinking of what
has been learned either through rote, custom and/or the contingent organization
of experience. For all three, habituality is expressive of action or thinking which
is uncritical, unthinking, and disengaged.
In the 20th century, Gilbert Ryle is acutely wary of habits in spite of his com-
mitment to forms of knowing which are not explicitly articulate. Ryle famously
argues against reducing intelligence to propositional knowledge and claims
that intelligence is predominantly characterized by dispositions to act intelligent-
ly. Intelligence is not first and foremost identified with explicit “knowing that”
but with embedded “knowing how”. But while rejecting the idea that the prop-
osition has a monopoly on the intelligent, he simultaneously rejects the idea that
habit has anything to do with intelligence at all. Dispositions are tendencies to
act intelligently, says Ryle, while habits are the result of drill and manifest no in-
telligence on the part of the agent. Take the example of the multiplication tables.
The tables themselves are the product of intelligent organization, but their reci-
tation tells us as little about the presence of intelligent agency as does the par-
rot’s recitation of a line from Hamlet. The kind of drill involved in habit “dispens-
es with intelligence”, rather than developing it (Ryle 2000, p. 42) because what it
teaches is automatic responses to identical external stimuli.
Like Aristotle, Ryle calls habits “second natures” but like Gendler, he consid-
ers these second natures to be “associative, automatic and arational” states,
which are triggered by external stimuli and which we share with non-human an-
 Metaphysical and Phenomenological Perspectives 205

imals (Gendler 2008, p. 641).² It is clear, that he considers this naturalization of

the mind as its dissolution. To act from habit, he says, “is to act automatically
and without mind to what one is doing” (Ryle 2000, p. 42). The difference be-
tween the habit and the disposition is that while the disposition involves intel-
ligent action which may seem thoughtless, the habit involves thoughtless action
which seems intelligent. This is because even to the extent that the habitual ac-
tion indicates intelligence (such as the recitation of the multiplication tables),
the performance itself is devoid of intelligent engagement.
When it comes to habit, in other words, Ryle is very much a behaviorist. And
while Graybiel and Smith do not explicitly identify themselves as behaviorists, it
is clear that their assumptions clearly are. And perhaps they have a point. These be-
haviorist assumptions do, after all, contain a good deal of intuitive reasonableness.
We often discuss habitual actions as thoughtless responses and use them to
explain the inexplicable. I turned right at the juncture even though I knew that
my destination was to the left. Why? Because, I usually take the right turn to-
wards Dublin and wasn’t thinking about what I was doing. I was acting from
habit, we say. The same road or stimulus, the same action or response. I may
even repeat this mistake time after time because the action is like a reflex that
takes over unless I consciously arrest it. The habit tends to repeat even after it
has served its initial purpose, i. e. the benefit of freeing mental space for us to
attend to other matters. This accounts for the assumption of Ryle and the neurol-
ogists, that habit is most in play when it results in counterproductive perform-
ance. The rats, we remember, were said to act habitually not because they persist-
ed in pressing the lever and eating the food but because they did so in spite of
the deleterious effects of doing so. They pressed the lever, to begin with, because
of an expected outcome. Now, they press it simply because it is there. In other
words, habit, by its nature, involves a non-intelligent engagement with one’s en-
vironment which is why it is predominantly in the light of negative results that
the presence of the habit can be definitively confirmed. This does not mean, of
course, that habitual action always yields negative results but only that the for-
mation of habits intrinsically weakens the capacity of the subject to respond
mindfully and with discernment to their environment.
In other words, the view of habit as arational does capture an important as-
pect of our ordinary experience of the habitual. However, I want to suggest that
there is more to habit than the examples given would suggest. The examples,
such as that of the rat in the box, or recitation of the multiplication tables are

 This description actually refers first and foremost to what Gendler dubs aliefs, although she
claims later in the paper that what goes for the alief goes also for the habit (Gendler , p. ).
206 James N. McGuirk

not useless but they invite hasty conclusions about habits as simply thoughtless
and, by extension, of the idea that the naturalization of the mind entailed by
habit should be understood as the loss of mind to the logic of cause and effect.
I want to consider certain suggestions that challenge the second of these as-
sumptions such that they subsequently transform our view of the first of them.
I will first outline an alternative understanding of what is at stake in the nat-
uralization of the mind than the one we have seen so far. Here I will refer to Felix
Ravaisson’s short book On habit (Ravaisson 2009). I will then show how insights
from this work are developed in Merleau-Ponty’s account of habit such that not
only an alternative understanding of naturalization is offered but also an alter-
native account of its emergence. To conclude, I will look at suggestions in treat-
ments of habit by Paul Ricoeur (2007) and Gaston Bachelard (2013) which con-
nect the notion of habit not only with a genuine way of knowing but also with
invention and creativity.

1 The alternate view

While Ryle and other purveyors of the negative view of habit often refer to habits
as ‘second natures’ after Aristotle, they do not think of habit in the spirit of Ar-
istotle, for whom it was an essential aspect not only of the moral formation of
humans but of human intellection generally. The second nature, for Ryle, is un-
derstood as the loss of the rational to nature. When employed by Felix Ravais-
son, on the other hand, the notion of the ‘second nature’ is decidedly more pos-
itive. For him, habits are not only important moral categories, but are crucial to
the formation of our knowledge of the world. Habit formation entails a natural-
ization of the mind, but he insists that this must be understood otherwise than
through the logic of cause and effect. It is placed in the context of the relation-
ship between freedom and nature or spontaneity and compulsion, but in a way
that challenges the tendency to think these dualistically. Habit is explicable in
terms of neither pure freedom nor pure nature. It is instead the intersection of
the two. What he says is that mind sinks down into nature in the formation of
habit, which is to say that nature – both in general and in terms of the being
of the human agent as natural entity – is transformed by the presence of
mind. As he puts it,

In descending gradually from the clearest regions of consciousness, habit carries with it
light from those regions into the depths and dark night of nature. Habit is an acquired na-
ture, a second nature that has its ultimate ground in primitive nature, but which alone ex-
plains the latter to the understanding (Ravaisson 2008, p. 59).
 Metaphysical and Phenomenological Perspectives 207

Ravaisson acknowledges here a certain opacity in the operation of habit. But the
reason for this is not that intelligence has given way to blind impulse but that the
once explicit initiative has become embedded in the action that is no longer ini-
tiated by an act of explicit thought. Habits may become seemingly effortless, he
says, but they do not thereby “withdraw from the…intelligent activity from which
they were born” (Ravaisson 2008, p. 57). In other words, while habit does involve
the receding of mind from acting, we should understand this as the transforma-
tion of the natural by the rational rather than as the loss of the rational to the
natural. In the formation of habit, mind is deposited in nature as opposed to
being erased by nature. Ravaisson even goes so far as to claim that the habit
over time becomes indistinguishable from instinct but in this way is to be under-
stood as revealing the “intimate essence and necessary connection” (Ravaisson
2008, p. 67) between necessity in nature and the freedom of the will. So, while
habit may involve the recession of deliberate mental acts, this recession is not to
be understood as the flight of reason but as the extension of the mind beyond
the deliberative mental act.
According to the Rylean taxonomy, habits comprise non-intelligent degener-
ations of mind which stand opposed to the genuine intelligence entailed in prop-
ositional “knowing that” and dispositional “knowing how”. For action or
thought to become natured is to become habituated and to become habituated
is to degenerate. For Ravaisson, by contrast, it is the natural trajectory of
mind to sink down into nature which is to say that habit is not the other of in-
telligent thought and action but its destiny. At this point, the disagreement is
metaphysical in nature inasmuch as Ravaisson freely acknowledges the tenden-
cy of attention to recede in habitual acting but denies that mind natured in this
way is mind lost. He reverses Ryle, we might say, in claiming that rather than
mind becoming eroded by nature, we should understand nature as giving way
to mind in this process of naturalization.

2 The phenomenological tradition

But the metaphysical is not the only possible means of challenge, as is clear from
Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenological treatment of habit. Like Ravaisson, Merleau-
Ponty is interested in exploring the relationship between mind and nature (Mer-
leau-Ponty 1983, p. 2) and, like Ravaisson, finds in habit, an exemplary instance
of the interface between the two. But the former’s phenomenological emphasis
on embodiment means that we find here an entirely different kind of contribu-
tion to the discussion of habit formation.
208 James N. McGuirk

Merleau-Ponty’s focus on embodiment opens for a new way of understand-

ing the way in which habits are acquired and not just the way they are enacted.
That meaning is first and foremost a bodily phenomenon, that is, means that
habit is not simply about depositing the will into nature, such that the latter
is transformed over time, but is equally a case of the presence of nature in the
will. He insists that the habituation of skills and indeed the habituation of
world engagement is bodily from the very beginning. The body is not primarily
an object for an “I think” (Merleau-Ponty 2012, p. 155), it is not an instrument
that is commanded by acts of intellection but is the original locus of our encoun-
ter with the world as the site of meaning.
This in turn calls for a new understanding of the role of reflection in habit.
Merleau-Ponty is undoubtedly sympathetic with the neo-Aristotelian account of
habit found in Ravaisson but rejects his prioritization of active reflection for the
exercise of intelligence and therefore for the assessment of habits as intelligent.
For Ravaisson, the habit is first and foremost the result of an act of the will which
over time recedes from conscious awareness, such that the habit is enacted as a
kind of post-reflective performance and draws its intelligence from the original
reflective act.
Merleau-Ponty, by contrast, thinks of habits as primarily formed in the ab-
sence of such explicit reflection. In other words, habits are neither ontologically
nor chronologically dependent upon acts of reflection but are rather enacted in-
telligences that primarily emerge pre-reflectively. Habits are not only, then, once
explicit or intentional actions, which over time become routine and recede from
explicit consciousness. So Merleau-Ponty might be understood as agreeing with
Ryle against Ravaisson that habits can be formed independently of acts of reflec-
tion while claiming with Ravaisson against Ryle that this is no obstacle to con-
sidering them intelligent.
He does not deny that certain habits are the result of initially explicit acts of
will but he insists that the majority of our habits are the result of the body’s
power of “dilating our being in the world” (Merleau-Ponty 2012, p. 145). That
is to say, that the body is able to incorporate significances into itself in order
to transform both itself and its environment. He says at one point that;

the body has understood and the habit has been acquired when the body allows itself to be
penetrated by a new signification, when it has assimilated a new meaningful core (Merleau-
Ponty 2012, p. 148).

He offers several well-known examples to illustrate this point which include the
blind man’s incorporation of his cane in sensing the world, the (somewhat
quaint) well-dressed lady’s adaptation to her feathered hat in navigating exter-
 Metaphysical and Phenomenological Perspectives 209

nal space and even the skill of typing which when learned is no longer the result
of explicit acts of willing the motion of the fingers (if it ever was this) but “the
incorporation of the space of the keyboard into […] bodily space” (Merleau-Ponty
2012, p. 146). It is in this sense that he speaks of the body as the site of intelli-
gence, which is able to adapt, respond and transform itself through its environ-
ment and its environment through it.
There are two crucial points worth mentioning here which constitute the dif-
ference between Merleau-Ponty’s view and that of Ravaisson. The first is that he
emphasizes the dialectic between mind and nature that comes to view most pre-
eminently in the habituality of the body. That is, there is a mutual transforma-
tion, of the mind by the world and the world by the mind and not just a one-
way sinking of mind into nature.
The second important point has to do with the very notion of the mind as em-
bodied. For Merleau-Ponty, as for Ravaisson, the habitual act is one in which will
and explicit reflection are peripheral but this is not to say that consciousness is pe-
ripheral. The habitual action is consciously intelligent as embodied, which not only
means that the habit is still considered intelligent, as Ravaisson had already claim-
ed, but also that the intelligence is more robustly given to the agent first personally,
as the felt sense of the intelligence of the act. In other words, the intelligence of the
action is not the trace of the now forgotten act of the will but emerges in and as the
body’s interface with nature. This means that even the opacity that Ravaisson was
willing to acknowledge needs to be re-evaluated. Habitual actions are opaque only
with regard to explicit reflection. When I drive, I may no longer think about shifting
gears or adapting to the road surface but this is not to say that I am not attentive.
Rather the attention which is present is predominantly an embodied attentiveness. I
attend to what I do as the body’s attunement, which is also to say that it is as this
attunement that consciousness is present in acting habitually. There are hints that
Ravaisson anticipates Merleau-Ponty on this point, but it is nevertheless first with
the latter that the idea of habit as both intelligent and emergent prior to reflective
acts is explicitly suggested.
These analyses of the notion of habit pose a significant challenge to the as-
sumptions with which we began and which continue to dominate both ordinary
and specialist discourse about what habits are.
For example, it seems illegitimate to think of habitual action as thoughtless
(claim 1). The fact that we do not think explicitly about what we are doing when
driving or typing does not mean we are not thinking at all. It does not even mean
that the thinking has receded but that, following Merleau-Ponty, the thinking is
enacted bodily.
Likewise, the dialectic between body and world that lies at the core of habit
formation as described by Ravaisson and especially Merleau-Ponty makes the
210 James N. McGuirk

behavioristic assumption (claim 3) about habit problematic. Neither would deny

that habituated action entails the naturalization of mind but reject the crude
equation of naturalization with physicalist mechanisms of cause and effect.
The habitual act is not simply a stock response to a stock stimulus but involves
a dynamic incorporation of the possibilities to act into the schema of the body.
And while the example of the rat in the experimental box is not entirely without
value (claim 4), even in assessing habituality in humans, it is far too prejudicial
as a test case to provide any significant insight into habit as such, given that the
concept of habit covers an enormous range of behaviors, from the seemingly in-
voluntary tic to complex behaviors such as the habit of critically engaging with
the prime minister’s speeches. This complexity is too often belied in the choice of
paradigm example, which does more to uncover the crypto-Cartesian prejudices
built into the way we speak and think about habits than it does about the matter
itself.
For Merleau-Ponty, as for Ravaisson, the point is to draw attention to the fact
that habits are dynamic and enacted in complex and changing environments
such that experimental designs which fix environmental conditions once and for
all provide little insight. In fact, it is arguable that the unchanging conditions in
these experiments invite the thoughtlessness that tends to develop, even in rats,
as opposed to being merely against which such thoughtless habituation develops.³

3 The temporality of habit

But while we have dealt with claims 1, 3 and 4, we still have the problem of ac-
counting for claim 2, which had to do with the tendency of habitual action to
misfire regarding outcomes. The aforementioned critiques are important but
we must avoid the danger of presenting a view of habit that simply replaces
the negative view with one that is excessively positive. We noted earlier that au-
tomatizations in habitual acting are not only a part of the way we speak about
habits, they are also experientially resonant. And while it is perhaps wrong to
make the misfiring habits the sole locus of the discussion, the phenomenologists
still have the problem of explaining how these misfires are possible.
A clue to solving this problem emerges out of two other discussions of habit in
the phenomenological tradition. These are Paul Ricoeur’s Freedom and Nature and
The Intuition of the Instant by Gaston Bachelard. What distinguishes these discus-

 Empirical support for this idea can be found in Bruce Alexander’s “rat park” experiments and
his work on addiction (Alexander , p.  – )
 Metaphysical and Phenomenological Perspectives 211

sions from Merleau-Ponty’s is that they explicitly connect the notion of habit with
that of temporality. This is important because it both allows us to account for mis-
firing habitual actions while simultaneously advancing our understanding of what
is at stake in the dynamism of habitual acting.
A clue to understanding how temporality is relevant is interestingly enough
to be found in the paradigm case with which we began. There is a temporal di-
mension in this experiment, to be sure, in the sense that it is assumed that the
habit is formed when the action that was carried out in the past is repeated into
the future. However, as we have said, it is reasonable to question the extent to
which these experimental conditions are adequate in recreating real life condi-
tions. It is more likely that the inertia or thoughtlessness which comes to char-
acterize the behavior of the rats is thoughtless precisely because they have
been conditioned to act in a context in which nothing changes. The experimental
design is, in other words, simply a poor one in achieving what it sets out to ach-
ieve.
But if this is so, how is it possible that habitualities stagnate in the way that
they sometimes do? According to both Ricoeur and Bachelard, it is because the
habit becomes disproportionately rooted in the past to the point that the actor be-
comes closed to the possibilities given in the unfolding present. In other words, the
habituated action can only maintain itself in a context, which both unfolds and also
disrupts past experience.⁴ It must renew itself in time in order to survive.
Ricoeur’s discussion of habit in Freedom and Nature is heavily influenced by
both Merleau-Ponty and by Ravaisson and in combining them, he extends the
scope of the phenomenological analyses into a more comprehensive account
of habit in human life. On the basis of his hermeneutic sensibilities, Ricoeur an-
chors the phenomenology of habit in the temporal unfolding of a human life in
general. He is concerned not only with bodily habits (Merleau-Ponty), but with
intellectual habits (Ravaisson), which may be the result of either once present
acts of knowing or may owe their origin to the tradition to which I belong and
to which I am given over.
What is interesting from our point of view, though, is the focus in Ricoeur’s
text not on the past behind the habit but the way in which it opens the future for
us. “To acquire a habit”, he says “does not mean to repeat and consolidate but to
invent, to progress” (Ricoeur 1966, p. 289). Thus, it involves opening the world
before me as offering unique possibilities to act and to think.

 This is similar to the way William James speaks about habituality as plastic enough to be al-
tered while not losing its integrity as its structure changes. (James ,  – ).
212 James N. McGuirk

The examples given are, as always, telling. While Ryle speaks of the rote rec-
itation of the multiplication tables which indeed involves something close to a
thoughtless repetition, and Merleau-Ponty speaks of typing which demands a
more nuanced understanding of habit as an incorporation of what is external
to the body into the body’s schema, Ricoeur uses the examples of the athlete,
the orator and the writer (Ricoeur 1966, p. 302).
Such examples underline the need to view habit as predominantly flexible
(Ricoeur 1966, p. 284) and inventive. The athlete’s movements, like the writer’s
pen, seek to find new ways of enacting what they have incorporated so that
they invent every bit as much as they repeat. The habit reproduces itself in
terms of a productive imagination that emerges out of the world behind the
text of experience but which is primarily concerned with discovering possibilities
for action in the world in front of that text. So habit is held in the tension be-
tween repetition and novelty – not something fixed but an unfolding that is
only maintained in its flexible and dynamic exercise.
This point is actually anticipated in Merleau-Ponty’s famous and oft cited exam-
ple of the football player’s perception of the playing area. According to Merleau-
Ponty, the player does not experience the field as an object but as a network of
“openings which call for a certain mode of action” (Merleau-Ponty 1983, p. 168)
This example has important implications for the way we think about habits.
When the football player engages the field as lines of force, he is specifically en-
gaged in a practical species of thinking that engages the field as a field of pos-
sible actions. The game has rules which mean that the lines and spaces have a
certain meaning within that context. However, these demarcations do not impel
action but invite it and they invite it by opening for a range of possible engage-
ments. The football player’s habit gives rise to a “probing”, as Ricoeur puts it
(Ricœur 1966, p. 290), which co-creates the meaning of the space in the dialectic
of transforming and being transformed, such that the agent meets the pitch as a
field of possible action which can be engaged imaginatively.
This engagement must, of course, be anchored in the past of the habit as ac-
quired. Neither Ricoeur nor Bachelard, as such, ignores the centrality of repetition
for the enactment of habits, but they insist that the habit must be maintained by a
repetition that is attuned to the novelty that each situation presents.⁵ This repetition
is one that “restructures even as it rediscovers itself” (Bachelard 2013, p. 44). We
must desire progress if the habit is to preserve its efficacy (Bachelard 2013, p. 45),
so that the football player who does not seek to play better today than he did yester-

 A comparable idea can be found in Bergson’s thoughts on the perpetuity of the novel in ex-
perience (Bergson , p. )
 Metaphysical and Phenomenological Perspectives 213

day will play worse tomorrow (Bachelard 2013, p. 38). Ricoeur calls habit “a new
structuring in which the meaning of elements changes radically” (Ricoeur 1966,
p. 288) while Bachelard calls it the “routine assimilation of novelty” (Bachelard
2013, p. 37). The habit is then transformative of what lies before us and is not
only the result of transformations of what lies behind us. This means, in turn,
that the habit which does not seek to transcend its previous limits will not simply
degenerate into automatism but will dissipate.
Habit is fragile and the actor can easily lose sight of what is before her and
give herself over to a repetition, which is mere repetition. The habit then slides
into automatism. We become buried under habits, and resign our freedom to
the weight of custom, of the “only natural”, and so on (Ricoeur 1966, p. 301).
This problem of inertia is a constant threat to habitual acting. But inertia is
only possible as a degeneration of habit in the sense of a degeneration in the felt
tension between past and unfolding present such that we precisely fail to re-
spond to the situation in which we find ourselves. The threat of ossification is
always inscribed in habit but it is not its normal destiny.
For both Ricoeur and Bachelard, the time of the subject is crucial in the anal-
ysis of habit in the sense that the unfolding of a life entails the givenness of a
present which is both continuous and which subtly breaks with the past. This
attention to the temporal is entirely absent from Ryle’s discussion and while it
is not incompatible with Merleau-Ponty’s discussion, it was not central there ei-
ther. Habitual action builds upon the past, of course, but it is enacted in the nov-
elty of the present instant. The instant, says Bachelard, presents a new aesthetic
configuration (Bachelard 2013, p. 37; p. 43) which calls for an attuned response
that modifies and transforms our capacity for action. But this means that habit
cannot be understood as either stock response, or even as a modification of the
body or mind that has been achieved. In very suggestive language, Bachelard
says that “a habit is a certain order of instants chosen from the basic ensemble
of moments in time (that) plays itself out at a specific pitch and with a distinct
tone” (Bachelard 2013, p. 43). So habit is not something achieved but the process
of achieving such that it dies if it does not continue to grow, to modify itself, and
to discover itself and the world anew at each instant.

4 Conclusion
The various phenomenological texts, which we have discussed provide impor-
tant challenges to fundamental assumptions about the notion of habit as
thoughtless, blind, uncritical, and unthinking. They do so on the basis of anal-
yses of embodiment and the temporal unfolding of habitual acting which de-
214 James N. McGuirk

mand a more nuanced understanding of habit as well as of the relationship be-

tween mind and nature.
If these accounts are credible, they are important for guiding the way in
which habits of mind and body are studied such that we can be alive to the de-
generation of habit without misidentifying this degeneration as its essence.
The habit lives, only so long as it continues to progress and discover new
possibilities for action. None of this means that habits are returned to the
realm of pure self-transparency. In the same way that bodily habits emerge
pre-reflectively, the habits of the mind escape me to the extent that there is, as
he says, an “it thinks” present in the “I think” (Ricoeur 1966, p. 294). In other
words, the life of consciousness is not perfectly transparent to itself. It is,
again in this sense, natured in the unfolding of its time. However, it remains
present to itself as long as it brings its past to bear on the demands of its present
situation. That is, it is free and naturalized. The inertial problem or the problem
of the degeneration in habit occurs precisely when this attention to detail which
habit makes possible is absent.

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Alexander, Bruce K. (2010): The Globalization of Addiction. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Bachelard, Gaston (2013): The Intuition of the Instant. Evanston: Northwestern University
Press.
Bergson, Henri (2010): The Creative Mind. New York: Dover.
James, William (2007): Principles of Psychology, vol. 1. New York: Cosimo.
Gendler, Tamar Szabó (2008): “Belief and Alief”, in Journal of Philosophy 105 (10): 634 – 663
Graybiel, Anne & Kyle Smith (2014). “Good habits and bad habits”, in Scientific
American. 310 (6): 38 – 43.
Merleau-Ponty, Maurice (2012): Phenomenology of Perception. London: Routledge.
Merleau-Ponty, Maurice (1983): The Structure of Behavior. Duquesne: Duquesne University
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Ravaisson, Felix (2009): On Habit. London: Continuum.
Ricoeur, Paul (1966): Freedom and Nature. Evanston: Northwestern University Press.
Ryle, Gilbert (2000): The Concept of Mind. Middlesex: Penguin.
Thomas Fuchs
Embodied Knowledge – Embodied Memory
Abstract: The distinction between representational and embodied knowledge
(knowing-that versus knowing-how) has gained new significance through the in-
vestigation of implicit memory. This kind of memory is formed in the course of
the interaction of organism and environment: Recurring patterns of interaction
are sedimented in the form of sensorimotor, but also affect-motor schemes. We
may speak of an implicit “body memory” that underlies our habits and skills,
connecting body and environment through cycles of perception and action.
This embodied knowledge is actualized by suitable situations or by overarching
volitional acts, without necessarily being made explicit.
The paper analyses the structure of embodied knowledge by taking the ex-
ample of learning social skills through dyadic interactions in early childhood.
It argues that the non-representational, enactive knowledge acquired in these in-
teractions is the basis of intercorporeality and empathy. Explicit or propositional
forms of knowing others (“theory of mind”) are derived from later steps of devel-
opment; they are not sufficient for explaining the interactive and empathic
human capacities. This will finally be illustrated by the example of autism.

1 Introduction
Gilbert Ryle’s seminal contraposition of two fundamental forms of knowledge,
knowing that and knowing how (Ryle 1949), may be traced back to Aristotle’s distinc-
tion in the ‘Nicomachean Ethics’ between epistêmê and technê, the first meaning
theoretic or scientific knowledge, the latter skill or craft. Bertrand Russell (1910)
has proposed the terms “knowledge by acquaintance” and “knowledge by descrip-
tion”, pointing out that the former is obtained through a direct interaction with ob-
jects or situations, whereas the latter is acquired in an indirect way, namely based
on propositional language, for example, through description or explanation.
There has been a long and still ongoing debate on whether these two types
of knowledge belong to distinct categories, or whether one depends upon the
other, and if so, which is the more basic one.¹ However, if it is true that in our

 Ryle himself as well as Dreyfus () argue that knowing how as a realization of skills, i. e.
complex dispositions, may not be translated into propositional statements, whereas Stanley
() takes the opposite intellectualist position: “Knowing how to do something is the same as
knowing a fact” (l.c., vii).
216 Thomas Fuchs

intuitive dealings with situations we always “know more than we can tell” (Po-
lanyi 1967), and if we thus could never fully describe how to dance a Tango or to
recognize the “mischievous” expression in someone’s face, then this implicit
knowing may in principle not be completely converted into declarative or sym-
bol-based knowledge.
With regard to developmental psychology too, it quickly becomes clear that
our everyday relation to the world is based on a fundamental familiarity and
skilfulness which is already acquired in early infancy before the development
of symbolically and verbally mediated knowledge. At the end of their first year
of life, babies are capable of highly differentiated interactions with persons
and objects which doubtlessly fulfil the criteria of knowledge by acquaintance,
long before conceptual knowledge of others is acquired. Here too, knowing
how precedes knowing that (on this, see below).
Nevertheless, concepts of knowledge that may be described as propositional,
symbol-based or representational are clearly prevalent in present-day cognitive
and social sciences. Whether the question is how we recognize the world in gen-
eral or how we perceive the social other, the way the question is posed already
assumes a distant observer who learns about the world not through practical in-
teraction, engagement and participation but through detached description, mod-
elling or reconstruction. To acquire knowledge then means to form an idea, a
representation or a model of the object or of the other, on which basis one
can then proceed to action. Accordingly the mind is conceived as a system of
inner models, constructs or representations which today are localized in the
brain and enable the prediction of changes in the external world. In this way,
however, the knower and the known, or cognition and the world remain separat-
ed from each other on principle.
Two related approaches are currently challenging this cognitivist paradigm,
namely the embodied and enactive approach to cognition on the one hand and
the phenomenology of the lived body on the other. Both seek to overcome the du-
alism of representational mind and external world by regarding conscious expe-
rience as a person’s being in the world through the medium of the body. Accord-
ing to the enactive paradigm, perception and action are inherently connected
(Varela et al. 1990, Thompson 2007): Feeling a surface is accomplished through
the act of touching, seeing an object is enabled through the activity of looking,
etc. Moreover, each perception already evokes possibilities for action, that
means, the objects are accessible for us, “ready-to-hand”, in Heidegger’s termi-
nology, offering affordances for our mobile body (Gibson 1979). In these percep-
tion-action cycles, however, inside and outside, or mind and world can no longer
be separated.
 Embodied Knowledge – Embodied Memory 217

In the same way, phenomenology regards consciousness not as a self-en-

closed entity, but as “being-towards-the-world” through the medium of the
body (Merleau-Ponty 1962), or in other words, as the intentional and practical
relation of the embodied subject to the objects and situations it finds itself in.
Embodiment is the primordial form of subjectivity, but it is at the same time spa-
tiality, situatedness, directedness to a horizon of possibilities which offer them-
selves to the body. On this assumption, however, the basic presupposition of rep-
resentationalism has to be dropped. For representations ‘stand for something’ of
which they must be separated. Now if the world is constituted for us only in the
ongoing interaction with it, and if we are always already bodily acting in the
world, then there is no separate “inner” which could map, reconstruct or re-pres-
ent the “outer”. In a constant circular process, no segment can stand “for anoth-
er”. This does not exclude representations within conscious experience – for ex-
ample, memories, imaginations, ideas of absent objects – but defies the monadic
conception of consciousness itself as an internal representation or modelling of
the world.
This has consequences for the question which kind of knowledge is more
basic – knowing-that or knowing-how. If the objects are primarily given or
ready-to-hand through our embodied interactions with them, and if the world
is thus always already disclosed through the medium of the body, then represen-
tational knowledge appears only later on the scene. It is called for in the very
moment when the ongoing, preflective interaction with the world or with others
is disturbed or interrupted. To use Heidegger’s example, when a hammer breaks,
it loses its usefulness and appears as merely there, “present-at-hand”, and be-
comes a problem to be solved. Similarly, when the primary, empathic, interbodily
communication with others suffers an irritation or disturbance, then we become
aware of them as “beings of their own” which are not really transparent for us. In
such situations of rupture we start reflecting or theorizing about the objects or
the others, asking for explanations, causes, mechanisms, or in other words, seek-
ing knowledge about them instead of relying on knowledge by acquaintance. This
irritation and the attempt to overcome the resulting worry may be regarded as
the root of epistêmê or science in general.
The distinction between knowing-that and knowing-how has gained addi-
tional momentum through the investigation of implicit memory. This kind of
memory is formed in the course of the interaction of organism and environment:
Recurring patterns of interaction have sedimented in the form of sensorimotor
schemas and corresponding bodily dispositions. We may speak of an implicit
“body memory” that underlies our everyday habits and skills, without necessa-
rily being made explicit (Fuchs 2000, 2012). This embodied knowledge is realized
in suitable situations through habitual action or through overarching volitional
218 Thomas Fuchs

acts. It then connects body and environment through ongoing cycles of percep-
tion and action that are based on earlier experiences.
In what follows, I will first present the concept of embodied knowledge, then
connect it with the notion of body memory in order to elaborate its developmen-
tal dimension. I will then further elucidate the structure of embodied knowledge
by taking the example of acquiring social skills through dyadic interactions in
early childhood. I will argue that the non-representational, enactive knowledge
acquired in these interactions is the basis of intercorporeality and empathy. Ex-
plicit or propositional forms of knowledge about others (“theory of mind”) are
derived from later steps of development which presuppose the capacity of per-
spective-taking. They are not sufficient, however, for explaining the basic em-
pathic human capacities, or the knowing-how of intercorporeality.

2 Embodied knowledge
Now what is embodied knowledge? – According to Ryle, knowing that is informa-
tion-based knowledge that can be asked for and communicated in propositional
language. In contrast, knowing how refers to training-based knowledge (e. g.,
how to ride a bicycle, how to dance a waltz) that cannot be reduced to a set
of propositions. It consists of dispositions for integrative perceptions and actions
which are enacted by the body without targeted attention. Granted, there is no
strict separation between both knowledge systems. Knowing that and knowing
how together may contribute to intelligent behaviour, as can be seen in the
case of an experienced surgeon (Ryle, 1949, p. 49). Propositional knowledge
then provides higher-level strategies which in turn are realized through practical,
embodied know-how. Thus, in skilful coping, top-down and bottom-up ap-
proaches work together and influence each other reciprocally.
The traditional cognitivist approach, however, has no concept of knowing
how; instead, it conceives of the mind as a disembodied system of representa-
tions and predictive models that are separated from embodied action. The stan-
dard information-processing model has a “sense-think-act” structure (Pfeifer &
Scheier 1999; Pfeifer & Bongard 2007): First, the mind is supposed to represent
the situation on the basis of stimuli processing (“sense”), then it computes the
suitable behaviour (“think”), and finally it issues the corresponding command
for bodily motion (“act”). Thus, there are three clearly divided stages of cognition
and action: input, inner computational process, and output.
This model disrupts the unity of mind and body interacting with the environ-
ment in ongoing feedback cycles. In embodied action, there is neither place nor
time for a separate goal representation which could then produce the necessary
 Embodied Knowledge – Embodied Memory 219

movement. Instead, bodily skills and environmental affordances work together

in a moment-to-moment process of continuous adjustment and fine-tuning.
There is no hidden mind that directs the body based on deliberations or calcu-
lations. In his Phenomenology of Perception (1945/2012), Merleau-Ponty describes
the example of knowing how to typewrite as follows:

[O]ne can know how to type without knowing how to indicate where on the keyboard the
letters that compose the words are located. Knowing how to type, then, is not the same as
knowing the location of each letter on the keyboard, nor even having acquired a condi-
tioned reflex for each letter that is triggered upon seeing it. […] It is a question of a knowl-
edge in our hands, which is only given through a bodily effort and cannot be translated by
an objective designation. The subject knows where the letters are on the keyboard just as
we know where one of our limbs is – a knowledge of familiarity that does not provide us
with a position in objective space. (Merleau-Ponty, 1945/2012, p. 145, emphasis added)

This knowledge is not representational, but it is not subpersonal either, that

means, only to be found in neurally realized cognitive systems. It is enacted
by the lived or subjective body, the body that I am myself as the agent of typing.
“Consciousness is originally not an ‘I think that’, but rather an ‘I can’” (p. 139), as
Merleau-Ponty writes. “I can” does not mean the conscious control of bodily mo-
tions, but rather a prereflective, protentional awareness of possible movements
that accompanies each action. It is spread over the body, as it were, on the
basis of the sensorimotor body schema. Through its habits and skills, the body
anticipates or rather implies potential actions: It is prone to act in a way that
is influenced both by its acquired dispositions and by the affordances or possi-
bilities of the present situation. The more skilled and habitualized the body’s ac-
tion, the less we are conscious of it, as William James has put it: “Consciousness
deserts all processes where it can no longer be of use.” (James 1950, p. 496) In
short, the body is the subject which knows how to act.

3 Implicit and explicit knowledge

Embodied knowledge may also be conceived, in Polanyi’s terms, as tacit or im-
plicit knowledge (Polanyi 1967) in that it cannot be explained or verbalized ex-
plicitly. When our body parts coordinate while dancing a tango, when we per-
ceive the expression of anger in someone’s face, or when an experienced
psychiatrist intuitively makes a diagnosis on the basis of various symptoms
and his overall impression of the patient, there is each time more knowledge in-
volved than we can tell. A major reason for this is that the forms of knowing how
are based on intermodal and sensorimotor gestalt units, that means, they inte-
220 Thomas Fuchs

grate different sense modalities and bodily movements into a holistic experi-
ence, as becomes obvious in tango dancing – think of the typical swing and
rhythm of a movement and its musical grounding. In contrast, verbal articulation
may only explicate single strands out of this undetermined-manifold clew of ho-
listic experience. Thus, it is able to class these strands into a general context and
to render them available to communication – yet at the price of losing the imme-
diacy and unity of intuitive experience.
Our primary experience consists of holistic impressions, encompassing gestalts
of perception and movement, whereas the single elements are only explicated sec-
ondarily: “It is the explication of the implicit which first generates delimitable com-
ponents of meaning, namely through creating precision, selective emphasis and se-
mantic relations.” (Jung 2014, p. 76; my translation). Only poetic language is able to
evoke holistic impressions. It achieves this through rhythmicity and prosody, multi-
valent usage of words and last not least through the self-referential frame of the art-
work: A poem does not refer denotatively to a pre-given reality as does ordinary
speech. Of course, the impression thus evoked is again an experience that may
not be fully transformed into propositional language.
The explicating analysis of implicit experiences into single elements gener-
ally runs the risk of losing the primary phenomenon. Examples for this abound:
A perceived facial expression is lost if one pays attention to its single features or
details. Similarly, if we focus on a body part, it often no longer functions as a
component of implicit capacities. A musician who pays attention to his individ-
ual fingers during a passage will easily make a mistake, and a tango dancer will
look ridiculous once he moves his legs deliberately like a beginner. Practitioners
in many skilled movement domains are aware that self-conscious thought can
disrupt well-practised actions.
Interestingly, a pathological loss of embodied knowledge may be found in
schizophrenic patients who often experience a fragmentation of holistic percep-
tion into single details:

I have to put things together in my head. If I look at my watch I see the watch, watchstrap,
face, hands, and so on, then I have got to put them together to get it into one piece. (Chap-
man 1966)

A schizophrenic patient of Minkowski’s was no longer able to read because ‘[…] he became
attached to a word, a letter, and did not attend to the meaning of the sentence. He exam-
ined whether all the “I”s had dots over them, whether there were accents where needed,
whether all the letters had the same form.’ (Minkowski & Targowla 2001, p. 273)
 Embodied Knowledge – Embodied Memory 221

Similarly, the units of habitual action sequences may dissolve, resulting in a

pathological explication and hyperreflexive awareness of normally tacit aspects
of everyday behaviour:

If I want to do something like going for a drink of water, I’ve to go over each detail – find
cup, walk over, turn tap, fill cup, turn tap off, drink it. (Chapman 1966, p. 239).

At times, I could do nothing without thinking about it. I could not perform any movement
without having to think how I would do it. (de Haan & Fuchs 2010)

These pathological cases illustrate again that the implicit structure of embodied
knowledge conveys a holistic mode of existence which cannot be replaced by ex-
plicit reconstruction. The body acts as the medium of our relation to the world
precisely inasmuch as it withdraws into the background of awareness. It con-
ceals itself precisely in the act of revealing the world (Leder 1992). Turning our
attention backwards on our embodied skills and habits tends to dissolve the spa-
tial and temporal gestalt units on which they are based.

4 Body memory
Implicit knowledge or knowing how is not just an innate property of the body,
but develops and constantly changes over the whole life-span. The acquisition
of skills and habits has come to be explored in cognitive psychology under
the heading of “implicit” or “procedural memory” (Schacter 1987, 1999), for
which I will use the more encompassing phenomenological notion of body mem-
ory (Fuchs 2008, 2012).
Body memory may be defined as the entirety of established practices and
skills that are available through the medium of the lived body without the
need to remember earlier situations. Habits formed through repetition and prac-
tice are activated of their own accord; well-rehearsed sequences of movements
have been incorporated, thus becoming a bodily capacity – like the upright
gait, speaking or writing, using instruments like a bicycle, a typewriter or a
piano. This bodily memory, which was first considered by Maine de Biran
(1799/1953) and Henri Bergson (1896/2007), does not re-present or “presentify”
the past, but rather re-enacts it in the ongoing conduct of life. In the last anal-
ysis, all capacities during one’s life point to a primordial capacity of the embod-
ied subject, to a basic “I can” (Husserl, 1952, 253).
There are two major ways of acquiring bodily habits and skills: On the one
hand, we can explicitly synthesize single elements of perception and movement
through deliberate training. What is perceived or performed piece by piece at
222 Thomas Fuchs

first is gradually integrated and incorporated as a novel skill. Thus, we have

learnt at primary school to spell and connect single letters until we could read
the whole words and sentences. We have learnt to dance a tango by combining
the single movements until the body had integrated them into an overarching
flow of rhythm, dynamics and movement. Granted, these learning processes
are based on pre-existing gestalt units (the word as heard, the swing of bodily
movement, etc.) in which the explicit elements may be integrated.
On the other hand, many skills and habits are acquired implicitly or unno-
ticed, namely as a “learning by doing”, just through repeated practice, be it in
dealing with objects or through interacting with others. Indeed, the most funda-
mental skills which have disclosed the world for us and upon which our every-
day practices are based have sedimented into our body memory in the first and
second year of life without any explicit teaching. This applies in particular to a
type of memory to which we owe the skill of bodily interacting with others, and
which I call intercorporeal memory (Fuchs 2012). In what follows, I will look at
some stages of its development.

5 Intercorporeal memory
Infant research has shown that newborns are already able to imitate facial expres-
sions of others like frowning, opening of the mouth, protruding the tongue, etc.
(Meltzoff & Moore 1977, 1989), later on also emotional expressions such as smiling
or surprise. This shows that they are equipped with an innate body schema which
enables them to translate the seen gestures into their own felt movement, thus gain-
ing a basic sense of familiarity with others. As early as in the first months, infants
are also capable of discerning emotions such as happiness, sadness, and surprise in
the postures, movements, facial expressions and vocal intonations of others (Hob-
son 2005, pp. 39). The basis for this is that different sense modalities and move-
ments can have the same ‘kinematics’ and thus express the same affect, which
may best be rendered in musical qualities (‚crescendo‘, ‚decrescendo‘, flowing, burst-
ing, pulsing, etc.). The feeling of joy and the various expressions of joy have similar
intermodal dynamics, and this is the basis for the direct perception of others’ emo-
tional states even in earliest childhood.
Affectivity, however, is primarily not an inner or individual state, but a dyadic
experience of mother and infant, mediated through expression and bodily reso-
nance in subtle gestural, facial and vocal interactions. Already 6 – 8 weeks after
birth, so-called “proto-conversations” arise, that means, alternating vocalizations
and gestures (Trevarthen 1979), overall a fine-tuned co-ordination of movements
and expressive signals which may be compared to a couple dance. These phenom-
 Embodied Knowledge – Embodied Memory 223

ena of “interbodily resonance” (Fuchs u. De Jaegher 2009) and “affect attunement”

(Stern 1985) generate encompassing emotional states: The emerging affect during a
joyful playing situation between mother and infant may not be divided and distrib-
uted among them, but arises from the shared social situation. Emotions are primar-
ily embedded in intercorporeality and interaffectivity.
Moreover, recurrent patterns of interaction and affect attunement are sedi-
mented as interactive schemas in the infant’s body memory (“schemes of
being-with”, Stern 1985), for example “mummy-feeding-me”, “daddy-playing-
with-me”, etc. This results in what Stern (1998) has called implicit relational
knowing – an embodied, intuitive knowledge of how to interact with others,
how to have fun together, how to elicit attention, to avoid rejection etc. It is a
temporally organised, “musical” memory for the rhythm, dynamics and under-
tones which resonate in the interaction with others. Thus, long before verbal
communication infants already acquire a primary understanding of others
through shared practices recorded in their intercorporeal memory.

6 Embodied empathy and

its disturbance in autism
This is the basis of a primary form of empathy that emerges in face-to-face en-
counters: In embodied interaction, the other is not assumed ‘behind’ his action,
but he enacts and expresses his feelings and intentions in his conduct. Embod-
ied relational knowledge conveys an intuitive awareness of the other’s affective
state. In perceiving his expressive movements and actions as embedded in the
shared context, “[…] one already sees their meaning. No inference to a hidden
set of mental states is necessary.” (Gallagher & Zahavi 2008, 185) Moreover, in
social interaction, one’s own body is affected by the other in various forms of
bodily resonance, sensations, tensions, movement tendencies etc. This reso-
nance forms part of the embodied knowledge that allows us to understand the
other’s state.
In contrast to this account, the currently predominant theories of social cog-
nition are mainly based on representationalist approaches: Concepts such as
Theory of Mind, mentalization or mindreading (Antonietti 2006, Goldman
2012) assume a fundamental inaccessibility of the other whose hidden mental
states, intentions or feelings may only be inferred from his external bodily behav-
iour by using some sort of rule-based ‘mindreading’. Social cognition would thus
be based on observation, inference and knowing that, even though it may not al-
ways be expressed in propositional terms.
224 Thomas Fuchs

However, our primary and everyday encounters with others are not observa-
tions from a 3rd person point of view, but embodied interactions within the 2nd-
person perspective. In these, we normally don’t use any imaginative modelling or
inference; instead, we immediately perceive the other’s intentions and emotions
in his expressive behaviour. Of course, we may sometimes apply methods of ex-
plicit conjecturing or inferring another’s mental state. This happens in particular
when an irritation, misunderstanding or disturbance occurs, and we ask our-
selves why the other said or did what he did, what he might be thinking or feel-
ing, etc. We can then also transpose ourselves into the other, take his perspective,
reason about his motives, search for his hidden intentions etc. As I argued at the
beginning, knowing that is called for when the ongoing, preflective interaction
with the world or with others is disturbed. But it is not the primary or default
mode of social understanding, and it is only acquired much later on in child-
hood. Rather, implicit intercorporeal or relational knowing forms the basis of in-
tersubjectivity. This may finally be illustrated by another psychopathological ex-
ample, namely autism.
As is well known, children with autism lack the basic emotional contact with
others, which leads to a variety of social, communicative and cognitive deficits.
According to current cognitive theories of autism, the disorder is due to a diffi-
culty to “read other people’s minds,” or to imagine what they are thinking or
feeling. The suggestion is that autistic people lack a “Theory of Mind” (ToM) –
the purported neural or cognitive device that computes others’ underlying inten-
tions from their perceived behaviours. In recent years, however, criticism has
been raised by phenomenological psychiatrists and philosophers, arguing that
the deficit is rather caused by failures of early interaction and intercorporeality
(Hobson 1993, Gallagher 2004, Fuchs 2015). This is supported by the fact that
many autistic symptoms such as lack of emotional contact, of interest in others,
agitation and anxiety are already present in the first years of life, that means,
long before the supposed age to acquire a ToM which is around 4 years.
I have pointed out before that knowing how is essentially based on process-
es of gestalt formation that enable us to perceive and act in a holistic way instead
of being aware of the single elements. This applies for social cognition as well:
The expression of a face is only perceived when we do not focus on a single fea-
ture or detail. Now it has been demonstrated that autistic children show prob-
lems precisely in establishing perceptual and situational coherence: They focus
on single parts or elements rather than perceiving the gestalt of objects, and
they tend to treat things and events decontextualized, thus missing their partic-
ular meaning provided by the situation as a whole (Frith 1989, Happé 1995).
Accordingly, eye tracking studies have shown that children with autism
focus on peripheral features of faces, and on irrelevant details of interactive sit-
 Embodied Knowledge – Embodied Memory 225

uations while missing the relevant social cues (Klin et al. 2003). This failure of
holistic cognition may have some positive effects such as remembering unrelated
or non-sensical items, however, it significantly interferes with the development
of social understanding. Thus, as I have pointed out above, affect attunement
is crucially based on perceiving emotional cues (gestures, facial movements,
voicings) as holistic expressions and as embedded in recurrent situations. Sim-
ilarly, understanding the intentions of others depends on learning how to relate
their gestures and actions to the context in order to grasp their meaning.
Such deficits of autistic children converge to a fundamental disturbance of
embodied social perception and interaction very early in life. They are not
able to acquire the implicit relational knowledge that is based on schemes of
being-with-others taken up into one’s intercorporeal memory. What autistic chil-
dren lack is thus not a theoretical concept of other minds but a primary sense of
bodily being-with-others. ToM-like strategies of explicit mentalizing and inferring
from social cues are rather employed by high-functioning autistic individuals as
a compensation for the lacking capacities of primary intercorporeality. Thus,
Temple Grandin, a woman with Asperger’s syndrome, described her problems
with interpersonal relations to Oliver Sacks as follows:

It has to do, she has inferred, with an implicit knowledge of social conventions and codes,
of cultural presuppositions of every sort. This implicit knowledge, which every normal per-
son accumulates and generates throughout life on the basis of experience and encounters
with others, Temple seems to be largely devoid of. Lacking it, she has instead to ‘compute’
others’ intentions and states of mind, to try to make algorithmic, explicit, what for the rest
of us is second nature. (Sacks 1995, p. 270)

These compensatory strategies enable functional interactions with others to a cer-

tain degree, but fail to establish the primary sense of being-with-others which is nor-
mally conveyed by intercorporeality and implicit relational knowledge:

She is now aware of the existence of these social signals. She can infer them, she says, but
she herself cannot perceive them, cannot participate in this magical communication direct-
ly […]. Knowing this intellectually, she does her best to compensate, bringing immense in-
tellectual effort and computational power to bear on matters that others understand with
unthinking ease. This is why she often feels excluded, an alien. (Sacks 1995, p. 272)

As we can see from Grandin’s report, the implicit relational knowledge mediated
by the body and its intercorporeal memory cannot be substituted by explicit in-
ference or rule-based theorizing; in other words, knowledge by acquaintance
with others may not be replaced by knowledge about them.
226 Thomas Fuchs

7 Summary
Embodied knowledge is the foundation of our familiarity with the world and
with other people. It is a knowledge and skill which is realized in perceiving
and reacting on situations, without needing targeted attention or memory. The
subject of knowing is itself embodied: It finds these knowings and skills not in-
side, but only in its practical engagement with the world. In contrast, representa-
tional, symbol-based forms of knowledge – knowing that – arise from an indi-
rect, secondary relation to the world which the human mind is capable of by
taking a distance form objects and situation and representing them as such.
This presupposes, however, that the world is already disclosed to us via the me-
dium of the body which has acquainted itself with the world from birth on. We
experience the world, because our body has become transparent for it; that
means, we experience the implicit actions and affections of our body as the ob-
jects and situations of our environment.
Following Polanyi (1967, 1969) we may describe this transparent structure of
our experience as an interplay between the “distal” pole, i. e. the thematic, ex-
plicit or focal object of awareness, and the “proximal” or bodily pole, which re-
cedes from attention and is known only in a tacit, non-thematic manner:

Our body is the only assembly of things known almost exclusively by relying on our aware-
ness of them for attending to something else […] Every time we make sense of the world, we
rely on our tacit knowledge of impacts made by the world on our body and the complex
responses of our body on these impacts. (Polanyi 1969, p. 147)

The body is thus “passed over in silence”, as Sartre (1956) put it. Inasmuch as we
perceive or act through an organ of our body, “it necessarily recedes from the
perceptual field it discloses” (Leder 1990, p. 14), and the same applies to the
skills that are realized by the organs. Thus as a medium, the body withdraws
in the tacit dimension; “it conceals itself precisely in the act of revealing what
is Other” (Leder 1990, p. 22), and yet remains the core of our self. The transpar-
ency of the body arises precisely from the embodied nature of the mind.
Therefore in the application of embodied knowledge or skills we are not
dealing with a blind or even subpersonal occurrence which we could only as-
cribe to a (neuro‐)physiological process. The skills that are based on body mem-
ory, such as tango dancing, are realized by tuning in to the familiar rhythm of
movement and enacting its particular style. It is I myself who is dancing, not
a body machine commanded by a disembodied mind. This allows me to conduct
and modulate the body’s enactments, like a conductor its orchestra, without hav-
ing to generate them, for they happen of their own accord.
 Embodied Knowledge – Embodied Memory 227

As we can see, embodied knowledge unburdens our attention from an abun-

dance of details, thus facilitating our everyday performances. The body and the
senses become a medium through which the world is accessible and available.
We are capable of directing our attention toward the gestalt and the meaning
of what we encounter. Action is facilitated, as we may intend its goal instead
of noticing every single movement. The will becomes free since the bodily
means and components of acting recede into the background. A primary goal-di-
rected intention suffices to release the complete arc of action. While his fingers
move the keys, the pianist is able to direct himself to the music itself, to listen to
his own play. Thus, freedom and art are essentially based on the tacit knowing
how of the body.
The body’s familiarity with the world is not innate, however, but is based on
a primary disclosure of the world which, using a stoic notion, may be termed oi-
keiosis (from the Greek oikos = house, home), that means, “indwelling” or be-
coming acquainted with one’s home. Oikeiosis develops in early childhood in
the course of embodied interactions with the world and with others, as described
above. In these, infants feel perceived and accepted by their caregivers and, em-
bedded in this affective resonance, they can acquire the skills of dealing with ob-
jects and situations. The disclosure of the world happens primarily through
knowledge by acquaintance in shared, intercorporeal practices. Thus, familiarity
with the world and with others are equiprimordial and inseparable foundations
of the lifeworld. As soon as representational or symbolic forms of cognition and
knowledge develop, they permit an extended understanding of the world and
open up new possibilities for action. However, they remain always dependent
on the primordial familiarity with the world which the body had already estab-
lished before we became aware of it.

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Michel Bitbol
Panpsychism in the First Person
(In the existentialist branch of phenomenology), writes a critic, one has turned off the
mind. It’s just the opposite. It has been put everywhere, because we are not mind and
body, we are not a consciousness facing the world, but embodied mind, being-in-the-world
– Maurice Merleau-Ponty

Abstract: A central presupposition of science is that objectivity is universal. This

does not only create a blind spot in knowledge, but also forces one to ignore it.
Several strategies were accordingly adopted in to overcome this ignorance, along
with the standard divide between continental and analytic philosophy. One of
them is Phenomenology, with its project of stripping the layers of interpretation
by way of a complete suspension of judgment (epochè), and evaluating any
claim of knowledge from such a basis of “pure consciousness”. Another one
is pan-experientialist metaphysics, that puts back pure experience in the very do-
main that was deprived of it by the act of objectification. I compare these two
approaches, thereby establishing a hierarchy of radicality between avoiding
the blind spot from the outset and compensating for it retrospectively.

1 Introduction
Pure experience is elusive because it is not. It is lying at the permanent blind
spot of what there is, for the mere reason that it constitutes the precondition
of anything that is, namely of anything that may appear. Conversely, sharpening
perceptual differences, improving the efficiency of technology, increasing the
discrimination of phenomena by scientific theories, perpetuates the blind spot
of living and knowing. Something, which being no thing is all the more easy
to forget, remains in the dead angle of knowledge; and no move forward can
ever, in principle, account for what has been left behind by this very push.
This impossibility clause expresses a limitation of science. But science also has
a more positive teaching in store about the issue of lived experience. Indeed, scien-
tific advances progressively squeeze the domain of their own silent lived precondi-
tion, thereby avoiding incorrect characterizations. The background premise of per-
ceiving, reasoning, and knowing is found to be no entelechy, no “élan vital”, no
ghost-like soul, and no spirit; for the task of those speculative entities has been care-
fully identified by scientific research and ascribed to objective “mechanisms”. Even
the words “mind” and “consciousness”, which were supposed to capture the resid-
ual enigma left in knowledge by objectification, have been redefined in terms of
232 Michel Bitbol

blind cognitive functions. Mind is understood as a system of information processing

that allows problem solving and decision making. As for consciousness, it is torn
between its original meaning which includes lived experience, and a more abstract
meaning that only encompasses the functions of meta-cognition and synthesis of
representations (Block et al. 1999, p. 375).
To sum up, scientific advances are correlated with a lexical retreat. What es-
capes scientific characterization becomes elusive, because any name which may
be given to it, is confiscated and endowed with a cognitive meaning. With no
name and no method of handling, “this” is considered (Cohen & Dennett
2011) as “outside the scope of science” (which is correct), and thereby negligible
(which is disputable).
The stakes of the search of a name for the elusive background are then high;
not, of course, to elaborate a self-contradicting objective science of the pre-objec-
tive, but to avoid neglecting the latter. To begin with, the word “consciousness”
may have unwanted connotations. Bertrand Russell pointed out that conscious-
ness is supposed to be intentional (to be consciousness of some object), and that
it can hardly encompass non-intentional states like pleasure or anxiety. More-
over, consciousness is usually associated with reflectivity, whereas what we
are trying to pick out comes prior to any reflection. “Pure experience”, borrowed
from William James (1976, p. 117), is a reasonable alternative. Indeed, experience
accommodates non-directional tonalities, and it is said to be “pure” in view of its
anticipating any conceptual structure or self-realization. So much so that it has
been found suitable by the Japanese philosopher and founder of the Kyôtô
school, Nishida Kitarô (1990, p. 3), as a valid expression of the deconstructive
way of Zen. Yet, the word “experience” (as any other word that purports to
refer to what is referring) also has its drawbacks. It suggests that there is a sub-
ject of experience, be it a “thin”, non-permanent, subject (Strawson 2006, p. 191).
The subject-object polarity is still roaming around.
An alternative lexicon has then been suggested by authors who lean towards
panpsychism but are reluctant to ascribe elementary entities of the material
world the elaborated synthetic, reflective, and self-centered consciousness
which is realized in human beings. Accordingly, their alternative vocabulary re-
lies on mass terms rather than on count terms. Whitehead, after Peirce, offered
the word “feeling” (Whitehead 1929, p. 236). William Clifford also used this term
to designate a kind of subject-free experience (“sentitur is all that can be said”);
but immediately after, he noticed that a feeling is usually a complex, and that we
still need a name for its “element” (Clifford 1879, p. 84– 85). “Mind stuff” was
accordingly retained by Clifford as a denomination of the simple, plain, sub-
ject-free “feel” of which the universe is said to be made. Much later, even the
mentalistic undertones of the panpsychist vocabulary was found misleading,
 Panpsychism in the First Person 233

and names for some sort of “proto-mental” continuum were sought. Herbert Feigl
(1960) chose the neutral word “quality”, and Ken Wilber (2000) adopted the fas-
cinating word “depth”, to capture the elusive proto-psychè. Even Nishida Kitarô
(1958) abandoned the Jamesian expression “pure experience” in favor of a more
idiosyncratic “place of absolute nothingness”, which aims at denoting a process
of self-hollowing out that gives room to manifested beings.
At this point, it is clear that:
1. Science is leaving a gaping hole, which is nothing less than the most glaring
evidence.
2. Science prevents one from conceiving this hole as some occult entity or
property that is formally similar to objective entities and properties, yet (mys-
teriously) inaccessible to its methods.

