维特根斯坦与列维纳斯

Downloaded by [Nanjing University] at 08:34 06 December 2012
Wittgenstein and Levinas

Ludwig Wittgenstein and Emmanuel Levinas are two of the most influ-
ential and challenging thinkers of the twentieth century. Despite this,
their writings are seen as coming from opposed philosophical camps and
as a result little work has been done comparing the two philosophers.
This book explores the hitherto neglected affinities and tensions between
their philosophies, and the often antagonistic intellectual traditions each
represents.
The two competing philosophical accounts of the ethical are juxta-
posed in order to allow the reader to deepen their understanding of one
by means of the other. The two systems of thought are brought to bear on
each other in the areas of faith, guilt and vulnerability, concepts central to
the discussion of ethics, and in doing so a surprising amount of common-
ality is highlighted. The central focus of the book is the complex, yet
mutually illuminating, interplay of a number of ethical-religious themes in
both Wittgenstein’s mature thinking on religious belief and suffering, and
Levinas’s distinctive account of ethical responsibility.
This unique book demonstrates how a critical engagement with
Wittgenstein and Levinas facilitates a rethinking of some of the most
pressing religious, ethical and political problems facing the twenty-first
century. As such, the book will be of use to postgraduate students of
Continental and Analytic philosophy, as well as those interested in
contemporary theology.
Bob Plant completed his Ph.D. in Philosophy and French at the University
of Aberdeen in 2001. He has published widely on philosophers from both
‘Analytic’ and ‘Continental’ traditions, most recently in Philosophy and
Literature, Philosophical Investigations, Philosophy and Social Criticism, Inter-
national Journal for Philosophy of Religion, Modern Theology, Journal of Scottish
Philosophy and Journal of Religious Ethics.
Routledge studies in twentieth-century philosophy
1 The Story of Analytic Philosophy

Plot and heroes
Edited by Anat Biletzki and Anat Matar
2 Donald Davidson
Truth, meaning and knowledge
Edited by Urszula M. Zeglén
3 Philosophy and Ordinary Language

The bent and genius of our tongue
Oswald Hanfling
4 The Subject in Question

Sartre’s critique of Husserl in The Transcendence of the Ego
Stephen Priest
5 Aesthetic Order
A philosophy of order, beauty and art
Ruth Lorland
6 Naturalism
A critical analysis
Edited by William Lane Craig and J.P. Moreland
7 Grammar in Early Twentieth-Century Philosophy

Richard Gaskin
8 Rules, Magic and Instrumental Reason

A critical interpretation of Peter Winch’s philosophy of the social
sciences
Berel Dov Lerner
9 Gaston Bachelard
Critic of science and the imagination
Cristina Chimisso
10 Hilary Putnam
Pragmatism and realism
Edited by James Conant and Urszula Zeglén
11 Karl Jaspers
Politics and metaphysics

Chris Thornhill
12 From Kant to Davidson

The idea of the transcendental in twentieth-century philosophy
Edited by Jeff Malpas
13 Collingwood and the Metaphysics of Experience

A reinterpretation
Giuseppina D’Oro
14 The Logic of Liberal Rights

A study in the formal analysis of legal discourse
Eric Heinze
15 Real Metaphysics
Edited by Hallvard Lillehammer and Gonzalo Rodriguez-Pereyra
16 Philosophy After Postmodernism

Civilized values and the scope of knowledge
Paul Crowther
17 Phenomenology and Imagination in Husserl and Heidegger

Brian Elliott
18 Laws in Nature
Stephen Mumford
19 Trust and Toleration

Richard H. Dees
20 The Metaphysics of Perception

Wilfrid Sellars, critical realism and the nature of experience
Paul Coates
21 Wittgenstein, Austrian Economics, and the Logic of Action
Praxeological investigations
Roderick T. Long
22 Ineffability and Philosophy

André Kukla
23 Kant, Cognitive Metaphor and Continental Philosophy

Clive Cazeaux
24 Wittgenstein and Levinas

Ethical and religious thought
Bob Plant
25 Philosophy of Time
Time before times
Roger McClure
Wittgenstein and Levinas
Ethical and religious thought
Bob Plant
First published 2005

by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada
by Routledge
270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group
This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005.
“To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s
collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.”
© 2005 Bob Plant
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or

reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical,
or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including
photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
A catalog record for this book has been requested
ISBN 0-203-02311-0 Master e-book ISBN
ISBN 0-415-34995-8 (Print Edition)

For Joy and John Wharton

This ribald laughter clawed at my heart. How could they laugh like that
when somewhere someone was groaning in despair, suffering boundless
torments?
Stefan Zweig, Beware of Pity
The question is not: How much are you going to get out of it? Nor is it
How much are you going to put into it? But rather: How immediately are
you going to say Yes to no matter what unpredictability, even when what
happens seems to have no relation to what one thought was one’s commit-
ment?
John Cage, A Year from Monday
Contents
Preface xii
Acknowledgments xiv
Introduction 1
Hauntings 1
Wittgenstein: radical pluralism and the natural 3
Levinas: the guilt of the survivor 7
Saintliness and Levinas’s anti-naturalism 8
A note on ‘radical otherness’ 9
1 Peaceful thoughts: philosophy as therapy in

Pyrrhonism and Wittgenstein 12
Introduction 12
The abandonment of belief: Pyrrhonian naturalism 13
The social chameleon: ethical-political implications of
Pyrrhonism 18
Wittgenstein’s grammatical therapy and the sources of disease 21
Seeing the world aright: Wittgenstein’s rhetoric 28
Wittgenstein and Pyrrhonian conservatism 37
2 Trusting in a world-picture: knowledge, faith and

ethics after On Certainty 41
Introduction 41
Echoes of Pyrrhonism: doubt, knowledge and the groundlessness of
belief 42
Rock and sand: fundamental propositions and blasphemy 52
Fools, heretics and dogmatism: the question of religious
fundamentalism 57
Persuasion, conversion and judging others: ethical-political
implications of On Certainty 63
x Contents
3 Pluralism, justice and vulnerability: politicizing
Wittgenstein 70
Introduction 70
Politics, religion and the rhetoric of pluralism 71
Totalitarianism and Lyotard’s politics of dissensus 77
Body, soul, suffering and the specter of amoralism 82
The primitive and the modern: Wittgenstein on Frazer’s Golden
Bough 90
Reconsidering Lyotard’s pagan justice 94
4 Interlude: on preferring peace to war 96
5 Wretchedness without recompense: Wittgenstein on

religion, ethics and guilt 101
Introduction 101
The consequences of belief: understanding Wittgenstein’s hesitancy
102
Immortality and ethical responsibility 109
Sin, wretchedness and bad conscience 113
Guilt, being judged and Dostoyevsky’s imperative: religion without
recompense 116
6 Trespassing: guilt and sacrifice in Heidegger, Levinas

and ordinary life 122
Introduction 122
Conscience and guilt in Heidegger’s Being and Time 123
Levinas’s ghosts: trespassing and the violence of being 128
Guilt and the grammar of the face 131
Confessions: the singularity of guilt and ordinary experience 138
7 The unreasonableness of ethics: Levinas and the limits

of responsibility 148
Introduction 148
Thanking God for the third party: the haunting of the
political/Levinas’s prayer 149
The unreasonableness of ethics: Levinas’s anti-naturalism 159
Versions of the natural: Levinas, Nietzsche and Wittgenstein 166
The bark of a dog: the other (as) animal 171
Something animal 177
Contents xi
8 Contaminations: Levinas, Wittgenstein and Derrida 180
Introduction 180
Haunted houses: Levinas’s phenomenology of home 181
The perils of hospitality 183
From the law of iterability to the confessional 186
Skepticism, trust and violence 188
(Deciding) On the impossible 193
Enduring faith 196
Synopsis 199
Notes 201
Bibliography 269
Index 286
Preface
This book is a revised version of my doctoral thesis, written under the super-
vision of Dr. Jonathan Friday and Dr. Ian Maclachlan at the University of
Aberdeen between 1997 and 2001. That is the abridged account. The
slightly longer version goes something like this: I began studying philosophy
(of a broadly ‘Analytic’ type) in 1992, and soon became preoccupied with
the significance of Wittgenstein’s later work for ethics and the philosophy of
religion. Then, between 1995 and 1997, I studied for a postgraduate degree
in modern ‘Continental’ philosophy. My reasons for taking this route were
entirely circumstantial, but it was here that I first encountered Levinas. I will
not pretend that my initial reaction to his philosophy was anything other
than hostile. Nevertheless, by working through selected essays and inter-
views I gradually found myself warming to certain aspects of Levinas’s think-
ing. (As the reader will discover, I am not wholly persuaded by Levinas’s
distinctive oeuvre.) To the dismay of some of my tutors, throughout this
period my interest in Wittgenstein persisted, and it was here that I first read
On Certainty – a text that continues to preoccupy me more than any other of
his writings. All this eventually culminated in a Masters dissertation on the
question of religious apologetics in Wittgenstein and Levinas. It was on the
basis of this piece that I began my doctoral work in 1997.
Throughout the following chapters I draw on the work of a number of
philosophers from both so-called ‘Analytic’ and ‘Continental’ traditions.
However, in all this a rather special place is reserved for Derrida. Given
the explicit focus of this book I should therefore say something about my
interest in him.
I came to Derrida’s voluminous writings very late. In fact, prior to
beginning my doctorate I had conscientiously avoided him. The image I
then had of Derrida (an image that continues to dominate much ‘Ana-
lytic’ philosophy) was of an insidious – albeit playful – ‘postmodern’
skeptic. After reading his work on a variety of ethical-political questions, I
was therefore surprised to discover that Derrida was not only a deeply
humane thinker but anti-skeptical in a not dissimilar way to Wittgenstein.
Moreover, in his recent articulation and development of a number of Lev-
inasian themes, Derrida’s work fed naturally into many of my most persis-
Preface xiii
tent philosophical interests. It therefore seemed (and still seems) to me
entirely appropriate that he should be allowed to ‘haunt’ the following
analysis of Wittgenstein and Levinas.
It is customary at this juncture to force a neat, linear narrative out of
such biographical details. But that would give a false impression of how
this book came about. Instead, I would like to cite a few passages from
Wittgenstein’s last notebooks On Certainty, for these encapsulate the
central themes of the following chapters.
Toward the end of On Certainty Wittgenstein imagines someone whose
beliefs and practices seem ‘radically’ different from his own. He there writes:
Is it wrong for me to be guided in my actions by the propositions of

physics? Am I to say I have no good ground for doing so? Isn’t pre-
cisely this what we call a ‘good ground’? . . . Supposing we met people
who did not regard that as a telling reason. Now, how do we imagine
this? Instead of the physicist, they consult an oracle. (And for that we
consider them primitive.) Is it wrong for them to consult an oracle
and be guided by it? – If we call this ‘wrong’ aren’t we using our lan-
guage-game as a base from which to combat theirs? . . . And are we
right or wrong to combat it? Of course there are all sorts of slogans
which will be used to support our proceedings . . . Where two prin-
ciples really do meet which cannot be reconciled with one another,
then each man declares the other a fool and heretic . . . I said I would
‘combat’ the other man, – but wouldn’t I give him reasons? Certainly;
but how far do they go? At the end of reasons comes persuasion.
(Think what happens when missionaries convert natives.)
(1999: §§608–12)
In these few brief remarks Wittgenstein raises a host of troubling ques-

tions concerning rhetoric, conflict and the limits of rational justification.
Since first reading On Certainty I have found myself continually drawn
back to these specific passages. But it seemed to me then, as now, that the
questions Wittgenstein here poses call for an ethical, as well as the more
customary epistemological response. It is my hope that the present book
goes some way toward providing this.
A final word. Throughout the book I have indulged in what some will
judge an excessive amount of cross-referencing. In my defense I would like
to say two things. First, many of the texts I refer to are either not indexed at
all (Derrida’s publishers are especially guilty of this), or insufficiently
detailed on this score. This, it seems to me, is a deeply frustrating practice
with no discernible rationale. And second, this book represents the first
detailed discussion of Wittgenstein and Levinas. As such, I felt it was import-
ant to bring as much relevant material to bear on the themes in question.
Bob Plant
Sheffield, 2004
Acknowledgments
This book would not have been possible without the encouragement, philo-
sophical rigor and therapeutic laughter of Jonathan Friday and Ian
Maclachlan. It is also due to their friendship that my time spent under their
supervision at the University of Aberdeen has left me with only the happiest
of memories. I would also like to thank Simon Glendinning for his support
and, not least, for setting the precedent in openly ignoring the so-called
‘Analytic/Continental divide.’ Sincere gratitude to the departments of
Philosophy and French at the University of Aberdeen for providing such a
hospitable environment in which to work, and to Paul Tomassi and Gordon
Graham in particular for their comments on early drafts of Chapters 2 and
3 (respectively). Thanks also to Eric Matthews for his perceptive remarks on
my doctoral thesis, and to Peter Baumann for so many stimulating conversa-
tions that sharpened my awareness of (to borrow Derrida’s formulation)
‘the production of the extraordinary within the ordinary.’ For their friend-
ship and generosity a special thank you to Jackie Rattray and Audrey Small.
Sections of this book have appeared (in condensed form) in a number of
journals. I am grateful to them for granting me permission to reproduce
some of the material here. A version of Chapter 1 was published as ‘The
End(s) of Philosophy: Rhetoric, Therapy and Wittgenstein’s Pyrrhonism’, in
Philosophical Investigations, Vol. 27, No. 3 (July 2004), 222–57. Parts of Chapter
2 were published as ‘Our Natural Constitution: Wolterstorff on Reid and
Wittgenstein’, in Journal of Scottish Philosophy, Vol. 1, No. 2 (Autumn 2003),
157–70. Parts of Chapters 2 and 3 appeared as ‘Blasphemy, Dogmatism and
Injustice: The Rough Edges of On Certainty’, in International Journal for Philo-
sophy of Religion, Vol. 54, No. 2 (October 2003), 101–35. Parts of Chapters 5
and 6 were published as ‘Ethics without Exit: Levinas and Murdoch’, in Philo-
sophy and Literature, Vol. 27, No. 2 (October 2003), 456–70. Parts of Chapters
5 and 7 were published as ‘Doing Justice to the Derrida–Levinas Connection:
A Response to Mark Dooley’, in Philosophy & Social Criticism, Vol. 29, No. 4
(July 2003), 427–50. I would also like to thank three anonymous readers for
their remarks on an earlier draft of this book, and Joe Whiting, Amrit
Bangard, Terry Clague and Yeliz Ali at Routledge and Gail Welsh and Alan
Fidler at Wearset for their help and encouragement in this project.
Introduction
This life of ours is a hospital, in which all the patients are obsessed with a
desire to change beds. One would prefer to suffer near the stove, and
another thinks he would soon recover near the window. I always have the
feeling that I would be better anywhere except where I actually am, and
the idea of a removal is one which I am constantly discussing with my Soul.
C. Baudelaire, The Poems in Prose
If our condition were truly happy, we should not have to divert our
thoughts from it in order to be happy.
B. Pascal, The Pensées
Hauntings
Levinas was once asked whether, contrary to structuralism, his work
represented ‘an attempt to preserve subjectivity in some form?’ His
response was unequivocal: ‘My thinking on this matter goes in the oppos-
ite direction to structuralism.’ Levinas’s commitment is not, of course, to
the Cartesian ‘self-sufficient cogito’ (1984: 63) but rather to an ethically
constituted subject. For the ‘other haunts our ontological existence and
keeps the psyche awake . . . Even though we are ontologically free to
refuse the other, we remain forever accused, with a bad conscience’ (ibid.:
63–4). Although the philosophical grounding and implications of these
remarks are hardly self-evident, there are two reasons for my beginning
with them. First, part of my objective is to show that the sentiments
expressed here form the nucleus of Levinas’s philosophy. That the other
‘haunts our ontological existence’ is the guiding thread running through-
out Levinas’s writings, and it is in this sense that his work constitutes an
extended meditation on existential ‘guilt.’ The second reason for citing
these passages is that they foreground the central themes of my argument
more broadly. I will now explain how.
That the human subject cannot adequately be understood abstracted
from its relation to others is a broad enough claim to raise little
philosophical interest. What is significant is how Levinas’s specific
2 Introduction
understanding of this relationship renders a distinctly ethical account of
subjectivity. It is the aforementioned notion of ‘being haunted’ that I will
therefore explore within a number of ethical, political and religious con-
texts. But posing the question of subjectivity in this way simultaneously
moves us within the orbit of certain aspects of Wittgenstein’s thinking.
This may seem a surprising claim given that Wittgenstein’s later work
appears to lack a ‘developed notion of the self’ (Werhane 1995: 62).
While this may be true if one means by ‘self’ something akin to the Carte-
sian res cogitans,1 there is nevertheless a sense of ethical subjectivity in
Wittgenstein’s work that is easily overlooked in the routine excavation of

his writings for epistemological theses. Of course, elucidating this ethical
dimension requires considerable textual reconstruction. It also necessit-
ates discretion regarding some of Wittgenstein’s more often quoted
remarks. I do not want to suggest that Wittgenstein provides a systematic
account of ethical subjectivity. Nevertheless, I will argue that he provides
important indications of how such an account should be conceived. It is at
this point that Levinas’s thinking becomes extremely pertinent.
Levinas’s work is often as bewildering as it is insightful. Indeed, his
general textual practice frequently resembles a ‘poetic composition’
(Wittgenstein 1994a: 24) rather than anything traditionally ‘philosophi-
cal.’ But Levinas’s thinking is nevertheless rich in philosophical content.
As I will explain, for those unfamiliar with Levinas (or for those, like
myself, who find him continually able to disrupt their sense of familiarity),
his writings might usefully be read as a sustained attempt to ‘say’ what,
according to the early (and arguably later2) Wittgenstein, can only be
‘shown.’ That is, Levinas’s incessant running ‘against the boundaries of
language’ (Wittgenstein 1993: 44) represents his endeavor to write ‘the
book on Ethics which really was a book on Ethics’ (ibid.: 40) that Wittgen-
stein thought to be both ‘absolutely hopeless’ (ibid.: 44) and the most
‘important’ (1996b: 94) task.3 These aspects of Wittgenstein’s early think-
ing provide an initial route into Levinas’s work. However, my principal
concern is to show that there are more interesting correlations between
Levinas and the later Wittgenstein. For, while the orientation of each
philosopher may seem very different, Wittgenstein nevertheless has valu-
able things to say on a number of ‘Levinasian’ themes. Not only are both
philosophers concerned with the relationship between the ‘grammar’ of
the ethical and religious, so too does each focus attention on (for
example) the human face, vulnerability and guilt.
Although within the proceeding chapters I draw on the work of a
number of philosophers from both ‘Analytic’ and ‘Continental’ traditions,
a special place is reserved for Derrida, whose thinking provides a contin-
ual point of reference. It should be noted, however, that my primary inter-
est in Derrida lies with his more recent writings on ethical, political and
religious matters.4 What specifically concerns me is how Derrida both
problematizes and recasts a number of Levinasian motifs in his reflections
Introduction 3
on the aporias of the gift, hospitality and home, the sacrificial structure of
ethical life, and the manifold ruses of ‘good conscience.’ While there is a
substantial secondary literature available concerning the relationship
between Derrida and Levinas5 (and some interest in Derrida and Wittgen-
stein6), there is currently no detailed work available on Wittgenstein and
Levinas.7 I would therefore like to say something about each philosopher
in turn, and thereby contextualize my own project.
Wittgenstein: radical pluralism and the natural

While Wittgenstein is not a systematic thinker, his later writings have been
extensively quarried and their central ‘arguments’ extracted. But this
general philosophical appropriation has been undertaken with little
regard for the broader therapeutic-naturalistic vision therein.8 Due to his
recurrent emphasis on ‘language-games’ (1958: §24), ‘forms of life’ (ibid.:
p. 226) and ‘world-picture[s]’ (1999: §167), Wittgenstein’s later work is
often seen to be fundamentally concerned with linguistic-conceptual ‘plu-
rality.’ This is perhaps unsurprising given that his avowed ‘interest is in
shewing that things which look the same are really different’ (Drury 1981:
171).9 Nevertheless, two important questions need to be raised here: (1)
What are the philosophical motives for Wittgenstein’s concern with these
‘differences’?10 And (2) how deep do such ‘differences’ actually go? I will
now briefly indicate what is at stake in these two questions, and the role
each plays in my argument.
What are the philosophical motives for Wittgenstein’s concern with

‘differences’?
In Chapter 1 I argue that this question can only be answered by consider-
ing Wittgenstein’s broader therapeutic aspirations. A crucial part of what
motivates his aforementioned preoccupation with ‘differences’ is his
desire for a life liberated from theoretical bewilderment. These perplexi-
ties arise because language ‘seduces us into thinking’ (1958: §93) that – as
Wittgenstein himself had once thought – philosophical questions can only
be answered by discovering the ‘a priori . . . utterly simple’ (ibid.: §97)
essence of things, and specifically ‘the essence of language’ (ibid.: §91).
The later Wittgenstein attempts to demonstrate how this supposition actu-
ally exacerbates those perplexities we seek liberation from. If we resist the
lures of abstract theorizing (and the ‘preconceived idea of crystalline purity’
guiding it) and instead concern ourselves with describing the multifarious
ways language actually functions ‘in ordinary life’ (ibid.: §108) we find
that different language-games are governed by different, more-or-less
interwoven ‘rules.’ Only by acknowledging and respecting this ‘given’
(ibid.: p. 226) multiplicity11 can we eschew both our obsession with
‘essences’ and the philosophical anxieties this generates.
4 Introduction
Wittgenstein’s preoccupation with conceptual vulnerabilities is not,
however, unprecedented. Thus, a number of striking similarities emerge
between his work and Pyrrhonian Skepticism. Both Wittgenstein and
Sextus Empiricus cast their respective projects in overtly therapeutic
terms, and similarly share the ideal of the non-philosophical life liberated
from conceptual anxieties. But what also needs to be recognized here is
the ethical-political terrain of each philosophy. For Sextus this relates
directly to the rejection of the life of theoretical speculation and inculca-
tion of a natural ‘ataraxia’ (unperturbedness). Recovering our ‘animal’
nature is therefore ethically significant insofar as it liberates us also from

the burdens of ethical-political commitment. Only by taking our guidance
from momentary ‘appearances’ (1996: 1:19), and passively conforming to
the ‘handed down laws and customs’ (ibid.: 1:24) of our immediate
community, can we both procure and maintain ‘ataraxia.’ These implica-
tions of Pyrrhonism are both troubling and problematic. Nevertheless,
they are extremely useful for negotiating the somewhat less obvious
ethical-political terrain of Wittgenstein’s later work. Given both Wittgen-
stein’s preoccupation with multiplicity and plurality, and commitment to
only describe the ‘actual use of language’ (1958: §124), his work has often
been suspected of quasi-Pyrrhonian ‘conservatism’ and/or relativism. This
brings us to the second question.
How deep do the aforementioned ‘differences’ actually go?

In order to answer this question attention must be given to the minimal
naturalism underpinning Wittgenstein’s later thinking. If within the multi-
plicity of language-games, forms of life and world-pictures we discover
radical ‘differences’ at play, then the social realm could legitimately be
characterized as one of interminable conflict or (in Lyotard’s terms) ‘dis-
sensus.’ As Wittgenstein remarks: ‘Where two principles . . . meet which
cannot be reconciled with one another, then each man declares the other
a fool and heretic’ (1999: §611). On this account, the prospects for non-
coercive communication between such parties look increasingly bleak, not
least because ‘[a]t the end of reasons comes persuasion. (Think what
happens when missionaries convert natives.)’ (ibid.: §612). Such senti-
ments are common in On Certainty, and it is therefore unsurprising that
this text has been identified as Wittgenstein’s most conservative and rela-
tivistic work. But while those making such accusations correctly identify
On Certainty as having some ethical-political import, they underestimate its
internal complexities. For a thorough investigation reveals that the depth
of those ‘differences’ and conflicts between world-pictures here remains
undetermined. Not only does Wittgenstein allude to ‘something universal’
(ibid.: §440), his reflections on ‘man . . . as an animal; as a primitive being’
(ibid.: §475) and the ineliminable role of ‘trust’ (ibid.: §509)12 in all lan-
guage-games suggests that the social realm is not fundamentally frag-
Introduction 5
mented. Rather, as he suggests elsewhere, the ‘common behavior of
mankind’ (1958: §206) provides the natural background against which
human life has meaning.13 (As I argue later, this point is substantiated
both in Wittgenstein’s remarks on the derivative nature of linguistic
behavior from ‘pre-linguistic’ (1990: §541), ‘primitive behavior’ (ibid.:
§545), and his numerous reflections on the human body, face and soul.) I
have intentionally referred to Wittgenstein’s naturalism as ‘minimal’ – or
what might be called a ‘naturalism of surfaces’ (Gaita 2003: 194). This is
not willful equivocation, for the sort of naturalism I attribute to Wittgen-
stein is – as I argue in Chapter 3 – necessarily presupposed by even the

most radically anti-naturalistic, anti-foundationalist thinkers. This minimal
naturalism is therefore neither reductive nor insensitive to the genuine
‘differences’ between human beings, cultures, historical epochs and
indeed human and non-human animals. But perhaps the best way of
expressing this point is to recall Wittgenstein’s own allusion to the rela-
tionship ‘between concepts and very general facts of nature’ (1958:
p. 230). For I similarly want to supply ‘remarks on the natural history of
human beings,’ and thereby make ‘observations which no one has
doubted, but which have [often] escaped remark . . . because they are
always before our eyes’ (ibid.: §415).
As intimated above, Wittgenstein’s naturalism is not immediately obvious

in On Certainty. Nevertheless, if one reads this text alongside others (as I
do in Chapter 3), then a clearer picture emerges of how Wittgenstein’s
naturalism fits into his broader therapeutic project. Moreover, identifying
this dimension of Wittgenstein’s later work enables us to respond to a
closely related accusation made against his thinking on specifically reli-
gious matters; namely, Wittgenstein’s apparent anti-apologetic ‘fideism.’14
As Smart pithily remarks, Wittgenstein’s approach to religion (or at least a
certain interpretation of this15) is problematic ‘because it would put me
out of a job, or at least out of half a job, since it would make the study of
religions other than one’s own . . . [a] waste of time’ (Smart 1971: 173).
The problem of ‘Wittgensteinian fideism’ provides a useful test case for
examination in the light of Wittgenstein’s naturalism, and in Chapter 5 I
argue that the problem of fideism only arises if one disregards this import-
ant aspect of Wittgenstein’s thinking. On a fairly common, quasi-commu-
nitarian reading of his later work16 many of his remarks do seem to lead to
fideistic conclusions.17 Thus, when Wittgenstein claims that the believer
and non-believer each employ an ‘entirely different kind of reasoning’
(1994b: 58) and remain on an ‘entirely different plane’ (ibid.: 56), it
appears that he is committed to a radical incommensurability thesis.
However, when in ‘Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough’ Wittgenstein criti-
cizes Frazer’s anthropology of ‘primitive’18 religious and magical practices,
he emphasizes ‘the importance of finding connecting links’ (1996a: 69)
between these allegedly ‘superstitious’ practices and ‘any genuinely
6 Introduction
religious action of today’ (ibid.: 64). What Frazer fails to take into account
is how the rituals he describes reflect a ‘general inclination’ (ibid.: 78),
‘kinship’ (ibid.: 70) or ‘common spirit’ (ibid.: 80) of human beings.19
Thus, in those specific ‘phenomena’ connected with ‘death, birth, and
sexual life’ (ibid.: 66–7)20 we discover the most elementary features which
unify human life despite its immense socio-historical diversity. But such
remarks are of more general ethical-political interest beyond questions of
religious belief. This can be seen in Greisch’s recent remarks concerning
the difference between the later Wittgenstein and Werner Marx’s work on
the ‘unifying principle’ (Greisch 1999: 50) of sympathy. Greisch thus

laments how
anyone who is familiar with the thought of the later Wittgenstein will
have difficulty sharing the optimism of [Werner Marx] who calculates
that an ethics of compassion appears capable of surmounting the het-
erogeneity of language games and the corresponding forms of life.
(1999: 58)
Although both Greisch and Smart express the same general misgiving
about Wittgenstein’s later work (namely, that it divides human life into
fundamentally incommensurable ‘forms of life’),21 Greisch puts a dis-
tinctly ethical-political twist on the matter. This emphasis is correct, not
least because the question of religious ‘fideism’ is already an ethical-polit-
ical question of how to engage justly with a ‘world picture’ other than
one’s own.22 However, what is striking about Greisch’s remarks is how he
overlooks the role of ‘primitive’ behaviors (including those of ‘sympathy’
(Wittgenstein 1993: 381)) in Wittgenstein’s own thinking – behaviors
upon which ethical-political life is hinged.
This is how the first few chapters of the book are oriented. In Chapter 5,
however, I focus on Wittgenstein’s ethicalization of certain ‘religious’
themes. Specifically what interest me here are his suggestions concerning
the relationship between the notion of ‘immortality’ and ‘ethical ideas of
responsibility,’ and how the latter are connected with an experience of
guilt ‘that even death couldn’t stop’ (1994b: 70).23 The sentiments
expressed here are not uncommon in Wittgenstein’s work, for the inti-
mated fissure between the ethical ‘ought’ and ontological ‘can’ is a recur-
rent feature of his account of genuine religiosity.24 Toward the end of
Chapter 5 I therefore argue that, rather than reading Wittgenstein’s anti-
apologetics as essentially fideistic, we might instead read him as gesturing
toward an ethicalized conception of religiosity where the believer is
promised nothing ‘in return’ for their commitment. The possibility of
faith without eschatological assurance is, I believe, a more philosophically
interesting way of understanding Wittgenstein’s claim that the ‘man who
stated . . . [his religious convictions] categorically was more intelligent
than the man who was apologetic about it’ (ibid.: 62–3). It also helps us to
Introduction 7
elucidate the relationship between religious belief and ethical respons-
ibility. Yet despite these tantalizing possibilities, Wittgenstein never
systematically worked out his views on religion and ethics. What is beyond
serious dispute, however, is that he firmly believed that the religious and
ethical dimensions of human life are intimately connected – so much so
that no real sense could be made of the former without reference to the
latter. Wittgenstein’s fragmentary reflections on religion thus call for sup-
plementation, and – as I argue in Chapters 6 and 7 – Levinas provides this.
Levinas: the guilt of the survivor

