Utilitarianism tells us that actions are morally right and good if and to the extent that they add to human happiness or diminish human unhappiness. And—or, perhaps, therefore—it also tells us that the best action a person can perform is that which of all the possible actions open to him is the one which makes the greatest positive difference to human happiness. Moreover, as everyone will also remember, utilitarianism further tries to tell us, perhaps intending it as a corollary of (...) that first, main claim, that the motive for an action has nothing to do with its moral rightness or goodness. But even if, as utilitarians, we accepted the dubious corollary, it would not follow, as many have thought, that utilitarians have no moral interest in motives. For unless, absurdly, a utilitarian believed either that there was never more than a fortuitous connection between on the one hand what we intended to do and on the other what we did and the consequences of what we did, or that, if there were such connections, we could not know of them, he must believe, as a moralist, that the best motive a person can have for performing an action is likely to be the desire to produce the happiest result. Indeed, utilitarians ought to be morally committed, it would seem, to trying to find out as much as they can about the consequences of our actions, e.g. what connections exist, if any, between how we raise children and what sort of adults they grow up to be. (shrink)
Having distinguished essentially fictional characters from inessentially fictional ones and having identified Anna Karenina as an inessentially fictional character, Barrie Paskins solves the problem I posed in ‘How Can We Be Moved by the Fate of Anna Karenina?’ thus: ‘our pity towards the inessentially fictional is, or can without forcing be construed as, pity for those people if any who are in the same bind as the character in the fiction’. Making a similar point in a footnote, ‘our emotions towards (...) fictional characters are directed towards those real people, if any, who are in essentially the same situation’, he continues in the text, ‘This possibility is neglected by Radford and Weston.’. (shrink)
If I am looking at myself in a mirror I am directly facing, do I see myself looking at myself? If so, do I also see myself looking at myself looking at myself – and so on?
According to Wittgenstein's mature philosophy, no 'language game' or 'form of life' is inherently philosophically problematic. However real, practical moral problems undermine the objectivity of morality, which as moral beings we cannot abandon. This problem is both philosophical and 'real'. Morality therefore undermines the later Wittgenstein's whole account of philosophy, i.e. its nature, how such problems are resolved, and its relation with the rest of our lives. Perhaps that is why he virtually never mentions Ethics in his writings after 1932-3.
According to Wittgenstein's mature philosophy, no 'language game' or 'form of life' is inherently philosophically problematic. However real, practical moral problems undermine the objectivity of morality, which as moral beings we cannot abandon. This problem is both philosophical and 'real'. Morality therefore undermines the later Wittgenstein's whole account of philosophy, i.e. its nature, how such problems are resolved, and its relation with the rest of our lives. Perhaps that is why he virtually never mentions Ethics in his writings after 1932-3.
What is the connection between pain and pain behaviour? Is it logically necessary, or is it contingent? Or is it too complex to be classified in terms of this Humean dichotomy? Surely it is too complex, for if we say the relationship is a necessary one, we should, apparently, have to deny that there could be pain without pain behaviour, or pain behaviour without pain; yet stoicism and shamming pain occur. If we say that the relationship is not necessary and (...) so contingent, we should have to say that the natural correlate or expression of pain might have been languor or jolly laughter, and, conversely, that wincing, grimacing, writhing, groaning, etc., might have been the natural correlate or expression of sensations quite different from pains. To avoid the first difficulty it could be said that necessary connections need not be invariant. To avoid the second, it might be pointed out that some contingent connections are less contingent than others, and that, in particular, causal relationships need not always be of the external, Humean kind. But even if these observations are correct they are difficult precisely because they attempt to soften and blur a distinction whose hardness and exhaustiveness is constitutive of its clarity and strength. If we modify Hume's law we may do so only after a careful examination of a case which forces us to do so. (shrink)
In the Lectures on Religious Belief Wittgenstein is reported as saying that the non-believer cannot contradict the believer. This claim may seem both to run against our experience, particularly if we are apostates, and to offer a protection to the believer from the most direct criticism. Such claims, and others which are less clear but just as surprising, combine to suggest that much of what Wittgenstein has to say about religion and religious belief is obscurantist, and he acknowledges that some (...) say this of him. (shrink)
The origin of this paper is a problem: I had long been struck by the fact that if my glance happened to fall on a newspaper, a message on a note pad, printing on a label, etc., I would begin to read what was there written or printed—if I could see it and it was in English. If I can see it, and it is in English, I cannot but read what my glance falls on, even if I wish not (...) to do so. So my reading—at least on these occasions and of this brief sort—seemed to be involuntary. The illiterate person, of course, cannot read and, in that way, is not free to read. The person learning to read does not read freely. But the ‘free’ reader is not free not- to read that on which his glance falls. (shrink)