If we wish to obtain an exhaustive framework in which to accommodate the see-

ing as well as the seen, the manifestation as well as the manifest, some dramatic
initiative must then be taken.
This kind of initiative can develop along two different directions that were
mixed up until now. These two directions were taken, respectively, by analytic
philosophy and by continental philosophy. The first approach is tantamount to
moving in the same “progressive” direction as scientific research, yet speculating
in order to identify a missing property of things. The second approach consists in
adopting the opposite direction of “regression” towards the “realm of the moth-
ers of knowledge” (Husserl 1976, p. 174), namely towards the experiential back-
ground out of which the world of manifest objects is picked out and constituted.
I will document both approaches in succession, starting with a critical exposi-
tion of the “progressive” one, which identifies with panpsychist metaphysics,
and then defending the “regressive” one, as the most promising in terms of mak-
ing sense of our being-in-a-world.

2 Panpsychism as an a posteriori filling

in of the blind spot of science
Panpsychist metaphysics starts from a naturalist assumption and two crucial argu-
ments (Skrbina 2005, p. 250). The assumption is that there is only one reality,
which is physical, and optionally that physical reality consists of interacting par-
ticles of matter (Nagel 1979). The two key arguments are: (1) “the phenomenon
whose existence is more certain than the existence of anything else (is) experi-
ence” (Strawson 2006), and (2) there can be no “emergence” of experience, in
234 Michel Bitbol

view of its radical heterogeneity to any standard physical property. The first argu-
ment is usually considered as very powerful. It was expressed as a compelling de-
duction by Descartes (“I think therefore I am”, or “I am thinking therefore I exist.”
(Descartes 1985, p. 127)) But these Cartesian sentences are deceitful in so far as
their syllogistic form is utterly restrictive. Behind their logical pattern, there is
an immediate intuitive certainty (Nishida 1990) popping out from the obvious im-
possibility of living their negation. Even Dennett, the archetypal opponent of the
thesis of certainty, has retreated from (or at least nuanced) his initial assertion
that conscious experience is somehow an illusion (Blackmore 2002). In a meta-
physical context, this chief argument turns out to have momentous ontological
consequences. Bertrand Russell has expressed it beautifully, in terms that are rem-
iniscent of William Clifford’s construal of mental stuff as a basic constituent of the
universe: “Everything that we know of (the world’s) intrinsic character is derived
from the mental side” (Russell 1992, p. 402). In other terms, we can access the
world as it is in itself only by the direct acquaintance offered by lived experience
(Griffin 1997); any other kind of knowledge is derivative and subject to doubt. The
same conviction was later conveyed by Herbert Feigl (1960), the main proponent of
the mind-brain identity theory, who added that, by contrast with this first-hand,
direct, intrinsic, access to what there is, physical science is only concerned by in-
direct access to observables features and structural knowledge.
Let’s come now to the no-emergence argument. This one is more difficult to
shield against criticism, but it is reasonably sound. It has gained some credit
from Galen Strawson’s description of what emergence of unexpected macroscopic
features out of the interaction of known microscopic features would require. Accord-
ing to him, “[t]here must be something about X and X alone in virtue of which Y
emerges, and which is sufficient for Y” (Strawson 2006). The emergence of (say) liq-
uidity from an interaction of water molecules is relatively easy to account for, by
way of their Van der Waals interactions; but it looks like there is nothing in the phys-
ico-chemical description of atoms and molecules “in virtue of which” phenomenal
consciousness should arise. This obstacle was obliquely confirmed by a chief pro-
ponent of the emergentist thesis: Jaegwon Kim. In his book entitled Physicalism
or something near enough, the expression “near enough” expresses a challenge to
a standard emergentist view of phenomenal consciousness. Indeed, after a reflec-
tion in which Kim documents accepted cases of emergent features as “weakly emer-
gent” (their emergent status being only apparent, due to limitations of our concep-
tual or perceptive abilities), he concludes that phenomenal consciousness is a
unique case of strong emergence, since it is necessarily unpredictable from the mi-
croscopic properties of physical elements (Kim 2005, 2006). Strong emergence, here,
can be read as a combination of postulated emergence plus irreducible ignorance
 Panpsychism in the First Person 235

about the “in virtue of which” this should take place. If one is not dogmatic about
the postulate, ignorance is what is left.
In this gloomy situation (for emergentism), the panpsychist strategy looks in-
viting. I amounts to broadening our concept of the physical by adding to it a new
kind of property. This new kind of property purports to be commensurable to
what is missing in the physical picture of the world (phenomenal conscious-
ness), yet simple enough to avoid ascribing full-blown conscious minds to
every minute physical entity or aggregate of such entities. Since the “psychè”
of panpsychism usually encompasses too many advanced features of the
human mind, such as reflectivity, self-consciousness, mental processing, com-
plex emotions etc., this word has been replaced by more fundamental terms.
The most uncommitted word is “protopsychism”, giving rise to the doctrinal de-
nomination “pan-protopsychism”. Another, more precise, one is “experience”,
giving rise to “panexperientialism” (Nixon 2010).
But this is only the verbal aspect of a systematic rush towards elementarity.
The rush started with Leibniz’ “little perceptions” (Leibniz 1993) of simple mo-
nads, which are compared with mathematical differentials, and opposed to the
integral “apperception” of high-level monads. The same rush is still developing
currently. Attempts at characterizing the elementary spark of phenomenal con-
sciousness have been made by using the standard correspondence between
mentality and behavior (Lewtas 2013). The bottom-level experience is then char-
acterized as follows: devoid of structure and intelligence, non-representational,
fleeting, transient, repetitive, first-order (as opposed to the second-order
thoughts of reflectivity), patchy, homogeneous, yet sentient. A (non-trivial) task
is to understand how this raw material can be added up, or “integrated”, into
a full consciousness: this is the well-known “combination problem” (Seager
1995), which remains a stumbling block of panpsychism.
This being granted, one perceives a strong tension spread across the network of
panpsychist doctrines. On the one hand, the basis and starting point of this family
of doctrines is first-person experience, and on the other hand, the stance of this (as
of any other) speculative metaphysics is objectifying, external, spectator-like. Even
though its concept can be stretched beyond recognition, nature is understood by
the culturally dominant view as a horizon of description for objective science,
whereas sentience is a concept isolated from the direct acquaintance of our own
pre-objective experience. Panpsychism here looks like a baroque combination of
idealism and physicalism, which turns out not to be viable in the long run.
The dilemmas of panpychism are in fact quite acute. To begin with, the choice
of taking first-person experience as a starting point is not consistently pursued. At
first sight, the sought consistency is achieved by the demand of an ontological con-
tinuity in nature (Whitehead 1967) in terms of elementary experiences instead of
236 Michel Bitbol

physical properties. In the same way as the materialist requires that the manifest
universe be made of physical entities and properties up to the highest level of organ-
ization, the panpsychist claims that it (also) consists in “feelings” or elementary ex-
periences down to the lowest level of organization. But actually, this is a pretence,
because unlike in materialism, the ontological continuity of panpsychism does not
go together with existential continuity. The ontological continuity reached by mate-
rialism arises from constant adoption of the existential stance of intentional direct-
edness and search for objectification of phenomena. True, a massive feature (the ex-
periential non-thing) is forgotten or neglected as a consequence of this goal-oriented
stance of materialism, but this is the price to be paid for methodological unity and
efficiency. By contrast, the ontological continuity of panpsychism (experience all the
way down the ladder of an objectified nature) relies on adopting two incompatible
stances: (i) the receptive and reflective stance needed to realize that the basis of in-
quiry is indeed lived experience, and (ii) the intentional directedness needed to pin-
point the elements of nature to which experiential properties are ascribed.
A host of difficulties derives from this existential stretching which underpins
panpsychism. As mentioned previously, many panpsychists claim to be physical-
ists, or at least objectivists. But they are bound not to endorse all the consequen-
ces of a picture of the objective world derived from physics. This half-way posi-
tion was beautifully and synthetically expressed by Galen Strawson: a
panpsychist is likely to be a physicalist, but not a physicS-alist. In other terms,
despite her overt commitment to philosophical physicalism, a panpsychist phi-
losopher cannot restrict her ontology to the observable objective properties of ac-
tual physics, since she is precisely trying to complete her representation of na-
ture with “feelings”, “depths” or elementary experiences.
One consequence of this unstable position is that physics is only used as a
vague inspiration for various plausible narratives about the objective world. Let
me give two examples. A mereologically inclined panpsychist may take advant-
age of a mereologic view of objectified nature to prop up her doctrine. She may
establish a one-one correspondence between her atoms of sentience and the el-
ementary particles of high-energy physics, trying to figure out what it is like to be
such a particle (Lewtas 2013). By contrast, a holistically inclined variety of pan-
psychist is likely to prefer the field-theoretic representation of quantum physics
(or even classical electromagnetism), thus connecting the power of synthesis of
consciousness with the continuum of a field. These two varieties of panpsychists
then hold antipodal representations of the world, borrowed from various do-
mains of physics chosen for their analogy to a given function of consciousness.
But they also share a common mistake. Both of them seem to ignore that no such
representation is to be taken at face value, as a picture of nature-as-it-is-in-itself,
but rather as a picture-like tool for orienting predictions and actions (Bitbol 1996;
 Panpsychism in the First Person 237

Van Fraassen 2010). In other terms, the majority of panpsychist physicalists

adopt alternately a naïve attitude towards physics, by adhering to the dubious
ontological claims of its popularizers, and a distant attitude towards the
sound epistemological lessons that can be drawn from it.
Another unwelcome consequence of the panpsychists’ combination of physi-
calism and distance with respect to physics, is that they must define the “phys-
ical” in abstracto. A widespread proposition of this sort is borrowed from Neu-
rath’s well-known characterization of physicalism (Neurath 1983): this doctrine
is concerned by phenomena located and extended in space-time. Panpsychism
is then defined as the position that holds that (i) “the universe is spatio-temporal
in its fundamental nature” (Strawson 2006), and (ii) spatio-temporally located
elements are endowed with protopsychical qualities. Space-time here seems to
be given the status of a repository of those “external” entities and qualities
whose “interiority” is protopsychical. This may be acceptable from the stand-
point of an intentional/objectivistic stance, but not from the standpoint of the
receptive/reflective stance. In the latter stance, even the spatial oppositions of
internal and external, right or left, higher or lower, are supposed to arise from
the structure (Ruyer 2012) and/or activity of the knower. This conflict of two op-
posite conceptions of space is no novelty. It was already vivid at the beginning of
the eighteenth century, when orthodox Newtonians defended an absolutistic ver-
sion of space, whereas Leibniz considered that space expresses the system of re-
lations of (sentient) monads. And the same conflict was brought to completion
by Kant, who contrasted a transcendental realist and a transcendental idealist
conception of space-time as “a priori forms of sensibility”. Thus, even the min-
imal, non-physicS-alist, expression of physicalism is at odds with the allegedly
experiental starting point of panpsychism. As Erwin Schrödinger cogently point-
ed out, once lived experience has been left aside in order to elaborate an objec-
tive picture of the world, “[i]f one tries to put it in or on, as a child puts colour on
his uncoloured painting copies, it will not fit. For anything that is made to enter
this world model willy-nilly takes the form of scientific assertion of facts; and as
such it becomes wrong” (Schrödinger 1986, p. 148)
To recapitulate, panpsychists have so much focused on recovering an onto-
logical continuity in nature without forgetting its experiential feature, that they
have shattered their own existential continuity in doing so, thus generating a
host of difficulties and conceptual conflicts. Borrowing bits and pieces from phy-
calism and attempting to bring them to completion by adding a first-person-like
ingredient turns out to be a deadlock.
238 Michel Bitbol

3 Phenomenology as a priori fullness

From this point on, the way is open to a completely different strategy that would not
only accommodate the glaring fact of lived experience, but that would stick to it con-
sistently throughout. This strategy is phenomenology, which is a descendent of tran-
scendental idealism. But the alternative strategy is no caricatural or metaphysical
version of idealism. Instead of claiming that consciousness is all there is, it contents
itself with advocating a receptive/reflective stance and making sense of everything
else (including science) from the standpoint of that stance. Husserl’s phenomenol-
ogy is no theoretical idealism, but rather an attempt at describing faithfully the ex-
periential soil of practical life (Husserl 2007, p. 48). This strategy is no doctrinal as-
sertion about the nature of Being (say ideal, as opposed to spatio-temporal), but the
uncompromising adoption of a way of being.
Let us further realize at this point that the epistemological lessons of modern
physics (especially quantum physics) are perfectly consonant with the basic
stance of phenomenology. Indeed, from the standpoint of a reflective stance, it
is natural to understand theories in terms of the mental and performative condi-
tions for acting in the world, rather than in terms of what they capture of the na-
ture of an allegedly independent world. Along with this approach, physical the-
ories are not concerned with representing the world as it is in itself, but rather
with expressing the structure of a wide class of adaptive transformations. Kant
thus showed that the structural core of Newtonian mechanics can be derived
from the general preconditions of objective knowledge of spatio-temporal objects
called material bodies (Kant 2004). Far from having an empirical origin and a
representational status, this structure is provided in advance by the project of
objectifying a fraction of what is presented to us in sensible experience. A similar
strategy can be adopted to understand reflectively, rather than representational-
ly, the structure of quantum theory (Bitbol 1998, 2011).
Adopting the phenomenological stance then has momentous consequences
for the premises of the problem of consciousness. Firstly, the starting point of in-
quiry in experience is not only confirmed by phenomenology but also stabilized
and explored. Secondly, from a phenomenological standpoint, no reason is left
for sanctifying the “physical” of physicalism. For a phenomenologist, if “physi-
cal” is taken to mean “observable in space-time”, adopting a physicalist doctrine
is tantamount to turn incorrectly the spatio-temporal objects of perceptive atten-
tion and intentional directedness into intrinsically existing beings. And, if “phys-
ical” means falling into the domain of validity of physics, or being encompassed
by the concepts of a physical theory, it becomes even more obvious to a phenom-
enologist that no ontological status can be granted to it. Indeed, from a phenom-
 Panpsychism in the First Person 239

enological standpoint, those concepts are nothing more than by-products of an

enactive (Varela et al. 1992) process of sense making applied to what appears.
The basic slogan of panpsychism is thus completely overturned. According to
panpsychists, there is more to the physical (namely to nature) than what a physics
of observable objective properties can tell us ; and only in this “more” can the nu-
cleus of lived evidence be accommodated. By contrast, along with a phenomeno-
logical approach, the said “more” does not come after, but before any observa-
tion and any theorizing has occurred. Antecedently to what appears, there is
appearance; antecendently to things that can be shown, there is the showing;
antecendently to present items, there is presence.
Many difficulties of panpsychism are automatically dispelled by adopting the
phenomenological stance. Firstly, phenomenology is not underpinned by a couple
of mutually exclusive positions or attitudes (the reflective and the objectifying) ; it
rather understands the need and meaning of each approach, including the objecti-
fying one, from the standpoint of its receptive/reflective attitude taken as a refer-
ence. Secondly, phenomenology is not concerned with the “combination problem”
of panpsychism, namely the problem of building a whole of synthetic experience
out of a plurality of elements of experience dispersed in the world. It bypasses
this problem not, of course, because it relies on a holistic physical representation,
but because it bases its enquiry on a gestalt-like starting point: the present, global,
embodied experience of the researcher. The typical question of phenomenology is
not “how does the whole of experience arises from protoexperiential sparks?”,
but rather “how can one describe by means of discontinuous words a present inte-
grated experience?”. Thirdly, the method of phenomenology for accessing the most
elementary forms of experience is neither rational nor observational, but lived. Un-
like panpsychism, phenomenology does not rely on the “behavior” of physical ob-
jects, to figure out indirectly what it might be like to have a simple transient expe-
rience. Instead, it uses a direct method of access that digs through our cumulative
kind of experience, stripping it layer after layer of its perceptive or intellectual fab-
rications, and trying to reach beneath it a deeper layer of pure presence. This meth-
od is called the epochè (suspension of judgment and attentional focusing), and it is
assisted by successive “reductions” of what appears to strata of less and less elabo-
rated structures of appearance. The method can be radicalized by meditation, cul-
minating with the ability to see any present object or mental activity as a naked
presence (this is the realization of “suchness”, Tathatā in Sanskrit). Fourthly, the on-
tological issue is not skipped by phenomenology but rather transformed beyond
recognition. Instead of adopting a distantiated ontology of observable objects (as
in the natural sciences or a panpsychist extension of this distantiated ontology
(that encompasses conceivable atoms of experience), phenomenology adumbrates
an ontology of immersion, of connivance, of acquaintance. Phenomenology, in its
240 Michel Bitbol

mature form, looks for an “oblique ontology” of intertwining (Saint Aubert 2006), or,
as Merleau-Ponty writes, an “endo-ontology” (Merleau-Ponty 1964, p. 279). This is
an ontology expressed from the innermost recesses of the process of being, rather
than an ontology of the external contemplation of beings.
A (may be too) simple theoretical tool offered by Husserl to make sense of the
regressive path that goes from elaborated consciousness to elementary experience,
is the distinctions he made between: the (sensory) matter and the (pre-conceptual)
form of experience; the hylè and the morphè; the noesis (flux of lived experience)
and the noema (structure of the intentional object). One may then oppose: (i) the
non-intentional hyletic and noetic components of consciousness that represent
what is left after experience has been stripped of its interpretative layers, and (ii)
the noematic intentional structures that have to be bracketed, neutralized in
order to make the former component appear. But this immemorial separation be-
tween matter and form is undermined when Husserl points out that even the inter-
pretative layer made of intentional acts and noematic structures, partakes of what is
the case in pure experience: “What is lived includes in its real (reell) composition
not only the hyletic moments (colours, sensory sounds), but also the apprehensions
which animate them” (Husserl 1950, p. 339).
Michel Henry took advantage of the latter reflection to disrupt Husserl’s hy-
lemorphism. According to him (Henry 1990), any experience, be it the experience
of an “external” object, or the experience of abstract forms, or the experience of
one’s own mental acts, ultimately is an experience of the self-affection of one’s
flesh. Russell’s examples of pleasure and pain are taken as paradigmatic, and
even intentionality, even the assumption of transcendence of natural objects,
must be rooted in the immanent impression that the flesh of the living being
is making on itself. In other terms, even the morphè is experienced as hylè;
even the perception of a patch of colour on some “outer” object is underpinned
by a self-perception of the perceiver. Intentional consciousness is borne by non-
intentional experience, and therefore the deepest layer of the archaeological
stratification of consciousness is nothing else than a naked self-sensitivity.

Original can only mean this: what comes in itself before any intentionality and independ-
ently of it, before the space of a gaze, before the “outside oneself” of which intentionality is
only a name; what comes […] before the world, out of the world, foreign to any conceivable
‘world’, a-cosmic. (Henry 2000, p. 82)

In other terms, what comes before intentionality, and before the belief in a world,
is the non-directional impression of being embodied, the silent voice of the body
whose psychological name is “cenesthesia”. But once again, unlike the natural-
istic program, which would account for the latter impression in terms of natural
 Panpsychism in the First Person 241

objects in the human body, the phenomenological program adopts a diametrical-

ly opposite stance. It starts from the deepest layer of what we are, and then jus-
tifies the belief in a natural world as a consequence of the differentiation of such
primeval experience.
This phenomenological program was radicalized in Merleau-Ponty’s posthu-
mous book, The Visible and the Invisible. According to Merleau-Ponty, “we can
accept a world … only after having witnessed its arising from our experience
of raw Being, which is like the umbilical cord of our knowledge, and our source
of meaning” (Merleau-Ponty 1964, p. 209). The first move must be to identify the
characteristics of the “experience of raw Being”. In order to do so, Merleau-Ponty
does not rely on discursive thought, but on tacit “thought-experiments”, which
are in fact experiential experiments. Let me give two explicit examples of
those experiential experiments, as close as possible to everyday life. The first
one is to be performed by opening our eyes and weakening progressively the ten-
sion towards identifying a variety of objects in the visible environment. If we do
that, we cease to see ourselves as a bodily object in front of other objects, and we
realize something even more stunning than Ernst Mach’s well-known “self-por-
trait”. We perceive distinctly that the seeing emerges from the midst of what is
seen, from a sort of hole of transparency which breaks through its dense impene-
trability, and that this density is boundless, extending far beyond our skin. The
second experiential experiment is done with our eyes shut. It consists in rubbing
a cloth or a smooth stone, concentrating the attention on the sensation that aris-
es from this contact, and suspending judgments about objects. Then, what is felt
is an undifferentiated mass of sensation in an atmosphere of reversibility: one
can hardly say if what is felt is the friction of the hand on the cloth, or the caress
of the cloth on the hand, for there is no contrast between the two feelings.
The discursive expression of what is experienced in such occurrences could
be called radical situatedness. Indeed, in view of this kind of experiential experi-
ments, we are not onlookers of a nature given out there, but rather intimately in-
termingled with it. We are not point-like spectators of what is manifest, but a
field of experiences which merges with what appears in a certain region of it.
From a theoretical standpoint, this immediately gives rise to what has been
called an endo-ontology, an ontology of the participant in being, rather than
an ontology of the observer of beings. Here, Being is not presented before me
as an object of sight, but my vision arises from the middle of Being. “Vision is
the tool which allows me to be absent to myself, and to contemplate from within
the fission of Being.” (Merleau-Ponty 1985)
From an experiential standpoint, the way is open to realizing what is usually
neglected due to educational prejudice, namely our true complicity with a nature
which has too hastily been isolated from us, as if it could be reduced to an object
242 Michel Bitbol

of perception and thought. But as soon as we have settled in this state of coin-
cidence, what do we perceive exactly, or, more exactly, what is perceived through
us? Merleau-Ponty answers this question with a single word: our flesh. We per-
ceive our flesh not as something separate, but as a self-perceived perceiver.
The flesh is that strange being endowed with reversibility, since it is jointly per-
ceived and self-perceiving. The archetypal case of a two-faced kind of perception
is the sense of touch, which, unlike distantiated vision, is synchronously appear-
ance of what is touched and self-revelation of the touching in its carnal thick-
ness. Besides, the sense of touch has also a less organical way of revealing
the twofold nature of the flesh, in so far as one can perceive by means of one
part of one’s own body (say the left hand) the softness and resistance of some
other part (say the right hand). Here, one is no longer dealing with the fusion
of standard perception and intrinsic self-perception, but with a duality of status
and functions (toucher and touched) realized by one and the same body. This sec-
ond, milder, case of reversibility is also realized by vision, since the flesh is both
seen as this (human) visible body, and seeing from a certain hollow location of
this body in the middle of the head.
This description of our own situation is almost trivial. But dazing triviality is
the subject matter of phenomenology. Phenomenology is this unique discipline
that sharpens our sensitivity to trivial yet primeval facts of experience which are
usually ignored due to our exclusive fascination for objects.
From this point on, Merleau-Ponty turned triviality into a thrilling epics of
being. He invited us to let go any ready-made objectified analysis of the
world, especially its division into bodies (mine and yours, living and inert
etc.). He recommended to become fully receptive to experience as it is, with its
unbounded, massive, opaque style of appearing, instead of perceiving it through
the glasses of our adult educated system of distinctions. As soon as this is done,
the outcome is stunning. Even the identification of the flesh to this precise body
is bound to melt, since the process of self-definition and positing boundaries be-
tween bodies has been voluntarily suspended. The whole surrounding world is
then perceived as an extension of “my” flesh, and it thereby becomes the flesh
of the world, the world as flesh. “Where should we locate the boundary between
the body and the world”, Merleau-Ponty asks, “since the world is flesh?” (Mer-
leau-Ponty 1964, p. 182) There are no such things as “me”, “you”, and the
world, but a single canvas wherefrom various self-individualizing centers of sen-
sitivity emerge, and which leaves patches of elementarity and half-obscurity be-
tween these centers (Barbaras 1993, p. 304). The role of constituting objectivity,
which had been entrusted to the transcendental ego by Husserl is further extend-
ed to whatever has the status of a flesh by Merleau-Ponty. But since the flesh is
boundless, any division between the constituter of objectivity and the constitut-
 Panpsychism in the First Person 243

ed objects is meaningless. Just as the flesh is self-perceiving, the world qua flesh
is self-objectifying.

4 Conclusion
We can see at this point some similarities and a huge gap between panpsychism
and Merleau-Ponty’s boundless phenomenology of the world-flesh. In both
cases, any difference of nature between mental and mindless, sentient and
inert beings is denied. In both cases, experience suffuses what there is. This
point of convergence is so deep and so striking that one is surprised to find a
recent historian of panpsychism declaring that there is no equivalent of a pan-
psychist tendency to be seen anywhere in phenomenology (Skrbina 2005). But
it is also true that panpsychist approaches and Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology
use so deeply antagonistic methodologies, that the former similarity can easily
be overridden. Panpsychist metaphysics starts its inquiry with the centers of
meaning of an adult activity and objective knowledge; and it sticks on them spar-
kles of experience whose content is imagined by a behaviorist extrapolation. In
other terms, panpsychism takes the ordered cosmos of reason and science for
granted, and painfully adds to it what looks absent in it. By contrast, phenom-
enology is a strategy of extreme deconstruction of the cosmos of reason and sci-
ence, not because it ignores it but because it purports to reach its fountainhead.
Such fountainhead can be exhumed below the strata of perceptive and scientific
interpretations, and it turns out to be an unelaborate embodied experience of
self-sensitivity. Then, as soon as this embodied experience is brought to (its
own) light, it appears that there is, and can be, nothing else. The usual distinc-
tion between experience and its worldly objects relaxes, and what remains is
only a world of experience. To sum up, the difference is between gluing bits of
experience onto an allegedly given “external” world, and (re)discovering the
world qua experience, neither external nor internal.

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Karl Mertens
What Is It Like to Be an Angel?
The Importance of Corporeally-Situated Experience
for Our Concept of Action
Abstract: This article seeks to show that any sound theory of action needs to take
the bodily and situated nature of self-experience into account. To this aim, Nagel’s
famous question ‘what is it like to be a bat?’ is modified by asking: ‘What is it like
to be an angel, i.e., a creature which is not bodily situated in the world?’. In order
to explain what is entailed by the idea of the disembodied existence of angels, the
considerations refer to what Thomas Aquinas treats as the essential features of an-
gels’ existence. Following Nagel, it is subsequently argued that the reasons why
we cannot imagine what it is like to be an angel from an angel’s perspective
are immediately clear and indisputable. However, there still remains another ver-
sion of Nagel’s question: what is it like to be an angel from a human being’s per-
spective? It is argued that, for reasons related to the constitutive situatedness of
experience, this question cannot be answered either. In contrast to Nagel’s consid-
erations about bats, the present article is not interested in defending an epistemo-
logical claim on the subjective quality of consciousness against the claim of reduc-
tionism. Showing that we cannot possibly conceive of what could be called a
human angel’s world, the article rather develops some tentative and programmatic
considerations about what the limitations of our imagination imply for our self-un-
derstanding. Emphasizing such limitations allows us to defend the need to appro-
priately account for the structures of bodily situated existence in order to develop
an adequate theory of action.

In his famous article “What Is It Like to Be a Bat?” Thomas Nagel designs an in-
triguing thought experiment (Nagel 1974). He requests us to imagine the quality
of the experiences of a bat; i. e., what it is like to be an animal whose behavior is
based on an orientation through sonar. Even if we readily concede that the bat’s
orientation is a possible kind of sense perception, we cannot imagine the con-
crete quality of such a perception because its structure differs fundamentally
from our own experiences. As a consequence, although we ascribe awareness
and sensitive perceiving to bats and might even be able to imagine what it
would mean for us to be a creature like a bat, we cannot imagine what it is
like to be a bat from the bat’s own perspective. In the final analysis, this experi-
ment fails, thereby demonstrating the limits of our imagination. For us, it is im-
possible to imagine the specific quality of experiences of creatures whose per-
248 Karl Mertens

ceptual structures essentially differ from ours. However, it does not fail because
a bat’s experience is not possible. On the contrary, Nagel’s thought experiment is
firmly based on the idea that bats have sensory experiences. What these reflec-
tions show is that any inquiry into consciousness needs to account for the insep-
arable relationship between forms of consciousness and a species-related sub-
jective perspective.
In the following, I would like to modify Nagel’s thought experiment by ask-
ing a similar question: What is it like to be an angel? – It doesn’t matter if you
happen not to believe in the existence of angels. All we need is a concept of
what may be called an angel. For this purpose, I refer to some classical remarks
by an expert in philosophical questions concerning angels: Thomas Aquinas.
However, unlike Aquinas, I am interested in taking a phenomenological stance
toward angels by asking whether we are able to describe a kind of experience
which can possibly be ascribed to angels. If we follow Nagel, it becomes imme-
diately clear that we cannot imagine what it is like to be an angel from an angel’s
perspective. However, there remains another version of Nagel’s question I would
like to deal with: What is it like to be an angel from a human being’s perspective
(cf. Nagel 1974, p. 169)? In contrast to Nagel’s considerations about bats, I am not
interested in an epistemological thesis that defends the subjective quality of con-
sciousness against the claim of reductionism. Showing that we cannot possibly
conceive of what could be called a human angel’s world, I will instead present
some tentative and programmatic considerations about what the limitations of
our imagination imply for our self-understanding. I especially want to stress
the importance of our bodily situated existence for an adequate theory of action.

1
To start, I would like to single out the most striking essential characteristic of
those beings called angels: In contrast to us, angels are not corporeal entities;
they have no bodily existence. This widespread view about angels also appears
in Thomas Aquinas, who states: “Angeli non habent corpora sibi naturaliter
unita” / ‘angels do not have bodies naturally united to them’ (S.th. I, q. 51, a.
1, c.).¹ Aquinas positively characterizes an angel as ‘creatura pure spiritualis’,
a “purely spiritual creature” (S.th. I, q. 50). In contrast to creatures like us and
animals that are – to take up a Platonic metaphor – imprisoned in a fading mor-

 Slight modifications of the Latin text (for grammatical reasons) or partial revisions of the
English text are marked by simple quotation marks.
 What Is It Like to Be an Angel? 249

tal body, angels are imperishable, i. e., they are immortal (S.th. I, q. 50, a. 5, c.).
As purely spiritual beings, they have intellect and will. According to Aquinas,
these potencies do not require corporeal organs to realize their activities (cf.
S.th. I, q. 54, a. 5, c.).
At first glance, it is already clear that angels are not situated in the world like
human beings. I would like to elaborate on this a little bit more. Since angels are
not localized in a body, they have no sensible perception. Although Aquinas ar-
gues that an angel is aware of material things, according to him this awareness is
not sensory, but occurs rather through a pure intellectual power (cf., f.e., S.th. I,
q. 57, a. 1, c.). Furthermore, angels have no affections because incorporeal enti-
ties have no sensitive part of the soul (S.th. I, q. 54, a. 5.). Moreover, it is prob-
lematic even to ask whether an angel perceives its environment, since an
angel does not have a spatio-temporal ‘environment’ as we do. Angels do not
exist in space and time – at least not in the sense we do.
Although Aquinas states that angels have a place and are able to move
under the conditions of time (cf. S.th. I, q. 52, a.1, c.; q. 53, a. 3, c.) because
they are created beings (cf. S.th. I, q. 52, a. 2, c.), this spatial and temporal exis-
tence has to be understood rightly. Regarding their spatial existence, angels do
not have localized presence in the sense of tactile experience and extension.
Rather, they are said to be virtually present wherever they happen to be acting.
As Aquinas explains:

[A]n angel and a body are said to be in a place in quite a different sense. A body is said to
be in a place in such a way that it is applied to such place according to the contact of di-
mensive quantity; but there is no such quantity in the angels, for theirs is a virtual one.
Consequently an angel is said to be in a corporeal place by application of the angelic
power in any manner whatever to any place. (S.th. I, q. 52, a. 1, c)²

Concerning their temporal existence, Aquinas clarifies that we cannot measure

angelic time according to our human temporal existence. Angelic time refers
to the sequentiality of angelic acts, not to a temporal extension. In any case it
“is not the same as the time which measures the movement of the heavens,
and whereby all corporeal things are measured” (S.th. I, q. 53, a. 3., c.).³ As a con-
sequence, we, as finite beings localized in worldly space and time, have no

 “[A]equivoce tamen dicitur angelus esse in loco, et corpus. Corpus enim est in loco per hoc,
quod applicator loco secundum contactum dimensivae quantitatis. Quae quidem in angelis non
est; sed est in eis quantitas virtualis. Per applicationem igitur virtutis angelicae ad aliquem
locum qualitercumque, dicitur angelus esse in loco corporeo.”
 “Sed istud tempus […] non est idem cum tempore quod mensurat motum caeli, et quo men-
surantur omnia corporalia […].”
250 Karl Mertens

means to adequately understand and grasp what it is like to have an angelic

power and to be at a place or to move under conditions of time in the sense
of angelic beings. In any case, Aquinas’s explanation demonstrates that we can-
not imagine the existence of an angel in a way that is comparable to our own
existence as beings situated in a spatio-temporal context.
Assuming this rough concept of an angel, I think we can maintain, like
Nagel, that it is impossible for us to imagine what it is like to be an angel
from an angel’s perspective. However, we are confronted with a deeper problem
of imagination with regard to angels, because we cannot even understand what
it is like to be an angel from a human perspective. The key reason has already
been identified: While bats and humans have in common a bodily existence
(even if their embodied experiences are quite different), angels have no corporeal
being at all. In this respect, we are absolutely unable to imagine what it would be
like for us to be an angel.⁴ In the following I would like to highlight four reasons
why we cannot answer this question.

2
First, one might object that according to Aquinas, there are at least some respects
in which angels are like human beings. After all they have intellectual capacities
as we have; they are able to think and to acquire knowledge. However, what does
“thinking” mean in the case of a purely spiritual being? If we take a further look
at the Summa theologiae, we can see that Aquinas describes the cognition of an-
gels by negating essential features of human knowledge. He explains that where-
as ‘the lower, i. e., human, intellects reach perfection in knowing truth by a kind
of movement and discursive intellectual operation; that is to say, as they ad-
vance from one known thing to another’ (S.th. I, q. 58, a. 3, c.),⁵ the angel’s
knowledge is not discursive.⁶ ‘The angel does not understand by reasoning,
nor by composing and dividing’ (S.th. I, q. 58, a. 4, c.),⁷ i. e., by composing a pred-

 Note that the question “what would follow if we were angels?” is quite different from the in-
tention of Aquinas who is interested in analyzing the nature of angels in the context of his theo-
logical-philosophical reasoning.
 “[I]nferiores intellectus, scilicet hominum, per quendam motum et discursum intellectualis
operationis perfectionem in cognitione veritatis adipiscuntur; dum scilicet ex uno cognito in
aliud cognitum procedunt.”
 For a more detailed analysis of this and the following points see Goris , pp. .
 “[R]elinquitur quod angelus, sicut non intelligit ratiocinando, ita non intelligit componendo
et dividendo.”
 What Is It Like to Be an Angel? 251

icate with a subject. In fact, for Aquinas, that which we would need a proposi-
tion to articulate, angels grasp in a single glance all at once. Moreover, since “an
angel understands not by composing and dividing, but by understanding what a
thing is” (S.th. I, q. 58, a. 5, c.),⁸ an angel is not susceptible, as we are, to failures
in the intellectual process of forming false sentences or false syllogisms (for de-
tails, see S.th. I, q. 58, a. 5, c.). Obviously such an intellect is quite different from
ours, most of all because its understanding occurs without temporally extended
acts of reflecting and reasoning. Hence angels are able to gain a form of knowl-
edge that represents all spiritual things at once (cf. S.th. I, q. 58, a. 2, c.).⁹ They
survey the field of cognition in a single moment (S.th. I, q. 58, a. 3, c.).
In contrast to the angelic intellectual life as Aquinas explains it, the human
intellect is constitutively characterized by the temporal features of a particular
kind of activity. This is the case because our own mental life is essentially con-
nected with our bodily existence. For example, even if we are dealing with prob-
lems of formal logic or mathematics, we must constantly work to keep our focus
on a given problem and avoid distraction. We can merely concentrate our think-
ing efforts to a limited number of problems and usually only to one problem at
once. And we can fail in our reasoning. Because of the constant possibility of
error, we often must double-check our work. In short: even mere intellectual
acts are exhausting for human beings. A chess player loses roughly three pounds
of weight during an intense six-hour game. Thinking is hard work – for us.
Perhaps there are also human kinds of timeless thinking accompanied by a
reduced level of bodily consciousness. In this context one might mention intel-
lectual experiences like intuitive knowledge of principles in a moment, pure con-
templation or what might be called intellectual flow experiences. These forms of
thinking seem to be effortless; the thought or idea does not arrive bit by bit in a
reasoning process, but rather just happens to a person instantaneously. Howev-
er, these are exceptional cases of thinking which could not be characterized
without reference to our ordinary corporeally-situated forms of thinking. More-
over, if we do achieve such an intellectual experience, it is embedded in ardu-
ous, temporally-realized cognitive processes in which we work through problems
that are then suddenly solved by the corresponding insight, flow, or surmounted

 “[A]ngelus non intelligit componendo et dividendo, sed intelligendo quod quid est.”
 One should note, however, that Aquinas insists on the limitations of angelic knowledge in
comparison to divine knowledge. The knowledge of angels is a knowledge “per speciem”
which has to be distinguished from God who knows everything “per essentiam” because he him-
self contains the whole intellectual reality. For God’s knowledge according to Aquinas cf. S.th. I,
q. , aa.  – . The differences and the relationship between the knowledge of God and of the
angels are discussed, e. g., by Goris , pp.  and pp. .
252 Karl Mertens

by contemplation. It is a moment in which the character of reflecting changes

from an arduous, temporally-structured act to an event occurring to someone.
Therefore, it is not experienced as an intellectual activity in the proper sense
of an activity structured by temporal conditions, but rather as a form of extraor-
dinary passive happening. Taking these considerations into account, we can say
that we might have an intellectual experience of moments of an intellectual flow.
However, we have no experience of the quality of a permanent flow. We cannot
imagine the style of incorporeal thinking that does not at all require intellectual
efforts of concentrating and focusing attention on an intellectual problem and
that does not fatigue the thinking person after some time. Such thinking is dif-
ferent in kind rather than in degree, because we experience flow essentially as
an exception, framed against our normal corporeal experience.

3
Second, according to Thomas Aquinas, angels are willing entities like us (cf. S.th. I,
q. 59, a. 1, c.). Willing is a kind of pursuit of something aligned with an appropriate
act realizing, or at least trying to realize, what is strived for. More accurately, Aqui-
nas characterizes the angel’s will by its tendency towards the good, which is finally
realized by the cognition of the divine essence (cf. S.th. I, q. 59, a. 1, c.). Because of
its immateriality, an angel’s will does not refer to exterior acts – which means that it
does not cause changes of physical states in the world. Rather, the will of an incor-
poreal creature applies to interior acts, i.e., to spiritual states like cognitions (cf.
S.th. I, q. 59, a. 1, c.). It might seem as though certain kinds of human willing cor-
respond to this angelic willing. For example the will to know or the will to control
one’s own will in the sense of Harry Frankfurt’s second order volitions. – But if we
try to understand and even to imagine this concept of pure spiritual willing more
accurately, we encounter serious difficulties. Willing requires, at minimum, that
the willing agent strive to cause an inner or outer state by his or her inner or
outer action. This means that someone who wills is involved in a situation which
can be changed by his or her will in at least some aspects. Therefore a willing crea-
ture is necessarily confronted with an inner or outer state that he, she or it wants to
modify or overcome. Therefore willing something includes as a necessary condition
the formulation of tasks and problems the willing person intends to solve. However,
it is not even possible to give an adequate description of what situation might
prompt an angel to will something. The reason is that all humanly conceivable
ideas include reference to a bodily existence located in space and time. According
to Aquinas, whereas ‘every body is determined by the ‘here’ and ‘now’ (S.th. I, q. 50.
 What Is It Like to Be an Angel? 253

a. 1, c.),¹⁰ angels are not subject to temporal-spatial conditions since they are incor-
poreal and immortal entities. However, without this situational background, we can-
not truly imagine the concept of an angelic will as a kind of (pure spiritual) willing
by means of comparison with the phenomenon of human willing.
Taking the aforementioned reflections about angelic intellect and will into
consideration, we have to deny that an angel is able to act in a sense that is hu-
manly comprehensible. Hence, it is hard for us (or even impossible) to under-
stand how, as Aquinas states, intellectual and volitional powers do not require
bodily organs (cf. S.th. I, q. 54, a. 5, c.), but only the capacities of intellect and
will. The use of this power cannot be understood as a form of action, in the
sense of something that alters physical or mental states in the world. As men-
tioned above, the intellect of an angel cannot be conceptualized as an act in
the latter sense; and the angelic willing is not the will to change an inner or
outer situation to be described by referring to a perspective of temporally struc-
tured bodily existence. In contrast, understanding how an angel may act requires
us to consider how angels could be linked to a bodily existence. This converges
with Aquinas who thinks it is possible for angels to use a corporeal body tempo-
rarily in order to become visible and perform actions (S.th. I, q. 51, a. 2, c.). There-
by angels are able to perform “opera vitae”, acts of (mortal) life (S.th. I, q. 51, a. 3,
c.; cf. a. 2, c.). But Aquinas adds that even in this case the bodily movement
which an angel performs is not necessarily limited to the spatial-temporal con-
ditions of human actions (cf. S.th. I, q. 53, a. 1, c.; a. 3, c.).
By means of negation, we may gain from these considerations a deeper self-
understanding of our own willing and acting which necessarily requires embod-
ied agents who are involved in situations. It is common to understand action as a
willed or intended behavior. Since it is intentional or voluntary, an action differs
from mere behavior in essential respects. For this reason, the standard theory of
action has centered around intentional concepts like “will” and “intention”. Con-
sequently the contemporary philosophical discussion has extensively treated the
question of how an intention can cause a physical state in the world. However,
there are still relatively few reflections about the contexts and situations we are
confronted with when we act (cf. the report in Leist 2007). If we consider the sit-
uations and contexts of human agency, some of the most fundamental insights
are connected with the fact that agents are embodied persons.¹¹ Focusing on the
meaning of a bodily existence of agents, philosophy of action not only turns out

 “[O]mne corpus determinatur ad hic et nunc.”

 This point is highlighted by fundamental reflections coming from a phenomenology of living
bodies (see, for instance, Merleau-Ponty).
254 Karl Mertens

to be more concrete but also to reflect essential conditions which have been fair-
ly neglected in the mainstream of the previous theory of action.

4
Third, there is no individuation without bodily existence. – So far, I have been
speaking about angels as if they were individual persons. But speaking more
strictly, this seemingly harmless claim has to be reconsidered now. It was stated
above that for an angel as an incorporeal entity there is no worldly situation at
all – at least in a human sense. As a result, the concept of an incorporeal indi-
vidual existence is also deprived of meaning. Peter Frederick Strawson has point-
ed out clearly that a strictly incorporeal entity cannot be understood as an indi-
vidual. To gain a self-understanding as an individual, an angel or another entity
without a corresponding body must at least refer to a bodily existence in its own
past. Strawson writes:

The other, and less commonly noticed point, is that in order to retain his idea of himself as
an individual, he must always think of himself as disembodied, as a former person. That is
to say, he must contrive still to have the idea of himself as a member of a class or type of
entities with whom, however, he is now debarred from entering into any of those transac-
tions the past fact of which was the condition of his having any idea of himself at all. […] In
proportion as the memories fade, and this vicarious living palls, to that degree his concept
of himself as an individual becomes attenuated. At the limit of attenuation there is, from
the point of view of his survival as an individual, no difference between the continuance
of experience and its cessation. (Strawson 2006, p. 116)

The continuation of the quote adds a nice twist: “Disembodied survival, on such
terms as these, may well seem unattractive. No doubt it is for this reason that the
orthodox have wisely insisted on the resurrection of the body.” (Strawson 2006,
p. 116) Taking a look at Aquinas’s angelology once more we can notice that for
him – in contrast to philosophers like Scotus – individual angels, by virtue of
their immateriality, must be conceptualized as a species (species infima) (cf.
S.th. I, q. 50, a. 4, c.). The ontological background of this claim is Aquinas’s un-
derstanding of matter as the ultimate principle of individuation of creatures.
Thus, without matter there can be no individuality. Again it is to be stated
that the concept of an ‘individual’ angel as species infima essentially differs
from the concept of individuality we use to distinguish living entities and
which is decisive for our experience of individuality.
To summarize: We have to deny the possibility of asking in the style of Nagel
what it is like to be an angel – be it from an angel’s perspective, be it from a
 What Is It Like to Be an Angel? 255

human perspective. The ultimate reason for this is that Nagel’s question “what is
it like to be” aims to develop the subjective quality of the consciousness or ex-
perience of a creature as a finite entity characterized by its own standpoint
and perspective anchored in an individual bodily existence. However, in the
case of angels there is no sense available to us to talk about a perspective, an
individual standpoint or experience, because angels are incorporeal and not
creatures situated in the dimensions of space and time familiar to us. – Against
this background one can formulate the basic but not trivial insight that actions
are performed by individual agents with a view of their own perspectives.¹²

5
Fourth, angels as creatures without a temporally and spatially situated body are
not social beings in any sense understandable to us. We cannot conceive of a
form of communication that does not presuppose mutual perception and inter-
action. In this sense an angel seems to be damned to a kind of solipsistic exis-
tence. Strawson brings out this solipsistic character of incorporeal existence in
his chapter about persons in Individuals by pointing out that “[…] the strictly dis-
embodied individual is strictly solitary, and it must remain for him indeed an ut-
terly empty, though not meaningless, speculation, as to whether there are any
other members of his class” (Strawson 2006, p. 115). However, we could even
ask whether the concept of solitariness meaningfully refers to anything in the
case of angels, since for beings without any worldly and social situation, the cat-
egory of solitude would be meaningless insofar as it presupposes the experience
of a social world.
I should point out that Aquinas would reject Strawson’s view that incorpo-
real beings would be necessarily solipsistic, since he explicitly states that angels
recognize one another. Yet, interestingly, they do this not by a kind of social com-
munication, but rather by what he calls “internal word” (verbum internum).
Aquinas thus posits a specific mechanism for angelic communication:

And by the fact that the concept of the angelic mind is ordered to be made known to an-
other by the will of the angel himself, the concept of one angel is made known to another;

 This point has been elaborated by Paul Ricœur in his criticism of the contemporary standard
theory of action. According to Ricœur, the theory of action as developed by Anscombe and above
all by Davidson does not take into account the relevance of the agent because of its prevailing
interest in analyzing action in the context of an ontology of events (cf. Ricoeur , third sec-
tion, pp. , esp., for example, p. ).
256 Karl Mertens

and in this way one angel speaks to another; for to speak to another only means to make
known the mental concept to another. (S.th. I, q. 107, a. 1, c.)¹³

However, one could ask in a critical vein whether this description is really mean-
ingful. What could the contents of angelic communications be if their knowledge
is not grounded in a perspective of situated bodily existence? It is not convincing
that angels have to let other angels know something because angels already pos-
sess an identical knowledge. A better explanation might point out that Aquinas
ascribes free will to the angels, so that angels are distinguishable in their will.
This is the reason for a kind of privacy of their thoughts that cannot be immedi-
ately known by other angels but may be communicated to them (cf. Goris 2012,
p. 182; cf. Roling 2012, p. 236). However, from a phenomenological standpoint, it
is hard to clarify how an angelic communication based on their different wills is
possible. In any case, this communication could not be compared in any way to
human communication which is interested in a social exchange and in a social
participation that transcends our personal and individual limitations. For in
these cases we would have to introduce a situated will of an angel which stands
in contrast to the aforementioned considerations.¹⁴
If we use these thoughts about angels to reflect on human agency, even so-
cial context turns out to be a constitutive condition of action. To illustrate this I
will take a look at normal situations in which we talk about actions, like – for
example – a quarrel about the question of whether another one hit me intention-
ally or only accidentally (cf. Mertens 2013, p. 148). This means: we want to clarify
whether someone has acted in the proper sense of the term or whether he or she
merely behaved. Such situations demonstrate the following: Whenever an action
is performed and we talk about it, we presuppose that something was or is done.
Even though it might sometimes be difficult to tell whether the thing done was
an action at all and even difficult to identify exactly what was done, as soon as
we call something an action, we identify it in specific regards or at least try to
understand it as an action which is defined in certain ways. Actions are specified
as actions. This demonstrates that, in a broad sense, actions have normative
character, which means that actions are defined by certain rules an acting person
has to comply with. And, as a matter of principle, we never decide about such

 “Ex hoc vero quod conceptus mentis angelicae ordinatur ad manifestandum alteri, per vol-
untatem ipsius angeli, conceptus mentis unius angeli innotescit alteri: et sic loquitur unus an-
gelus alteri. Nihil es enim aliud loqui ad alterum, quam conceptum mentis alteri manifestare.”
 It should be mentioned that researchers of Aquinas probably would not share the former cri-
tique. Goris, for instance, states that “there is not a fundamental, only a gradual, difference be-
tween humans and angels” (Goris , p. ).
 What Is It Like to Be an Angel? 257

rules on our own – as we can say following Ludwig Wittgenstein and Peter
Winch. Following rules is a public matter. By communicating with others we de-
fine what it means to perform this and not that action; we ascribe actions to one
another clarifying why person A and not person B is responsible for a specific
action. And we also find categories which can be applied to judge the specific
way of performing an action. In short: communication about our behaviour is
an essential precondition of our concept of action. As an attempt to transcend
the perspectives of the participants, communication presupposes the bodily sit-
uated existence of the involved individuals.
I want to finish by pointing out the main conclusion of my considerations: Both
the social and individual sources of our concept of action presuppose corporeally-
situated agents like us. Therefore, it is no coincidence that the talk of angelic actions
seems to be fundamentally flawed – at least to our human ears. We simply cannot
imagine what it is like to be an angel. However, by dealing with the concept of in-
corporeal entities like angels we may gain relevant insights in fundamental struc-
tures of our own experience, particularly as acting persons.¹⁵

Bibliography
Goris, Harm (2012): “Angelic Knowledge in Aquinas and Bonaventure”. In: Tobias Hoffman
(Ed.): A Companion to Angels in Medieval Philosophy (Brill’s Companions to the
Christian Tradition, vol. 35). Leiden, Boston: Brill, pp. 149 – 185.
Leist, Anton (2007): “Introduction: Through Contexts to Actions”. In: Anton Leist (Ed.): Action
in Context. Berlin, New York: Walter de Gruyter, pp. 1 – 51.
Mertens, Karl (2013): “Soziale Dimensionen der Normativität. Perspektiven einer
phänomenologischen Analyse handlungskonstitutiver und sozialer Normen”. In: Dieter
Lohmar / Dirk Fonfara (Eds.): Soziale Erfahrung (Phänomenologische Forschungen 2013).
Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag, pp. 145 – 164.
Nagel, Thomas (1974): “What Is It Like to Be a Bat?”. In: The Philosophical Review 8,
pp. 435 – 450; again in: Nagel, Thomas: Mortal Questions. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, first published 1979, 11th printing 2006, pp. 165 – 180.
Ricœur, Paul (1990): Soi-même comme un autre. Paris: Édition du Seuil.
Roling, Bernd (2012): “Angelic Language and Communication”. In: Tobias Hoffman (Ed.): A
Companion to Angels in Medieval Philosophy (Brill’s Companions to the Christian
Tradition, vol. 35). Leiden, Boston: Brill, pp. 223 – 260.

 I am very indebted to Therese and David Cory as well as Jörn Müller who corrected my Eng-
lish text and gave me valuable hints regarding the topic of Aquinas’s angelology. In addition I
am much obliged to Michela Summa for linguistic and philosophical critique of an earlier ver-
sion of this contribution.
258 Karl Mertens

Strawson, Peter Frederick (2006), Individuals. An Essay in Descriptive Metaphysics (1st ed. 1959).
London, New York: Routledge.
Thomas Aquinas (S.th) (1988): Sancti Thomae de Aquino Summa Theologiae, Milan: Edizioni
Paoline.
Thomas Aquinas (S.th.) (no year): Summa Theologica (Christian Classics Ethereal Library)
http://www.ccel.org/ccel/aquinas/summa.pdf [Last accessed 12/2/2015].
Social Philosophy and Collective Intentionality
Thomas Szanto
Do Group Persons have Emotions –
or Should They?
Abstract: Group person, if there are any, are not made of flesh and blood. Can
they, nonetheless, have an emotional life of their own? But why should they in
the first place? And what if they cannot? Are, then, group persons ‘fictional’ en-
tities or some robotic ‘artificial’ person? Finally, do corporate entities that lack
certain affective abilities necessary for moral conduct, moral address or account-
ability, such as fellow-feelings or sympathy, exhibit psychopathic behaviour, as
some have indeed argued? These are the questions I wish to address in this ar-
ticle. I will do so by, first, outlining the main positions in the contemporary
socio-ontological and moral-philosophical discussion on group personhood,
and showing how, surprisingly, almost none of the available accounts pay any
attention to the question of whether emotions, of some sort, may be attributed
to group persons (section 2). I will, then, explore four central reasons that
could motivate to pursue the task of attributing emotions to GP in the first
place (section 3). Next, I will reply to the two most apparent reasons that
could militate against such an attribution (section 4). I shall conclude that
there seems to be no principled reason to repudiate the possibility of group per-
sons who may in fact exhibit some form of sensibility—whatever emotional rea-
sons there may well be for being afraid of them.

1 Introduction
Group persons, if there are any, are not made of flesh and blood. Can they, none-
theless, have an emotional life of their own? But why should they in the first
place? And what if they cannot? Are, then, group persons only “soulless”, “fic-
tional” entities, as the Scholastics already declared (Kantorowicz 1957), or some
robotic, or “artificial” person, as Hobbes would later famously put it? Finally, do
corporate entities, which lack certain affective abilities necessary for moral con-
duct, moral address or accountability, such as fellow feelings or sympathy, ex-
hibit psychopathic behaviour (Bakan 2004)? These are the questions I wish to
address in this article. I should note here that, although I do not intend the
title of this paper to be taken simply as a rhetorical question, I will not offer
any conclusive answer to it either. What I wish to do, instead, is to think more
seriously about the conditional: what kind of ontological and normative concep-
262 Thomas Szanto

tion of group personhood would result if we either accepted or rejected the view
that group persons have emotions.
I will first do so by sketching the contemporary socio-ontological and moral-
philosophical discussion on group personhood and showing how, surprisingly,
almost none of the available accounts pay any attention to the question of
whether emotions, of some sort, may be attributed to group persons (section
2). I will then explore the most important reasons that could motivate such an
attribution (section 3), and conclude by replying to the two most apparent rea-
sons that could militate against such an attribution (section 4).
To get an initial flavor for the issue at stake, consider the following type of
statements that we can regularly encounter in the media: ‘G.M. is concerned
about the steep rise of oil prices’; ‘Germany deeply regrets the war crimes com-
mitted in Greece.’ Such statements have also been recently analyzed by a num-
ber of authors working on collective emotions (e. g., Gilbert 2002; Tollefsen 2003;
Huebner et al. 2010; Huebner 2011; Gilbert 2014; Schmid 2014). No matter how
one specifies their subject (as legal, artificial, etc.), such statements are not
only attributed by third parties but are often also self-attributed, as in the follow-
ing self-promotion issued by a computer company: “HP is a firm where one can
breathe the spirit of interrelations […]. It is an affective relationship” (cited from
Illouz 2007, p. 22).
Now, it seems little contentious that the mental or psychological states at-
tributed in such sentences or self-ascribed in the above statements are emotions
or affective states (regret or worrying), or are laden with some emotional import
(being concerned about). Moreover, many today would agree that these and
many similar statements have group or corporate persons as their subjects.
Let’s, then, take a closer look at the current discussion.

2 Mapping the contemporary landscape

In the past few decades, a number of philosophers working on the metaphysics
of personal identity have raised the question whether individuals can integrate
into a single personal unit that differs from ordinary, human-sized persons (Par-
fit 1986, p. 211; Korsgaard 1989; Rovane 1998). The issue of group personhood
has also been considerably fueled by debates on collective intentionality and
group agency (see references below).¹ Further, in times of ever more concentrat-
ed corporate power, one can witness a growing interest in the respective norma-

 See Szanto a and b for a phenomenological reassessment of the current discussion.
 Do Group Persons have Emotions – or Should They? 263

tive and political questions. For example, some have inquired whether we have
proper obligations towards group persons, or whether they have, above and be-
yond moral accountability (French 1979; Manning 1984), any moral or political
rights of their own, such as the right for protection, the right to persist, or the
right to freedom of speech (Ozar 1985; Stoll 2005; List & Pettit 2011; Briggs
2012; Hess 2013; Hindriks 2014; Kusch 2014).²
Unsurprisingly, there is no consensus regarding what properties, rights or
obligations entities must bear in order to count as persons, or what the necessary
and sufficient conditions of individuating persons are. A number of proposals
have been made, which often enough either confound or else deliberately mix
cognitive or rational properties and practical, deliberative, or agential, as well
as moral, faculties. The situation is not much different when it comes to group
persons (henceforth GP). Beyond merely legal, business ethics, and sociological
or political theory conceptions of corporate personhood,³ in the barest outline,
we may discern the following four main types of socio-ontological GP-construals
in the current literature:⁴
1. The Moral Address and Moral Agency Attribution Account: Though ontologically
there are no proper GP (or, alternatively, whether or not there are such), a col-
lective C can, and in fact should, be counted and treated as a GP, if C is the ap-
propriate target of moral address. Thus, if (i.) C’s morally relevant joint action is
irreducible to a subset of or the aggregation of the individual members’ actions,
and if (ii.) either the moral practice of attributing (collective) responsibility to C,
or the interpersonal practice of entertaining so-called reactive attitudes (à la
Strawson 1968), such as resentment, gratitude, forgiveness, blame, etc., towards
C, are justified, then C should be treated as a (characteristically personal) sub-
ject bearing moral agency, accountability and responsibility (Finnis 1989; Toll-
efsen 2003; Graham 2004; see also with slightly different emphasis, Manning
1984; Sheehy 2006; Huebner 2014; cf. Hess 2013).