Like Wittgenstein, Levinas considers religion and ethics to be inseparable.
But he goes further than Wittgenstein and describes the ‘relation with the
other’ as ‘religion’ (1996a: 7). That is, we must seek ‘a non-ontological
notion of God,’ and this is only possible ‘starting from the relationship
with the other [human being]’ (2000: 180). Still, a number of important
parallels emerge between Levinas and Wittgenstein. Both, for example,
see vulnerability and suffering as fundamental in one’s relations with
others. Moreover, Levinas’s reflections on the ethical significance of the
‘face’ (which constitutes ‘a summons and a demand’ in its silent ‘ “Thou
shalt not kill” ’ (1998b: 186)) usefully extends Wittgenstein’s own remarks
on the body and face. I highlight these correlations in Chapters 6 and 7.
But there is one facet of Levinas’s work that enables us to sharpen some of
Wittgenstein’s thoughts on religious and ethical themes. Though it is
rarely designated as such, Levinas’s ethics is haunted by a very particular
notion of guilt; the guilt ‘of the survivor’ (2000: 12). Briefly stated, Levinas
maintains that simply in virtue of my being-in-the-world I live at the expense
of another. ‘What is an individual, if not a usurper?’ he rhetorically
inquires, ‘[w]hat is signified by the advent of conscience . . . if not the dis-
covery of corpses beside me and my horror of existing by assassination?’
(1997a: 100). Challenging Heidegger’s preoccupation with ontology,
Levinas therefore claims that ‘my being calls for justification: being-there,
is that not already occupying another’s place? The Da of Dasein is already
an ethical problem’ (1993: 48). As such, the first question is not ‘ “Why is
there being rather than nothingness?” ’ but rather ‘ “Is it just to be?” ’
(ibid.: 92). These are shocking themes, not least because Levinas repudi-
ates the suggestion that such guilt can be assuaged. Rather, one’s relation
to the other is ‘an exposure without shelter, as under a leaden sun without
protective shade’ (2000: 196), for responsibility actually ‘increases as one
responds to it; it is an impossibility of acquitting the debt’ (ibid.: 195).
Concerning the other ‘our accounts are never settled’ (1993: 125), not
only because one could always have done more for this other but also
because even the most ethical of responses to this other is always at the
expense of another other. Levinas’s deeply non-teleological conception of
ethics is why religiosity needs to be thought ‘independently of the Happy
8 Introduction
End’ (1988a: 175) promised by specific religious world-pictures. I there-
fore argue in Chapter 6 that a proper understanding of Levinas’s concep-
tion of guilt can only be attained if we recognize its dual source in: (1) the
Nazi death camps of the 1940s, and (2) Heidegger’s Being and Time. I will
briefly explain this twofold approach.
By his own admission, Levinas’s thinking is ‘dominated’ by the
‘memory of the Nazi horror’ (1997a: 291). Indeed, his work constitutes a
sustained attempt to respond to the question: ‘can we speak of an absolute
commandment after Auschwitz? Can we speak of morality after the failure
of morality?’ (1988a: 175). Not only does Levinas’s rhetoric parallel that of
more ‘confessional’ Holocaust writers, his concern with the ‘nakedness’
(1993: 102), ‘exposure’ (1998b: 145) and ‘vulnerability’ (1996a: 102) of
the other necessarily leads us to reflect on the daily realities of the death
camps. Yet, it is in Levinas’s remarks on the ‘shame of surviving’ (1998b:
169) that the philosophical force of the Holocaust on his writings truly
emerges.
Relating Levinas’s ethics to Heidegger’s ontology is a more precarious
enterprise, given the former’s suspicions concerning the ethical-political
implications of the Heideggerian project. Although Levinas considers
Being and Time to be ‘one of the finest books in the history of philosophy’
(1992: 37), he remains unsure that Heidegger’s notorious affiliation with
the Nazis (and specifically his ‘silence concerning . . . the Holocaust’
(1989: 487)) can be entirely dissociated from the central themes of that
‘extraordinary book’ (ibid.: 488). Nevertheless, in Chapter 6 I argue that
§§54–60 of Being and Time (regarding the ‘call of conscience’ and ontolog-
ical ‘guilt’) are crucial for understanding both Levinas’s ethics and
Derrida’s subsequent articulation of many of the former’s central themes.
(I turn explicitly to Derrida in Chapter 8.) Although these themes are
intimately connected to Heidegger’s analysis of Dasein as that ‘entity
which in its Being has this very Being as an issue’ (1999: p. 68) which
Levinas rejects, they nevertheless provide the latter with the raw philo-
sophical material from which to assemble his own ethicalized account of
subjectivity – that is, a subject who is haunted not by its own ‘potentiality-
for-Being’ (ibid.: p. 276) but by the other who calls its murderous being-in-
the-world into question.
Saintliness and Levinas’s anti-naturalism

If commentators have underestimated Wittgenstein’s naturalism, then
Levinas’s anti-naturalism has received even less attention. In Chapter 7 I
address this omission by considering: (1) why Levinas casts his ethics in an
overtly ‘religious’ vocabulary, and (2) how his ethics feeds off a distinctly
bleak conception of ‘the natural.’ The central issue here is Levinas’s claim
that in sacrificing one’s own interests and welfare for the sake of another
(and our persistent belief that ‘saintliness’ (1988a: 172) or ‘love without
Introduction 9
reward is valuable’ (ibid.: 176–7)) the realm of ‘the human breaks with
pure being.’ In short, the human is an ‘unreasonable animal’ because it
‘cannot not admire saintliness . . . that is, the person who in his being is
more attached to the being of the other than to his own’ (ibid.: 172). This
claim not only lies at the heart of Levinas’s conception of religiosity, it is
also what founds his anti-naturalism. For he maintains that ‘the first truth
of ontology [is] the struggle to be’ and it is this principle that governs the
natural realm. Contrary to the laws of being, ethics is ‘against nature
because it forbids the murderousness of my natural will to put my own
existence first’ (1984: 60).

One outcome of Levinas’s anti-naturalism is that his purportedly
‘radical’ rethinking of ethics simply reiterates traditional anthropocentric
assumptions. He therefore insists that, although ‘[o]ne cannot entirely
refuse the face of an animal . . . the priority here is not found in the
animal, but in the human face’ (1988a: 169); ethical concern for non-
human animals ‘arises from the transference to animals of the idea of suf-
fering’ (ibid.: 172). According to Levinas, genuine concern for others
marks a radical break, not only from the animal component of human
being, but also from what is ‘reasonable.’ On this latter point Wittgenstein
would agree: the ethical is indeed not founded upon ‘reason.’ However,
Levinas’s conclusion that ethics is therefore ‘unreasonable’ must be ques-
tioned. Here, I argue, it would be better to borrow Wittgenstein’s terms
and say that ethical life ‘is not reasonable (or unreasonable)’ (1999:
§559), for talking of ‘reason’ here diverts attention away from those
natural, primitive phenomena ‘[w]e are used . . . to “dismissing” . . . as irra-
tional [or] as corresponding to a low state of intelligence, etc.’ (1993:
389). Levinas misrepresents the natural realm insofar as he neglects the
possibility that ‘it is a primitive reaction to tend, to treat, the part that
hurts when someone else is in pain; and not merely when oneself is’
(Wittgenstein 1990: §540). In short, Levinas’s bleak vision of the natural
simultaneously excludes those primitive reactions upon which ethical life
(including ‘saintliness’) is founded; natural behaviors we share with many
non-human animals.
A note on ‘radical otherness’

Attention to Levinas’s writings remains somewhat uneven in contem-
porary philosophy. His work is embraced more-or-less critically by
those casting themselves as rigorously (sometimes exclusively) ‘Contin-
ental.’ Often Levinas seems more at home in departments of religious
studies, literature or cultural theory, and in many academic institutions his
work receives no attention at all. The reasons for this are doubtless
complex,25 but the lack of secondary literature currently available that
attempts to present Levinas’s thought to those working outside ‘Contin-
ental’ circles can only exacerbate this situation. Still, while Levinas’s
10 Introduction
conceptual vocabulary may not have captured the imagination of many
philosophers, notions of the ‘absolute singularity’ and ‘radical otherness
of the “other” ’ have become dominant in many other disciplines.26 Clearly
the value of this terminology should be assessed within the particular
context of its application. However, it is equally apparent that such tropes
are frequently used without any explanation or justification27 – what Bern-
stein rightly condemns as ‘the facile “postmodern” temptation to lump
together all differences under the general rubric of the “Other” ’ (1991:
219).28 Too much philosophical mischief has been done with this termi-
nology, and yet it is routinely assumed that ‘radical otherness’ makes per-
fectly good sense. Although I focus on this in Chapters 3 and 5, the hazard
with such notions can be easily summarized. Even if one accepts that the
other is ‘radically other’ (and this is far from unproblematic), nothing of
any ethical consequence necessarily follows; one might just as well talk of
the ‘relation’ with the other in terms of wonder, astonishment or simple
befuddlement.29 If the other is indeed radically ‘other’ then how could one
ever know that there had been an encounter with the other, for as such
the other ‘would not even show up’ (Derrida 1992a: 68)?30 A second ques-
tion emerges at this juncture that relates specifically to Levinas’s work. By
stressing the relation between self and the singular ‘other,’ Levinas must
account for the passage between the ethical relation and the political rela-
tion concerning those other ‘others’ outside the intimacy of the face-to-face
relation. So, something substantive needs to be said in order to: (1)
account for the very notion of ‘radical otherness,’ and (2) bridge the gap
between the mere encounter with this ‘radically other’ and the demands
of ethical-political responsibility. Although Levinas does attempt to
explain this movement from ethics to justice, his recurrent emphasis on
the absolute singularity of the ‘other’ inevitably makes the realm of the
political appear as a ‘betrayal’ (1994a: 158) of the ethical relation.
Without simply rejecting the notion of ‘otherness,’ I want to temper its
purported radicality by reference to Wittgenstein’s minimal naturalism.31
My contention is that critically negotiating between Levinas and Wittgen-
stein in this way not only brings their respective philosophical projects
into close (though not always comfortable) proximity, but also enables us
to address matters of ethical, political and religious importance.
Before substantiating these claims, there is one further point I would
like to make concerning the assumed ‘otherness’ of so-called ‘Contin-
ental’ philosophy in ‘Analytic’ circles (and vice versa). While I recognize
that it is possible to maintain the distinction between these ‘traditions,’ in
this book I do not do so. It is not that I have deliberately avoided this relat-
ively recent demarcation, but rather that it simply does not interest me.
Likewise, I do not think that those in the Continental camp are inherently
‘difficult’ while those on the Analytic side are blessed with innate ‘clarity’
– philosophers are ‘difficult’ in many different ways. I make no apologies
for all this, although some will doubtless think a justification is necessary.
Introduction 11
To those readers all I can say is that if there is any value in the proceeding
analyses (and, as always, that is for others to judge) then it is due to my
experiencing a quasi-Pyrrhonian indifference when faced with the routine
antagonisms haunting contemporary philosophy. The practice of philo-
sophy always involves tacit meta-philosophical decisions concerning what
counts – and what should count – as ‘philosophy.’32 So, for example, in the
UK Continental philosophy has pulled ranks against a wider philosophical
establishment that often simply refuses to acknowledge the former as ‘seri-
ously philosophical.’ But it would be mistaken to think that Continental
philosophers are wholly innocent on this score. Philosophical sectarianism

and questionable intellectual ‘good consciences’ plague both sides of the
so-called ‘Analytic/Continental divide.’ The situation has perhaps begun
to change in recent years, but this remains both piecemeal and often
cynical in its motivation. While the need for a critical hospitality between
these enclaves remains, in the interim perhaps a strategic indifference will
have to suffice.
1 Peaceful thoughts
Philosophy as therapy in
Pyrrhonism and Wittgenstein
I have noticed that children are rarely afraid of thunder unless the claps
are terrible and actually hurt the ear. Otherwise this fear only affects them
when they know that the thunder sometimes hurts or kills. When reason
brings fear, reassurance comes through habit.
Rousseau, Emile
A philosopher is always someone for whom philosophy is not given,

someone who in essence must question the self about the essence and des-
tination of philosophy.
Derrida, Ethics, Institutions, and the Right to Philosophy
Introduction
Wittgenstein once remarked that he had ‘reached a resting place’ insofar
as he knew that his method was ‘right.’1 He proceeded: ‘My father was a
business man, and I am a business man: I want my philosophy to be busi-
ness-like, to get something done, to get something settled’ (Drury 1981:
125–6). Despite Wittgenstein’s awareness of his ‘special’ philosophical
‘ability’ (ibid.: 91), for most of his life he was nevertheless ‘making plans
to forsake this work and to live an entirely different mode of existence to
that of the academic philosopher.’ Drury concludes:
Now we may indeed be glad that nothing final came of these various
plans, and that he continued to work at his philosophical writings up
to a few days before his death. But I am certain that we will not under-
stand Wittgenstein unless we feel some sympathy and comprehension
for his persistent intention to change his whole manner of life.
(1981: 92)
In short, Wittgenstein’s plans to change his life ‘were not just a transitory
impatience but a conviction that persisted for years until the time came
when he realized that such a change was no longer a possibility’ (ibid.).
These reflections of one of Wittgenstein’s few close friends2 are of both
biographical and philosophical interest. Drury was right to emphasize that
Philosophy as therapy 13
Wittgenstein’s desire to abandon philosophy was no mere psychological
idiosyncrasy, but rather central to his conception of good philosophic
practice.3 Moreover, in his insistence that we will misunderstand Wittgen-
stein’s work if we ignore this motivation – or overlook that his work had ‘a
real goal’ (ibid.: 96) – Drury identifies the risks involved in ignoring
Wittgenstein’s craving for the non-philosophical life.
Of course, conceding this does not eliminate the suspicion that it is
Wittgenstein’s anti-philosophical conception of philosophy that betrays
something deeply idiosyncratic. But such a judgement would be hasty. For
although Wittgenstein rarely showed much interest in his philosophical

predecessors,4 this should not be conflated with the claim that his
approach to philosophy shares nothing with other philosophers. In this
chapter I will argue that Wittgenstein’s ‘therapeutic’ conception of philo-
sophy can be aligned with Pyrrhonian Skepticism – a deeply provocative
mode of Greek thought revived in the sixteenth century.5 My reasons for
pursuing this connection are threefold. First, because the Pyrrhonist’s
own therapeutic framework provides a way of understanding the philosoph-
ical significance of Wittgenstein’s ‘persistent intention’ to abandon philo-
sophy for something more pedestrian, insofar as both Pyrrhonism and
Wittgenstein are guided by a philosophical ideal that aims at philosophy’s
own undoing. Second, because Pyrrhonism raises a number of substantive
questions (regarding, for example, the aporetic nature of judgement cri-
teria, the existential stakes of belief, and the place of ‘the natural’ in
philosophical practice) that not only parallel many of Wittgenstein’s con-
cerns but also provide a touchstone for my subsequent engagement with
ethical, political and religious themes. And third, because it is the signific-
ance of Wittgenstein’s later work for ethical-political questions that ulti-
mately interests me, and specifically whether the philosophical ideal of
‘unperturbedness’ (advocated by both the Pyrrhonists and Wittgenstein)
can be transformed into a broader existential ideal encompassing the
ethical-political realm. In later chapters we will see how attempts to ‘politi-
cize’ Wittgenstein have relied upon highly selective readings of his later
work which neglect its underlying naturalism. Although Wittgenstein’s
thought does have ethical-political significance,6 my contention is that
these implications can only be understood if we take into account where
his work relates to – and ultimately diverges from – Pyrrhonism. Before
this can be substantiated, however, some of Pyrrhonism’s central motifs
require elucidation.
The abandonment of belief: Pyrrhonian naturalism

Therapeutic techniques played a role in a number of Greco-Roman philo-
sophies, but it is in Pyrrhonism that we find their most radical
application.7 For the Pyrrhonist it is the human tendency toward belief per
se that constitutes the malady requiring philosophical ‘treatment.’8 Only
14 Philosophy as therapy
by eliminating this craving are we released from superfluous existential
burdens and can thereby attain the requisite state of ataraxia – an ‘untrou-
bled and tranquil condition of the soul’ (Sextus 1996: 1:10).9 It remains
contentious whether Pyrrhonism should not be thought of as a technique
to be mastered (but rather as a ‘disposition’ (ibid.: 1:8) to be inculcated)
is ultimately cogent. Nevertheless, one can appreciate the motivation
behind this demarcation. For what Sextus wants to emphasize is both the
non-theoretical orientation of the Pyrrhonian attitude, and that no single
methodology should dominate here.10 Rather, just as ‘doctors who treat
physical symptoms have remedies that differ in strength . . . so too the

Skeptic sets forth arguments differing in strength’ (ibid.: 3:280).11 It is
therefore unsurprising that the Pyrrhonist’s attitude toward reasoned
argumentation is extremely pragmatic. Rational procedures are to be
valued only insofar as they facilitate the attainment of existential health.12
Taking these curative aspirations into account it is necessary to determine
what, according to the Pyrrhonian therapist, constitutes a ‘healthy’ state of
being. In order to answer this question, however, we must first understand
both Pyrrhonism’s characterization of traditional philosophic practice and
how it understands itself in relation to that heritage.
While Sextus divides traditional philosophy into the ‘dogmatic,’ ‘acade-
mic’ and ‘skeptical,’ his principal concern is with the latter – the others
supplying a strategic point of contrast.13 Indeed, Sextus immediately prob-
lematizes this typography by charging both dogmatist and academic with
holding equally bold beliefs concerning truth.14 For while dogmatists assert
‘that they have found it,’ academics claim that ‘it cannot be apprehended’
(ibid.: 1:4). Despite their surface differences, a closer inspection thus
reveals a telling congruity between these philosophies insofar as truth
retains a pivotal position in both.15 For Pyrrhonism, however, it is this most
elementary of beliefs – and the haughty assertiveness accompanying it –
that requires therapeutic dissolution. As such, the Pyrrhonist expunges all
explicit reference to ‘truth’ from her conceptual vocabulary,16 replacing ‘it
is’ with the more phenomenological ‘it appears to me to be.’17 This elimi-
native strategy is crucial because by emphasizing only what appears to be the
case Sextus hopes to circumvent the aporias of truth-criteria.18 After all:
[I]n order to decide the dispute that has arisen about the criterion
[of competing truth-claims], we have need of an agreed-upon crite-
rion by means of which we shall decide it; and in order to have an
agreed-upon criterion it is necessary first to have decided the dispute
about the criterion. Thus, with the reasoning falling into circularity
mode, finding a criterion becomes aporetic.
(Sextus 1996: 2:20–5)19
But ‘nobody . . . disputes about whether the external object appears this
way or that, but rather about whether it is such as it appears to be’ (ibid.:
20
1:23–7). The failure of traditional philosophy thus lies in its encourage-
ment of a certain cognitive inflexibility in the face of natural forces. In
their respective claims to have provided the necessary foundations upon
which to live, philosophers fail to appreciate that their theories simply
compound the problems they aim to resolve.21 Engagement with any such
philosophy requires numerous epistemic and normative commitments,
but it is precisely these that augment22 existential disease by hampering
natural instinct.23 What is needed to attain ataraxia is not dogma but the
inculcation of a natural pliancy in the face of life’s unpredictabilities.24 In
short, the Pyrrhonist wants to extract the normative from her life and
thereby emphasize that ‘we can just go on living as nature takes us,
without a . . . view about how things ought to go on’ (Nussbaum 1991: 531).
What therefore underpins the Pyrrhonian attitude is an appeal to the
realm of animality. Indeed:
When [Pyrrho’s] fellow-passengers on board a ship were all unnerved

by a storm, he kept calm and confident, pointing to a little pig in the
ship that went on eating, and telling them that such was the un-
perturbed state in which the wise man should keep himself.
(Diogenes 1925: 481)
Leaving aside for the moment its problematic normativity, this model
clearly sits uncomfortably alongside the dominant tendency of Western
thought to elevate the human realm far above that of the animal. But for
the Pyrrhonist humanity has much to learn from its bestial neighbors if
the desire for ataraxia is to be satisfied.25 After all:
What creature escapes being wrecked in the tempest? The creature

who goes through life only as natural instinct prompts it, without
ambitious enterprises, without oppositional structure . . . Not builders
of fortresses, but nomads, who move along grazing here and there as
natural need dictates.
(Nussbaum 1991: 523)
Supplementing his suggestion that a deep congruity exists between

dogmatic and academic philosophies, Sextus proceeds to delineate
another point of contact, this time between these positions and Pyrrhon-
ism. For academic, dogmatist and skeptic are all said to share the goal of
ataraxia – thereby providing the Pyrrhonist with a practical measure
against which to assert her superiority. As mentioned above, the diver-
gence between Pyrrhonism and dogmatic philosophy emerges in the
latter’s mistaken assumption that the attainment of objective truth is pre-
requisite to securing this shared liberatory end.26 According to the
Pyrrhonist, however, ataraxia can only be achieved through the substitu-
tion of the pursuit of truth for the life of momentary phenomenological
experience: ‘Not anything that lies beyond this, no, this – the way life actu-
ally goes in nature – this is the end’ (ibid.: 532). Pyrrhonism thus ques-
tions not merely the possibility of attaining truth but, more radically, the
benefit of even trying to do so. Abandoning this obsessive commitment
one is freed from theoretical speculation to follow ‘natural animal
impulse’ (ibid.: 546).27 Thus, according to Diogenes, Pyrrho himself ‘led a
life consistent with this doctrine, going out of his way for nothing, taking
no precaution but facing all risks as they came’ (1925: 475). Released
from the burdens of commitment one is – like the wild beast – left only
with fleeting ‘appearances’ (Sextus 1996: 1:19) and the guidance of

instinct.28 The changing world simply ‘strikes’ the Pyrrhonist who, in turn,
maintains a state of passive acquiescence, allowing herself to be ‘swayed’
(Nussbaum 1991: 533).
But what is it about belief that impedes the ‘untroubled and tranquil . . .
soul’? Sextus explains:
[T]he person who believes that something is by nature good or bad is

constantly upset; when he does not possess the things that seem to be
good, he thinks he is being tormented by things that are by nature
bad, and he chases after the things he supposes to be good; then,
when he gets these, he falls into still more torments because of irra-
tional and immoderate exultation, and, fearing any change, he does
absolutely everything in order not to lose the things that seem to him
good. But the person who takes no position as to what is by nature
good or bad neither avoids nor pursues intensely. As a result, he
achieves ataraxia.
(1996: 1:27–8)29
[H]aving in addition a belief [that something is by nature good or

bad] is worse than the actual experience itself, just as sometimes
people undergoing surgery or some other such experience bear up
under it while bystanders faint because of their belief that what is
going on is bad.
(1996: 3:235–6)30
Disquiet, pain and suffering are an inextricable feature of natural life.

Sextus’ point is that while these cannot be eliminated, one can neverthe-
less avoid aggravating them unnecessarily.31 The Pyrrhonist’s aspirations
are not therefore naively utopian, for although ataraxia is indeed his aim
regarding matters of superfluous belief, he does not think the same
degree of unperturbedness is possible in all areas of life. Certainly ‘some-
times he is cold and thirsty and has various feelings like those,’ but
whereas ordinary people are affected by two circumstances – namely

by the pathe [states of the soul] themselves and not less by its seeming
that these conditions are by nature bad – the Skeptic, by eliminating
the additional belief that all these things are naturally bad, gets off
more moderately . . . [W]e say that as regards belief the Skeptic’s goal
is ataraxia, but in regard to things unavoidable it is having moderate
pathe.
(1996: 1:29–30)32
Physical and psychological suffering is naturally unpleasant and often best

avoided,33 but believing them to be ‘by nature’ evil or a sign of divine casti-
gation simply compounds one’s anguish.34 To attain ataraxia we do not

therefore require theoretical explanations but rather the ability to resist
supplementing unavoidable torments with superfluous speculation.
Insofar as the ‘goal of the Skeptic Way’ (ibid.: 1:25) is ataraxia, Pyrrhon-
ism therefore maintains its impetus in a fundamental trust in both the
possibility of liberation from dogmatism and the subsequent ability to ‘live
rightly’ (ibid.: 1:17).35 It thus remains questionable whether the Pyrrhonist
can purge herself of all traces of dogmatism.36 For in at least one thing she
must have a little faith; that ataraxia is itself a goal worth pursuing – and
not only for herself.37 Indeed, without this commitment there would be no
basis upon which to either adopt or advocate the Pyrrhonian attitude.38 In
short, Pyrrhonism necessarily involves a normative – and to that extent
minimally dogmatic – dimension.39
This brings us to questions of methodology. For how, given the afore-
mentioned teleology, does the Pyrrhonist actually go about undermining
philosophical dogmatism? Sextus explains:
We oppose phenomena to phenomena or noumena to noumena . . .

For instance, we oppose phenomena to phenomena when we say that
the same tower appears round from a distance but square from close
up; and noumena to noumena when, in reply to one who infers the
existence of divine providence from the order of the heavenly bodies,
we oppose the fact that often the good fare ill and the bad fare well.
(1996: 1:31–2)40
Having persuaded the dogmatist of the equal plausibility (‘equipollence’

(ibid.: 1:8)) of his assertion(s) being either true or false, the point of this
quasi-dialectical41 move is to promote a radical ‘agnosticism’ (Diogenes
1925: 475).42 Persuasion is crucial here, for given the Pyrrhonist’s non-
theoretical, non-dogmatic aspirations, she cannot risk getting ‘infected’ by
the dogmatist’s discourse. All she can legitimately say is ‘this is what my
experiences cause me quite naturally to do; and this is what I have so far
observed to result from these doings. See what happens in your own case’
(Nussbaum 1991: 540).43 As noted earlier, rational debate is of purely
therapeutic concern to the Pyrrhonist, for she will happily employ the
same line of argument in one situation which, elsewhere, she would
subvert.44 The primary value of argumentation is therefore ‘[p]ersuasive-
ness here and now to the pupil’; rhetoric ‘simply replaces logical validity
and soundness as the desideratum.’45 Any number of ‘logical sins’ (ibid.:
548) may be committed, so long as they prove effective in undermining
dogmatism and bringing about ataraxia.46 What the Pyrrhonist hopes to
inaugurate by demonstrating the equipollence of the dogmatist’s assertions
is an experience of indecision where any judgement in favor of the initial
assertion being either true or false seems arbitrary. This methodological
point is significant, for the Pyrrhonist’s intention is not to bring about
doubt in the patient. The experience of indecision is rather to be under-

stood as an aporetic state of ‘being-at-a-loss.’47 What distinguishes this sort
of hesitancy from doubt – and thus what separates Pyrrhonism from other
forms of skepticism – is that while doubt implies understanding, being-at-
a-loss does not.48 One can only ‘doubt’ the cogency of an assertion if one
already understands what that assertion (and its denial) might mean. One
cannot, for example, doubt the truth of the claim ‘Wednesday is green,
but Tuesday is only four feet long’ unless one possesses some idea of what
the truth of the claim might entail.49 Presented with such a case one would
indeed ‘be-at-a-loss’ as to how to respond. (This is perhaps the major diffi-
culty facing the would-be Pyrrhonist; namely, of representing all truth-
claims as though they were nonsensical.50) It is precisely this state of
hesitancy (‘epoche,’51 or what Sextus discusses under the rubric of the
‘perhaps’ and ‘maybe’ (1996: 1:194–5)52) that the Pyrrhonist seeks to
inculcate in her patient.53
To summarize: The route from philosophical sickness to full health
begins with the demonstration that mutually incompatible views are
equally plausible (equipollence). Subsequently, a state of indecision is
brought about where the choice between either view seems arbitrary
(epoche). Finally, having thus paralyzed reason, unperturbedness (ataraxia)
follows ‘like [a] shadow’ (Diogenes 1925: 519).54 Having outlined the epis-
temological terrain of Pyrrhonism, we can now turn to questions of a
more social nature. I am not overly concerned with the practicalities of
the Pyrrhonian life,55 but rather with the likely ethical-political con-
sequences of the Pyrrhonist’s broader philosophical outlook. For the
moment I will therefore assume that the life Sextus advocates is at least
minimally practicable.
The social chameleon: ethical-political implications of