 This is particularly pertinent after the  Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission US Su-
preme Court ruling, according to which corporations are entitled to free speech rights under the First
Amendment; see: http://www.supremecourt.gov/opinions/pdf/– .pdf, cf. Hess .
 Think of the most influential types such as the “realist”, the “fiction” or the “legal aggregate”
theory of corporate entities; cf. French ; Hager ; Bratton ; Runciman . From
the veritable industry of historical systematic legal- and political-scientist treatments on this
issue, see Dan-Cohen ; Mark ; Hirst ; Blumberg ; Ireland , and
Wendt .
 Consider that the issue whether persons, qua social beings, are part of our social ontology is,
though obviously related, orthogonal to the issue of whether that ontology includes group per-
sons; for a positive recent argument of the former issue, see Baker .
264 Thomas Szanto

2. The Moral Personhood Account: Certain groups and corporations are, onto-
logically, proper persons, if they are intentional and moral agents who are
licensed by having a “Corporation’s Internal Decision Structure” (CID). CID
is a “responsibility flow chart” that, together with certain corporate decision
rules embedded in corporate policies and recognized as such, determines
the levels of, and ratification, exercise, and control of agency within, a cor-
poration’s power structure (French 1979).
3. The Collective Self-Concept Account: A collective has “person-like proper-
ties”, such as the capacity to intend, act, plan, regret, or hope, if its mem-
bers take a first person plural perspective and have a “shared self-concept”
(which also includes membership-criteria and is common knowledge among
members) (Mathiesen 2003).
4. The Unity of Rational Agency and Social Integrate Account: A collective quali-
fies as a group person if it is a unified intentional agent that has its own “ra-
tional point of view” (Rovane 1989), from which it deliberates, and which
guides its actions and the formation of new beliefs and commitments, and
that may well be discontinuous with the rational or “deliberative stand-
point” (Korsgaard 1989) of each and every member of the group. Moreover,
such “social integrates” (Pettit 2003) can be collectively held (morally) re-
sponsible for the failure to rationally unify or integrate their actions and be-
liefs (see also List & Pettit 2011; Szanto 2014).

Clearly, these are not incompatible accounts. On the contrary, as should strike
the reader obvious, there are various interrelations between them, and especially
between (2), (3) and (4). One may also lay the emphasis on some other typical
properties of personhood that distinguish corporate persons, such as voluntari-
ness of association, remorsefulness for moral transgression, openness and an-
swerability (Scruton 1989), or “conversableness” (Pettit 2003; Pettit/List 2011).
Notice also that only (1) represents a sort of (Dennettian or Davidsonian) “inter-
pretationism” that, despite taking the attribution of (moral) personhood to col-
lectives to metaphysically be an open question, or to be unjustified even, still
sees it as necessary for normative and explanatory reasons (cf. Tollefsen
2003). All other accounts grant collectives the proper metaphysical status of
being persons.There are also some possible intermediate positions between (1)
and (2): e. g., one may hold that GP are, though moral agents, no full-fledged per-
sons, because they have no full-fledged moral (but only conventional, or collec-
tively accepted) rights (Ozar 1985). Alternatively, one may hold that the important
question is not metaphysical but, rather, whether groups ought to be treated as
individual moral persons, and whether we should have the same scruples about
 Do Group Persons have Emotions – or Should They? 265

being fair to them or holding them morally responsible as we do in the individ-

ual case (Manning 1984; see more below, sec. 4).
Meanwhile, there is very little explicit opposition to the attribution of per-
sonhood to collectives – which is curious enough, given that, even among rather
hard-boiled realists about group agency, there is only a handful who are, how-
ever scarcely, willing to make such attributions explicit.⁵ Those who explicitly
argue against GP typically deny (1) to (4) altogether, doing so either precisely
on the ground that collectives are not moral agents (Ranken 1987), and hence
not persons or, conversely, that they are not persons, and hence are proper bear-
ers of neither moral rights, nor agency (cf. Wellman 1999). Finally, we have those
who—by explicitly distinguishing between a bearer of moral rights, moral agen-
cy, and personhood—either claim that, though corporate entities are not persons,
and hence have no moral rights proper, they do ‘inherit’ all necessary properties
of moral agency from the respective individuals (Neuhäuser 2011), or that they
are full-fledged rational, intentional and moral agents, but still not proper per-
sons, because personhood entails some further properties that collectives lack,
notably emotions, affectivity, or the capacity to experience vulnerability (Hess
2013; cf. Manning 1984).
In any case, notice the almost complete lack of emotional attribution to GP.
Thus, I am not aware of a single author who would explicitly attribute emotions
or affective sensitivity to GP, including, notably, those social ontologists who in-
deed argue for shared, collective or corporate emotions (e. g., Salmela 2012; Gil-
bert 2014; Schmid 2014). Indeed, I only know of a single author who has directly
argued against GP’s being persons precisely on the grounds that they do not ex-
hibit any emotional vulnerability or sensitivity (Hess 2013). (I come back to that
in sec. 5 below.) Conversely, I know of only one prominent argument in favor of
GP, but it still conceives of GP as lacking sensitivity, in any personhood-defining
sense (Rovane 1998). Incidentally, this almost complete ignorance fairly reflects
a much broader tendency in the philosophy of personhood: the question wheth-
er, and in what sense, personhood requires emotions or affectivity has hitherto
been paid quite generally very little attention.⁶

 For a typical example of a realist about group agency and anti-realist about group person-
hood, see Tuomela’s “non-entity view” of group agents: “Groups are not persons, because
they have neither bodies nor minds” (Tuomela , ). Notice that this is all Tuomela
has to say on group personhood.
 Notice that, in this paper, I cannot dwell upon any rational, normative, or any other non-emo-
tional, general requirements that an adequate theory of GP must fulfill; I have done so in Szanto
, where I elaborate on what I label “plurality”, the “integrity”, “normativity, or moral ac-
countability” and “anti-collectivism” requirement respectively. Against this backdrop, the pres-
266 Thomas Szanto

3 Why get emotional about group persons?

At this point, skeptics, however, might raise the following general concern: why
should one pursue the task of attributing emotions to GP, or even just raise this
issue, in the first place? After all, both the issue of group personhood and that of
collective emotions are contentious enough when discussed separately. Linking
these two issues will, so the worry might go, make things even more contentious
rather than resolve anything. So why bother about whether groups or corporate
entities have emotions? I contend that there are a number of reasons for raising
the issue, independently of whether we ultimately attribute emotions to GP.
(1) First, consider how our conception of what it is to be a person is deeply
entangled with our conception of what it is to be a subject that has an emotional
life. This (intuitive) conceptual entanglement obtains even if, as mentioned, phi-
losophers, rather curiously, remain almost completely silent on spelling out ex-
actly this connection.⁷ This is especially apparent when it comes to moral psy-
chology – and I shall come back to that in a moment – but I think that the
conceptual entailment between emotional sensitivity and personhood is not lim-
ited to moral emotions, such as shame, forgiveness, indignation, or pride (Stein-
bock 2014, 274– 275). But our web of emotions not only defines human subjectiv-
ity and, in large part, an individual’s personality, or her moral or non-moral
character (Rorty 1978; Solomon 1993, p. 70 f.; Ben-Ze’ev 2000, pp. 150 – 157; Gold-
ie 2000, pp. 141– 175). It is our affective dispositions and abilities, their assess-
ment and their education, or our very sensitivity and emotional vulnerability
that also lie at the heart of what it means to be a person. Moreover, it is shared
focuses of import that define many human communities. Without any emotional
import, concern or care, not only would there be no romantic couples, no fan
clubs, religious communities, reading clubs, but most natural communities,
like families, would also lose much of their cohesive power. (To be sure, not
all such communities are, or act as, GP, but some, arguably, do, e. g., a fan
club that “personifies” itself in choosing a spokesperson). As Goldie writes
about the connection between emotions and what he aptly calls the “personal
point of view”, which is opposed not to the objective, third-personal but, rather,
to an “impersonal” one: “our ordinary everyday thought and talk about the emo-
tions and emotional experiences is essentially from the personal point of view”

ent paper is an attempt to get clearer about whether we need a further requirement concerning
some emotional capacities (see next sec.).
 See, however, authors in the phenomenological tradition, and above all Scheler’s work (e. g.,
), but also that of Amelie Rorty (e. g., ).
 Do Group Persons have Emotions – or Should They? 267

(Goldie 2000, 3; cf. p. 82 f., pp. 181 ff.). Surely, this – however essential or constit-
utive – connection between emotions and persons does not per se license the in-
ference that all types of persons necessarily have emotions; having said this,
however, our options seem, intuitively, limited to either of the following alterna-
tives: (a) if we are reluctant to consider seriously the option of attributing some
collective or corporate emotions to GP, we should a.) either stop talking of group
persons (in which case, i. e., if we are reluctant to posit any GP in our social on-
tology, it may be better not to employ the talk of collective emotions at all); (b) or
we should reassess our notions of (reactive) emotion and personhood altogether,
and devise a theory according to which these two personhood and emotional
properties may fundamentally come apart, as, so the suggestion might go,
they do in the collective case.
(2) Now, whatever psychological or metaphysical theory of personhood or GP
we employ, and however emotions factor in there – I believe the single most im-
portant reason to attribute emotions to GP is due to the moral address account
and, in particular, to the role reactive attitudes play therein (cf. also Tollefsen
2003; Helm 2008; 2014). Incidentally, a large number of authors today consider
reactive attitudes to be definitive of moral agency and responsibility in the indi-
vidual case, too (cf., e. g., Vargas 2013).
First, it may be argued that reactive attitudes need emotions to reliably track
them, or to have some morally motivational power, even if this turns out to be a
contingent fact of human (moral) psychology. Mele has put this point nicely:

Perhaps, owing to our basic psychological make up, we simply cannot learn to regard the
interests of others as at all important unless we are sensitive to emotions of other people
[…] and learn to see ourselves as apt targets of some reactive emotions. Perhaps such sen-
sitivity and learning are, for us, psychologically necessary for the acquisition of any sort of
moral sensitivity or understanding. This is a contingent matter. […] Might a hypothetical,
isolated community of emotionless beings –hence, beings with no reactive attitudes – in-
clude morally responsible agents? (Mele 2000, p. 449)

The idea here is that, if you weren’t able to feel ashamed when being blamed,
you wouldn’t be able to be subjected to reactive attitudes such as blame either,
nor would you be able to see when it is appropriate to blame somebody else;
moreover, we wouldn’t know when and why it would hurt somebody else to
be blamed (unjustly or not). It is also this emotional-cum-moral sensibility,
and indeed sensitivity, that we both draw upon and try to modulate when we ed-
ucate the interpersonal behaviour of our children. Now, there seems to be no
principled reason why such moral-cum-emotional sensibility should not be pos-
sible and, indeed, appropriate in the collective, or group-personal, case.
268 Thomas Szanto

Secondly, one might conjecture that such a sensibility would allow to faster
or more efficiently track the appropriateness of certain actions vis-à-vis certain
corporate values than would highly complex corporate decision making proce-
dures (cf., Schmid 2014). In fact, in the individual case, it has been argued
that emotions facilitate more intuitive, effortless, and more creative cognitive
processes, though, unsurprisingly, often at the detriment of cognitive control
and vigilance (Kahneman 2011, esp. pp. 67– 70, 137– 145).
But let’s set aside for a moment these points about moral motivation, and
our contingent cognitive psychology. There is, thirdly, another systematic argu-
ment for a structural link between emotions and reactive feelings, or attitudes,
that remains. It is related to the moral-psychological reasons mentioned
above, and has to do with the interactive nature of reactive feelings, precisely
qua reactive. Thus, we cannot have any reactive feelings or attitudes in a one-
way manner. They necessarily require that both parties involved are creatures
that are able to form such attitudes and understand what they imply. Moreover,
even if they only represent or target moral emotions (guilt, resentment, blame,
etc.), and even if they are not necessarily accompanied by bodily changes or bod-
ily feelings⁸, reactive attitudes certainly do require emotional attitudes on the
part of the subject whom these attitudes are directed at. For example, blame
would be an utterly inadequate reactive emotion towards stones, but it is also
inadequate if the person at whom it is directed does not herself feel accordingly
in some way or another. For instance, we expect that somebody will feel
ashamed or guilty when being blamed, proud, or even embarrassed, but not
afraid, when being praised, etc. In other words, what is partly, but essentially
so, targeted when we entertain reactive attitudes towards somebody is that the
person feels what she does, and how she does, according to certain moral, but
also affective, norms and standards.
(3) Relatedly, to entertain reactive attitudes arguably also requires creatures
who have the capacity to exercise empathy and, eventually, sympathy with oth-
ers, and this capacity, in turn, will require some sort of emotional or affective life.
Consider that this claim does not depend on a more specific doctrine according
to which empathy is not primarily a cognitive but an affective state, and/or that it
requires some affective interpersonal similarity between empathizer and target
(Jacob 2011). Moreover, neither does this claim depend on any claims concerning
empathy amounting to or presupposing some affective sharing (e. g., Hein &
Singer 2008). Following a number of phenomenologists (e. g., Zahavi 2011,
p. 2014), I do not endorse either of these claims (cf. Szanto 2015). The point I

 See more on this issue below, sec. .

 Do Group Persons have Emotions – or Should They? 269

wish to make here, however, is more general: arguably, only creatures with some
sort or another of an emotional or affective life will be able to empathically ex-
perience other emotional creatures, or empathically access and understand
what it is to have (any) emotions in the first place; this is also even the case
when one empathically understands or sympathizes with specific emotions
that one has never experienced (e. g., the grief for the death of another’s parents’
while one’s own are still alive).
At this juncture, one might, of course, object that empathy is not necessary for
morality. For example, Prinz (2011) has recently challenged the view that empathy is
or even should be viewed as necessary for making moral judgments, for moral de-
velopment, or even for motivating moral conduct. Consequently, he argues that, in
education, socialization, etc., we should not even cultivate any empathy-based mor-
ality. Now, Prinz defines empathy, all-too narrowly and ultimately erroneously, in
my view, as “a kind of vicarious emotion: it’s a feeling what one takes another per-
son to be feeling” (Prinz 2011, p. 212). But this is not the main issue here. Neither is
the moot point that we need empathy in order to share some emotions and eventu-
ally sympathize with them. Rather, empathy, understood as the ability to access oth-
ers’ mental and affective states, will be necessary if one wishes to retain the reactive
attitude account of (moral) agency. For consider again that reactive attitudes can
only have any moral motivation and significance for agents who have the capacity
to empathically access, understand, and assess reactive attitudes and feelings (e.g.,
knowing what it is to forgive, to be blamed, or to feel guilty). But, to repeat, only
creatures with some emotional abilities will be endowed with such rich forms of in-
terpersonal understanding.
(4) Lastly – and probably least controversially, but also psychologically and
metaphysically least interestingly – n the past couple of decades, one can wit-
ness in organizational psychology and management an ever deeper, and ‘mud-
dier’, entanglement between ‘corporate cultures’, or the set of norms and values
governing companies and institutions, and what is sometimes called ‘emotional
cultures’. In her intriguing sociological work, Illouz has elaborated this entangle-
ment in terms of what she labels ‘emotional capitalism’ (Illouz 2007). Consider
also in this connection a number of organizational studies investigating the cor-
relation between certain negative corporate emotional cultures, such as bullying,
unfair supervision or the extreme monitoring of employees, on the one hand,
and the presence of so-called “corporate psychopaths” or “collective paranoia”
(e. g., Kramer 1994; Boddy 2011), on the other. Notice, further, that a corporate
emotional culture, if there is any, is not the same as what is sometimes used syn-
onymously with genuinely collective, or group-level, emotions and labeled “cor-
porate emotions” (e. g., Schmid 2014)
270 Thomas Szanto

At this point, one will surely want to know what kind of emotions we are
actually talking about: what kind of emotions, precisely, are those that might
– if at all – be attributed to GP? I can neither dwell upon the exact nature or con-
stitution of collective emotions or the norms governing them, nor on how they
might differ either from some less robust forms of emotional sharing, or else
from emotional contagion (see Szanto 2015). Instead, against the backdrop of
the, admittedly sketchy, considerations so far, I want to suggest the following re-
quirement, call it the Corporate Emotional and Moral Sensibility Requirement, for
there being, potentially, any GP-type emotions:⁹
(CEMS) A group person GP may, but will not necessarily, have GP-type emotions
if it has a ‘shared emotional culture’ with a robust evaluative and nor-
mative, or ‘social appraisal’, structure, within or relative to the GP,
and if its members have direct perception-based or other mediated mu-
tual awareness of there being such a shared emotional culture. More-
over, members care, or ought to care, for the maintenance of this culture
and for the appropriateness of the social appraisal structure vis-à-vis the
shared or corporate moral and non-moral values and stances.

4 Objections and replies

Let me close this paper by replying to the two most apparent lines of objection
that critics might raise – not so much against this requirement (CEMS) itself but,
rather, against any properly group-personal emotions instantiated, provided that
CEMS is fulfilled.
The first line of objection to any account of corporate emotions seems to be
that GP are not in any straightforward sense embodied agents, and hence cannot
be said to have emotions, understood as bodily changes or feelings. There is not
much to say to ward off this objection—as long as we take emotions to be reduci-
ble to bodily feelings. But such a reduction is surely not mandatory. For one, not
only most social psychologists (e. g., Parkinson et al. 2005), but also most philos-
ophers today, and not only emotional cognitivists (e. g., Solomon 1993; Nuss-
baum 2001), or even those who indeed stress the importance of bodily changes
or embodied emotional behaviour (e. g., Damasio 1994; Prinz 2004; Colombetti
2014), would argue for a much richer notion of emotions than one merely involv-

 Again, consider that there are further necessary requirements for there being any GP in the
first place (see above, FN , and Szanto b). For a more elaborate exposition of the respec-
tive natures of the related, but different, shared and collective emotions, see Szanto , and of
social appraisal, in particular, Bruder et al. .
 Do Group Persons have Emotions – or Should They? 271

ing bodily feelings (e. g., Ben-Ze’ev 2000; Goldie 2000; Roberts 2003; Deonna &
Teroni 2012). Indeed, and more to the point, when it comes to the emotional do-
main of group persons, the emotions at stake will precisely not be such embod-
ied affective states as, for instance, trembling from fear, but more complex, typ-
ically moral, emotions, such as being socially humiliated, not being recognized
as a group, or some collective guilt feelings concerning harms committed by
one’s own group, and the like.
Relatedly, critiques might object that corporate persons cannot, properly
speaking, suffer. For example, one might argue that, if a GP is actively ‘terminat-
ed’, or otherwise seizes to exist or, if it is, as it were, put in some painful, or even
just some awkward or embarrassing, position, in neither of these cases, if con-
ceivable at all, will GP suffer. Whether or not one, eventually, deduces from
this difference between GP and individual persons any differences in their re-
spective rights—as one typically does for persons and animals versus plants or
robots—for some, this difference regarding the vulnerability of human versus
corporate persons will seem crucial. Obviously, however, the issue depends on
what we take suffering to entail or presuppose. On one reading, suffering is sim-
ply associated with some bodily feelings (e. g., physical pain). It is in this sense
that some claim that it makes no sense to expand, for instance, the prohibition
of (physical and psychological) torture to corporations and group agents (Briggs
2012). We find the most sustained elaboration of this objection in a paper of Hess
(2013), in which she argues that corporate entities are, though potentially inten-
tional-cum-rational and moral agents, not persons, and in which she appeals to
the distinctive (emotional) vulnerability of persons to make her case:

It is our vulnerabilities, as much or more than our powers, that are both distinctive and
constitutive of our personhood. It is only because we persons have the specific vulnerabil-
ities that we do—to physical and emotional suffering, to worry and weariness, to humilia-
tion and despair—that we are entitled to or even in need of the specific protections typically
granted to us. There is thus no justification for assigning those protections to corporations
or anything else that lacks them. (Hess 2013, p. 335)

But, fortunately, there is another reading of vulnerability available than that re-
garding sheer physical or bodily-affective vulnerability: for it might, just as well,
entail moral or some other more complex kind of suffering (apart from, trivially,
and particularly so for corporations, financial losses or material suffering). True,
group persons will, for example, not ‘despair’ in the exact same ways as individ-
uals; but communities, and by extension, arguably, GP, might very well, for ex-
ample, be humiliated (cf. Honneth 1994; Copp 2002). Consider a minority that
would very well ‘despair’, namely by having recognition withheld to the point
of resorting to terrorism, or one that is humiliated, for instance, by means of
272 Thomas Szanto

one of its members’ being publicly ridiculed for her group membership. Or con-
sider an employee who is humiliated qua employee of a given company, or a
family, or other strongly cohesive community, who genuinely fears being extin-
guished or dying out, where this is felt collectively, and for the collective, as a
family, or as a minority.
(2) The second line of objection is closely related to the first. According to
this concern, emotions and feelings, just like suffering, incidentally, require
that the subject who has them has some phenomenal consciousness, or is con-
sciously aware of having them. After all, emotions, and especially their often-in-
voked ‘qualitative feel’, seem, in a more straightforward sense than any other
type of mental state,¹⁰ to be paradigmatic examples of conscious states. More-
over, one may, and rightly so, question whether group persons, or group
minds, must be collectively conscious or not; indeed, I have argued elsewhere
that they need not and, indeed, must not (Szanto 2014). In this vein, for example,
Huebner (2011) has voiced similar skepticism. Instead of phenomenally con-
scious (group‐)personal level collective emotions, he argues, rather, for subper-
sonal level collective emotional processes, which may serve similar cognitive
functions as individual (and, possibly, personal) level emotions.
But, again, we have a strategy available that allows for reactive emotions to
be dissociated from such instances of phenomenal consciousness. According to
this, reactive emotions are not individuated by their phenomenology – which GP
may then well lack—but, rather, by the norms governing them. Here is how Toll-
efsen puts this point:

The fact that collectives lack phenomenology, then, does not mean that they lack the ca-
pacity for reactive attitudes. […] Collective reactive attitudes would be differentiated on
this approach from individual reactive attitudes in terms of the norms governing the rele-
vant reactions. Certain emotional responses might be licensed for an individual only be-
cause of her group membership. They would also be differentiated in terms of their motiva-
tional upshot. The ‘pangs’ of remorse you feel qua group member may lead you to do
actions that you would not do qua individual. Although this approach does not have the
collective itself feeling the emotion, it does identify a way in which emotions can be collec-
tive. Perhaps this is all we need in order for collectives to be appropriate targets of our re-
active attitudes. (Tollefsen 2003, p. 232)

 This is no way to deny or downplay cognitive phenomenology, or the essential correlation,

stressed especially by phenomenologists such as Husserl or Sartre, between pre-reflective self-
awareness, phenomenal consciousness and the intentionality of mental states; see Szanto .
 Do Group Persons have Emotions – or Should They? 273

5 Conclusion
Following this rather cautious move here, and in concluding, let me restate the ini-
tial restriction: the argument of the paper should only be understood as a condition-
al, exploring what would be – descriptively, and, in particular, normatively – gained
or lost if we were to attribute a certain sensibility or corporate emotions to group
persons. Moreover, let there be no misunderstanding: just as we ought to be as par-
simonious as we can in attributing personhood to collectives, so ought we to be very
considerate when attributing emotions to group persons. In any case, many types of
group agents and collectives, and especially corporations, will be better explained
without attributing any emotions to them. They may still pursue goals, or have a ra-
tional point of view from which they deliberate or take decisions, even without hav-
ing a more integrated phenomenal point of view, or focus of import and care. Sim-
ilarly, we should be more careful in distinguishing different conceptions of
personhood when it comes to collectives, just as we should be careful not to see
GP where we only have collective emotions, or where we even only have some cor-
porate emotional cultures without any GP. On the other hand, there seems to be little
philosophical, or incidentally, normative, reason to be afraid of group persons who
may in fact exhibit some form of sensibility—whatever emotional reasons there may
well be for being afraid of them.

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Alessandro Salice
Collective Intentionality and
the Collective Person in Max Scheler
Abstract: For a good part of the previous century, the notion of a group mind, i.e.,
the notion of a collective mind distinct from – but not independent of – the minds of
the group’s members, was seen as an at best spooky and at worst politically suspect
idea. However, in the last thirty years, this idea gained – or maybe regained, as it is
argued in this paper – a respectable scientific status: within social ontology one can
observe a growing trend which conceives of the notion of groups with minds of their
own as an indispensable element of the social world.
The present article discusses one important precursor of contemporary the-
ories about group personhood: Max Scheler’s theory of Gesamtperson (or “collec-
tive person”). It suggests that there are good reasons to believe that Scheler’s no-
tion of collective person is at least as complex and comprehensive as the one at
stake in today’s social ontology, but eventually more radical. To substantiate this
claim, the paper is organized into three parts: it starts by illustrating Scheler’s
suggested parallel between kinds of groups and forms of sociality. In the second
part, it focuses on the idea of the collective person and on its relation to a kind of
group Scheler labels “community.” Finally, the third and last part of the paper
sheds some light on specific features of collective persons.

1 Introduction¹
For a good part of the previous century, the notion of a group mind, i. e., the no-
tion of a collective mind distinct from – but not independent of – the minds of
the group’s members, was seen by philosophers as an at best spooky and at
worst politically suspect idea (for a reconstruction – and criticism – of some
anti-collectivist views, cf. Pettit 2014). However, in the last thirty years, this
idea gained – or maybe regained, as I would like to argue in the present
paper – a respectable scientific status: within social ontology one can observe
a growing trend which conceives of the notion of groups with minds of their
own as an indispensable element of the social world.

 The author’s work on this article has been supported by a fellowship of the Fritz Thyssen
Foundation (Az. ...).
278 Alessandro Salice

Especially Philip Pettit claims that, in order to secure the possibility of ra-
tional decisions at the collective level, one has to assume that there are group
minds with beliefs and even desires of its own (Pettit 2003). This view stipulates
that, under certain conditions, not only is it possible, but it is also rational for the
group to hold beliefs that the majority of its members does not hold (this is one
of the insights secured by List’s and Pettit’s recent discussion of the so-called
“discursive dilemma,” cf. List/Pettit 2011).
Pettit’s idea fits finely with what Carole Rovane argues for in her theory of
personal identity (Rovane 1997, but cf. Rovane 2014 for some important divergen-
ces between the two theories). Rovane claims that personhood is characterized
by the commitment one undergoes to reach overall rationality in one’s actions
and beliefs. In other words, what makes someone a person (i. e., the unity and
continuity of one’s first person point of view) is his or her striving to achieve
overall rationality in his or her beliefs and actions. Still, and this is one of Ro-
vane’s points that plays a major role for Pettit’s theory, it is not the case that
only individuals strive for overall rationality: even groups can do that, and
this is what makes certain groups – the groups acting under that specific com-
mitment – persons in their own right.
If compared with Pettit’s and Rovane’s view, Max Scheler’s theory of Gesamt-
person or of collective person does not show a mere terminological affinity with
the expressions of “group person” or “group mind.” There are good reasons to be-
lieve that Scheler’s notion of collective person is at least as complex and compre-
hensive as the one at stake in today’s social ontology, but eventually more radical.
To substantiate this claim, the paper is organized into three parts: I start by illustrat-
ing Scheler’s suggested parallel between kinds of groups and forms of togetherness.
In the second part, I focus on the idea of the collective person and on its relation to
a kind of group Scheler labels “community”. Finally, in the third and last part I clar-
ify some interesting features of collective persons.
However, a caveat is in order before starting: an exhaustive account of Schel-
er’s view would have to tackle the two concepts defining a collective person, i. e.,
such an account would have to say something about what it means to be a per-
son and what makes a person a collective person. But due to its complexity,
Scheler’s concept of person deserves its own treatment and I will not be able
to address such concept in the context of this paper. That is why in the following
I shall leave the idea of person as undefined and concentrate only on those fea-
tures that make a person a collective person.
 Collective Intentionality and the Collective Person in Max Scheler 279

2 Max Scheler: forms of sociality and

kinds of groups
Scheler maintains that there is a parallel between different kinds of groups and
the different forms of togetherness with others (Arten des Miteinanderseins, GW
II, p. 529). Call these forms of togetherness also the forms of “sociality” that lived
experiences can take: for Scheler, there are three such forms of sociality, one of
which is a genuine form of sharing an experience.
i. Gefühlsansteckung. The first form of sociality is that of emotional contagion
(GW VII, pp. 25 ff). According to Scheler, emotions can spread like viruses among
individuals: suppose you enter into a discussion with a sad person, it might be
that her sadness contaminates you to the effect that you also become sad – and
this without your being aware that her emotion has been transferred to you (GW
VII, p. 26). More importantly, there is a sense in which one could say that emo-
tional contagion generally implies illusion, for one believes to be the genuine
origin of the emotion, whereas in reality this mental state has been originated
in someone else and has passed from mind to mind through contagion (such
that only by means of “inferences and causal considerations” can one become
aware of the authentic origin of one’s mental state, cf. GW VII, p. 26). Scheler
points out that emotional contagion is a watered-down form of identification
or Einsfühlung (GW VII, p. 29), which is a general psychological mechanism
that takes place when one identifies oneself with someone else. Identification
plays a crucial role for the constitution of plural subjects and I will come back
to this mechanism in section 2.
ii. Nachfühlen. One way to understand what Scheler means by ’Nachfühlen’
is by first looking into sympathy, understood in the sense of Mitgefühl (cf. GW
VII, pp. 24 ff). Typically, one feels sympathy when one rejoices in the joy of some-
one else or commiserates with his or her sorrow. Sympathy, according to Scheler,
is a complex phenomenon, for one first has to be aware of the emotion of the
other in order to then sympathize with him or her. Although Scheler is not en-
tirely clear about this, it seems that such grasping can occur in different ways.
One of them is by means of acts of “vicarious feelings” or Nachfühlen, which
can be associated with what today goes under the label of “empathy” (cf. Zahavi
2008). It is not immediately evident what Scheler means by this expression, but
he illustrates it with cases of so-called presentifications (Vergegenwärtigungen).
If, for instance, one once saw a landscape and one is now making it present to
one’s consciousness, then one has the landscape intuitively in front of oneself –
although one is not perceiving it in the proper sense of the term (perception
being about the self-given object). Similarly, one can vicariously feel what some-
280 Alessandro Salice

one else is feeling – this does not mean that one is feeling what the other person
is feeling, but only that one is making it intuitively present to oneself (for this
example, cf. GW VII, 20).
If compared to contagion, empathy is a state of the subject that generally is
not subjected to illusion. That is, if one empathizes with someone, one relates to
the other’s emotion, and it is clear to the empathizer that it is the other’s sorrow
or joy emotion and not one’s own that one is concerned with.
iii. Miteinanderfühlen. Finally, the third form of sociality is that of sharing
mental states with another person. This form of sociality can be illustrated by
Scheler’s well-known example wherein two parents together mourn the death
of their child (GW VII, pp. 23 f). Scheler seems to claim that in this scenario
there is only one single mental fact that is occurring and not merely two different
mental states of the same type (GW VII, p. 24, 48, 75, 252). Co-feeling (Miteinan-
derfühlen) is characterized as feeling a certain emotion together. Such notion of
sharing or of “Co-” (Miteinander‐) needs not be confined to collective emotions,
though. For instance, cognitive acts and actions can be shared as well, which
makes co-feeling only a kind of the more general form of sociality, namely,
that of co-experiencing (Miteinandererleben, GW II, p. 529 f).
Having briefly discussed the three kinds of sociality that lived experiences can
exhibit, it is now time to address the parallel Scheler draws between kinds of social-
ity and kinds of groups. Scheler counts four kinds of groups, namely, masses, com-
munities, societies and collective persons. This is the order in which Scheler intro-
duces and describes them in his Formalismus, and such order is not accidental as it
is supposed to highlight certain foundational relations between them. However, the
first thing that perhaps will grab the reader’s attention is that Scheler describes three
kinds of sociality, but he introduces four kinds of groups. Consequently, one might
wonder what the missing form of sociality is supposed to be. Before addressing this
problem, it could be helpful to first characterize these types of groups and highlight
some of their fundamental features.
i. The most primitive kind of group is the mass (cf. GW II, p. 529) – the term
“primitive” is used here not in its logical sense, but rather as contrasted to cul-
tivated, designed and/or complex. The mass is characterized by emotional con-
tagion and, more generally, by involuntary imitation of the other. This process of
imitation is not restricted to emotions, for it can extend to beliefs and patterns of
behavior. Scheler actually goes so far as to describe the entire process of tradi-
tion-following as a form of contagion (GW VII, p. 48). Remember that in conta-
gion one generally is not aware of having been contaminated, so one wrongly
believes that a certain mental state originates in oneself whereas it has actually
originated in someone else. Since, within the mass, the individual ignores having
anything in common with the other individuals, i. e., since the individual ignores
 Collective Intentionality and the Collective Person in Max Scheler 281

being together with the others according to this specific form of sociality, no one
feels responsible for the group behavior that contagion elicits in the crowd’s
members. At this juncture, it is important to stress that, for Scheler, the notion
of responsibility is closely tied to that of solidarity in the sense that, if one is re-
sponsible for something together with someone, one is also solidary with him or
her. Accordingly, since there is no responsibility between the members of the
mass, so is there no solidarity either (GW II, p. 530).
ii. The second kind of group is the community (cf. GW II, pp. 529 ff). Com-
munities are bearers of collective intentionality in the genuine sense in which
the members co-experience something identical or co-issue the same act. Schel-
er contends that it is impossible to trace back mental states in the we-form to
mental states in the I-form supplemented by common knowledge (viz. the knowl-
edge that everyone has about the fact that everyone has these mental states and
that everyone knows that everyone knows it, etc., GW II, p. 530). Not only are
these mental states ontologically irreducible, they also constitute a stream of ex-
periences whose subject is a we (GW II, p. 530; “Wirerlebnis, Wirbewußtsein” cf.
GW VIII, p. 374). The communal we is so encompassing that its members primar-
ily live in the community and for the community.
Section 2 shall tackle how such encompassment has to be understood more
precisely, but it is important to first have a look at how collective responsibility
works in communities (cf. GW II, p. 530). Two levels can be distinguished here: a
group- and a members-level. At the group-level, since a community is a genuine
bearer of mental states and actions, the community is fully responsible for them.
At the members-level, since all the members co-experience the same state or co-
issue the same action, all the members are co-responsible insofar as they are
members of the community. Furthermore, in virtue of the link between responsi-
bility and solidarity briefly introduced above, one could also say that the mem-
bers are solidary with each other insofar as they are co-responsible. This form of
solidarity is directed towards the other insofar as the other represents the same
community of which one is a member. According to what Scheler calls “represen-
tative solidarity [vertretbare Solidarität],” the members are solidary with each
other primarily because they are members of the community and hence repre-
sent the community, but not because they are individual persons in the first
place. In a sense, one can find no individual persons within a community, but
only representative members of the group. As we will see in the next section,
this aspect works differently for the Gesamtperson.
iii. The third kind of group covers societies and the dominant form of social-
ity here is empathy (more precisely, it is a specific form of social cognition that,
like Nachfühlen, is characterized by a clear self/other differentiation, but that,
unlike Nachfühlen, is not intuitive, insofar as the other’s experience is merely
282 Alessandro Salice

inferred; on this, cf. GW II, p. 531 f.). Remember that the empathizer is the one
who adequately discriminates his or her own mental states from others’ and
who, only in a further step, may (or may not) sympathize with them. Accordingly,
a society is composed of individual persons who recognize the other members as
individual persons with whom one can enter into social relations and with whom
one can join forces to reach goals that for the single individual would be impos-
sible to reach alone. And yet, exactly because of that, i. e., exactly because all the
persons involved within a society see each other as distinct individuals and only
pursue their (personal) interests, no experiences are shared or co-experienced in
the genuine sense at this level. Since no collective experiences occur, so does no
collective stream of consciousness take place and, hence, no we lives within so-
cieties. A further consequence is that there is no collective responsibility among
the individuals and, hence, no solidarity either. Rather, distrust (Mißtrauen) rules
among the individuals, and it is such distrust that motivates the establishment of
legal institutions whose main aim is to preserve the private interests of the indi-
viduals (GW II, p. 532 f).
Although communities and societies are radically distinct kinds of groups,
Scheler argues that the latter presupposes the former: every society is founded
upon a community. This is not to be taken in the sense that the members of a
society are at the same time members of a community so that for every society
there is a community encompassing the same members. Scheler’s point is rather
that, in order to enter into a society, individuals must have been or must current-
ly be members of some community (GW II, p. 535). This principle is illustrated in
different ways, but maybe one particularly clear piece of evidence Scheler addu-
ces is that, in order to exist, every community requires language. For instance, in
order to be established, legal institutions need language – but language is not
something that can be established in the same way in which legal institutions
are established, as this is an element that rather emerges in communities (GW
II, p. 535, cf. also Searle 2010 about the uniqueness that distinguishes language
from other institutions).
Before addressing the structure and nature of the collective person, it might
be useful to briefly recap what has been said so far. I first addressed how Scheler
recognizes three forms of sociality: emotional contagion, co-experiencing and
empathy. I also highlighted that these three forms of sociality are central to
the mental life of the three kinds of groups, namely masses, communities and
the societies. Now one might wonder what form of sociality is at the core of col-
lective persons. Maybe not surprisingly, Scheler claims that this is co-experienc-
ing: a collective person is a we that has a cognitive, a volitive and an affective life
of its own. But then, what distinguishes a community from a collective person?
The answer to this question seems to be provided by one of Scheler’s most in-
 Collective Intentionality and the Collective Person in Max Scheler 283

sightful contributions to social ontology. To make this clear, one has to take a
closer look at his notion of identification or Einsfühlung.

3 Identification and the collective person

It has been said above that emotional contagion is a watered-down form of iden-
tification because, if one is contaminated with an emotion, one believes oneself
to be the origin of this emotion, whereas it has actually only been transferred
from another subject. By contrast, identification in the full-blown sense takes
place when the subject identifies him or herself with someone else in a very spe-
cific sense.
Scheler contends that there are two forms of identification: identification
can be either idiopathic or heteropathic (GW VII, p. 29). Identification is idio-
pathic if I identify myself with another subject in the sense that, although I
see myself as owner and author of the mental states I am having, I take myself
to be someone else. To make use of an example, imagine a young child playing
with a doll and pretending to be the mother of the doll. In this case, Scheler ar-
gues, the child is identifying with the mother of the doll (GW VII, p. 35). That is,
the child sees her experiences as the experiences of herself qua mother. The
child is aware of being the author or the originator of these mental states, and
the child is also aware of being the owner of these mental states: after all,
these are her experiences. And yet, she is the mother of the doll. To illustrate
this point, consider the fact that the child would not have thought to have the
authority to scold the doll and eventually would not have scolded the doll,
had the child not seen herself as the mother.
By contrast, identification is heteropathic if the identification goes in the
converse direction, i. e., if the other makes me adopting his or her mental states
in the sense that I see them as my own. According to Scheler, this is what is going
on when a patient under hypnosis adopts the mental states of the hypnotizer. In
this case, the subject believes that the hypnotizer’s volitions or beliefs are his or
her own (GW VII, p. 31). Once could hence say that here the sense of ownership is
preserved: these volitions or beliefs are seen by the hypnotized as his or her ex-
periences, but the subject does not recognize that the actual author of those be-
liefs and volitions is the hypnotizer, not him- or herself.
It is now crucial to emphasize that, according to Scheler, heteropathic or idi-
opathic identification can also have a collective we as its target. In other words,
one can heteropathically or idiopathically identify either with an individual or
with a group, and the hypothesis is that collective identification could provide
284 Alessandro Salice

us with the key to understanding the distinction between communities and col-
lective persons.
It is possible for an I to identify with a we idiopathically as when an individual
identifies with, say, his or her ancestors. In this case, Scheler contends, the individ-
ual mystically thinks herself to be the ancestors themselves (GW VII, p. 30). The
senses of authorship and ownership are working fine here for, after all, the individ-
ual is aware of owning the mental states and of being the author of her states, but
she believes herself to be a we and – one could add – she believes to have the au-
thority to phrase his or her mental states in the first plural person (on the illegiti-
macy of this form of authority, cf. Schmid 2014, p. 23).
Heteropathic group-identification works in a slightly different way. Let me
first quote Scheler and then comment on his passage:

[…] a man tends, in the first instance, to live more in others than in himself; more in the com-
munity than in his own individual self. […] Imbued as [the child] is with ‘family feeling’, his
own life is at first almost completely hidden from him. Rapt, as it were, and hypnotized by
the ideas and feelings of this concrete environment of his, the only experiences which suc-
ceed in crossing the threshold of his inner awareness are those which fit into the sociologi-
cally conditioned patterns which form a kind of channel for the stream of his mental environ-
ment. Only very slowly does he raise his mental head, as it were, above this stream flooding
over it, and find himself as a being who also, at times, has feelings, ideas and tendencies of
his own. And this, moreover, only occurs to the extent that the child objectifies the experi-
ences of his environment in which he lives and partakes, and thereby gains detachment
from them. The mental content of experience that is virtually absorbed ‘with one’s mother’s
milk’ is not the result of a transference of ideas, experienced as something ‘communicated’.
For communication entails that we understand the ‘communicated content’ as proceeding
from our informant, and that while understanding it we also appreciate its origin in the
other person. But this factor is just what is absent in that mode of transference which oper-
ates between the individual and his environment. A posited judgment, the expression of an
emotional movement etc., is not ‘understood’ in a first stance and experienced as the expres-
sion of another I, but is rather co-experienced without the ‘co-’ in the ‘co-experiencing’ com-
ing to phenomenal givenness; but this means: it is experienced primarily ‘as’ his own judg-
ment and ‘as’ his own emotional movement. (GW VII, p. 241; my trans.)

It seems that Scheler’s words have to be interpreted in the sense that the I can be
the bearer of collective thoughts, volitions or emotions, believing that these are
his or her thoughts, volitions or emotions, exclusively. In these cases, the subject
does not realize that he or she is only a co-author and a co-owner of these mental
states – but still, he or she is involved in a collective mental state. This is not
something that characterizes only the children’ mental life. Scheler writes:

[…] the vengeful impulses of a member of the family or tribal unit in respect of any insult or
injury towards a fellow-member [Gliedes] of the same unit is not due to ‘sympathy’ [Mitge-
 Collective Intentionality and the Collective Person in Max Scheler 285

fühl] (which already presupposes the givenness of the suffering as the suffering of the
other), but to an experiencing of this insult or injury as immediately ‘proper’ [eigener] –
a phenomenon which is grounded in the fact that the individual initially lives more in
the community than it does in himself. (GW VII, p. 242; my trans)

Scheler’s observations about collective identification truly stand out if read

against the background of current debate on collective intentionality. For this de-
bate mainly (if not exclusively) focuses on cases where the individual mistakenly
frames his or her attitudes as the mental states of a group (Searle 1990). These
are scenarios in which, roughly, the individual believes to be a member of a
group and to be engaged in collective intentionality, whereas in reality this is
not the case. Scheler, by contrast, claims that the most interesting cases in
terms of both, commonness and importance for developmental psychology,
are those in which collective states are framed by the individual as his or her
own (GW III, p. 285). To put this differently, for Scheler the default situation is
not the one in which there is an isolated I who then intends to join others to
form a we (and might fail with his or her attempt), rather it is the one in
which the we encompasses the I in a so pervasive way that, as it were, the I is
phagocytized by – or fully identified with – the we.
Scheler goes further by arguing that we are still operating at the level of com-
munity even when the individual gains an understanding of such co-authorship
and co-ownership – but this is the case only if the understanding at stake is re-
alized during and within the limits of the co-experiencing itself (GW VII, p. 529).
In other words, this is an understanding of being a mere element or an anony-
mous member of the community, but it is not – or not yet – an understanding
of being one individual and one specific member of the community among
other individual and specific members of the community.
This understanding, by contrast, is what characterizes collective persons in
contrast to communities. Collective persons are communities, but communities
whose members conceive of themselves as individual persons – as persons
able to adequately discriminate the proper owner of the experiences they are un-
dergoing. They are persons fully aware of being owners of their own mental
states, but also co-owners of collective mental states. In other words, the struc-
ture of their attitudes is fully transparent to members of collective persons.
Here it might be helpful to recur to one crucial insight of Scheler’s theory of
(individual as well as collective) personhood: personhood is not a property
which is conferred by birth, so to say; rather this is a status that needs to be ac-
quired, being Mündigkeit (majority, maturity or adultness) one essential feature
of persons. Maturity is understood here as “[…] the possibility to experience [Er-
lebenkönnen] the insight of difference [Verschiedenheitseinsicht] between one’s
286 Alessandro Salice

own and someone else’s acts […] Or in plain language this means that a man is
not of age as long as he simply co-executes [mitvollzieht] the experiential inten-
tions [Erlebnisintentionen] of his environment without first understanding them
[…]” (cf. GW II, p. 484; Eng. trans. mod. 479)
Thus, becoming a full-blown person, in a sense, is to free oneself from iden-
tification, i. e., it is a cognitive, emotional and practical achievement. Members
of communities are not persons from the very outset for they are still subjected
to identification (in the sense of Einsfühlung ²) and so they did not have yet de-
veloped the ability to conceive of themselves and of the other members as indi-
vidual persons. Members of communities can free themselves from identification
thanks to their ability to exercise empathy, i. e., members of a community can
become (aware of their and other individuals’ status as) persons in virtue of
the fact that they can also become members of societies (i. e., that they can ac-
tivate empathy). Only after this cognitive passage do they have the possibility of
seeing themselves as members of a collective person. (A possibility whose real-
ization can be initiated or favored by historical events, like, for instance, a war,
GA IV, pp. 272 ff.)
Hence, it is crucial to note that the form of sociality does not change in the
community and in the collective person for this remains a Miteinandererleben.
However, something changes at the level of the subject of collective intentional-
ity. This idea has not to be taken in the sense as if there were two different kinds
of plural subjects able to activate collective intentionality or co-experiencing,
i. e., communities and collective persons, which both are equipped with different
mental powers and abilities. Rather, the idea seems to be that the community
acquires specific features that make it a collective person in its own right.
After all, collective persons are communities, communities that developed into
persons (for they are made of mature individuals).

 In this paper I have used the standard English translation of Einsfühlung as “identification,”
but one might wonder whether this translation is adequate. First, this translation does not cap-
ture the affective dimension expressed by the German expression (literally, Einsfühlung should
be rendered into “the feeling of being identical [or of being one]”). Secondly, the technical ex-
pression of “identification” or of “group identification” denotes something quite different within
social psychology and collective intentionality studies – here, “group identification” rather
points to the psychological mechanism which leads one individual thinking of herself as a mem-
ber of the group (cf. Bacharach ), but not to the mechanism by means of which the subject
misidentifies ownership and authorship of her attitudes.
 Collective Intentionality and the Collective Person in Max Scheler 287

4 Collective persons: Two further features

Based on what has been said so far, we could briefly clarify two further insights
of Scheler’s view about Gesamtpersonen.
The first point is Scheler’s counterintuitive claim that collective and individ-
ual persons are co-originary, i. e., that every person is at the same time an indi-
vidual and a member of a collective person (GW II, pp. 523 ff). One way to make
sense of this claim is by presupposing that every individual is a member of a
community from the very outset. This is because, as we saw, being a member
of a Gesamtperson actually seems to imply being a member of a community.
And individuals always are members of a community, Scheler contends, because
individuals come with the possibility of performing social and collective acts;
this is a possibility, which is grounded in the essence of a human being (GW
II, p. 525). So, for instance, even the lonely stranded Robinson Crusoe would un-
derstand himself as a member of a community, although this is a community he
would miss in his daily life in the island.
The second point concerns responsibility and solidarity. We said that, in
communities, one is co-responsible only to the extent that one co-performs the
collective action and one is solidary with the others only insofar as they are
members of the community and represent it. Things are different when it
comes to collective persons: here the member is not only co-responsible for
the other members of the community for the member is also co-responsible
for the collective person as well. That is, one is responsible not only for “one’s
part,” but for the entire collective person. This holds for all other members as
well and has consequences for the form of ingroup solidarity. Indeed, within col-
lective persons one is not solidary with the other only insofar as the other is a
member of the group, but insofar as it is an individual person (GW II, p. 537).
Hence, I care about the other not only to the extent that the other is a member
of my community, that is, to the extent that his or her actions are contributions to
the life of the community. Rather, I care about the other because the entirety of
his or her actions matters to me and not because these are relevant to – or are
contributions to – the communal life.³

 This has important consequences for the moral assessment of collective persons, on this cf.
Szanto ().
288 Alessandro Salice

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Hans Bernhard Schmid
Being Well Together – Aristotle
on Joint Activity and Common Sense
Abstract: According to Aristotle, our ultimate purpose in life is to be well, and
well-being is in virtuous action over a lifetime. While the concepts of well-being
and virtue are subject to heated controversies in the received literature, most in-
terpretations tacitly assume a distributive reading of Aristotle’s basic claim. In
this reading, well-being is what each of us wants in his or her own life, and it
is in the agent’s own virtuous action over his or her own lifetime. A distributive
reading can easily accommodate other-regarding and impartial attitudes, as
well as the view that no agent can be truly well without the well-being of
those with whom he or she lives together. However, no distributive reading
can accommodate the view that agents who live closely together in egalitarian
relations participate in each other’s well-being in such a way that one agent’s
well-being is, in parts, also another’s. In his analysis of virtuous friendship, Ar-
istotle points towards such a participatory view. It has been claimed repeatedly
in the received literature that any such view has unacceptable consequences, as
it extends the subject of well-being in a way that ignores the basic separateness
of persons. Taking another person’s well-being to be one’s own seems to disre-
spect the other person’s own agency. The core claim of this paper is that these
passages should be reconstructed as suggesting a collective reading of Aristotle’s
basic view that complements rather than replaces the distributive view. In this
collective reading, what we jointly want to do in our shared life is to be well to-
gether, and that being well together is in virtuous joint activity over the time of
living together. It is argued that Aristotle’s participatory conception of well-
being does not undermine the participants’ own agency as it is in their common
sense of action that they are unified to a plural subject of well-being. Common
sense of joint action is the participants’ plural pre-reflective self-awareness of
their action as theirs, collectively. The extension of the subject of well-being to
we-groups broadens our view on how well-being is subjective or first-personal
and opens up a plural perspective on the good.

On the Aristotelian account, being well is something that we do rather than

something that happens to us. It relates to agency in at least two ways. First,
well-being (εὐδαιμονία) is our ultimate goal – it is what we pursue, in our activ-
ity, for its own sake (EN 1094a). Other goals we pursue with some further pur-
pose in mind. Well-being, in contrast, is whatever we pursue because it is
290 Hans Bernhard Schmid

good in itself. Second, well-being relates to action in that it consists in a form of

action. Well-being is not some product (κτῆμά τι), but rather some activity (ἐνέρ-
γειά τις; EN 1169b 30 f.). Well-being is not a purpose that is outside of activity and
towards which activity is directed as its external goal (in the way we engage in
brushing our teeth in order to have healthy teeth); rather, well-being is in a spe-
cial form of activity that has its goal in itself (in the way we engage in listening to
music for its own sake). Aristotle’s ethics is an examination of the particular
form of activity that constitutes well-being.
In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle does not ignore that well-being requires
external goods (ἐκτὸς ἀγαθά; 1099a 31) such as wealth, health, status, and
friends. But these goods are goods only in relation to the intrinsic good they
make possible which, Aristotle claims, is virtuous living (cf. Cooper 1985). For-
mally speaking, virtuous living is the exercise of the rational faculties of our
soul over a lifetime (1098a 16 f.), and Aristotle’s ethical writings contain a cata-
logue of the single virtues and their mutual relation.
A consequence of the two ways in which well-being is related to agency is that
well-being is subjective. The subjectivity in question is of the ontological rather than
the epistemic kind. Well-being is not whatever you happen to consider as such. At
the beginning of the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle refutes some widely held views
of well-being and thus advocates an epistemically objective view; people may think
that their well-being is in acquiring riches or experiencing lust, but, according to
Aristotle, they are wrong. Rather, the subjectivity in question is of the ontological
kind. It is a matter of whose well-being we are talking about. Well-being is a form
of activity, and activity has an agent whose activity the activity in question is. As
the form of activity that is well-being is the ultimate goal of the reasonable agent
whose activity it is, it follows that the ultimate goal of any reasonable agent is
his or her own well-being. A modern way to express the ontological subjectivity
of well-being is to say that it is first personal. This is to say that well-being is
what it is for an agent, and the relevant agent is he or she whose activity, if it is
well-guided, constitutes his or her own well-being.
If it is true that what we ultimately want in our lives is to be well, it thus
appears that this can only mean that what each of us ultimately wants in his
or her life is his or her own well-being. This seems to be a conceptual conse-
quence of the first-personal nature of well-being – but it sounds problematic.
There is something wrong about saying that each of us always strives for his
or her own happiness. After all, our lives are interconnected. We are not indiffer-
ent concerning other people’s well-being. Other people matter to us and while
subjective well-being may easily be extended to an inclusive form, it seems
that our well-being is shared in a way that seems to be misunderstood even in
an extended distributive view. There is a strong intuition that we participate in
 Being Well Together – Aristotle on Joint Activity and Common Sense 291

the well-being of those with whom we share our lives and this intuition seems to
be at odds with the way in which well-being is conceived in the Aristotelian view.
It seems that there is something fundamentally wrong with this way of conceiv-
ing of well-being. Our lives are shared lives and Aristotle himself acknowledges
this: συζῆν, living together, is what we do, and there seems to be something
about living together that is not exhausted by each one living his or her own
life. If this is the case, it seems that true well-being cannot be first-personal in
the way we have encountered. Something seems wrong about conceiving of
the ontological subjectivity of well-being. Well-being is not mine and yours, sev-
erally or distributively. It is mine and yours together, as a whole in which we take
parts. This is not to deny that your well-being and my well-being are distinct. We
certainly do not share our entire lives – your hobbies may not be mine and our
shared life may not extend over our entire lives. But our human way of living to-
gether is sharing important parts of our lives. Insofar as our life is shared and in
the domain of the activities in which we engage together, jointly, as a team, a
couple, a family, or a group, it simply seems wrong to say that all there is to
us is that we are several individuals, each one striving for his or her own happi-
ness. True, we are several individuals, each one striving for his or her own well-
being. But we are not just that. There is a sense in which important parts of the
striving in question, and the well-being it might constitute, is ours, together.
Aristotle himself seems to consider an expansion of the subject of well-being
in his analysis of virtuous friendship, especially in chapter 9 of book 9 of the Nic-
omachean Ethics, where he seems to suggest that one’s own agency may some-
how extend into that of one’s friends in such a way that the form of one’s friends’
activity is indeed part and parcel of one’s own well-being. This line has been
harshly criticized in the recent literature. Perhaps most prominently, Roger
Crisp writes in the introduction of his Stanford Encyclopedia entry on well-being:

On Aristotle’s view, if you are my friend, then my well-being is closely bound up with yours.
It might be tempting, then, to say that ‘your’ well-being is ‘part’ of mine, in which case the
distinction between what is good for me and what is good for others has broken down. But
this temptation should be resisted. Your well-being concerns how well your life goes for
you, and we can allow that my well-being depends on yours without introducing the con-
fusing notion that my well-being is constituted by yours. (Crisp 2013)

In this view, an extension of the subject of well-being is simply a “collapse of the

very notion of well-being” (Crisp 2013). Other interpreters argue that any such ex-
tension of one’s own agency into another person’s is a “delusion” (Smith-Pangle
2003, p. 152) and that what Aristotle, in his right mind, can only mean is that the
“notational egoism” or “formally egocentric doctrine” implied in the ontological
292 Hans Bernhard Schmid

subjectivity of well-being does not include, but indeed implies “practical altru-
ism” (Price 1985, 125 f).
The following argues for a different view of Aristotle’s thoughts on an expan-
sion of the subject of well-being – it is neither a “collapse of the very notion of
well-being”, nor an illusion of extending one’s own agency into another person’s,
nor a conception that remains “formally egocentric”. The key to an adequate under-
standing of how we participate in the well-being of those with whom we live togeth-
er is to see that the first-personal nature of well-being does not come in the singular
only. The first person has a plural, too, and it is in this plural way that well-being is
first-personal for agents who live and act together. The expansion of the subject of
well-being that is implied in the participatory view of well-being does not sever the
links between well-being and agency insofar as joint action implies a plural subject.
In a brief survey of the current literature on joint action, I will argue that a version of
the plural subject view is plausible.
I shall proceed as follows: In the first section, the Aristotelian thoughts on a
potential expansion of the subject of well-being in his discussion of virtuous
friendship will be introduced and some of the critical views to be found in the
recent literature will be addressed (1.) The second offers the negative argument
that no “formally egocentric” conception of well-being, however altruistic and
universal it may be, captures the sense in which we participate in each other’s
well-being within a shared life (2.) The third section offers a positive account
of the first-personal nature of well-being that extends to the plural, and address-
es some issues concerning the relation between singular and plural well-being
within a life that is neither ever completely shared nor lived in isolation (3.).

1
In his Stanford Encyclopedia entry on well-being, Roger Crisp calls it “tempting”
to read Aristotle’s views on virtuous friendship in such a way that as my friend,
your well-being is “part” of mine (Crisp 2013). As a temptation, this reading
should, of course, be resisted in Crisp’s view and he makes clear that he thinks
so with a view on the fact that any well-being is always a person’s. It is not quite
clear, however, whether or not he thinks that Aristotle did in fact endorse an ex-
pansion of the subject of well-being – as he has published his own translation of
the Nicomachean Ethics, one would expect him to have a view on this question.
Reading the relevant passages in book 9, however, Crisp’s somewhat ambiguous
assessment appears to be fair. Aristotle here seems to present a view that some-
how points towards a straightforward participatory reading of the sharing of
well-being among virtuous friends without really going all the way. Of special im-
 Being Well Together – Aristotle on Joint Activity and Common Sense 293

portance in this regard is the argument in chapter 9. Aristotle here argues for the
view that even a person who is virtuous and blessed in such a way that she
seems to be rather self-sufficient in her well-being still needs friends. Aristotle
approaches this issue from a series of perspectives. One particular line of argu-
ment, presented in 1169b, goes through a series of steps which lead up to the
core straightforward paradox of virtuous friendship that has bothered most inter-
preters. The first step is that while virtuous action is good in itself, there is further
well-being to be gained from contemplating good action. It is a source of the kind
of pleasure that contributes to well-being to observe good actions if it is accom-
panied with an understanding of why they are good. Perhaps it is not too far a
shot to capture this thought in the above terminology in the following way: While
well-being is ontologically subjective, there is an epistemically objective element
to it as well. The epistemic subjectivity in question is not the kind that well-being
is whatever is believed to be well-being, but rather that the knowledge of well-
being is part of our well-being. Well-being is not just in acting virtuously, but
also in judging that an activity is virtuous. In Aristotle’s term, to see and recog-
nize (θεωρεῖν) virtuous action is pleasurable (ἡδεῖον), too – and a person that is
fully happy cannot miss that pleasure. In the next step, this epistemic recogni-
tion is qualified in two ways, leading to the two horns of a dilemma. On the
one hand, Aristotle argues that while knowledge of any virtuous action is pleas-
urable, it is most pleasurable for an agent to recognize virtuous action that be-
longs to him- or herself (Aristotle uses the term οἰκεῖον here, not αὑτον – “domes-
tic” rather than “one’s own”). On the other hand, Aristotle argues that our
capacity to see and recognize (θεωρεῖν) our own actions is limited. We cannot,
Aristotle seems to argue, look at ourselves disaffectedly and “objectify” our
own actions sufficiently to take that pleasure-yielding cognitive stance towards
them (Aquinas, in his comment to the Nicomachean Ethics [1896], argues that
some privatum affectum – an emotional bias for ourselves – plays the role of
the culprit here). The epistemic stance in question requires some distance and
it can be taken in a better way towards one’s neighbors than towards oneself,
so that their way of acting can be better observed and recognized in that theo-
retical way than one’s own (θεωρεῖν δὲ μᾶλλον τοὺς πέλας δυνάμεθα ἢ ἑαυτοὺς
καὶ τὰς ἐκείνων πράξεις ἢ τὰς οἰκείας). From a better position to observe and rec-
ognize, Aristotle seems to imply, comes greater pleasure.
Thus it seems that we are caught in a dilemma. On the one hand, the epis-
temic pleasure is greater in observing one’s own virtuous way of acting rather
than other people’s because the target of observation is more pleasurable. On
the other hand, the epistemic pleasure is greater in observing other people’s vir-
tuous way of acting rather than one’s own, because the observation is better. It
seems that we cannot have it both ways. Whether we are contemplating our own
294 Hans Bernhard Schmid

virtuous way of acting or other people’s, our pleasure is somewhat impaired. It

may thus seem that we cannot reap full pleasure from contemplating virtuous
activity because for that, we would need to contemplate an agent that is us,
and another agent at the same time.
In the final step of the argument, however, Aristotle simply forces the two
horns of the dilemma together in what may seem to be an act of conceptual vio-
lence. He argues that this paradoxical creature who is both another and oneself
is exactly what a virtuous friend is: he is, at the same time, ἕτερος, another
agent, and αὐτὸς that is, oneself (1169b 7; cf. 1166a 32). The view is not that
the other is “another self” from his or her own perspective; rather, the other is
oneself in that his or her activity is one’s own. The paradoxical characterization
of the virtuous friend as alter ego concludes this line of argument why even a
person who is fully virtuous and endowed with all other external goods still
needs virtuous friends.
Given the paradoxical nature of the conception, it is perhaps not surprising
that Aristotle’s view of the virtuous friend as an alter ego has met with rather
sharp criticism in the received literature. Taking one’s friend to be oneself
amounts to disrespecting his or her own agency and displacing it with one’s
own. Many interpreters have observed that Aristotle has developed accounts of
an extension of one’s own agency into that of another person in the context
of his views on the nature of slavery, and of the relation between parent and
child (cf., e. g., Price 1985, pp. 103 ff.). Not only is it hard to imagine how these
paradigms could serve to capture the nature of participation in egalitarian rela-
tions: these conceptions seem to be inconsistent in themselves.
Aristotle’s view of the nature of power and domination is extreme in that it
entails a straightforward sense in which the slave is not an agent of his or her
own, but rather an extension of his or her master’s agency (cf. 1140a). In his
or her role, the slave does not perform any action of his or her own and therefore
does not seem to have any well-being of his or her own in Aristotle’s account.
This is of course not to say that they “participate” in their master’s well-being,
because any participation requires that the participants have their own part in
what they share in common, which is not the case here, as the only well-
being there can possibly be in a master-slave-relationship, if any at all, can
only be the masters’, and it is the slaves themselves that become “parts” of
their masters (cf. Politics 1255b 11). The passages on the extension of the masters’
agency into that of their slave oscillate between sociological realism and action-
theoretic nonsense. On the one hand, it is perhaps a frighteningly realistic ac-
count of the harsh facts of the institution of slavery in which power relations
are not agency-regarding (for the concept of agency-regarding relations, cf. Ro-
vane 1998, pp. 74 ff.). On the other hand, it is an action-theoretic view that is de-
 Being Well Together – Aristotle on Joint Activity and Common Sense 295

luded in ignoring the slaves’ own agential viewpoint even within a slaveholder
society. Even within extremely oppressive institutions, any individual’s activity,
if it instantiates action, instantiates the individual’s own action, however coerced
it may be. This is what Aristotle’s view of the slave as a “tool for action” ignores.
A similar delusion seems to be at work in Aristotle’s account of virtuous
friendship. “Aristotle shows how the friend who is loved as another self is, in
some important way, cherished as an extension of oneself, an extension that
can tempt one into the delusion that this other really is oneself, and as such
is able to help overcome one’s limitedness and mortality” (Smith-Pangle 2003,
p. 152). Smith-Pangle, as well as many other interpreters, points out that the
idea of the “alter ego” makes its first appearance in the Nicomachean Ethics in
the context of an analysis of the relation of parents and children (1161b).
Along these and similar lines, the whole idea of some participation in well-
being is a mere delusion, and it is not a particularly nice one because the motive
seems to be self-aggrandizement, that is, the extension of one’s first-personal
perspective over the lives and agencies of others. If this is indeed the motive be-
hind Aristotle’s argument that friends are needed, it should certainly not be part
of a normative conception of well-being. A plausible conception of shared well-
being should not be predicated on such self-aggrandizing delusions.
Thus there is much to say in favor of a non-extensional view of well-being, a
conception in which each person pursues his or her own happiness, minding the
virtues of her own actions along the distributive reading of Aristotle’s basic view.
Crisp (2013) argues for this view, claiming that well-being is always “a person’s”,
and that any attempt to argue that “your well-being is ‘part’ of mine” results in a
“collapse of the very notion of well-being”. A broadly Aristotelian way of arguing
for this view is the following. Aristotle’s conception of well-being, as introduced
in the first book of the NE, is that an agent’s well-being is the ultimate goal that
reasonable agents aim at. Furthermore, Aristotle argues that the ultimate goal
that reasonable agents aim at is not a product of action, but a form of activity.
This tight link to agency leads to the view that happiness is not only ontological-
ly subjective, but indeed first-personal. If happiness is the form of activity that is
the agent’s ultimate goal, it seems to be conceptually true that the only happi-
ness towards which an agent can strive is the agent’s own, because it is only
his or her own action that an agent can want to bring about in such a way
that the action is not a product of what he or she does, but in the doing itself.
This is what Price (1985) refers to as the “formal egocentricity” or the “notational
egoism” of Aristotle’s account.
Imagine what it may mean to aim at another person’s happiness from this
perspective. Ex hypothesi, another person’s well-being is a sustained form of
his or her activity. Now it is certainly possible to influence people in such a
296 Hans Bernhard Schmid

way that the form of their activity changes, and in ordinary language, we would
probably say that in this case, you’re making another person happier. But again,
it should be remembered that in the Aristotelian view, well-being is an activity
(ἐνέργειά τις) rather than some property (κτῆμά τι; 1169b 30 – 31). The good
that is well-being is a form of the activity itself rather than its product. Thus
“making somebody happy” can only mean providing the “external goods” that
enable the other to be active in the way that constitutes his or her own well-
being. As the well-being you’re helping to bring about is in the form of the
other person’s activity, it is something that the other person does, rather than
a form of your own activity. Thus in assisting other people in such a way as to
make them act in a better way, your acting is of the kind that contributes to
other people’s well-being and, maybe to some degree “makes the other person
act”, but insofar as this assisting activity is a part of anyone’s well-being, the
only possible candidate well-being is your own.
It is thus a conceptual truth, in this conception, that well-being is always
each agent’s own, simply because it is his or her own agency only that each
agent exerts. Even a person who has great powers of command over others,
and is thus in some control of what they do, does only the commanding rather
than the doings of his or her subordinates. Each agent does his own doing,
even where agents are under other agents’ power. One might call this minimal
agential autonomy: Wherever an agent acts, the action in question is his or
her own. In a conception of well-being according to which well-being is a
form rather than a product of action, this minimal conception of agential autono-
my seems to force a distributive reading: As each does his or her own doing, each
one’s well-being is his or her own.

2
Whether or not it is something like this first-personal nature of well-being Crisp
has in mind when he says that the “temptation” to say that we can literally par-
ticipate in each other’s well-being should be resisted, he goes on emphasizing
that any such view should not be taken in the sense of atomistic independence
or narrow egoism. This is certainly right and even though it does not take us as
far as Crisp hopes, the ways in which the distributive reading of well-being can
accommodate mutual interdependence, altruism, and non-particularism deserve
to be mentioned.

Your well-being concerns how well your life goes for you, and we can allow that my well-
being depends on yours without introducing the confusing notion that my well-being is
 Being Well Together – Aristotle on Joint Activity and Common Sense 297

constituted by yours. There are signs in Aristotelian thought of an expansion of the subject
or owner of well-being. A friend is ‘another self’, so that what benefits my friend benefits
me. But this should be taken either as a metaphorical expression of the dependence claim,
or as an identity claim which does not threaten the notion of well-being: if you really are
the same person as I am, then of course what is good for you will be what is good for me,
since there is no longer any metaphysically significant distinction between you and me.
(Crisp 2013)

The non-threatening version of the identity claim is the one in which “you are the
same person as I am” simply means “you are the same kind of person”. It is qual-
itative or type identity that Crisp advocates here, not numerical or token identity.
It may not initially seem convincing, however, that my being of the same type of
person as you solves the problem of the first-personal nature of well-being. Just
the fact that I like to do the same type of activities that you like does not per se
bring us together in any friendly way – in a world where resources are scarce,
conflict easily results from people having preferences of the same kind. The
type identity claim clearly needs to be specified in order to capture something
of the spirit of “being well together”.
There are several steps to take. First and perhaps most basically, the “de-
pendence claim” Crisp mentions has to be taken into account. Ways in which
“my well-being is closely bound up with yours” can obviously be accounted
for without any expansion of the subject of well-being, and without blurring
the neat distributive distinction between how well your life goes for you and
how well my life goes for me. Aristotle recognizes that happiness requires suit-
able conditions. Here, the issue of “external goods” is important. Aristotle lists
having nice children, some wealth, and being reasonably good-looking as para-
digmatic examples in this category, but it is perhaps not too much of a stretch to
claim that in order for a person to be truly happy, it is necessary that his or her
loved ones be reasonably happy, too. After all, it is difficult to imagine that a vir-
tuous person be completely happy if everybody around her is just plain misera-
ble, and given the nature of Aristotle’s inquiry, one likes to think that he must
have said so somewhere. There is some sense in which well-being obviously in-
volves sharing here. In the Eudemian Ethics, Aristotle emphasizes the sympathet-
ic nature of close friendship, arguing that we want to share even our friends’
pains, and if it is not possible to share the same token experience of thirst or
hunger, then we want to experience at least “what is closest to it” (EE 1240a
39). It seems plausible that this extends beyond single episodes and stretches
to our friends’ whole well- or unwell-being. This kind of sharing – sympathy –
does not challenge the first personal conception of well-being in any way.
Even if it is true that well-being involves so much sympathy that I can be truly
well only if you are, too, or if it is true that I can be truly well only if everybody
298 Hans Bernhard Schmid

else is, it remains a fact that in spite of this dependence, my well-being is not
yours and yours is not mine. A condition of my and your well-being may be
that we are equally well and it may be exactly the same kind of activity that
makes each of us happy. But even if we’re both equally well and if it is the
same sort of activities that constitute our well-being, your happiness is yours
and my happiness is mine.
The next step is that in addition to dependence and qualitative identity, it has
to be recognized that Aristotle’s first-personal account of well-being, even in its
most straightforwardly “egocentrical” reading, certainly does not entail crude ego-
ism. The first-personal way in which Aristotle spells out the ontological subjectiv-
ity of well-being has to be distinguished clearly from the view that agents are self-
centered. It is true that Aristotle does seem to ascribe a great deal of egoism to
agents (cf. Kahn 1981): “Each one seems to love his own good”, Aristotle says
(1155b 23), and again: “everyone wants good things most of all for himself”
(1159a 11– 12). But the qualification in the first quote already makes clear that ego-
ism is not a conceptual truth about agency, and it seems that Aristotle is talking
about the average unhappy individual here rather than the virtuous person who is
truly well. Aristotle’s analysis makes it quite plain that a lot of my close ones, and
indeed society at large, will profit a great deal from my true well-being, and that
they will do so not only as an unintended side-effect of my conducting my life
well, but as part of what it is for me to lead a good life. This is obvious from
the fact that generosity is a paragon feature of the good life, as Aristotle argues
at length in the catalogue of virtues, and fairness plays a key role, too. Aristotle’s
conception of happiness, as well as any plausible conception, states that a good
life involves finding a balance between the pursuit of one’s own interest and an
engagement for the interests of others. On this line, Aristotle says of the “virtuous
man” that his “conduct is often guided by the interests of his friends and of his
country” and that “he will if necessary lay down his life on their behalf, thus “.
This, however, is not against the reasonable self-interest of people, as they thereby
“chose great nobility for themselves” (1169a). Thus the claim that well-being is
first-personal does not entail that well-being should be pursued in a self-centered
frame of mind or that the only interests a reasonable agent takes into account are
his or her own. Subject and beneficiary of well-being are two separate issues. The
subject is the first person, but the circle of beneficiaries is much wider; the ques-
tion of whose well-being is at stake does not answer the question of who profits
from one’s well-being.
This leads us to the last (and perhaps most important) step. In Aristotle’s
view, well-being is about proper guidance by reason, entailing values such as
justice. And such values are universal rather than particular in nature. This is
not to deny that we do tend to endorse self-serving conceptions of justice; but
 Being Well Together – Aristotle on Joint Activity and Common Sense 299

to the degree to which we do, we’re not truly just. Justice is what it is not just for
me, but for anyone. Insofar as well-being is in a life that is guided by reason, it is,
in a way, a universal life; it is guided by the parts of our souls in which there is,
indeed, “no metaphysically significant distinction between you and me”, as
Crisp puts it. The first-personal character of well-being does thus not entail par-
ticularism, but rather entails a great deal of universalism. This is the point at
which, in spite of all the differences, some interpreters have found a connection
between Aristotle’s conception of virtue and Kantian thoughts on duty (e. g.,
Sherman 1997). The virtuous life is universal in its being guided by reason and
universal values.
It is time to take stock and see how far these steps have taken us. Has our
problem with the first-personal distributive reading been solved? Crisp suggests
that if the mutual interdependence between our well-being, the difference be-
tween the ontological subject and the beneficiary of well-being, as well as the
universalism of Aristotelian well-being is properly understood, nothing remains
unaccounted for in the view that well-being is about each of us pursuing his or
her own well-being. But this is not so. Even if it is true that my well-being pre-
supposes yours, and that it involves so much sympathy that I can be truly happy
only if you are, if it is true that I can be truly well only if everybody else is, and
that it is in the same kind of activity that each of us finds his or her happiness,
the plain fact remains that my happiness cannot be part of yours and your hap-
piness cannot be part of mine. And this seems to be a serious limitation. In close
friendship, that is, in an intimately shared life among equals, the well-being is
shared in a different and more straightforward sense than the “non-threatening”
sense advocated by Crisp. It is not just that friends tend to be equally well or un-
well and that their well-being is mutually interdependent and in the same kind
of activities. Rather, they participate in each other’s well-being. If we live closely
together, it is certainly the case that each of us pursues his or her own well-being
and that our individual well-beings are closely interrelated. But this is not all
there is to a shared life. In intimate relations, the striving for well-being is not
something each member pursues by him- or herself, in a more or less generous,
sympathetic, and universal fashion. Rather, it is something we do together and
whatever well-being is in activity that is not mine and yours, severally, but
ours, together, it seems clear that the well-being in question is ours in such a
way that we literally participate in each other’s well-being. This is the sense ex-
cluded by Crisp’s version of the identity claim, but it is a sense that seems plau-
sible and indeed constitutive of the kind of well-being we may enjoy in a life that
is truly shared with others. Are there ways to account for this without thereby
causing a “collapse of the very notion of well-being”?
300 Hans Bernhard Schmid

3
That joint activity is a key to understanding the participatory nature of well-being
that Aristotle seems to advocate in his conception of virtuous friendship has not
gone unnoticed in the received literature (cf., e. g., Cooper 1977; Price 1989,
pp. 103 – 130; Sherman 1997, chap. 5; Kosman 2004). To focus on just some of
these examples, Anthony W. Price’s chapter on “perfect friendship” (1989,
pp. 103 – 130) is guided by the intuition that the kind of participation in each oth-
er’s well-being that seems to be implied in Aristotle’s account cannot be cap-
tured adequately in any other way as in an analysis of what it means to cooper-
ate or act jointly, together, and he undertakes a thorough examination of the
conceptual tools Aristotle offers to understand the kind of interrelation between
cooperating agents and their participation in joint activity. A second example out
of many is Nancy Sherman’s Making a Necessity of Virtue (1997), especially the
chapter entitled “the shared voyage”. “Doing things together” and “friendship
and shared activity” are the key topics here and Sherman again focuses on
the passages that support the reading of living together in terms of joint activity.
Aristotle characterizes living together (συζῆν) as a “sharing of words and
deeds” (λόγων καὶ πραγμάτων κοινωνεῖν; NE 1126b 11). It is true, though, that
Aristotle does not mention joint action in other places at which the issue of
συζῆν comes up. In 1270b, “κοινωνεῖν λόγων καὶ διανοίας”, “the sharing of
words and thoughts (or considerations)” is the expression Aristotle uses, and
in the Eudemian Ethics, he characterizes the living together again cognitively
rather than practically, this time as joint perception and common knowledge
(or common acquaintance, or common understanding; συναισθάνεσθαι καὶ συγ-
γνωρίζειν, cf. EE 1244b 26 – 27). The fact that Aristotle’s focus is on the sharing of
perception, knowledge, logos, and thinking, however, does not mean that it is
only here and not in actual action that the sharing (or “communing”; κοινωνεῖν)
takes place in living together. Rather, he focuses on the rational infrastructure of
the kind of activity that is “with account” or according to (the right) reason [κατὰ
(τὸν ορθόν) λόγον] for the following two reasons: It is only this particular kind of
action that comes into question of a shared life that is a good life, as the good life
is a reasonable life, and the sharing of activity that is integrated at the level of
the reasoning is shared in a different sense than spontaneous joint activity, or
shared activity that is based on individual reasons and in which each participant
ultimately pursues an individual agenda. The idea is that for our shared life to be
a good life, our shared activities must issue from a joint rational perspective, and
it is in virtue of this perspective that the activity in question is unified.
 Being Well Together – Aristotle on Joint Activity and Common Sense 301

Given this widely shared interpretation in the received literature, the task
ahead is to show that the interpretation of virtuous friendship as joint virtuous
activity can accommodate a straightforward participatory reading of well-being
that is free of the paradox and the inacceptable consequences encountered
above, especially that it is non-delusional and does not undermine basic agen-
cy-regard and that involves an expansion of the subject of well-being that does
not end up in a paradox and a “collapse of the very notion of well-being”, as
Crisp assumes.
Before coming to these issues, let us first retrace our steps to see how the ap-
parent paradox of the participatory reading of well-being emerged. In the Aristote-
lian view, well-being is tied to action in that it is our ultimate aim, and it is a par-
ticular form of activity rather than a product of action. The only activity which we
can “do” in a way that is not a product of our activity is our own (the own agen-
cy-condition), this leads to a first-personal account of well-being, according to
which the kind of well-being at which each agent aims is his or her own (sect. 1
above). This does not rule out altruistic conceptions of one’s own well-being or a
universalist orientation, but it does seem to rule out a participatory conception of
well-being in which well-being is shared in a straightforward sense, as we cannot
seem to conceive of another person’s action as our own without undermining the
other’s own agency (sect. 2 above). The own agency-condition and the agency-regard
it implies seem to be incompatible with the view that the other’s action is somehow
one’s own. If this is true, it follows that you pursue your happiness and I pursue
mine and that all there is about sharing well-being is mutual dependence, altruism,
and a non-particularist conception of well-being, without any straightforward shar-
ing of well-being between us.
Thinking about virtuous friendship in terms of joint activity, however, sug-
gests that the way in which we participate in each other’s well-being may not
be a matter of me doing your individual actions, which violates the own agen-
cy-condition, but rather a matter of us acting together in the sense that there
is one activity to which each of us contributes. If we act together, there is one
token action that we perform together, but this is not to say that your agency
is somehow subsumed under mine, as you contribute your parts while I contrib-
ute mine. This suggests a conception of well-being that is both first-personal and
agency-regarding, and participatory in a straightforward sense. Joint agency re-
spects the own agency-condition because it does not suggest that I do your con-
tributions to the joint activity or that you do mine. As far as joint agency is vir-
tuous however, it constitutes a well-being that is not yours and mine, severally or
distributively, but ours, collectively.
Thinking further along these lines, the next issue to take up would be an
analysis of what exactly virtuous joint action is, and how it relates to individual
302 Hans Bernhard Schmid

virtuous action. Are there virtues that are specific for joint activity? A first candi-
date to consider may perhaps be cooperative-mindedness, that is, the habitual-
ized disposition to engage in the kind of joint activity that is directed towards the
common good. To be cooperative-minded is to see and relate to one’s partners as
competent participants in reasoning and action. It would be interesting to see
how exactly the kind of trust and mutual reliance involved in cooperation relates
to the kind of self-confidence and self-reliance – trust in one’s own abilities and
judgment – advocated in Aristotle’s accounts of the virtues of magnanimity (or
“big-souledness”, μεγαλοψυχία).
This would be the topic for another paper. The current aim is a more modest
one: It is to point out the flaw in the line of argument that lead to the view that
the first-personal nature of well-being cannot be reconciled with the intuition
that well-being can be shared in a straightforward sense. This flaw is in the
tacit assumption that the first-personal nature of well-being is limited to the sin-
gular. This is a mistake because there is the first person plural, too. The way in
which being well together is first personal is in the plural. Participatory well-
being is tied to joint action in the same way individual well-being is tied to in-
dividual action. Being well together is what we, together, ultimately want and
it is in the virtuous form of our joint activity. Such well-being does not imply
the delusion that my agency somehow extends into yours and thereby displaces
your agency, but it is based on the insight that agency can be joint in such a way
that both of us participate in a common endeavor. If this endeavor is virtuous, it
constitutes well-being that is not mine or thine, but ours.
Thus the “extension in the subject of well-being” at stake here is not the dis-
placement of the second person by the first person, but the move from the first
person singular to the first person plural.
It may not initially seem convincing, however, that the mere fact that individ-
uals act jointly somehow involves the “extension of the subject of well-being”. If
the subject of well-being is “us, together” in a way that implies a whole that con-
tains us as parts, it seems that the subject of the virtuous joint activity must be
plural. Looking at the recent literature on joint action, such a claim seems to re-
ceive only weak support. Most authors agree that joint actions are collectively
intentional, but only few authors claim that collective intentionality has a plural
subject in the sense of there being a group who “has” the intention in question
(cf. Schweikard/Schmid 2013). Most authors answer the question of what’s col-
lective about collective intentionality by pointing towards the content (e. g., Brat-
man 2014) or the mode (e. g., Searle 2010 and Tuomela 2013) of the intentionality
in question. For a long time, Margaret Gilbert (1989) has been unique in pushing
a plural subject account of collective intentionality, and her account has been
met with serious objections. Instead of entering this extended debate – out of
 Being Well Together – Aristotle on Joint Activity and Common Sense 303

which, in my view, a revised version of the plural subject account emerges vic-
torious –, let us again look at Aristotle and see how a plural subject account of
joint activity (and thereby of participatory well-being) could be construed with
the action-theoretic tools he provides. There may be a bit of a lacuna to be filled
here. As seen above, the existing literature on Aristotle’s virtuous friendship as
an account of joint action has largely focused on the claim that what is joint
about joint action comes from the joint reasoning from which the action issues.
Yet this only pushes the question further back. After all, reasoning is just another
activity. What is the feature in virtue of which this activity is joint, that is, a uni-
fied activity of reasoning, rather than a case of two or more individual reason-
ings that are interlinked in such a way that each comes to the same conclusion?
What is the feature in virtue of which the conclusion is one that is reached to-
gether rather than an interlinked aggregate of individual conclusions?
It is certainly true that not only activities that issue from deliberation can be
joint activities. Just as there are spontaneous individual actions that do not issue
from a prior intention (cf. Bratman 1987, pp. 126 – 127; Velleman 2007), there are
cases of spontaneous joint action such as an improvised Jazz jam session (cf.,
e. g., Tuomela 2007, p. 274). It may not even seem altogether convincing that
such spontaneous activities should be somehow less important to our well-
being – individually or collective – than fully reasoned choices, as Aristotle
clearly claims. More importantly, however, even if one assumes that only rea-
soned activities can be joint in a way that is relevant for being well together,
the question of what exactly is joint in joint activity, is not to be answered simply
by pointing out that kind of activity. So the crucial question remains open: what
is the feature in virtue of which some activities are joint activities? What would
an Aristotelian account of collective intentionality look like?
Looking at the decisive chapter 9 of book IX of the Nicomachean Ethics more
closely, a feature hits the eye which has not been taken sufficiently into account
in the received literature (an exception is Hitz 2011). Aristotle devotes large parts
of this chapter to a discussion of a theme which is recurrent in his work: the idea
that – liberally translated – human activity is typically conscious activity; there is
a sort of awareness – the term Aristotle uses is αἴσθησις here – of our activities.
“One who sees is conscious that he sees, one who hears that he hears, one who
walks that he walks, and similarly for all the other human activities there is a
faculty that is conscious of their exercise” (1169b). It is, Aristotle then continues
to argue, essentially in virtue of the self-awareness that virtuous action consti-
tutes well-being, suggesting that it is self-awareness of virtuous activity that
makes existence desirable. The next step in the argument makes the crucial
move. Earlier in book 9, Aristotle has pointed out several ways in which an
agent’s relation to his or her friend parallels, or is identical with, the relation
304 Hans Bernhard Schmid

of an agent to himself, culminating in the parallel between individual self-love

and love of friends in virtuous friendship. In chapter 9, Aristotle seems to
spell this out in terms of self-knowledge or self-awareness.
To my knowledge, Zena Hitz’ interpretation of Aristotle’s conception of
friendship is unique in that she focuses on the relation between friendship
and self-knowledge. In her thorough and careful examination, Hitz points out
that it is in the role of self-knowledge of one’s friends’ action that a solution
to the problems that have been diagnosed in previous interpretations can be
found. The way in which one’s friends’ actions are “somehow one’s own” is
not in some delusional extension of one’s own agency, but in a sort of knowledge
of the activities in question. But of course, the paradox reappears immediately:
how can an agent be self-aware of another agent? It is important to take a closer
look at the decisive passage here. The way Aristotle puts his point across is not
by claiming that an agent has the same αἴσθησις of his or her friend’s action or
existence as of her own. Rather, Aristotle says that an agent ought to have αἴσθη-
σις of his or her friend’s virtuous action together with the friend (1170b). The
word Aristotle uses here is συναισθάνεσθαι, “being aware together”, meaning
that the αἴσθησις in question is a συναίσθησις – in this latter, nominal form,
the term only seems to occur once in the corpus Aristotelicum. In EE 1245b, Aris-
totle emphasizes that while it be desirable to extend the sharing of αἴσθησις to
many, it can be actualized only with the few with whom one actually lives to-
gether; the sharing of one’s life determine the limits of that “community of con-
sciousness”. Yet it is clear that in spite of these tight social limitations placed on
the actual sharing of self-knowledge, Aristotle’s remarks on the role of συναι-
σθάνεσθαι and συναίσθησις prepare the concept of the “shared perception”,
the “shared sense” (κοινή αἴσθησις) placed at the heart of human sociality in
book 1 of the Politics (P 1253a).
Aquinas translated Aristotle’s κοινή αἴσθησις with “sensus communis” and,
over the course of a long and often reconstructed history, this has turned into the
“common sense” many social and political philosophers have assigned a core
place in their thought, usually giving it the meaning of the basic mental capaci-
ties, dispositions, and attitudes people can usually be expected to have and that
therefore provides a non-idiosyncratic and impartial standard of judgment. If the
interpretation given above is correct, however, Aristotle’s conception of the com-
mon sense provides a deeper reason why any such common sense should be dis-
tributively general. Each of us has common sense because we have common
sense together, collectively, in that common sense is awareness of the way in
which we live and act together.
The later history of common sense has covered up the collective root of com-
mon sense. But the difference between a merely distributive understanding of
 Being Well Together – Aristotle on Joint Activity and Common Sense 305

common sense and an understanding of common sense as collective does mat-

ter. In the exclusively distributive reading, the sense in question just happens to
be common in something like the way in which each human usually happens to
have one nose and two ears. It is only in the reading that extends to the collective
dimension that common sense is transparent as the basic feature of the kind of
activity that is our shared life. Each of us has common sense for him- or herself
because we have common sense together. Seeing common sense as something in
which each of us participates rather than just as something each of us instanti-
ates for him- or herself opens up a perspective on how common sense is contin-
gent rather than something like an unchangeable “given” of our social life, as it
seems to be seen in conservative views. If common sense is seen as our aware-
ness of the way in which we live together, it is obvious that our common sense is
a feature of what we do, jointly, as societies. And this is up to us, together.
This brings us to a final point, which concerns the relation between the
συναισθάνεσθαι in virtue of which our activity in our shared lives is a joint activ-
ity and the θεωρεῖν of virtuous action that according to NE IX 9 adds to our well-
being (cf. above sect. 1). Aristotle claims that in θεωρεῖν, in seeing and recogniz-
ing virtuous action we experience a pleasure that is essential for a life that is
fully happy. This θεωρεῖν is obviously not the αἴσθησις we have encountered
in this section and that is part and parcel of any conscious activity (in the
way that any hearing involves the awareness of hearing) – even though both at-
titudes are self-referential and have the same target, that is, the activity. It is
tempting and perhaps not too much of a stretch to reconstruct the difference be-
tween these two self-referential attitudes as the difference between pre-reflective,
non-thematic, non-objectifying self-awareness on the one hand, and reflective
self-knowledge on the other. If this is the case, the kind of θεωρεῖν that makes
us fully happy that Aristotle is looking for in NE IX 9 would be reflective self-
knowledge of shared activity: making explicit and thematic the pre-reflective
συναίσθησις that marks our shared activity.
Here, I claim, is the key to an understanding of how well-being can be par-
ticipatory without displacing the other as an agent. The way in which agents can
be well together in a participatory sense is by having self-knowledge of what they
are jointly self-aware of, that is, their shared activity. The θεωρεῖν in question is
the knowing that whatever each of us is doing in living together (συζῆν) is uni-
fied by a strong common sense. Living well together is conscious activity, and it
is not that I am conscious of what I do and have observational or inferential
knowledge of what you are doing, knowing that mutatis mutandis, the same is
true for you and that there is some structure of common knowledge between
us. Rather, the consciousness in virtue of which our shared life is ours, collective-
ly, rather than yours and mine, distributively, is plural consciousness, or
306 Hans Bernhard Schmid

συναἴσθησις, that is, αἴσθησις that is ours rather than yours and mine. The con-
sciousness in question is plural pre-reflective self-awareness (Schmid 2013), and
in the right way of seeing and recognizing that activity (θεωρεῖν), our activity is
not only to be seen as a distribution of individual activities, but it should be
grasped from its collective ground. Being well together is acting virtuously to-
gether and knowing it.
This step from the singular to the plural is how Aristotle’s account of partic-
ipatory well-being involves an “extension of the subject of well-being”. It is not
delusional, it does not imply a self-aggrandizing view of the extension of one’s
power into the domain of what is up to others, and it is certainly not “a collapse
of the very notion of well-being”, as Crisp claims. Rather, it adequately describes
how agency is marked by a sense of self, and how that sense of self is plural
where agents live closely together and engage in joint activities. You do not there-
by become “I” and “I” am not you. Yet you and I are us, and as such, we can be
well together in such a way as to participate in a well-being that is not just an
aggregate or distribution of individual well-beings, but a collective well-being.
It is in this sense that it is not only true that what each of us wants in his or
her own life is to be well, but that what we jointly want to do in our shared
life is to be well together, too. And it is in this sense that your well-being is
not only a prerequisite or a product of my virtuous activity, but something in
which we participate insofar as we are living together rather than leading mutu-
ally interdependent, but separate lives.

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Cooper, John M. (1977): “Friendship and the Good in Aristotle”. In: The Philosophical Review
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Cooper, John M. (1985): “Aristotle on the Goods of Fortune”. In: The Philosophical Review 94.
No. 2, pp. 173 – 196.
Crisp, Roger (2013): “Well-Being”. In: Edward Zalta (Ed.): The Stanford Encyclopedia of
Philosophy. http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/well-being/, visited on 25 August 2015.
Hitz, Zena (2011): “Aristotle on Self-Knowledge and Friendship”. In: Philosopher’s Imprint 11,
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Rovane, Carol (1998): The Bounds of Agency. An Essay in Revisionary Metaphysics. Princeton:
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Schmid, Hans Bernhard (2013): “Plural Self-Awareness”. In: Phenomenology and the
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Schweikard, David P./Schmid Hans Bernhard (2013): “Collective Intentionality”. In: Edward
Zalta (Ed.): The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/
collective-intentionality/, visited on 25 August 2015.
Sherman, Nancy (1997): Making a Necessity of Virtue. Aristotle and Kant on Virtue.
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Smith-Pangle, Lorraine (2003): Aristotle and the Philosophy of Friendship. Cambridge:
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Tuomela, Raimo (2007): The Philosophy of Sociality. The Shared Point of View. Oxford: Oxford
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Berlin/New York: De Gruyter, pp. 193 – 215.
Michela Summa
Pretence and the Inner.
Reflections on Expressiveness and
the Experience of Self and Other*
Abstract: This paper investigates the relation between pretence, social experi-
ence, and the knowledge of self and of other. Traditionally, sceptical arguments
concerning both the existence and the knowledge of other minds have been de-
veloped on the basis of the remarks concerning the possibility of pretence, and
particularly of deceptive pretence. Combining Wittgenstein’s approach to pre-
tence, as it is particularly developed in Last Writings on the Philosophy of Psy-
chology, with a phenomenologically grounded conception of pretence and inter-
subjective experience, I aim at circumscribing the meaning of the question
concerning our possible knowledge of ourselves and others.
Departing from a critical assessment of the implications of the sceptical ar-
guments based on pretence, I argue that the concept of ‘knowledge’ underlying
such sceptical challenges is misleading. Subsequently, I develop a phenomeno-
logical inquiry into the relation between experiencing and expressing, and show
how the results of such an inquiry fruitfully complement Wittgenstein’s and Cav-
ell’s observations about “knowledge” and ‘acknowledgement’. I finally return to
pretence and its implications for social experience and understanding. I argue
that the revised conception of knowledge of self and other developed in the pre-
vious sections allows us to dismiss the understanding of pretend actions and be-
haviour as something that undermines the possibility of social understanding.
On the contrary, such a conception of knowledge of self and other brings to
the fore the constitutive social nature of pretence.

The possibility of pretence, and correlatively of being deceived by others’ behaviour,

is one of the arguments brought about while formulating both epistemological and
ontological challenges concerning other minds.¹ According to the former, we can

* I wish to thank Andrea Altobrando, Monika Dullstein, and Karl Mertens for their insightful
comments on a preliminary version of this paper.
 It should be noticed right now that the meaning of the English word “pretence” is not
univocal. In particular, a distinction should be made between non-deceptive pretence, in which
there is a mutual understanding among subjects concerning the fictional nature of a situation or
concerning the fact that one is playing a role (e. g., in pretend play), and deceptive pretence, in
German Verstellen or Heucheln, in which someone is feigning, hiding something, or dissim-
310 Michela Summa

never be certain about what others are experiencing, whereas according to the latter
we can never be certain about the very existence of others as experiencing beings. In
his later writings, and particularly in Last Writings on the Philosophy of Psychology,
Wittgenstein focuses on such sceptical challenges within the framework of a reas-
sessment of the distinction between the inner and the outer, which also implies a
reassessment of our experience of ourselves and others. As some of Wittgenstein’s
remarks reveal, both the concept of pretence and its relation to inner experience and
genuine expression are far from being clear.
The aim of this paper is to develop a phenomenological account of the rela-
tion between pretence and our “knowledge” of ourselves and of others. I will
argue that the assumptions underlying the understanding of pretence in the
just mentioned sceptical remarks are related to a problematic view of what ex-
pression is and of what the privileged access to our own experiences entails.
On the one hand, outer expressions are considered to be decoupled from expe-
rience and to point at what happens in inner psychic life. On the other hand, our
privileged access to our experiences is considered only on the basis of the idea of
certainty. In what follows, I shall question both views. In the first section, I crit-
ically address the implications of the sceptical arguments based on pretence. In
the second section, I concentrate on the relation between experiencing and ex-
pressing. This is done by discussing three key-points: the asymmetry between
self- and other-experience, the distinction of two different meanings of expres-
sion, and the qualification of the concept of knowledge when applied to both
our own and the other’s experiences or mental states. Thereby, I particularly
refer to Wittgenstein’s and Cavell’s remarks and show in what sense they can
complement a phenomenological understanding of experience and expression.
Finally, in the third section, I pursue this line of thought in relation to pretence.
Here, I discuss the shortcomings of considering pretence as based on already
given and fully determined mental states, and develop an interpretation of pre-
tence that, instead of considering it as something that undermines intersubjec-
tivity and social understanding, is rather grounded on both.

ulating. In this paper, I shall only concentrate on deceptive pretence. A conceptual analysis of
the different meanings of the concept of pretence is developed by Mercolli (). For a phe-
nomenological inquiry into non-deceptive pretence, see Summa (). On the concept of
deceptive pretence, see also Austin () and Anscombe (), who debate on the meaning of
the concept of pretence as intentional activity aimed at disguising or dissimulating. The dis-
cussion between Austin and Anscombe does not particularly touch the implications of pretence
for the problem of other minds, which will be the central topic of this paper.
 Pretence and the Inner 311

1 Pretence and the scepticism concerning other

minds
As I mentioned, the sceptical challenge based on pretence can assume two
forms: epistemological and ontological. ²
The epistemological challenge is based on the assumption that we do not
have any direct access to the other’s inner states; we can only infer them on
the basis of what we can perceive, namely outer behaviour. This challenge con-
cerns the possibility of identifying sufficient outer criteria (behaviour, actions,
expressions, and language) that would allow us to recognise with certainty
the psychic (i. e., inner) states of the other (cf. Witherspoon 2011). The possibility
of pretence is assumed as an argument supporting this challenge. Indeed, since
one can express, for instance, pain also without being in pain, the perception of
the expression does not give us any legitimate ground to say with certainty
whether the other is in pain or not. Generalising this remark, the sceptical chal-
lenge goes as follows: assumed that others sometimes deceive us, and that they
can deceive us in principle, we can never be certain of whether we grasp their
genuine states of mind at all. These could, in principle, always remain hidden.
The ontological challenge concerns the very existence of others as minded
beings. Not only can I be deceived about the correlation between the other’s
outer behaviour and his/her inner states, but also about the very existence of
such inner states. In other words, following this line of thought, I have no criteria
to decide whether others are human or living beings, or whether they are only
automata (PI, p. 420).
At first glance, both challenges have some power. Yet, at a closer look, they
are not without problems. Let us briefly mention only two of these problematic
implications, respectively related to the epistemological and the ontological ver-
sion of the challenge.
First, as Wittgenstein observes, the epistemological challenge based on pre-
tence entails a grammatical contradiction:

One can say ‘He is hiding his feelings’. But that means that it is not a priori they are always
hidden. Or: There are two statements contradicting one another: one is that feelings are es-
sentially hidden; the other, that someone is hiding his feelings from me. (LWPP II, p. 35)

 As Avramides () points out, there is not one sceptical argument, for we should clearly
distinguish ancient scepticism, which, despite the generality of doubt, has an approach to
knowledge grounded on action, from modern epistemological scepticism. The formulation of
the problem of other minds that I consider here is only consistent with the modern framework.
312 Michela Summa

The concept of pretence is grammatically grounded upon the concept of genuine ex-
pression: it has its meaning only in contrast to the idea of genuine (or ingenuous)
expression, which is therefore presupposed (cf. Ryle 2009). Thus, the concept of gen-
eralised pretence, without any contrast with genuineness, is meaningless (cf. Jureshi
2012; Ter Hark 1990).
Secondly, the ontological challenge is based on the assumption of the sep-
aration between inner states of mind, which are inaccessible, and outer expres-
sions, which we can perceive. The latter are conceived as signs pointing at the
former. Since signs are decoupled from what they designate and since there
can be signs indicating at non-existent objects, there can be in principle no cer-
tainty as to whether the mental states indicated by outer signs really exist or not,
i. e., we cannot know with certainty whether the other is another subject, or rath-
er only an automaton.
Besides being, as Wittgenstein observes, uncanny (PI, p. 420), this inference
also entails a contradiction. The argument, indeed, begins with the possibility of
pretence, conceived as an intentional activity that only minded beings can accom-
plish, and eventually arrives at the contradictory conclusion that pretence itself is
what challenges the very existence of minded beings. Thus, as Cavell (1999,
p. 379) points out, the possibility of pretence seems only to leave room for some
kind of epistemological agnosticism, but not for metaphysical scepticism.

2 Experiencing and expressing

The understanding of pretence that underlies the different versions of the scep-
tical challenge concerning other minds seems to be grounded on three main
ideas concerning experience and the expression thereof: (1) the assumption
that, in order to experience others, I need to have the same access to their expe-
riences as I have to mine; (2) the idea that the relation between behaviour and
inner states of mind is a kind of signitive indication, i. e., that expressions
point at supposedly independent mental states and that there can be either ac-
cordance or discordance between the sign (outer behaviour) and the designated
(the inner mental state); and (3) the idea that the privileged access I have to my
own experiences is a matter of uniquely certain knowledge. This is an oversim-
plified view of what experience and expression are, and the revision of such a
view is a pre-condition for a proper understanding of pretence.
The more or less explicit idea behind the first assumption is that, in order for
there being certainty about other minds (be that epistemological or ontological),
I need to have a fully immediate (i. e., not mediated by either language or bodily
expressions) access to the other’s inner experience. Since it is assumed that I
 Pretence and the Inner 313

have such an immediate access to my own experiences, what I would need is to

have the same direct access to his/her experiences as I have to mine. As this is
not the case, I can never be certain about anything concerning the other’s expe-
rience. One of the sceptical premises is undeniably correct: I cannot in principle
have the same access to the other’s experiences as to mine. There is a fundamen-
tal asymmetry between how I experience my own pain and how I experience that
the other is in pain (Overgaard 2007., pp. 91 f.). Indeed, if the opposite was true,
the very problem of intersubjectivity and otherness would be meaningless or ab-
surd: if I had the same access to the other’s experience as I have to mine, the
other would simply be a part of myself (Husserl 1960, p. 109). In other words,
experiencing is uniquely first-personal and our experience of others is primarily
that of separation (Cavell 1976, p. 260). This is not a merely empirical statement,
but rather a necessity for any discourse about inter-subjectivity. As Cavell (1976,
p. 259) writes, what is stated herewith is the necessity of a Faktum, “some terrible
or fortunate fact, at once contingent and necessary”. The mistake in the sceptical
argument, thus, consists in ideally taking the possibility of bypassing such fun-
damental asymmetry as the only ground to legitimately talk about our experi-
ence of others.
Such asymmetry, however, is not rendered by the distinction between direct
versus inferential access to experiences. Phenomenological theories argue that,
despite such asymmetry, we do have a sui generis direct experience of others, and
this experience goes under the name of empathy.³ Introducing the concept of im-
ponderable evidence to address the way we grasp other’s expressions (e. g., PI II
p. xi, p. 228; LWPP I, p. 936), I believe that Wittgenstein would also agree with
the phenomenological remark that I do have a specific direct (i. e., non-inferen-
tial) experience of others based on their expressions, and I can see the anger,
sadness, or joy in and through their faces (cf. Scheler 1973, p. 209 f.). Being un-
problematic, and even essential in our everyday life, imponderable evidence be-
comes problematic only in the philosophical discourse, for it does not grant any
kind of criterial knowledge.⁴ It rather designates the intuitive and morphological
grasp that we can have of something like a style, which cannot be fully explicat-

 Referring to empathy, of course, does not simply solve the problems. The debate on the nature
of empathy as direct perception of others is particularly rich and it would be impossible to ad-
dress it here in detail. What I want to emphasize, however, is that empathy is conceived as a sui
generis intuitive act of presentification, which is directed to the other and his/her experiences.
Cf., among many others, Husserl (, ), Stein (), Zahavi ().
 Ter Hark (, p.  f.) identifies three main features characterising imponderable evi-
dence: () it is not based on clearly definable criteria, (ii) it is unpredictable, (iii) there is no
full agreement about it.
314 Michela Summa

ed in objectively fixed terms. Yet, imponderable evidence is the only way in

which something constitutively indeterminate (irregular and unpredictable) is
given to us, like, precisely, the expression of a face or the characteristic atmos-
phere of a context or situation (Ter Hark 1990, p. 149 f.).⁵
As far as the second assumption is concerned, Moran (2005, p. 351) correctly
points out that the expression of one’s inner states of mind can be conceived in
at least two ways: first, as a “manifestation of some attitude or state of mind”,
and secondly, as “the intentional act of one person directed to another”.
The former corresponds to what I would call primary expression: our re-
morse, shame, or gratitude manifest themselves (e. g., through our body or the
prosody of our speech) without any explicit intention from our side. Such expres-
sions are not under our control, and do not require us to take any stance with
respect to our experiences. They cannot be considered as decoupled from
what they express, rather being constitutive moments of the experience itself.
The cry is not an intimation of pain, but rather belongs to the complex experi-
ence of feeling pain. As Finkelstein (2003, p. 135) points out: “A pain and its ex-
pression make sense together in something like the two parts of a single sen-
tence do.” The co-belonging of experiencing and primary expression is
another point in which the implications of Wittgenstein’s remarks come close
to the phenomenological understanding of lived experience. Being the bearer
of primal expressions, the body cannot be considered to be a kind of physiolog-
ical machine, as the sceptical argument seems to imply. Moreover, mind and
body are not two decoupled entities that somehow come into relation with
each other, but rather make up a unity of intertwinement (cf. Husserl 1989,
p. 99; Summa 2014, pp. 247 f.). In this sense, Wittgenstein’s remark that “[a]n
inner process stands in need of outward criteria” (PI, p. 580) may also be consid-
ered as related to the intertwined unity of mind and body, and to the co-belong-

 Different from machines, “with a human being, the assumption is that it is impossible to gain
insight into the mechanism. Thus indeterminacy is postulated” (RPP II, § ). “The question of
evidence for what is experienced has to be connected with the certainty or uncertainty of fore-
seeing someone else’s behaviour. But that’s not quite the way it is; for only rarely does one pre-
dict someone else’s reaction” (LWPP II, p. ) “I think unforeseeability must be an essential
property of the mental. Just like the endless multiplicity of expression” (LWPP II, p. ) “The
important fine shades of behaviour are not predictable” (LWPP II, p. ) “I am for instance con-
vinced that my friend was glad to see me. But now, in philosophizing, I say to myself that it
could be otherwise: maybe he was just pretending. But then I immediately say to myself that,
even if he himself were to admit this, I wouldn’t be at all certain that he isn’t mistaken in think-
ing that he knows himself. Thus there is an indeterminacy in the entire game. One could say: In
a game in which the rules are indeterminate, one cannot know who has won and who has lost”
(LWPP II, p. )
 Pretence and the Inner 315

ing of experiencing and primal expression. Inner processes and outer expres-
sions are the two sides of the same coin and can only be considered in their
unity. Due to such fundamental co-belonging, my experience is not limited to
privateness: through primary expressions, it becomes manifest for others as a re-
sponse to a particular situation. In this respect, Husserl also claims that expres-
sive movements ground a form of bodily communication which allows us to ex-
perience others as living and experiencing beings (cf. Husserl 1989, p. 248 f.).
The latter kind of expressions Moran considers are acts through which we
give expression to our own experiencing with the intention to intimate some-
thing to someone. This requires us to take a stance with respect to what we
are experiencing. These expressions shall be understood as specific language
games grounded on primary expressions. As such, they are of crucial importance
to understand pretence.
This brings us, finally, to the third assumption mentioned above. Is such “taking
a stance” a matter of knowledge and certainty about our own mental states? This
seems to be the claim of the sceptic, whose argument is based on the idea that I
know my own mental states better than anyone else. Despite recognising that I
have a privileged access to my own experiences, there are several points that
speak against such a view. Let me just mention two. The first point derives from
the very sceptical argument. As Descartes points out,⁶ the certainty of our experien-
ces only extends as long as the experiences are actually present. Accordingly, such
certainty could be called into question as soon as the temporal spreading-out of ex-
perience is taken into account. And a fortiori we could not rely on the certainty of
our memories.⁷ The second point is that our primary expressions can reveal to oth-
ers some aspects of our own experiencing we are not aware of, and which we arrive
at recognising only in the interaction with others. One could say that there is some
excess of expressions over intentions. This is particularly true as far as our emotion-
al experience is concerned. We can thus agree with Overgaard’s (2007, pp. 16 f.) view
that there is too much intimacy in one’s own self-experience to be translated into
the language of knowing. Our own experiences are not inner things, already univo-
cally defined in themselves, which can be observed and made into the object of
knowledge. Rather, their intimacy is affective. It is the intimacy of what Waldenfels
(e.g., 2002, 2006) calls a Widerfahrnis: something in ourselves that surprises us and
that we are called to respond to.

 See, notably, the Second and the Sixth Meditation, Descartes ().
 On the basis of a different account of inner time consciousness and of his understanding of
the phenomenological reduction, despite inheriting some of the Cartesian epistemological ques-
tions, Husserl understands the certainty and the evidence of self-experience (including memory
and time-consciousness) in a different way. I have addressed these issues in Summa ().
316 Michela Summa

The problem, then, is to determine which meaning the concept of knowledge

can still have in this context (Cf. PI, p. 246; PI II p. ix; PI II p. xi, pp. 221 f.; LWPP
II, p. 92). According to Cavell (1976, p. 255), when used in relation to experience,
the concept of knowledge has a shade of meaning that is not related to the cer-
tainty we acquire when some definite criteria are fulfilled, but rather to the ac-
knowledgement of the experience we (or someone else) are undergoing.⁸ What
interests us, when we are confronted with experiences (be that our own or the
other’s), is not the certainty of criterial knowledge, for we actually use expres-
sions like “I know I am in pain”, “I know I am late”, “I know I am childish”
when we want to admit or confess something:

It is obvious enough, but unremarked, that “I know I am in pain” (containing the assertible
factor “I am in pain”) is an expression of pain (accepting Wittgenstein’s view that “I am in
pain” is such an expression). It may also be an expression of exasperation. And it has the
form (“I know I…”) of an acknowledgement […]. As an acknowledgement (admission, con-
fession) it is perfectly intelligible. (Cavell 1976, p. 256)

This idea is not meant to simply substitute the epistemological concept of crite-
rial knowledge, but rather to indicate that the concept of knowledge has several
inflections, among others those related to certainty and those related to acknowl-
edging. These remarks, thus, do not aim at a refutation of scepticism, which has
already proven to entail some contradictory points. Rather, they aim to pave the
way for a different understanding of our experience of ourselves and others: ac-
cording to such an understanding, the epistemological questions are somehow
to be re-assessed on the basis of how otherness primarily affects us.

3 Pretence and intersubjectivity:

Toward a relational understanding
Pretence can be reassessed on the basis of the three points discussed in the pre-
vious section.
As far as asymmetry is concerned, there is a sense in which, despite our per-
ception of others, we can be mistaken about what s/he is actually experiencing,
and about his/her intentions. Like perception in general, our perception of oth-

 A comparison of Cavell’s theory or acknowledgment and Waldenfels’s understanding of the

“truth of confession” [Geständniswahrheit], based on his idea of responsiveness, would be
very fruitful in order to better determine the nature of “knowledge” that is at stake here. Cf. Wal-
denfels (, pp.  – )
 Pretence and the Inner 317

ers is corrigible. Yet, different from the perception of things, the possibility of
being wrong about what others experience is not only due to potential illusions
from the perceiver’s side, but also to the fact that the other may intentionally de-
ceive us and that there is something in the experience of others that, different
from the perception of things, remains in principle inaccessible, although we
are aware of it “as inaccessible” (cf. Husserl 1960, p. 114). Thus, if we remain
within the framework of certainty, recognising whether the other is expressing
his/her genuine state of mind or only pretending can only be a matter of impon-
derable evidence. As such, this evidence is principally fallible, unpredictable,
and not based on fully definable criteria (cf. Jureschi 2012).
Having said this, I believe it is more fruitful to address pretence in relation to
the second and the third of the above mentioned points, namely in relation to
the different forms of expression, and to the affective and responsive nature of
our experience of ourselves and others.
With regard to expression, Wittgenstein considers pretence as a language
game that needs to be learned. Accordingly, pretence is not simply to be put
on a par with feelings or mental states, i. e., it is not true that we have expres-
sions indicating either genuine or pretend states (LWPP II, p. 59). The simple al-
ternative between expressions of genuine experiences and expressions of pre-
tend experiences is not tenable. Instead, pretence should be considered as a
practice or a game: “what goes on in him is also a game, and pretence is not
present in him like a feeling, but like a game” (LWPP II, pp. 31– 32).
The idea that pretence is a language game that needs to be learned is not
simply a developmental-psychological claim, but rather refers to the character-
istic complexity of such a phenomenon. Pretence does not belong to the domain
of what we have called primal expressions, being rather grounded thereupon
(Canfield 2004; Ter Hark 1990). As Wittgenstein points out, “a dog cannot be a
hypocrite, but neither can he be sincere” (PI II, p. xi, p. 229, cf. also LWPP, I,
p. 862). And: “Feigning and its opposite exist only when there is a complicated
play of expressions (Just as false or correct moves exist only in a game)” (LWPP I,
p. 946). Thus, the concepts of genuine versus feigned do not apply to the primal
expression of feelings or other mental states, but only to the grounded level of
intimation. And what is also important is that they require intersubjectivity as
the consciousness of an addressee, of what s/he might think about us:

What does a child have to learn before he can pretend? Well, for example, the use of words
like: ‘He thinks I’m feeling pain, but I’m not’. (LWPP, I, p. 866; see also LWPP, I, p. 869).