Pyrrhonism
Having extricated belief and surrendered to the life of ‘apparent facts’
(Diogenes 1925: 517), the Pyrrhonian convert will, according to Nuss-
baum, ‘come to lack all attitudes such as anger, fear, jealousy, grief, envy,
passionate love . . . because these all rest . . . upon belief; and she will have
no beliefs.’56 Nussbaum continues:
[T]he removal of belief removes arrogance and irascibility . . . Dogma-
tists, they insist, are self-loving, rash, puffed-up . . . skeptics, by con-
trast, are calm and gentle . . . dogmatists are imagined as interfering
with others, imposing their own way on others; the skeptic, by con-
trast, is tolerant.
(1991: 553)
This synopsis presents Pyrrhonism in an overly favorable light, for other

features of the Pyrrhonian life present a far more troubling image.57 This
can best be explored by drawing attention to Nussbaum’s additional

point: that in keeping ‘himself to himself’ and letting ‘others go their way’
the Pyrrhonist is not ‘a slave to social prejudices’ (ibid.).58 Given the qui-
etistic form of ‘conservatism’ (Popkin 1979: 49) the Pyrrhonist favors,59
this claim should be treated with caution. Thus, earlier in her exposition,
Nussbaum rightly suggests of the Pyrrhonian convert that
as [she] becomes more and more used to the skeptic way she will,
quite possibly, come to hold all of her convictions more and more
lightly; so she will need, progressively, weaker and weaker arguments.
Argument gradually effects its own removal from her life. At the end, I
imagine that the bare posing of a question will already induce a shrug
of indifference, and further argument will prove unnecessary.
(1991: 540)
The critical point here is that there is nothing within the Pyrrhonian
framework to ensure that this ‘shrug of indifference’ would not also mani-
fest itself in the social-political realm.60 Indeed, in Sextus’ own description
of the Pyrrhonian life we are explicitly told that, given the equipollence of
different lifestyles,61 accepting the prevailing ‘laws and customs’ provide
the Pyrrhonist with the criteria of what is good and bad ‘in the conduct of
life’ (1996: 1:23–4). That is, the Pyrrhonist follows ‘a certain rationale
that, in accord with appearances, points [her] toward a life in conformity
with the customs of [her] country and its laws and institutions’ (ibid.:
1:17).62 These passages do not merely suggest that prevalent ‘[c]ustoms of
friendly and marital loyalty will be observed’ (Nussbaum 1991: 554).
Taking into account that: (1) the normative dimension of the pre-
Pyrrhonian (dogmatic) life is, during conversion, extricated along with
belief,63 and (2) the Pyrrhonist prides herself on her ability to conform to
the prevailing social-cultural milieu,64 the suggestion that she would
remain unaffected by ‘social prejudices’ is untenable. For if the Pyrrhonist
finds herself in a cultural setting ingrained with (what we, including Nuss-
baum, would consider to be65) ‘social prejudices,’ then on what grounds
could she legitimately avoid indulging in such practices? After all, to
shun these activities would be conducive neither to the attainment nor
maintenance of ataraxia. In her defense one might argue that here the
Pyrrhonist could attain ataraxia because she would not adopt the beliefs
fuelling such ‘prejudices.’66 The Pyrrhonist would not believe Jews to be fit
only for extermination, or homosexuality to be an abomination before
God. Nor would she believe that women are naturally subordinate to men.
She would, however, follow others and engage in racist, homophobic
and/or sexist activities if doing otherwise would jeopardize her attaining
ataraxia.67 Could the Pyrrhonist here propose ataraxia as an alternative to
such customs? Could she, for example, advocate to her fellow citizens an
attitude of racial, sexual and gender ‘blindness’? Presumably not, for
there is no reason within the Pyrrhonian framework to engage in such

burdensome (and normative) counter-cultural activities. Indeed, the
general motivation to help others cure themselves of dogmatism seems
peculiarly supererogatory, if not incompatible with the maintenance of
one’s own ataraxia.68
This dimension of Pyrrhonism is nicely dramatized in the following
passage from Catch-22:
‘I don’t believe anything you tell me,’ Nately replied, with a bashful
mitigating smile. ‘The only thing I do believe is that America is going
to win the war.’
‘You put so much stock in winning wars,’ the grubby iniquitous old
man scoffed. ‘The real trick lies in losing wars, in knowing which wars
can be lost. Italy has been losing wars for centuries, and just see how
splendidly we’ve done nonetheless . . .’
Nately gaped at him in undisguised befuddlement. ‘Now I really
don’t understand what you’re saying. You talk like a madman.’
‘But I live like a sane one. I was a fascist when Mussolini was on top,
and I am an anti-fascist now that he has been deposed. I was fanati-
cally pro-German when the Germans were here to protect us against
the Americans, and now that the Americans are here to protect us
against the Germans I am fanatically pro-American . . .’
‘But,’ Nately cried out in disbelief, ‘you’re a turncoat! A time-
server! A shameful, unscrupulous opportunist!’
‘I am a hundred and seven years old,’ the old man reminded him
suavely.
‘Don’t you have any principles?’
‘Of course not.’
(Heller 1961: 261–2)
This passage usefully highlights the paradoxical nature of the Pyrrhonian

attitude. For what remains problematic for the Pyrrhonist is that, in her
desire to be noncommittal in ethical-political matters, she thereby holds a
substantive ethical-political position.69 To refrain from (explicitly) making
ethical-political choices is already to be (implicitly) engaged in making one
very important ethical-political decision: to refrain from making (explicit)
70
ethical-political decisions. Here, the Pyrrhonist has committed herself
to non-commitment – or, as Derrida might put it, she says ‘yes’ to saying
‘no’ (or to saying neither ‘yes’ nor ‘no’71) – thus rendering her ‘indecision’
a chimera.72 Moreover, it is unclear that this decision (in favor of
indecision) can itself be justified even on Pyrrhonian-pragmatic grounds.
For if the Pyrrhonist finds herself in a social-cultural setting which both
values the ability of individuals to make their own ethical-political
decisions (and which thereby condemns the sort of quietism she favors),
then she will be forced by the teleology of her own position to engage in
further ethical-political decisions and actions – or at least appear to others to

be doing so. It is not even clear that simply emulating the decisions of
others will be possible – let alone conducive – to the unperturbed life. For
one must first choose who and what to emulate (and thus exclude),
thereby involving another crucial ethical-political judgement.73 In short,
the thoroughgoing Pyrrhonist must here sacrifice her parasitism to pre-
serve the liberatory objectives of the very Pyrrhonism she espouses. Even
assuming she can successfully mimic those around her and therefore
appear to be a morally respectable, autonomous individual – and not, like
Heller’s old man, a ‘shameful, unscrupulous opportunist’ – the resultant
fissure between her public and private life74 would itself likely prove
detrimental to the attainment and maintenance of ataraxia. The desire
to become a social chameleon and maintain a state of indecisive
non-commitment is not therefore merely troubling, it is perhaps fatally
paradoxical.
I will return to some of these questions in later chapters. But I would
now like to develop the previous analysis by identifying some important
correlations between the respective philosophical therapies offered by
Sextus and Wittgenstein. Although I will draw attention to a number of
methodological similarities between these philosophers, my objective here
is to identify – and later critique – the influential ‘conservative’ interpreta-
tion of Wittgenstein’s later work.
Wittgenstein’s grammatical therapy and the sources of

disease
Rhees suggests that there was something categorical about Wittgenstein’s
instruction for the philosopher to ‘Go the bloody hard way.’75 Wittgen-
stein, he claims, ‘was not saying, “Whatever you seek, you will have to
accept the drudgery on the way to it” . . . As though the drudgery or the
struggle were a special misfortune’ (1969: 169). Rather, going ‘the bloody
hard way’ was something worth doing for its own sake:
Unless one understands this, then I do not think one can understand
Wittgenstein’s conviction that philosophy is important. For he did not
think that philosophy is important in the way in which therapy is
important to the patient . . . Philosophy, as he practiced it, was ‘the
bloody hard way’ in the sense of being opposed to looking for conso-
lation . . . And it was not only a way of thinking and working, but a way
of living as well. And the ‘hardness’ was really a criterion of the sort of
life that was worthwhile. Perhaps I should add ‘for him.’
(Rhees 1969: 169–70)
Although it is correct to highlight both the ‘hardness’ of philosophy

advocated by Wittgenstein and the broader existential ambitions of those
procedures,76 due either to a misunderstanding or simple distaste for the

therapeutic-curative analogy, Rhees erroneously conflates ‘consolation’
with something like ‘going the easy way.’ This is mistaken because there is
nothing necessarily ‘easy’ about philosophy practiced as a curative
therapy. Indeed, philosophy-as-therapy will often be a prolonged and
arduous process, where a ‘slow cure is all important’ (Wittgenstein 1990:
§382).77 But what perhaps underlies Rhees’s suspicion is the equally
unfounded assumption that the therapeutic analogy trivializes the philo-
sophical enterprise – however that may be construed.78 From this perspect-
ive the correlation of Wittgenstein with such a radically therapeutic
approach as Pyrrhonism not only neglects the intense seriousness with
which Wittgenstein approached his work,79 it also undermines the philo-
sophical stature of his writings. If this is indeed Rhees’s suspicion he is not
alone in harboring it.80 But we must not confuse Wittgenstein’s seeking to
bring an end to philosophical perplexity with the claim that he viewed
philosophy as ‘trivial.’ These are quite separate issues, as the former objec-
tive remains entirely compatible with a ‘serious’ philosophical attitude. (A
dentist presumably wants to cure her patient’s toothache, but she does not
thereby judge dentistry – or toothache – to be ‘trivial.’) What Rhees fails
to address is why Wittgenstein thought philosophizing to be so important;
to what end did Wittgenstein practice philosophy in his own inimitable
way?81 In the remainder of this chapter I will argue, not only that the cor-
relation between Wittgenstein and Pyrrhonism is justifiable but, further,
that by explicating this relationship one can most adequately respond to
these questions in terms which both retain the importance of philosophy
for Wittgenstein and simultaneously show the guiding telos of such philos-
ophizing to be the non-philosophical life. On my account, Rhees’s sugges-
tion that Wittgenstein thought philosophy (at least as he practiced it) to be
intrinsically connected to the ‘worthwhile’ life becomes highly question-
able. For we should remember that Wittgenstein never attempted to lure
non-philosophers into the philosophical fold, although he found some
success in persuading students to abandon philosophy for something
more pedestrian and, in his eyes, ‘worthwhile’ (though not necessarily
because they lacked the moral fiber required for going ‘the bloody hard
way’).82 Contrary to Rhees’s suggestion, Wittgenstein’s injunction to go
‘the bloody hard way’ should in fact be understood as hypothetical. His
point is that if one is determined to do philosophy then one should do it
properly and ‘go the bloody hard way,’ but there is no value in doing
philosophy in the first place – indeed, if you can live without it, then so
much the better. The categorical force of Wittgenstein’s attitude thus
transpires only after one has finally decided – against his own advice – to
‘do philosophy’; it makes no demand of the non-philosopher. Moreover
(again contrary to Rhees), philosophy is important for Wittgenstein pre-
cisely because philosophical perplexity is a source of human suffering.
Philosophy, like medicine or any other therapy, is valuable only to the
extent that we seek to attain, improve and then retain our state of ‘health’
– however the latter is construed. Like all therapies, philosophy is not
intrinsically valuable, but rather parasitic upon the depth of bewilderment
from which we seek liberation.83 While the world would doubtless be
‘better’ were medicine not needed, so too would it be ‘better’ were philo-
sophy not needed (which is distinct from the claim that the world would be
‘better’ were medicine and/or philosophy simply no longer practiced).84
What ultimately concerns Wittgenstein here is therefore something
broadly ethical – namely, the conceptual vulnerabilities of human beings:
When we ask on what occasions people use a word, what they say
about it, what they are right to substitute for it, and in reply try to
describe its use, we do so only insofar as it seems helpful in getting rid
of certain philosophical troubles . . . We are interested in language
only insofar as it gives us trouble. I only describe the actual use of a
word if this is necessary to remove some trouble we want to get rid of
. . . Sometimes I have to lay down new rules because new rules are less
liable to produce confusion or because we have perhaps not thought
of looking at the language we have in this light.
(Wittgenstein 1979b: 97)85
False pictures of language, seductive86 philosophical presuppositions and

an ‘urge to misunderstand’ (1958: §109) are what generate the problems;
careful, linguistic-descriptive philosophical practice renders those prob-
lems unproblematic. There is nothing ‘trivial’ about this. Indeed, the
emancipatory-Pyrrhonian model of philosophy previously outlined suggests
the opposite, for what could be more painstaking, serious and worthy a
goal than attaining existential health? With these general points in mind I
will now explain how Wittgenstein’s work follows this Pyrrhonian route.
It is widely acknowledged, if not always adequately understood, that
Wittgenstein characterized his work as a therapeutic strategy oriented
toward the ‘treatment’ (ibid.: §255) of ‘philosophical disease’ (ibid.:
§593). Indeed, that he considered training for both the medical and psy-
choanalytic professions is perhaps not as incidental to his philosophical
work as he protested.87 Such biographical facts are worth noting, but I
would here like to focus on some specific passages that parallel the
Pyrrhonian therapy already discussed. In Philosophical Investigations
Wittgenstein describes his manner of philosophizing as follows:
It is not our aim to refine or complete the system of rules for the use
of our words in unheard-of ways.
For the clarity that we are aiming at is indeed complete clarity. But
this simply means that the philosophical problems should completely
disappear.
The real discovery is the one that makes me capable of stopping
doing philosophy when I want to. – The one that gives philosophy
peace, so that it is no longer tormented by questions which bring itself
in question. – Instead, we now demonstrate a method, by example;
and the series of examples can be broken off. – Problems are solved
(difficulties eliminated), not a single problem.
There is not a philosophical method, though there are indeed
methods, like different therapies.
(1958: §133)
This passage echoes a number of Pyrrhonian themes. For example, the

philosophical ‘clarity’ Wittgenstein is ‘aiming at’ is here equated with the
disappearance of the problem, not its theoretical solution. Moreover, this
‘clarity’ emerges at the precise moment when philosophy finds ‘peace,’
and thought is freed from being ‘tormented.’ Finally, in order to stress
both his own anti-theoretical stance and the medical-therapeutic analogy,
Wittgenstein (like Sextus88) denies that philosophy possesses a single
method. Rather, the internal diversity of the new therapy simply mirrors
the multitude of diseases it treats.89 Let us examine each of these themes.
In passages from the so-called ‘Big Typescript’ Wittgenstein refers to the
‘particular peace of mind that occurs when we can place other similar cases
next to a case that we thought was unique’ (1993: 175). He proceeds: ‘If I
say: here we are at the limits of language, then it always seems . . . as if resig-
nation were necessary, whereas on the contrary complete satisfaction comes,
since no question remains.’ In other words, the ‘problems are dissolved in
the actual sense of the word – like a lump of sugar in water’ (ibid.: 183).90
Likewise, the ‘new’ philosopher is characterized as the one who ‘strives to
find the liberating word . . . that finally permits us to grasp what up until
now has intangibly weighed down on our consciousness.’ That is, the
Wittgensteinian therapist ‘delivers the word to us with which one . . . can
express the thing and render it harmless’ (ibid.: 165). Finally, this time in
Culture and Value, Wittgenstein summarizes: ‘My ideal is a certain coolness.
A temple providing a setting for the passions without meddling with them’
(1994a: 2); ‘Thoughts that are at peace. That’s what someone who philoso-
phizes yearns for’ (ibid.: 43). The Pyrrhonian overtones of such passages are
striking: Philosophy, if practiced correctly, will enable the dissolution of spe-
cific perplexities and lead to a state of unperturbedness.91 The same point is
expressed slightly differently in Zettel, where the most ‘remarkable and char-
acteristic phenomenon in philosophical investigation’ is identified as ‘the
difficulty . . . of recognising as the solution something that looks as if it were
only a preliminary to it.’ For ‘the difficulty here’ is knowing when ‘to stop.’
Wittgenstein then warns us: ‘ “We have already said everything. – Not any-
thing that follows from this, no, this itself is the solution!” ’ (1990: §314).
This latter formulation is interesting because it is echoed in Nussbaum’s
summary of the Pyrrhonist’s naturalism (‘Not anything that lies beyond this,
no, this – the way life actually goes in nature [and custom] – this is the end’
(1991: 532)). On this striking similarity Nussbaum has nothing to say. Yet
through this distinctly Wittgensteinian formulation she highlights an
important feature of Wittgenstein’s own philosophical project. For although
he is less explicit than Sextus regarding the non-philosophical life, Wittgen-
stein nevertheless shares something of Pyrrhonism’s yearning for a more
unaffected (and for him rather Tolstoyan) kind of existence. Indeed, as I
will argue in Chapter 3, Wittgenstein’s injunction: ‘Don’t take the example
of others as your guide, but nature!’ (1994a: 41) receives considerable
philosophical grounding in both his emphasis on the derivative nature of
the linguistic from the pre-linguistic,92 and his critique of Frazer’s anthro-
pology.93 But it is to Wittgenstein’s own understanding of the sources of
philosophical ‘disease’ that I first want to turn.
According to the Pyrrhonist, it is the propensity toward belief that gen-
erates unnecessary anxiety. Given that human life inevitably involves a
degree of suffering, believing such things to be inherently evil or of divine
orchestration simply compounds one’s misery. To evade such burdens
one must abandon belief, adopt an ethos of non-resistance and thereby
learn to bend with the flux of the world. In the Pyrrhonian schema the
source of anxiety is thus spawned from certain natural tendencies, and yet
the key to overcoming such anxieties is also located in the animal submis-
sion to natural (and to some extent cultural) forces. In short, nature is
here both curse and cure. As I said before, I am not overly concerned with
the internal coherence of this picture – of how, for example, the Pyrrhon-
ist can legitimately favor one aspect of the natural order (primitive human
drives) over another (the natural tendency toward belief). What interests
me is that a similar pattern emerges in Wittgenstein’s work. Where then,
according to him, do we find the source of philosophical ‘disquietudes’
(1958: §111)? Wittgenstein insists that the root of the problem lies in our
being ‘bewitched’ (1999: §31)94 or fascinated by certain ‘forms of expres-
sion’ (1969: 27) or ‘grammatical illusions’ (1958: §110). The new descrip-
tive philosophy is therefore characterized as a ‘fight’ (1969: 27) and
‘battle’ (1958: §109) against these tendencies.95 But why are the latter so
irresistible? It is here tempting to read Wittgenstein as laying the blame
solely at the feet of traditional philosophy, and there are indeed numer-
ous passages that support this hypothesis. To choose two particularly strik-
ing examples, he employs the following analogies:
Philosophers often behave like little children who scribble some
marks on a piece of paper at random and then ask the grown-up
‘What’s that?’ – It happened like this: the grown-up had drawn pic-
tures for the child several times and said: ‘this is a man’, ‘this is a
house’, etc. And then the child makes some marks too and asks:
what’s this then?
(1994a: 17)
I am sitting with a philosopher in the garden; he says again and again

‘I know that that’s a tree’, pointing to a tree that is near us. Someone
else arrives and hears this, and I tell him: ‘This fellow isn’t insane. We
are only doing philosophy . . . ’
(1999: §467)96
There is an obvious sense in which traditional philosophy is here por-

trayed as something distinctly idiotic; in the former the philosopher
behaves like a confused child,97 while in the latter his activities have to be
excused in the presence of a third party. Wittgenstein is not claiming that
the philosopher is just going about his philosophic business or that this is
simply what philosophy actually (and rightly) entails. For these portraits
remain deeply sardonic. In any case, this is but one part of the overall
picture Wittgenstein presents. For although traditional philosophic prac-
tice is frequently accused of compounding the problems, the problems
themselves are not essentially of philosophy’s making.98 Rather, Wittgen-
stein maintains that what holds us ‘captive’ lies deep ‘in our language’
(1958: §115). Philosophy thus exacerbates confusions, the ‘roots’ of which
‘are as deep in us as the forms of our language’ (ibid.: §111). Most
notable in this regard are the misleading similarities between different
regions of discourse.99 For although Wittgenstein claims that ‘everything
lies open to view’ and thus ‘what is hidden . . . is of no interest’ (ibid.:
§126),100 he nevertheless distinguishes between ‘surface’ and ‘depth
grammar’ (ibid.: §664).101 The form this distinction takes is unfortunate
insofar as it suggests a clandestine reality below the surface of language
usage requiring excavation. But such a Tractarian picture is precisely not
what Wittgenstein has in mind. Rather:
The aspects of things that are most important . . . are hidden because
of their simplicity and familiarity. (One is unable to notice something
– because it is always before one’s eyes.) . . . we fail to be struck by
what, once seen, is most striking and most powerful.
(1958: §129)102
It is therefore not wholly accurate for Wittgenstein to say that nothing is

hidden; there is something ‘hidden,’ but not in a subterranean or esoteric
sense. Rather, what prevents us from commanding ‘a clear view of the use
of our words’ (ibid.: §122) is their overfamiliarity. Such ‘grammatical prob-
lems’ are difficult to dissolve precisely because ‘they are connected with
the oldest thought habits, i.e., with the oldest images that are engraved
into our language itself’ (1993: 183–4):103
As long as there is a verb ‘to be’ which seems to function like ‘to eat’
and ‘to drink’, as long as one talks about a flow of time and an
expanse of space, etc., etc., humans will continue to bump up against
the same mysterious difficulties, and stare at something that no expla-
nation seems able to remove.

(1993: 185–7)104
Wittgenstein thus sees language itself as the villain insofar as it imposes mis-
leading trains of thought upon us.105 ‘Ordinary language’ is both the place to
which philosophic language must be relocated and the scene of our seduc-
tion.106 In other words, Wittgenstein presents ordinary language as simultan-
eously ‘home’ (1958: §116) and a site of estrangement or exile. The upshot
of this is that philosophical perplexity is a quite natural phenomenon. It is
not the philosopher’s language that creates such a ‘mythology,’ rather, philo-
sophy itself draws its life force both from language’s own latent ‘forms’
(1993: 199) and a ‘certain instinct’ (Moore 1993: 114) or ‘urge’ on our part
to ‘misunderstand them’ (Wittgenstein 1958: §109).107 Such urges provoke ‘a
constant battle and uneasiness’ (1993: 163),108 not least because these are dif-
ficulties ‘not . . . of the intellect, but of the will’ (ibid.: 161).109 Indeed, just ‘as
it is difficult to hold back tears, or an outburst of anger,’ so is it often difficult
‘not to use an expression’ (ibid.: 161) that confuses us.110
Although Wittgenstein says relatively little about the nature and origins
of such ‘confusions,’111 the previous passages clearly suggest that they are
not artificially constructed, but rather as natural as our disposition to cry
at the death of a loved one or stamp our feet in rage. But just as the
medical doctor need not offer hypotheses concerning the genetic basis of
the illnesses she treats, so too is it inessential for Wittgenstein to provide
analogous speculations on the underlying causes of conceptual disease.
While ‘very general facts of nature’ are relevant to his therapeutic project
(as I will argue in later chapters, they are absolutely central to its ethical
dimension), Wittgenstein insists that he is neither doing ‘natural science’
nor ‘natural history’ (1958: p. 230). Thus for both medical and Wittgen-
steinian therapists it is sufficient that they be able to point out the ways
such illnesses are transmitted and what can be done to combat them. This
is not to say that such therapists require no understanding of the under-
lying causes, but rather that this knowledge need not be especially deep.112
The general point I have wanted to highlight here is how both Sextus and
Wittgenstein maintain that the origin and (potential) cure of such dis-
eases are located within the natural realm – that is, in primitive tendencies
or urges, and the turn to a more peaceable state of non-philosophical life.
Seeing the world aright: Wittgenstein’s rhetoric
The following question arises here: Is Wittgenstein’s claim that ‘peaceful
thoughts’ are ‘what someone who philosophizes yearns for’ (1994a: 43)
itself descriptive or normative?113 Another way of formulating this is to ask
precisely whom the various appeals to ‘we’ refer to in remarks such as: ‘We
are struggling with language. We are engaged in a struggle with language’
(ibid.: 11), and ‘we may not advance any kind of theory. There must not
be anything hypothetical in our considerations. We must do away with all
explanation, and description alone must take its place’ (1958: §109)? On
reflection it is clear that such passages are not descriptions of orthodox

philosophic practice. Rather, they are both descriptions of Wittgenstein’s
own methodology and condemnations of traditional philosophy; as he
puts it in more judicial terms: ‘Our only task is to be just. That is, we must
only point out and resolve the injustices of philosophy, and not posit new
parties – and creeds’ (1993: 181).114 Although commentators tend to
underestimate the significance of Wittgenstein’s normativity here, such
reticence is unsurprising insofar as it seems difficult to square with his
numerous injunctions to ‘only describe’ (1996a: 63) and leave ‘everything
as it is’ (1958: §124).115 But this is precisely my point, for these are indeed
injunctions for the philosopher to proceed in a certain way or ‘ “Look at
things like this!” ’ (1994a: 61). To borrow Derrida’s terms, Wittgenstein
tacitly appeals to us: ‘ “believe me” . . . “I promise you that I am speaking
the truth” ’ (Derrida 1996b: 82), or ‘choose my solution, prefer my solu-
tion, take my solution, love my solution; you will be in the truth if you do
not resist my solution’ (Derrida 1998a: 9).116 Here then an additional cor-
relation emerges between Wittgenstein’s implicit normativity and Pyrrhon-
ism’s own minimal dogmatism. For, we will recall, given that the ‘goal of
the Skeptic Way . . . for the sake of which everything is done’ is ‘ataraxia’
(Sextus 1996: 1:25), the Pyrrhonist cannot rid herself of all traces of belief
– or, by implication, dogmatism.117 Analogously, we might ask how
Wittgenstein can legitimately prescribe his methodology when that very
methodology seeks to inaugurate an entirely new118 and ‘just’ (1993: 181)
philosophical practice of descriptivity? This clearly raises questions regard-
ing the meta-philosophical status of Wittgenstein’s writings – questions
that usually arise in relation to the Tractatus. Although there is a broadly
Pyrrhonian response to this in his later writings, I would first like to turn
to the Pyrrhonian treatment of such methodological-rhetorical problems
in Wittgenstein’s earlier work.
In the penultimate section of the Tractatus Wittgenstein famously
cautions:
My propositions serve as elucidations in the following way: anyone

who understands me eventually recognises them as nonsensical, when
he has used them – as steps – to climb up beyond them. (He must, so
to speak, throw away the ladder after he has climbed up it.) . . . He
must transcend these propositions, and then he will see the world
aright.
(1995: 6.54)
Although Wittgenstein likely borrowed this metaphor from Mauthner,119 it

derives from Sextus’ comparison of his own position to ‘the person who
has climbed to a high place with the help of a ladder’ and then ‘kick[s]
over the ladder after the ascent’ (Mates 1996: p. 258). Wittgenstein
employs this image to ‘show’ the sense of the Tractatus’s demarcation

between what can and cannot be meaningfully ‘said.’120 That is, within the
boundaries of meaning established in the ‘picture theory,’ Wittgenstein
must account for his own text which is neither logical (tautological121) nor
a propositional ‘mirroring’122 of the world of ‘facts.’ As Sextus proceeds in
more overtly therapeutic terms: ‘just as cathartic drugs not only flush out
the bodily humours but expel themselves as well’ (1996: 1:206–7) so too
do ‘these arguments apply to themselves along with the other arguments’
(ibid.: 2:188).123 What this transcendental disclaimer ultimately amounts
to for Wittgenstein can be ascertained in the Tractatus’s concluding
passage: ‘What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence’ (1995:
7). By determining the boundaries of sense, Wittgenstein thereby demar-
cates what cannot be said but only shown; notably, the ethical and religious
– or ‘mystical.’124
Given the Pyrrhonian context in which I am situating Wittgenstein’s
work, and recalling what I said earlier concerning the Pyrrhonist’s ‘being-
at-a-loss,’ the Tractatus’s allusions to silence are pertinent. For not only
is silence incorporated by Wittgenstein to safeguard the mystical from
any trespassing of the natural sciences (his is a silence of respect, not
one of derision125), it also indicates what philosophical liberation
might itself involve. That is, discarding the Tractarian ‘ladder’ –
having used it to climb out of the quagmire of philosophical confusion –
not only tells us something about the therapeutic nature of the Tractatus’s
own propositions but also provides a clue as to what ‘see[ing] the world
aright’ (ibid.: 6.54) might encompass. Of course, this Pyrrhonian
metaphor must be handled with caution, for as Wittgenstein warns else-
where:
I might say: if the place I want to get to could only be reached by way
of a ladder, I would give up trying to get there. For the place I really
have to get to is a place I must already be at now . . . Anything that I
might reach by climbing a ladder does not interest me.
(1994a: 7)126
The danger with employing this spatial metaphor is that it suggests

a ‘somewhere else’ to which one might gain access. But the place
Wittgenstein seeks is precisely where we now stand,127 for it is here that
‘the logic of our language is misunderstood’ (1995: p. 3). What Wittgen-
stein is advocating is thus a radical change of perspective where the endless
desire for ‘climbing’ (or the urge to try and ‘look beyond’ (1993: 389))
ceases to fixate and frustrate us. While it would be simplistic to equate
Wittgenstein’s silence with the Pyrrhonist’s ataraxia, we should neverthe-
less note the practical dimension of the Tractatus’s ‘showing’ what one
‘must pass over in silence.’ Philosophy, we are told, ‘aims at the logical
clarification of thoughts,’ and is defined in quasi-Pyrrhonian terms not as
‘a body of doctrine’ but rather as ‘an activity’ whose ‘task’ is to make