The concepts of sincerity and pretence only apply to the level of intimation, and
only insofar as intimation entails the acknowledgement (rather than the criterial
318 Michela Summa

knowledge) of what we are experiencing and the acknowledgement of the other

as interlocutor (cf. Moran 2005). We are in any case sincere when we give voice to
a feeling that we acknowledge as ours, even though we might subsequently dis-
cover ourselves being wrong about what we thought we were experiencing,
maybe precisely through the interaction with others.
I contend that the language game of pretence has an intersubjective and con-
textual or situational nature.⁹ And the role of intersubjectivity here is not only
related to the fact that there is always an addressee in front of whom we dissim-
ulate something. Rather, intersubjectivity shall be understood as grounding the
very meaningfulness of pretend actions and expressions.
Pretence is not just an intentional manipulation of behaviour based on the
knowledge of an inner state of mind, as if the descriptive function of language
would completely take over the role of the expressive function. Rather, the com-
plex language game of pretence is a practice that implies a conscious modifica-
tion of our basic expressiveness, and presupposes some form of responsiveness
and acknowledgement of our experiences in front of others. Moreover, pretence
constitutively depends on our grasp of the situation and of others as partners or
addressees in this situation, i. e., as having a unique point of view. It also implies
an imaginative grasp of different scenarios that would possibly open up, should
we act or not in a way that is consistent, for instance, with the feeling we ac-
knowledge. Finally, having made the distinction between primary expression
and intimation, one shall also emphasise that primary expression does not
cease when intimation begins. On the contrary, due to the excess of expression
I mentioned above, elements of primary expression, in their intimate connection
with what we are experiencing, also emerge in the context of intentional intima-
tion, and even in pretending. The tone of our voice may betray our embarrass-
ment, even if we are trying to appear as fully self-confident. Even in pretending
or playing a role, our own expressiveness considered as a whole is not fully
under our control. And even explicitly intimating expressions entail more than
what we want to say: there is something in them that is not part of what we in-
tentionally want to communicate and that possibly withdraws from our con-
scious awareness. There are, in other words, unnoticed and uncontrollable as-
pects in our expressions, which may even be grasped by others, independently
of what our communicative intentions are.
Pretence is a form of articulated responsiveness to something that we pri-
marily experience as affection, and that we acknowledge in an intersubjective

 Wittgenstein, for instance, remarks that we need to have motives or reasons to lie in a partic-
ular situation. LWPP I, p. . See also Jacquette ().
 Pretence and the Inner 319

context. Such responsiveness and the modification of what would be a sincere

intimating expression are grounded on a double grasp of the experienced situa-
tion. On the one hand, a perceptual grasp of the intersubjective context, together
with what we can call the imponderable evidence of an atmosphere, for in-
stance, of trust (or the lack thereof). On the other hand, an imaginative grasp re-
lated to possible scenarios and to the way one’s expressions may be seen from
the other. Accordingly, pretence requires us to assume what Plessner (2003,
2010) calls an “eccentric positionality” with respect to our basic and direct expe-
riencing, i. e., it requires us not to lose ourselves in our primal expressive re-
sponses. Pretence, thus, has a relational and imaginative nature. The idea that
the meaningfulness of something like pretence (and conversely sincerity/genu-
ineness) is relational is grounded on the adoption of such an eccentric position
in an intersubjective context. In taking distance from the centrality of my direct
experience, I establish a relation to myself and to others, which allows me to pos-
sibly take a stance with respect to such experiencing. Yet, in pretence, such a
self-decentering is also relational because it cannot be established apart from
a given context in which I am exposed to and interact with others. As a language
game, it is a practice based not only on expression, but also on acknowledge-
ment, on the grasp of an intersubjective context, of the way my expressions
would fit that context, of how they can be received by the other, etc. And, at
the same time, it implies an imaginative grasp of possible alternative contexts.

5 Conclusions
My aim in this paper was to investigate the phenomenon of pretence in order to
reassess its relation to intersubjectivity. I begun by considering how such a rela-
tion is generally understood, namely by discussing how pretence can be as-
sumed as the basis to challenge both our knowledge and the very idea of exis-
tence of other minds. In both cases, I have shown that the sceptical argument
entails some contradictory statements. Even if they also address ontological as-
pects, the sceptical arguments primarily move within the framework of an epis-
temological question, related to the extents and the limits of our possible knowl-
edge. One way to respond to such a challenge with respect to other minds would
be to argue that such an epistemological question is not at all the crucial one.
Rather, we should address the problem of other minds as a conceptual one,
namely as related to the extension of mental concepts, as pertinent to both our-
selves and the others. According to Avramides (2001), who defends such a view,
this is also Wittgenstein’s approach to the matter.
320 Michela Summa

Although I would agree that this is an important point for the understanding
of Wittgenstein’s philosophy, one of the plus-values in bringing Wittgenstein in
dialogue with the phenomenological tradition may be that of not simply dismiss-
ing the epistemological question, and rather phrase it differently. And I believe
that a phenomenologically informed inquiry into pretence, considered in rela-
tion with asymmetry, expressiveness, and acknowledgement, allows such a re-
phrasing, while remaining at the same time faithful to Wittgenstein’s positions.
According to such a reformulation, any discussion of how we experience
others needs to begin with the fundamental experience of separation, of the al-
terity of others, and of the constitutive asymmetry between self- and other-expe-
rience. Moreover, it has to take seriously both the co-belonging of experience
and primal expression and the distinction of the latter from intimation. In this
sense, the intuitive grasping of the other through his/her primal expressions is
what grounds any form of possible knowledge about the other. In a second
step, we may try to make what we grasp explicit, express it as a form of “knowl-
edge”, and even try to identify criteria for such knowledge. Yet, since the evi-
dence we have of primal expressions is imponderable, such criteria cannot be
exhaustive, and our knowledge cannot be certain.
Ordinary language seems however to reveal that the kind of knowledge we have
while expressing (intimating, confessing) something about ourselves or while notic-
ing something in the other’s expressions is not primarily a matter of criterial iden-
tification, but rather a matter of acknowledgement. Only if I acknowledge my expe-
rience for myself and in front of others, and only if I have already acknowledged
others as partners of interaction, can I be sincere or rather pretend. And this is at
least partially independent of criterial knowledge and its correctness. While being
sincere or pretending, the language game we play is one that already entails our
basic recognition of the other as a partner. In our ordinary dealing with others,
the way we grasp their expressions is a form of acknowledging, or a response to
a claim someone makes upon us (Cavell 1976, p. 263). This, I would argue, is
based on the imponderable evidence of such claim.

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Hanne Jacobs
Socialization, Reflection, and Personhood
Abstract: According to a predominant view, reflection is constitutive of person-
hood. In this paper I first indicate how it might seem that such an account can-
not do justice to the socially embedded nature of personhood. I then present a
phenomenologically-inspired account of reflection as critical stance taking and
show how it accommodates the social embeddedness of persons. In concluding,
I outline how this phenomenological account is also not vulnerable to a number
of additional challenges that have been raised against accounts that consider re-
flection to be constitutive of personhood and what matters for responsibility.

1 Problems with Reflection

The idea that we constitute ourselves as persons by reflecting has intuitive ap-
peal. For example, it seems plausible that reflecting on two conflicting desires,
deliberating about which one to identify with, and then identifying with one de-
sire over another are what allow us to become our own persons in some respect.¹
At the same time, it is factually the case that persons are socially embedded—
that is, a person’s beliefs, evaluative attitudes, and practical projects are to a sig-
nificant extent informed and shaped by other persons and the socio-historical
context more broadly understood.² Localizing personhood in the capacity to re-
flect might seem to entail that one regards this social embeddedness as some-
thing extraneous to the autonomous self and perhaps even as something to be
overcome. Moreover, once we recognize that persons are socially embedded, it
is not clear why a procedure of reflection would lead us to become our own per-
son in some respect. For, as several have critically pointed out in response to
procedural accounts of autonomy through reflection, it is not necessary that
one’s second-order reflective identification and endorsement be one’s own.³ Re-

 See, most prominently, Frankfurt .

 This is a rather uncontroversial commitment in the phenomenological tradition. See, for ex-
ample, Carr , p.  f.; Chelstrom , p.  f.; Steinbock , p.  f. The idea is also
now well entrenched in analytic discussions on personhood (for an overview, see Christman
, chap. ).
 See, for example, Benson  and , Oshana , Stoljar , and Meyers . See
also the discussion in Christman , chapter .
324 Hanne Jacobs

sponding to this criticism, procedural accounts of autonomy have taken up the

challenge of showing how a modified procedural account of reflection can com-
pensate for this shortcoming.⁴
In this paper, I provide a phenomenologically-inspired account of what kind
of reflection is constitutive of personhood. My aim is to show that this account
can do justice to the social embeddedness of persons in a number of important
respects. Further, in concluding I suggest that this account can also stand up to
some other challenges that have been raised against the claim that reflection is
constitutive of personhood and what matters for responsibility.

2 Reflection and Intentionality

The account of reflection that I present in what follows draws on Husserl’s phe-
nomenological account of intentionality and personhood. While Husserl usually
uses the term “reflection” to refer to a second-order reflection on conscious
experience,⁵ this is not the kind of reflection that is constitutive of personhood.
Rather, as I would like to emphasize, what is constitutive of personhood is the
specific kind of reflexivity that takes the shape of what Husserl calls critical stan-
ces (Stellungnahme).⁶
This reflexivity that characterizes the act of taking a critical stance can be
understood in light of the structure of intentionality.⁷ On Husserl’s account of in-

 See Christman , pp.  – . For a recent overview of number of different positions and
their respective difficulties when it comes to the socially embedded nature and autonomy of the
self, see Killminster .
 See, for example, Husserl , pp.  – .
 Husserl’s use of the term “Stellungnahme” is ambiguous (see Drummond , pp.  – ). In
what follows, I use “critical stance” as a translation for Stellungnahme in the narrow sense as denot-
ing the critical and deliberative stances that are constitutive of personhood and our standing con-
victions, appraisals, and volitions. Husserl explicitly characterizes personhood in this way in Husserl
, pp.  – ; Husserl , pp.  – ; Husserl , pp.  – . Other texts that are
relevant in this respect are research manuscripts that are part of the forthcoming Studien zur Struktur
des Bewusstseins, the manuscripts that are collected in the three volumes Zur Phänomenologie der
Intersubjektivität (Husserl a, nr. , nr. , Beilage LII; Husserl b, nr. , nr. ; Husserl
c, nr. , nr. , and nr. ), and the ethical reflections in the recently published Grenzpro-
bleme der Phänomenologie (Husserl , nr.  – ). Individual and dispersed discussions of Stel-
lungnahme in the sense of critical stance taking in absence of an explicit discussion of personhood
are even more numerous (e.g., Husserl , pp.  – ; Husserl , pp.  – ,  – ;
Husserl , pp.  –; Husserl , pp. ,  – ).
 For a more detailed exposition of Husserl’s conception of stances, see Jacobs  and Rinof-
ner-Kreidl . Drummond () follows Husserl () by speaking of a critical or proposi-
 Socialization, Reflection, and Personhood 325

tentionality, every experience is an experience of something, and this something

is always intended in a certain way.⁸ That is, the objects of our intentional aware-
ness are always afforded with a certain sense, which is to say that they are al-
ways intended as something. Objects and situations are not only afforded as hav-
ing certain natural properties (e. g., as having certain material characteristics);
they are also afforded with evaluative and practical properties (e. g., as beautiful,
pleasurable, disgusting, useful, or desirable). And objects and situations appear
as having certain evaluative or practical properties in virtue of the natural qual-
ities they have.⁹ The sense with which objects and situations appear to me is in-
formed by my past experience, my particular embodiment, and the specific con-
text in which I encounter an object or situation, which is, as I discuss in what
follows, factually a socio-historical context. Further, when experiencing some-
thing with a certain sense, I usually posit or take what I intend in this way to
be that way (unless I am merely imagining or contemplating something).¹⁰
Our ways of intending the world are most often confirmed and refined as we
go, which is to say that situations and things usually turn out to be how we take
them to be. However, due to the fact that we always intend the world in a way
that posits more than what we can currently have the evidence for, our way of
intending can be wrong, and there are occasionally situations in which we be-
come aware of the possibility that how we intend something might not be
how it is. While the course of experience itself often resolves these moments
of doubt,¹¹ an adult person’s experience is regularly characterized by moments
of doubt that are not so easily resolved. This is in part because many of the
things we believe, appraise, and strive to realize through projects and actions

tional attitude, though he takes issue with the idea of deciding or stance taking in terms of af-
firmation or denial. Rinofner-Kreidl has also proposed her own phenomenological model of self-
determination, while also pointing to the different ways in which the autonomous self is socially
embedded; on this model, stances are the lowest level of self-determination and are character-
ized as “eigentlichen und freien Wollen, wenn ich meine Wünsche und Bedürfnisse einer
Prüfung unterziehe, indem ich mich frage, ob das unmittelbar Erstrebenswerte das ist, was
ich in Übereinstimmung mit meinen Wertüberzeugung tatsächlich will bzw. was ich wollen
soll” (, p. , my emphasis). The second level is the level of practical identity and commit-
ment (Selbstbindung) and the third level is one of practical self-realization (Selbstverwirklichung).
In what follows I develop what this “Prüfung” or scrutiny might amount to and how it informs
our perception even when not so scrutinizing.
 For Husserl’s account of intentionality, see Drummond .
 For an elaboration of Husserl’s sophisticated account of the intentionality and rationality of
the emotions, see Drummond  and .
 See Husserl , pp.  –  and  – ; Husserl , pp.  – .
 This is what Husserl calls modalization on the level of passivity. See Husserl , p.  –
. See also Husserl , pp.  f., .
326 Hanne Jacobs

are so complex that even though we could have evidence for why we believe, ap-
praise, or want this rather than that, this evidence is not readily available or con-
clusive. In such cases, we are compelled to deliberate about what is the case,
what is valuable, or what is a worthwhile end.¹² The aim of this deliberation
is to take a stance, which amounts to confirming that how we intend something
is indeed, after all, or after all not, how we take it to be.¹³ Thus, critical stances
are a response to a moment of doubt in which we become aware of a possible
disagreement between how we intend something and what is intended. I
would like to suggest that the awareness of the possibility of disagreement intro-
duces a specific kind of reflexivity in which we become explicitly aware of how
we intend something—more precisely, we become aware of the potential disa-
greement between how we intend something and what is intended. And this dis-
agreement is settled the moment we make up our minds and, so to speak, steady
our positing (or reject it) through taking a stance.¹⁴
The specific intentional modification of reflection in the form of critical stance
taking is made possible by the aforementioned essential characteristics of the struc-
ture of intentional experience. First, it is only because our intentional awareness is
sense-disclosing that the kind of critical reflexivity or scrutiny characteristic of the
process of critical stance taking can arise in the first place. That is, because we al-
ways intend something with a certain sense, or as something, there is always the
possibility that how we intend something is not true to what is intended in this
way. In a moment of doubt, we become explicitly aware of this possibility. Impor-
tantly, the reflexivity introduced by doubt is different from a second-order reflection
in that it leaves us geared into the world. When in doubt, I do not reflect on my in-
tentional experience but instead wonder: Is what I intend indeed how I take it to be?
Second, it is also due to the structure of our intentional awareness that we cannot
but respond in some way or another to such a moment of doubt. Even before reflec-
tion, we do not just intend something with a certain sense; we also posit or, better,
take what we intend to be as we intend it to be. Doubt inhibits taking something to
be a certain way, and if this doubt is not resolved on its own, I cannot but respond
to this doubt by either reinforcing this positing, thus validating my way of intending

 Husserl speaks in this respect of critical stance taking in the strict sense: “Das echte Zu-
etwas-Stellungnehmen, das Stellungnehmen im prägnanten und eigentlichen Sinn, ist Stellung-
nehmen zu einer Frage, zu einer Anmutung, Zumutung, für oder gegen <die> ich mich ent-
scheide, und zwar je nachdem <wie> die Aktdomäne ist und die Art der Zumutungen: Urteilsent-
scheidung, Gefallensenscheidung, Willensentscheidung […] (Ms. A VI /I a). See also Husserl
, pp.  – ; Husserl , pp.  – .
 See Husserl , pp.  – .
 See Husserl , p. ; Husserl , p. .
 Socialization, Reflection, and Personhood 327

something, or rejecting it. Alternately, our situation might require that we hold our
positing in abeyance and resolve merely to vouch for the probability of something
being such or so.
Following Husserl, I would like to suggest that we understand the capacity
for critical stance taking to be constitutive of personhood. That is, I would like to
suggest that persons are capable of taking critical stances, and they take stances
when they are motivated to do so—specifically, when something speaks against
their way of intending something in a certain way.¹⁵ This idea that persons are
capable of taking critical stances can be understood as the phenomenological
retrieval of the classical idea that persons are capable of reflection and hence
rational.¹⁶ According to Husserl, one’s way of intending something is rational
when how one takes something is true to what is intended in this way.¹⁷ Thus,
while we are not just rational in this sense when we take critical stances, I
would nevertheless contend that the capacity for stance taking is constitutive
of being rational in this sense insofar as it is the other side to being sensitive
to evidence for how one intends something even when not taking a stance.
That is, if one could in principle not doubt or question how one intends the
world to be and then settle this doubt or questioning through the taking of a crit-
ical stance, it would not make sense to say that one intends the world in a cer-
tain way that can be true to this world and hence rational. This is because my
intending the world to be a certain way entails a positing that something is
the case, valuable, or worthwhile, and this positing can in principle be disap-
pointed. Doubt is the awareness of the possibility of this disappointment, and
the taking of a critical stance is a response to this awareness.

3 Socially Embedded Reflection

Having sketched a phenomenologically-inspired account of reflection as stance
taking, I would now like to discuss how the capacity for stance taking is constit-
utive of the autonomy of socially embedded persons. This requires first taking a
closer look at the way in which our participation in a larger socio-historical con-
text manifests itself in our straightforward awareness of the world.
As Husserl emphasizes, we, as individual subjects, can participate in a culture
because we take over or appropriate (Übernahme) ways of being intentionally aware

 See Husserl , p. .

 I have discussed how the phenomenological account can be understood in this tradition and
how it differs from it in more detail in Jacobs .
 See Husserl , p.  f.
328 Hanne Jacobs

of the world. Our participation in a culture primarily manifests itself in the intention-
al content of our conscious awareness—that is, in how we are intentionally aware of
our environment and one another. The myriad ways in which concrete and indeter-
minate others shape our individual perspectives on something need not imply that a
conscious subject could not be intentionally aware of its surroundings in a certain
way without belonging to a socio-historical context. Nevertheless, if separated from
this context, one’s intentional awareness would be strikingly different. So, for exam-
ple, if we did not belong to a socio-historical context, we would not be aware of par-
ticular cultural objects (be they of an artistic or practical nature), we would not per-
ceive the actions of others in the way we do (e.g., as appropriate or inappropriate in
a particular situation), and we would not conceive of our futures in terms of specific
projects (such as the professions we take up and what it entails to commit to that
profession).
In this sense then, persons are always factually, even if not necessarily, con-
stituted by the social context in which they find themselves in that how they be-
lieve, appraise, and desire is shaped by this context. And we are so constituted
because we appropriate ways of intending the world from others. Husserl usually
emphasizes that we appropriate through language, both spoken and written, but
we also appropriate ways of being intentionally aware from our socio-historical
context by taking over bodily practices from others.¹⁸ Everyday practices such as
how we use tools and handle objects; how we greet or address one another in
certain contexts; and how we express our appreciation of something are all bod-
ily practices that are gleaned from the bodily practices of others.¹⁹ Language just
significantly enlarges what we can take over from others beyond the immediate
presence of specific others.²⁰
Importantly, given the provided account of persons as capable of taking crit-
ical stances, the manifold ways in which our experience of the world is informed
by others and our social context need not entail that this precludes us from being
our own persons in the ways in which we believe, feel, and desire. That is, as I
have elaborated in the previous section, we are not only intentionally aware of
the world; rather, due to the specific structure of this intentional awareness,
we are also sensitive to evidence that speaks for or against taking something
in a certain way and, hence, capable of taking stances if so required. And we
are our own persons when we do not just intend the world in a certain way

 See Husserl b, pp.  – , , , and ; Husserl c, pp. , ,  – ,
, and ; Husserl , p.  – ; and Husserl , p. .
 See Husserl b, p. ; Husserl c, p. ; Husserl , p. .
 See Husserl , pp.  – .
 Socialization, Reflection, and Personhood 329

but have evidence for taking the world in this way.²¹ In certain situations this will
require actual critical stance taking and the specific kind of reflection and delib-
eration that it involves. In this way we do not so much come up with our own
beliefs, valuations, and projects as we come to understand what it means to be-
lieve, appraise, and desire a certain way and acquire insight into what speaks in
favor of these ways of intending the world, which might entail that we come to
change our minds or challenge entrenched ways of believing, appraising, and
wanting. And doing so has an impact on our future experiences of objects
and situations and on our actions within a specific context. Negatively stated,
emptily and confusedly appropriated beliefs, appraisals, or projects for which
I have no evidence will not inform my agency in the world.²²
Acquiring evidence and taking stances with respect to appropriated ways of
perceiving, believing, feeling, and acting is something that someone else cannot
do for me. Nevertheless, I believe that the presented account of the reflexivity
characteristic of critical stance taking can accommodate how concrete others
play at least a twofold role in my taking and upholding stances, which is some-
thing that the traditional procedural account of reflection is often considered in-
capable of doing.
First, the confirmation or rejection by others of what I take to be a certain way in
my beliefs, feelings, and projects cannot leave me indifferent because of what it
means to believe, appraise, or want something.²³ That is, others take the same
world to be a certain way in their beliefs, appraisals, and projects, and, as subjects
that experience the same world and situations that I do, they have an equal pur-
chase on what is posited in my believing something to be the case, appraising some-
thing as valuable, or considering something to be worth realizing.²⁴ Now, while my
believing, appraising, and wanting something commits me to responding to and jus-
tifying myself to others, this does not necessarily entail that I cannot uphold my
stances despite disagreement. Nevertheless, as I would like to suggest, our ability
to uphold our stances takes for granted another kind of validation from others,
which leads to the second sense in which others play an important role in the ex-
ercise of our capacity to take stances.

 Husserl , pp.  – .

 As Husserl writes: “Wer unweise ist, der wird die Anwendung seiner uneigentlichen Kennt-
nisse, Fertigkeitsregeln und Fertigkeiten, die Formen ihrer Übertragung auf neue Fälle leicht ver-
fehlen.” Husserl , p. .
 This speaks to what Benson () and Westlund () have argued for on different
grounds.
 Husserl , p. ; Husserl , p. ; Husserl , p. .
330 Hanne Jacobs

While we cannot but take the world to be a certain way in light of the evi-
dence we have, it is conceivable that not being recognized as reliable (in one
or more respects) could have an impact on how we experience the world, espe-
cially when it comes to the personal stances we take. Concretely, being pervasive-
ly questioned or challenged in a certain respect can conceivably lead one to a
form of second-guessing and doubt that undermines what it takes to uphold a
stance—even if it need not make it impossible for one to uphold a stance or to
do so in every respect. So, it is conceivable that certain forms of what has
been termed “pernicious socialization” can effectively erode the steadfastness
that it takes to uphold stances and to stand up for them.²⁵

4 Conclusion
In response to a challenge to the view that reflection is constitutive of person-
hood, I have sketched a phenomenological account of reflection as critical
stance taking and begun to show how it accommodates the fact that persons
are socially embedded. What I would like to indicate in concluding is that this
view could withstand a number of additional criticisms that have been raised
against the prevalent conception of reflection as what is constitutive of person-
hood and what matters for responsibility. First, the prevalent conception of re-
flection as a kind of second-order identification or endorsement entails that I
am only my own person when I have actively identified with a belief, appraisal,
or desire (or would do so). Not only does this problematically assume that there
is a split in the self insofar as one supposedly identifies with some and not other
takings (i. e., the ones one has reflectively endorsed); it also leaves it unclear how
the endorsed beliefs, appraisals, or desires have an impact on how one experi-
ences and acts when not reflecting.²⁶ On the phenomenological account that I
have sketched here, however, there is no such problem. For one does not only
believe, appraise, and desire for oneself when one reflects and endorses one’s
own experiences; rather, one believes, appraises, and desires for oneself when
one has evidence for how one takes the world to be. And having evidence for
taking the world to be a certain way does not necessarily require reflection in
the form of critical stance taking. It is only in those cases where I become

 This is congenial to Benson’s () point concerning the importance of self-worth. Killmis-
ter () introduces the term “pernicious socialization” to denote a form of socialization that
undermines autonomy and demands that an account of autonomy explain how pernicious so-
cialization compromises autonomy.
 This is Crowell’s critique (, p.  f.) of Korsgaard.
 Socialization, Reflection, and Personhood 331

aware that how I intend the world might not be true to how the world is that I am
urged to consider what speaks for or against me taking something to be a certain
way. Further, settling on a way of intending the world comes to inform my future
experience and agency in the world. That is, like any intentional experience, the
intentional experience of taking a stance informs my future perceptions by mak-
ing the sense with which future situations and events disclose themselves to me
more clear and distinct, and this comes to inform my agency. And by conceiving
of critical reflection as a first-order phenomenon (i. e., not a second-order reflec-
tion on an act of consciousness) that can occur in many different respects and on
different levels, the proposed phenomenological account makes being a person
less demanding and makes room for holding individuals with different capabil-
ities accountable in different respects.²⁷
At this point one might wonder whether this phenomenological account of
intentionality and critical stance taking does not significantly undercut the im-
portance of our capacity for reflection as critical stance taking. That is, if we
are sensitive to evidence that speaks for or against us intending the world in a
certain way when not reflecting, and if it is the having of evidence for how
one intends the world that makes it that one has not just emptily appropriated
a belief, appraisal, or desire, this might seem to imply that stance taking is
only tangential, and not constitutive, to being one’s own person. However,
while it is certainly the case that actual critical stance taking is not constitutive
of being one’s own person, the capacity for taking a critical stance is. That is, as I
have already mentioned, it is my view that the capacity for critical stance taking
is just the other side to our intending the world in a certain way and our being
sensitive to evidence that speaks for or against us taking something in that way.
Specifically, the capacity for critical stance taking is entailed by our intending
the world in a way that can fall short of what is intended in this way.
A second important concern with the view that reflective endorsement is what
is constitutive of personhood is that this conception of personhood has too narrow
a view on responsibility. Specifically, according to this view we are responsible for
what we have reflectively identified with in an autonomous manner. However, in
our everyday practices we do not just hold people accountable for the beliefs, ap-
praisals, and desires that they have endorsed or actively identified with and over
which they would thus exercise control.²⁸ The phenomenological account that I

 This addresses Benson’s (, p. ) worry that higher order theories “underestimate dras-
tically the complexity of the volitional capabilities of many people.”
 See, for example, P. F. Strawson , Smith , and Hieronimy . One might consid-
er the phenomenological account of stance taking to be an elaboration of what Hieronomy
() calls “settling a question.”
332 Hanne Jacobs

have sketched here can accommodate these everyday practices, since it can make
room for a responsibility for my way of intending the world in the minimal sense
that my beliefs, appraisals, and desires are attributable to me even when not re-
flected on or endorsed by me because I am sensitive to what speaks for or against
them independently of actually reflecting. At the same time, however, on the pre-
sented account, responsibility remains tied to the capacity for reflection in the
sense of critical stance taking. That is, intending the world in a certain way is
tied to being sensitive to evidence that speaks for or against intending the
world in that way, and being sensitive in this way to what speaks for or against
one’s intending the world in a certain way implies that one is capable of taking
a stance when one is motivated to do so. What is more, on the phenomenological
account I have developed, one being responsible in this fundamental way for
one’s beliefs, emotions, and volitions also makes one responsible for the taking
of critical stances in an additional twofold way.²⁹ Specifically, as subjects capable
of taking critical stances, we are responsible for taking such stances when ration-
ally required (i.e., when something speaks against how we take something to be)
in addition to being responsible for the actual critical stances we take (i.e., when
we deliberate on what is the case, what is valuable, or what is worth pursuing).
Thus, when we fail to take a critical stance, we can be blamed for our blindness,
gullibility, or insensitivity, and we can be held responsible for our failure to think
for ourselves. When, on the other hand, we do think for ourselves but fail to do so
in a way that is truthful or appropriate to the situation at hand, we can be held
responsible in another sense and can be blamed for taking what is probable as
certain, for giving some evidence too much weight, or for failing to take into ac-
count other available resources in making up our minds.
Broadening the scope of responsibility beyond what we have reflectively iden-
tified with calls for a further discussion of the relation between responsibility,
blameworthiness, and excuse, which is a discussion that I do not have the space
to engage in here. What I at least hope to have shown is that a phenomenological-
ly-inspired account of reflection does not need to limit our responsibility to what we
have endorsed or identified with in an act of reflection. Nevertheless, the capacity
for reflection matters for who we are as persons in that those who intend the
world in a certain way and are sensitive toward evidence that speaks for or against
their taking the world in this way will at times be called on to reflect and take a crit-
ical stance—specifically, when there is no immediately conclusive evidence for be-

 This latter form of responsibility seems to correspond to what Hieronimy () calls “juris-
dictional responsibility,” which concern things that you can manage; and we can manage our-
selves to be sensitive to evidence as well as sensitive to the degree of warrant of our evidence.
 Socialization, Reflection, and Personhood 333

lieving, appraising, or desiring in one way rather than another. And our doing so is
nothing but an expression of our rationality and the desire to be true to how things
are that is intrinsic to the structure of intentionality. That is, insofar as our experi-
ence always already posits the world in a certain way, we are pre-reflectively aware
of what speaks for or against our taking the world to be this way. As such, we cannot
but respond when what we take to be the case, valuable, or worthwhile seems dif-
ferent than how we took it to be, and we cannot but deliberate about what then is
the case, valuable, or worthwhile.

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Robert Hugo Ziegler
‘Vaulting Ambition’ –
Machiavelli’s Emtpy and Impure Concepts
Abstract: In the face of political instability and continuous foreign intervention
in Italy, Machiavelli sought new ways to anwers some of the central questions of
political theory: How can a state acquire stability? How can the political be sci-
entifically grasped? What practical advise can be deduced from this scientific
knowlegde? In his inquiry, Machiavelli fully accepts the radical historicity of val-
ues as well as political systems. This “relativist” approach distinguishes Machia-
velli from previous theories, ensures its lasting relevance, and constitutes the
biggest obstacle to answering the aformentioned questions.
I will try to show in which way Machiavelli succeds to overcome this obstacle,
how he conceives of the genesis of laws and ethical ideas, and how “impure con-
cepts” contribute to the possibility of social life. My interest in Machiavelli is not pri-
marily historical but systematic and I hope to demonstrate to which extent Machia-
velli’s theory of the political can still be of use when we try to unterstand the
relations of fact and value, laws and ethical ideas, and the possibility of liberty.
Moreover, Machiavelli’s use of “impure concepts” challenges fundamental meth-
odological presuppositions of both phenomenology and analytical philosophy.

1 Vaulting ambition
Empires crumble, societies decline, states vanish, and with them their morality,
their virtues, and their beliefs. This truth, as cruel as it is simple, has always
been known. But philosophy had its ways of ignoring or at least diminishing
the importance of the fundamental contingency of all political and moral
order. What is the birth and death of a state in the face of the everlasting
Ideas or in the eyes of God? Are the dominant beliefs, cherished by a society,
more than just the outward and changeable appearance of a moral order
which concerns primarily not the state but the individuals? Are all societies
not in the end just the attempts of man to approach the ideal and eternal
order of society? Man, in his utter inadequacy, might not be able to reach this
ideal order, still it lies before his eyes, for instance in those societies of bees
in which every individual is just element of a perfect harmony.
Simple devaluation of the empirical in comparison to supposed transcenden-
ces, localisation of the essence of morality in the individual rather than in the po-
338 Robert Hugo Ziegler

litical, interpretation of moral concepts and realities in the sense of approximations

to the ideal morality – those are some of the strategies used to take the edge off life
in this world, this world of mortal and suffering beings, of transient political orders
and changing values. In all of them, we can perceive the tendency (and the wish) to
presuppose the Ideal and the Eternal, be it the Nature of man, the Truths of right
and wrong or the Harmony of a perfect community.
Niccolò Machiavelli, however, could not content himself with these answers.
Lacking belief in those theories that offer comfort by claiming that, even if we
cannot always see it, yet there certainly is a sense in history and a providence
governing life; witnessing Italy tearing herself apart and, in consequence,
being devoured by foreign forces, Machiavelli perceived the radical contingency
and historicity of political and moral order with an acuteness that caused him
deep sorrow, as clearly emerges from his writing.
Machiavelli was probably the first in Western philosophy to make this con-
tingency and historicity the starting point of his theoretical efforts.¹ They were
his horror, the motivation of his writing, and the object of his theory. His aim
was, quite traditionally, to find ways to cope with this contingency by uncovering
its immanent logic and laws. His aim may thus join the tendency I have noted
earlier, namely to weaken the empirical and temporal by finding the eternal
and essential. But Machiavelli remains one of the most radical political philos-
ophers for at least two reasons: On the one hand, Machiavelli never manages
to put aside and neutralize contingency and historicity; how could he: they
are his primary objects. His explicit effort to come to terms with them attributes
a new theoretical dignity to them. On the other hand, Machiavelli is not looking
to transcend the given problems into a higher order of being; the laws he will
establish are decidedly immanent laws, laws and structures of and in this world.
I will, in what follows, retrace some of the central ideas of Machiavelli. We
will see how, according to Machiavelli, political freedom is possible (2); how
the idea of justice makes its appearance in the world (3); and how the lasting
relevance of Machiavelli’s theories lies in the importance he attributes to impure
and empty concepts (4). But first we have to ask why this world is subject to all
sorts of unrest, rebellion, and instability. For what reason is it impossible to es-
tablish a peaceful and harmonious society?
The answer to this question brings us to one of the central concepts in Ma-
chiavelli’s theory: ambition (ambizione). Even if it were possible to find the per-

 It is, of course, as the culmination of a long development that Machiavelli can formulate his
radical attitude in this respect. For the elaboration of the concept of history from the late Middle
Ages on, cf. the first part of: Pocock . For the direct precursors and comtemporaries of
Machiavelli see: Gilbert , and Gilbert .
 ‘Vaulting Ambition’ – Machiavelli’s Emtpy and Impure Concepts 339

fect balance of all interests and claims, soon someone would tip the balance by
wanting more. Machiavelli mostly talks about ambition in the context of power or
riches, but we can define ambition in a completely formal way: Ambition is the
tendency, natural to man, to want more, to go beyond… (all boundaries, limita-
tions…), never to be satisfied. It is this dynamic nature of man that is the root
of history. Machiavelli describes the mechanism of ambition in these terms:

For, whenever men do not need to struggle with each other out of necessity, they struggle
out of ambition; ambition is so powerful in the hearts of men that, no matter how high they
rise, it never leaves them. The reason for this is that nature has created men in such way
that they can desire everything, but not attain everything; consequently, their desire will
always be greater than their power to attain, from which follows discontent with what
they have and only little satisfaction of their desire.² (Machiavelli 1997, p. 139 – 40)

Ambition, in this sense, is not simply the aspiration to power and glory; it is a
desire that can attach itself to any given object and that can replace every par-
ticular motive. To be precise: Because we are our own ambition, we can have
more particular motives for our actions. In some liminal situations, this radical
structure of motivation may show. This is essentially what Macbeth acknowledg-
es in the verses from which I have taken the title of this paper.

I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition which o’erleaps itself
And falls on th’other – (I, 7, 25 – 8)
(Shakespeare 2008, p. 149)

In the absence of every legitimate motive, ambition is all that remains. When
Macbeth realizes that, he is willing to restrain this last and absolutely self-suffi-
cient drive. But just then, Lady Macbeth enters and interrupts his monologue –
and Macbeth has to learn that ambition is contagious.
When we consider what we heard until now, when we consider in particular
the fact that Shakespeare’s Macbeth could serve as an illustration of Machiavel-
li’s concept of ambition (the affinities go further, but I will leave it at that), we are
tempted to think that ambition not only is the root of history, but also the root of

 Discorsi I, : “Perché qualunque volta è tolto agli uomini il combattere per necessità, com-
battono per ambizione; la quale è tanto potente ne’ petti umani che mai, a qualunque grado si
salgano, gli abbandona. La cagione è perché la natura ha creati gli uomini in modo che possono
desiderare ogni cosa e non possono conseguire ogni cosa; talché, essendo sempre maggiore il
desiderio che la potenza dello acquistare, ne risulta la mala contentezza di quello che si possi-
ede, e la poca sodisfazione d’esso.” All translations from Machiavelli are my own.
340 Robert Hugo Ziegler

all evil. In fact, Machiavelli’s poem Capitolo dell’Ambizione paints a grim picture
of a world prey to ambition (Machiavelli 1981, p. 142– 153). But one wonders: If
ambition – in the formal sense we have defined – is the nature of man, is it still
possible or does it make sense to bewail this nature and its consequences?
Should we not rather state the fact and simply analyse it?
In fact, in his theoretical texts, Machiavelli does just that. However, he does
share the fundamental belief of conservative thought: that man has a nature that
will prove dangerous as soon as it is left to its own. Therefore, man has to be dis-
ciplined. Machiavelli envisages a series of techniques to this end, the most impor-
tant of which are certainly military exercise and, above all, the laws. But let us
turn to another mechanism that allows for a special kind of “discipline”.

2 Conflict and freedom

At no point does Machiavelli define political freedom. At the same time, freedom
is doubtless the core value of his political theory. The explanation of this seem-
ing contradiction leads us to one of the most modern and still relevant parts of
Machiavelli’s theory. We have already seen how he refuses to start from any kind
of ideal community in relation to which one could judge all actual communities
with regard to their respective quality. His only criterion for the “quality” of a
state is its longevity – a purely quantitative criterion.
Refusing all idealistic or utopian approaches, Machiavelli can simply state
what every observation of actual societies reveals: society, as we know it, is es-
sentially conflict (disunione). The conflictual nature of organised societies is not
an accident, it is not a simple deficiency, owed to our intellectual limitation or
moral inadequacy; conflict is in itself the very essence of societies.
Machiavelli further characterizes this conflict by roughly distinguishing two
classes in every society: the people and the great (grandi), those who are governed
and those in power. These classes are defined in terms of participation in political
decision making, in terms of economic potency, but also in terms of a shared am-
bition: The ambition of the great is to expand their power over those governed, while
the ambition of the people is to impede this expansion. We have noted earlier that
ambition is contagious; we see now that this contagious nature of ambition is re-
sponsible for a certain, at least rudimentary solidarity inside the classes, and that
means: for the very constitution of those classes as classes.
And what about freedom? Machiavelli is quite clear about it: Political free-
dom is something that emerges when the conflict essential to a society is shaped
in a way that the respective ambitions of the conflicting classes propel one an-
other, by cancelling out each other (at least partially) and by creating new situa-
 ‘Vaulting Ambition’ – Machiavelli’s Emtpy and Impure Concepts 341

tions and relations of power. These situations and relations of power remain pre-
carious, they cannot – as long as freedom is an issue – be brought into a defin-
itive harmony, they change and they carry the weight of their contingent genesis
with them, they may be compromised or even break down, or they can lift the
society to a peak as yet unheard of. In any case, freedom is in itself the dynamic
effect of the essential conflict of a society. This is why freedom cannot be defined;
it appears as though the very fact that ‘freedom’ must remain an empty concept
is the reason for the relevance and effectiveness of this concept!
Freedom becomes possible when the respective ambitions of the classes dis-
cipline one another. In order to allow this mechanism to work, the constitution
of the society (however informal) must accept and welcome the conflict, includ-
ing its more violent and at times even rebellious forms. Machiavelli talks explicit-
ly about the necessity to “give room (dare lougo) to the commotions and general
quarrels in the best possible way” (Machiavelli 1997, p. 77).³ And he writes:

I maintain that those who condemn the struggles between the nobility and the people, con-
demn at the same time the very causes that led primarily to the establishment and the con-
servation of freedom in Rome. He who pays more attention to the noise and clamour of
these conflicts than to their good effects, does not take into account that, in every republic,
the people and the great have very different aspirations and that all laws in favour of free-
dom owe their making to this discord.⁴ (Machiavelli 1997, p. 71)

In order for freedom to be possible, a society must brace itself for its own con-
stantly renewed conflict and prepare ways of dealing with the conflict. Other-
wise, the conflict might become the downfall of the whole society. In Machiavel-
li’s view, the decisive step in Roman history is the establishment of the office of
the tribune of the people (tribunus plebis).
In the course of the development of this theory of political freedom, some-
thing interesting happens to Machiavelli: While paying tribute to the inherent
conflict of human communities, a conflict of another kind enters his theory,
and I am not sure if Machiavelli himself realized it: It is nearly a commonplace

 Discorsi. I, : “[…] è necessario […] dare luogo a’ tumulti e alle dissensioni universali il meglio
che si può […].”
 Discorsi. I, : “Io dico che coloro che dannono i tumulti intra i Nobili e la Plebe mi pare che
biasimino quelle cose che furono prima causa del tenere libera Roma, e considerino più a’ ro-
mori e alle grida che di tali tumulti nascevano, che a’ buoni effeti che quelli partorivano; e che e’
non considerino come e’ sono in ogni republica due umori diversi, quello del popolo e quelle de’
grandi; e come tutte le leggi che si fanno in favore della libertà, nascano dalla disunione loro
[…].” I translated Machiavelli’s “umori” with “aspirations”. In fact, umori in Machiavelli unites
the ideas of opinions, emotions and interests; I don’t think there is an adequate translation.
342 Robert Hugo Ziegler

in Machiavelli research, and a well-founded one, that the only aim of any state
can be its own conservation. No transcendent end can be invoked when discus-
sing the “quality” of a given state. Nonetheless, while we follow Machiavelli’s
discussion of the free republic, we suddenly witness the emergence of another
idea of the state, the idea of a qualitatively different and “better” state: Machia-
velli explicitly says that it is possible to neutralize the constitutional conflict of
societies; his examples are Sparta and Venice. And in fact, he regularly invokes
the 800 years of unchanged rule in Sparta. Yet, his main subject matter is neither
Sparta nor Venice, it is not the “perfect” state; it is this imperfect state that was
Rome in its Republican era. The empty but operative concept of freedom puts for-
ward another idea of the state, trumping the seemingly perfect states like Sparta
or Venice, whose longevity bears witness to their “perfection”.⁵ Only the imper-
fect but perfectible state can create situations in which political freedom can be-
come reality. And this reality is in itself not a perfection or an ideal, but simply
the actual and always precarious ‘compromise’.⁶ By creating these situations of
freedom, the perfectible state puts itself at risk: The conflict can lead to the ruin
of the republic. But at least, freedom has been tried.

3 Emotions, laws and justice

So, we have empty concepts, imperfect states and only situational freedom. It
gets worse. In chapter 2 of book I of his Discourses, Machiavelli tells a story. It
is one of those stories trying to explain how people first established organised
societies. According to Machiavelli, people at first lived in very small populations
and thus far apart from one another (in families or small tribes). When popula-
tion began to grow, so did the number of possible dangers. Accordingly, the fam-
ilies or tribes joined in larger communities in order to better defend themselves.
As mutual protection was the first goal of these primitive societies, their mem-
bers elected the bravest and most valiant individual as their leader. But then

 Therefore, Gilbert is mistaken when he writes: “[…] he [Machiavelli] was impressed that the
Romans had been able to stave off their inescapable fate for centuries – longer than had any
other political society” (Gilbert , p. ). For Machiavelli, the constitutional difference be-
tween the Roman Republic and the Empire is such that they cannot be viewed as two successive
forms of one political society; Machiavelli is almost exclusively interested in the former.
 The word can be misleading. Once again: It is not about a compromise of interests and claims,
but about a newly established relation of power(s) (from which the articulation of “interests”
may follow). See for a similar theory Laclau/Mouffe , p. xii: “Indeed, politico-hegemonic
articulations retroactively create the interests they claim to represent.”
 ‘Vaulting Ambition’ – Machiavelli’s Emtpy and Impure Concepts 343

something changed: In these early societies, it might have happened that one
who had helped another member of the society did not receive gratitude from
the latter, but instead was harmed by him. As the other members witnessed
this ingratitude, they felt hatred and compassion, and it got them thinking
that the same ingratitude could concern them too one day. In order to prevent
this, laws were passed and punishments in the case of infraction were fixed. Ma-
chiavelli comments: “from there came the cognition of justice” (Machiavelli 1997,
p. 66).⁷ The next time the citizens had to elect a leader, they would turn, not to
the strongest and bravest, but to the wisest and most just.
It is easy to see that the story Machiavelli tells us is his version of the Biblical
fall. How did the knowledge of good and evil (or, as Machiavelli puts it: honourable
and good versus pernicious and bad) come about? Let’s retrace his steps: At the be-
ginning, there is an act of ingratitude, and it has to be noted that this ingratitude
does not yet have the features of true morality; it establishes a kind of proto-mor-
ality. As a reaction, the members of the society are subjected to an emotion, and
as often with emotions, the emotion in question is blurred, so to speak, or
indistinct.⁸ In an indistinctness essential to this emotion, it mixes compassion
with hatred: The citizens feel two emotions at the same time. But the emotion
lacks distinctness in another respect too: The citizens not only feel for the other,
they fear for themselves. We can resume: Neither the exact phenomenological ‘con-
tent’ nor the real subject of the emotion are differentiated. This indistinctness is not
a deficiency; it is quite simply the manner of being of this emotion.
But the emotion does not stay there. It tends to its own objectification in the
form of laws. And now, from these laws, the concept of justice emerges. Machiavelli,
in a daring manoeuvre, turns the classical conceptions upside down: The laws do
not imitate an eternal order of justice; the very idea of justice is nothing than an ef-
fect of the establishment of laws. This involves a series of consequences: Justice
must be considered as a reflection from positive laws. (And I take “reflection” in
the broad sense, uniting the optical, the cognitive and the aesthetic sense.) In no
way can justice claim any transcendence; it is not absolute, but conditioned. And
it is conditioned precisely by contingent events in a given society. Furthermore,

 (Discorsi. I, : “donde venne la cognizione della giustizia.” I retain the term “cognition” be-
cause it is the direct translation of the Italian text.
 The term better suited here would be “unclear”. Lack of clearness means, according to the use
inherited from Descartes: We do not know what the exact content of our idea is, what it is
“about”. On the other hand, lack of distinctness means: We are not (yet) able to perfectly differ-
entiate all important internal features of our idea, what it “contains”. The more adequate term
would thus be “unclear”, but the English word is too common to convey the specific meaning.
Hence my use of the more metaphorical term “blurred”.
344 Robert Hugo Ziegler

the wish to define justice betrays a fundamental misunderstanding concerning its

ontological status: Justice is in itself not determined, because it is essentially a re-
flection of something positive and determined. The concept of justice is as blurred
as the emotion, that started this series, but for other reasons. Nonetheless, the two
can communicate, as the phenomenon of indignation so clearly proves: Indignation
is the short-cut between an emotion and a presumed concept of justice, indicating
negatively a real or supposed lack in positive order.
And there is more: Machiavelli holds that we must accept the fact that the real-
ization of justice in societies can never be perfect, that the mere expectation of such
a perfect justice, the very idea of perfect justice is the first error of political theory.
For he returns to the problem of ingratitude some chapters later, but this time he
stresses the positive value of ingratitude: In a healthy republic, suspicion against
those who, by their own merits, have reached a well-deserved high position
might be unjust and ungrateful; it can nevertheless be extremely important for
the conservation of freedom (cf. Machiavelli 1997, book I, chapters 28– 30). The occa-
sional ingratitude can thus serve as an effective mechanism in a free republic!
If we follow Machiavelli, we can extract this lesson: We must detach our-
selves from the ideality and purity of justice. Justice in this world has to be com-
promised, in order to be at all. As a concept, justice is blurred (because its ‘con-
tent’ cannot be distinctly identified) and impure (because it cannot shake its
origins in a contingent history); as principle of law-making, justice must conse-
quently accept its own conditioned and limited status.

4 Machiavelli’s contributions
to a contemporary political philosophy
We can now summarize the results. Machiavelli’s modernity is due to his partic-
ular courage: What he feared most was the ruin of social order. What he experi-
enced the most vividly was the fact that no given political system, not even the
most promising, can claim the universal truth of its values and guarantee its own
success or even survival. But instead of turning his back to these problems by
addressing himself to a supposed ideal order of things, he kept his eyes fixed
on them in the hope of extracting some kind of immanent laws that govern a
world otherwise prey to fortune and chance.
In the course of this project, he develops a theory of political freedom which
refrains from all speculation about the essence or substance of freedom. Instead,
freedom becomes the effect and result, always temporary, of certain situations in
which the fundamental conflict of society is fought out. Those situations may put
 ‘Vaulting Ambition’ – Machiavelli’s Emtpy and Impure Concepts 345

the society at risk, but they steer the state away from the much too high demand
of perfection by putting its perfectibility to the test. Freedom as a concept has to
retain its lack of determination; it is essentially an empty concept.⁹
Likewise, the idea of justice not only lacks any clear determination but must
be put back where it belongs: in the series of emotion, laws and justice. The idea
of justice is thus the reflection of positive and consequently contingent laws of
this or that society. It communicates moreover with an emotion that remains
blurred as well. Unable to shake its origins in positive and occasioned laws, in
its manner of being a lot nearer to a blurred emotion than to the sharply defined
laws, justice must be understood not only as an empty, but as an essentially im-
pure concept. The effort of realizing perfect justice is not only an undertaking
that leads much too often to the most violent inhumanity; it is simply a misun-
derstanding concerning the ontological status of justice.
So, the “value”, if we want to call it that, the “value” of justice depends on
the facts of law-making. But maybe we ought to turn around the question of facts
and values: Why don’t we just accept justice, freedom and other similar concepts
or ideas for what they are: facts in their very own right! The empty concept of free-
dom, the situational freedom of societies in conflict, the blurred vision of jus-
tice – they all are quite real, because they actively participate in the shaping
of societies. They react upon the situations in which they are originally produced
and propel them accordingly. Every fact is contingent; but that is not the inter-
esting part. The question is: Which facts – economic, political, constitutional,
but also conceptual or “ideal” facts – can act and in what way do they act?¹⁰
In a perspective like the one Machiavelli adopts, reality means exclusively ac-
tion or the power to act (what the German calls “Wirklichkeit”). It’s his decidedly
immanent view of metaphysics which imposes this idea on him (an idea that he con-
sequently shares with Spinoza, for instance). Reality is a dynamic – for better or
worse. And the principle of this dynamic is: there are no a priori limits to the
power to act. This is the metaphysical meaning of Machiavelli’s ambizione. We

 In our days, Jacques Rancière suggested a very similar theory of freedom and of what he calls
politics (Rancière ). An important difference, however, between Machiavelli on the one
hand and modern writers such as Rancière or Laclau/Mouffe on the other is the relative fixity
Machiavelli attributes to social groups and “identities”.
 Compare for a very similar idea Castoriadis , pp.  – : “[…] la valeur (même ‘écon-
omique’), l’égalité, la justice ne sont pas des ‘concepts’ que l’on pourrait fonder, construire (ou
même détruire, comme veut parfois le faire Marx pour la justice) dans et par la théorie. Ce sont
des idées/significations politiques concernant l’institution de la société telle qu’elle pourrait être
et que nous voudrions qu’elle soit – institution qui n’est pas ancrée dans un ordre naturel, log-
ique ou transcendant. Les hommes ne naissent ni libres, ni non-libres, ni égaux, ni non-égaux.
Nous les voulons (nous nous voulons) libres et égaux dans une société juste et autonome […].”
346 Robert Hugo Ziegler

can ask whether this principle convinces us; we can ask whether we feel the need
for an anthropological foundation of our political theories; but we also have to ask if
ambizione is really an anthropological concept. For we can see that ambizione as a
principle is at work not only in “man”, but in processes that transcend the indi-
vidual and in processes that escape the conscious activity of “man”: Is it not ambi-
zione too, the aspiration to exceed one’s own limits, when an emotion tends to tran-
scend itself into a law, and when this law tends to transcend itself into the idea of
justice? In this view, emotion, law and justice present the three states of the politi-
cal, in very much the same sense in which we speak of liquids, solid bodies and
gases as of the three states of matter. I suspect that this analogy could take us a
long way. And is it not ambizione too when Machiavelli professes that the only
aim of a state is its own conservation but then transcends this very conception to-
wards a dynamic idea of the perfectible state?¹¹
In any event, the value of Machiavelli’s theory in the light of contemporary
philosophy is obvious: Both analytical philosophy and phenomenology attempt
to start from and to shape unambiguous concepts with their clearly defined
meaning. (The reference to the so-called ordinary language does not so much
overcome the difficulties in this endeavour as it circumvents or ignores them.)
Machiavelli, on the other hand, is not interested in the meaning of certain con-
cepts, but in the way they work. As a result, we are invited to investigate the on-
tological nature of certain concepts: impure concepts like “justice”, reflections of
a positive and defined meaning that claim universal truth by dissociating their
validity from its genesis – a dissociation which, if taken literally, will only
leave a pale fiction behind or else will lead to a most dangerous moral extrem-
ism; empty concepts like “freedom” that create a space where a shapeless emo-
tion can organise and condense itself, the emptiness of the concept being the
very condition of possibility of a movement that will bring forth something
new. Moreover, Machiavelli asks the same question of “how it works” with re-
spect to the emotion too: The emotion, blurred by its nature, awaits its own ar-
ticulation into something objective (laws, for instance). It aspires to something
without knowing what it is aspiring to. But the reason for this “ignorance” is
not the fact that the emotion, being what it is, presents the irrational part of
man, the part real and responsible politics should exclude. Rather, the emotion
cannot know where to it tends because its ‘aim’ is of another ontological dignity
than itself and is therefore not yet included or even implicated in it. Its articula-
tion has yet to be found or invented.

 This comprehensive sense of a dynamic principle of politics, a “desire of power”, is at the

centre of Jean-Luc Nancy’s discussion of democracy (Nancy ).
 ‘Vaulting Ambition’ – Machiavelli’s Emtpy and Impure Concepts 347

No wonder that the realization of what some insist on calling “ideals” proves
impossible: not because one is always forced to “compromise” (and thus com-
promise the “ideals”) or because some sad reality is bound to come in the
way. It’s the very nature of the so-called ideals and ideal values as impure or
empty concepts that prevents any realization, for the simple reason that they
are already very real: they act, and they act in the same world where we are
used to see relations of power, exploitation, or greed at work. What they can
do is contribute to a new formulation and disposition of problems and relations;
the idea of a perfect and pure justice, freedom, or equality, on the other hand, is
a contradiction in terms. Thus, Machiavelli prepares a dynamic and immanent
philosophy of politics that is yet to be developed.

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d’Aristote à nous”. In: Les carrefours du labyrinthe 1. Paris: Seuil, pp. 325 – 413.
Gilbert, Felix (1949): “Bernardo Rucellai and the Orti Oricellari. A Study on the Origin of
Modern Political Thought”. In: Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 12,
pp. 101 – 131.
Gilbert, Felix (1965): Machiavelli and Guicciardini. Politics and History in Sixteenth-Century
Florence. Princeton: Princeton UP.
Laclau, Ernesto/Mouffe, Chantal (2014): Hegemony and Socialist Strategy. Towards a Radical
Democratic Politics. Second Edition. London, New York: Verso.
Machiavelli, Niccolò (1981): Capitoli. Introduzione, testo critico e commentario di Giorgio
Inglese. Rome: Bulzoni.
Machiavelli, Niccolò (1997): Discorsi sopra la prima deca di Tito Livio. Introduzione di
Gennaro Sasso. Premessa al testo e note di Giorgio Inglese. Milan: RCS (Rizzoli).
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Debatte. Mit Beiträgen von G. Agamben, A. Badiou, D. Bensaïd, W. Brown, J.-L. Nancy,
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Republican Tradition. Princeton: Princeton UP.
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Shakespeare, William (2008): Macbeth. Updated edition. Ed. by A.R. Braunmuller. Cambridge:
Cambridge UP.
Ethics and Value Theory
Marcia Baron
The Distinction between Objective and
Subjective Standards in the Criminal Law
Abstract: In the criminal law and criminal law theory, claims are often made to the
effect that ‘We can’t say X without abandoning an objective standard.’ ‘Objective’ is
used without much clarity as to what is meant by it. In an effort to shed some light
on disputes in philosophy of criminal law and in legal scholarship, and to under-
mine some common assumptions in criminal law and criminal law theory, I sort
through various ways we contrast ‘objective’ to ‘subjective’, with particular attention
to ways the contrast is drawn in criminal law. It is common for various senses of
‘objective’ to be conflated, with the result that options are sometimes ruled out,
or arguments put forward, based on confusion about what objectivity requires. In
the remainder of the paper I focus on the issue of how ‘reasonably believed’ should
be understood in self-defense law, where the defendant is required to have reason-
ably believed (or believed on reasonable grounds) that it was necessary to use self-
defensive force. I endorse the position taken in People v Goetz, rejecting Goetz’s
claim that an objective standard of reasonableness would not allow consideration
of the “actual circumstances of the particular incident,” and I then try to expand
on some matters not addressed by the Goetz in its (roughly correct, but somewhat
sketchy) account of objective standards.

1 Introduction
My focus will be on objectivity and the notion of the reasonable, in connection with
law and philosophy of law, and more specifically philosophy of criminal law.¹
Several years ago I had the good fortune to hold a fellowship² that enabled
me to step outside the field of philosophy and study law. My focus was criminal

 The notion of the reasonable plays a part in other areas of the law besides criminal law, but it is
important not to assume that the same notion of the reasonable is needed or operative (not nec-
essarily the same thing!) in various areas of the law. Whereas the notion of the reasonable needs to
be kept distinct from the rational if it is to be helpful for criminal law, the same may well not be true
in other areas of law, e.g. tort law. For the same reason, the common use of ‘reasonable’ as roughly
equivalent to ‘prudence’ is seriously problematic in the criminal law, but may not be in some other
areas of the law. I discuss this in “Reasonableness,” unpublished manuscript.
 From the College of Arts and Sciences at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. I’m
forever grateful!
352 Marcia Baron

law, and it did not take long to see that the concept of the reasonable plays a
major role in statutes and rulings, and in the underlying criminal law doctrines.³
The word ‘reasonable’ often precedes the words ‘belief’ and even more often
‘person’; often it serves to constrain a defense (self-defense and the heat of pas-
sion defense, among others). It is also frequently the locus of important – and
philosophically intriguing – controversy. Sometimes the pivotal question is
whether a belief should have to be reasonable to exculpate; famously, this
was the situation in Morgan, an English case from 1976.⁴ The Morgan case con-
cerned rape: the jury instruction had specified that a belief that the complainant
was consenting is a complete defense to rape but only if the belief was reason-
able; the defendants appealed, challenging the restriction; the House of Lords
ruled that the instruction was indeed erroneous.⁵ That is, they ruled that a belief
that the complainant was consenting is a complete defense whether or not the
belief was reasonable.⁶
Sometimes the locus of controversy is not whether there should be a require-
ment of reasonableness, but how the term ‘reasonable’ should be understood.
This is the case in the law of self-defense in the US. To be acquitted on self-de-
fense grounds, the defendant has to have believed p (at the time she committed
the act), and the belief, moreover, has to have been reasonable.(I use ‘p’ rather
than spell out the content of the belief, so as not to be distracted just now by the
details of what exactly p is, and thus to keep the spotlight on the notion of the
reasonable.) But just how the term ‘reasonable’ should be understood was, and
continues to be, a matter of considerable debate.
The options for understanding ‘reasonable’ in the reasonable belief require-
ment for self-defense are commonly referred to as the objective standard and the
subjective standard. There is no clear consensus on what these are. Nor is there
adequate recognition that the terms are used in conflicting ways. This is probably
due in large part to the false impression that it is just obvious how the objective

 According to George Fletcher, this is not true in Continental law. See Fletcher  and Fletch-
er , pp.  – .
 Director of Public Prosecutions v. Morgan  All ER  (). For discussion, see, inter alia,
Duff ; Curley; Baron . See too Glanville Williams’ endorsement of the ruling in
Williams.
 Since then the law has been modified; now belief that the complainant was consenting excul-
pates only if it was held on reasonable grounds (http://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga///
contents, visited on  August ).
 The defendants’ conviction was not affected, however, because it was considered harmless
error. It was apparent that the jurors thought the defendants were lying in saying that they be-
lieved the victim was consenting.
 The Distinction between Objective and Subjective Standards 353

and the subjective differ. In fact we use the terms in a number of ways, and the
different ways we contrast the objective and the subjective are not equivalent.
My first aim in this paper is to sort out various ways we contrast the objective to
the subjective, with particular – but not exclusive – attention to ways the contrast is
drawn in the criminal law and in criminal law theory.⁷ I’ll then note some conse-
quences of a failure to keep these distinct (or even to remember that the objective
and the subjective are contrasted in all these different ways). The failure gives
rise to claims to the effect that we cannot say X without giving up on an objective
standard, claims that are in turn relied on to argue against proposals to modify or
expand a defense. Or, they are relied on to conclude that unless we are willing to
ignore the particulars of the case, we will have to adopt a subjective standard.
Later in the paper I focus on self-defense and the issue of whether the reasonable
belief requirement should be understood as a subjective or as an objective standard,
with particular attention to how ‘objective standard’ should be understood.

2 Eight ways the objective and

the subjective are contrasted
The first three items on my list form a cluster and serve as a backdrop to (4), (5),
and (7), which are of greater importance for my purposes than the first three. I
differentiate (1)-(3) not in order to highlight the differences between them but
rather to bring out more sharply the differences between, on the one hand, (1)
and (2), and on the other, (4), and more generally, to attune our ears to the dif-
ferences in the way the contrast is drawn.
1. ‘Objective’ is sometimes used to mean ‘how it actually is’. The basic idea in
this way of distinguishing the objective from the subjective is that the objective is
(to put it as one might in an introductory philosophy text) the way things really
are, and the subjective is the way things seem to the perceiver.
2. Only slightly different from (1): ‘objective’ is used to point to what actually
happened, and ‘subjective’ to point to the subject’s experience of the thing in
question (and sometimes to the thing in question as experienced by the subject).
3. A somewhat similar contrast – or more accurately, pair of contrasts – is
drawn in discussions of criminal attempts. ‘Objective’ is used in discussions of
criminal attempts to highlight either what actually happened, or what the
agent in fact was doing. ‘Subjective’ is used to draw attention to what the

 Because of my particular interest in criminal law, I don’t aim for a complete list of ways we
contrast the objective to the subjective.
354 Marcia Baron

agent aimed to do, or (and this will sometimes be different) to what she thought
she was doing.
The subjective/objective contrast will differ depending on the type of at-
tempt, and how the attempt fails. Consider a pair of examples from Antony
Duff: “Subjectively, John shoots Pat (for that is what he intends or expects to
do); objectively, his shot misses her. Subjectively, Ms Ryan handled stolen
goods (that was what she believed she was doing); objectively, she handled
non-stolen goods” (Duff 1996, p. 194).⁸ In the first case, the contrast is between
what John intended and what happened. In the case of the supposedly stolen
goods, the contrast is a bit harder to articulate, but it is not between what she
intended and what happened; the gap is not (at least not only) between intention
and result, but between her construal of the action and what the action in fact
was. Hence there are two different subjective/objective contrasts here:
3a: ‘Objective’ points to what in fact happened, and ‘subjective’ to what the
agent intended;
3b: ‘Objective’ points to what the action in fact was, and ‘subjective’ to how
the agent construed it (to what she thought she was doing).
Note that the nature of John’s failed attempt to shoot Pat matters. Had he
failed to shoot Pat not because he missed but because what he shot at (and suc-

 In borrowing Duff’s examples, I am not signing on to what he does with them. He claims that
in the law of attempts, there is a “second kind” of objectivity, which concerns what a reasonable
person “would believe or expect, as distinct from what this particular agent (perhaps unreason-
ably) believed or expected. Subjectively, the would-be killer by witchcraft is trying to kill; objec-
tively, he is not, since any ‘reasonable person’ would know that this is not a possible method”
(Duff , p. ). This parallels the contrast I draw below between the sense of ‘objective’ in
() and that in ()-(), although because of the intricacies in attempts – the differences in the
various ways one’s attempt, despite one’s earnest efforts, may fail – the objective/subjective con-
trast is rather different here, and the contrast Duff draws is less sharp than the contrast I draw
between ‘objective’ in () and ‘objective’ in ()-(). Compare the objective/subjective distinction
with respect to (a) S’s attempt to kill using witchcraft and (b) S’s failed attempt to fatally shoot
someone (failed because her shot misses him). In each case the contrast is between what S aims
to do and what in fact happens. In each case S tried to kill someone and failed. It is not clear that
the fact that in the first instance S chose a method that could not possibly work (or rather, could
not work unless her actions so frightened the person that it was the catalyst to a heart attack)
calls for a different way of contrasting the subjective and the objective. In other words, it is not
clear that it involves, as Duff says it does, a second kind of objectivity. Nor is it clear that there is
any need to make reference to what a reasonable person would have believed. Not, that is, if we
are only trying to capture the differences between the two failed attempts. Duff makes reference
to it in the service of explaining competing views concerning criminal liability for attempts. In
this context, the role of the reasonable person is quite different from the role played in self-de-
fense, provocation, and in definitions of recklessness and negligence.
 The Distinction between Objective and Subjective Standards 355

ceeded in hitting) was a dummy she left in her bed to trick him, we might say (or
at least a legal theorist might say) that subjectively he shot Pat but objectively he
shot a dummy. If we said this, we would be drawing a rather different subjective/
objective contrast than in the case where he aimed at Pat but missed. It would be
a case of 3b. (It could count as a case of 3a as well, but a special kind of case; 3b
is critical to understanding it.) The contrast in the revised case, where he shot a
dummy, but thought that he shot Pat, is less like the contrast where he aimed but
missed, and more like that in the case of the supposedly stolen goods.
I won’t be discussing attempts, and bring them up mainly to differentiate the
uses of ‘objective’ and ‘subjective’ (and ‘objectively’ and ‘subjectively’) in the
context of attempts from the somewhat similar uses of the terms in other crim-
inal law contexts, and thus to forestall confusion.
4. Another way of contrasting the subjective and the objective understands
‘subjective’ roughly as in (1) and (2), but means by ‘objective’ something impor-
tantly different. To tease this out, consider a common division of the elements of
a defense into the subjective and the objective components. The traditional heat
of passion defense, for example, is typically explained as having both a subjec-
tive and an objective element.
The defense requires that “provocation by the victim caused the accused
temporarily to lose self-control”. That is the subjective element. The defense
also requires that “a reasonable person […] similarly situated may also have
been caused temporarily to lose self-control”, and this is routinely referred to
as the “objective element” or “objective test” (Klimchuk 1994, p. 441).⁹
The contrast here is between on the one hand, something that happened to
the defendant or something the defendant experienced (and it could, in a different
context, be something the defendant believed or thought or feared), and on the
other, what a reasonable person would, or might, ¹⁰ have experienced (or believed
or thought or feared). The contrast is not between what the defendant thought (or
felt or experienced or saw) and what actually was the case (or actually did hap-
pen). Rather, it is between the former, and what a reasonable person in the same
situation would or might have experienced, thought, feared, etc. The objective
component in (4) is, to be sure, a bit mysterious; I can see why some might
have qualms about it. Yet it is, I believe, vital to the law.

 I’ve taken this from Klimchuk , but it is quite standard and can be found in many sour-
ces. Sometimes it is formulated in terms of the ordinary person rather than the reasonable per-
son; Klimchuk presents it both ways.
 It is more common to say simply would and to say what the reasonable person would have
experienced (etc). Klimchuk does not, and I think it important not to do so. For more on this,
see Baron .
356 Marcia Baron

Before proceeding to the fifth distinction, I want to underscore the impor-

tance of not conflating the notion of the ‘objective’ in (4) with the notion of
the ‘objective’ in (1), (2) and (3). Although there are differences in the notion
in (1), (2), and (3), the basic idea is the same there, and sharply different from
that in (4). I emphasize this because sometimes the standard of the reasonable
person is spoken of as if it involved absence of error, as if the standard were that
of perfection (see Byrd 2005). Clearly, this would render the standard unhelpful
for purposes of the criminal law.
5. A different way of distinguishing between ‘objective’ and ‘subjective’ is
evident in the applications of these terms, in criminal law and legal scholarship,
to standards or principles, or to reasonableness as determined by a standard or
principle. Note that whereas in (4), the terms ‘objective’ and ‘subjective’ refer to
the content of requirements for a particular defense (and one could use them to
refer likewise to the content of principles), the idea here is different: the standard
itself, not what it is about, is said to be either objective or subjective. I’ll be ex-
ploring in Sect. 4 how best to make sense of this distinction, applied to standards
of reasonableness.
6. ‘Objective’ and ‘subjective’ are also used in a way that is pointedly eval-
uative. ‘Objective’ and ‘objectively’ can signify ‘without bias’ or ‘without regard
to one’s own interests’. ‘Subjective’ and ‘subjectively’ signify ‘biased’ and oper-
ate as terms of negative appraisal. The bias can be in favor of one’s own interests
(or those of one’s company or another group of which one is a member), or the
interests of particular others. We may also say of someone that she is biased
when we think that her likes or dislikes, or her political or religious or other
views, inappropriately shape her research, or assignments of grades to her stu-
dents, or (if she is a judge) her verdicts. (And we might also say of her research or
evaluations of her students or judicial decisions that it or they are biased.)
7. Different from (1)-(6) is the following sense of ‘objective’: that a standard is
objective is held to preclude taking into account certain particulars of the situa-
tion and especially of the defendant, and sometimes is assumed to preclude tak-
ing any of the defendant’s personal characteristics into account at all.
That it precludes taking any of the defendant’s personal characteristics into
account is implausible, but by no means an unusual assumption. The assump-
tion is in evidence in the following statement, part of an explanation of the heat
of passion defense: “As in other areas of the criminal law […] there is a move-
ment to subjectivize the standard, i. e., to include at least some of the defend-
ant’s personal characteristics in the ‘ordinary/ reasonable person’ standard.”
(Dressler 2009, p. 539) The claim that this amounts to “subjectivizing” presup-
 The Distinction between Objective and Subjective Standards 357

poses that if any of the defendant’s personal characteristics are included, the
standard is not objective, at least not fully objective.¹¹
Similarly, an objective standard of reasonableness is explained as follows in
State v. Leidholm:

An objective standard of reasonableness requires the fact-finder to view the circumstances sur-
rounding the accused at the time he used force from the standpoint of a hypothetical reason-
able and prudent person. […] Ordinarily, under such a view, the unique physical and psycho-
logical characteristics of the accused are not taken into consideration in judging the
reasonableness of the accused’s belief.¹² (State v. Leidholm 334 N.W.2d (N.D. 1983), p. 817)

It is not unusual for such statements as the one from Leidholm to include ‘fully’
or ‘thoroughly’ (or a similar qualifier) in front of ‘objective’, thus treating objec-
tivity and subjectivity as scalar notions. There is merit in viewing them as not
forming a clean dichotomy, but it is a mistake to suppose that the more personal
characteristics we allow as relevant – the more that can permissibly be taken
into account in applying the standard – the less objective the standard. Nor is
it the case that a standard is automatically less than fully objective if any partic-
ulars are allowed to factor in.
A more moderate position is much more plausible, namely, that some partic-
ulars of the defendant (or the situation)¹³ are such that taking them into account
is incompatible with a standard being objective. The interesting question then is
which particulars fit this description. I’ll explore this shortly.
8. Worth bearing in mind is a rather different contrast from those drawn
above. The idea is that if something is objective—as when people speak of “ob-
jective facts”—it is a matter on which disagreement, when everyone looks or re-
flects with care, should not persist. When disagreement does persist, and we
think it is for reasons other than obtuseness, we speak of there being an element

 Although I have followed Dressler and others in using the word ‘personal’, I am not sure
what work that word is doing, and so do not know whether, on Dressler’s conception of subjec-
tivizing, there are characteristics of the defendant that can be included consistent with the stan-
dard being objective. My guess is that ‘personal’ is meant to exclude generic qualities that per-
sons in general have.
 As with ‘personal’ in the quote from Dressler, I am not sure what ‘unique’ is supposed to
add, but here too the idea is probably to differentiate generic human characteristics from
those specific to that individual. I don’t think the idea is that they have to be unique.
 I include ‘or the situation’ because although the two quotations, from Dressler and from
Leidholm, concern only particulars about the person, it is not unusual to think that the partic-
ulars of the situation are not to be taken into account.
358 Marcia Baron

of subjectivity.¹⁴ The dimensions of an object would be classified under ‘objec-

tive’; its attractiveness, under ‘subjective’. It is probably this sense of ‘objec-
tive’—that the matter is something on which disagreement, when everyone
looks or reflects with care, should not persist—that underlies a distinction some-
times drawn between “objective” evidence and “subjective” evidence (an exam-
ple of the former being lab results, and of the latter, eyewitness reports).

3 Connections and conflations

First, a comment on (6). Clearly there is a strong connection between impartiality
and this sense of objectivity. When we criticize something for being subjective or
for having been done subjectively or if we emphasize the need to be objective,
usually the idea is that impartiality is called for. But not always. If someone
asks, regarding a third party’s judgment that p, “How objective is that?”, their
worry might not be exactly that the person was failing to be impartial, but rather
that he employed, in arriving at p, a rather relaxed standard of evidence in order
to facilitate concluding what he was hoping to conclude. Or (not quite the same,
but similar), we may worry that he discounted or dismissed some evidence in
order to avoid reaching the conclusion to which the evidence pointed.
More important for my purposes is a connection between (4) and (5). Wari-
ness about objectivity of the sort we see in (4) provides momentum for a subjec-
tive standard of reasonableness. Some have grave doubts about holding people
to a reasonable person standard and for that reason, if there is a requirement of
reasonableness, they champion what they speak of as a subjective standard of
reasonableness. In that way, they can dilute the force of the requirement consid-
erably, perhaps in effect rendering it toothless. What a subjective standard
amounts to will become a little clearer in the next section, through an examina-
tion of the Goetz case.
Before we look at that case, a general observation is in order. Each of (1)-(8)
captures something about objectivity. That does not entail—nor is it the case–
that for something to be objective, it has to be objective in all of these senses.
What objectivity requires will vary from one context to another, depending on
what sense of ‘objective’ is apt for the particular purposes at hand.

 In a review of Greenawalt , Neil MacCormick writes that Greenawalt concludes that “on
any fine point of balancing, reasonable people can differ. These differences are not objectively
corrigible. To that extent, there remains an element of apparently irreducible subjectivity in the
inevitable leeways of legal judgement” (MacCormick , pp. – ).
 The Distinction between Objective and Subjective Standards 359

I emphasize this because often in discussions in criminal law, it is claimed

that to allow A would be to give up on an objective standard. Or it is claimed that
to adhere to an objective standard precludes taking B into account. The back-
ground assumption seems to be that because in some contexts objectivity re-
quires C, objectivity always requires C. Not that if asked, very many people
would be likely to affirm this. What may happen, though, is that people latch
onto a particular sense of the word ‘objective’ or ‘objectively’ (or an amorphous
blend of various senses) and without thinking about it, suppose that objectivity
invariably is like that. They then implicitly treat as a test for objectivity some-
thing that is in fact not suitable for that context. A related phenomenon is
that other senses of ‘objective’ are simply forgotten. Authors claim objectivity
to be on their side when it is only in one sense of the term that it is on their
side, and in an equally important (but overlooked) sense of the term, objectivity
is on the opposing side (or an opposing side).
Consider the following example of this last phenomenon. It is fairly common
to hold that mistaken self-defense can at best be excused, never justified, even
when the mistake is a reasonable one. This reflects an underlying view that jus-
tification requires truth. I don’t want to claim that this position is just wrong or
confused, but I think it better to understand justification as requiring reasonable
belief rather than truth. The view that it requires truth is fed by the conjunction
of the following: the common view that justification is objective, and that (as (8)
above suggests), ‘objective’ entails that there is no room for disagreement.
Here is what I have in mind. It is often claimed that it cannot be the case that
A is justified in attacking B in self-defense and that B is justified in using force to
thwart A’s attack; they cannot both be justified. They can both be excused, or
one can be justified and the other excused, but (it is said) they cannot both
be justified.¹⁵ Why not? Because justification is objective, and ‘objective’ entails
that there is no room for disagreement. This is deployed as an argument for the
position that mistaken self-defense can at best be excused, and more generally
for the position that justification requires truth. This is one of many instances
where one sense of ‘objective’ is appealed to as if it provided a necessary condi-
tion for something to qualify as objective.
What I described concerning the dispute about whether justification requires
truth reflects a broader problem: accepting (8) as a requirement for objectivity in
general leads people to neglect, misread, or under-appreciate the importance of
the notion of objectivity in (4) and sometimes to either dismiss it or read into the
notion in both (4) and (5) the sense of objectivity that we see in (1). That is, there

 I discuss the claim at greater length in Baron , esp. sect. VIII.
360 Marcia Baron

is a tendency to suppose that ‘objective’ in the sense of ‘what a reasonable per-

son might judge/feel’ or ‘how a reasonable person might react’ entails ‘free of
error’. The contrast (in 1) between how things actually are and how they might
seem to the perceiver is read into (4), with the result that one may forget that
a reasonable person is sometimes in error. Likewise with respect to (5): it is
all too often forgotten that meeting an objective standard does not require that
one not be in error.
Let me pause to take stock. I began by saying that I wanted to look at various
ways in which we contrast the objective to the subjective, and I had in mind both
how this is done in the criminal law and criminal law scholarship, and how it is
done outside of criminal law, in ordinary discourse. My interest in this stems
from my puzzlement over some common claims, on which a fair amount rests, con-
cerning objective and subjective standards. I suspect that various senses of ‘objec-
tive’ are conflated, with the result that something is thought to be at odds with ob-
jectivity or an objective standard, when in fact it is not. What I’ve been talking about
is one illustration of that; another will emerge in the next section.
I turn now to the Goetz case. Intriguing for its discussion of the difference be-
tween objective and subjective standards, the Goetz case will be helpful for reflect-
ing on questions raised above under (7). My position is that it is a mistake to think
that a standard is more objective the fewer features of the situation, or the people
involved, it treats as relevant. Nonetheless, it is true of some features (though far
fewer than is often thought) that treating them as relevant disqualifies the standard
from being objective. The challenge is to work out which features are such that tak-
ing them into account is incompatible with an objective standard.

4 Goetz and the word ‘reasonably’

In 1985 Bernhard Goetz, a white man, shot four young African-American men
when they asked him, in a subway car in New York City, for $5. Goetz was indict-
ed for attempted murder (among other things). He challenged the indictment,
claiming that the instruction given to the (second) grand jury concerning what
is meant by ‘reasonably’ was erroneous. Let’s look into this claim.
The NY statute on self-defense states that “a person may […] use physical
force upon another person when and to the extent he reasonably believes
such to be necessary to defend himself or a third person from what he reason-
ably believes to be the use or imminent use of unlawful physical force by
such other person” (NY Penal Law 35.15(1). Quoted in People v. Goetz, 497
N.E.2d (N.Y. 1986)). The jury instruction to which Goetz objected was provided
in response to a juror’s request for clarification of the term ‘reasonably believes.’
 The Distinction between Objective and Subjective Standards 361

The instruction was “to consider the circumstances of the incident and deter-
mine ‘whether the defendant’s conduct was that of a reasonable man in the de-
fendant’s situation’”. Goetz claimed that the response provided was erroneous,
and that “the introduction of an objective element will preclude a jury from con-
sidering factors such as the prior experiences of a given actor and thus, require it
to make a determination of ‘reasonableness’ without regard to the actual circum-
stances of a particular incident.” According to Goetz, a proper instruction would
be to consider not “whether the defendant’s conduct was that of a reasonable
man in the defendant’s situation” but “whether a defendant’s beliefs and reac-
tions were ‘reasonable to him’” (People v. Goetz, p. 48). The lower courts sided
with Goetz. The highest court of the state rejected his argument and reinstated
the indictment. I see little to say in favor of the standard Goetz proposed; clearly
‘reasonable’ is doing virtually no work at all if we take the standard to be asking
whether the defendant’s beliefs and reactions were “reasonable to him.” Al-
though it is worth considering whether there might be a more plausible subjec-
tive standard,¹⁶ here I focus on Goetz’s argument against the jury instruction.
We can see in his argument the notion of ‘objective’ in (7): objectivity is
thought to be at odds with taking into account various particulars, in this in-
stance, the prior experiences of the defendant and the actual circumstances of
the incident. Why might one think these are at odds? There appears to be a back-
ground assumption that taking an objective view means taking a highly abstract
view. That is not a pure fabrication; there may be such a notion of objectivity.
Thomas Nagel wrote in The View from Nowhere:

[T]he distinction between more subjective and more objective views is really a matter of de-
gree, and it covers a wide spectrum. A view or form of thought is more objective than an-
other if it relies less on the specifics of the individual’s makeup and position in the world,
or on the character of the particular type of creature he is. The wider the range of subjective
types to which a form of understanding is accessible—the less it depends on specific sub-
jective capacities—the more objective it is. A standpoint that is objective by comparison
with the personal view of one individual may be subjective by comparison with a theoret-
ical standpoint still farther out. The standpoint of morality is more objective than that of
private life, but less objective than the standpoint of physics. (Nagel 1986, p. 5)

This way of thinking about objectivity may have its place. But clearly, the sense of
‘objective’ in which the jury instruction is putting forward an objective standard is
that articulated in (4) above, not the one articulated by Nagel. It seems likely that a
failure to differentiate various senses in which we call something ‘objective’ under-
lies an assumption that I noted above in discussing (7), namely that a standard is

 I do so in a work in progress, Self-Defense, Reason, and the Law.

362 Marcia Baron

objective to the extent that it abstracts from the particulars. The contrast between
the subjective and the objective that Nagel articulates makes some sense as applied
to standpoints, but not, as far as I can see, to standards.
That said, (7) is not irrelevant to (4), and the moderate position I mentioned
in explaining (7) – that some particulars of the defendant or the situation are
such that taking them into account is incompatible with a standard being objec-
tive – is needed to make sense of the idea of a reasonable person standard. A
reasonable person standard asks us to consider whether a reasonable person
in the defendant’s situation might have acted as the defendant did; and the
question then arises, what counts as the defendant’s situation? If we include
as part of the situation everything that is true of the defendant, then the stan-
dard does little more than ratify whatever the defendant did. (Might a reasonable
person who was exactly like the defendant have acted as the defendant did? Of
course!) The reasonable person standard has to treat as not part of the situation
some of the defendant’s qualities. But which ones?
The New York Court of Appeals (the highest court in the state of New York)
spoke to this issue. Rejecting Goetz’s argument and reinstating all counts of the
indictment, the court wrote that his argument

falsely presupposes that an objective standard means that the background and other rele-
vant characteristics of a particular actor must be ignored. To the contrary, we have frequent-
ly noted that a determination of reasonableness must be based on the ‘circumstances’ fac-
ing a defendant or his ‘situation.’ Such terms encompass more than the physical
movements of the potential assailant. [T]hese terms include any relevant knowledge the de-
fendant had about that person–including, for example, any information the defendant had
concerning the assailant’s prior acts of violence or reputation for violence. They also nec-
essarily bring in the physical attributes of all persons involved, including the defendant.
Furthermore, the defendant’s circumstances encompass any prior experiences he had
which could provide a reasonable basis for a belief that another person’s intentions were
to injure or rob him or that the use of deadly force was necessary under the circumstances.
(People v. Goetz, p. 52)

I think the NY Court of Appeals had the right idea. The objectivity of a standard is
not impugned if we take into account prior experiences that gave the defendant rea-
son to believe that the person intended to injure or rob him or that retreat would not
be safe and that it would be necessary to use force to thwart the attack. Likewise,
there is no reason to think that an objective standard, in virtue of being an objective
standard, rules out treating as part of the “situation” or “circumstances” the size
and weight of the apparent assailant (hereafter A) relative to those of the defendant
(hereafter D), and information that D had about A’s prior acts of violence. This is a
very important corrective. There is no reason to think that a standard is less objective
if it allows us to take these features into account.
 The Distinction between Objective and Subjective Standards 363

But other features are ruled out, and the NY Court of Appeals hints by omis-
sion at what these are: D’s beliefs ¹⁷ and attitudes, and prior experiences of D’s
that do not provide a reason to believe that the person intends to injure her and
that it is necessary to use force to thwart the attack. Although the Court does not
explicitly state that a standard cannot count as objective if it treats these as part
of D’s situation, this clearly is the suggestion. And the suggestion is certainly
plausible, with one minor qualification: D’s beliefs and attitudes could be rele-
vant insofar as D has reason to believe that A hates people who have (say) cer-
tain political beliefs. That D has those belief(s) would then be relevant to her as-
sessment that A’s threat against her is to be taken very seriously (though really
what matters is not so much that she has these political beliefs as that A believes
she does). That is the only way in which the defendant’s beliefs and attitudes can
be relevant, on an objective standard.
To delve further into which features of the defendant or the situation are,
and which are not, such that an objective standard can treat them as relevant,
we need to focus our attention on the Court’s suggestion that prior experiences
can be relevant insofar as they “provide a reasonable basis for a belief that an-
other person’s intentions were to injure or rob him or that the use of deadly force
was necessary under the circumstances”. Clearly there is room for disagreement
concerning what sorts of experiences do provide that basis.
Two considerations should guide us here. First, an experience need not, all by
itself, constitute adequate reason for believing p in order to count as providing a
reasonable basis for a belief that p.¹⁸ (I use ‘p’, as I did earlier, as shorthand for
the content of what one needs to believe to have a self-defense claim.) The bar is
set too high if we require that it constitute an adequate reason. Second, the mere
fact that an experience (more precisely, that the fact that the person had that expe-
rience) renders more understandable his believing p does not suffice to establish
that the experience provides a reasonable basis for his belief that p.
My view – perhaps an unusual one – is that experiences of having been the
victim of a crime on a previous occasion (even a victim of a crime in similar cir-
cumstances, e. g., while in a subway train) would not generally provide a reason-
able basis for the belief that this person was about to attack one. Sometimes they
would. They obviously would, first of all, if the person who attacked one before
is (or is plausibly believed by the agent to be) the same person who is acting sus-
piciously towards one now, or is affiliated (or plausibly believed to be affiliated)

 Not to be confused with information the defendant has that provides a basis for her belief.
 I thank the students in Gabe Mendlow’s seminar at the University of Michigan Law School,
especially Mohammad Alharoun, for leading me to see this.
364 Marcia Baron

in some significant way with that person (e. g. is hired by the other person to
carry out violent actions on his behalf). In addition, they might do so – provid-
ing less of a basis, but nonetheless some – if the prior experiences taught one
something about how these attacks are often carried out. But if we bracket
cases where the same person who subjected one to violence before is now (at
least seemingly) attacking one or threatening to attack, prior victimization
very often does not provide a reasonable basis for a belief that p. The relevance
of prior victimization to the reasonableness of one’s belief – on an objective stan-
dard of reasonableness – tends to be exaggerated.
The first point requires little explanation: if A has struck B in the past, often
very soon after accusing her of smiling flirtatiously at another man, if A tends to
strike B especially violently when drunk, sometimes then hiding B’s insulin,
once thereby causing B to go into a diabetic coma,¹⁹ and if A now seems angrier
than in the past and is threatening to kill B, undeniably the prior experiences B
has had with A give her added reason to think that her life is in danger if he is
now drunk and accusing her of smiling flirtatiously at another man. These expe-
riences (both of having been the victim of his violence before, and specifically
having been repeatedly victimized by him in circumstances relevantly similar
to those she is in now) provide a reasonable basis for a belief that she needs
to use force to save her life. So do other experiences with him that equip her
to judge how seriously angry he is with her. (How strong a basis they provide
depends on other factors, among them, her options of escape; if they are getting
a divorce, and not against A’s wishes, and A – very atypically for abusive men –
just wants to wash his hands of B and will gladly let her disappear from his life,
perhaps she can safely flee. But typically, flight from a violent, abusive male
partner only intensifies his anger at her.²⁰ Also relevant is their relative size
and fighting abilities.)
The second is more complicated. Suppose the very same B succeeds in leaving
A. Two years later, in a new relationship, she is accused by C, her new partner, of
flirting with another man. C is angry. He glowers at her, and she smells alcohol on
his breath. He has never struck her or been violent towards her in any other way; he
does not threaten her now; she has never heard that he has a tendency to be violent.
She is in the kitchen when he accuses her; he is larger than she is; he is between her
and the exit from the kitchen; she feels trapped. She grabs a large knife that is at
hand and stabs him. Does the experience of being abused by A provide a reasonable

 For a case where the abuse included hiding insulin, see State v Hundley,  P.d 
(Kan. ). I discuss the case in Baron .
 See, inter alia, Mahoney .
 The Distinction between Objective and Subjective Standards 365

basis for her belief (or perhaps a more apt word is ‘feeling’ or ‘sense’) that she is in
danger now and needs to use lethal force to protect herself? No. It renders it far
more understandable than it would otherwise be, and has some exculpatory signif-
icance. It would certainly be relevant to bring up at sentencing, and ideally there
would be an excuse defense to which it would be relevant (a partial excuse, rather
than one that would result in acquittal).²¹ But it does not provide a reasonable basis
for her belief.
Could any experience of prior victimization provide a reasonable basis for a be-
lief that p, other than when the current (apparent) attacker is the same person as the
previous attacker, or a close associate of that person? Not often. But it might, at least
if the approach (gestures, words used, positioning of the persons approaching D) is
so similar to that of the aggressor(s) who attacked D before, and so out of the ordi-
nary, that it seems clear that they are employing the same methods.
Consider the following example (put to me as evidence that prior victimiza-
tion can indeed provide a rational basis for a belief that p): on a previous occa-
sion, D was asked in a relatively empty subway car for money by a young man D
did not know, accompanied by three others; D tried to appease them by handing
them a few dollars, but to no avail; they attacked D, causing moderate though
not grave harm. Thereafter D carried a loaded gun when he rode the subway.
Two years later he is again approached by young men who ask him for
money, in a manner that resembles that of the (previous) attackers. The question
is: does the prior experience provide a reasonable basis for his belief that he
needs to use force to protect himself? Maybe. For although this case is not entire-
ly unlike that of the battered woman who stabs her new partner in that in both
cases, the action taken might well not be followed by violence, it differs in that
we think the subway request (given the positioning of the four youths) more like-
ly to be followed by violence.
The reason I say it is easy to exaggerate the relevance of prior experience to
the reasonableness of the belief is this: We all know that a group of young males
asking someone in a subway for money might be planning to attack him or her;
we do not need to have experienced an attack to know that. We also all know (or
should!) that they might be happy just to receive a very small amount of money,
and might also very well leave one unharmed even if one gives them nothing.
What does the experience of victimization add to one’s knowledge? Does one
really have more by way of a reasonable basis for a belief in the need to use

 In England the heat of passion defense has been replaced with a defense that might arguably
apply to this sort of case (see http://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga///sections/ - , in
particular  (), visited on  August ).
366 Marcia Baron

self-defensive force if one has been victimized in the past than if one hasn’t?²² It
is not clear to me that one does. The experience explains why the danger was so
very salient to D, and helps to explain why D shot the four youths, but it is not
evident that it provides more by way of a reasonable basis for one’s belief that p
than he would have had in the absence of prior victimization. We might say, too,
that prior victimization gives one a more vivid knowledge. But rendering some-
thing more salient, or yielding more vivid knowledge, is not the same as provid-
ing a reasonable basis for a belief.²³
I have dwelled on this at some length because it is so common to treat prior
victimization as very frequently, perhaps typically, providing a reasonable basis
for a belief that one is now about to be attacked. In a case such as the one I descri-
bed – where the situation in the prior victimization was very similar to the present
one – the matter should be put to jurors, so that they can assess whether the de-
fendant had more of a basis for a belief that p than she or he would have had in
the absence of prior victimization. But at the same time, jurors should be instructed
that the fact that the prior victimization would make the use of (lethal) force more
understandable does not support the claim that the belief was reasonable.

5 Concluding remarks
I have sought in this paper to distinguish various ways we differentiate the ob-
jective from the subjective, in order to draw attention to ways in which conflating
them has contributed to confusion and error in criminal law. I hope that my list,
by no means purporting to be complete, will both encourage more care in think-
ing about the distinction between the objective and the subjective and especially
between objective and subjective standards, and prompt some others to add to
my list other examples of conflations in criminal law discussions of different
senses of ‘objective’ and of ‘subjective’.
In addition, I have defended the claim that objective standards are compat-
ible with taking into account the relevant particulars that need to be taken into
account in self-defense. I have endorsed (with a minor qualification) the Goetz

 I am assuming throughout this paragraph and the next that the attacker is not the same per-
son (or close associate) of the previous attacker, or believed to be by D.
 I am very grateful to Gabe Mendlow and his seminar students at the University of Michigan
Law School for stimulating discussion on the points in the preceding two paragraphs. The exam-
ple is a modified version of an example put to me by Mohammed Alharoun, in comments on the
draft of my paper that we discussed in Prof. Mendlow’s class. Special thanks to Alharoun, but
thanks to all the law students who provided me with comments.
 The Distinction between Objective and Subjective Standards 367

Court’s explanation of an objective standard, and I have tried to expand, where

the Court did not, on what sorts of experiences should count as providing a rea-
sonable basis for a belief that p. One might respond, though, that if the bar for
counting as a reasonable basis for a belief that p is going to be set as high as I
have set it, it would be preferable either to reconceive what counts as an objec-
tive standard or favor a subjective standard. It might seem unfair to the defend-
ant to use an objective standard of reasonableness for self-defense, yet at the
same time to understand ‘objective standard’ in the way I am proposing.
In brief reply: it should not seem unfair as long as we bear in mind that the
defendant is not judged solely by reference to an objective standard of reasona-
bleness, though she is so judged for purposes of self-defense. Factors that cannot
enter in for those purposes are not ignored; they can be taken into account both
for purposes of any excuse defense that may be available, and as extenuating
factors to consider at sentencing. That said, one might wish to develop a more
plausible subjective standard than the one Goetz put forward, and might do
so by adding (judiciously, and sparingly) to what can count as part of the defend-
ant’s situation more than the Goetz court allowed. But as long as self-defense re-
mains (as I hope it will) a justification, rather than an excuse, an objective stan-
dard of reasonableness seems to be what is called for. And because the
reasonable and the understandable are not identical, it is important not to incor-
porate into the defendant’s situation factors that merely make her conduct un-
derstandable, but do not go towards making it reasonable. Factors that make
it understandable should be relevant only to excuse defenses, and to the post-
conviction question of what sentence is appropriate.²⁴

Bibliography
Baron, Marcia (2001): “‘I Thought She Consented’”. In: Noûs 35, pp.1 – 32.
Baron, Marcia (2005): “Justifications and Excuses”. In: Ohio State Journal of Criminal Law 2,
pp. 387 – 406.

 Earlier versions of this paper were presented in  at the th International Wittgenstein
Symposium, Kirchberg am Wechsel, Austria, and at the University of Michigan Law School. I am
grateful to organizers and discussants at the International Wittgenstein Symposium, to Gabe
Mendlow for inviting me to share my work with his students at the University of Michigan,
and to both him and his students for their written and oral comments. I would also like to
thank the National Endowment of the Humanities for fellowship support in , when I
began work on the project of which this forms a part, and Frederick F. Schmitt for helpful dis-
cussion of the topics in this paper.
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Baron, Marcia (2011): “Self-Defense: The Imminence Requirement”. In: Leslie Green/ Brian
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State Journal of Criminal Law 2, pp. 571 – 577.
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Duff, RA (1981): “Recklessness and Rape”. In: Liverpool Law Review 3, pp. 49 – 64.
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1975, at 15.
Inga Römer
Gibt es einen kantianischen Intuitionismus
in der Ethik?
Abstract: Is There a Kantian Intuitionism in Ethics? Within the renaissance of
ethical intuitionism, there is one line of argument that wants to avoid the prob-
lems with classical intuitionism by giving intuitionism a Kantian form. On the
other hand, there are interpretations of the Kantian texts, that read Kant himself
as an intuitionist. In this double sense, there is currently a “Kantian intuitionism
in Ethics” and the first two parts of the paper reconstruct its particular form in
each case. In a third part however, the paper argues, that these two options are
problematic and that their general goal can be realized better within a Kantian
phenomenology of the Ethical, that would be systematically more convincing
and historically closer to the argument developed by Kant himself.

Zu Beginn des zwanzigsten Jahrhunderts hatte der ethische Intuitionismus sowohl

in der analytischen als auch in der kontinentalen, und dabei insbesondere in der
phänomenologischen Philosophie starke Fürsprecher. Auf der einen Seite stehen
Henry Sidgwick, George Edward Moore, Harold Arthur Prichard und William David
Ross, auf der anderen Max Scheler, Edmund Husserl, Nicolai Hartmann, Dietrich
von Hildebrand und Hans Reiner. Es verbindet sie die Auffassung, dass ethische
Urteile nicht aus einem obersten Prinzip abgeleitet werden können, sondern in
selbstevidenten ethischen Intuitionen, einem Wertgefühl oder einer Wertneh-
mung fundiert sind, die sich auf eine Form von moralischen Tatsachen richten,
was den ethischen Intuitionismus mit einem moralischen Realismus verknüpft.
Uneinigkeit besteht jedoch von Anfang an darüber, was jene moralischen Tatsa-
chen sind, so dass der ethische Intuitionismus bei Sidgwick und Moore eine
konsequentialistische, bei Prichard und Ross eine deontologische und bei den
Phänomenologen eine wertethische Ausgestaltung anzunehmen vermag. Das
Unbehagen mit dem ethischen Intuitionismus hat darin seinen Ursprung, dass er
die Ethik auf letzte, selbst nicht mehr begründbare Intuitionen und ihnen kor-
respondierende moralische Tatsachen zurückführt, in Bezug auf die es strittig ist,
ob sie Handlungskonsequenzen, Pflichten oder Werte sind, welchen Status sie
haben und wie sie inhaltlich zu bestimmen wären. Sowohl die angelsächsische als
auch die phänomenologische Tradition hat seit der Kritik vor allem durch
Strawson, Mackie und Rawls von den konsequentialistischen und deontologi-
schen Intuitionismen einerseits und seit Heidegger, Sartre und Levinas von den
wertethischen Intuitionismen andererseits Abstand genommen.
370 Inga Römer

Seit einigen Jahren jedoch erlebt der ethische Intuitionismus eine gewisse
Renaissance. Diese kann vielleicht darauf zurückgeführt werden, dass der Bereich
der angewandten Ethik stetig anwächst und die Aufmerksamkeit auf diffizile Ein-
zelfälle lenkt, in denen universale Prinzipien nicht anwendbar zu sein scheinen. Im
Rahmen dieser Renaissance des ethischen Intuitionismus findet sich ein Entwick-
lungsstrang, der den Schwierigkeiten des klassischen Intuitionismus dadurch zu
entkommen sucht, dass er ihn mit Grundelementen der kantischen Ethik verknüpft.
Diese Entwicklung ist nicht zuletzt deshalb interessant,weil es umgekehrt innerhalb
der gegenwärtigen Kant-Forschung Interpreten gibt, die Kant als Intuitionisten und
moralischen Realisten verstehen und seinem Formalismus ein intuitionistisches
und realistisches Fundament zu geben suchen. Von zwei Seiten her scheint sich
damit derzeit ein kantianischer Intuitionismus beziehungsweise ein intuitionisti-
scher Kantianismus anzudeuten. Philosophiehistorisch ist unsere Titelfrage daher
eindeutig positiv zu beantworten: Es gibt einen kantianischen Intuitionismus. Im
Folgenden sei jedoch der Frage nachgegangen, ob und inwiefern das, was unter
diesem Namen auftritt, tatsächlich ‚kantianisch‘ und ‚intuitionistisch‘ genannt
werden kann und ob es systematisch zu überzeugen vermag. Ein erster Abschnitt
skizziert die Gestalt des kantianischen Intuitionismus innerhalb der intuitionisti-
schen Tradition. Ein zweiter Abschnitt zeigt, in welcher Weise Kant als Intuitionist
und Realist interpretiert wird. Ein dritter Abschnitt sucht aufzuweisen, dass das von
den neueren Bestrebungen Gesuchte sowohl systematisch überzeugender als auch
philosophiehistorisch angemessener in einer kantianischen Phänomenologie des
Ethischen gefunden werden kann, die sich nur noch in einem sehr eingeschränkten
Sinne als Intuitionismus bezeichnen ließe.

1 Kantianischer Intuitionismus
in der intuitionistischen Tradition
Innerhalb des klassischen Intuitionismus haben Prichard und Ross eine deon-
tologische Variante des Intuitionismus entwickelt, wobei Ross die einflussreichere
Figur geworden ist. In seinem 1930 erschienenen Buch The Right and the Good
vertritt Ross die These, dass das Ethische in anhand von konkreten Handlungs-
situationen intuitiv eingesehenen, selbst-evidenten ‚prima facie Pflichten‘ grün-
det, die Ausdruck der realen moralischen Ordnung des Universums, gar jedes
möglichen Universums seien (Ross 2009, p. 29). Ohne Vollständigkeit oder
Letztgültigkeit zu beanspruchen, nennt er sieben derartige Pflichten: Treue-
pflichten, Reparationspflichten, Dankbarkeitspflichten, Gerechtigkeitspflichten,
Wohltätigkeitspflichten, Selbstvervollkommnungspflichten und Nichtverlet-
 Gibt es einen kantianischen Intuitionismus in der Ethik? 371

zungspflichten (Ross 2009, p. 21). Konflikte zwischen diesen Pflichten sind Ross
zufolge durch eine an die aristotelische phronesis angelehnte praktische Weisheit
zu entscheiden (Ross 2009, p. 42). Ross’ Position hat insofern einen kantianischen,
deontologischen Zug, als sie gegen den konsequentialistischen Intuitionismus
von Moore vertritt, Handlungen seien aufgrund ihrer Handlungsart selbst richtig
und geboten und nicht wegen der guten Konsequenzen, die sie hervorbrächten.
Kant allerdings wirft er eine Überakzentuierung des Motivationsaspekts vor, da
Handlungen zwar aufgrund ihres Motivs gut seien, ihre von der Güte ablösbare
Richtigkeit jedoch dem verdankten, was durch sie getan und in der Welt erreicht
werde. Es kommt Ross dabei stets auf den „höchst persönlichen Charakter der
Pflicht“ und damit die Vielfalt der intuitiv erfassten Pflichten an, wobei er es offen
lässt, ob sich diese Pflichten nicht doch nach gründlicher Reflexion in einem
Prinzip vereinheitlicht fassen ließen (Ross 2009, p. 22).¹
Diese Offenheit der Ross’schen Position sowie das Unbehagen mit der als
intuitiv erfassbar behaupteten Pluralität von inhaltlich bestimmten prima facie
Pflichten hat Robert Audi im Zuge der Renaissance des ethischen Intuitionismus in
seinem 2004 veröffentlichten Buch The Good in the Right. A Theory of Intuition and
Intrinsic Value (Audi 2004) dazu geführt, den bereits bei Ross angelegten kan-
tianischen Zug zu einem „value-based Kantian intuitionism“ (Audi 2004, p. 200)
zu vertiefen. Wie Ross geht Audi von einer Pluralität selbst-evidenter Pflicht-
prinzipien aus, meint jedoch, dass diesen eine zusätzliche Rechtfertigung gegeben
werden kann, wenn man sie vereinheitlicht. Als Vereinheitlichungsprinzipien der
von Ross angeführten Pflichtprinzipien kommen Audi zufolge insbesondere der
kategorische Imperativ in seiner Mensch-Zweck-Formel sowie der Wert des Men-
schen als eines Würde habenden Zweckes in sich selbst in Frage. In Anknüpfung
an einen zentralen Begriff von Rawls vertritt Audi die Auffassung, dass die prima
facie Pflichten, der kategorische Imperativ und der absolute Wert der Person in
einem „reflective equilibrium“ (Audi 2004, p. 144) zueinander stünden, innerhalb
dessen sie sich wechselseitig zu stützen, aber auch zu korrigieren vermögen. Dass
die prima facie Pflichten unter den kategorischen Imperativ subsumierbar seien,
gebe sowohl ihnen als auch dem kategorischen Imperativ eine zusätzliche
Rechtfertigung; sowohl die Pflichten als auch der kategorische Imperativ aber
könnten im Zuge dieses Überlegungsgleichgewichts auch korrigiert und refor-
muliert werden. Ein gewisses Primat schreibt Audi dem intuitiv erkennbaren,
primären Wert der Würde der Personen zu, insofern dieser als der „gemeinsame

 „Loyalty to the facts is worth more than a symmetrical architetonic or a hastily reached
simplicity. If further reflection discovers a perfect logical basis for this or for a better cla-
ssification, so much the better.“ (Ross , p. )
372 Inga Römer

Grund“ des kategorischen Imperativs und der Ross’schen Pflichtprinzipien gelten

könne (Audi 2004, pp. 142, 112, 111). Allerdings sei dieser primäre Wert der Würde
der Person eine „open-ended notion“, der stets nur, dabei jedoch niemals voll-
ständig, durch jene prima facie Pflichten, deren Erfüllung zur ihrer Wahrung
beiträgt, ein Inhalt verliehen werden könne (Audi 2004, pp. 157– 158).
In seiner Anfang 2014 erschienenen Habilitationsschrift (Heinrichs 2013)
sucht Bert Heinrichs eine „Ethik der Person“ zu entwickeln, die sich ebenfalls als
eine kantianische Variante des ethischen Intuitionismus begreift. Im Unterschied
zu Audis Modell des Überlegungsgleichgewichts vertritt Heinrichs jedoch einen
ontologischen Minimalrealismus, in dem Personen in ihrer Selbstzweckhaftigkeit
die einzigen moralischen Tatsachen sind und nur sie als solche epistemisch in-
tuitiv erfasst werden können.² Intuitionismus und Realismus seien ausschließlich
auf Personen zu beziehen. Konkrete inhaltliche Prinzipien wie die Ross’schen
hingegen müssten durch ein ethisches Konstruktionsverfahren, das sich an dem
Interpretationsrahmen der kantischen Selbstzweckformel orientiert, sowie in ei-
ner immer wieder neu ansetzenden Hermeneutik der Lebensverhältnisse her-
vorgebracht werden (Heinrichs 2013, pp. 253, 257). Der inhaltliche, konstruktive
Teil der Ethik sei damit prinzipiell revidierbar im Rahmen des Minimalrealismus
und Intuitionismus der Person als Selbstzweck. Heinrichs vertritt damit eine hy-
bride Theorie, deren Kern in einem ethischen Intuitionismus sowie moralischen
Realismus der Person besteht und deren Zusatz ein ethisches Konstruktionsver-
fahren vorsieht. Der Intuitionismus ist Heinrichs zufolge durchaus die angemes-
sene ethische Position, man dürfe nur den Rechtfertigungsprozess nicht zu früh –
etwa bei den Ross’schen Prinzipien – abbrechen, sondern müsse bis zu dem
wirklich realen und intuitionistischen Fundament – der Person – vordringen.
Während Audi meint, dass nichts Wichtiges der kantischen Ethik durch seinen
kantianischen Intuitionismus falsifiziert sei, ist Heinrichs sogar der Auffassung,
dass seine Position als die kantische verstanden werden könne, insofern sich
Kants Ethik „auf ontologischer Ebene nicht nur als Form des Realismus deuten,
sondern […] auf epistemologischer Ebene auch als Variante des rationalen In-
tuitionismus“ (Heinrichs 2013, p. 263) auffassen lasse. Heinrichs knüpft damit
direkt und ausdrücklich an diejenigen Kant-Forscher an, die eine realistische
Lesart der kantischen Ethik befürworten.

 Siehe den Vergleich mit Audi in Heinrichs , Kapitel ..

 Gibt es einen kantianischen Intuitionismus in der Ethik? 373

2 Die Interpretation Kants als Intuitionist und

moralischer Realist
In kritischer Reaktion auf John Rawls’ Auslegung, der von „Kant’s Moral Con-
structivism“ (Rawls 2000, p. 237) spricht, hat sich in der Kant-Forschung eine
realistische und intuitionistische Lesart der kantischen Ethik entwickelt. Vertreter
dieser realistischen Lesart sind etwa Allen Wood, Paul Guyer, Dieter Schönecker
und Alison Hills. Es sind insbesondere zwei Momente in Kants Ethik, auf die sich
diese Interpretationslinie stützen kann: ein vermeintlicher Realismus und Intui-
tionismus des Menschen als eines Zweckes an sich selbst sowie ein vermeintlicher
Realismus und Intuitionismus des moralischen Gesetzes.
In ihrem gemeinsam verfassten Kommentar zur Grundlegung formulieren
Schönecker und Wood: „Bis zum heutigen Tage wird Kants Ethik als deontolo-
gische Ethik charakterisiert. Wenn es wesentlich für eine solche Ethik ist, daß in
ihr substantielle (an sich existierende) Werte oder Zwecke keine oder bestenfalls
nur eine untergeordnete Rolle spielen, dann ist Kants Ethik aber nicht nur nicht
deontologisch, sondern dezidiert anti-deontologisch. Denn sowohl die inhaltliche
Bestimmung moralischer Pflichten wie auch die Begründung ihrer Gültigkeit hält
Kant ohne einen substantiellen Wertbegriff für unmöglich. Vernünftige Wesen als
zwecksetzende und autonomiebegabte Wesen haben einen absoluten Wert
(Würde); das und nicht der Gedanke einer formalen Maximenuniversalisierung ist
die zentrale These in Kants Ethik. Daher sind letztlich auch nicht deontische
Begriffe für Kant entscheidend (also Begriffe wie ‚verboten‘, ‚geboten‘ und ‚er-
laubt‘), sondern Wertbegriffe.“ (Schönecker/Wood 2007, p. 142) Der substantielle,
absolute Wert des Menschen als eines Zweckes an sich selbst sei das Fundament
der kantischen Ethik. Die beiden Autoren bedauern es, dass Kant dieser seiner
Grundthese, der Mensch als vernünftiges Wesen sei Zweck an sich und absolut
wertvoll, keine Erklärung hinzugefügt habe, „was es heißt, daß etwas wertvoll ist
und wie Werte erkannt werden“ (Schönecker/Wood 2007, p. 207). Hier könnte der
Sache nach einer Form von Intuition eine einschlägige Funktion zukommen,
wenngleich die beiden Autoren Kant in dieser Hinsicht nicht eindeutig einen
ethischen Intuitionismus zuschreiben.
In Bezug auf das moralische Gesetz wird Kant ebenfalls ein Realismus und
eindeutiger auch ein Intuitionismus zugeschrieben. Allerdings gibt es hier eine
Zweideutigkeit in den Auslegungen, die auf die Unterscheidung zwischen Inhalt
und Geltung des Gesetzes zurückzuführen ist. Robert Stern spricht von einem
Realismus des Gesetzes bei Kant, insofern Kant in mehreren Ableitungen des
Gesetzesinhalts zeige, dass das Gesetz nur ein einziges sein und nicht beliebig
ausfallen könne. Die Verbindlichkeit des Gesetzes hingegen sei bei Kant kon-
374 Inga Römer

struktivistisch zu verstehen, weil sie durch die Bestimmung der Willkür durch
reine praktische Vernunft allererst hervorgebracht werde (Stern 2012, 1. Teil). Er
setzt den Konstruktivismus damit früher an als Heinrichs, wenn er die Gesetzes-
geltung selbst und nicht erst die konkreten inhaltlichen Prinzipien als konstruiert
ansieht. Dieter Schönecker hingegen spricht von Kants ethischem Intuitionismus,
insofern die Geltung des einzig möglichen Gesetzes nur intuitiv, und Schönecker
meint damit ‚durch die Achtung für das Gesetz‘, erfasst werden könne (Schönecker
2013). Schönecker zufolge vertritt Kant im Rahmen der Lehre vom Faktum der
Vernunft einen ethischen Intuitionismus, wobei sich die Intuition der Achtung
gleichsam auf die ‚Realität‘ eines wirklich geltenden Gesetzes richtet, während
Stern bei Kant zwar einen Realismus des Gesetzesinhalts erblickt, die Gesetzes-
geltung jedoch konstruktivistisch auslegt.
Nach dieser skizzenhaften Benennung der Grundgedanken jener realistischen
und intuitionistischen Lesart Kants, der, wie oben gezeigt, eine bedeutsame Rolle
in der gegenwärtigen Renaissance des ethischen Intuitionismus zukommt, sei nun
vor dem Hintergrund von Kants Ethik einerseits und der Phänomenologie ande-
rerseits der Ansatz einer kantianischen Phänomenologie des Ethischen umrissen,
der sowohl systematisch als auch philosophiehistorisch eine überzeugendere
Perspektive anzeigen könnte als die angeführten intuitionistischen und realisti-
schen Konzeptionen.