‘thoughts . . . clear’ (1995: 4.112). There are no insoluble questions, for
‘[w]hen the answer cannot be put into words, neither can the question be
put into words. The riddle does not exist. If a question can be framed at all,
it is also possible to answer it’ (ibid.: 6.5). This latter point is then applied
to what Wittgenstein calls the ‘problem of life,’ for its ‘solution’ is similarly
located ‘in the vanishing of the problem’ (ibid.: 6.521). Some years later
he returns to this ‘problem,’ remarking:
The way to solve the problem you see in life is to live in a way that will
make what is problematic disappear . . . The fact that life is problem-
atic shows that the shape of your life does not fit into life’s mould. So
you must change the way you live and, once your life does fit into the
mould, what is problematic will disappear . . . But don’t we have the
feeling that someone who sees no problem in life is blind to some-
thing important, even to the most important thing of all? Don’t I feel
like saying that a man like that is just living aimlessly – blindly, like a
mole, and that if only he could see, he would see the problem? . . . Or
shouldn’t I say rather: a man who lives rightly won’t experience the
problem as sorrow, so for him it will not be a problem, but a joy . . . a
bright halo round his life, not a dubious background.
(1994a: 27)
Again, there are obvious Pyrrhonian resonances here. Wittgenstein’s char-

acterization of life possessing a ‘mould’ into which one must ‘fit’ echoes
the Pyrrhonist’s emphasis on the need for flexibility regarding the vacilla-
tions of the natural and cultural world. Moreover, for both Sextus and
Wittgenstein it is unnecessary to regard this as a lamentable restriction on
oneself.128 Rather, ‘fitting’ oneself into ‘life’s mould’ will dispel all such
superfluous anxieties, and this, broadly speaking, constitutes ‘living
rightly.’ On a biographical note these passages are of additional interest
insofar as they capture something of the shifting direction of Wittgen-
stein’s own life. On completion of the Tractatus – a closure he thought to
be an ‘unassailable and definitive’ (1995: p. 4) closure of philosophy –
Wittgenstein changed the ‘shape’ of his life by withdrawing from the
philosophical establishment. His sporadic attempts to abandon philo-
sophy for the more worldly pursuits of architect, gardener, hospital
porter, laboratory assistant and school teacher all proved unsuccessful, for
Wittgenstein repeatedly returned to academic philosophy.129 Nevertheless,
he did continually attempt to change his life. Wittgenstein’s failure to
achieve this goal does not undermine the claim that his motivation
remained essentially Pyrrhonian. Rather, it only suggests that Wittgen-
stein’s philosophical standards were a little higher than those of his
Pyrrhonian predecessors, that his perfectionism (or ‘disease’) was too
resilient, or that his lack of success at non-philosophical pursuits drew him

back to the one thing he knew he could do.130 Whatever the reasons, the
completion of the Tractatus, its internal objective of allowing one to ‘tran-
scend [its] propositions’ and subsequently ‘see the world aright’ (ibid.:
6.54), and Wittgenstein’s own attempts to abandon philosophy, are all
intimately connected in a therapeutic schema that remains deeply
Pyrrhonian. Having outlined some of the problems facing the Tractatus, I
now want to return to the later writings, and specifically how the philo-
sophical status of these ‘descriptive’ works is to be understood alongside
their implicit normativity.
If we recall, persuasion is the only mode of discourse available to the
Pyrrhonist – that is, of appealing to the potential convert: ‘this is what my
experiences cause me quite naturally to do; and this is what I have so far
observed to result from these doings. See what happens in your own case’
(Nussbaum 1991: 540).131 Given her anti-dogmatic aspirations and desire
for the ‘life of appearances,’ the Pyrrhonist must restrict herself to essen-
tially rhetorical means. What is significant here is that a similarly rhet-
orical dimension emerges in Wittgenstein’s later writings. Thus, in
Philosophical Investigations, we are cautioned:
The ideal, as we think of it, is unshakeable. You can never get outside
it; you must always turn back. There is no outside; outside you cannot
breathe. – Where does this idea come from? It is like a pair of glasses
on our nose through which we see whatever we look at. It never
occurs to us to take them off.
(1958: §103)
What Wittgenstein is alluding to here is the possibility of liberation from

our distorted view of language, including the picture holding us ‘captive’
(ibid.: §115) so vividly painted in the Tractatus.132 We must remove the
‘glasses through which we see whatever we look at’ and expunge the Trac-
tarian belief in an ideal language – a ‘preconceived idea’ to which we
think the world ‘must correspond’ (ibid.: §131).133 Only abandonment of
that belief opens the way to liberation. We are not, however, being asked
to replace these ‘glasses’ but to remove them,134 and this is why Wittgen-
stein warns his own brand of philosophizing against setting itself up as a
‘new . . . idol’ (1993: 171).135 For, as previously noted, the task facing the
philosopher is not the theoretical elucidation of something ‘unheard of’
(ibid.: 179), but the description of what ‘we have always known’ (1958:
§109); what lies ‘right in front of [our] eyes!’ (1994a: 39).136
An essential component of Wittgenstein’s new approach is his rejection
of the idea that the multifarious ways language is used require philosophi-
cal justification.137 Although I will discuss the nature and limits of justifica-
tion in Chapter 2, it is nevertheless pertinent to our present concerns that
in On Certainty Wittgenstein remarks:
Where two principles really do meet which cannot be reconciled with

one another, then each man declares the other a fool and heretic . . . I
said I would ‘combat’ the other man, – but wouldn’t I give him reasons?
Certainly; but how far do they go? At the end of reasons comes persua-
sion. (Think what happens when missionaries convert natives.)
(1999: §§611–12)
This passage is striking, not only because it presents the question of justifi-
cation and persuasion as themes of Wittgenstein’s investigations, but also
because it captures something of the rhetorical orientation of those very
investigations. But in order to explain this it is first necessary to say some-
thing about the general style of the later writings.
It is here worth reiterating that the therapies of both Sextus and
Wittgenstein ought to lead not to the theoretical solution of philosophical
problems but rather to their dissolution.138 I am not suggesting that the
methodological maneuvers made by each philosopher are identical. After
all, the standard dialectical movement philosophical texts commonly
make139 is complicated by Wittgenstein’s later ‘criss-cross’ (1958: p. ix)
style, whereas Sextus remains more obviously within the (albeit radically
curtailed) dialectical model.140 Nevertheless, even this apparent difference
is not straightforward. It could be argued that Wittgenstein’s work does
engage in some form of dialectical movement – at least of the restricted
Pyrrhonian type. For in both Wittgenstein and Sextus the first two ele-
ments of the dialectic are in operation. In Sextus’ work this is represented
in the opposition of theses (thereby demonstrating the equipollence of con-
flicting assertions, in turn leading to epoche and finally ataraxia), while in
Wittgenstein’s writings a comparable opposition appears in his strategic
employment of examples showing ‘intermediate’ (ibid.: §122) cases. Thus,
Wittgenstein speaks of the
particular peace of mind that occurs when we can place other similar
cases next to a case that we thought was unique, occurs again and
again in our investigations when we show that a word doesn’t have . . .
just one meaning (or just two), but is used in five or six different ways.
(1993: 175)
To do justice to this quasi-dialectical feature of Wittgenstein’s work would
require a detailed analysis, and I will not attempt that here. Instead, I want
to focus on the more obvious ‘fragmentary’ nature of his later writings.141
In the preface to Philosophical Investigations Wittgenstein concedes:
I have written down all these thoughts as remarks, short paragraphs,

of which there is sometimes a fairly long chain about the same subject,
while I sometimes make a sudden change, jumping from one topic to
another . . . After several unsuccessful attempts to weld my results
together into such a whole, I realized that I should never succeed.

The best that I could write would never be more than philosophical
remarks.
(1958: p. ix)
This doomed endeavor to formalize Philosophical Investigations (something

others have also attempted142) failed for more important reasons than
mere ineptitude on Wittgenstein’s part. Though his ‘thoughts were soon
crippled’ by the effort of such codification, Wittgenstein explains that ‘this
was . . . connected with the very nature of the investigation.’ That is, the
peculiar ‘criss-cross’ style of the text merely reflects the terrain of the land-
scape traveled ‘in the course of [those] long and involved journeyings’
(ibid.). Elsewhere we are told that ‘[w]orking in philosophy’ is primarily a
‘working on oneself’ (1994a: 16), but this claim should similarly be
handled with care. For although Wittgenstein may prioritize ‘working on
oneself,’ he is not (as Rhees intimates143) thereby limiting his ambitions to
his own private liberation. In this sense the tone of Philosophical Investiga-
tions’ ‘sketches of landscapes’ might be described as quasi-confessional.144
For here Wittgenstein’s ‘working on [him]self’ nevertheless aims at the
inauguration of something new;145 a radical change in perspective or ‘way
of seeing’ (1990: §461) in the lives of those who similarly find themselves
philosophically perplexed. (At the very least Wittgenstein wanted to ‘stim-
ulate someone to thoughts of his own’ (1958: p. x).) This point is substan-
tiated by the quasi-religious vocabulary Wittgenstein employs when
characterizing philosophical perplexities as temptations or as matters per-
taining to the ‘will’ rather than the intellect.146 Indeed, this tendency to
exploit the language of temptation, sin, responsibility and guilt makes
Wittgenstein’s much discussed claim ‘ “I am not a religious man but I
cannot help seeing every problem from a religious point of view’ ” (Drury
1981: 94) somewhat less bemusing. As I will argue in later chapters, the
specificities of Wittgenstein’s religiosity are obscure. But what cannot be
questioned is that he found the religious life (particularly in its Tolstoyan
form) enormously attractive, despite his own incapacity to enter into it
fully.147 It is therefore unsurprising that this deep religious longing should
manifest itself both in Wittgenstein’s often obsessive attitude toward philo-
sophical problems and the way those problems are articulated in his
writings.148 In short, part of the sense of Wittgenstein’s confessing that he
could not ‘help seeing every problem from a religious point of view’ lies in
the vocabulary he employs, and what he felt to be at stake in his being
able to dissolve his own philosophical temptations and then show others
how to cure themselves.149 By means of this religious subtext Wittgenstein
makes an implicit appeal to the reader to work on themselves also. As
Shields puts it, in speaking of ‘philosophical problems in terms of tempta-
tions’ Wittgenstein effectively ‘puts the moral responsibility more on the
tempted individuals’ insofar as ‘it requires a degree of compliance on our
part to make temptations into actual transgressions’ (1997: 56). Mindful

of this, it is interesting that in ‘Lectures on Aesthetics’ Wittgenstein makes
the following admission:
What I’m doing is also persuasion . . . I am saying ‘I don’t want you to

look at it like that.’ . . . I am in a sense making propaganda for one
style of thinking as opposed to another. I am honestly disgusted with
the other. Also I’m trying to state what I think. Nevertheless I’m
saying: ‘For God’s sake don’t do this.’ . . . How much we are doing is
changing the style of thinking and how much I’m doing is changing
the style of thinking and how much I’m doing is persuading people to
change their style of thinking.
(1994b: 27–8)150
Insofar as Wittgenstein here speaks candidly of ‘making propaganda’ and

‘persuading people to change their style of thinking’ this suggests that his
philosophical intentions extended beyond his own personal ataraxia. Such
passages thus undermine Rhees’s suspicion that perhaps Wittgenstein was
only ever speaking for himself.151 But more needs to be said here. For
there are passages where Wittgenstein’s emphasis does seem to be of a
more solitary nature. For example, in a note from 1947 he asks whether it
is only he who ‘cannot found a school . . . ?’ In response, Wittgenstein con-
jectures: ‘I cannot found a school because I do not really want to be imit-
ated. Not at any rate by those who publish articles in philosophical
journals’ (1994a: 61). This allusion to not wanting to be ‘imitated’ by
others looks like corroborative evidence for Rhees’s hypothesis. However,
in an earlier entry Wittgenstein remarks:
I am by no means sure that I should prefer a continuation of my work

by others to a change in the way people live which would make all
these questions superfluous. (For this reason I could never found a
school.)
(1994a: 61)
Even from these passages we can therefore conclude that Wittgenstein

remained deeply ambitious (if not always optimistic152) that the signific-
ance of his work would be felt beyond the confines of academic philo-
sophy, his own philosophical satisfaction and indeed lifetime. In short,
while these passages do not tell us whether Wittgenstein thought himself
to be alone in this pursuit, they do support the view that this quest aimed
beyond a merely solitary emancipation.153 Of course, the objective was no
longer the death of philosophy per se (a point to which I will return
shortly) but rather the possibility of deliverance for the individual philo-
sopher so that she too may make the ‘discovery’ which would enable her to
stop ‘doing philosophy’ (1958: §133) when she wants. The unfeasibility of
Wittgenstein’s ever ‘founding a school’ is thus due to the transformation

he wishes to bring about not being merely theoretical, but rather, like the
Pyrrhonist (and indeed genuine religiosity154), fundamentally practical; a
‘change in the way people live’ (1994a: 61).
This leads us naturally to the question of how Wittgenstein saw the
future of philosophical practice? In addition to the biographical material
available that elucidates his troubled relationship with academic philo-
sophy,155 there exist a number of allusions to this tense liaison within
Wittgenstein’s writings. As previously suggested, one can take Wittgen-
stein’s remark that the ‘real discovery is the one that makes me capable of
stopping doing philosophy’ (1958: §133) to represent his basic attitude
toward philosophic practice. For what he yearned for were ‘[t]houghts
that are at peace’ (1994a: 43). This is not to say that Wittgenstein always
thought philosophy’s completion to be possible within his lifetime –
despite the fact that upon finishing the Tractatus he did indeed think that
the central problems of philosophy had been solved. After the Tractatus
there is an increasing tentativeness regarding the very notion of an ‘end to
philosophy.’ Thus, in Zettel, Wittgenstein cautions:
Disquiet in philosophy might be said to arise from looking at philo-

sophy wrongly, seeing it wrong . . . But in that case we never get to the
end of our work! – Of course not, for it has no end . . . (We want to
replace wild conjectures and explanations by quiet weighing of lin-
guistic facts.)
(1990: §447)
This admission is perfectly understandable given the proclaimed descrip-

tive orientation of Wittgenstein’s later work. That the multiplicity of lan-
guage-games philosophers must now only describe ‘is not something
fixed, given once for all’ (that ‘new types of language, new language-
games . . . come into existence, and others become obsolete and get for-
gotten’ (1958: §23)) would itself assure the boundlessness of the new
philosophical task.156 We might therefore say that it is precisely Wittgen-
stein’s later recognition of linguistic-conceptual multiplicity and permuta-
tion157 – in contrast to his earlier insensitivity to these phenomena158 – that
marks the difference in self-assurance regarding the possibility of bringing
philosophy itself to a close.159 But again, none of this detracts from
Wittgenstein’s underlying Pyrrhonism. At least two possible readings offer
themselves here: (1) Drawing on Drury’s remark that Wittgenstein had a
‘persistent intention to change his whole manner of life’ and ‘forsake’ aca-
demic philosophy (and that Wittgenstein himself identified his own
‘vanity’ (Drury 1981: 92) as what drew him back to philosophy160), and
Rhees’s recollection of Wittgenstein exclaiming: ‘ “You know I said I can
stop doing philosophy when I like. That is a lie! I can’t” ’ (ibid.: 186, n. 9),
the correct interpretation of such passages is that although Wittgenstein
never ceased wanting to ‘stop doing philosophy’ his own conceit barred
his way. That is, Wittgenstein’s aspirations remained essentially Pyrrhon-
ian, despite the fact that he could not manage to actualize them. (2) On a
more subtle interpretation we might say that while Wittgenstein did
indeed come to recognize the boundlessness of his new descriptive philo-
sophy, this remained not only a continual source of ‘wonder’ (Holland
1990: 22) for him but also itself a potential source of liberation from the
philosophic enterprise. While the task of philosophy now appeared infi-
nite (for why should language-games ever reach a point of static equilib-
rium, thereby providing philosophy with a determinate field of enquiry?),
that task had itself become redefined so as to allow him to embrace this
essential indeterminacy without the lamentations accompanying his
earlier Tractarian perfectionism.161 Although each of these interpretations
is distinct, they are nevertheless unified on one crucial point: that the
practical success/failure of Wittgenstein’s Pyrrhonism was ‘a difficulty
having to do with the will, rather than the intellect’ (1994a: 17).
Reconstructing the Pyrrhonian dimension of Wittgenstein’s work we
can thus summarize as follows: There is a perfectionist dimension to the
Tractatus insofar as it purports to provide a full explanation of the rela-
tionship between mind, language and world. In its strict determination of
meaning, this project should thereby bring about the conclusion of philo-
sophy. In the later writings, however, Wittgenstein’s position becomes
more complex insofar as meaning itself is no longer determinable in any a
priori sense, but instead seen as the function of a variety of language prac-
tices.162 Having thus abandoned the ‘preconceived idea of crystalline purity’
(1958: §108) of the Tractatus there was little sense in despairing that the
wheels of philosophy kept turning.163 Wittgenstein’s objective was rather
to ensure that they did not continue to turn in isolation from the actual
mechanisms of language usage.164 Whereas before there had been one
fixed, identifiable goal, now the philosopher was faced with many specific
and constantly fluid objectives. And this is why Wittgenstein (like Sextus)
makes use of the medical analogy, insisting that ‘[p]roblems are solved . . .
not a single problem,’ and that there ‘is not a philosophical method,
though there are indeed methods, like different therapies’ (ibid.: §133).
Thus far I have focused on questions pertaining to Wittgenstein’s
method, style and meta-philosophy. These are important themes that
require considerable clarification, not least because they constitute essen-
tial preparatory material for any credible investigation of more ethical-
political matters emerging from Wittgenstein’s work. It is to the latter that
I will now turn.
Wittgenstein and Pyrrhonian conservatism

Recalling Sextus’ outline of the ‘life of appearances,’ I satirized the
Pyrrhonist’s social conformism by likening her to Heller’s ‘diabolical old
man’ (1961: 260) – a character who uncritically embraced whatever polit-

ical power happened to dominate. But what was most conspicuous about
Heller’s character was his incessant rebuttal of his interlocutor’s accusa-
tions. The old man thus reflected on the practical advantages of learning
which wars to lose, and responded to the charge of ‘insanity’ by remind-
ing his interrogator of both the quality and longevity of his life. Thus, at
the end of this incredible dialogue, the old man proudly affirmed that ‘of
course’ he did not have ‘any principles’ (ibid.: 262). The Pyrrhonian
lesson here is that by inculcating the chameleon-like life one can both
attain and maintain a rather unperturbed existence. But if Heller’s char-
acter serves to illustrate the possible ethical-political extremes to which the
Pyrrhonist may go in both acquiring and maintaining ataraxia, then we
might ask whether such troubling implications can be found in Wittgen-
stein’s later work? That is, in his yearning for ‘[t]houghts that are at peace’
(1994a: 43) do we find an analogous ethical-political indifference at
play?165 Some commentators do detect this in Wittgenstein’s mature think-
ing. Thus, Nyíri claims:
[T]he specific tone of Wittgenstein’s analyses, the content of many of

his remarks and reflections, and the historical circumstances in which
this philosophy came into being definitely invite an interpretation in
the light of which there indeed emerge family resemblances between
Wittgenstein on the one hand and some important representatives of
conservatism on the other.
(1982: 44)166
But this is not merely a biographical point, for Nyíri proceeds to suggest
that such a reading is ‘a necessary step toward a more complete picture of
Wittgenstein’s philosophy’ (ibid.: 45).167 On specifically methodological
matters Nyíri develops this correlation by noting Kaltenbrunner’s remarks
concerning the conservative’s general ‘distaste for . . . theory,’ their
related devotion ‘to the familiar’ (a ‘decisive preference for the experi-
ences of life as opposed to the constructions of the intellect’), and finally
that the conservative ‘always begins with that which is concrete’ (ibid.: 46).
On this reading of conservatism (which, for argument’s sake, I will not
question) the aforementioned ‘hostility’ towards theory finds its ‘most
radical expression’ in a certain ‘preference for silence’ when faced with
what is ‘concrete’ (ibid.: 47). In short: ‘the given form of life is the ulti-
mate givenness’ (ibid.: 59).168 Likewise, this time citing Grabowsky, the
conservative’s ‘ “silent reverence for the impenetrable” ’ (ibid.: 56) (which
encapsulates the very essence of the ‘conservative attitude’ (ibid.: 55)) is
aligned with Wittgenstein.169 But Nyíri is not alone in these suspicions.
Bloor similarly argues that ‘Wittgenstein’s texts show how, time and again,
he develops the characteristic themes of conservative thinkers’ (1983:
161).170 Identifying what he perceives to be the central tenets of On Cer-
tainty, Bloor thus provides the following synopsis:
My life, says Wittgenstein, shows what I know and what I am certain

about . . . ‘My life consists in my being content to accept many things’,
he tells us elsewhere . . . A language-game, we are reminded, is not
something reasonable or unreasonable: ‘It is there – like our life’ . . .
Justification must come to an end somewhere, says Wittgenstein, but it
does not end in a state of intellectual doubt or in the apprehension of
self-evident truths. It ends in ‘an ungrounded way of acting’ . . . The
difficult thing to grasp, we are told, is the groundlessness of our
beliefs . . . we inherit a system of belief whose certainty derives from
the fact that ‘we belong to a community’ . . . Doubting is parasitic: an
acquired skill for directing attention at limited areas of belief . . . So
there we have it. The entire categorical framework of conservative
thought: authority, faith, community – all woven together to show the
priority of Life over Reason, Practice over Norms, and Being over
Thought.
(1983: 161–2)171
What then are we to make of such characterizations? And more pointedly,

does the Pyrrhonian dimension of Wittgenstein’s thought necessarily lead
to the sort of ‘radical’ conservatism displayed by Heller’s ‘diabolical old
man’?
Sustaining these ‘conservative’ readings is not difficult. One might, for
example, develop the analyses of Nyíri and Bloor by correlating these
general tendencies of conservatism with the revival of Pyrrhonism during
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and specifically its application by
Counter-Reformers to undermine the Protestant appeal to non-mediated
scriptural authority.172 This Pyrrhonian-inspired Catholic fideism is inter-
esting because it not only brings to light Pyrrhonism’s latent (though
extreme) conservative implications, but also because Wittgenstein’s own
influence in philosophy of religion is frequently said to foster just such an
anti-apologetic fideism.173 The claims of Nyíri and Bloor might then have
much in their favor. After all, Wittgenstein explicitly warns: ‘Our mistake
is to look for an explanation where we ought to look at what happens as a
“proto-phenomenon”. That is, where we ought to have said: this language-
game is played’ (1958: §654), and similarly: ‘If I have exhausted the justifi-
cations I have reached bedrock, and my spade is turned. Then I am
inclined to say: “This is simply what I do” ’ (ibid.: §217).174 Although, as I
will argue in Chapter 2, Wittgenstein’s epistemological point here is
rather deeper than that of Heller’s old man, there remains a sense in
which such a position is of potential political significance – and especially
in view of his apparent175 prohibition against philosophers ‘interfering’
with language-games.176 Moreover (as previously discussed), concerning
the relationship between philosophy and life177 Wittgenstein advises that
theoretical ‘solutions’ to the problems of life are simply not required, and
thus neither is the philosophical quest that seeks these as its end. Life is
neither made easier nor more valuable through philosophical theorizing;
life has been and remains entirely livable (and not merely bearable) outside
the philosophical enterprise. Thus the right way of ‘solving’ the problems
of life (and philosophy) is to dissolve them so they are no longer experi-
enced as problems. Although this therapeutic process of dissolution is
rarely easy, it ultimately has a liberating effect on one’s life, even becom-
ing a source of ‘joy’ (1994a: 27). It would therefore seem that Wittgen-
stein’s work, to the extent that it is Pyrrhonian, does lend itself to the
conservative reading outlined above. But despite this initial plausibility,
Nyíri’s and Bloor’s broad-brush approach ultimately distorts Wittgen-
stein’s mature thinking.178 For what lies at the root of these suspicions is
not Wittgenstein’s conservatism but rather his seemingly radical anti-
foundationalism. Although the correlations Nyíri and Bloor make are
interesting, their articulation of the question in such explicitly political
terms tends to divert attention from the underlying philosophical issue.
There is something ethically and politically significant about Wittgen-
stein’s later work, but it is not adequately represented by the appeal to his
alleged conservatism. Rather, it is Wittgenstein’s Pyrrhonian naturalism
that both opens his work to questions of ethics and politics and ultimately
transcends the troubling quietism displayed by the thoroughgoing
Pyrrhonist. What Nyíri and Bloor focus on is one specific – though admit-
tedly prominent – dimension of Wittgenstein’s work; namely, its apparent
quasi-communitarian anti-foundationalism. But by emphasizing Wittgen-
stein’s frequent appeals to community, tradition and training, one is
prone to overlook the deeper naturalism that both underpins and also
tempers such themes in his later writings.179
In this chapter I have already identified one aspect of Wittgenstein’s
naturalism; namely, his claim that philosophical perplexity is not merely
the symptom of philosophical speculation but rather of both ‘ordinary
language’ and our natural ‘urge’ to misunderstand its manifold functions.
It is clearly significant that Wittgenstein, like Sextus, should ultimately
locate both one’s philosophical puzzlement and potential liberation in the
natural realm. This is not, however, the most important aspect of his natu-
ralism. Rather, as intimated above, the crucial question here is to what
extent Wittgenstein’s naturalism relates to ethical-political matters? In the
next chapter I will pursue this by means of a detailed interrogation of On
Certainty. Focusing on this text is necessary for three reasons because: (1)
its continual emphasis on community, tradition and training would
appear to corroborate the general claims made by Nyíri and Bloor, (2)
here, perhaps more than anywhere else, the potential ethical-political
stakes of Wittgenstein’s mature thinking can be discerned most readily,
and (3) despite the more obviously ‘communitarian’ overtones of this text
Wittgenstein provides an important indicator as to the ethical implications
of his naturalism in his remarks on ‘learning’ and ‘trust’ specifically.

2 Trusting in a world-picture
Knowledge, faith and ethics after
On Certainty
Skepticism and solutions to skepticism . . . make their way in the world

mostly as lessons in hypocrisy: providing solutions one does not believe to
problems one has not felt.
S. Cavell, The Claim of Reason
Contempt for truth harms our civilization no less than fanatical insistence
on the truth. In addition, an indifferent majority clears the way for fanat-
ics, of whom there will always be plenty around . . . We have the right to
stand by our beliefs.
L. Kolakowski, Freedon, Fame, Lying and Betrayal
A good part of the problem with religion is religious people (without

them, religion’s record would be unblemished).
J.D. Caputo, On Religion
Introduction
In Chapter 1 I explored the most striking correlations between Wittgen-
stein and Pyrrhonism.1 But my primary interest there was the (apparently)
similar ethical-political implications of each therapeutic philosophy. Thus,
although the ‘conservative’ interpretation of Wittgenstein is not wholly
unfounded, I suggested that it is nevertheless inadequate. Indeed, a
detailed examination of Wittgenstein’s later writings makes it increasingly
difficult to determine any obvious political orientation therein. One
reason for this is that the quasi-communitarian reading of Wittgenstein
facilitates a number of ethical-political interpretative possibilities. It is
therefore possible to identify the roots of a liberal, pluralistic,2 and even
relativistic dimension to these texts. On other occasions (particularly, as
we will see, in his reflections on religious belief) Wittgenstein seems to
provide an apologetic for dogmatism. Any attempt to ‘politicize’ Wittgen-
stein’s work (to either identify an existent political subtext or utilize his
writings to develop a particular political agenda) must therefore handle
such interpretative possibilities carefully. We must, as it were, ensure that
we ‘put the question marks deep enough down’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 62).
As I will argue in Chapter 3, this necessitates an investigation into the nat-
uralism underpinning Wittgenstein’s mature work. For although this
crucial dimension of his thinking is not synonymous with any specific
political outlook, it is prerequisite for ethical-political theorizing as such.
In this chapter, however, my interest lies with the apparent communitar-
ian-relativism of On Certainty – a text that (allegedly) embodies the ‘entire
categorical framework of conservative thought’ (Bloor 1983: 161–2).
Although Bloor’s claim warrants serious attention, there is too much at
stake in On Certainty which leaves the role of those specific emphases
Bloor identifies (‘authority, faith, community’ (ibid.: 162)) still undeter-

mined.3 Indeed, it is because of this that any defensible reading of this
text must take into account Wittgenstein’s other writings. I will therefore
read On Certainty alongside Wittgenstein’s reflections on religious belief,
and in doing so highlight the potentially radical epistemological and
ethical-political consequences of his later work. More specifically, this will
enable me to: (1) address the interrelated problems of justification and
relativism, (2) determine the function of rhetoric in both epistemological
and ethical-political discourse (I will develop this in Chapter 3), and (3)
begin to identify the crucial role ‘primitive behaviors’ play in this overall
schema (this will be developed in Chapters 3 and 5).
Echoes of Pyrrhonism: doubt, knowledge and the

groundlessness of belief
According to Edwards, On Certainty should not be read as a treatise on
Wittgenstein’s own epistemological views but as an alternative ‘object of
comparison’ to philosophy’s customary anti-skeptical foundationalism. On
this view, Wittgenstein’s equally convincing ‘nonfoundational’ picture
facilitates our liberation from ‘habitual ways of thinking’ (Edwards 1985:
184). Edwards’s portrait of Wittgenstein as argumentatively strategic and
ontologically non-committal4 thus remains distinctly Pyrrhonian.5 Like the
commentaries of Nyíri and Bloor, such interpretations are not implaus-
ible. There is something Pyrrhonian about On Certainty, but it is not to be
found in its (alleged) ‘nonfoundationalism.’6 While one cannot (and
perhaps should not) derive a systematic epistemological position from
these notebooks, conceding this much does not commit one to such radic-
ally Pyrrhonian or anti-foundationalist conclusions. Where then does the
Pyrrhonism of On Certainty lie? First, we should note that Wittgenstein’s
assault on skepticism does not prohibit a Pyrrhonian reading. The reason
for this lies in those features of Pyrrhonism which distinguish it from more
orthodox (broadly Cartesian) forms of skepticism. For although Wittgen-
stein touches on numerous philosophical issues here7 his initial concern is
to interrogate the premises upon which Moore’s realist, ‘common-sense’
anti-skepticism operates.8 Indeed, what makes On Certainty so fascinating is
that it launches an attack both at traditional skepticism and anti-
Trusting in a world-picture 43
9
skepticism. Wittgenstein’s purpose here is to corroborate neither the
skeptic’s nor anti-skeptic’s claims but, rather, to demonstrate how the
entire debate spawns from grammatical confusions concerning the cir-
cumstances in which it ‘make[s] sense’ (1999: §2) to apply ‘knowledge’
and ‘doubt.’ This brings me to the second, more substantive point.
Wittgenstein’s refusal to align himself with either skeptic or anti-skeptic
echoes Sextus’ own treatment of the dogmatists and academics. Both
philosophers avoid getting embroiled in the customary philosophical
dichotomy between knowledge and doubt10 by highlighting what skeptic
and anti-skeptic have in common. Thus, as discussed in Chapter 1, the

apparent distinction between dogmatist and academic in the Pyrrhonian
schema is ‘dissolved’ insofar as each remains fixated on objective truth, or
how things ‘really are.’ According to Sextus, only once this urge has been
arrested does ataraxia become possible. The Pyrrhonist thus attempts to
evade the assertiveness plaguing both truth-claimers (dogmatists) and
truth-deniers (academics), exercising this ‘third way’ in terms of a thera-
peutically motivated agnosticism. Ataraxia is attained neither through dog-
matic assent nor dissent but by relinquishing the drive toward committing
oneself to anything beyond the life of subjective ‘appearances.’ Similarly,
Wittgenstein questions Moore’s defense of ‘common-sense,’ not because
he wants to side with the skeptic but because Moore puts things ‘in the
wrong light’ (ibid.: §481).11 Moore’s fundamental mistake lies not merely
in what he says concerning knowledge and doubt but rather in his saying
too much, or not knowing where to stop.12 For Moore to offer such ‘proofs’
of epistemic certitude (as he does when declaring he knows that ‘ “here is
a hand” ’ (ibid.: §19)13 and he has ‘spent his whole life in close proximity
to the earth’ (ibid.: §93)) is to misunderstand the nature, applicability and
interconnection of ‘knowledge,’ ‘doubt’ and other related concepts.
Moore’s assertions have no obvious application because he assumes their
meaning to be guaranteed regardless of their specific context.14 But once
we remind ourselves of the ‘ordinary’ function of such terms,15 the ‘urge’
driving Moore’s assertions will be placated. In much the same way as
objective truth (according to Sextus) leads one astray, so the yearning for
‘metaphysical’ (ibid.: §482), ‘transcendent certainty’ (ibid.: §47) becomes
the philosophical affliction needing treatment in On Certainty.
This then constitutes the broadly Pyrrhonian terrain of On Certainty.
There are, however, more specific points of contact between Wittgenstein
and Sextus here. For example, a striking correlation emerges between
Sextus’ appeal to the realm of animality16 and Wittgenstein’s remark that
the ‘squirrel does not infer by induction that it is going to need stores
next winter as well. And no more do we need a law of induction to justify
our actions or our predictions’ (ibid.: §287).17 But given that my present
interest lies with On Certainty’s apparent quasi-communitarianism I will
leave Wittgenstein’s Pyrrhonian naturalism for a moment. The more
immediate correlation between Wittgenstein and Sextus is instead their
mutual awareness of the (potentially) aporetic nature of judgement cri-
teria. But before this can be properly elucidated I must first outline the
main themes of On Certainty.
As intimated above, the most notable point of departure Wittgenstein
takes from traditional philosophic practice here is the intimate grammati-
cal relationship he perceives to be at play between ‘knowledge’ and
‘doubt.’ Contrary to a certain philosophical inheritance (itself presup-
posed by Moore) that presents these two concepts as wholly antithetical,
Wittgenstein suggests that in their ordinary, non-philosophical applica-
tion, ‘knowledge’ and ‘doubt’ are in fact two sides of the same conceptual-
linguistic coin.18 One of Moore’s mistakes is to assume that ‘the
proposition “I know . . . ” ’ is ‘as little subject to doubt as “I am in pain” ’
(ibid.: §178).19 The crucial point here is that the grammar governing ‘I
know’ is ‘restricted’ (ibid.: §554) in a way quite foreign to Moore’s own
applications.20 (The sort of propositions Wittgenstein has in mind are:
‘here is one hand’ (ibid.: §1),21 ‘I am a human being’ (ibid.: §4),22 ‘[t]here
are physical objects’ (ibid.: §35),23 ‘the earth existed long before my birth’
(ibid.: §84),24 ‘I have spent my whole life in close proximity to the earth’
(ibid.: §93),25 ‘[m]y body has never disappeared and reappeared again
after an interval’ (ibid.: §101), and ‘all human beings have parents’ (ibid.:
§240).26) What Moore overlooks is the conditionality of the use of ‘I know,’
for he ‘forgets the expression “I thought I knew” ’ (ibid.: §12).27 To ‘know’
something entails that one can offer justification (evidence, reasons, and
so on) for that claim,28 and this is where Moore begins to go astray in his
various attempts to articulate the absolute epistemic certitude of his
propositions. In keeping with his later descriptive methodology, Wittgen-
stein is therefore concerned with how knowledge-claims are made ‘in
ordinary life’ (ibid.: §406),29 free from the ‘metaphysical emphasis’ (ibid.:
§482) philosophers often impose.30 This is why, for each of Moore’s
propositions, one ‘can imagine circumstances that turn it into a move in
one of our language-games, and by that it loses everything that is philo-
sophically astonishing’ (ibid.: §622).31 In other words, it is Moore’s
repeated application of the phrase ‘I know’ outside any specific context32
that renders it of ostensible philosophical significance. But despite this
principal confusion, Moore’s position remains worthy of philosophical
attention. His self-assurance33 may be of little interest in itself, but the
‘propositions . . . which Moore retails as examples of such known truths
are . . . interesting’ because one does not ‘arrive at any of them as a result
of investigation’ (ibid.: §§137–8).34 That is, Moore’s examples transcend
the conditionality of the language-game of knowledge and doubt,35 and
thus cannot meaningfully be doubted in ordinary circumstances.36 What
Moore erroneously concludes from this is that he therefore ‘knows’ such
propositions ‘to be true’ (Moore 1994a: 48).37 Wittgenstein, however,
refuses to subsume these types of proposition under the rubric of ‘know-
ledge’ because their epistemic status is more fundamental than Moore
38
recognizes. Thus, Wittgenstein remarks: ‘Moore does not know what he
asserts he knows, but it stands fast for him, as also for me; regarding it as
absolutely solid is part of our method of doubt and enquiry’ (1999: §151).
One does not ‘arrive at any of [these propositions] as a result of investiga-
tion’ because they are a necessary part of what constitutes ‘an
investigation.’39 Without such propositions being immune from critical
interrogation ‘a doubt would . . . drag everything with it and plunge it into
chaos’ (ibid.: §613) – or at least change dramatically ‘the role of “mistake”
and “truth” in our lives’ (ibid.: §138). In such extreme skeptical circum-
stances (assuming they are conceivable40) ‘the foundation of all judging

would be taken away from me’ (ibid.: §614).41 That Moore’s propositions
also ‘stand fast’ for Wittgenstein highlights that he is not rejecting the
former’s position, but rather attempting to determine what Moore can
and cannot meaningfully say. The problem lies in Moore’s casting this
‘standing fast’ in the conditional, hypothetical terms of the knowledge-
game.42 This misrepresents such ‘absolute solidity’ insofar as it radically
understates it. One does not ‘know’ such things; rather, they stand fast by
providing the necessary backdrop for any involvement in the knowledge-
game itself.43 Fundamental propositions are not a matter of epistemic cer-
titude (their significance lies deeper than epistemology44), and it is due to this
‘depth’ that even Wittgenstein struggles to articulate their quasi-epistemic
status.45 Moore’s trivializing the way such propositions ‘stand fast’ is thus
further highlighted in Wittgenstein’s repeated insistence that it is in one’s
relations with the entire natural and social world that the absolute,
implicit, practical ‘trust’46 one has in the ‘scaffolding of our thoughts’
(ibid.: §211) is manifest.47 It is as though Moore, wanting to demonstrate
his certitude, were to respond to the question: ‘What would you be pre-
pared to gamble on the earth existing for another minute?’ with ‘Oh, I’d
bet a whole year’s salary!’ Such a wager would be peculiar because: (1)
what is being gambled on (the continued existence of the earth) must
itself be presupposed in the language-game of gambling, and (2) that a
stake of ‘a year’s salary’ is proportionally insignificant given that one’s
entire life hinges on the unshakeable stability of such a tacit commitment. 48
I suggested above that Moore’s cardinal mistake lay in his attempting to
say ‘too much.’ There is, however, a sense in which this formulation
remains insufficient. For when Wittgenstein remarks that the assertion
‘[t]here are physical objects’ is ‘a misfiring attempt to express what can’t
be expressed like that’ (1999: §37), a telling correlation emerges with the
saying/showing distinction of the Tractatus. For these quasi-epistemic
foundations resist being spoken about directly,49 but rather manifest them-
selves indirectly. That is, such ‘certitude’ ultimately resides in action and is
thereby shown50 in one’s lived existence, not primarily in what one says.51
These fundamental convictions are too close or familiar to us to permit
adequate articulation; so ‘anchored’ in our life are they that we ‘cannot
touch [them]’ (ibid.: §103).52 Given what I said in Chapter 1 regarding
Wittgenstein’s account of the origins of philosophical perplexity (and
specifically his warning that language has the ‘power . . . to make every-
thing look the same’ (1994a: 22)53) the problem inherent in any attempt
to articulate this ‘background’ (ibid.: 16) certitude becomes clearer.
Moore’s knowledge-claims (his offering proofs, evidence, and so on) have
an inevitable tendency to make foundational propositions look like empir-
ical hypotheses.54 But the ‘essence of the language game is a practical
method (a way of acting) – not speculation, not chatter’ (1993: 399).
Moore’s assertion ‘ “Here is one hand, and here is another” ’ (1994b: 82)
adds nothing to the initial gesture – or to the course of daily life in which
hands have a role – other than philosophical confusion. Thus, Moore’s
error should perhaps be located, not in his saying too much but rather in
his ‘urge’ (Wittgenstein 1958: §109) to say anything at all; in his trying to
‘express by the use of language’ (say) what is ‘embodied in . . . grammar’
(Moore 1993: 103) (shown).
If the same ‘grammar’ governs both doubt and knowledge then one
cannot – as Descartes assumes55 – choose to doubt at will. For if know-
ledge-claims demand the possibility of further justification and specific cir-
cumstances in which to operate, then so too must doubt-claims.56 Thus,
Wittgenstein maintains, one must have ‘grounds for doubt’ (1999: §122)
or ‘reasons for leaving a familiar track’ (1993: 379). But he opposes the
Cartesian method even more resolutely than this. For doubt, we are told,
is essentially parasitic upon certitude;57 if someone were to try to ‘doubt
everything’ she would ‘not get as far as doubting anything,’ for the ‘game
of doubting itself presupposes certainty’ (1999: §115):58
How does someone judge which is his right and which his left
hand? How do I know that my judgement will agree with someone
else’s? How do I know that this colour is blue? If I don’t trust myself
here, why should I trust anyone else’s judgement? Is there a why?
Must I not begin to trust somewhere? That is to say: somewhere I must
begin with not-doubting; and that is not, so to speak, hasty but excus-
able: it is part of judging.
(Wittgenstein 1999: §150)59
Answering the question: ‘Why do I not satisfy myself that I have two feet
when I want to get up from a chair?’ one cannot provide reasons or evid-
ence more certain than that which is in doubt.60 And this is why Wittgen-
stein’s own response to that question (‘[t]here is no why. I simply don’t.
This is how I act’ (ibid.: §148)) should be interpreted neither as equivoca-
tion nor – as Nyíri and Bloor would see it – as inherently ‘conservative.’ For
if someone is continually unsure about the existence of her feet, hands, or
the external world, then it would simply beg the question to suppose she
should trust her reason, senses or the testimony of a third party (or any
combination of these) in determining their existential status.61
Moore’s examples are thus worthy of further attention insofar as they
identify the sort of propositions only upon which learning can be
‘hinged.’62 The possibility of a child learning anything depends upon a
natural orientation toward others, and specifically their first trusting or
‘believing the adult.’63 Doubt can only occur after belief,64 for ‘how could a
child immediately doubt what it is taught? That could mean only that he
was incapable of learning certain language games’ (ibid.: §283). When
learning about history a child must initially trust both what her teachers
and ‘text-books’ (ibid.: §§162, 599) tell her; she must take these to be the
absolute authority on such matters.65 Of course, later she may question

these sources on specific issues she formerly accepted unequivocally. But
such questioning can begin only after she has learnt and accepted many
other things.66 (Indeed, even in this interrogation of her former beliefs
she must at some point trust in the new evidence and research methods –
which will doubtless themselves be inherited from the work and testimony
of others.67) Reflection on one’s own methods is possible; one can, up to a
point, ‘investigate the investigation’ (ibid.: §459). But if one is to do any-
thing (history, geography, physics, and so on) such self-reflection must
terminate somewhere.68 The central point here is that trust is a necessary
condition for learning, questioning and even outright distrust.69 Of
course, at a much earlier stage of development the child’s ‘primitive reac-
tion’70 of trust is manifest with regard to its principle carer(s).71 Here, I
believe, we find the archetypal ‘primitive reaction.’ For although it may be
‘impossible’ to determine specifically what must lie ‘beyond doubt’ for
‘there . . . to be a language-game,’ it is nevertheless prerequisite that some-
thing is trusted ‘beyond doubt’ (ibid.: §519).72 It is, after all, only upon this
pre-linguistic trust that the child can survive, be initiated into a commun-
ity,73 and later make judgements about further trust-relations.74
Focusing on the example of the young child is useful here because it
highlights distinctions between trust and other related concepts. Although
I will return to the example of Abraham and Isaac75 in later chapters, this
narrative is particularly instructive at this juncture (not least because
Wittgenstein characterizes religious faith as a ‘trusting’ (1994a: 72)). In
Genesis 22 we are thus told how God tested Abraham’s faith by ordering
him to take Isaac to Moriah and ‘offer him as a sacrifice’ (22:2). There are
a number of things worth noting about this account. First, Abraham’s two
responses to God (‘Here I am’ (22:1, 12)) are immediate and unequivo-
cal: ‘here I am, under your eyes, at your service, your obedient servant’
(Levinas 1996a: 146).76 Moreover, having heard God’s command,
Abraham does not interrupt the spirit of his initial, affirmative response
with appeals for justification; God is not petitioned to give ‘reasons’ for
His sacrificial demand. The second point is that, despite Isaac’s later
inquisitiveness concerning Abraham’s not having found a ‘young beast for
the sacrifice’ (22:7), when it is Isaac himself who is eventually bound ‘on
the altar on the top of the wood’ (22:9–10) this similarly does not provoke
appeals to his father for justification.77 In the case of both Abraham and
Isaac such childlike,78 unconditional trust can be contrasted with the con-
ditionality of ‘reliance.’ When one relies on someone they are indeed
‘trusted,’ but only concerning a specific region of experience. Such
reliance is thus conditional insofar as it remains subject to one’s own judge-
ment.79 (I may even rely on someone unconditionally with regard to x.
Nevertheless, in demarcating even this I have thereby demonstrated a
deeper reliance on my own powers of judgement.) But, as Hertzberg notes,
of genuine trust
there will be no limits, given in advance, of how far or in what respects

I shall trust him . . . In relying on someone I as it were look down at
him from above. I exercise my command of the world. I remain the
judge of his actions. In trusting someone I look up from below. I learn
from the other what the world is about. I let him be the judge of my
actions.
(1988: 314–15)80
Mindful of these points, it becomes clear why much more turns on

Wittgenstein’s reflections in On Certainty than the possibility of making spe-
cific knowledge-claims. The real stakes thus emerge when he refers not to
individual propositions but to ‘our frame of reference’ (1999: §83),81
one’s ‘world-picture’ (ibid.: §§162, 167),82 a ‘whole system of propositions’
(ibid.: §141),83 and a ‘totality of judgements’ (ibid.: §140).84 What is
important to note about these expressions is that, although Wittgenstein
does refer to ‘something universal’ (ibid.: §440) (‘the human language-
game’ (ibid.: §554) and the ‘fundamental principles of human enquiry’
(ibid.: §670)85), his dominant tendency in On Certainty is to speak of our
‘frame of reference’ (ibid.: §83), this ‘point of view’ (ibid.: §92), and my
‘convictions’ (ibid.: §102), without any clear indication as to the scope of
the ‘our,’ ‘this’ or ‘my’ in such cases.86 In short, Wittgenstein’s emphasis
seems potentially relativistic insofar as it lies on the specific community in
which one is trained and through which one inherits a specific world-
picture. Mindful of this (and Wittgenstein’s more general anti-scientism),
his remark that ‘we should not call anybody reasonable who believed [in]
something . . . despite of scientific evidence’ (ibid.: §324) could be taken
to mean that while we ‘belong to a community which is bound together by
science and education’ (ibid.: §298), other communities may not be
bound in the same way. That science is our standard of rationality says
something important about the way our lives are oriented, but that is all.
Nevertheless, recognizing that one’s own world-picture is historically and
culturally situated does not mean – as relativists frequently assume – that
one’s attitude toward it needs be less categorical.87 The analogy of love is
particularly instructive here.88 For example, I may hitherto have had a
number of failed relationships. I may also be aware that, statistically speak-
ing, it is probable that my new relationship will eventually go the same way
as its predecessors. But none of this need undermine my unshakeable
commitment to, and confidence in, my present lover. That love has failed
me in the past (or that others do not (or no longer) love the one I love) is no
reason to think that it will fail me now.89 For part of the ‘grammar’ of love
is that my current lover can always be taken as the exception here; that my
usual doubts (indeed, the assurances of history and probability them-
selves) will at this point break down.90 In short, to be self-effacing with
regard to one’s fundamental commitments is wholly unnecessary. Thus,
according to Morawetz:
One’s own way of thinking is one’s only resource for recognizing the
behavior of others as ‘giving grounds’ or as ‘making judgements,’ and
it is one’s only measure for truth and falsity. To say that p is true for
someone else, someone who makes judgements in a recognizably dif-
ferent way, is no basis at all for my saying that it is true, partly true, or
something I cannot judge. The concepts one uses to describe alien
ways of thinking are one’s own concepts; one’s attitude toward the
truth and falsity of the beliefs of others is determined by one’s own
criteria for what is true. The question whether one’s own point of view
ought to have this role is really the nonsensical question whether what
I call judgement and evidence are really judgement and evidence.
(1978: 133)91
This passage is interesting because its anti-relativistic emphasis is an import-

ant, though easily neglected, feature of On Certainty.92 It is not, however,
the only emphasis, and to that extent Morawetz (for fear of the ‘unsatisfac-
tory conclusions’ (ibid.: 123) alternative readings may lead to) underesti-
mates Wittgenstein’s troubled engagement with these issues.93 Ultimately
we must therefore ask whether Wittgenstein offers: (1) a credible response
to the Pyrrhonist who seeks to ‘ground’ his quest for ataraxia upon ‘reason-
ing falling into . . . circularity’ (Sextus 1996: 2:20),94 and (2) a quasi-
Pyrrhonian response to that challenge? I will return to these questions in a
moment. First, in order to ascertain the force of Wittgenstein’s allusions to
a ‘world-picture,’ ‘frame of reference’ (and so on), another illustration
might usefully be developed from one of Wittgenstein’s own.95 Being prone
to absentmindedness I often misplace my house keys. When this happens I
search my pockets, the floor, cupboards, and so on. Having checked all
these possible locations I then begin to search the same places again, only
this time I find the keys in my trouser pocket. I conclude from this that my
original investigation was insufficiently thorough and that the keys had
been there all along.96 But what would prevent me from concluding that:
(1) the keys had mysteriously ‘appeared’ in my pocket between the first
and second investigation (and that objects do this occasionally)?, (2) a mis-
chievous spirit likes moving my belongings around?, or (3) I had somehow
‘willed’ the keys into my pocket? As each hypothesis ‘tallies with the facts’
(Wittgenstein 1999: §199), the bare empirical situation does not compel
me to any of these conclusions in particular.97 What is ultimately at stake
here is thus not merely whether (1), (2) or (3) can adequately explain this
specific event. Rather, what is at issue is an entire ‘world-picture’ – that is,
the extent to which conceding (1), (2) or (3) would undermine my ‘whole
way of looking at things’ (ibid.: §292) and whether ‘I could . . . go on with
the old language-game[s] any further’ (ibid.: §617).98
The unconditional, primitive trusting upon which children’s learning
and socialization are founded must therefore be extended to encompass

world-pictures more generally.99 For the trust manifested in the life of the
young child is not (unless we are referring to a ‘damaged’ (Hertzberg
1988: 320) life), lost or dissolved through later life, but rather, undergoes
a continual process of extension and transference. One’s primary trust in
one’s elders eventually extends to trusting: (1) other others, including what
they tell us about the world, (2) one’s own ability to make judgements
between conflicting opinions and information, and (3) the social, political
and religious institutions in which one is raised or later joins. Doubtless
these commitments will be more or less tentative and hypothetical, but
many will have a distinctly categorical character.100 There is no linear,
cumulative narrative here because the way trust dissipates will be complex
and unpredictable. Neither is trusting one’s family logically prior to trust-
ing one’s teachers or friends. Thus, our primitive trusting – though it pro-
vides the grounds upon which more circumscribed ‘reliances’ can be
founded – nevertheless remains an essential part of adult life.101 Moreover,
this natural extension of trust beyond (for example) the parental relation
lies at the core of the learning process. For one does not learn a series of
singular propositions,102 but rather a whole web of mutually supportive
propositions.103 As Wittgenstein notes, when learning what appear to be
specific facts one indirectly ‘acquires’ (1999: §279) an entire ‘frame of ref-
erence’ (ibid.: §83), a ‘whole system’ (ibid.: §141) or ‘structure’ (ibid.:
§102) of propositions. When learning to name different parts of the body,
a child implicitly104 learns about the stability of the physical world105 – that
one’s ‘hands don’t disappear when [one is] not paying attention to them’
(ibid.: §153),106 or that one body-part does not suddenly mutate into
another. To learn to identify this as ‘my hand’ I must also come to see ‘my
hand’ as persisting from one day to the next (as being the same hand),
though nobody will expressly say to me: ‘This is your hand, and look! it
does not suddenly disappear or change into something else.’107 Persistent
failure to identify this hand as both mine and the same hand today as it was
yesterday would simply prevent certain language-games from being
acquired108 – as Hudson remarks, in ordinary circumstances, to ‘be mis-
taken about that [“I have two hands”] would not be to say something erro-
neous about hands but to disqualify oneself from talking about them at
all’ (1986a: 120). Like the learning child then, without trusting in some-
thing and someone (that I have a body; that the world is not a figment of my
imagination; that, as a rule, people do not try to deceive me109) one’s ori-
entation around the natural and social world would become hopeless.110
And this is ultimately why it is not that Moore ‘knows something,’ but
rather that the propositions he offers are the ‘unmoving foundation of his
language-games’ (Wittgenstein 1999: §403).
It is at this point that we must therefore recognize ‘the groundlessness
of our believing’ (ibid.: §166). For if the practices of ‘[g]iving grounds’
and ‘justifying the evidence’ (ibid.: §204) are but one dimension of spe-
cific language-games111 (and all these practices require rule-governed con-

texts within which to ‘have their life’ (ibid.: §105)112) then such
language-games cannot themselves meaningfully be said to be ‘grounded’
(ibid.: §205) on something else.113 Rather, they constitute the ‘given’
(1958: p. 226) from which both daily practice and philosophical investiga-
tion begin.114 ‘You must bear in mind,’ Wittgenstein thus cautions, ‘that
the language-game is so to say something unpredictable. I mean: it is not
based on grounds. It is not reasonable (or unreasonable). It is there – like
our life’ (1999: §559). Justification and giving grounds reach their natural
terminus not in the realm of theory but in human action.115 Accordingly,
the primitivity of our language-games means that they require no theo-
retical apologetics – not least because any such apologetic would itself
necessarily rely on trust.116 Rather, one must treat them as ‘primary’ (1958:
§656), beyond both justification and doubt.117 And this is why there is no
compelling reason why one should question or abandon such fundamen-
tal beliefs, even in the face of apparently falsifying eventualities.118 (I will
expand on this in a moment.)
The central themes of On Certainty can thus be summarized as follows:
(1) Echoing Sextus’ treatment of the dogmatists and academics, Wittgen-
stein highlights the grammatical confusions plaguing both traditional
skepticism and Moore’s anti-skepticism. By focusing on how ‘knowledge’
and ‘doubt’ are actually used, Wittgenstein problematizes the (shared)
assumption that these are wholly antithetical concepts. (2) Moore’s anti-
skepticism is not, however, simply erroneous. Rather, its significance lies
in the sort of propositions Moore offers as ‘evidence’ against the skeptic.
What interests Wittgenstein is how such propositions transcend the condi-
tionality of the knowledge-game and resist explicit articulation. Indeed, it
is precisely this unconditionality that Moore understates in his numerous
claims to ‘know’ such things to be ‘true.’ To speak of ‘knowledge’ and
‘doubt’ here is misleading because the knowledge/doubt language-game
itself presupposes such propositions to be beyond question. (3) What is
therefore at stake here is not merely the conditions of possibility for
making specific knowledge-claims but the general background required
for a vast number of human activities. Learning (and social interaction
more broadly) likewise requires that some things are trusted uncondition-
ally. For if, as Wittgenstein suggests, one acquires a whole ‘nest’ (1999:
§225) of propositions, then, regarding the possibility of falsification, what
is ultimately at stake is not this or that belief but an entire ‘frame of refer-
ence’ (ibid.: §83).
As I suggested earlier, one fruitful way of negotiating the central
themes of On Certainty is through Wittgenstein’s remarks on religious
belief. With the previous synopsis in mind I will now indicate more pre-
cisely why this correlation is necessary for understanding the ethical-
political implications of his later work.
Rock and sand: fundamental propositions and blasphemy

Although there has been relatively little commentary on the relationship
between On Certainty and Wittgenstein’s remarks on religion,119 he in fact
suggests this correlation in the following passage:
If the shopkeeper wanted to investigate each of his apples without any

reason, for the sake of being certain about everything, why doesn’t he
have to investigate the investigation? And can one talk of belief here
(I mean belief as in ‘religious belief’, not surmise)?
(1999: §459)
There are a number of reasons why Wittgenstein alludes to religious belief

here, but most significant is the distinction he makes between belief and
hypothesis.120 Thus, in ‘Lectures on Religious Belief’ Wittgenstein remarks
of the claim ‘ “These people rigorously hold the opinion (or view) that
there is a Last Judgement” ’ that here
‘Opinion’ sounds queer.

It is for this reason that different words are used: ‘dogma’, ‘faith’.
We don’t talk about hypothesis, or about high probability. Nor
about knowing.
In a religious discourse we use such expressions as: ‘I believe that
so and so will happen,’ and use them differently to the way we use
them in science.
(1994b: 57)121
Notwithstanding some notable differences,122 these sorts of beliefs parallel

the ‘hinge’ propositions Wittgenstein identifies in Moore’s anti-skepticism
insofar as both lack the tentative conditionality associated with hypothesiz-
ing.123 Despite a concurrence in ‘surface grammar’ (1958: §664), belief in
the Last Judgement is not commensurate with the astronomer’s belief in
the pending arrival of a meteorite.124 In the latter, evidence can be accu-
mulated, observations and calculations made, hypotheses confirmed or
refuted. For the religious believer, however, the Last Judgement stands
‘on an entirely different plane’ (1994b: 56)125 to such empirical conjec-
126
tures. Still, as Kierkegaard cautions, the meaning of this ‘category’ of
the ‘quite differently’ (1973: 253) 127 is hardly transparent. I therefore
want to elucidate this important claim.
Now, the notion of ‘testing’ is not wholly foreign to the religious
sphere. As I discussed earlier, Abraham was indeed ‘tested’ by God. Never-
theless, such trials of faith are notably unilateral, for here it is God who
puts us to the test. There are, of course, apparent exceptions to this. In 1
John 4:1 the faithful are thus warned against false prophets: ‘do not trust
any and every spirit, my friends; test the spirits, to see whether they are
from God.’ Still, the sort of ‘testing’ advocated here is clearly not empiri-
cal or hypothetical, for no ‘result’ would ever sanction the conclusion that
God had been found wanting. The most such ‘testing’ could demonstrate
would be a failing (of faith, trust or understanding) on our part. This qual-
ification aside, obvious questions arise concerning the very possibility of
‘testing’ religious beliefs in the aforementioned way. But this is not the
point I want to pursue. Rather, what interests me is the extent to which in
even considering such a possibility one would have already misunderstood
the pivotal position such beliefs play in the religious life. Belief in the Last
Judgement ought not to be interpreted as arising from quasi-inductive
procedures – as though one was naturally led from experience to this
belief. (As Wittgenstein remarks: ‘experience does not direct us to derive
anything from experience’ (1999: §130).) Because such beliefs form ‘the
background against which [one will] distinguish between true and false’
(ibid.: §94) they play a crucial part in constituting what an individual (and
her community) will count as ‘proof,’ ‘evidence’ or a ‘valid deduction.’ 128
So, for example, an individual’s non-belief need never be undermined by a
‘visionary’ experience. The non-believer might judge such a phenomenon
to be of religious significance, and thus it might shake her world-picture at
its roots. She might subsequently seek counsel from a priest. But equally
might she judge the ‘vision’ to be of purely psychological origin, and
instead seek psychiatric advice. There is nothing in the phenomenon itself
that dictates which of these interpretations she should follow.129 Rather,
the inherited world-picture in which she has been trained and through
which she acquires her judgement-criteria will, most likely, inform her
response to the aforementioned ‘vision.’ 130 This would not be ‘hasty but
excusable,’ rather, it is an essential part of what for her constitutes
‘judging’ (ibid.: §150). This is not to deny that the non-believer’s world-
picture can be undermined by such occurrences. The point is that such
phenomena need not undermine her world-picture, for here she may
simply close her eyes to doubt. 131 The non-believer’s ‘vision’ can thus be
adequately (and, given her training, more straightforwardly) explained
without her entertaining a religious interpretation at all. There is,
however, an instructive oversimplification in this example. For experienc-
ing such a phenomenon as even negotiable (that is, subject to delibera-
tion132) will likely not be considered a legitimate option from within each
respective world-picture.133 For the non-believer to even consider visiting a
priest for advice would likely be judged by the non-believing community
(and perhaps even herself) as demonstrating a prior ‘weakening’ toward
the religious point of view.134 Likewise, for those believers who consider
such visions as religiously significant, to even entertain the possibility of
seeking psychiatric assistance here would likely constitute a prior inclina-
tion toward the secular viewpoint (or even a sort of blasphemy). In short,
at the heart of each world-picture lies a law of prohibition against seeking
interpretative possibilities outside its own designated perimeters – or, for
that matter, of questioning the stability of those perimeters.135