3 Kantianische Phänomenologie des Ethischen

Insbesondere in der Gestalt, die sie bei Heinrichs annimmt, ist die kantianische
Wende des Intuitionismus ein deutlicher Fortschritt gegenüber älteren Intuitionis-
men, die, wie noch Ross, eine Pluralität inhaltlich bestimmter Pflichten zu letzten
moralischen Tatsachen erklären. Dem Hang zum Konservativen und zum Ideologi-
schen, der diesen Ansätzen zwangsläufig innewohnte, kann mit der These, allein die
Person als Zweck an sich sei eine letzte moralische Tatsache, entgegengewirkt wer-
den. Es fragt sich allerdings, ob nicht auch in diesem Minimalrealismus noch ein
Minimaldogmatismus steckt. Der kantianische Intuitionismus von Heinrichs nimmt
an, dass die Person ontologisch eine Entität ist, die die „Eigenschaft“ hat, Subjekt des
moralischen Gesetzes und damit Teil einer höheren Ordnung zu sein, an der sie
„partizipiere“; diese moralische Tatsache werde von dem entsprechend entwickelten
und gebildeten Menschen dann intuitiv erfasst (Heinrichs 2013, pp. 232, 229). Die
Person wird hier als eine spezifische ontologische Entität mit spezifischen Eigen-
schaften aufgefasst, die als moralische Tatsache innerhalb einer nicht-naturalisti-
schen Welt vorkommt,welche von uns unter bestimmten Bedingungen intuitiv erfasst
werden kann. Der Minimaldogmatismus dieser Position liegt in der platonisierenden
 Gibt es einen kantianischen Intuitionismus in der Ethik? 375

Annahme einer real existierenden Verstandeswelt: Es gibt real diese höhere Welt der
Personen, und unter günstigen Bedingungen erfassen wir sie auch, und zwar intuitiv.
Diese zu einer „intuitiven“ intellektuellen Anschauung einer intelligiblen morali-
schen Welt tendierende Position scheint aber weder sachlich überzeugend noch die
Position Kants zu sein.
Kant zufolge gründet die Ethik nicht darin, dass ich intuitiv eine real exis-
tierende, intelligible moralische Welt einsehe. Sein Grundlegungsverfahren hat
vielmehr folgende zwei Schritte. Zunächst zeigt er mithilfe einer analytischen
Methode, und dabei einmal im Ausgang von der alltäglichen moralischen Ur-
teilspraxis, dass das einzig mögliche Moralgesetz das formale Gesetz der Ge-
setzmäßigkeit der Maximen ist (Kant 1968a, pp. 393 – 421; Kant 1968b, pp. 19 – 30);
dieses Gesetz könnte jedoch eine bloße chimärische Idee sein, ohne mögliche
Anwendung und ohne tatsächliche Geltung. Um diesem Vorbehalt zu begegnen,
leitet Kant in der Lehre vom Faktum der Vernunft (Kant 1968b, pp. 42– 50) die
praktische Realität, das heißt die reale Möglichkeit der Gesetzesgeltung,von seiner
Wirklichkeit ab: Weil die reine praktische Vernunft in einer lateinisch factum
genannten freien Tat wirklich meine Willkür bestimmt, erzeugt sie durch diese
Bestimmung das hervorgebrachte Faktum der Geltung des Gesetzes, das sich in
meinem Bewusstsein der Verbindlichkeit des Gesetzes bekundet.Worauf es hier in
unserem Zusammenhang ankommt, ist, dass die tatsächliche Geltung des Ge-
setzes von dem performativen Vollzug abhängt, in dem die fungierende reine
praktische Vernunft in mir meine Willkür bestimmt, und dass das unmittelbare
Bewusstsein dieser Gesetzesgeltung das Ergebnis dieser performativen Bestim-
mungsleistung ist. Die ‚reale‘ Geltung des Gesetzes und das ‚intuitive‘ Bewusstsein
derselben gründen damit nicht in ontologischen Tatsachen einer intuitiv fass-
baren moralischen Welt, sondern in jenem Vollzug, der innerhalb eines morali-
schen Subjekts selbst performativ stattfindet und sich infolgedessen aus der
Perspektive der Ersten Person Singular im Bewusstsein bekundet. Dass der
Mensch Zweck an sich ist, wird von Kant hingegen systematisch erst in der Ein-
leitung zur Tugendlehre in der Metaphysik der Sitten im Rahmen der Deduktion des
obersten Prinzips der Tugendlehre abgeleitet (Kant 1968c, pp. 394– 395). Sein
Argument ist dort in nuce, dass die reine praktische Vernunft im Menschen eigene,
moralische Zwecke setzen muss, um den Zwecken der Neigungen etwas entge-
genhalten zu können, und sie sich als Quelle dieser moralischen Zwecke not-
wendig selbst zum absoluten Zweck setzen muss, wenn es sie widerspruchsfrei als
Zwecksetzungsvermögen geben soll. Auch die Zweckansichhaftigkeit ist damit
keine ontologische Eigenschaft einer vorhandenen Entität, die intuitiv erfassbar
wäre, sondern sie hängt von dem performativen Vollzug der moralische Zwecke
setzenden reinen praktischen Vernunft ab.
376 Inga Römer

Kant scheint nun durchaus in einem weiten Sinne ‚phänomenologisch‘ vor-

zugehen, wenn er im ersten Abschnitt der Grundlegung den Gesetzesinhalt ana-
lytisch aus den spontanen Urteilen der moralischen Alltagspraxis herausfiltert
und in der zweiten Kritik die Möglichkeit seiner Geltung über die Wirklichkeit des
Bewusstseins dieser Geltung sowie deren Beleg für eine freie Tat der legislativ
fungierenden reinen praktischen Vernunft in uns auffasst. Weshalb sollten wir
nicht einfach hier stehen bleiben und uns zu Kantianern erklären? Es gibt ins-
besondere drei Gründe, die es aus der Perspektive einer Phänomenologie des
Ethischen nötig machen könnten, doch über Kant hinauszugehen. In Bezug auf
alle drei lässt sich an Emmanuel Levinas anknüpfen. Erstens fragt Levinas tiefer in
die Quelle jener moralisch-praktischen Vernunft hinein. Während Kant schlicht-
weg davon ausgeht, dass es in uns eine fungierende reine praktische Vernunft gibt,
führt Levinas die Stiftung jener nicht instrumentellen Vernunft in seinem Spät-
werk Autrement qu’être ou au-delà de l’essence (Levinas 1978) darauf zurück, dass
der Andere mich immer schon angesprochen, zur Verantwortung gerufen und
derart recht eigentlich erst mein Selbst konstituiert hat. Der performative Vollzug
einer moralisch-praktischen Vernunft wird damit auf das immer schon erfolgte
intersubjektive Anspruchsgeschehen zurückgeführt. Nur weil der Andere mich
immer schon angesprochen hat, kann ich überhaupt dazu veranlasst werden,
nach Handlungsgründen zu suchen, die mehr als nur mich selbst betreffen. Es gibt
nicht einfach reine praktische Vernunft in uns sowie es einen Herzschlag gibt,
sondern es gibt sie, weil der Andere mich immer schon so angesprochen hat, dass
ich mich dazu verbunden fühle, nach Handlungsgründen zu suchen, die ich auch
ihm gegenüber rechtfertigen zu können meine. Zweitens scheint die derart ge-
stiftete reine praktische Vernunft nicht immer schon, wie Kant meint, auf die Frage
nach der möglichen Gesetzmäßigkeit meiner Maximen für alle vernünftigen We-
sen bezogen zu sein. Im Anspruch des Anderen spricht mich zwar der Dritte stets
mit an, ein Anspruch, in dem durchaus die kantische Aufforderung zur Bildung
von Maximen gesehen werden kann, von denen ich wollen können muss, dass sie
allgemeine Gesetze für jedermann werden. Der ursprüngliche Anspruch des An-
deren aber stiftet eine ethische Bindung, die noch diesseits des Dritten und damit
noch diesseits der Frage nach allgemeiner Gesetzmäßigkeit für alle vernünftigen
Wesen liegt. In dem Anspruch der von ihm so genannten „an-archische[n] Ver-
nunft“ (Levinas 1998, p. 361 [1978, p. 212]) denkt Levinas eine Vernunft, die jenseits
von Kants bloß praktischer, instrumenteller Vernunft liegt, aber diesseits von
Kants immer schon auf Gesetzmäßigkeit für alle vernünftigen Wesen bezogenen
reinen praktischen Vernunft. Die kantische Geltung eines Gesetzes reiner prak-
tischer Vernunft wird bei Levinas in einer durchaus auf Kant zurückführbaren
Tradition zur Stiftung eines Leitfadens, der der kreativen Beantwortung singulärer
neuer Ansprüche zugrunde liegt, aber durch keine konkrete Regel jemals er-
 Gibt es einen kantianischen Intuitionismus in der Ethik? 377

schöpft werden kann, weil er als Vernunftidee das Moment eines praktisch Un-
endlichen impliziert. Diese Neuerung gegenüber Kant bei Levinas entspringt dem
Umstand, dass bei Levinas die Herausforderung der Intersubjektivität und we-
sentlichen Pluralität ins Zentrum rückt, welche für Kant noch nicht eigens zum
Problem geworden war. Das hat drittens zur Folge, dass es bei Kant zumindest
unterbelichtet bleibt, weshalb ich nicht nur mich selbst, sondern auch die An-
deren als Zwecke an sich selbst auffassen muss. Auch auf diese Frage aber scheint
sich im Ausgang von Levinas eine Antwort finden zu lassen. Wenn die moralisch-
praktische Vernunft allererst durch den Anspruch des Anderen in mir gestiftet
wird, dann muss ich nicht nur die reine praktische Vernunft in mir, sondern auch
die Quelle ihrer Stiftung im Anderen als Zweck an sich selbst auffassen. Der
Andere ist Zweck an sich selbst, weil er die Quelle der Stiftung reiner praktischer
Vernunft in meinem Selbst ist, die immer schon geschehen ist und mich allererst
zu einem Zweck an sich selbst macht.
Eine derartige, hier nur überaus skizzenhaft durch drei Perspektiven ange-
deutete, von Levinas inspirierte kantianische Phänomenologie des Ethischen
könnte sowohl hinsichtlich der in ihr implizierten Deutung der kantischen Ethik
als auch systematisch überzeugender sein als ein kantianischer Intuitionismus der
oben erörterten Art. Kant selbst ist der Auffassung, dass es die Dimension des
Ethischen überhaupt nur auf der Basis eines performativen Vollzugs gibt, in dem
eine fungierende reine praktische Vernunft die Willkür bestimmt. Verschwindet
dieser Vollzug, dann gibt es auch kein geltendes Gesetz und keine Dimension des
Ethischen mehr. Die Situation eines derartigen Verschwindens wäre nicht eine
solche, in der eine an sich bestehende Welt moralischer Tatsachen uns bloß in-
tuitiv unzugänglich würde, sondern es gäbe das Ethische schlichtweg nicht mehr.
Sowohl Kant als auch Levinas sind dieser Meinung,wobei Kant allerdings die reine
praktische Vernunft noch für ein Konstitutivum des Menschen hält, während
Levinas in dieser Hinsicht deutlich skeptischer ist.³ Kant und Levinas müssen
damit keine real existierende moralische Welt annehmen, die wir im Idealfall
intuitiv erfassen. Sie scheinen aber nichtsdestotrotz die Vorzüge des ethischen
Intuitionismus nicht zu verspielen. Die Intuitionisten suchen einerseits der Plu-
ralität ethischer Erfahrung Rechnung zu tragen und andererseits nichtsdestotrotz
einen ethischen Relativismus zu vermeiden. Da ein von Kant und Levinas her
kommender Ansatz den Inhalt des moralisch Guten und Gebotenen völlig offen
lässt und nur der Dimension formaler Vernünftigkeit unterwirft, muss er die

 Levinas zufolge leben wir heute in einer „göttlichen Komödie“, einer „Zweideutigkeit von
Tempel und Theater“, in der unsere Existenz durch ein grundlegendes Schillern zwischen der
Dimension des Ethischen und des Nichtethischen geprägt ist, in der das Ethische schlechthin zu
verschwinden droht (Levinas , p.  [, p. ]).
378 Inga Römer

Vielfalt und den Wandel der Lebensverhältnisse sowie den Unterschied zwischen
den Menschen nicht im Vorhinein unter ein inhaltlich bestimmtes Prinzip des
Guten subsumieren. Nichtsdestotrotz vermag er einen ethischen Relativismus zu
vermeiden. Zwar sind die Verbindlichkeiten relativ auf eine fungierende reine
praktische Vernunft, und diese kann es auch nicht geben; wenn sie mit ihrem
einzig möglichen Gesetz im intersubjektiven Anspruchsgeschehen aber einmal
gestiftet ist, dann haben die aus ihrem Zusammenspiel mit der lebensweltlichen
Erfahrung entspringenden Verbindlichkeiten die ganze Stärke, die sie benötigen,
um uns zu binden, denn sie sind dann keineswegs nur vermeintliche Verbind-
lichkeiten, die manche Menschen in manchen Zeiten de facto für gültig halten.
Gibt es also einen kantianischen Intuitionismus? Man könnte in Bezug auf
unsere Überlegungen zwar davon sprechen, dass wir ‚intuitiv‘ durch den erfah-
renen ethischen Anspruch die ‚Realität‘ des performativen Vollzugs der fungie-
renden reinen praktischen Vernunft und der Zweckansichhaftigkeit ihres Trägers
erfassten; dieser Sprachgebrauch jedoch mutet irreführend an, weil die Begriffe
‚Intuition‘ und ‚Realität‘ in einem ganz anderen Sinne verwendet würden als im
klassischen Intuitionismus, wo sie Intuitionen meinen, die sich auf objektive
moralische Tatsachen richten. Im Rahmen einer kantianischen Phänomenologie
des Ethischen erscheint es daher sinnvoller, auf diese Termini zu verzichten und
von einem ursprünglichen ethischen Anspruch zu sprechen, der sowohl eine
performativ fungierende reine praktische Vernunft als auch die daran geknüpfte
Zweckansichhaftigkeit des Selbst und des im Anspruch erfahrenen Anderen be-
zeugt. Die zahlreichen Verbindlichkeiten aber, die dem Zusammenspiel einer
einmal gestifteten reinen praktischen Vernunft mit der wechselnden Vielfalt der
Ansprüche und Lebensverhältnisse entspringen, sind so stark und drängen sich
erfahrungsmäßig so direkt auf, dass man meint, es mit Intuitionen einer an sich
existierenden Welt moralischer Tatsachen zu tun zu haben.

Bibliographie
Audi, Robert (2004): The Good in the Right. A Theory of Intuition and Intrinsic Value.
Princeton/Oxford: Princeton University Press.
Heinrichs, Bert (2013): Moralische Intuition und ethische Rechtfertigung. Eine Untersuchung
zum ethischen Intuitionismus. Münster: Mentis.
Kant, Immanuel (1968a): Kritik der reinen Vernunft (1. Auflage 1781) – Prolegomena –
Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten – Metaphysische Anfangsgründe der
Naturwissenschaft. Berlin/New York: de Gruyter (= Akademie Textausgabe. Bd. IV).
Kant, Immanuel (1968b): Kritik der praktischen Vernunft – Kritik der Urtheilskraft. Berlin/New
York: de Gruyter (= Akademie Textausgabe. Bd. V).
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Kant, Immanuel (1968c): Die Religion innerhalb der Grenzen der bloßen Vernunft – Die
Metaphysik der Sitten. Berlin/New York: de Gruyter (= Akademie Textausgabe. Bd. VI).
Levinas, Emmanuel (1978): Autrement qu’être ou au-delà de l’essence. Den Haag: Martinus
Nijhoff [dt. Jenseits des Seins oder anders als Sein geschieht, übersetzt von Thomas
Wiemer. Freiburg/München: Alber 21998].
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Teilübersetzung: Abschnitt „Gott und die Philosophie“. In: Bernhard Casper (Hg.): Gott
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Ross, William David (2009): The Right and the Good, hg. von Philip Stratton-Lake. Oxford:
Clarendon Press.
Schönecker, Dieter/Wood, Allen (2007): Kants „Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten“. Ein
einführender Kommentar. Paderborn: Schöningh, 3. Auflage.
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Philosophie 61. No. 1, pp. 91 – 107.
Roberta De Monticelli
Sensibility and Values
Toward a Phenomenological Theory
of the Emotional Life
Abstract: Affects – quite especially, but not exclusively, bodily affects – “shape
the mind” by general recognition – and emotions are more and more popular as
a topic of philosophical research. Since Antonio Damasio’s well-received work
proposing the “embodied mind” approach to emotions, feelings have been inves-
tigated with brilliant results from both a phenomenological and a neurobiolog-
ical perspective (for recent examples see Ghallagher-Bower 2013 and Fuchs
and Koch 2014).
On the other hand, philosophers have become aware of the fundamental im-
portance of the realm of feeling in both the cognitive and practical exercise of
reason. Yet, although the relation between emotions and values is much dis-
cussed in analytic philosophy, contemporary research seems to be lacking a gen-
eral theory of feeling, which would somehow connect the two levels of affective
sensibility apparently concerned: one that is basically embodied, and one that is
cognitively of a “higher” level, involved in a large variety of acts and behaviors
characteristic of a rational and moral agent – such as a human being.
This paper presents an outline of such a general theory. It draws on classic
sources in phenomenological literature, yet aims to provide a somewhat inde-
pendent response to some of the main questions in contemporary debates, in-
cluding the crucial one concerning the objectivity/subjectivity of values and
value judgments.

1 Recent Approaches to Emotional Life.

What Is Missing
In his influential book on emotions, Peter Goldie – without being very explicit
about it – seems to use this word in at least two ways: in a very broad and com-
prehensive way – synonymous with “emotional feeling” (Goldie 2000, p. 51), in-
cluding bodily feelings and moods (pretty much like the very comprehensive
sense of “passions” in Descartes, or in the classical philosophical tradition) –
and in a narrower way, emotions as contrasted to moods and bodily feelings.
That there is a very broad philosophical sense in which Goldie uses the word
382 Roberta De Monticelli

“emotion” is also proven by the general criterion he provides to distinguish emo-

tions from “brute feelings like toothache, which we cannot make sense of” (Gold-
ie 2000, p. 20): meaningfulness, or intelligibility. This criterion is, by phenom-
enological standards, both acceptable intensionally and too restrictive
extensionally: as a way of becoming aware of part of one’s body, or of one’s fra-
gility or poor health, even a toothache can make sense, let alone a physical
pleasure, a bodily feeling, a mood.
One of the purposes of the theory of feeling outlined here is actually to ex-
hibit a rationale for distinguishing, ordering and connecting different phenom-
ena of feeling that most classic and contemporary philosophical literature
piles up in a heap or a list where one can find toothaches or the pleasures of
the table, along with the sin of pride or the passion for truth – giving rise to
what I will call the hodgepodge problem. For we must find criteria for ordering
a taxonomy which will allow us to include phenomena of such different classes
as feelings of the senses (pleasure, pain), bodily feelings and moods (being tired,
disgusted, being anxious), emotions of different kinds and levels (basic: fear,
anger; non-basic: shame, regret, guilt, indignation); personal feelings or senti-
ments (love and hate, esteem, respect or contempt), passions (jealousy, gambling
addiction, passion for truth), habitual attitudes of personality (self-esteem, con-
fidence, humility, curiosity…).

2 Goldie’s approach:
Some unanswered questions
Goldie’s (2000) book in a sense seems to reject a systematic ambition:

I do not put forward a single, central claim and then seek to defend it against opposing
positions […]. [This book] takes as the phenomena not just the emotions, but looks more
widely to related phenomena such as consciousness, thought, feeling, imagination, inter-
pretation of action out of emotion and of expression of emotion, moods, and traits of char-
acter; emotion cannot be considered in isolation from these other topics. (Goldie 2000, p. 1)

Yet Goldie presents us with at least four claims that any phenomenologist would
share.
(1) An adequate account of emotions cannot be given from the impersonal
stance of the physical sciences;
(2) Emotions are reasons for action;
(3) Emotions have intentionality;
(4) Emotions should not be “over-intellectualized”.
 Sensibility and Values 383

Let’s briefly scrutinize these claims. As for (1), Goldie is very clear in opposing
the personal and impersonal stance, by being careful not to equate the term “im-
personal” with “third-personal”: “As a quite general idea, when I think or talk
about other people, I can do so third personally, without losing sight of the
fact that these other people have a point of view.” (Goldie 2000, p. 2). Indeed,
the fact that someone else has a point of view, just as I do, is presupposed in
this way of talking. In this sense we do adopt a personal stance even when
speaking of third persons. Goldie’s claim is that an account of emotions that
adopts “the impersonal stance of the physical sciences” (Goldie 2000, p. 2)
would explain away its very object. Now one may ask: why? There are several
answers to this question. One of them would be that even if emotional intention-
ality can be naturalized, the associated “phenomenal consciousness”, the sub-
jective state or quale accompanying the intentional state, cannot. Yet Goldie
could not subscribe to this answer, given his claim (4), as we shall see. Another
available answer is the phenomenological one I shall try to outline at the end of
this paper (cf. section 3).
As for (2), Emotions are reasons for action: a most interesting thesis, given
Goldie’s remark:
“[…] it is a familiar enough notion in philosophy that rationality is essential-
ly normative” (Goldie 2000, p. 2). If we agree that this familiar notion represents
a true statement, emotions provide a clear example: they apparently are reasons
for action; moreover, they can be good or bad reasons. Emotions are regarded as
appropriate or not, proportionate or not. As Goldie remarks, we do distinguish
between “having an emotion” and “being emotional” (Goldie 2000, p.48). Indeed
we have countless ordinary language refutations of the old, but still pretty wide-
spread prejudice about the irrationality of emotions. Just compare the effect of
attributing a delicate sensibility to a person, with that of reproaching her for
her rash emotionality. But philosophy should give our judgements a better foun-
dation than common language. So, how are we to justify our attributions or de-
nials of appropriateness or proportionality to emotions and consequent actions?
In a sense, this is the question a philosopher should answer, because of its fun-
damental implications for ethics and practical philosophy generally.
An answer to this question from Goldie’s point of view, nevertheless, seems
to depend on Goldie’s treatment of the intentionality of emotions. For aren’t ap-
propriateness and proportionality somehow linked to the adequacy of emotional
responses to actual objects or states of affairs?
Then, concerning claim (3), the question is: if emotions have intentionality, ex-
actly what is their intentional object – or the “formal object” of emotion? For if there
is no general intentional/formal object, then, first of all, how can we respond to the
question of normativity, and, secondly, what would be the point of claim (4)?
384 Roberta De Monticelli

Claim (4), in fact, is way less harmless than it seems, it is indeed a real chal-
lenge thrown down to the entire tradition of “cognitive” (or, better yet, “cogni-
tive-conative”) accounts of emotion.¹ The reason emotions are currently “over-in-
tellectualized” is precisely because of the burden of intentionality, which usually
operates on the cognitive component of the content emotions are analyzed into –
this cognitive component generally being a belief. We may illustrate this proce-
dure with classical Aristotelian or Davidsonian accounts, according to which,
for example, hope can be analysed into a belief that it is possible that p will
be the case combined with the desire that p be the case. This seems to leave
no intentional role for the feeling component of hope, which must be smuggled
in, so to speak, in the form of the “phenomenal consciousness” or qualitative
component of hope – that is, as a state of mind “added on” to the intentional
state. This is why Goldie takes a position against “the add-on view”, by introduc-
ing the notion of “feeling towards”:

So, my position can be seen as retaining what is right about the traditional view that inten-
tionality is essential to emotion, but bringing in feeling in the right place, as an inelimin-
able part of the intentionality of emotional experience. (Goldie 2000, p. 4)

A phenomenologist could not but agree. And yet: how does feeling manage to
have intentionality? As soon as we look for further analysis of this point, we
find it, but it is rather disappointing: “Feeling towards is thinking of with feeling,
so that your emotional feelings are directed towards the objects of your thought”
(Goldie 2000, p. 19). Here, the degree of over-intellectualization does not seem so
dramatically reduced with respect to the belief-desire account!
This entire discussion can lead to a basic question: is there a theory of feeling
underlying Goldie’s claims, and supporting them? If a theory has to be forced out
of the coherent answers that Goldie could give to the questions raised above,
then there seems to be no systematic theory underlying Goldie’s claims. I
shall try to put forward some principles of a systematic theory, which will
allow us to answer these questions.

 Cf. Aristotle (), Davidson (), De Sousa ().

 Sensibility and Values 385

3 The phenomenological approach:

Some principles toward a theory of feeling
Let’s first state three basic claims or principles that constitute the very founda-
tion of a phenomenologically acceptable theory of feeling:
1. Feeling is essentially a perception of the value-qualities, whether positive or
negative, of things.
2. Affective experience in all its parts (including its conative aspects, drives, de-
sires etc.) is founded on emotional sensibility.
3. Sensibility has a structure of layers (“stratification”), corresponding to an
objective hierarchy of value-spheres.

These principles suggest some answers to the questions raised above. In partic-
ular,1 and 3 should serve to shed light, respectively, on the objective and subjec-
tive poles of the intentional relation – thus explaining what is special in that
mode of consciousness which comprises feeling consciousness, both in the
way the objects of feeling present themselves to the subject and as a mode of
presence of the personal subject to him or herself.
In other words, the principles should serve to shed light on the two poles of
emotional experience as experience, that is, as a specific mode of direct cognition
or acquaintance with reality, which, as a form of perceptual cognition, can be verid-
ical or illusory (so that we can correct illusions and “learn from experience”).
Such a general account of the two poles of emotional intentionality, parallel
to the classic accounts Husserl or Merleau-Ponty provide for perceptual inten-
tionality, is indeed required if by experience we mean a mode of cognition, i. e.
of consciousness, which, unlike pure fantasy, is subject to normativity of some
kind (emotions are right or wrong in some specific sense).
Claims 1 and 3 actually provide a basis for answering questions about the
rationality of emotions as good or bad reasons for action: their appropriateness,
their proportionality, or the lack of one or both of these features. Claim 2 should
contribute to the explanation of the specific nature of the intentional relation it-
self, thereby allowing for a more thorough analysis of the complexity of what
Goldie calls “episodes of emotional experience, including perceptions, thoughts
and feelings of various kinds […] dispositions […]” (Goldie 2000, p. 13), further
experiences, behaviours. This can be seen in the example Goldie provides
from Tolstoy’s War and Peace: Pierre’s sudden realization that he is in love
with Natasha (“at that moment Pierre involuntarily betrayed to her, to Princess
Mary, and above all to himself, a secret of which he himself had been unaware”:
Goldie 2000, p. 15), and the explosion of inner and outer life unleashed by this
386 Roberta De Monticelli

discovery: joyful flushing, painful distress, confused speech, new perceptions,

new questions, new thoughts and behaviours … Claim 2, taken together with
claim 3, also provides an argument for the first of Goldie’s unsupported claims,
on the impossibility of eliminating a personal stance from an account of any bit
of the emotional life of a human being.

3.1 Feeling as perception of value-qualities

My first claim concerns the specific character of feeling’s intentionality in rela-

tion to its object: feeling is the mode of presence of the value-qualities of things
(saliences, “affordances” in J.J. Gibson’s terminology², tertiary qualities of all
sorts). This principle addresses the question of the formal object of emotional in-
tentionality. It points to a philosophically widely neglected, yet pervasive feature
of the life world: the plurality, richness and variety of positive or negative value
qualities “colouring” things, events, states of affairs, situations in the surround-
ing world. Indeed it is hard to find qualifying words in our languages, adjectives,
which do not refer to some value quality. Axiology is in a sense the ontology of
adjectival language.
So, the first piece of evidence for this principle is both semantic and phe-
nomenological. We actually are presented with an extremely rich variety of appa-
rent value-qualities of things by means of feeling. I feel the unpleasantness of a
sting, the bodily or psychological discomfort associated with a state of illness or
weariness, the agreeable nature of an arrangement of colors. But I also sense the
nobility of a gesture, the vulgarity of an attitude, the wickedness of an act, the
beauty of a masterpiece. The harmonious way a tool or a piece of furniture fits
one’s body, the peaceful form of a teapot are among the “affordances” of an ob-
ject. These qualities too are somehow “perceived”: feeling is the appropriate
mode for this kind of perception. Emotion is in this respect essentially like per-
ception: it is, as the German language has it, a Wertnehmen. The functional and
aesthetic qualities of artifacts are not only “seen”: they are felt. This feeling is
always accompanied by the exercise of other functions, both sensory and other-
wise. From a phenomenological perspective, different sorts of states— sensory
perceptions, memories, experiences of empathy or social cognition, understood

 “I have coined this word as a substitute for values, a term which carries an old burden of phil-
osophical meaning. I mean simply what things furnish, for good or ill. What they afford the ob-
server, after all, depends on their properties.” (Gibson [] quoted in Jones , p. )
 Sensibility and Values 387

speech acts, etc. – motivate a feeling, and further acts—new perceptions, speech
acts, choices, actions etc. – are in turn motivated by such a feeling.
A second piece of evidence is provided by remarks such as the following,
which Goldie makes almost incidentally in reference to the education of emo-
tions. An “evaluative property” such as “being dangerous” does not correspond
to a general, shared feature of objects and hence is no “natural” property. Yet in
our infancies we are taught to recognize danger and to respond to it correctly –
namely with fear – or to give in to fear only where appropriate. “The essential
idea is that our emotions can be educated.” (Goldie 2002, p. 28)
Such remarks immediately give rise to the following question: is there any-
thing veridical/illusory in the feeling itself which reveals that which is dangerous,
in spite of its being a “non-natural” property? In other words: is this “evaluative
property” a quality things actually have or fail to have?
If it is a quality things actually possess then feeling is an – albeit partial and
fallible – way to access reality, under the aspect of value. Fear itself, or rather the
sensitive core of it, is the way in which dangerous things reveal themselves as
dangerous – even if further, more accurate experience of the thing concerned
can correct a possible illusion and dispel fear. Then the intentionality of feeling
is of a cognitive sort, its direction of fit is mind to world – and its formal object is
value, as phenomenologists claim.
But if this is not the case, and the quality of being dangerous itself, being a
“cultural” property, is just a culturally relative, subjective or conventional posit
(as the made-up story of the anthropologist learning to identify behaviors moti-
vated by recognition of a tribal value-property inaccessible to him, referring to
the imaginary concept of “gopa”, tends to suggest),³ then what does it mean
that “an evaluative property” is “a property whose recognition merits a certain
sort of response,” and that when facing something which is dangerous “the re-
sponse which is merited is one of fear” (Goldie 2002, p. 34)? What can the lan-
guage of appropriateness and proportionality convey, if not a sort of adequacy to
what is required by the phenomenal thing itself? And if we give up the idea of
some sort of “requiredness” (Goldie 2002, p. 31) of an objective kind, how can
we maintain that there is a rationality of emotions? Any “emotivist” or “expres-
sivist” view of emotion is perfectly compatible with a purely conventionalist view
of norms, appropriateness, proportionality.
Let’s summarize our claim: Far from being opaque and irrational, emotional
experience is essentially the mode of presence of the qualities of value of things
and is also the more or less appropriate response, and therefore the more or less

 Goldie , p. .

388 Roberta De Monticelli

correct, proportionate, or “rational” response to the requirements that these pres-

ent. We may call this the first phenomenological principle of emotional life. Feeling
is the mode of presence of the most diverse axiological qualities, or values. This
openness to axiological qualities makes up the component of intentionality char-
acteristic of all the experiences of the emotional sphere. Thus, for the phenom-
enologist, this is a dimension of our experience of the real, by no means what-
soever a realm of subjective arbitrariness – nor is it a mere system of functional
alarms or incentives necessary for the survival of the organism.
Openness to reality is synonymous with fallibility. Biases, one-sidedness, illu-
sions of affective feeling, of course, are just as if not more frequent than those of
sensory feeling – and therefore equally open to correction and “proof to the con-
trary”, that is to confirmation of a judgment contrary to the original one, if there
was one. Here again, as in the case of the sensory domain, reflection may help to
correct (a judgment based on) an erroneous perception: but it is in fact a new
perception that will tentatively confirm the correction.
On the other hand, in value matters, poor or inadequate feeling, sentimental
stupidity, short-sightedness or obtuseness are at the root of inappropriate axio-
logical responses – and among these, of ethically inappropriate responses – to
what the world and other people require or merit from us. The first phenomeno-
logical principle implies paying profound attention to the problem of the educa-
tion of feeling, or emotional culture. This education of feeling can even be said to
be at the heart of culture from the phenomenological point of view.

3.2 Sensibility as a foundation of emotional life

Let’s come to our second claim: affective experience is founded on sensibility. This
principle adds to the first one, which characterizes the essence of feeling – the role
of feeling in the complexity of emotional life. In one way or another, feeling represents
the basis of emotional life, but emotional life is certainly not reducible to feeling
alone – feeling serves as the primary, non-reducible mode of reception. Sensibility
serves as the foundation for the rest of emotional life, in the precise sense that it
motivates everything in this life which is not mere reception, but includes response
and spontaneity. In the end, feeling motivates volition. But first of all feeling
forms the core of all sorts of emotions (in the proper sense) and passions.
Thereby we place the emphasis on receptivity as the fundamental aspect of
emotion (in the broad sense). Contrary to most classic and contemporary ap-
proaches, the conative aspect (drives, desires) is founded, not founding. Let’s
clarify the point of emphasizing receptivity.
 Sensibility and Values 389

In fact, two “moments” are apparent in most emotional phenomena: (a)

Being affected by or receptivity, “passivity”, being “struck” or “impressed” by
something: in short, the receptive component of an emotional episode, a kind
of perception. (b) Being inclined to, “moving” to or from, drives/desires, (Strebun-
gen) or in short the conative component, the urge to action.
There have been two main trends in the analysis of emotional life. Either the
intentionality and somehow cognitive character of emotions has been acknowl-
edged, but in this case emotions have been, as Goldie would have it, “over-intellec-
tualized”: that is, cognition has been attributed to a belief component (as in Aris-
tole, or Davidson). Or emotions have been thought of as irreducible to anything
else, but then they have been typically characterized as “irrational”, “non-cogni-
tive”, “purely subjective” or at most provided with a functional role for survival
(vital utility – as in Descartes and Kant, or interpreted according to dualistic ap-
proaches, but also according to naturalistic views, such as Damasio’s).
In all these cases, what is thought of as essential or not eliminable is the con-
ative component (drives, desires). Let’s consider the classical concept of thumos,
which represents the emotional soul in Plato’s psychology, the word (at least as
used by Homer) referring to any sort of passionate desire. Or consider the impor-
tance of both the appetitive and the aggressive components of the passions in Aris-
totle and the scholastic tradition. Even Augustine is incapable of conceiving of emo-
tional life independently of the modes of desire, with the consequent restlessness,
constitutive of our “created” nature. Franz Brentano echoes Aristotle; and then Sig-
mund Freud, echoing Arthur Schopenhauer, reproduces a Kantian dualism: nothing
is more irrational than emotional life, rooted in sexual drive.
Against this tradition stands the second principle of a phenomenological
theory of feeling. What evidence can we provide in its support? As Goldie once
again would say: “being emotional” differs from “having an emotion”. Here
we can go deeper into the meaning of this semantic remark. Foundation, in
our use of the word, entails a relation of ontological dependence. That the recep-
tive component provides the foundation for the conative one means, first of all,
that the latter cannot be without the former, but the former can exist without the
latter. There are lots of examples of this second possibility: aesthetic experience,
such as listening to music and discriminating its aesthetic and expressive qual-
ities; a mother lovingly contemplating her sleeping child; blissfulness; calm de-
spair; surprise; amazement.
But what does the first relation described above amount to, exactly? What
does it mean that the conative component cannot exist without the receptive
one? Don’t we speak of hardness of heart, or of a person indifferent to other peo-
ple’s sufferings. Feeling, even when obtuse or atrophic, even when conspicuous
in its absence, is only relatively absent, absent at the “required” level: it simply
390 Roberta De Monticelli

cannot be completely or absolutely absent. To see this point we need the further
notion of layers of sensibility, which will be introduced as part of the domain of
our third principle. An example will suffice for the moment. A radically egotis-
tical person does not lack whatever feeling could motivate merciless behavior –
for example the ability to sense feelings of pleasure and pain, vital feelings of
comfort and discomfort – he/she may in fact prefer his/her peace of mind to
going through the trouble of saving a drowning child. More generally, feeling,
even when it is “missing” (to some extent), always seems to be a key determinant
motivating emotional response, decision and action – and we will better see why
(in section 2.3.3), since this proposition involves the notion of preference, i. e. of a
(subjective, more or less adequate) ordering of values.
A paradoxical example of this is the inverse proportion often observed be-
tween sensitivity and excitability, or between the appropriateness of feeling
and emotional agitation. Countless examples can be found in everyday life. Che-
khov’s early work, the little literary gem Ivanov, presents a sort of theorem of this
inverse proportion.

3.3 Structure and layers of sensibility

In order to clarify our third claim we must first consider a further dimension of feel-
ing’s intentionality. Thus far we have considered one: the breadth of its domain, or
horizon. The qualities of value – positive and negative to varying degrees – are
many. The extraordinary richness of the negative or positive value qualities to
which we are sensitive provides a basic starting point for any phenomenological re-
flection on feeling. There is virtually no situation in life in which at least some of
these qualities are not currently or habitually present. I walk along the road, and
the atmospheric conditions present me with an environment which is pleasurable
to a greater or lesser extent; the urban architecture gives me aesthetic pleasure or
pain – or something in between – with every step; the beggar on the corner
draws my attention to the horrors of poverty; in words and images the newsstands
scream violence and beauty, ferocity and injustice; every event along my way,
whether serious or trivial, manifests qualities of value from some point of view: aes-
thetic, ethical, legal, economic, ecological, ergonomic, hygienic, gastronomic…
Viewed a parte subiecti, this axiological richness of the world represents the quan-
tity of values that affect us, touch us and move us, physically or emotionally. But
also immediately given is the quality of these positives and negatives – the way in
which they touch us: more or less deeply or intimately.
The other dimension which immediately reveals itself to phenomenological
observation is therefore that of how deeply we are affected when we feel a qual-
 Sensibility and Values 391

ity of value, positive or negative – the ugliness of a pair of shoes on a friend’s

feet, or of one of his gestures towards us. We also express this difference in
speaking of the difference in importance or weight that things have. We are usu-
ally willing to distinguish the importance or weight that things have in them-
selves from their importance or weight for us under specific circumstances.
For example, if it is important to me that my friend make a good impression
on someone in a position to help him, his ugly shoes may disturb me more
than a verbal insult he may direct at me – even if I continue to think that how
one dresses is less important than kind behavior.
The difference in “objective” importance which we all recognize both in gen-
eral and in many specific cases (killing is more serious than insulting; defacing a
Beato Angelico worse than scrawling graffiti on a supermarket wall; giving one’s
time or one’s life for a friend is more beautiful than giving her money for medical
treatment) may be called the rank of a value.
Is this language of depth and rank more than metaphorical? Our third claim
maintains that it is, that it does refer to an amazing kind of correspondence be-
tween the organization of our emotional experience and the structures of axio-
logical meaning that any actual occurrence of goods and evils of some sort in
a given situation exemplifies. Let’s recall our principle:
(3) Sensibility has a structure of layers (“stratification”), corresponding (or
claiming to correspond) to an objective hierarchy of value-spheres.
Let’s first try to spell out its content more precisely, starting from the second
term of the alleged correspondence: an objective hierarchy of value-spheres.

3.3.1 An objective ordering of value spheres?

Is there any such hierarchy? That there is one is of course the most controversial
premise of our theory, this premise being subject to objections raised by axiolog-
ical relativisms and culturalisms of all sorts. Hence the importance of focusing
on the content of this premise in order to see what it actually claims and what
it does not. One useful approach involves the faithful description of a relevant
feature of our value experience, as attempted above: all the positive value-qual-
ities we feel are present in things and that make them things that we consider
good, or that are lacking and therefore “required”, and all the negative value-
qualities we feel that make as many evils of the things they afflict – these are
not felt as having the same rank. They seem to belong to very different value
spheres, and these value spheres are somehow ordered in a hierarchy. So, what
does this premise say exactly?
392 Roberta De Monticelli

(I) It does not say that there is a complete, objective ordering of values, but of
their types – of value spheres.
(II) It does not say that such a hierarchy is universally acknowledged or ac-
cepted, but only that:
a) Such a hierarchy re-emerges throughout human history and during its most
dramatic conflicts in the form of an ordering of (spheres of) intrinsic value
(making a good an end in itself) which (spheres of) instrumental values
are subservient to. From ancient Greek civilization to the most intimate
core of religious experience of any faith, up to the tragedies of the contem-
porary world, this ordering places the values of personal flourishing over
those of the prepersonal spheres, namely the vital and the social spheres
– thus the values of the prepersonal spheres should be subservient to
those of personal flourishing. To the vital sphere belong the values of life-en-
hancement, instrumental to personal flourishing, such as the satisfaction of
all basic needs, health, good living conditions; to the social sphere belong
all the values embodied by the institutions and good practices of a society
– welfare, security, instruction, good administration, well-functioning eco-
nomic life, and technical improvements in all fields – without which most
people can have no chance of personal flourishing. But all this, such is
the implication, should be the means or provide the conditions for realizing
those values which bestow meaning to (all) personal lives: justice in matters
of law and rights, beauty in nature and art, knowledge and joy in the quest
for knowledge in all domains of science and morality.
b) Nor does our premise imply that axiological truths within each sphere are
universally acknowledged or accepted: but only that there are axiological
discoveries much as there are scientific discoveries. Take justice as an exam-
ple. There has been remarkable progress in our understanding of it – in our
theories of justice – from the ancient Greeks to, say, the age of human rights.
Our understanding increases through dramatic historical experience.
c) Once this knowledge is accessible, not complying with it becomes unjustifi-
able. Today, one should not be allowed to openly support slavery or sexual
discrimination. Even if there still are countless cases of violation of the
human rights, their perpetrators usually don’t claim to be right in acting
as they do – they would rather reject the fault on their victims.
d) The objective hierarchy theory does allow for a distinction between the im-
portance or weight that things have in themselves, and the importance or
weight that they have for us under specific circumstances.

It’s impossible to argue convincingly for this part of our theory within the limited
space of this paper; it is however important to have an intuitive grasp of it in
 Sensibility and Values 393

order more precisely to understand the content of claim (3). Nevertheless, there
are more clues to its plausibility despite objections from disenchanted main-
stream or axiologically relativistic views.
We do distinguish levels of gravity or importance in value-laden facts. The
gravity of being deprived of an ice cream feels inferior to that of being raped.
The importance of one’s health is felt to be greater than that of a variety of pleas-
urable habits, e. g. smoking. And it’s quite understandable that one may disre-
gard gastronomic pleasures and even health for the sake of scientific or philo-
sophical research…

3.3.2 Why a “stratified” structure of sensibility?

Let’s now address the first term of the alleged correspondence: the structure of
layers (“stratification”) that sensibility is supposed to have. To which problem is
this claim trying to respond? We already mentioned it: the hodgepodge problem.
A satisfactory theory of feeling should avoid lumping all emotional phenomena
together. Indeed, this claim is a kind of structural or Gestalt principle for emo-
tional life, parallel to the analogous principle phenomenologists have put for-
ward regarding perceptual experience (De Monticelli 2013, p. 118).
Our emotional life is not at all chaotic, nor is it an unstructured flow of
“states”. Against flow theories, we can point to motivational chains, which are
“rational” (or irrational, in any event not simply causal). Having a sentiment
of friendship for you motivates my joy at your coming in and my desire to get
up and hug you – whose satisfaction I can choose to postpone because I’m in
the middle of giving a lecture. (This power to endorse or reject motivations,
thereby making them efficacious or powerless, distinguishes the motivational
series from a causal series). But against hodgepodge theories, we may put for-
ward our principle of vertical structure, or Gestalt. Here, the clearest description
is offered by Max Scheler:

There can be no doubt that the facts which are designated in such a finely differentiated
language as English by “bliss,” “blissfulness” [Glückseligkeit], “being happy” [Glücklich-
sein], “serenity,” [Heiterkeit], “cheerfulness” [Fröhlichkeit], and feelings of “comfort”
[Wohlgefühl], “pleasure,” and “agreeableness” [sinnliche Lust und Annehmlichkeit] are
not simply similar types of emotional facts which differ only in terms of their intensities
[…]. (Scheler 1973, p. 330)

All these feelings share a positive quality; but – Scheler says – they do not nec-
essarily differ in intensity. They differ – as we would say in ordinary language –
in depth. What do we mean by that?
394 Roberta De Monticelli

Intuitively, we realize that a feeling can touch a person more or less “deep-
ly”, depending on the degree of personal involvement. For instance, the pleasure
of a good ice cream, given my particular personality, satisfies me much less than
the joy of understanding Plato. No doubt this joy will have a higher degree of mo-
tivational power than the pleasure of an ice cream: it might indeed motivate my
choice to study philosophy instead of something else, with serious consequences
for the rest of my professional life.
These two notions help to explain the metaphor in conceptual terms. But is
it possible to give, if not a metric for depth, at least a rationale for the alleged
ordering of layers of sensibility concerned, respectively, by the pleasure of ice
cream and the joy of reading Plato? What is the rationale for this stratification?
A last passage from Scheler offers a powerful suggestion:

It is, for example, impossible for one to be “blissful” over happenings of the same axiological
level that are “disagreeable” to another; the differences in these feelings also seem somehow to
require different axiological states of affairs. (Scheler 1973, p. 331; emphasis added)

Here is the explanation. The “depth” of a feeling is proportional to the impor-

tance of the values concerned. Feelings are modes of presence of values at differ-
ent levels.

3.3.3 Sentiments and value-preferences

We will now conclude our analysis of the third principle of a phenomenological

theory of feeling, which, needless to say, would benefit from further investigation
and evidence. Nevertheless, even in this context, the principle manages to add
quite a bit to our theory. First of all it reveals a new feature of value-experience:
we do often feel some kind of ordering of values, before and independently of an
act of propositional judgment: a value quality presents itself to us in the form of
a perceived priority, which we (fallibly) feel to be an objective one. We feel that
some things that are good are more valuable than others, even when we decide
that in a particular situation we will give priority to the less valuable. This feeling
of an objective priority can be as illusory as any other feeling but is equally open
to correction through further experience. A value preference is an act of feeling
(hence reception) before it can motivate volition. True, a felt priority – a structure
of preference – is not always present (otherwise no decision would ever present a
dilemma), and even when it is present, it requires a sort of endorsement on the
subject’s part. This is typically the case with all the feelings which involve “a
[small] background hierarchy”, and a consequent “yes” or “no”: for example,
 Sensibility and Values 395

loving this particular person means feeling these specific value qualities to be
more important than certain others. The same is true of admiration, contempt,
sympathy, religious devotion, political passions…
Those feelings which involve such consent (or dissent) might be called senti-
ments. We can already see from the above examples that our third principle al-
lows us to introduce an important explanatory tool, which seems to be missing
from most theories of emotions: the notion of a sentiment explains the difference
between the “primary” emotions (that we share with many other animals) such
as fear, anger, sexual drive, intraspecific affections or hostilities etc. – and “sec-
ondary” or more refined emotions, typically human. Let’s consider a simple ex-
ample. Young children don’t seem to experience the emotion of shame, not even
relative to the very different cultural norms of decency which exist in different
places and times. It is only when they are mature enough to implicitly consent
to a new “small value hierarchy” involving a personal disposition to act, per-
ceive, judge in new ways – in short, when they acquire the sentiment of shame
with modesty – that they become capable, given the right circumstances, of
the experience of blushing with shame, that is of experiencing the appropriate
emotion (in the narrow sense). The German language makes it clearer, in this
case, by distinguishing Schamgefühl (as a sentiment, pudeur in French) from
Scham (as a secondary emotion, honte in French).
Here are some further merits of this principle:
a) it completes the description of feeling’s intentionality: the depth of a feeling
should be proportional to the perceived importance of its value-level.
b) thereby explaining the rationality of emotions: spelling out what it is for a feel-
ing experience to be adequate, that is appropriate and not disproportionate.

We can easily see why despair over a cancelled flight (in most, yet not all, cases)
is disproportionate; or why to be like Adolf Eichmann, the Nazi official whom
Hannah Arendt chose as a paradigm of the “banality of evil”, is to have horribly
inappropriate feeling responses to states of affairs of extreme moral gravity. In
fact, the documents of the Jerusalem trial frequently report that he regarded
as “disagreeable” (like a bad meal) the murder of thousands of innocents.

Sensibility and Selfhood

There is one last question we raised earlier, that is still waiting for an answer. It
concerns Goldie’s first claim, against the “naturalization” of feeling. Why is it
that satisfactory accounts of emotions cannot be given from the impersonal
stance of the physical sciences?
396 Roberta De Monticelli

Any phenomenologist would answer: emotional phenomena are not inde-

pendent of personhood and individual personality, because they are constitutive
of both. They are individuating and individuated! Or, in the richness of their con-
tents and implications, they cannot be separated from the experiencing person
(as opposed to mathematical discoveries, or even philosophical thoughts, that,
as Frege used to say, “have no master”). That’s why we seek to understand differ-
ent types of ill-fated love, perhaps, by reading Anna Karenina or Madame Bovary
(that is, in the background of a personal narrative, as Goldie would say) much
more than by studying academic psychology.
Yet this might seem a kind of begging the question. Can’t we give a more pre-
cise explanation? We can. We said that our third principle was a sort of Gestalt
principle for emotional life. We saw how a vertical structuring of felt preferences
works to ground the appropriateness and proportionality of emotions (or lack
thereof). But wherever there is a form of Gestalt as an organizing principle of
some domain of pieces of data, we must look for the whole which integrates
those pieces of data – a whole which is not reducible to a mere sum of its
parts, if such a Gestalt is to hold (De Monticelli 2013, pp. 118 – 120).
Our question, then, becomes: What is the “whole” of which feelings are the
parts or “moments”? Our answer is, not surprisingly: the Self. By “the Self” I
mean a person, as she experiences herself, or as she is “given to herself”, in
that quite peculiar, irreducible way, in which anybody is not given to anybody
else – that is, from a first person perspective (Baker 2013, p. 55).
From this perspective, layers of sensibility simply are layers of Self, as they
are experienced from within. This explains the relation, already referenced (sec-
tion 2.3.2.), between the depth/importance of a layer of sensibility and the degree
of personal involvement.
Life and science teach us the role feeling exerts in shaping personality. A
person who is wounded in her feeling is a person wounded in her deepest
self. Or think of poor Phineas Gage, the construction foreman from Vermont
who suffered extensive cerebral lesions in a work accident, whose case Antonio
Damasio described in his highly successful book Descartes’ Error (1994). After re-
covering from the accident, he “was no longer Gage”. For the mental (or) psycho-
logical functions (or the parts of the brain) affected by the accident were exactly
those that are indispensable for the modulated exercise of feeling.
Does our theory provide us with criteria for ordering a taxonomy of feelings
like the one presented in section 1? Well, it does at least suggest an intuitive di-
rection of deeper and deeper self-awareness, or rather experience of oneself.
From the surface of one’s body to one’s “intimate” self.
Not all feeling experiences, indeed, come to be felt from inside as “really”
concerning oneself – one’s deepest self, so to speak. Our theory suggests that
 Sensibility and Values 397

there is a specific layer of sensibility constituting individual personality. Call it the

layer of sentiments, or the value-preferences ordering layer. If our theory is plau-
sible, this is the very central, or most intimate, layer of selfhood. Call it the core-
self: it is what ordinary language still calls a person’s “soul”.
Arguing this last claim in detail would require a further article, if not a whole
book. A kind of map of the areas to be explored is outlined below in this trial
picture of sensibility and selfhood, as a theory of stratification would describe
it – which will bring this paper to an (open) conclusion.

4 Self from Surface to Depth: a Trial Schema.

This schema summarizes the proposed taxonomy of feeling experiences by ex-
hibiting its ordering principle in the correspondence between the layer of sensi-
bility concerned by each (type of) experience and the layer of (one) self that the
same experience “reveals”. The increasing role that each (type of) feeling plays
in personal life (its motivating power, its relative degree of personal involvement)
explains the deeper and deeper self-revealing power which that feeling experi-
ence exhibits. Examples of each class in this taxonomy of feelings should
make the series of correspondences more intuitively clear.
398 Roberta De Monticelli

Table 1: Self from Surface to Depth. The Stratification Theory of Sensibility and Selfhood:
A Tentative Schema

Examples Layers of Experienced Layers Role in Personal Value Spheres

Sensibility of Self Life

Enjoying a Affective Parts of one body Foundations of Sensory values (pleas-

massage sensations (prereflective) ant/painful)
self conscious- Affordances
ness
Hunger, tired- Bodily feel- One’s body (globally Indicators of Vital values
ness ings felt) one’s vital or Life enhancing or im-
existential pairing
Anxiety, de- Moods One’s global state needs Socially implemented:
pression (How are you?) Utility sphere →Welfare
Instrumental to culture
and civilization spheres
Scare; anger; Basic emo- One’s sudden Motivating pre-
Basic desires tions changes of global personal behav-
and drives state + conative iour
component
Esteem; Sentiments/ One’s dispositions Indicators of Values defining Cultures
Schamgefühl habitual dis- involving value pref- personality and their normative
positions of erences structures:
sensibility (Who are you?) Justice → Public institu-
tions
Beauty → Art and culture
(Knowledge of) Truth
→ Science, education
Admiration; Higher emo- Actual life of these Motivating per- Manifesting personal
Scham tions dispositions, possi- sonal behaviour axiological orders of
bly involving cona- priority and preference
tions
Ressentiment; Passions Sentiment-based Enacting per- Implementing positive
Passion for habitual disposi- sonality in the and negative values in
truth tions of the will real world all sort of goods and
evils

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Kathi Beier
Stolz und Vorurteil.
Über einige Schwierigkeiten der
ethischen Selbstbewertung
Abstract: “Pride and Prejudice” addresses the question why it is that we human
beings cannot know about our moral or ethical qualities in such a way that we
are able to infallibly ascribe them to ourselves. Given that there is something like
a first-person authority with respect to the knowledge of one’s own feelings, be-
liefs, and intentions, the lack of such an authority with respect to the knowledge
of one’s virtues has to be explained. The difficulties in evaluating oneself ethi-
cally, e. g. to take oneself to be modest or temperate, as well as the claim that
this can only be done by way of adopting another person’s perspective is perfect-
ly presented in Plato’s Charmides. Plato, however, does not answer the question
what the difficulty rests upon. After a careful exploration of the problem, the
paper presents two possible answers. For both of them, Aristotle’s considera-
tions in the Nicomachean Ethics play a crucial role.

1 Das Problem der ethischen Selbstbewertung

Mit Blick auf das Wissen um die eigene Person, so scheint es, gibt es eine klare
Autorität der Erste-Person-Perspektive. Wer außer mir selbst sollte wissen und
einschätzen können, was ich denke, fühle, beabsichtige etc.? Empfindungen sind
dafür ein klassisches Beispiel. Sie können von anderen Personen zwar erkannt,
aber nicht mitempfunden werden, so dass andere nicht wissen, was und wie ich
empfinde. Zudem kann man seine Gefühle vor anderen verbergen. Diese Autorität
der ersten Person Singular wird auch an anderen Phänomenen deutlich, etwa bei
Überzeugungen. Ob Aussagen von anderen wahrhaftig oder gelogen sind, kann
niemand außer der sprechenden Person selbst sicher wissen. Denn nur diese
weiß, was sie für wahr hält und damit, ob das, was sie für wahr hält, mit dem
übereinstimmt, was sie als wahr behauptet. Schließlich zeugt von einem privi-
legierten Zugang zum Wissen um die eigene Person auch die Praxis in krimina-
listischen Kontexten. Ermittler und Richter drängen auf ein Geständnis des
mutmaßlichen Täters bzw. der Täterin, weil sich meist erst dadurch die Tat voll-
ständig aufklären lässt. Denn erst, indem man vom Täter erfährt,welche Absichten
er verfolgte, kann man wirklich sicher bestimmen, welche Tat vorliegt. Über ihre
Absichten kann aber in der Regel die handelnde Person selbst am besten Auskunft
402 Kathi Beier

geben. In zentralen Angelegenheiten des Wissens um die eigene Person scheint es

also eine Autorität, ja ein Privileg der Ich-Perspektive bzw. der ersten Person
Singular zu geben.
Andererseits fällt jedoch auf, dass dies mit Blick auf ein bestimmtes Wissen
von sich offensichtlich nicht gilt. Dort nämlich, wo es darum geht, sich selbst
ethisch einzuschätzen, z. B. Auskunft darüber zu geben, ob man eine bestimmte
Tugend besitzt oder insgesamt tugendhaft ist, oder ob man etwas gut getan hat
oder in etwas gut ist, fällt das Urteil ungemein schwer. Ja, vielleicht ist ein solches
Urteil gerade einem selbst überhaupt nicht möglich. Das lässt sich an einigen
Beispielen verdeutlichen. Klassisch ist der Fall einer Person, die betont, dass und
wie bescheiden sie sei, und die gerade dadurch zeigt, dass sie nicht bescheiden ist.
Dasselbe gilt mit Blick auf die Tugend der Demut. Allgemeiner gefasst: Wann
immer jemand anderen gegenüber seine (angeblichen) Vorzüge herausstellt, ruft
das bei den Hörern Missbehagen hervor. Man fragt sich: Kann diese Person das
überhaupt beurteilen? Sollte sie eine solche Einschätzung nicht besser anderen
überlassen? Dieser Eindruck verstärkt sich, wenn man z. B. Briefe und Aufzeich-
nungen von Heiligen liest, etwa die von Mutter Theresa. Dabei fällt nämlich auf,
wie diese trotz der guten Taten, die sie vollbracht haben, sich immer wieder als
Sünder empfinden, von ihren Fehlern sprechen und um die Kraft zur Besserung
bitten. Das ist meiner Meinung nach ein Beleg dafür, dass offenbar nicht einmal
solche Menschen, die von vielen als moralisches Vorbild empfunden werden, von
ihrer eigenen ethischen oder moralischen Güte wissen.Wenn das aber so ist, dann
ist die Frage, der ich hier nachgehen will, die Frage danach, warum das so ist.Was
ist der Grund dafür, dass es kein Privileg der Erste-Person-Perspektive bei der
ethischen Selbstbewertung gibt? Warum sind wir,wie es scheint, in dieser Hinsicht
gewissermaßen „betriebsblind“ und deshalb eher auf andere angewiesen?
Bevor ich mögliche Antworten auf diese Frage diskutiere, möchte ich das zu
klärende Phänomen und das Problem, das es meiner Ansicht nach aufwirft, zu-
nächst noch einmal anders verdeutlichen, und zwar mit Blick auf Platons Dialog
Charmides. Darin beginnt Sokrates mit Charmides – einem jungen Mann, von dem
alle anderen Gesprächspartner übereinstimmend sagen, dass er nicht nur schön
an Gestalt sei, sondern auch schön an der Seele, da er besonnen sei – ein Gespräch
über Begriff und Bedeutung der Besonnenheit (sophrosyne). Indem Sokrates
dieses Gespräch mit Charmides und nicht mit einem der anderen Anwesenden
führt, unterstellt er, dass Charmides, insofern er besonnen sei, auch wissen müsse,
dass er es sei, und dass er deswegen auch wissen müsse, was Besonnenheit sei. In
diesem Sinne sagt Sokrates zu Charmides:

Offenbar nämlich, wenn dir die Besonnenheit (sophrosyne) beiwohnt, musst du auch etwas
von ihr auszusagen wissen. Denn notwendig muss ihr Einwohnen (enechein), wenn sie dir
 Stolz und Vorurteil 403

einwohnt, eine Empfindung (aisthesis) hervorbringen, auf welcher dir dann irgendeine
Vorstellung (doxa) von der Besonnenheit sich gründet, was sie wohl ist und worin sie besteht.
Oder meinst du nicht so? – Das meine ich wohl, sprach er. (Platon, Charmides 158e-159a)

Sokrates unterstellt hier also, so könnte man sagen, das eben angesprochene Privileg
der ersten Person Singular. Demnach scheinen einem einerseits die eigenen Eigen-
schaften und Qualitäten doch in der Tat am nächsten zu sein oder wenigstens so
nahe, dass man sie zuerst bemerken müsste, zumindest eher als andere. Das ist die
erste von Sokrates unterstellte Verbindung, die von enechein und aisthesis.Wenn das
aber so ist, dann bemerkt man offenbar auch, dass man diese Eigenschaften und
Qualitäten hat, und hat dadurch zugleich einen privilegierten Zugang zu ihrer Be-
deutung und begrifflichen Bestimmung. Das ist die zweite von Sokrates unterstellte
Verbindung, die von aisthesis und doxa – auch wenn dieser zweite Punkt für meine
folgenden Überlegungen nicht weiter relevant ist.
Andererseits bringt Sokrates Charmides mit seiner Frage, ob dieser besonnen
sei, in eine schwierige Lage – und versteht diese Schwierigkeit dann auch sofort.
Charmides weiß nämlich auf die Frage des Sokrates, ob er besonnen sei, keine
rechte Antwort. Platon beschreibt es so:

Da errötete Charmides zunächst […], dann antwortete er ohne jede Schüchternheit, indem er
erklärte, es sei nicht leicht, so im Augenblick die Frage mit Ja oder mit Nein zu beantworten.
Denn wenn ich, sagte er, leugne, besonnen zu sein, so würde es doch einerseits auffallend
sein, so gegen sich selbst zu zeugen, andererseits aber würde ich unsern Kritias und dazu
noch viele andere Lügen strafen, die mich für besonnen halten,wie sie behaupten. Erkläre ich
mich aber für besonnen und lobe mich demnach, so wird das leicht anmaßlich erscheinen.
Ich weiß also nicht, was ich dir antworten soll. – Darauf sagte ich [gemeint ist Sokrates]: Mir
scheint das ganz billig, was du sagst, Charmides, und mich dünkt daher, wir sollten ge-
meinschaftlich untersuchen, ob du das besitzest oder nicht, wonach ich frage. (Platon,
Charmides 158c-e)

Charmides erkennt die Zwickmühle, in der er sich befindet. Auf der einen Seite
mutet es seltsam an, von sich nicht zu wissen, ob einem eine bestimmte ethische
Qualität, in diesem Fall die Tugend der Besonnenheit, zukommt. Auf der anderen
Seite ist es fast noch seltsamer, sich diese Qualität unverhohlen zuzuschreiben.
Denn wie Charmides erkennt, bedeutet das, sich selbst zu loben. Und Selbstlob ist
anmaßend. Das wiederum versteht Sokrates und bietet sofort seine Hilfe an. Er
legt dadurch nahe, dass die eigene ethische Bewertung gerade nicht von einem
selbst und alleine vorgenommen werden kann, und zwar offenbar deshalb, weil
man hier nicht zu einem verlässlichen Wissen kommen kann. Aber warum ei-
gentlich nicht?
404 Kathi Beier

2 Die Schueler-Driver-Kontroverse
Mit Blick auf die Tugend der Bescheidenheit gibt es eine interessante Debatte zwi-
schen Julia Driver und G.F. Schueler. Driver vertritt die These, dass es so genannte
„virtues of ignorance“ gebe,¹ dass also – entgegen der üblichen und gerade auch bei
Platon vorfindlichen Annahme, dass Tugend mit Wissen zusammenhängt – manche
Tugenden keine Tugenden wären, würden sie nicht mit Unwissenheit einher gehen.
Das macht sie an der Tugend der Bescheidenheit deutlich. Hier gehe die Unwissenheit
unmittelbar in das Definiens der Tugend ein, denn Bescheidenheit sei die Disposition,
seinen Selbstwert in bestimmter Hinsicht und bis zu einem bestimmten Grad zu
unterschätzen.Wer bescheiden ist, so Driver, sei unwissend in Bezug auf seinen Wert;
er schätze sich selbst falsch ein, z. B. nicht als den größten lebenden Physiker, der
man tatsächlich sei, sondern nur als den drittgrößten.