Foundational beliefs thus lie beyond rational justification, not because
they are ‘fixed in the sense that anything holds [them] fast’ but because
they are held in place by the practices that ‘rotate’ (ibid.: §152) around
them; because they determine precisely what requires justification, and
when and how such justification should occur.136 Martin therefore con-
cludes:
[A]t the level of foundational convictions – religious or otherwise –

the distinctions between reasonable and unreasonable and even
between truth and falsity cannot yet be made . . . the course which
reason takes in sorting truth from falsity has legitimacy bestowed upon
it only because a discernible matrix of axiomatic beliefs remains firmly
and, as it were, timelessly in place.
(1984: 603, my emphasis)
Martin’s synopsis inadvertently highlights something crucial; namely, the

role of temporality here. How then are we to understand his allusion to
‘timelessness,’ and why does it matter? One potentially fruitful way of
approaching these questions would be to differentiate between types of
fundamental proposition. Thus, Hudson suggests that Wittgenstein
employs his ‘river-bed’ (1999: §97) metaphor to draw just such a distinc-
tion between ‘some kinds of fundamental proposition’ that ‘may come or
go, but not others’ (Hudson 1986a: 124). While some fundamental propo-
sitions are like the shifting ‘sand’ of the riverbed, others resemble the
immovable ‘rock’ beneath.137 Martin’s ‘timeless’ propositions might there-
fore refer to the latter type. However, as Hudson himself acknowledges, a
certain shifting even ‘at the deepest bedrock level of fundamental proposi-
tions’ clearly ‘does occur’ (ibid.: 125).138 But surely if we concede this then
the distinction between ‘sand’ and ‘rock’ becomes rather superfluous.139
Nevertheless, I think something valuable can be salvaged from this schema
if we reconsider Martin’s allusion to temporality in the light of
Hertzberg’s remarks on trust. First, we should acknowledge that any
endeavor to distinguish too rigidly between types of fundamental proposi-
tion will be problematic given that there is no absolutely decisive way of
distinguishing these from mere hypotheses.140 Still, Hudson’s attempt to
make such a distinction reveals something important; namely, that
although ‘what men consider reasonable or unreasonable alters’ at differ-
ent ‘periods’ (Wittgenstein 1999: §336), for some beliefs this sort of obser-
vation will be necessarily retrospective.141 While fundamental beliefs of
either variety ‘may come or go’ (Hudson 1986a: 124), at any given time it
is significantly unthinkable that some of these beliefs would ever change.142
Here one is ‘not ready to let anything count as a disproof’ (Wittgenstein
1999: §245), and this is what constitutes these beliefs as ‘rock.’ The uncon-
ditional trust one has here parallels that of the child’s primitive trusting
relation to its elders, Abraham’s relation to God, and Isaac’s trust in

Abraham.143 It would therefore be misleading to speak of ‘reliance’ in this
context, as this would imply that such commitments were both conditional
and thereby subject to already existent judgement criteria.144 Moreover,
that such beliefs are trusted effectively means that ‘there will be no limits,
given in advance, of how far or in what respects’ (Hertzberg 1988: 314, my
emphasis) one will trust them.145 What is deceptive about Hudson’s
formulation of the sand/rock distinction is that in omitting to emphasize
this point about retrospection he implies that such a specification can
indeed be made ‘in advance.’146 It is therefore important to note that
although what was once held to be ‘rock’ can become displaced,147 this
could neither have been foretold nor, at that time, taken to be tentative or
hypothetical. (It is conceivable that what is initially taken to be a hypothet-
ical fundamental belief of the ‘sand’ variety eventually solidifies into
‘rock,’ and vice versa.148) ‘Rock’ convictions thus remain ‘timelessly in
place’ (Martin 1984: 603) in the sense that any judgement concerning
their shifting will be made in hindsight – that they did shift, not that they
might shift.149 With this in mind I now want to focus more specifically on
Wittgenstein’s account of religiosity.
In ‘Lectures on Religious Belief’ Wittgenstein imagines witnessing a
(seemingly) ‘miraculous’ event.150 Wittgenstein then confesses that, were
he to encounter ‘a very credulous person’ who offered such a phenome-
non as evidence for belief, he would be inclined to say: ‘ “Can it only be
explained one way? Can’t it be this or that?” ’ (1994b: 60–1). In such a sce-
nario Wittgenstein would try to persuade the ‘credulous person’ of other
explanatory possibilities, treating the phenomenon just as one would
‘treat an experiment in a laboratory’ that one thought ‘badly executed.’
But this response Wittgenstein reserves for someone markedly gullible
(someone who is perhaps prone to changing beliefs on the basis of such
occurrences). By contrast, in the company of someone who ‘showed an
extremely passionate belief in such a phenomenon’ Wittgenstein tells us
that a response of the form ‘ “This could just as well have been brought
about by so and so” ’ would be inappropriate to the point of seeming like
‘blasphemy on my side’ (ibid.: 61).151 Moreover, even if one were
prepared to risk blaspheming here, there would be nothing to prevent
the believer from retorting: ‘ “It is possible that these priests cheat, but
nevertheless in a different sense a miraculous phenomenon takes place
there . . .” ’ or ‘ “You are a cheat, but nevertheless the Deity uses you . . . ” ’
(ibid.). Accordingly, in Culture and Value we are told that ‘[r]eligious faith
. . . is a trusting’ (1994a: 72), and that such belief ‘means submitting to an
authority.’ But, Wittgenstein proceeds, ‘[h]aving once submitted, you
can’t then, without rebelling against it, first call it in question and then
once again find it acceptable’ (ibid.: 45).152 In short, the ‘grammar’ of
genuine religiosity proscribes one even entertaining the possibility of its
illegitimacy in the face of (alleged or apparent) counter-evidence.153 What
therefore emerges here is not only a particular view of what constitutes

blasphemy, but also a characteristic sensitivity toward what Wittgenstein
deems to be authentic religiosity.154 In the case of the ‘very credulous
person’ the risk of blasphemy seems marginal insofar as here religious
belief comprises more of evidential reasoning than a ‘passionate commit-
ment’ (ibid.: 64)155 or ‘trusting’ (ibid.: 72). What prevents Wittgenstein
from combating156 the genuine believer is the irrelevance – and thus irrev-
erence – of providing alternative explanatory hypotheses concerning the
aforementioned ‘miracle.’ On this view, anyone judged to be displaying
the sort of quasi-empiricism attributed to the ‘credulous person’ is a fair
combative target. Because such an individual is already – though perhaps
unwittingly – involved in the hypothetical-evidential ‘game’ (insofar as
they merely ‘play with the thought’ (ibid.: 33)157 of religiosity) then
responding to, and even contesting them in similar terms is quite legitim-
ate.158 (Indeed, it may even be appropriate, if only to demonstrate the real
(hypothetical) nature of their professed faith.) One need not worry
unduly about blaspheming in this case, for blasphemy would here amount
to little more than offering counter-hypotheses for consideration. By con-
trast, to those who are deeply ‘passionate’ about their beliefs Wittgenstein
shows considerable caution and respect. Blasphemy becomes a pressing
issue here, not because counter-evidence might undermine their faith (it
surely would not, or at least need not159), but rather because even in offer-
ing such evidence one trivializes the existential significance of their faith
per se. Blasphemy, on this account, occurs when the rules of one discourse
(here, the scientific) are unjustly used ‘as a base from which to combat’
(1999: §609) the genuinely religious. It is also worth noting that Wittgen-
stein often speaks of religious faith as a ‘love’ (1994a: 33), ‘passion’ (ibid.:
53), or that which is needed by the ‘heart’ and ‘soul,’ not the ‘intelli-
gence’ or ‘mind’ (ibid.: 33). This is significant because comparing the
believer with the lover helps counter the urge to misconstrue religious
beliefs as quasi-empirical hypotheses. So, for example, blasphemy against
the genuine believer might be compared to trying to persuade a friend that
her lover is not worthy of her commitment because he lacks social eti-
quette or educational achievement. By contrast, in the company of
someone who is prone to falling in love on a daily basis, such advice would
not necessarily be either inappropriate or offensive.160
Fools, heretics and dogmatism: the question of religious
fundamentalism
‘Lectures on Religious Belief’ constitutes one specific application of
Wittgenstein’s later descriptive method, and it is here that the normativity
of his mature work (discussed in Chapter 1) becomes most conspicuous.
Indeed, in my preceding discussion of blasphemy, Wittgenstein was happy
to condemn the hypothetical attitude to religious belief as being not
simply confused but fundamentally irreligious. But this inclination to
denounce as ‘superstitious’ any believer who (for example) treated the
Last Judgement as merely an anticipated empirical event – albeit of cata-

clysmic significance161 – is not to deny that such beliefs might have some
anticipatory, empirical element.162 What I think Wittgenstein is rejecting is
that a genuinely religious belief could be either reduced to, or ultimately
dependent upon, this sort of expectancy. This point can be usefully
developed with reference to the similarity between these sorts of commit-
ments and Moore’s ‘hinge’ propositions. Like the latter, such beliefs
need not give way to (what others perceive to be) contradictory
evidence.163 For it is these beliefs that constitute the ‘system of reference’
for one’s entire life (including one’s criteria for ‘contradiction’), and
thereby provide the background for considerable self-sacrifice and per-
sonal risk.164 Nevertheless, formulating an account of religiosity that can
accommodate both its categorical and hypothetical dimensions soon
becomes difficult, not least because the line Wittgenstein wants to draw
between the genuine (categorical) and superstitious (hypothetical)
believer is necessarily blurred.165 In order to bring this difficulty into focus
I want to consider one particularly salient example: contemporary
Christian ‘fundamentalism.’166
In the wake of the nineteenth-century Adventist movement in the
United States, a number of now well-known – and more or less socially
respectable – religious groups came into prominence. The essential
feature binding such factions together (at least to the outside observer)
was their often fervent millennialism; that is, the literal empirical-
historical belief in the immanent ‘Second Coming’ or ‘Day of Judgement.’
Thus, on the basis of specific scriptural interpretations, the Seventh-day
Adventists predicted Christ’s return for 1844,167 whereas between 1914
and 1984 Jehovah’s Witnesses proffered a number of forecasts.168 Unsur-
prisingly, both groups have since become more circumspect about formu-
lating a specific timetable for Christ’s return, Armageddon, or whatever
the preferred terminology might be.169 But what is pertinent about these
examples is the way they complicate the Wittgensteinian picture, for they
cannot easily be assigned a position in either category of ‘genuine’ or
‘superstitious’ belief. On the one hand, such groups favor the sort of liter-
alist interpretation of scripture responsible for those predictive misadven-
tures summarized above. For the most part they are also highly selective
(and frequently mistrustful) regarding the findings of modern science,
opting instead for a cosmology and natural history largely derived from
Genesis.170 Believers of this persuasion similarly tend towards a bold apoca-
lyptic interpretation of cultural-political events, and even of natural disas-
ters.171 On the other hand, members of such faiths can rarely be described
as anything other than defiantly categorical in their commitments, despite
both their repeated predictive failures and the increasing prominence of
secular world-pictures.172 On a Wittgensteinian reading it thus remains
unclear whether one could legitimately condemn such commitments as
‘superstitious,’ or whether their continued self-assurance in the face of

predictive failure is both epistemically warranted and therein illustrative
of a much deeper point concerning the limits of justification and the
groundlessness of belief. After all, if it is not ‘unthinkable that [one] should
stay in the saddle however much the facts bucked’ (Wittgenstein 1999:
§616) (if there is no necessary ‘need to give way before any contrary evid-
ence’ (ibid.: §657)) then why should this not also apply to the empirically
inclined ‘superstitious’ believer?173 With such examples in mind, one must
inquire whether Wittgenstein merely fuels the fire of religious dogmatism,
sectarianism and intolerance.174 Likewise, when he expresses his antipathy
toward religious apologetics and suggests that the ‘man who stated [his
belief] categorically [is] more intelligent than the man who was apolo-
getic about it’ (1994b: 62–3),175 we might ask if there here emerges some-
thing ethically and politically menacing? Although I will develop this latter
question more fully in Chapter 3, a preliminary exploration of the (appar-
ent) affiliation between Wittgenstein’s later work and religious dogmatism
will here be useful.
For the aforementioned ‘fundamentalists’ the non-occurrence of the
Last Judgement most often leads not to the abandonment of faith but
rather to an ‘admonishing’176 (within the group) of those putting too
much confidence in the predictions of fallible mortals.177 Such predictive
failures can easily be interpreted as a valuable – perhaps divinely orches-
trated – trial to weed-out opportunists and apostates.178 Thus, one could
here simply re-emphasize the categorical nature of belief and, with
Wittgenstein, respond to the question: ‘ “What if you had to change your
opinion even on these most fundamental things?” ’ by asserting: ‘ “You
don’t have to change it. That is just what their being ‘fundamental’ is” ’
(1999: §512).179 The numerous predictive failures of Jehovah’s Witnesses
have not in the least inhibited their global expansion. Although they have
suffered temporary losses in membership at such times (notably in
1975180) these setbacks were remedied by some fairly minor doctrinal revi-
sions.181 Similar amendments were made by the Seventh-day Adventists
concerning the failure of their 1844 prediction, and likewise by the Chris-
tadelphians. In short, what these revisionary maneuvers demonstrate is
that ‘[a]ny statement can be held true come what may’ if one is prepared
to ‘make drastic enough adjustments elsewhere in the system’ (Quine
182
1994: 43). To reiterate my earlier question, given this seemingly infinite
capacity for revision – where the abandonment of faith is open to eternal
deferral – what distinguishes such beliefs from mere dogmatism?183 Does
one ever have grounds for charging the believer with unreasonable ‘stub-
bornness’ (Kuhn 1996: 204)? On Wittgenstein’s account must we exclude
the possibility that someone could ‘stay in the saddle’ of belief when those
beliefs should in fact be sacrificed?184 And what are the rational grounds
and status of this latter imperative?185 One might respond to these ques-
tions by pointing out that the legitimacy of all such charges rests on
the misguided assumption that what constitutes ‘obstinacy,’ ‘unreason-

ableness’ and ‘stubbornness’ is of common currency across different
world-pictures. After all, ‘[w]hether a thing is a blunder or not – it is
a blunder in a particular system. Just as something is a blunder in a
particular game and not in another’ (Wittgenstein 1994b: 59).186 So, the
devout Catholic might justify a change in doctrine by reference to the Will
of God becoming more clearly revealed to the Papacy.187 Likewise, the
astronomer can justify their change in opinion by reference to new empir-
ical evidence and/or better theoretical-explanatory models.188 These
adjustments are legitimate within their respective world-pictures, but what
remains problematic on the Wittgensteinian account is the possibility of
judging one by the criteria of the other.189 The various charges of ‘obsti-
nacy’ or ‘stubbornness’ may have a place within specific world-pictures, but
to assume that the criteria for these various offences underpins all such
world-pictures is the source of infinite philosophical confusion, if not
injustice.190
Despite the predominantly epistemological concerns of On Certainty,
Wittgenstein does occasionally allude to matters of a more broadly ‘polit-
ical’ variety (something that is at least implicit in ‘Remarks on Frazer’s
Golden Bough’ and ‘Lectures on Religious Belief’). So, for example, he
remarks:
Is it wrong for me to be guided in my actions by the propositions of

physics? Am I to say I have no good ground for doing so? Isn’t pre-
cisely this what we call a ‘good ground’?
Supposing we met people who did not regard that as a telling
reason. Now, how do we imagine this? Instead of the physicist, they
consult an oracle. (And for that we consider them primitive.) Is it
wrong for them to consult an oracle and be guided by it? – If we call
this ‘wrong’ aren’t we using our language-game as a base from which
to combat theirs?
And are we right or wrong to combat it? Of course there are all
sorts of slogans which will be used to support our proceedings.
Where two principles really do meet which cannot be reconciled
with one another, then each man declares the other a fool and
heretic.
I said I would ‘combat’ the other man, – but wouldn’t I give him
reasons? Certainly; but how far do they go? At the end of reasons
comes persuasion. (Think what happens when missionaries convert
natives.)
(1999: §§608–12)
These passages might be reconstructed as follows: Because the ‘principles’

embodied in different world-pictures sometimes diverge radically,191 a
question arises as to whether a non-rhetorical encounter between them is
possible.192 That is, if two parties do not possess the same criteria for
judging what constitutes a ‘blunder’ or ‘false move,’193 then the process of
‘giving reasons’ must terminate.194 At this point the prospect for non-
coercive, non-combative communication looks bleak, as one is forced to
use increasingly rhetorical means.195 The problem here does not merely
concern how a pre-established, shared criterion is to be applied (what
Lyotard calls a problem of ‘litigation’ (1988: p. xi)196), but more seriously,
the criterion itself; concerning what criterion to use and how one can justify
such a decision given that that too requires a criterion, and so on.197 If, as
On Certainty seems to suggest, one’s criteria for judgement are a central
part of one’s socialization into the world-picture(s) of a specific commun-
ity, then the terminus for rational argumentation between communities
that train their members differently will soon be reached – assuming, of
course, there is enough commonality for such argumentation to begin.198
What is therefore in question here is whether ‘making a decision’ begins
to lose its usual sense of being a rational, deliberative and justifiable pro-
cedure.199 Without recourse to some shared judgement-criterion (be it
one emerging from reason, human nature or divine Will) the process of
decision-making between world-pictures begins to look – as the Pyrrhon-
ists hoped to demonstrate – radically arbitrary. I would briefly like to illus-
trate this potential crisis of judgement with reference to Quine and, more
specifically, Kuhn.
Although Quine speaks of there being ‘much latitude of choice’
regarding ‘what statements to reevaluate in the light of . . . contrary
experience’ (1994: 42–3) (‘no statement is immune to revision,’ perhaps
not even ‘the logical law of the excluded middle’ (ibid.: 43)), he neverthe-
less yokes the pragmatic criteria of ‘efficacy’200 and ‘simplicity’ to ‘our
natural tendency to disturb the total system as little as possible’ (ibid.: 44).
Given that Quine insists that science is merely ‘a continuation of common
sense’ (ibid.: 45) – which is itself cashed-out in terms of how human
beings can most effectively work ‘a manageable structure into the flux of
experience’ (ibid.: 44) – his movement toward ontological simplicity201 in
our belief-systems is ultimately grounded in human nature and broadly
evolutionary motivations. Thus, despite the fact that Quine considers even
science’s ontology to be ‘imported into a situation’ to provide ‘convenient
intermediaries’ which are themselves ‘comparable, epistemologically, to
the gods of Homer’ (‘the physical objects and the gods differ only in
degree and not in kind. Both sorts of entities enter our conception only as
cultural posits’ (ibid.)), his pragmatic naturalism guarantees the superior-
ity of the sciences over other world-pictures. A similar, though more strik-
ing, maneuver is made in Kuhn’s The Structure of Scientific Revolutions – a
text notable for echoing a number of Wittgensteinian themes.202 Concern-
ing the incommensurability between scientific paradigms (and pertaining
specifically to the theory-ladenness of observation203) Kuhn makes the
apparently radical claim that ‘the proponents of competing paradigms
practice their trades in different worlds,’ and therefore ‘see different

things when they look from the same point in the same direction’ (1996:
150). Later he comments on the ‘techniques of persuasion’ (ibid.: 152)
subsequently employed by each competing paradigm, and how these tech-
niques, if successful, culminate in a gestalt-like204 ‘conversion.’205 Given his
general characterization of the conceptual-revolutionary (that is, predomi-
nantly non-cumulative206) development of the sciences, Kuhn has been
accused of relativism – an accusation he is quick to rebuff. Thus, in the
postscript to The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, he explains further ‘those
parts of the book’ that have erroneously led to ‘charges of irrationality’
(ibid.: 199). Now, the way Kuhn responds to such charges is by maintain-
ing both a non-ontological instrumentalism207 and a commitment to
‘scientific progress’ (ibid.: 206). What enables him to sustain this position
is a much deeper (and homogenizing) conviction that scientific practice is
essentially distinguished by its ‘puzzle-solving’ (ibid.: 205) capacity. With
this unifying principle in place – and given that Kuhn limits his attention
to the development of modern Western science – he may be justified in
reassuring us that the sort of ‘communication breakdown’ (ibid.: 201) that
concerns him is only ever ‘partial’ (ibid.: 198). Operating under the
rubric of ‘scientific practice’ such competing paradigms at the very least
find consensus in their general objectives (‘puzzle-solving’), if not in their
specific methods and conceptualizations. Kuhn therefore concludes that
there is nothing in his work that ‘implies . . . that there are no good
reasons for being persuaded’ (ibid.: 199) of the superiority of one theory
over another. More significantly for our purposes is Kuhn’s further claim
that this minimal unity of vision is enough to ensure not only that scient-
ific ‘progress’ is possible but also that ‘as argument piles on argument and
as challenge after challenge is successfully met, only blind stubbornness
can at the end account for continued resistance’ (ibid.: 204) to the new,
improved theory. Here it is possible to interrogate Kuhn on more
Pyrrhonian grounds. For what he has to assume in order to avoid the
perils of ‘mere relativism’ (ibid.: 205) is not only that ‘puzzle-solving’ is
essentially what science consists of (and that this minimal criterion is
widely recognized and binding), but also that when such puzzles are
solved in a ‘better’ way (with more ‘accuracy of prediction . . . simplicity,
scope, and compatibility with other specialities’ (ibid.: 206)) the new
theory will only be resisted out of ‘blind stubbornness’ (ibid.: 204). Kuhn’s
rhetoric is striking, not least because he argues earlier:
If two men disagree, for example, about the relative fruitfulness of

their theories, or if they agree about that but disagree about the rela-
tive importance of fruitfulness . . . neither can be convicted of a
mistake. Nor is either being unscientific. There is no neutral algo-
rithm for theory-choice, no systematic decision procedure which,
properly applied, must lead each individual in the group to the same
decision.
(1996: 199–200)
This passage highlights something paradoxical at the heart of The Structure

of Scientific Revolutions. On the one hand we are told that there is ‘no
neutral algorithm for theory-choice,’ and yet Kuhn himself must presup-
pose that there is something like such a ‘neutral’ criterion by which to
assess: (1) whether a proposed theory legitimately qualifies as a scientific
theory (or even as a theory at all), and (2) the superiority of a new
theory over its predecessors. Even if we accept Kuhn’s definition of
science as ‘puzzle-solving’ (and he provides no compelling reason why
we should) the deeper question is how, without recourse to some quasi-
transcendental criteria, we are to choose in a non-arbitrary way between
competing paradigms whose respective understanding of what constitutes a
legitimate ‘anomaly’ and ‘solution’ fundamentally differ? Likewise, when
Kuhn remarks that there is nothing in his work which ‘implies . . . that
there are no good reasons for being persuaded’ (ibid.: 199) by one theory
over another, Kuhn misses the point. For what is at stake here is precisely
what constitutes a ‘good reason.’ Likewise, when Kuhn refers to the ‘better’
theory possessing more ‘accuracy of prediction . . . simplicity, scope’
(ibid.: 206), the question remains of what is to count as ‘accuracy,’ ‘simplic-
ity’ and ‘scope’ here?208
In keeping with the central themes of On Certainty, what Kuhn’s posi-
tion thus brings to the fore is: (1) the seemingly aporetic nature of judge-
ment-criteria, (2) the limits of rational justification, and (3) the necessary
unconditionality of certain beliefs if activities such as natural science209 (or
indeed any organized social activity210) are to be possible. Of course, for
the Pyrrhonist the potential for infinite regress or vicious circularity
regarding criteria is embraced as an effective rhetorical-therapeutic strat-
egy by which to combat dogmatism and bring about ataraxia.211 But given
the troubling ethical-political indifference such a strategy instills I want to
return to the question of justice with reference to Wittgenstein’s On Cer-
tainty and reflections on religious belief.
Persuasion, conversion and judging others: ethical-political
implications of On Certainty
As I have suggested, what is ultimately at stake in §§608–12 of On Certainty
is the limit of ethical-political consensus; that is, whether in the circum-
stances there outlined one has only rhetorical – or even coercive212 – strat-
egies at one’s disposal?213 Although I will explore this further in Chapter 3
with reference to political and religious pluralism, there are a number of
Wittgensteinian themes that require prior clarification. Most pressing
here is the extent to which language-games can be individuated, as this is
prerequisite for the problem of inter-game (and thus inter-world-

picture214) conflict arising.
Somewhat characteristically, Wittgenstein does not present any definite
judgement on this matter. Thus, the language-games catalogued in Philo-
sophical Investigations present, not entire, complex social practices such as
‘religious belief,’ but those ‘primitive’ (1958: §25) language-games
(‘Asking, thanking . . . praying’ (ibid.: §23), ‘Commanding, questioning’
and ‘recounting’ (ibid.: §25)) of which such things as ‘religious belief’
consist.215 But in these passages Wittgenstein also mentions the sort of
practices more obviously associated with the empirical sciences (‘Describ-
ing the appearance of an object, or giving its measurements . . . Forming
and testing a hypothesis,’ ‘Presenting the results of an experiment in
tables and diagrams’ (ibid.: §23)). What should be noted, however, is that
the numerous other language-games he lists (‘Giving orders, and obeying
them . . . Reporting an event . . . Translating from one language into
another’ (ibid.)) cannot be allied so exclusively with either religion or
science. Here then we are presented with primitive language-games which,
in a non-uniform manner, touch upon the discourses of religion, science
and countless other human activities. It is doubtless with this in mind,
coupled with the frequent accusations of ‘fideism’ from critics, that philo-
sophers with Wittgensteinian sympathies are often quick to discredit the
idea that religious belief constitutes an homogeneous language-game.216
Nevertheless, it is equally clear that Wittgenstein does perceive language-
games to possess more-or-less identifiable boundaries,217 for without the
possibility of such individuation he could not speak of ‘a move in the lan-
guage-game’ (ibid.: §22),218 a language-game ‘missing’ (ibid.: §96), ‘new
language-games . . . [coming] into existence’ (ibid.: §23),219 ‘a different
language-game’ (ibid.: §195),220 or ‘using our language-game as a base
from which to combat theirs’ (1999: §609). In short, without some degree
of individuation one could not speak of there being an ‘inside’ or
‘outside’221 of language-games, no matter how ‘blurred’ their ‘edges’
(1958: §71) might be.
What then can be said regarding communication where ‘two principles
really do meet which cannot be reconciled with one another’ (1999:
§611)? First, such an event will likely be rare as the majority of apparent
incommensurabilities can be overcome by locating and building upon
some common ground222 (specifically those ‘primitive’ language-games
that are shared223). But assuming there are a few troubling cases where ‘two
principles really cannot be reconciled,’ discourse may here either break
down entirely224 or take a more strategic,225 ‘propagandist’226 turn where
one’s objective becomes merely to persuade the other ‘to look at the world
in a different way’ (ibid.: §92).227 Given that ‘reasoning’ here terminates228
(in the twofold sense that my reasons are themselves beyond justification,
being neither ‘reasonable’ nor ‘unreasonable’ (ibid.: §559), and even the
second-order reasons I can offer do not constitute what you recognize as

‘reasons’) a number of options remain.229 I could, for example, simply ‘put
up with’ (ibid.: §238) the differences between us – although on what
grounds I should do this remain unclear.230 Alternatively, I could sacrifice
my own position and try to inhabit yours – though again there seems little
reason why I should attempt this.231 Or, assuming superiority, I might
instead attempt to impose the rules and judgement-criteria of my language-
game upon your ‘wrong’ (ibid.: §609), ‘foolish,’ ‘heretical’232 practices. As
previously discussed, the problem with this latter response is that in
judging your practices to be deficient I implicitly assume that the ‘inher-
ited background against which I distinguish between true and false’ (ibid.:
§94) (‘good’ and ‘bad,’ and so on) is the same as yours, and perhaps every-
one else’s. But again, this is precisely what is in question.233 Asserting the
superiority of my world-picture is not a matter of reason-giving234 but of
persuading you that you are mistaken (that my reasons are good reasons),
or that you would be better off judging and living differently. Wittgenstein
therefore proceeds to imagine the following scenarios:
[W]hy should not a king be brought up in the belief that the world
began with him? And if Moore and this king were to meet and discuss,
could Moore really prove his belief to be the right one? I do not say
that Moore could not convert the king to his view, but it would be a
conversion 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.’
(1999: §92)
I can imagine a man who had grown up in quite special circumstances

and been taught that the earth came into being 50 years ago, and
therefore believed this. We might instruct him: the earth has long . . .
etc. – We should be trying to give him our picture of the world.
This would happen through a kind of persuasion.
(1999: §262)
Although Wittgenstein provides no detailed account of how such rhet-
orical procedures operate, he does allude to religious education and con-
version. These remarks are pertinent because, as I said earlier, the
religious analogy is itself suggested in §612 of On Certainty.235 Regarding
religious education Wittgenstein thus writes:
It strikes me that a religious belief could only be something like a pas-

sionate commitment to a system of reference. Hence, although it’s
belief, it’s really a way of living, or a way of assessing life. It’s passion-
ately seizing hold of this interpretation. Instruction in a religious faith,

therefore, would have to take the form of a portrayal, a description, of
that system of reference, while at the same time being an appeal to
conscience. And this combination would have to result in the pupil
himself, of his own accord, passionately taking hold of the system of
reference. It would be as though someone were first to let me see the
hopelessness of my situation and then show me the means of rescue
until, of my own accord, or not at any rate led to it by my instructor, I
ran to it and grasped it.
(1994a: 64)
Here we find a number of familiar themes – specifically those concerning a

‘system of reference’ constituting an entire ‘way of assessing life.’ But more
striking is Wittgenstein’s description of how one may come ‘passionately’ to
take hold of such a ‘system.’ What interests me here is his emphasis upon
one’s first being made to ‘see the hopelessness of [one’s] situation’ and
only then shown ‘the means of rescue.’ Reading this schema alongside §612
of On Certainty, the process of persuasion might be elucidated as follows:
When ‘two principles really do meet which cannot be reconciled with one
another’ and we have reached ‘the end of reasons,’ I am left only with rhet-
orical means (assuming I do not simply recoil into silence236). At this point
I might therefore attempt to convince you that, through your determina-
tion to ‘stay in the saddle’ (1999: §616) of your world-picture, you lack
something which, with a little submission, you would immediately realize
you could not henceforth live without. In short, what I first need to incul-
cate in you is a feeling of existential deficit; only then do I show you the
‘means of rescue’ (1994a: 64). The most effective way of generating this
sense of deficiency would be through questioning, not so much the other’s
intelligence but their basic moral character. Condemning someone as a
‘fool’ or ‘heretic’ when ‘two principles cannot be reconciled’ is not to call
into question their rational capacities, for if this were judged substandard
then there would be little point in making such a condemnation. What
such accusations amount to are denunciations of the way the other abuses
or neglects (what we count as) ‘rational procedures.’ One accuses them of
being a ‘fool’ or ‘heretic’ precisely because one perceives the other to be
capable (though reluctant) of seeing things differently.237
The picture of religious conversion I have reconstructed from Wittgen-
stein’s remarks parallels not only that offered by William James238 (with
which Wittgenstein was familiar) but also the work of a number of psy-
chologists and sociologists researching the recruitment procedures of
‘New Religious Movements.’239 So, for example, it has been argued that
‘a conversion appears to the psychologist as the disintegration on the

religious level, of a mental synthesis, and its replacement by another.’
Thus indicating that there were two stages in that process, a stage of
disintegration and one of re-integration.

(Nelson 1987: 130)
The conversion process Wittgenstein outlines most closely approximates

what is best described as ‘coercive,’ where a ‘de-structuring’ takes place so
‘the existing beliefs [of the individual] are broken down’ (ibid.: 136), and
only then does one provide the ‘means of rescue’ (Wittgenstein 1994a:
64) or ‘re-structuring – whereby a new set of beliefs is inculcated’ (Nelson
1987: 136).240 This psychological gloss is not simply saying that the ‘new’
world-picture replaces the ‘old.’241 Rather, it is alluding to the initially
destructive measures necessary for such a substitution to take place. More-
over, given what I said above about the ‘existential deficit’ of the potential
convert, it is notable that most New Religious Movements ‘do not make a
directly religious approach to potential converts,’ but rather
start by discussing the awful state of the world, with its increase in
drug taking, crime, war and violence. Only if they find that the poten-
tial recruit agrees will they then proceed to hint that the only solution
to these problems is to be found in the teachings of their movement.
(Nelson 1987: 138)
In short, what makes such rhetorical strategies so successful is their initial

appeal to human moral sensibilities (to features of life that ought to
concern everyone), rather than strictly intellectual or theological
matters.242
In Culture and Value Wittgenstein remarks:
Nothing can be defended absolutely and finally. But only by reference

to something else that is not questioned. I.e. no reason can be given
why you should act (or should have acted) like this, except that by
doing so you bring about such and such a situation, which again has
to be an aim you accept.
(1994a: 16)243
With this passage in mind, I would like to develop the illustration Wittgen-
stein himself provides in §§608–12 of On Certainty. Suppose A’s ‘system of
reference’ is scientific whereas B’s is magical; in circumstances where A
appeals to empirical research, B consults an oracle.244 During their conver-
sation A and B reach justificatory bedrock, for what A offers as ‘reasons’ in
favor of her world-picture B does not recognize as such (and vice versa).245
The quest for shared judgement-criteria has therefore failed, as each party
feels ‘inclined to say: “This is simply what I do.” ’ (Wittgenstein 1958:
§217). At this point A nevertheless feels compelled to challenge B, for it is
an integral part of A’s position to consider all alternatives as mistaken.246
She does this by providing a brief inventory of science’s most impressive
achievements in space travel: ‘If you want to travel to other planets,’ A pro-
claims, ‘then Western science will get you there. Magic will not.’247 To this
B happily concedes: ‘You are doubtless right, but we do not want to travel
to other planets. We see no value in doing such things.’ A might now
accuse B of simply being a ‘fool,’ not because the latter fails to recognize
the efficacy of modern science but rather because this sort of achievement
does not interest him; it has no role in B’s cultural ‘form of life.’248 If A’s argu-
ment is to have any rhetorical force then it must simultaneously persuade
B that activities such as space travel are themselves valuable,249 and as such
the appeal to scientific rationality here has a normative dimension.250 Let
me sharpen these points somewhat. Suppose the stakes were not the effi-
cacy of science vis-à-vis space travel but rather its medical achievements. A
thus confidently assures B: ‘With Western medical techniques I can cure
your children of river-blindness.’ Surely in this scenario B could legiti-
mately be condemned a ‘fool’ (or worse) for not accepting the challenge
and/or not conceding the positive results A’s procedures yield. But even
here the situation is not straightforward. First, there is no compelling epis-
temic reason why B should accept A’s challenge in the first place. What for
A constitutes river-blindness may conceivably for B represent an act of
divine retribution (akin to how some fundamentalists perceive AIDS) or
perhaps a test of faith. Where A sees needless suffering, B might see the
price paid for his ancestors’ irreligiousness, and a punishment which, if
interfered with (as A wishes to do), would constitute a sort of blas-
phemy.251 But suppose that this initial obstacle was circumvented by A’s
secretly ‘curing’ a child and presenting this test case to B. Would B then
be compelled to admit the superiority of A’s world-picture – at least
regarding matters of health? He would not. After all, this test case could be
judged a fluke occurrence, having nothing to do with A’s medical proce-
dures (a verdict frequently made by science against alleged ‘miracle heal-
ings’252). Suppose then that A ‘cures’ a number of children whilst under
the supervision of B. Throughout the process A ‘describe[s] the actual
procedure[s]’ (Wittgenstein 1999: §671) of her medical intervention,
explaining to B about infection, how the human eye functions, even
perhaps showing him microscopic evidence to support her claims.
(Indeed, A may also show B that she can repeatedly cause river-blindness
and then cure it.) Must B now concede that his own world-picture is
deficient and therefore needs to be either revised or abandoned? Is there
any reason why he should not conclude that A’s apparent ability to restore
sight derives from some demonic force?253 Again, there is no reason why B
must make such a concession,254 for his resistance will never be epistemo-
logically unfeasible. No matter how one refines this sort of scenario B’s
determination to ‘stay in the saddle’ of his world-picture – however frus-
trating for outsiders – need never lack epistemic acumen. (Moreover,
whether or not B accepts the efficacy of A’s world-picture, this in itself need
never undermine the former’s conviction that, though effective, A’s inter-
vention constitutes an act of blasphemy.255) The two main points I here

want to draw from Wittgenstein’s remarks in On Certainty and Culture and
Value are: (1) that there are no compelling epistemological reasons why
someone ought to accept such things as ‘scientific achievement’ (or prag-
matic criteria) as valuable, and (2) that ‘rational,’ non-coercive argument
can only function upon the mutually shared bedrock of such ontological,
epistemic and normative commitments – though, of course, the precise
degree of such commonality may not be specifiable in advance.
As I have already suggested, Wittgenstein’s remarks on the possibility of
communication when two or more ‘principles really cannot be reconciled
with one another’ are of ethical-political import. This can be readily seen
in the previous scenario concerning Western medical techniques. For
here B would indeed likely embrace A’s curative success, thus supplement-
ing, amending or perhaps abandoning his own world-picture.256 The
greater rhetorical force of this example is, however, neither incidental nor
necessarily an instance of ‘Western imperialism.’ For the question of
human vulnerability presents an especially hard case for anyone skeptical
about transcultural judgement-criteria and the legitimacy of judging
another’s world-picture. Whether or not a community happens to value
inter-planetary travel is of little direct importance, and is certainly not
something against which one should launch a rhetorical offensive. In
these circumstances one would simply ‘have to put up with’ (ibid.: §238)
another’s world-picture differing from one’s own. But whether or not a
community considers it important to eliminate the suffering of children is
a question that challenges the sensibilities of even the most radical plural-
ist or relativist. What is at issue here is not (as was the case with the space
travel example) whether Western medicine can be shown to possess some
‘intrinsic’ value. As I remarked in Chapter 1, the value of medicine – like
any therapy – is wholly dependent upon the illnesses requiring treatment.
As such, rejection of the highly effective methods of Western medicine
can only derive from a misunderstanding or trivialization of human suffer-
ing.257 In circumstances where, for example, a child’s expressions of pain
were always treated with ‘hesitation’ (Wittgenstein 1993: 379), or where
we witnessed a systematic failure in others to react to ‘somebody’s cries
and gestures’ (ibid.: 381), we would be inclined to condemn this as either
immoral or just plain ‘crazy’ (ibid.: 383). That the relationship between
vulnerability and trust has here degenerated to such extremes as to
provoke our condemnation is significant, and not obviously indicative of
arrogant self-aggrandizement. At this bedrock level of human existence
such skepticism is not only epistemically puzzling, it is of the deepest
moral concern insofar as it undermines the very building blocks of ethical-
political life.258 As I will argue in Chapter 3, if there is any commonality to
be found between ‘radically’ disparate world-pictures it is to vulnerability
and suffering that we must ultimately look. As Caputo rightly notes: ‘Disas-
ters . . . have an ominous sameness, which invariably involves spilled blood,
limp bodies, broken minds, damaged lives’ (1993: 41).259 But in order to
substantiate this claim I must first clarify a number of questions that arise
in Wittgenstein’s work pertaining to the issues of pluralism, tolerance,
exclusivism and what might be called ‘conceptual imperialism.’ In other
words, what requires more thorough investigation is the extent to which
Wittgenstein’s own methodological principle of non-interference (the
prohibition against both judging one world-picture by the standards of
another260 and of interfering with ‘the actual use of language’ (1958:
§124)261) has been explicitly applied to ethical-political matters.
3 Pluralism, justice and
vulnerability
Politicizing Wittgenstein
A state without plurality and a respect for plurality would be, first, a totali-
tarian state, and not only is this a terrible thing, but it does not work . . .
Finally, it would not even be a state. It would be, I do not know what, a
stone, a rock, or something like that.
J. Derrida, ‘A Word of Welcome’
[J]ustice always occurs only as a surprising exception, and its counterfeit,

the justice that rests on mere prudence and is everywhere advertised, is
related to it in quality and quantity as copper is to gold.
A. Schopenhauer, On The Basis of Morality
The elevation of human identity to the rank of transcendental subjectivity

does not annul the effect which the penetration of metal can have, as a
knife point or a revolver’s bullet, into the heart of the I, which is but
viscera.
E. Levinas, Of God Who Comes To Mind
Introduction
In the previous two chapters I explored the relationship between Witt-
genstein’s later work and Pyrrhonian Skepticism. In Chapter 1 I pursued
this by showing where the therapeutic strategies of Sextus and Witt-
genstein intertwine, and specifically how each is motivated by the non-
philosophical life. In Chapter 2 I extended this analysis by examining
Wittgenstein’s On Certainty – a text that Nyíri and Bloor insist betrays
fundamentally ‘conservative’ themes. At first glance On Certainty does
appear ‘conservative’ in Nyíri’s and Bloor’s sense. But such readings
remain insufficient, for a thorough examination of Wittgenstein’s later
work reveals a more unifying picture that stresses the natural ‘common
behavior of mankind’ (1958: §206). In addition to the aforementioned
‘conservative’ interpretation, it is often alleged that Wittgenstein was lat-
terly concerned with radical or ‘irreducible plurality’ (Greisch 1999: 50).
In this chapter I will argue against this view by providing a broadly
Wittgensteinian critique of certain trends in contemporary pluralistic
Pluralism, justice and vulnerability 71
thinking. Having set up the analysis by examining Feyerabend’s demo-
cratic relativism, Hick’s religious pluralism, and Lyotard’s politics of ‘dis-
sensus,’ I will then turn to Wittgenstein’s reflections on embodiment. This
will enable me to demonstrate how the rhetorical force of each of the
aforementioned positions hinges on a more-or-less repressed naturalism.
Politics, religion and the rhetoric of pluralism

According to Wittgenstein ‘[w]hat has to be accepted,’ or that which is
‘given,’ is ‘forms of life’ (1958: p. 226). Our language-practices, embedded

in and underpinned by complex ways of behaving, require no justification
from philosophers. Philosophy’s task is rather to remind us of the multi-
farious ways language actually functions.1 Between Wittgenstein’s early
and later writings ontology thus never entirely drops out of the picture,
but rather shifts from the subterranean ‘utterly simple’ (ibid.: §97) structure
of the world (itself mirrored in language2) to the plurality of language-
games in which human beings are actively engaged. The ontology of the
later work may be fragmented, but it is nevertheless an ontology, and one
that is necessary for Wittgenstein to place his therapeutic ‘full stop’ at
human practices as they are ‘given.’ There is, of course, much else to be
said on this point. But for the moment I simply want to highlight this
methodological – and arguably quasi-religious3 – commitment to the given-
ness of forms of life, and the language-games (and other behaviors) of
which they comprise. Now, if we accept this picture and – as is often done
– interpret ‘forms of life’ as something essentially cultural,4 a number of
possible ethical-political perspectives become available. Feyerabend
expresses one of these when he asserts: ‘Traditions are neither good nor bad,
they simply are . . . rationality is not an arbiter of traditions, it is itself a tradi-
tion or an aspect of a tradition. It is therefore neither good nor bad, it
simply is.’ He continues: ‘A tradition assumes desirable or undesirable properties
only when compared with some tradition, i.e. only when viewed by participants
who see the world in terms of its values’ (1988: 243).5 Here we find the
sort of reverence for the ‘given’ often discernible in Wittgenstein, though
employed in the service of a specific political agenda. The bedrock tradi-
tions upon which our deliberations take place (including those concern-
ing matters of ‘right’ and ‘wrong,’ ‘true’ and ‘false,’ and so on) cannot
themselves meaningfully be said to be ‘right’ or ‘wrong,’ ‘true’ or ‘false’ –
they simply are. In other words, these traditions provide the conditions of
possibility for all such ethical, epistemic and ontological judgements.6 Fey-
erabend thus proceeds to argue that, given the fundamental diversity of
‘traditions,’ democratic relativism is the only legitimate political position:
it is ‘reasonable because it pays attention to the pluralism of traditions and
values’ and ‘civilized for it does not assume that one’s own village and
strange customs it contains are the navel of the world’ (1987: 28).7 Com-
bining a quasi-Wittgensteinian reverence for the ‘given’ multiplicity of
72 Pluralism, justice and vulnerability
traditions8 with a Kuhnian incommensurability thesis, Feyerabend is an
enthusiastic advocate of relativistic pluralism. No single tradition (for
example, the Christian faith or Western science9) has a monopoly on
truth, not least because ‘the criteria of acceptability for beliefs change
with time, situation and the nature of the beliefs’ (1988: 264).10 This claim
Feyerabend justifies in broadly Quinean fashion: ‘Every culture constructs
entities in a way that is determined partly by accidents, partly by obstacles
experienced and partly by the sequence of beliefs, needs and expectations
that accompanied the way in which it dealt with the obstacles’ (ibid.: 270),
and concludes (though not with Quine) that the ‘just’ society is therefore
one in which no ‘particular creed’ has more ‘rights,’ ‘power’ (ibid.: 246) or
access to resources than any other. This is not to deny Western reason its
place. Rather:
[O]ne thing must be avoided at all costs: the special standards which
define special subjects and special professions must not be allowed to
permeate general education and they must not be made the defining
property of a ‘well-educated person’. General education should
prepare a citizen to choose between the standards, or to find his way in a
society that contains groups committed to various standards but it must
under no condition bend his mind so that it conforms to the standards of one
particular group.
(Feyerabend 1988: 167)11
This deeply voluntaristic and normative agenda is not, of course,

unproblematic.12 Indeed, given Feyerabend’s claim that ‘ “[o]bjectively”
there is nothing to choose between anti-semitism and humanitarianism’
(that while ‘racism will appear vicious to a humanitarian, humanitarian-
ism will appear vapid to a racist’ (1987: 8–9)) we might inquire as to the
moral and epistemic status of the democratic relativism he defends, and
how this imagined pluralistic society could legitimately (but what is and
who decides the standard of ‘legitimacy’ here?13) resist a ‘totalitarian’ tradi-
tion trespassing onto other traditions? Appealing to the standards of demo-
cratic relativism – that it is somehow better to allow other traditions to
flourish in peace – is already to make a substantive moral claim,14 and thus
merely begs the question. For it is precisely that sort of criterion the totali-
tarian will reject. But the stakes need not be raised as far as political totali-
tarianism to demonstrate the problem here. For any tradition (many
religious traditions, for example) believing itself to: (1) possess the ‘truth’
and others to be ‘in error,’ and (2) have a morally binding duty to convert
others, will find its activities severely restricted in Feyerabend’s relativistic
democracy. In short, the only traditions that could flourish in this pluralis-
tic utopia would be traditions already valuing pluralistic tolerance. But this
obviously conflicts with respect for traditions as they ‘simply are’ (1988:
243) in their stark, incontestable ‘givenness.’15 On reflection then, the
grounds upon which Feyerabend can even offer this political agenda (and
how he can demand: ‘one thing must be avoided at all costs . . . ’ (ibid.:
167)) remain unclear. After all, if traditions are multiple and only locally
legitimated then this must also apply to democratic relativism. In his
defense one might claim that relativism is the best ethical-political option
because it seeks to maximize tolerance, thus enabling all other traditions
to express themselves. This would, however, not only be contradicted by
the example of religious exclusivism (to which I will return in a moment),
it would again merely beg the question. For disagreement about what con-
stitutes the ‘best option’ (and, not least, the genuinely ‘ethical-political’) will
be one of the most fundamental differences between such traditions.
Feyerabend’s political theorizing is hopelessly simplistic. Nevertheless, the
issues with which he attempts to grapple emerge in the work of other
philosophers more directly associated with social-political matters – those,
for example, explicitly concerned with contemporary religious pluralism.16
Thus, in Hick’s writings we find an analogous tension emerge between
respect for religious traditions as they are, and the endorsement of (or at
least ‘hope’ (1977: 183) for) pluralistic tolerance in a violently sectarian
world.17 It is to this more focused type of pluralism that I will now turn.
Hick is correct to insist that there is nothing a priori violent or homoge-
nizing about the idea of pluralism, and that any shortcomings of the plu-
ralistic hypothesis must not simply be assumed to be part of a broader
Western ‘imperialism.’18 Indeed, in this regard it is important to acknow-
ledge that the genealogy of pluralism, at least in its various religious mani-
festations,19 is historically and culturally better established than is
commonly assumed.20 Nevertheless, Hick concedes that in recent times
the West has been forced to recognize the presumptuousness of any
claims it may have made regarding its own ‘moral superiority’ (1995: 14).
As such, contemplative Christians have had to accept that the fruits of the
spirit ‘do not occur more abundantly’ (ibid.: 16) within Christianity than
other faiths. This awareness, coupled with the promising fact that these
‘religions are now meeting one another in a new way as parts of the one
world of our common humanity,’ leads Hick to conclude that the ‘reli-
gious imperialism’ (1977: 182) hitherto endorsed by traditional Christian
theology (which, at best, only pitied those of other faiths) is in desperate
need of revision.21 It is no longer legitimate to claim that ‘all who are
saved are saved by Jesus of Nazareth.’ What the enlightened Christian can
say ‘gladly’ is that the ‘Ultimate Reality has effected human consciousness
for its liberation or “salvation” in various ways’ within a multiplicity of
cultural-religious ‘forms of life’ (ibid.: 181).22
The main tension within Hick’s position is worth exploring because it is
pertinent to many of the themes discussed in Chapters 1 and 2. I am not,
therefore, concerned with the finer details of how Hick proposes to revise
the traditional, exclusivist theological perspective.23 What concerns me is
the essentially normative trajectory his pluralism takes, despite his
attempts to secure it in ‘the facts of the history of religions’ (1995: 51).
For while Hick rejects the idea of an homogenizing ‘new global religion’
(ibid.: 41), and speaks instead in quasi-Wittgensteinian terms of leaving
‘the different traditions just as they are’ (ibid.: 41–2),24 he nevertheless
admits that his own pluralism violates the exclusivist self-image of both
traditional Christian theology and numerous other religions.25 On this
point Hick is clearly troubled by the resurgence of fundamentalism,26 and
even speculates that Christianity may soon be divided into two factions:
one liberal, the other fundamentalist, with each side ‘seeing the other as a
religious disaster’ (ibid.: 134).27 This, he confesses, would be deeply lam-

entable, not least because, on the latter side of the theological-political
divide, one finds ‘dangerous . . . extremists’ responsible for much of
society’s ‘conflicts’ (ibid.). Proceeding in Feyerabendian fashion Hick
thus observes how ‘absolutism in religion, preaching the unique superior-
ity of one’s own tradition over against others [sic], continues to motivate
young men to be willing to kill and to be killed for what they regard as a
sacred cause’ (ibid.: 134). Given that the ‘absoluteness of the justification
. . . can have power to validate anything,’ the only real hope for religion
becoming ‘a healing instead of a divisive force’ is if that absolutism is ‘dis-
mantled by the realization that one’s own religion is one among several
valid human responses to the Divine’ (ibid.: 123). If the aforementioned
division at the heart of Christianity is to be avoided (assuming it is not
irrevocably under way) then we must choose between ‘one-tradition abso-
lutism and a genuinely pluralistic interpretation of the global religious
situation’ (ibid.: 43); either we ‘affirm the absolute truth of one’s own tra-
dition, or go for some form of pluralistic view’ (ibid.: 48–9).28 Indeed, the
adoption of the latter is ‘unavoidable’ if Christianity is to be a ‘credible . . .
faith for the twenty-first century’ (ibid.: 132). In these claims it is not then
merely cultural-historical awareness that holds the key to a ‘better’ (plural-
istic) future – after all, religious exclusivists are not ignorant of the exist-
ence of other faiths. Rather, Hick is advocating a hospitable attitude in
response to ‘the global religious situation.’29
As I suggested above, the aporia here lies in Hick’s position being
simultaneously descriptive and normative. For while he speaks of leaving
‘the different traditions just as they are,’30 he concedes that his own
agenda necessarily impinges upon exclusivism. Indeed, Hick openly con-
demns exclusivist tendencies within contemporary religious practice as
‘treason against the peace and diversity of the human family’ (ibid.: 118) –
an unsurprising condemnation given that those tendencies constitute the
most formidable threat to pluralism. While he recognizes that the exclu-
sivist’s position is internally ‘consistent and coherent,’ it is so only ‘for
those who can believe that God condemns the majority of the human race
. . . to eternal damnation’ (ibid.: 19). But Hick is clear that such a position
is reprehensible, even referring to the missionary activities of orthodox
Christianity as ‘a complete mistake’ (ibid.: 117).31 The ‘ultimate ineffable
Reality,’ we are thus assured, can be ‘authentically experienced’ in a
variety of ‘different sets of human concepts’ (ibid.: 25). However, it is
equally apparent that this does not apply to ‘every religious movement’ –
not, for example, to those endorsing ‘harmful practices’ such as ‘human
sacrifice, the repression of women . . . opposition to planned parenthood,
discrimination against homosexuals’ (ibid.: 44), and so on. Much like
Wittgenstein then, Hick’s criterion of what constitutes ‘genuine’ religiosity
is neither purely descriptive nor open-ended.32
What this brings into focus is the lack of rhetorical force of Hick’s posi-
tion, for it remains unclear how he hopes to persuade the exclusivist of

the value of pluralism? Thus, in order to demonstrate that the ‘paradigm
shift’ demanded by religious pluralism is possible, Hick defines Christian
belief as ‘what Christians generally believe’ – a web of belief that ‘has
varied enormously over the centuries’ (ibid.: 126).33 But if this is demon-
strable proof of the possibility of a shift toward pluralism, then it can
equally be offered as proof of the possibility of a shift toward fundamental-
ist absolutism. The claim that religious pluralism (while challenging ‘some
of our traditional dogmas’) does ‘not require that any of the basic Chris-
tian ideas be abandoned’ (ibid.: 125) again begs the question, for it pre-
supposes a consensus as to what constitutes dispensable hypothetical
dogma, and what is ‘basic’ to Christian practice.34 Of course, Hick is not
oblivious to this tension in his thinking, and concedes that ‘there’s a sense
in which religious pluralism does . . . give a different status to the various
traditions and their teachings from what they give themselves.’35 Neverthe-
less, it is telling that he proceeds to describe this fact as a ‘virtue’ (ibid.:
45) of pluralism – a reassurance doubtless self-evident to other pluralists
but not to the exclusivist for whom it may seem like blasphemy.36 Hick
thus faces an initial, perhaps insurmountable, problem; namely, of how to
speak in a consensus-oriented fashion to the exclusivist when their concep-
tion of ‘genuine’ religiosity differs so radically from the pluralist’s. This
presents a particularly hard case for contemporary pluralistic thinking.
Nevertheless, it is necessary to highlight it here given both Hick’s specific
concern with religious pluralism and the obvious unacceptability of his
position for non-pluralists. Indeed, asking the question: ‘To whom is Hick
addressing himself?’ is germane, for it remains unclear who his target
audience is – not least because the value of pluralistic tolerance is presumed
rather than demonstrated in his argument.37 After all, Hick’s emphasis on
pluralistic tendencies in both ancient religions and contemporary inter-
faith dialog does nothing to undermine the exclusivist’s suspicion that
such phenomena merely bear witness to the dominance of impious, deca-
dent and increasingly secular world-pictures.38 These aporias might thus
be summarized in the following Levinasian–Derridean terms (to which I
will return in later chapters): Is it possible – or even desirable – to respect
the other’s difference if that other does not in turn respect the difference
of other others? And if this is not possible – or desirable – then what
remains other than the hollow tolerance of ‘respecting’ versions of oneself
(one’s own values and practices)?39 In other words: am I only to welcome
those who respond courteously to my pluralistic hospitality, or rather, is
hospitality a genuine possibility only where the other poses a potential
threat or ‘risk’ (Derrida 1995b: 68)40 to my peaceful, pluralistic ‘being-at-
home’?41
My objective here has not been to question Hick’s pluralistic motives
but rather to highlight the difficulties of formulating such pluralism in the
first place. By identifying the logical problems haunting Hick’s argument I
have thus shown how pluralism – at least in this specific form – lacks rhet-
orical force and ultimately only addresses those who are already sympa-
thetic to its general principles and aims.42 That our differences can be
simultaneously resolved and respected is the central dilemma facing any
such political-religious project. For identifying what differences one can
sacrifice (or legitimately demand the other to sacrifice) for the sake of
pluralistic harmony, without thereby jeopardizing the singularity of one’s
own (or the other’s) position, is precisely what differentiates each position
in the first place. Indeed, to this extent there is no better propaganda for
the exclusivist and pluralist (respectively) than the practices and pro-
nouncements of the other. Each could address their respective audiences by
showing them the alternative world-picture and rhetorically inquiring: Is
this really what you think God wants?
What inspires Hick’s pluralism is a deep respect for ‘the peace and
diversity of the human family’ (1995: 118). Thus, underpinning his assault
on exclusivism, lies an appeal to a ‘common humanity’ (1977: 182) of
which we are all a part, despite the differences between our historical,
political, ethical and religious practices and status. Surin correctly identi-
fies this unifying backdrop to Hick’s narrative, but proceeds to condemn
him for neglecting to notice that ‘this ahistorical affirmation of “a
common human history” is . . . irredeemably ideological.’ Indeed, in post-
Enlightenment culture there is no more effective way of veiling real social-
political injustices than to dress one’s theorizing ‘in the garbs of a
universalistic “pluralism” ’ (Surin 1990: 120).43 Surin’s caution is not
wholly unreasonable, for what lies at the heart of every pluralism is the
belief that the categories of ‘plurality’ and ‘unity’ cannot be straightfor-
wardly dissociated.44 Nevertheless, that the conception of a ‘common
humanity’ both can be and has been45 used as an ideological weapon of
oppression does not mean that it is an inherently oppressive notion.46 It is,
after all, singularly difficult to think of any principle (including Surin’s
respect for the ‘intractable “otherness” of the Other’ (ibid.: 126) and
desire to ‘safeguard’ this unique ‘strangeness’ (ibid.: 125)) that could not
be used to facilitate political violence, oppression or indifference.47 I will
return to this point later. First, however, I want to develop Surin’s sugges-
tion that the very notion of a ‘human family’ is simply part of a more clan-
destine attempt at cultural-political-conceptual homogenization (and is
thus itself inherently exclusivist). I will do this with reference to Lyotard’s
more radical pluralistic vision.48
Totalitarianism and Lyotard’s politics of dissensus

In Chapter 2 I raised a question concerning the extent to which language-
games (and, by implication, world-pictures) could be individuated. This
question is important here because it lies at the heart of the pluralist
debate. Whether one is speaking about ‘traditions’ (as Feyerabend does)
or ‘religions’ (as Hick does) the degree to which these are represented as
either fundamentally incommensurable or unified will determine the sort of
ethical-political conclusions one reaches. Of course, by definition all plu-
ralisms concede a degree of plurality within the social arena. But whether
this plurality is ultimately judged to be of an irreducible sort (as Surin
advises it should be judged49) is another matter. Thus, Hick’s acknowledg-
ment of the ‘given’ multiplicity of religious traditions is tempered by what
he sees as their mutual concern with human salvation and the elimination
of egocentrism, and a shared ‘human family’ of which all ‘the great world
faiths’ (1995: 17) are a part. These criteria enable Hick to demarcate
‘genuine’ religiosity from the manifold dangers of absolutism. But, as pre-
viously discussed, by this demarcation Hick marginalizes from the start those
for whom his discourse is presumably intended; namely, religious exclu-
sivists. According to a more radical form of pluralism, however, this tem-
pering of singularity by positing a ‘common humanity’ is precisely what
the question of social-political justice hinges on. For here the task is to
‘define a pluralism of radical separation, a pluralism in which the plurality
is not that of a total community, that of cohesion or coherence of the
whole’ (Derrida 1999b: 96). Thus, like Feyerabend, Lyotard employs a
number of Wittgensteinian themes50 in order to emphasize the fragmenta-
tion of contemporary social life and thereby pose the question of how we
are to conceive and deploy justice when ‘the position of the other remains
always irreducibly other’ (Barron 1992: 31). In response to this dilemma
Lyotard advocates a ‘pagan’ attitude of ‘acceptance . . . that one can play
several games, and that each of these games is interesting in itself insofar
as the interesting thing is to play moves.’ The pagan thereby tries ‘to
invent new games,’ ‘figure out new moves’ previously ‘unexpected and
unheard of,’ and even ‘move from one game to another’ (1985: 61).51
What is characteristic of the non-pagan is their tendency to ‘stick to [their]
signified’ and ‘think that they are in the true’ (ibid.: 62).52 Such self-
assured dogmatism is misplaced because, while language-games are
indeed given, the way one proceeds to ‘play’ them remains essentially
open.53 On the basis of this radical individuation of language-games
Lyotard thus proceeds to define ‘oppression’ in terms of the proclivity (of
non-pagans) to ‘import into a language game a question that comes from
another one and to impose it’ (ibid.: 53).54 The question of justice arises
because political efficacy demands that language-games employ the same
conceptual vocabulary; the language of a ‘common humanity’ or universal
‘we.’55 The implicit injunction in traditional politics is thus ‘be operational
(that is, commensurable) or disappear,’ and this, we are warned,
inevitably ‘entails a certain level of terror’ (1997a: xxiv).56 According to
Lyotard, then, the most fundamental ethical-political right is the right to be
other; to ‘play’ different games or the same games differently.57 Any state
that confines its members to specific, pre-established narratives is – albeit
surreptitiously – essentially totalitarian.58
In The Differend Lyotard therefore attempts to ‘do justice’ to the various