I have argued that the best account of modesty is an underestimation account. On this view,
modesty involves – or at least can involve – an agent underestimating self-worth in some
respect, to some limited degree. The degree of underestimation must be limited in order to
differentiate modesty from a vice such as self-deprecation. […] if Albert Einstein viewed
himself as a great physicist, just not the greatest physicist of the twentieth century –
that’s modesty. He is mistaken but not dramatically off the mark. (Driver 1999, p. 827)

Bescheidenheit beinhaltet Driver zufolge also eine Unwissenheit in Bezug auf sich
selbst, die aber gut und daher eine Tugend sei, da sie die, so Driver wörtlich,
„gegebene“ und „destruktive Tendenz“ von Menschen korrigiere, sich mit anderen
zu vergleichen.² Diese Korrektur ist gut und schätzenswert mit Blick auf ihre
Folgen für das soziale Miteinander, denn eine Person, die bescheiden ist, so Driver,
wird andere Personen nicht zu neidischen Reaktionen provozieren.

The modest person is one who does not spend a lot of time ranking, who does not feel the
need to do so, and thus remains ignorant to the full extent of self-worth (to a limited ex-
tent). The analogy with beauty is helpful […] Someone who doesn’t compare his appearance
to those around him, and, even better, seems unaware of it, seems less likely to provoke an
envy response in others. (Driver 1999, p. 828)

Beides, die konsequentialistische Begründung des Werts der Bescheidenheit wie

auch die Erläuterung ihrer Bedeutung, hat die – wie ich finde berechtigte – Kritik
von G.F. Schueler hervorgerufen. Er verweist, was die Begriffsanalyse angeht, zum

 Vgl. Driver  und , pp.  – .

 Den Gedanken, dass Tugenden Korrektive sind, übernimmt Driver von Philippa Foot; vgl. Foot
.
 Stolz und Vorurteil 405

einen darauf, dass es eine Spannung zwischen den beiden zentralen Gedanken von
Driver gibt, nämlich zwischen dem Gedanken, dass die bescheidene Person jeden
Vergleich und jedes Ranking vermeidet, und dem Gedanken, dass sie sich selbst in
einem Ranking weniger hoch ansiedelt, als sie es verdiente. Man kann nicht beides
zugleich behaupten. Zum anderen bestreitet Schueler rundheraus, dass derjenige,
der sich irrtümlicherweise bloß als den drittgrößten Physiker, nicht als den größten
betrachtet, überhaupt bescheiden sei. Bescheiden sei eine Person vielmehr dann,
wenn sie indifferent sei gegenüber den Eindrücken, die andere von ihr und ihren
Errungenschaften oder Leistungen haben. In den Worten von Schueler: „A modest
person is a person who does not care at all whether people are impressed with her
for her accomplishments.“ (Schueler 1999, p. 836) Gegen die These von Driver be-
hauptet Schueler zudem, dass Bescheidenheit intrinsisch wertvoll sei. Dieser in-
trinsische Wert komme in den Blick, wenn man sich fragt, was an einer unbe-
scheidenen Person eigentlich so abstoßend ist. Es ist, so seine These, die Tatsache,
dass die Unbescheidenheit eine gewisse Hohlheit („hollowness“) der unbeschei-
denen Person offenbare, insofern diese nämlich ihre Ziele und Zwecke nicht aus
sich heraus entwickle, sondern von den Leuten um sich herum, die sie beeindru-
cken will. Das heißt im Gegenzug: Bescheidenheit ist eine Tugend mit Blick auf das,
was sie über die bescheidene Person offenbart, nämlich dass diese über eine Art
Substanz verfügt und ihre Ziele und Zwecke aus sich selbst heraus gewinnt.³
Mir kommt es bei dieser Debatte zwischen Driver und Schueler mit Blick auf
meine Fragestellung vor allem auf zwei Gedanken an. Der erste Gedanke betrifft
den Zusammenhang von Bescheidenheit und Unwissenheit. Auch wenn Schuelers
Analyse der Bescheidenheit anders als die von Driver keinen unmittelbaren Ver-
weis auf Unwissenheit enthält, so kann man durch sie doch verstehen, warum
Bescheidenheit rein begrifflich betrachtet mit Unwissenheit auf der Metastufe
einher gehen muss, warum also eine bescheidene Person von sich nicht wissen
kann, dass sie bescheiden ist. Denn wenn Bescheidenheit bedeutet, indifferent
gegenüber dem Lob und den Urteilen anderer zu sein, dann zeigt derjenige, der
von sich glaubt, bescheiden zu sein, und sich diese Tugend auch zuschreibt,
gerade, dass er nicht bescheiden ist. Denn der Zweck dieser Selbstzuschreibung
scheint zu sein, sich des Lobes und der Bewunderung anderer zu versichern –
auch dann, wenn man die Zuschreibung nur still in Gedanken vornimmt. Man
versichert sich damit, dass die anderen, auch wenn sie es faktisch nicht tun, einen
schätzen und bewundern müssten.

 Für eine ähnliche Kritik an Driver, die zudem die tugendethischen Grundlagen stärker reflek-
tiert, als Schueler dies tut, vgl. Winter .
406 Kathi Beier

Damit hängt ein zweiter Gedanke zusammen. Denn das gerade Behauptete
könnte nahe legen, dass ich meine generelle These von der Unmöglichkeit des
unmittelbaren Wissens bzw. des Selbst-Wissens um die eigene Tugendhaftigkeit
einschränken müsste, sie nur mit Blick auf bestimmte Tugenden aufrecht erhalten
könne, nämlich nur mit Blick auf solche, deren unmittelbare Bedeutung eine
Selbstzuschreibung ausschließen. Und das hieße, dass man eigentlich induktiv
vorgehen müsste, d. h. von jeder einzelnen Tugend zunächst deren Bedeutung
analysieren und dann schauen müsste, ob diese Bedeutung ein Selbstwissen und
in der Folge eine Selbstzuschreibung begrifflich verhindert. Doch das scheint mir
der falsche Weg zu sein, da offenbar von jeder Tugend gilt, dass ihr Selbstwissen
und ihre Selbstzuschreibung anmaßend sind.⁴ Sicher ist es bei der Tugend der
Bescheidenheit so, dass die Person, die gefragt wird, ob sie bescheiden sei, und die
darauf aufrichtig antworten will, in besondere Probleme gerät. Bei ihr scheint es
eine Art performativen Selbstwiderspruchs zu geben, wenn sie rundheraus von
sich behauptet, sie sei bescheiden.⁵ Diesen internen Widerspruch gibt es bei
anderen Tugenden vielleicht nicht. Und dennoch: Ist es nicht so, dass auch die-
jenigen, die von sich zu glauben wissen, dass sie klug, gerecht, tapfer etc. sind, und
dies auch ohne Bedenken von sich behaupten, seltsam anmuten? Hier liegt
vielleicht kein interner Widerspruch zwischen dem Gehalt der jeweiligen Tugend
und der Selbstzuschreibung davon vor wie im Falle der Bescheidenheit. Aber es
scheint dennoch so zu sein, dass eine Selbstzuschreibung nicht möglich ist. Eine
tugendhafte Person sagt von sich überhaupt keine Tugend aus, egal, welche es ist.
Warum nicht? Meine These ist, dass sie weiß, dass sie nicht darum wissen kann –
oder nur sehr mittelbar und indirekt, nämlich über die Urteile anderer. Und dann
kann sie das ethische Urteil über sich lieber gleich anderen überlassen.
Deswegen will ich deduktiv vorgehen und versuchen zu erklären, warum von
allen Tugenden qua Tugenden gilt, dass derjenige, der sie hat, nicht unmittelbar
um sie wissen kann – zumindest gegeben unsere gewöhnliche Natur als Men-
schen, hier v. a. unsere Urteilsnatur. Das, was alle Tugenden verbindet, ist ihr
„dichter“ oder „dicker“ Charakter: Sie beschreiben nicht bloß die Haltungen einer
Person, sondern sie bewerten sie zugleich.⁶ Dieser evaluative Aspekt scheint der
Grund für die Unmöglichkeit des unmittelbaren Wissens um sie zu sein.

 Ich beschränke mich in diesem Text auf die Diskussion des Wissens um die eigene Tugend-
haftigkeit und lasse die Frage, inwiefern das Wissen und die Selbstzuschreibung von Lastern
ähnliche Probleme aufwerfen, offen.
 Und zwar, wie Julia Driver richtig feststellt, einen Selbstwiderspruch „as in the case, for
example, of someone saying ‚I don’t talk‘“ (Driver , p. ).
 Vgl. Williams , Kap.  und .
 Stolz und Vorurteil 407

3 Selbstbewusstsein oder Selbsterkenntnis?

Die Gegenthese zu der eben formulierten vertritt Sebastian Rödl in seinem Buch
Selbstbewusstsein. Rödl zufolge stimmt es schlicht nicht, dass man von seiner
eigenen Tugendhaftigkeit nicht wissen kann. Im Gegenteil, man wisse notwen-
digerweise darum, nämlich insofern jeder von uns ein selbstbewusstes Wesen sei
und sich dieses Selbstbewusstsein auch in unserem ethischen bzw. moralischen
Handeln ausdrücke. Rödl schreibt:

Eine praktische Lebensform ist eine Einheit unendlicher Zwecke. Und die Vorstellung eines
unendlichen Zwecks ist in dem Sinne praktisch, dass sie Handeln verursacht, das mit dem
Zweck übereinstimmt. Jemandes Vorstellung der Gerechtigkeit etwa ist die Ursache seines
gerechten Handelns, und das nicht zufällig, denn die Kausalität seiner Vorstellung ist ein
Denken, das sein Handeln aus diesem Zweck ableitet. Sein Wissen, dass er so handelt, wie es
die Gerechtigkeit erfordert, ist daher spontan; es schließt seinen Gegenstand ein und ist in
ihm eingeschlossen.
(Rödl 2011, S. 239)

Dazu möchte ich zwei Bemerkungen machen. Rödl argumentiert hier, erstens,
ganz klar kantisch. Dass absichtliches Handeln durch eine Kausalität des Denkens
charakterisiert ist, soll denselben Gedanken ausdrücken, den Kant in der
Grundlegung zur Metaphysik der Sitten so formuliert hat: „Da zur Ableitung der
Handlungen von Gesetzen Vernunft erfordert wird, so ist der Wille nichts anderes
als praktische Vernunft.“ (Kant, GMS 412) Dennoch, so scheint mir, ist sich Kant
nicht so sicher wie Rödl, dass der gerecht Handelnde auch Wissen von seiner
Gerechtigkeit hat. Vielmehr streitet Kant in der Grundlegung ein sicheres Wissen
um die eigene Moralität gerade ab. Niemand könne selbst beurteilen, ob er
wirklich „aus Pflicht“ oder nicht bloß „pflichtgemäß“ gehandelt habe, so Kant, da
sich immer eine Neigung in die Handlungsmotivation eingeschlichen haben
könne, die die moralische Quelle des Handelns verderbe. Kurz: Kant scheint mir
nicht so eindeutig zu sein, wie Rödl ihn darstellt. Die zweite Bemerkung ist eher
eine Frage: Ist es wirklich ein spontanes, selbstbewusstes Wissen, das man, in-
sofern man um der Gerechtigkeit willen handeln will, dann auch von seiner ei-
genen Gerechtigkeit hat? Ich habe daran Zweifel. Rödl legt nahe, dass das Wissen
um die eigene Tugendhaftigkeit insofern selbstbewusstes Wissen sei, als tu-
gendhafte Handlungen absichtliche Handlungen sind; und das könnte sie nur
sein, wenn sie das Resultat einer praktischen Überlegung sind. (Soweit kann auch
jeder Platoniker und jeder Aristoteliker mitgehen.) Wenn nun, so die Unterstellung
Rödls, meine Tugendhaftigkeit Teil meiner praktischen Überlegung ist, dann ist
auch das Wissen um meine Tugendhaftigkeit spontanes, selbstbewusstes Wissen.
408 Kathi Beier

Doch dieser Schluss scheint mir übereilt, denn es sprechen aus meiner Sicht zwei
Gründe gegen ihn.
Der erste Grund hat mit der möglichen Diskrepanz zwischen Absicht, Akt und
Tugendhaftigkeit zu tun. Die praktische Überlegung, die dem absichtlichen
Handeln vorausgeht, stellt den Beweggrund meines Handelns dar, sie macht mein
Motiv explizit. Aber sie garantiert nicht, dass das, was ich dann wirklich tue, auch
dem entspricht, was ich wollte und beabsichtigt habe. Die beste Absicht kann in
einem schlechten Handeln resultieren. Weil man nicht immer alle Umstände der
Handlung kennt oder viele davon unserem Einfluss entzogen sind, kann die beste
Absicht beim Versuch ihrer Ausführung in einer schlechten Tat enden.⁷ Die Be-
urteilung der Tugendhaftigkeit einer Person hängt nun aber nicht von der Absicht
des Handelnden alleine ab, sondern auch von ihren Akten. Und da das Gelingen
der Umsetzung meiner guten Absicht in gute Akte durch die Absicht allein nicht
garantiert werden kann, kann ich von meiner Tugendhaftigkeit auch kein
selbstbewusstes Wissen haben. Und selbst da, wo Absicht und Akt zusammen
fallen, wo man also genau das tut, was man wollte, kann es eine Diskrepanz
zwischen guter Absicht und gutem Akt auf der einen Seite und der Tugendhaf-
tigkeit der handelnden Person auf der anderen Seite geben. Daran erinnert
Aristoteles im siebten Buch der Nikomachischen Ethik,wenn er die akrasia, also die
Willensschwäche diskutiert. Dabei macht er nämlich auf den Unterschied zwi-
schen der bloß beherrschten Person (dem enkrates) und der tugendhaften, d. h.
mäßigen Person (sophron) aufmerksam. Beide, so Aristoteles, wollen das Gute und
handeln auch gut, d. h. ihre Absichten und Akte sind vollkommen identisch. Aber
die bloß beherrschte Person ist noch nicht tugendhaft, weil sie das Gute noch
gegen innere Widerstände und Bedenken ausführt. Sie tut es – das unterscheidet
sie vom akrates –, aber sie tut es nicht gern. Ihre Unlust ist für Aristoteles ein
Zeichen dafür, dass sie die relevante Tugend, die Tugend der Mäßigkeit, noch nicht
besitzt.⁸ Das Wissen um meine Tugendhaftigkeit kann also kein selbstbewusstes,
spontanes Wissen sein, weil weder aus meiner praktischen Überlegung bzw.
meiner Handlungsabsicht alleine noch aus meinem tatsächlich guten Handeln
folgt, dass ich tugendhaft bin.
Der zweite Grund macht auf die strukturelle Schwierigkeit einer vorurteils-
losen Perspektive aufmerksam. Mir scheint nämlich eine weitere Überlegung von
Aristoteles wichtig zu sein, aus der folgt, dass und warum jede unmittelbare oder

 Viele anschauliche Beispiele dafür finden sich im dritten Buch von Aristoteles’ Nikomachischer
Ethik, vgl. insbesondere a – .
 Kant scheint dagegen zu sagen, wer das Richtige ungern tut, ist moralisch besser,weil moralisch
eindeutiger, denn er handelt wirklich nur aus Pflicht, nicht aus Neigung. Aber das ist und war seit
jeher ein schwer verständlicher Gedanke.
 Stolz und Vorurteil 409

direkte Selbstbeurteilung in ethischen Fragen so schwierig ist.⁹ Aristoteles dis-

kutiert im sechsten Buch der Nikomachischen Ethik unter anderem das Verhältnis
von Klugheit (phronesis) und Tugendhaftigkeit bzw. Gutheit des Charakters
(1144a30-b32). Beide sind ihm zufolge aufs Engste miteinander verbunden. Denn
einerseits kann nur der Kluge tugendhaft sein, weil Tugendhaftigkeit die Dispo-
sition ist, verbunden mit einer richtigen Überlegung zu handeln; die richtige
Überlegung über solche Dinge aber ist die Klugheit. Das begründet die oben er-
wähnte Ansicht, dass Tugend und Unwissenheit nicht gut zusammen passen.
Andererseits – und dieser Gedanke ist für die Frage der ethischen Selbstbeurtei-
lung entscheidender – ist Klugheit an Tugendhaftigkeit gebunden, weil eine
praktische Überlegung nur dann richtig sein kann, wenn ihr Ausgangspunkt, also
der Obersatz richtig ist. Dieser Ausgangspunkt (archē) zeige sich aber, so Ari-
stoteles, nur dem tugendhaften bzw. guten Menschen. Deshalb sei es „offenkundig
unmöglich, klug zu sein, wenn man nicht gut ist“. Der Gedanke, der dieser Ar-
gumentation zugrunde liegt, ist der Gedanke, dass unser Charakter unser prak-
tisches bzw. ethisches Urteilsvermögen beeinflusst. Deshalb kann nur der ethisch
gut urteilen, der einen guten Charakter hat. Wenn das aber so ist, wenn also der
Charakter grundsätzlich das ethische Urteilen beeinflusst, dann gleicht der Ver-
such einer Person, ihren Charakter ethisch zu beurteilen, dem Versuch einer Katze,
ihren Schwanz einzufangen: Man findet einfach keinen neutralen Standpunkt,
von dem aus sich die Beurteilung angemessen betreiben ließe, denn man hat
immer ein positives Vorurteil sich selbst gegenüber, immer einen bias. ¹⁰ Selbst
tugendhafte Menschen wie Charmides, so führt Platon vor, scheitern an der
Aufgabe, sich selbst ethisch richtig zu beurteilen. Sie scheitern, wie sich den
Überlegungen von Aristoteles entnehmen lässt, aus strukturellen Gründen. Denn
uns fehlt die Distanz zu uns selbst, die nötig ist, um zu einem unvoreingenom-
menen Urteil über uns und die Güte unserer Handlungen und Eigenschaften zu
kommen. Die Distanz, die nötig ist, ist dabei vor allem eine affektive: Es geht im
Sinne von Adam Smith vor allem darum, einen unparteiischen und interesselosen
Blick auf sich selbst zu gewinnen. Das scheint aus den genannten Gründen an-
deren eher möglich zu sein als uns selbst.

 Ich beziehe mich hier auf meine Überlegungen in Beier , S. .
 So sagt Aristoteles im neunten Buch der Nikomachischen Ethik, dass jeder Mensch und gerade
jeder gute Mensch sich selbst lieben muss (a); dabei grenzt er diese gute Art der Selbstliebe
von dem ab, was er Selbstliebe im schlechten Sinne nennt, d. h. von einem puren Egoismus.
410 Kathi Beier

4 Aporie: Stolz und Vorurteil

Wenn das allerdings so ist, dann muss man, wie es scheint, mit Aristoteles gegen
Aristoteles argumentieren. Denn dann entsteht ein Problem mit derjenigen Tu-
gend, die Aristoteles megalopsychia nennt, ins Deutsche übersetzt als groß an der
Seele sein, Hochgesinntheit oder Stolz. Der Stolze zeichnet sich nämlich gerade
dadurch aus, dass er sich in seinem Wert und seiner Würde richtig einschätzen
kann. So heißt es bei Aristoteles:

Als stolz (megalopsychos) gilt, wer sich selbst großer Dinge für wert hält und dies auch
[wirklich] ist. Wer sich ihrer für wert hält, ohne es zu sein, ist dumm; von denen aber, die
Träger einer Tugend sind, ist keiner dumm oder ohne Verstand. […] Der Stolze aber wird,wenn
er tatsächlich der größten Dinge wert ist, der Beste (aristos) sein; denn der Bessere ist immer
größerer Dinge wert und der Beste der größten. Der wahrhaft Stolze muss also gut (agathos)
sein. Und Kennzeichen des Stolzen dürfte die Größe in jeder Tugend sein. […] Es scheint also
der Stolz eine Art Schmuck (kosmos) der Tugenden zu sein; denn er macht sie größer und
besteht nicht ohne sie. Deswegen ist es schwierig, wahrhaft stolz zu sein; es ist nicht möglich,
ohne ein edler und guter Mensch zu sein (kalogagathia). (Aristoteles, NE IV 7, 1123b2 ff.)

Die Selbsterkenntnis, die der Stolze mit Blick auf seine ethische Güte hat, wird
besonders deutlich, wenn Aristoteles die beiden entsprechenden Laster dieser
ethischen Tugend beschreibt:

Wer den Mangel aufweist, ist kleinmütig (mikropsychos), wer das Übermaß, eitel (chaunos).
[…] Denn der Kleinmütige, der guter Dinge wert ist, beraubt sich gerade der Dinge, deren er
wert ist, und erweckt den Eindruck, darin einen Fehler zu haben, dass er sich selbst dieser
guten Dinge nicht für wert hält und sich selbst nicht kennt; denn sonst würde er die Dinge
erstreben, derer er wert ist, vorausgesetzt, dass sie gut sind. […] Die eitlen Menschen an-
dererseits sind dumm und kennen sich selbst nicht, und dies ganz offensichtlich; denn sie
versuchen sich an ehrenvollen Dingen, wie wenn sie ihrer wert wären, und werden dann ihrer
Unfähigkeit überführt. (Aristoteles, NE IV 9, 1125a17 ff.)

Die Frage, die bleibt, ist also: Wenn die angeführten Gründe überzeugen, die dafür
sprechen, dass wir selbst tendenziell nicht in der Lage sind, ein sicheres Wissen
um unsere ethische Güte zu erlangen,wie ist dann die Tugend des Stolzes möglich?
Was kann der Stolze, was die anderen nicht können? Wie schafft er es, die er-
wähnten Schwierigkeiten zu überwinden? Kurz: Wie können und sollen wir die
Disposition der megalopsychia verstehen? Aristoteles spricht, wenn er den Stolzen
charakterisiert, viel von Unabhängigkeit bzw. von einem Unbeeindruckt-sein von
der Ehrerbietung durch andere, da der Stolze weiß, dass er großer, ja der größten
Dinge wert ist, es aber „keine Ehre [gibt], die der vollkommenen Tugend ange-
messen ist“ (1124a7). Das lässt mindesten zwei Verständnismöglichkeiten zu.
 Stolz und Vorurteil 411

Die Betonung könnte einerseits auf der Unabhängigkeit von der Ehrung durch
andere liegen. Diese Unabhängigkeit ist gut und tugendhaft, weil sie eine Ei-
genständigkeit der Person demonstriert – ähnlich wie G.F. Schueler dies mit Blick
auf die bescheidene Person behauptet. Man lässt sich in seinen Wünschen,
Handlungen und Entscheidungen nicht von der oft schwankenden Meinung an-
derer beeinflussen, verlangt nicht nach deren Lob und Bewunderung. Diesem
Verständnis zufolge geht es bei der Tugend des Stolzes vor allem darum, richtig mit
der Ehre als dem größten äußeren Gut umzugehen. Das ist die unproblematischere
Deutung für die in diesem Text entwickelte These, da sie nicht das Wissen betont.
Die Betonung könnte andererseits gerade auf dem Wissen um den eigenen
Wert liegen, auf dem Wissen um die eigene Tugendhaftigkeit, deren „Krone bzw.
Schmuck“ der Stolz ist.Wenn aber dieses Wissen die Voraussetzung für die Tugend
des Stolzes ist, dann ist Stolz nach meiner Argumentation für uns Menschen
höchst ungewöhnlich, da uns dieses Wissen, gegeben unsere Natur, nicht un-
mittelbar möglich ist.

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Index of Names
Abela, Paul 146 Bratman, Michael E. 83, 302 f.
Adorno, Theodor W. 145, 80 f. Bratton, William W. 263
Alexander, Bruce K. 210 Brentano, Franz 96 f., 113, 129, 131–133,
Alexander, Joshua 4 135–140, 144 f., 389
Alharoun, Mohammad 363, 366 Brey, Phlip 124
Allais, Lucy 146 Briggs, Rachael 263, 271
Allison, Henry 146 Brinkmann, Svend 199
Althusser, Louis 83 Bruder, Martin 270
Anscombe, Elizabeth 2, 39, 53, 65, 255, Byrd, Sharon B. 356
310
Apel, Karl Otto 81 Canfield, John 317
Aquinas, Thomas 247–257, 293, 304 Carnap, Rudolf 2, 79
Aristotle 56 f., 59–61, 81, 135, 157 f., 161, Carr, David 323
195, 204, 206, 215, 289–295, 297–300, Cassirer, Ernst 81, 114, 120
302–306, 384, 389, 401, 408–410 Castoriadis, Cornelius 345
Audi, Robert 371 f. Cavell, Stanley 81, 309 f., 312 f., 316, 320
Austin, John Langshaw 82–84, 310 Chapman, James 220 f.
Avramides, Anita 311, 319 Chelstrom, Eric 323
Ayer, A. J. 1 Chong, Jane 125
Christman, John P. 323 f.
Bacharach, Michael 286 Chudnoff, Elijah 130, 140, 157
Bachelard, Gaston 203, 206, 210–213 Church, George 119
Bacon, Francis 113, 116, 123 Churchland, Patricia 83
Bakan, Joel 261 Churchland, Paul 83
Baker, Lynne R. 263, 396 Clark, Andy 83, 126, 149 f., 152
Banham, Gary 146 Clifford, William K. 232, 234
Barbaras, Renaud 242 Cobb-Stevens, Robert 131
Barnes, Barry 34 f. Cohen, Michael 232
Bealer, George 129 f. Coliva, Annalisa 33, 41
Ben-Ze’ev, Aaron 266, 271 Collins, Randall 114, 122
Bennett, Jonathan 144 Colombetti, Giovanna 270
Bennett, Maxwell 85 f., 199 Cooper, John M. 290, 300
Benson, Paul 323, 329–331 Coplan, Amy 194
Bergson, Henri 79, 212, 221 Copp, David 271
Bernet, Rudolf 147 Crane, Tim 83
Bird, Graham 146 Crisp, Roger 291 f., 295–297, 299, 301,
Blackmore, Susan 234 306
Bloor, David 34 f. Crowell, Steven 109, 330
Blumberg, Philip I. 263 Cudworth, Ralph 113
Boddy, Clive R. 269 Cummins, Robert 130
Boghossian, Paul 31 f., 34, 41 Curley, Edwin 352
Bongard, Josh 218
Boring, Edwin G. 122 Damasio, Antonio 270, 381, 389, 396
Bouwsma, Oets Kolk 66 Dan-Cohen, Meir 263
414 Index of Names

Darwin, Charles 119, 123 Frith, Uta 224

Davidson, Donald 2, 121, 255, 384, 389 Fukuyama, Francis 117
Davis, Creston 80
De Biran, Maine 221 Gadamer, Hans-Georg 2, 4, 86, 121
de Haan, Sanneke 221 Gallagher, Shaun 148, 153, 188, 195, 198,
De Jaegher, Hanne 223 223 f.
De Vos, Jan 199 Gehlen, Arnold 124
Deleuze, Gilles 2, 83, 118 Gendler, Tamar Szabó 204 f.
Dennett, Daniel 81, 95, 97–105, 107, 232, Georgen, Chris 100, 109
234 Gibbons, Sarah L. 146
Deonna, Julien A. 271 Gibson, James 216, 386
DePaul, Michael 130 Giddens, Anthony 121
Depraz, Natalie 189 Gilbert, Felix 338, 342
Derrida, Jacques 2, 4, 81, 118 Gilbert, Margaret 262, 265, 302
Descartes, René 81, 113, 116, 137, 157–159, Gilbert, Paul 83
165–170, 234, 315, 343, 381, 389, 396 Glock, Hans-Johann 81
Descombes, Vincent 117 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 65
Dewey, John 123 Goetz, Bernhard 351, 358, 360–362, 366 f.
Dilthey, Wilhelm 121 Goldie, Peter 193–195, 266 f., 271,
Dressler, Joshua 356 f. 381–387, 389, 395 f.
Dreyfus, Hubert 215 Goris, Harm 250 f., 256
Driver, Julia 404–406 Graybiel, Anne 203, 205
Drummond, John 324 f. Grayling, Anthony 31
Drury, Maurice O’Connor 64 Greenawalt, Kent 358
Duff, R. A. 352, 354 Griffin, David 234
Dummett, Michael 1, 4, 79, 82, 112, 145 Gross, Neil 112

Einstein, Albert 114, 404 Hacker, Peter M. S. 47, 52, 61, 81–83,
Elster, Jon 112 85–87, 199
Emerson, Ralph Waldo 124 Hacking, Ian 112
Hager, Mark M. 263
Fechner, Karl 123 Haller, Rudolf 31
Feigl, Herbert 233 f. Hanna, Robert 146
Ferrier, James 115 Hanson, Norwood Russell 3
Fichte, Johann Gottlieb 114 f. Happé, Francesca 224
Finkelstein, David 314 Harbisson, Neil 125
Finnis, John 263 Hare, Richard M. 79 f.
Fletcher, George 352 Harman, Gilbert 34
Føllesdal, Dagfinn 145 Harnack, Adolf von 116
Foot, Philippa 404 Hatfield, Gary 123
Foucault, Michel 2, 118 Heavey, Christopher L. 189
Frankfurt, Harry 252, 323 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich 114 f., 117
Freer, Cameron E. 120 Heidegger, Martin 2 f., 5, 79, 83, 86, 113,
Frege, Gottlob 2, 4, 6, 11–15, 18 f., 22, 144, 194 f., 216 f., 369
27 f., 65, 79, 82, 114, 120, 145, 396 Heinrichs, Bert 372, 374
French, Peter A. 263 f. Helm, Bennett 193, 267
Freud, Sigmund 87, 389 Henry, Michel 89, 240
 Index of Names 415

Hess, Kendy M. 263, 265, 271 Kraus, Oskar 137

Hildebrand, Dietrich von 369 Kriegel, Uriah 83, 87–90
Hindriks, Frank 263 Krueger, Joel 195
Hirst, Paul Q. 263 Kuhn, Thomas 3, 119
Hitz, Zena 303 f. Kung, Peter 8
Hobson, Peter 222, 224 Kusch, Martin 115, 263
Honneth, Axel 271
Huebner, Bryce 262 f., 272 Laclau, Ernesto 342, 345
Humboldt, Wilhelm von 114 Langton, Rae 146
Hurlburt, Russell 187, 189 f., 197 Latour, Bruno 118
Husserl, Edmund 2 f., 6, 79, 81, 83, 85–87, Laudan, Larry 119
96 f., 107, 114, 120, 129, 131–135, Leder, Drew 221, 226
138–140, 144–147, 150–152, 157–159, Leist, Anton 253
168–171, 188, 221, 233, 238, 240, 242, Leiter, Brian 81
272, 313–315, 317, 324–329, 369, 385 Levinas, Emmanuel 369, 376 f.
Hutto, Daniel 83 Lipinska, Veronika 120
List, Christian 263 f., 278
Illouz, Eva 262, 269 Locke, John 58, 85, 113, 116, 122
Ireland, Paddy 263 Longuenesse, Beatrice 146
Luft, Sebastian 147
Jack, Anthony 189 Lyotard, Jean-François 118
Jacquette, Dale 318
James, William 47, 56, 63, 112, 211, 219, MacCormick, Neil 358
232 Machiavelli, Niccolò 337–347
Johannsen, Wilhelm 119 Mahoney, Martha R. 364
Jung, Matthias 220 Makkreel, Rudolf A. 146
Jureschi, Livia Andreia 317 Malcolm, Norman 65 f., 70
Manning, Rita 263, 265
Kahn, Charles K. 298 Mark, Gregory A. 263
Kahneman, Daniel 268 Marty, Anton 137
Kant, Immanuel 48 f., 52–54, 56–61, 81, Marx, Karl 122, 345
85, 114–116, 118 f., 144–147, 157–166, Massey, Gerald 4
204, 237 f., 369–377, 389, 407 f. Mathiesen, Kay 264
Kantorowicz, Ernst H. 261 McDowell, John 81, 188
Kapp, Ernst 124 McIntyre, Ronald 145
Killminster, Suzy 324 McLuhan, Marshall 124
Kind, Amy 150 Mele, Alfred R. 267
Klimchuk, Dennis 355 Meltzoff, Andrew 222
Koffka, Kurt 87 Menary, Richard 83
Köhler, Wolfgang 63 Mendlow, Gabe 363, 366 f.
Kojève, Alexandre 117 Mercolli, Laura 310
Körner, Stephan 144 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 1, 83 f., 87, 145,
Korsgaard, Christine M. 83, 262, 264, 330 188, 196, 203, 206–213, 217, 219, 231,
Kosman, Aryeh 300 240–243, 253, 385
Koyré, Alexandre 117 Merz, John Theodore 115
Kraft, Julius 144 Meyers, Diana Tietjens 323
Kramer, Roderick M. 269 Minkowski, Eugène 220
416 Index of Names

Moore, G.E. 37–39, 41, 47, 49–54, 65, 70, Ramsey, William 130
146, 222, 369, 371 Rancière, Jacques 345
Moran, Dermot 147 Ranken, Nani L. 265
Moran, Richard 187, 191–195, 314 f., 318 Ravaisson, Felix 203, 206–211
Mouffe, Chantal 342, 345 Rawls, John 369, 371, 373
Regis, Ed 119
Naberhaus, Thane M. 147 Reiner, Hans 369
Nagel, Thomas 81, 233, 247 f., 250, 254 f., Ricœur, Paul 203, 206, 210–214, 255
361 f. Rinofner-Kreidl, Sonja 109, 324 f.
Nancy, Jean-Luc 346 Rödl, Sebastian 407
Natorp, Paul 145 Roepstorff, Andreas 189
Neuhäuser, Christian 265 Roling, Bernd 256
Newton, Isaac 60, 113 Rorty, Amelie Oksenberg 266
Noë, Alva 83, 196, Rorty, Richard 2, 112, 122
Nordhaus, Ted 120 Rosen, Gideon 34, 36
Nussbaum, Martha C. 270 Ross, William David 57, 369–372, 374
Rovane, Carol, A. 262, 264 f., 278, 294
Oshana, Marina A. L. 323 Rowlands, Mark 83, 148
Ostwald, Wilhelm 120 Runciman, David 263
Overgaard, Søren 80, 84, 313, 315 Russell, Bertrand 2, 4, 79, 112, 116, 122 f.,
Ozar, David T. 263 f. 146, 215, 232, 234, 240
Ryle, Gilbert 82, 84, 204–208, 212 f., 215,
Parfit, Derek 262 218, 312
Pascal, Blaise 113
Pavlov, Ivan 87 Salmela, Mikko 265
Peacocke, Christopher 81 Santayana, George 123
Peirce, Charles Sanders 23, 119, 232 Sartre, Jean-Paul 2, 89, 117, 150 f., 193,
Petitmengin, Claire 189 195, 226, 272, 369
Pettit, Philip 263 f., 277 f. Schacter, Daniel L. 221
Pfeifer, Rolf 218 Scheler, Max 83, 157 f., 266, 277–285,
Piaget, Jean 87 287, 313, 369, 393 f.
Platon 157 f., 388, 394, 401–404, 409 Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph 114 f.
Plessner, Helmuth 319 Schleiermacher, Friedrich 121
Pocock, John G. A. 338 Schmid, Hans Bernhard 262, 265, 268 f.,
Polanyi, Michael 216, 219, 226 284, 302, 306
Popper, Karl 113, 119 Schmitt, Frederick. F. 34, 367
Porter, Theodore 123 Schnädelbach, Herbert 115, 121
Prado, Carlos G. 1 Schönecker, Dieter 373 f.
Price, Anthony W. 292, 294 f., 300 Schrödinger, Ernst 119, 237
Prichard, Harold A. 369 f. Schueler, George F. 404 f., 411
Prinz, Jesse J. 269 f. Schulting, Denis 146
Pritchard, Duncan 33, 41 Schütz, Alfred 83
Proctor, Robert 115 Schweikard, David P. 302
Pust, Joel 130 Schwitzgebel, Eric 95, 101–104, 107–109,
130, 189
Quine, Willard Van Orman 2, 84, 121, 123 Scruton, Roger 264
Quinton, Anthony 1, 80
 Index of Names 417

Searle, John 11–15, 20 f., 23, 26, 28, 81, Titchener, Edward 102
83, 282, 285, 302 Torribio, Josefa 149 f.
Shakespeare, William 339 Tuomela, Raimo 83, 265, 302 f.
Shapiro, Lawrence 149 Tye, Michael 81
Shear, Jonathan 189
Sheehy, Paul 263 van Breda, Herman L. 84
Shellenberger, Michael 120 Varela, Francisco 189, 196, 216, 239
Sherman, Nancy 299 f. Vargas, Manuel 267
Sidgwick, Henry 369 Velleman, David J. 303
Smart, J. J. C. 51, 80 f. Verburgt, Jacco 146
Smith, Adam 409
Smith, Angela M. 331 Wahl, Jean 84
Smith, David W. 145 Waldenfels, Bernhard 315 f.
Smith, Kyle 203, 205 Wallon, Henri 87
Smith-Pangle, Lorraine 291, 295 Walther, Gerda 83
Sokolowski, Robert 131 Watson, John B. 87
Sokrates 168, 402 f. Wellman, Christopher C. 265
Solomon, Robert C. 114, 266, 270 Welton, Donn 147
Sosa, Ernest 44 Wendt, Alexander 263
Spengler, Oswald 124 Westlund, Andrea C. 329
Spinoza, Baruch 53, 117, 204, 345 Whewell, William 119
Stanley, Jason 215 Williams, Bernard 41 f., 81, 84, 406
Stein, Edith 83, 313 Williams, Glanville 352
Steinbock, Anthony J. 266, 323 Williams, Michael 32–36, 39–42, 44
Stern, Daniel 223, 373 f. Wilson, Margaret 149
Stern, Robert 223, 374 Wiltsche, Harald 131
Stoljar, Natalie 323 Winch, Peter 257
Stoll, Mary L. 263 Winter, Michael Jeffrey 405
Strawson, Galen 87–90, 232–234, 236 f. Wissner-Gross, Alexander D. 120
Strawson, Peter F. 11, 13, 15–17, 19, 21–25, Witherspoon, Edward 311
27 f., 44 f., 61, 88–90, 144, 254 f., 263, Wittes, Benjamin 125
331, 369 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 2, 4, 11–34, 37–44,
Stroud, Barry 41 47–60, 63–76, 81, 109, 187 f., 191, 257,
Stubenberg, Leopold 100 309–314, 316–320
Summa, Michela 257, 310, 314 f. Wolfe, Tom 117
Szanto, Thomas 262, 264 f., 268, 270, Wood, Allen 373
272, 287 Wright, Crispin 30, 32, 40
Wright, Georg Henrik von 50
Taylor, Charles 84, 198
Ter Hark, Michel 312–314, 317 Zabala, Santiago 80
Teroni, Fabrice 271 Zahavi, Dan 87, 89 f., 147, 188, 223, 268,
Thompson, Evan 196, 216 279, 313
Thomson, Judith Jarvis 34
Index of Subjects
action 34–36, 47, 49–60, 83, 98, 125, 280, 283, 323, 329–332, 352 f., 357,
149, 192, 204 f., 207–221, 223, 225–227, 359, 361–367, 384, 389, 401
236, 247, 252 f., 255–257, 263 f., 268, body 12, 16, 18, 29, 38, 148, 151,
272, 278, 280 f., 287, 289 f., 292–296, 208–210, 212–214, 215–223, 225–227,
300–305, 309, 311, 318, 325, 328 f., 240–242, 249, 252–255, 314, 382, 386,
339, 345, 354, 364 f., 382 f., 385, 387, 396, 398
389 f.
– theory of 83, 247 f., 254 f. Cartesianism 114, 145 f., 187, 190, 210,
activity 20, 56, 137 f., 148–152, 191 f., 196, 234, 315
207, 216, 237, 239, 243, 251 f., 289–291, causality 47–49, 52 f., 57 f., 60
293–296, 298–303, 305 f., 310, 312, certainty 29–45, 58, 65 f., 70–74, 118, 234,
346 310–312, 314–317
agency 111, 113, 187, 191–199, 204, 253, Charmides (Plato) 401–403, 409
256, 262–265, 267, 269, 289–292, cognitive science 143, 147 f., 188, 196
294–296, 298, 301 f., 304, 306, 329, collective intentionality 83, 262, 277, 281,
331 285 f., 302 f.
akrasia 408 color 22–27, 135–137, 65 f., 71–73, 240
analysis 4, 82, 86, 97, 107, 130, 140, 213, common sense 86, 123, 289, 304 f.
220 f., 242 communication 217, 220, 223, 225,
analytic/continental divide 1–6, 79–91, 95, 255–257, 315
111–114, 143 f., 147–150, 231, 233 consciousness 6, 12–15, 20, 84, 87, 89 f.,
analytic phenomenology 95 f., 99, 101–104, 95–98, 100, 102, 104, 106–108, 113,
107 133, 138–140, 144, 147–149, 193 f., 196,
analytic philosophy 1–6, 79–91, 140, 146, 206, 208 f., 214, 217, 219, 231 f.,
231, 233, 381 234–236, 238, 240, 247 f., 251, 255,
angel 247–257 272, 279, 282, 304–306, 315, 317, 331,
a priori, apriorism 4, 85, 97, 114, 118 f., 382–385, 398
160–164, 237 f., 311, 345 continental philosophy 1–6, 79–83, 91,
argument 4, 24, 52 f., 80, 89, 95–97, 144, 95, 111–114, 143 f., 148, 233
157 f., 169f. contingency 36, 42–44, 337 f.
attention 108, 133, 136–139, 207, 209 f., correlation 85, 269, 272, 311
218, 226 f., 238, 241 correspondence 235 f., 391, 393, 397
authority 96–98, 100, 104, 115, 117, 181, critical theory 82, 117
191, 283 f., 401
autism 215, 223 f. deconstruction 4, 82, 112, 125, 243
autonomy 199, 296, 323 f., 327, 330 deduction 29 f., 234
deontology, deontontological 269–271, 273
behavior 34 f., 148, 204, 210 f., 218, 221, dependence 34, 36, 42, 297 f., 301, 389
223–235, 257, 261, 267, 270, 280 f., description, descriptive 97, 140, 147,
309, 311 f., 314, 318, 381, 385 f., 387, 188–190, 205, 215 f., 252, 391, 395
390 f., 398 descriptive psychology 131
behaviorism 122, 148, 205, 243 disagreement 33, 40–42, 107 f., 326, 329,
belief 29–36, 39, 42, 44, 97–105, 129 f., 357–359, 363
132, 140, 174–179, 181, 183, 191 f., 278,
420 Index of Subjects

dispositions 204 f., 207, 215, 217–219, freedom 47, 49–54, 58–61, 73, 117, 119 f.,
266, 304, 385, 395, 398, 409f. 126, 177, 181, 206 f., 210 f., 213, 227,
263, 338, 340–342, 344–347
4e cognition 83, 143–153 fulfillment 132–135, 138 f.
eidos 157
embodiment 148, 151, 203, 207 f., 213, German Idealism 111, 114, 124
217, 325 gestalt switch 99
emergence 152, 206, 233 f., 342 god 43, 98, 113, 118, 121, 124, 178–181,
empathy 121, 194 f., 215, 218, 223, 268 f., 251, 337
279–282, 286, 313, 386 grief 64, 269
enactive approach 143, 196, 216, 239 group mind 272, 277 f.
envy 404
epistemology, epistemological 4, 29, 34, habit 203–215, 217, 219, 221 f., 393
60, 70, 86, 98, 111, 113, 115 f., 144, 157, habituality 203 f., 209–211
168, 183, 237 f., 247 f., 309, 311 f., 315 f., hermeneutics 82, 111, 121 f., 125
319 f., 372 hetero-phenomenology 97
epoché 97, 177, 231, 239 historicism 119
equality 35, 347 history 1–4, 36, 43, 50, 82, 112, 117–119,
ethics 53, 56 f., 59, 263, 290–293, 349, 121–123, 125, 182, 304, 338 f., 341, 344,
369, 383, 401 392
evidence 1, 6, 29–31, 39 f., 51, 55, 86, 96, hope 5, 13, 15, 25, 35, 64, 67, 101, 105,
98, 113, 130, 134 f., 182, 239, 313–315, 107 f., 115, 187 f., 264, 296, 332, 337,
317, 319 f., 325–332, 356, 358, 365, 389 344, 366 f., 384
exclusiveness 34, 36, 40–42
existence 12–14, 42, 49 f., 52 f., 74, 84, idealism 111, 115–118, 145 f., 235, 238
98, 221, 225, 233, 247–257, 303 f., imagination 11, 108, 135 f., 138, 143–151,
309–312, 319 153, 162, 212, 217, 247 f., 250, 382
existentialism 117 impartiality 358
experience 12 f., 15 f., 18, 20 f., 23 f., 30, imperialism 115, 123
43, 57 f., 71, 73, 84, 87–91, 95–108, incommensurability 34
112–114, 124, 132–135, 138, 149–151, independence 114, 296
187–190, 192 f., 195–197, 204 f., 211 f., infallibilism 118
216–218, 220, 222, 225 f., 231–243, intentionality 5 f., 83, 96, 106, 139, 148,
247–252, 254 f., 257, 265 f., 269, 240, 272, 324 f., 331, 333, 382–390,
279–285, 297, 305, 309 f., 312–320, 395
324–326, 328–331, 333, 353, 361–367, intentionality, collective 83, 259, 262, 277,
384–389, 391–397 281, 285 f., 302 f.
experimental philosophy, X-phi 4 intercorporeality 215, 218, 223–225
externalism 149, 151 internalism, internalistic 148, 150
intersubjective 152, 309, 318 f.
first person, first-personal 13 f., 20, 58, 68, introspection 84, 95, 100–105, 107 f., 123,
87, 89, 95–105, 107, 188–190, 231, 235, 187, 189 f., 197 f.
237, 264, 278, 290, 292, 298, 302, 313, introspectionism 84
396, 401 intuition 4, 129–141, 157–159, 164–172,
foundationalism 111–116, 118, 123, 126 300, 302, 369, 371, 373 f., 378
 Index of Subjects 421

joint action 263, 289, 292, 300–303 mental state 54, 89, 101, 129, 131 f., 140,
judgement 13, 31, 65, 67, 75, 114, 138, 151, 188 f., 191 f., 194, 197, 223 f., 253,
358, 383 272, 279–285, 310, 312, 315, 317
judgment 36, 95–97, 99–101, 103–106, metaphor 11, 20, 68, 72–74, 193, 248, 394
135, 137 f., 187, 231, 239, 241, 269, 284, metaphysical 15 f., 79, 83, 85 f., 88, 120,
302, 304, 358, 381, 388, 394 145, 203, 207, 234, 238, 264, 267, 312,
345
knowing-how 215, 217 f. metaphysics 4, 83, 86, 115, 144, 231, 233,
knowing-that 215, 217 235, 243, 262, 345
knowledge 29–32, 39, 59 f., 70, 85 f., 96, method 3–5, 63, 76, 80–82, 97–99, 111,
113 f., 116–119, 122, 124, 130, 132, 135, 113–116, 119, 123 f., 133, 145, 157, 167,
138, 180 f., 187, 189 f., 204, 206, 169 f., 187–190, 224, 232 f., 239, 354,
215–221, 223, 225–227, 231, 233 f., 238, 365, 375
241, 243, 250 f., 256, 264, 281, 293, methodology 1, 77, 95, 98 f., 101, 168 f.,
300, 304 f., 309–313, 315 f., 318–320, 188, 243
343, 362, 365 f., 392, 398, 401 mind 57–58, 96 f., 112–116, 123, 125 f.,
knowledge by acquaintance 215–217, 225, 135, 149, 152, 187–193, 195–198, 203,
227 205–207, 209 f., 213 f., 216, 218 f.,
knowledge by description 215 224–226, 231 f., 234 f., 255, 265, 277,
279, 309–312, 314, 317–319, 326, 329,
language 4, 11, 18–20, 33, 56, 71, 74, 332, 357, 359 f., 367, 381, 384, 387, 390
82–84, 86, 90, 96, 122, 153, 215, 218, motive 224, 295, 318, 339
220, 282, 286, 296, 311 f., 315, movement 47, 55 f., 58–60, 73 f., 212,
317–320, 328, 346, 383, 386 f., 391, 219–223, 225–227, 249 f., 253, 284,
393, 395, 397 315, 346, 362
language-game 17, 31–33, 41, 69 f.
law 48, 54, 66, 114, 118, 120, 337 f., naturalism 86 f., 90, 111 f., 121, 123, 143
340–346, 351–356, 359–361, 363, nature 30, 36, 44, 52, 87, 115, 118 f., 124,
366 f., 392 203, 206–208, 214, 235–239, 241, 392
lifeworld 2, 121, 126, 199, 227 necessity 47, 52, 58, 117, 207, 313, 341
linguistic turn 4, 81–83, 85 neo-Kantianism 82, 111 f., 115
logic 12, 18 f., 71, 73, 114, 118, 133, 136, neo-Thomism 111 f., 115
176, 181 f., 206, 251, 338 neuroscience 188, 197, 199, 203
logical positivism 116 neutrality 35, 98, 100, 122
nonsense 27, 50, 85, 294
mathematics 30, 65, 114, 181, 251 normativity 265, 383, 385
maxim 48, 375 f. nous 157 f., 161, 172
meaning 3, 17, 31, 33, 39, 50, 52–54, 59,
64, 71, 85, 97, 125, 132 f., 135 f., 139, objective 12–14, 40, 83, 85 f., 106, 123,
147, 181, 208, 212 f., 220, 223–225, 227, 181, 188, 192, 219, 231–233, 235–239,
232, 241, 243, 253 f., 304, 309 f., 312, 243, 266, 290, 293, 346, 351–364,
316, 343, 345 f., 386, 389, 391 f. 366 f., 385, 391 f., 394
memory 29, 39, 58, 192, 215, 217 f., obligation 20, 64, 173 f., 176, 178–183,
221–223, 225 f., 315 263
mentalism 187 ontology, ontological 6, 12 f., 15 f., 20, 126,
191, 234–241, 254 f., 261–263, 290 f.,
422 Index of Subjects

298 f., 309, 311 f., 319, 344–346, 386, – scientific 143
389 – speculative 82
reasonableness 205, 351 f., 356–358,
pain 11–29, 68, 99, 193, 195, 240, 271, 361 f., 364 f., 367
297, 311, 313 f., 316 f., 382, 390 reasonable, the 31, 40, 43, 351 f., 354–367
panpsychism 231–233, 235–237, 239, 243 reductionism 115, 247 f.
paradigm 1, 143, 146, 148, 153, 197, 216, reflection 47 f., 54, 86 f., 95–97, 100–108,
294 112, 197, 203, 208 f., 232, 323 f., 326 f.,
perception 89, 123, 132 f., 138–140, 149, 329–332, 343–346, 388, 390
152, 187, 196, 212, 215 f., 218–222, 225, reflective equilibrium 371
235, 240, 242, 247, 249, 255, 270, 279, relativism 29, 31–37, 39–45, 115, 391
300, 304, 311, 313, 316 f., 325, 331, representation 6–8, 90, 96, 119, 131, 133,
385–389 138, 148 f., 150, 187, 196, 216–218, 232,
personhood 198, 261–267, 271, 273, 277 f., 236, 239
285, 323 f., 327, 330 f., 396 representationalism, representationalist 4,
philosophy of language 4, 79, 83 f., 90 145–147, 217, 223
philosophy of life 82 responsibility 96, 122, 197, 263 f., 267,
philosophy of mind 4 f., 63, 68–70, 79, 281 f., 287, 323 f., 330–332
83, 87, 90, 135, 143, 147 f., 150 f., 153, Royaumont meeting 84
196 rule 72–74, 76, 118, 212, 223, 225, 256 f.,
physicalism 234–238 264, 314, 342
physics 29, 33, 114 f., 236–239, 361
plurality 34, 36, 79, 136, 239, 265, 386 schizophrenia 220
possibility 15, 51, po68, 74, 88, 103, 114, science wars 122
150 f., 196, 285 scientism 115, 143
postmodernism, postmodern 111, 117f. second person 302
post-structuralism, post-structuralist 82, seeming 129, 140
117 self-consciousness 88–90, 96, 107, 191,
practice 33–36, 40–44, 47, 54, 59, 98, 193, 235
221–223, 227, 263, 317–319, 328, 331 f., self-transparency 214
392 situatedness 217, 241, 247
pragmatism 112, 123 skepticism 43–45, 95, 118, 125, 177–179,
pretence 309–312, 315–320 183, 187, 190, 311 f., 316
proposition, propositional 5 f., 30 f., 34, skill 107, 208 f., 215, 217–219, 221 f., 226 f.
38, 41, 43, 49, 63, 65, 71, 73–76, 119, social ontology 263, 267, 277 f., 283
129–132, 134, 140, 145, 159, 167, 173, sociology 35
175–182, 204, 218, 237, 251 spontaneity 206, 388
psychologism 6, 79, 115, 145, 152 stance taking 323–327, 329–332
psychology 52 f., 63–65, 69, 84, 97, 116, structuralism 82
122, 131, 144, 187 f., 199, 216, 221, style 41, 64, 81, 86, 107, 115, 123, 226,
266–269, 285 f., 389, 396 242, 252, 313
subjective 12–14, 20 f., 88 f., 99, 149,
rationality 1, 31, 42, 101, 173–180, 183, 152 f., 190, 196, 219, 247 f., 255, 289 f.,
278, 325, 333, 383, 385, 387, 395 293, 295, 351–356, 358, 360–362,
realism 1, 4, 82, 146, 294 366 f., 383, 385, 387–390
– metaphysical 131 symmetry 33, 35 f., 39 f., 42, 122
– moral 369, 372–374
 Index of Subjects 423

teleology 111 value 33, 42, 54, 96, 193, 268–270, 298 f.,
temporality 3, 210 f. 320, 337 f., 340, 344–347, 371, 381,
testimony 29 385–388, 390–395, 397 f.
theory of action 247 f., 253–255 Verstehen 121, 159, 167, 374
thought experiment 4, 85, 149, 241, 247 f. virtue 32, 56 f., 59, 289 f., 295, 298–300,
tolerance 36, 42 302, 337, 401, 404
transcendental idealism 131, 146 f., 238,
transparency 192, 226, 241 weakness of will (akrasia) 408
truth 5 f., 49, 72, 85, 113, 117, 173 f., well-being 289–303, 305 f.
178–182, 250, 296, 298, 344, 346, 359, will 47–60, 181, 207–209, 227, 249, 252 f.,
382, 392, 398 255 f.
worldview 32 f., 115, 119 f., 123 f.
underdetermination 36, 42–44
understandable, the 367 x-phi 4