‘given’ narratives rather than subsuming them under a general rational-
ization.59 Here his primary concern is what happens, and what can be
done in the name of justice when a dispute occurs between two or more
incommensurable language-games60 – or, in Lyotard’s terminology, when
a conflict arises that cannot be treated as a mere problem of ‘litigation,’
but which rather constitutes a ‘differend’ (1988: xi).61 To understand this
distinction one might compare a litigation to a dispute between two card-
players who differ over the application of a specific rule in poker. Here a
consensus-oriented compromise is possible because both players agree
about the basic rules of poker (and that they are indeed both playing
poker). A differend would occur when the divergences between each party
were so radical that neither would consider the other to be even playing
poker (or perhaps any game whatsoever).62 As a ‘universal rule of judgement
. . . is lacking in general’ (ibid.) it is therefore the role of ‘a certain liter-
ature, philosophy, and . . . politics to bear witness to differends by finding
idioms for them’ (Carrol 1987: 169) which do not compromise either
party. The Lyotardian objective is thus not one of consensus (which is
necessarily violent in its diminution of the other’s otherness) but rather
the right of each party to have their own idiomatic voice, thereby main-
taining a level of dissensus in the social-political realm.63 As ‘we do not have
a rule for justice,’ the quest for justice ‘is not a matter of conforming to
laws’ (Lyotard 1985: 65). To embark upon such a program would be totali-
tarian insofar as totalitarianism is defined as the exclusion of ‘the possibil-
ity of dispute’ (Readings 1991: 109).64 By claiming to have identified and
fixed the meaning of the ‘just,’65 totalitarianism thereby silences dissent-
ing voices – or at least vilifies such resistance as transgressive,66 unnatural,
demonic or ‘mad’ (Lyotard 1988: 8).67
With these points in mind, Hick’s treatment of the religious exclusivist
represents precisely the sort of totalitarian silencing procedure Lyotard
warns against. So, by appealing to a quasi-naturalistic prevalence of ‘a kind
of implicit religious pluralism’ (1995: 122)68 and positing a common
‘human family’ (ibid.: 118) that the exclusivist disrespects, Hick effectively
calls into question her humanity. Likewise, in his casting (a rather specific
notion of) ‘salvation/liberation’ as central to ‘each of the great world
faiths’ (ibid.: 17), and subsequent allusion to the self-evident repugnance
69
of the notion of an exclusivist God, Hick thereby calls into question the
exclusivist’s religiosity. Similarly, if religious pluralism is in the end
‘unavoidable’ (ibid.: 132) then so too must the rationality of the exclusivist
be questioned. And finally, given that sacrificing exclusivist tendencies is
an inherent ‘virtue’ (ibid.: 45), the moral bankruptcy of the persistent
exclusivist should also be noted. In short, by the very parameters set by
Hick’s discourse, the exclusivist is judged from the start to be in some fun-
damental respects inhuman, irreligious, irrational and immoral. With
these dubious credentials it is therefore unsurprising that she is deemed
undeserving of a voice.
Lyotard’s work presents one attempt to conceptualize an instance of
‘two principles’ meeting that ‘cannot be reconciled with one another,’
where each party simply declares ‘the other a fool and heretic’ (Wittgen-
stein 1999: §611). If, as Lyotard maintains, the imposition of the rules of
one language-game upon another is ‘inherent to oppression’ (1985: 53),
then, conversely, respect for ‘difference’ is the core of justice itself. What
must be resisted is the temptation to consider one’s own practices to be
either fixed once and for all or (whether ‘fixed’ or not) inherently supe-
rior to the practices of others. In short, what should be avoided is the
assumption ‘that one’s own village and strange customs it contains are the
navel of the world’ (Feyerabend 1987: 28). Lyotard’s concern to avoid
linguistic-conceptual domination70 – and thereby ‘bear witness to’71 the
absolute ‘heterogeneity of language games’ (1997a: xxv) – thus highlights
the possible ethical-political significance of Wittgenstein’s later work. I
have thus far remained uncritical of Lyotard’s politicization of Wittgen-
stein. But I would now like to consider one particularly striking example
of how Lyotard’s ‘pagan justice’ or ‘politics of dissensus’ has been applied
by Readings – one of his chief exponents. This will enable me to focus crit-
ical attention on the Lyotardian project toward the end of the chapter.
Taking Herzog’s Where the Green Ants Dream as his inspiration, Readings
claims that what this film highlights is the incommensurability between
‘Aborigines and . . . liberal capitalist democracy’ (1992: 171). In its por-
trayal of a dispute between the Aborigines and a local mining company
regarding land ownership, Herzog’s film ‘does not represent an other so
much as bear witness to an otherness to representation, a différend’ (ibid.:
176). Readings proceeds to summarize Where the Green Ants Dream in typ-
ically Lyotardian fashion:
[T]he dispute . . . takes place at the edge of the Empire, in the Aus-
tralian desert, on a site which is at the same time central to the polit-
ical struggles currently animating the west: the rights of indigenous
peoples in the wake of the Empire. In the course of the film a radical
aporia in legal arbitration appears as a structural necessity of the mod-
ernist insistence on the representability of the human and the possi-
bility of universal justice . . . Where the Green Ants Dream shows that
ethical responsibility demands a quasi-aesthetic experimentation if
justice is to be done to an Aboriginal claim . . . Doing justice is a
matter of experimentation rather than of corresponding to models.
(1992: 172–3)
And more specifically:
During the court hearing, the Aborigines produce as ‘evidence’

certain sacred objects. But the sacred objects . . . can only be recorded
as an utter blank: ‘wooden object, carved, with marking, the markings

indecipherable. The significance of the markings not plain to this
court’ . . . Governor Phillips raised his flag in 1788, around 200 years
ago, more or less when the Aboriginal sacred objects were buried. But
they weren’t buried at the same time, since they weren’t buried in the
same history . . . the flag is raised in western historical time and the
objects are buried in a time that is not historical in any sense we might
recognize . . . [a] time which cannot be thought by western science.
(1992: 181)72
The plaintiff and defendant ‘do not merely speak different languages,
they participate in utterly incommensurable language games’ (ibid.: 180)
– an incommensurability that becomes apparent in, for example, the Abo-
riginal understanding of temporal and spatial relations73 and methods of
enumeration.74 But most crucial is how the Aborigines conceive their rela-
tion to the ‘sacred land, where the green ants dwell,’ for they ‘belong to
the land’ in a quite specific way: ‘Not belong to the land: there is no possi-
bility of even a thought of separation or abstraction. They can’t be trans-
planted, immigrate elsewhere. They have no abstract human nature that
would survive in another place, anywhere else’ (ibid.: 183). Due to the
Enlightenment (and hence liberal) dream that ‘all difference can be over-
come’ by reference to the ‘universal language’ or ‘ “common law” of
humanity,’75 the Aboriginal voices are effectively silenced. It is not that the
court openly forbids the Aborigines from speaking, but that, despite the
‘sham’ (ibid.: 181) of their being permitted a legal voice, in its very
demand for a ‘unitary “we” ’ (ibid.: 180) the other’s language-game is
inevitably suppressed. Thus, one might say, the Aborigines are rendered
conceptually mute. The implicit command of the court is ‘speak as we do!’
for without this much commonality, understanding and the goal of
mutual compromise become impossible.76 For Readings, the injustice of
the trial emerges from the untranslatability of the language of the Aborig-
ines into that of ‘common law,’ and thus of ‘common humanity.’
Although an ‘encounter takes place, it happens’ there is ‘no language
available [in which] to phrase it’ (ibid.: 183). What Herzog’s film bears
witness to ‘is not an incidental act of injustice’ but rather ‘the necessary,
structurally implicit terror that accompanies the encounter of a people
that says “we” with a community that is not modern, that doesn’t think
itself as a people’ (ibid.: 184). The ‘paradox that arises is that neither side
is wrong,’ for ‘ “We” have no way of saying who is right here, the mining
company or the Aborigines. No “we” can pronounce once and for all on
their dispute. All we can do . . . is to try to tell another story,’ namely ‘one
that doesn’t seek to synthesize or assimilate them but to keep the dispute
and the difference an open question’ (ibid.: 185).77 What Lyotard’s
‘paganism’ thus demands is a movement away from a politics that seeks to
absorb the other and deny radical difference. In much the same way as
Surin criticizes Hick, for both Lyotard and Readings the ‘suggestion that
all cultures are fundamentally the same is the trade mark of the imperial-
ism of modernity.’ The real challenge of contemporary politics is how ‘to
think liberation otherwise than as an abstraction into ever more splendid
(more universal) isolation’; that is, of how to rethink ‘the notion of
community under the horizon of dissensus rather than of consensus’
(ibid.: 184).
As Readings’s synopsis of Where the Green Ants Dream suggests, the waters
of incommensurability may indeed be abyssal, but the question remains:
are they unfathomable? In my analysis of On Certainty in Chapter 2 I showed
how Moore misconstrues the epistemic status of his ‘hinge’ propositions.
Keeping this in mind I now want to explore why Readings’s conclusions
are premature, for what requires further analysis is the possibility of there
being ethical foundations (analogous to the trans-epistemic foundations
Moore inadvertently draws attention to) upon which human interaction is
‘hinged.’ If such ethical foundations can indeed be identified then this
would not only facilitate a more comprehensive understanding of those
anxieties intermittently haunting Wittgenstein’s own work (notably On
Certainty), it would also curb Surin’s worries concerning Hick’s religious
pluralism and, more crucially, reveal why the Lyotardian position is unten-
able. The best way of negotiating these issues is, indirectly, through
Wittgenstein’s alleged anti-foundationalism, for this reading of his later
work naturally lends itself to such theoretical extravagances as Feyer-
abend’s naive relativism and Readings’s Lyotardian ‘paganism.’ As will
become clear, however, this anti-foundationalist reading is both inaccu-
rate and unsound.
A succinct example of the aforementioned position can be found in
Greisch’s recent work. For there we are told that ‘Wittgenstein developed
the theory of the irreducible plurality of language games anchored in
“forms of life” ’ where he hoped ‘to resolve the difficult question of values
in terms of plurality,’ whereas (for example) ‘Husserl strove towards some
kind of teleological unity’ (1999: 46).78 According to this synopsis, then,
Wittgenstein’s later writings revolve around the notion of ‘irreducible plu-
rality.’ Thus, having outlined Werner Marx’s work on the primacy of ‘sym-
pathy’ as a ‘unifying principle’ (ibid.: 50) in ethics, Greisch somberly
concludes:
[A]nyone who is familiar with the thought of the later Wittgenstein
will have difficulty sharing the optimism of [Werner Marx] who calcu-
lates that an ethics of compassion appears capable of surmounting the
heterogeneity of language games and the corresponding forms of life.
(1999: 58)
What is interesting about these remarks is that they systematically overlook

the primacy of ‘natural reactions’ in Wittgenstein’s work – including those
of ‘pity’ (1958: §287) and ‘sympathy’ (1993: 381).79 Greisch’s lamentation
is therefore misplaced, for the very ‘unifying principle’ he discovers else-

where lies at the very heart of Wittgenstein’s own work.80 It is this claim
that I will now substantiate, first by reconstructing Wittgenstein’s account
of both inter-personal and inter-cultural relations, and finally by critiquing
the Lyotardian position outlined above.
Body, soul, suffering and the specter of amoralism

Pain and suffering (both one’s own and others’) are recurrent themes in
Wittgenstein’s later writings. Although these phenomena are relevant to a
number of epistemological questions, they are also of obvious ethical
import.81 I would like to begin to reconstruct this ethical subtext from the
following passage in Philosophical Investigations:
Suppose you came as an explorer into an unknown country with a lan-

guage quite strange to you. In what circumstances would you say that the
people there gave orders, understood them, obeyed them, rebelled
against them, and so on? The common behavior of mankind is the system
of reference by means of which we interpret an unknown language.
Here Wittgenstein is clear that, even when faced with cultural difference –
even where language practices are seemingly incommensurable – one is not
entirely at a loss. Despite the manifold divergences between one’s own
culture and that of another, the ‘common behavior of mankind’ is never-
theless capable of breaking through the mutual bewilderment83 (indeed,
without this underlying commonality it would be impossible to learn
another’s language). Encountering another culture is patently not the
same as finding oneself amidst a colony of alien beings who lacked an
even vaguely determinate bodily form or behavioral repertoire.84 Aside
from extreme borderline cases, one immediately distinguishes the human
from the non-human,85 and this reaction is deeply rooted in our ‘natural
history’ (ibid.: §25).86 It is of course true that, for example, after a road
accident it may be difficult to distinguish the driver’s body from the wreck-
age. Gross disfigurement – and perhaps especially of the face87 – clearly
can make such identification less than ‘immediate.’ But such hesitancy is
not only relatively exceptional, it is particularly horrific precisely because
such identification requires deliberation. This natural ‘immediacy’ in
inter-personal relations effectively means that taking a hypothetical atti-
tude toward others only occurs in highly ‘abnormal’ circumstances. And
this is why Wittgenstein demarcates between having ‘an attitude towards a
soul’ and merely being ‘of the opinion that [someone] has a soul’ (ibid.:
p. 178).88 For what it actually means to ‘believe that men have souls’ lies in
the practical application of this ‘picture’ (ibid.: §422).89 However, in order
to appreciate both the ethical significance of these remarks and what con-
stitutes the aforementioned ‘common behavior of mankind’ it is first

necessary to understand something of Wittgenstein’s phenomenology of
the body.
That Wittgenstein should draw attention to the human face is unsur-
prising given that the face maintains a privileged position in our dealings
with others.90 Not only is the face capable of expressing another’s more
general state of being,91 so too do we tend to place a special value on face-
to-face encounters.92 There is a natural priority93 here, for this distinctive
assemblage of features provides human beings with a vast array of expres-
sive possibilities.94 But the significance of Wittgenstein’s treatment of the
face and body lies in his attempt to undermine a more general philosophi-
cal prejudice about the nature of intersubjectivity.95 According to Wittgen-
stein, the other’s face (indeed, their body as a whole) does not supply a
series of signs to be decoded, interpreted and then responded to. Rather,
as previously suggested, the meaningful presence of the other is
immediate.96 When one looks into the face of another97 one sees conscious-
ness, and a ‘particular shade of consciousness’ at that.98 When encounter-
ing the other’s face one does not first ‘look into’ (1990: §220) oneself and
then ‘make inferences . . . to joy, grief, boredom’ (ibid.: §225) concerning
them,99 and this is why ‘a tender facial expression’ cannot adequately ‘be
described in terms of the distribution of matter in space’ (1994a: 82).100
Rather, we ‘describe a face immediately as sad, radiant, bored’ (1990:
§225);101 its meaning ‘is there as clearly as in your own breast’ (ibid.:
§220).102 The face, one might say, is the very manifestation of joy, grief,
boredom and suffering, and to that extent there is nothing inherently
mysterious in our relations with others.103 Mimicking the second of
Descartes’ Meditations104 Wittgenstein nevertheless entertains the following
possibility: ‘But can’t I imagine that the people around me are automata,
lack consciousness, even though they behave in the same way as usual?’:
If I imagine it now – alone in my room – I see people with fixed looks

(as in a trance) going about their business – the idea is perhaps a little
uncanny. But just try to keep hold of this idea in the midst of your
ordinary intercourse with others, in the street say! Say to yourself,
for example: ‘The children over there are mere automata; all their
liveliness is mere automatism.’ And you will either find these words
becoming quite meaningless; or you will produce in yourself some
kind of uncanny feeling . . .
(1958: §420)
Wittgenstein’s point in referring to an ‘uncanny feeling’ is not merely to

suggest that skeptical doubt is never as radical in practice as it is in
theory.105 One might imagine what it would be for others to be like mere
automata despite their apparent normality. (As philosophers know, tem-
porary detachment from ‘ordinary intercourse with others’ permits one to
engage in all manner of conceptual acrobatics – possibilities to which even

Wittgenstein was not wholly adverse.106) We clearly can be struck by the
mechanical appearance of people walking together in a crowd, chanting
at a political rally, praying together, or dancing in unison. And doubtless
such experiences, though necessarily short-lived, often produce ‘uncanny’
feelings.107 But here we have, through an act of imagination, begun to per-
ceive others as if they were machines, and it is precisely this qualification
that is crucial. Imagining that the children are automata is quite differ-
ent,108 for now our imagining involves a crucial existential commitment
(these children are actually machines) that cannot be divorced from our
broader practical orientation toward them. Such an attitude would mani-
fest itself, not in a mildly ‘uncanny feeling’ but rather in deep revulsion,
horror, and so on. The accessibility of seeing the children as if they were
automata lies in the regularity of their movement, which provides a con-
ceptual ‘peg’ (Tilghman 1991: 100) upon which to hang the likeness. But
to take their ‘particular interplay of movements, words, expressions’
(Wittgenstein 1990: §594) to be actual automatism has no such anchor.
For their ‘harmonious behavior’ (Husserl 1982: 114) is the very paradigm
of the unmechanical ‘voluntary movements of a normal human being’
(Wittgenstein 1990: §594).109 And this is why Wittgenstein phrases his
initial question: ‘But can’t I imagine that the people around me are
automata . . . even though they behave in the same way as usual?’ (1958:
§420, my emphasis).
Most significant here is the role repetition plays in our encounters
with others. Clearly a degree of behavioral-linguistic repetition110 –
and thereby a degree of predictability111 – is necessary for human
behavior to be meaningful, but this sort of repetition is only loosely
regimented.112 Wittgenstein illustrates a related point when he remarks:
‘If a man’s bodily expression of sorrow and of joy alternated, say with
the ticking of a clock, here we should not have the characteristic forma-
tion of the pattern of sorrow or of the pattern of joy’ (ibid.: §174). And
likewise:
Isn’t it as if one were trying to imagine a facial expression not suscept-

ible of alterations which were gradual and difficult to catch hold of,
but which had, say, just five positions; when it changed it would snap
straight from one to another. Now would this fixed smile, for
example, really be a smile? And why not?
(1990: §527)113
By conceiving such a face (or body) one is imagining someone ‘dysfunc-

tional,’ acting or making a joke114 – a ‘pseudo-organism’ (Husserl 1982:
114). Indeed, we might say that ‘expression consists in incalculability,’ for
if one always knew ‘exactly how [another] would grimace, move, there
would be no facial expression, no gesture’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 73). It
might, as Wittgenstein suggests, be possible in ‘a certain sense’ to ‘keep

being surprised’ by a piece of music that we can anticipate note for
note.115 But the same could not, I think, be said of another’s actions
without something seeming awry.116 There is clearly nothing uncanny
about using the ‘repeat’ function on a CD player. But ‘[s]uppose we were
to meet people who all had the same facial features: that would be enough
for us not to know where we are with them’ (ibid.: 75). If this would be
enough for us to lose our footing then so too would we find ourselves per-
plexed by someone whose natural bodily-linguistic behaviors were com-
pletely predictable. Of course, the degree of calculability is significant
here. One is continually learning how to predict when specific individuals
will laugh, cry, smile and curse without that inducing an ‘uncanny’
feeling. Indeed, without this degree of predictability human interaction
would be impossible. Predictability thus constitutes the natural
substratum117 for ‘knowing someone’ or having any meaningful relation-
ship with them.118 But the analogy Wittgenstein makes with music suggests
a degree of calculability well beyond this. Here the other’s behavior would
be as predictable as playing a well-worn record – or one that sticks on one
specific phrase. It would mean that not only would I know when they were
going to laugh, but for how long that laughter would last, what volume and
pitch it would reach, and so on.119 It is doubtless impossible to identify pre-
cisely where to make the distinction between the fluid, ‘iterable’ sort of
repetition human beings naturally display and the more stunted, catatonic
variety of automata. Doubtless, too, there are borderline cases where one
would be hesitant in making such a judgement. But this does not under-
mine the main point; that one cannot simply choose at will to view others
as though they actually were machines dressed in ‘hats and coats’
(Descartes 1976: 73).120
Given Wittgenstein’s preoccupation with embodiment, his numerous
references to the ‘soul’121 may seem rather surprising. But again, what
interests Wittgenstein is how the grammar of this term actually func-
tions.122 After analysis it thus becomes clear that ‘soul’ does not operate as
a designator for some mysterious inner substance. Extending the applica-
bility of the word ‘soul’ to non-human animals, Wittgenstein therefore
remarks:
We do not say that possibly a dog talks to itself. Is that because we are
so minutely acquainted with its soul? Well, one might say this: If one
sees the behavior of a living thing, one sees its soul.
(1958: §357)123
The meaning of saying that someone (or some ‘thing’) ‘has a soul’ is again
manifested, not in one’s hypothetical beliefs but rather through one’s general
orientation toward them.124 In other words, to ‘believe that men have souls’
lies in the application of this ‘picture’ (ibid.: §422), and this is why ‘[m]y atti-
tude towards him is an attitude towards a soul. I am not of the opinion that he
has a soul’ (ibid.: p. 178).125 Given this deeply non-hypothetical characteriza-
tion of ‘attitude,’ it is clear why such a ‘picture’ is central to our sense of
ethical concern for others who are ‘mortal . . . [and] vulnerable to misfor-
tune’ (Gaita 2000: 239).126 Contrary to Surin, Lyotard and Readings there is
something primordially significant about the human form – so much so that
it determines the limits of what or who the concepts ‘pain,’ ‘consciousness’
and ‘soul’ can be meaningfully attributed to.127 That people campaign for the
rights of non-human animals and the unborn fetus is not unintelligible, even
to those who passionately disagree.128 It is not as though such individuals were
campaigning for the rights of carpets or iron filings – which clearly would
raise questions concerning what such ‘rights’ could possibly amount to.129
Indeed, it is in this sense that caution is needed when speaking of the
‘intractable “otherness” of the Other’ (Surin 1990: 126).130 For any criterion
that proscribes such markedly peculiar claims about the ‘rights’ of carpets and
iron filings would be enough to incur limitations on the very notion of the
radically ‘other.’131
Our responsiveness to others should not, however, be construed as
deliberative,132 or resulting from a reasoning ‘by analogy’ (Wittgenstein
1990: §537).133 Rather, we must ‘remember that it is a primitive reaction to
tend, to treat, the part that hurts when someone else is in pain; and not
merely when oneself is’:
But what is the word ‘primitive’ meant to say here? Presumably that
this sort of behavior is pre-linguistic: that a language-game is based on
it, that it is the prototype of a way of thinking and not the result of
thought.
‘Putting the cart before the horse’ may be said of an explanation
like the following: we tend someone else because by analogy with our
own case we believe that he is experiencing pain too . . .
(Wittgenstein 1990: §§540–2)
In other words:
Being sure that someone is in pain, doubting whether he is, and so

on, are so many natural, instinctive, kinds of behavior towards other
human beings, and our language is merely an auxiliary to, and further
extension of, this relation. Our language-game is an extension of
primitive behavior.
None of this is to deny that there are times when the meaning and sincerity
of another’s behavior is in question,135 but rather to suggest that in prin-
ciple: ‘ “I can only believe that someone else is in pain, but I know it if I am” ’
is only to say that ‘one can make the decision to say “I believe he is in pain”
instead of “He is in pain”. But that is all . . . Just try – in a real case – to
doubt someone else’s fear or pain’ (1958: §303).136 To reiterate a familiar
Wittgensteinian theme from Chapter 2, in such circumstances one needs
‘reasons for leaving a familiar track,’ for ‘[d]oubt is a moment of hesitation
and is, essentially, an exception to the rule’ (1993: 379).137 That is:
The game doesn’t begin with doubting whether someone has a

toothache, because that doesn’t – as it were – fit the game’s biological
function in our life. In its most primitive form it is a reaction to some-
body’s cries and gestures, a reaction of sympathy or something of the
sort. We comfort him, try to help him.
(Wittgenstein 1993: 381)138
The point I want to emphasize here is that if, as Wittgenstein maintains,

language is ‘auxiliary to,’ an ‘extension’ (1990: §545), ‘refinement’
(1994a: 31) or ‘replacement’139 of primitive reactions, then moral deliber-
ation concerning when, how and to whom we should attend (be it the
musings of a child as to whether a trapped insect is suffering, or the
heights of abstract ethical theorizing140) is grounded upon pre-linguistic
natural or ‘primitive’ reactions toward others.141 This is not to contest the
obvious anthropological fact that the manner in which different cultures
organize and implement their moral values may vary. Nor is it necessarily
to deny that, as Caputo puts it, ‘flesh and pain have a history’ – that, for
example, there might be a ‘difference between the experience of pain
before and after the discovery of anesthetics, inside and outside medical-
technological civilizations, inside and outside of one religion or another’
(1993: 208).142 What it does suggest, however, is that the depth of such cul-
tural diversity is not (as Readings suggests) unfathomable, but necessarily
circumscribed both by pre-linguistic behaviors and fundamental physio-
logical-biological facts concerning the inherent vulnerability of mortal,
embodied beings.143 In other words, the various trajectories taken in the
course of historical-cultural practice and rational ethical-political delibera-
tion are only possible on the grounds of a much more natural concern for
others.144 What Wittgenstein therefore draws to our attention is the neces-
sary backdrop or ‘tacit presupposition[s]’ (1958: p.179) our lives hinge
upon:145
The concept of pain is characterized by its particular function in our
life.
Pain has this position in our life; has these connexions; (That is to
say: we only call ‘pain’ what has this position, these connexions).
Only surrounded by certain normal manifestations of life, is there
such a thing as an expression of pain. Only surrounded by an even
more far-reaching particular manifestation of life, such a thing as the
expression of sorrow or affection. And so on.
(1990: §§532–4)
This, then, is why the amoralist’s demand for cogent ‘reasons’ why they
should care about anything or anyone is so troubling. For, as Williams
puts it: ‘it is very unclear that we can in fact give the man who asks it a
reason – that, starting from so far down, we could argue him into caring
about something.’ What such a person requires is ‘help, or hope, not rea-
sonings’ (1973: 17).146 If the amoralist is (in a quasi-Pyrrhonian sense147)
‘at a loss’ as to why the needless suffering of children is a tragedy, then ini-
tially one must ask whether some tragedy has befallen them; whether their
life has been damaged in such a way that they cannot feel ‘the force of
pity’ (Nuyen 2000: 421).148 Reactions of moral indifference often bear
witness to temporary moral exhaustion. While there are obvious correla-
tions between the symptoms of exhaustion and amoralism, and while the
former provides a fairly secure route to the latter, to find oneself buckling
under the weight of others’ suffering should not be confused with the per-
sistent indifference displayed by the genuine amoralist. Here we need to
distinguish, and in turn respond to, what is effectively an appeal for assis-
tance. If, as Wittgenstein suggests, belief in predestination is ‘less a theory
than a sigh, or a cry’ (often born from ‘the most dreadful suffering’
(1994a: 30)), then much the same might be said of extreme moral skepti-
cism.149 In this sense then even the genuine amoralist does not challenge
the authority of morality.150 Amoralism does not provide grounds for a
radical critique of our normal moral reactions and sensibilities. Nor does
it establish grounds for our becoming skeptical. On the contrary, the
provocation of amoralism lies in its capacity to call our own potential for
moral responsiveness into question.151 That is, what the amoralist chal-
lenges is the ‘good conscience’ we may harbor regarding our own compe-
tence at helping the helpless or giving hope to the hopeless. Morality is far
from being undermined here, for we are, implicitly, being petitioned to
be more moral – probably more than we can bear. In this respect the
genuine amoralist is the most helpless and hopeless individual one is ever
likely to encounter.
Mindful of these points it becomes clear why the idea of a ‘moral
community’ is fundamentally dissimilar to, for example, that of a ‘scient-
ific community’ or ‘artistic community.’ As Winch rightly notes: ‘there
could not be a human society which was not also, in some sense, a moral
community.’ Moral concern cannot adequately be described as either a
‘form of activity’ or – as Lyotard suggests – a ‘form of life’ (or ‘language-
game’) which one may choose to either partake in or ignore.152 Rather,
moral problems ‘force themselves on you’ insofar as they emerge from the
‘common life between men and do not presuppose any particular forms
of activity in which men engage together’ (Winch 1960: 239–40).153 What
constitutes suffering is not primarily an epistemic or hypothetical matter;
it is central to the natural life of human beings. The other’s suffering com-
mands us to help, his misery ‘calls for action: his wounds must be tended’
(Tilghman 1991: 113), for it is part of the ‘grammar’ of others’ suffering

that one is thereby placed under obligation. As Schopenhauer remarks of
‘natural compassion’: ‘It calls out to me “Stop!”; it stands before the other
man like a bulwark, protecting him from the injury that my egoism or
malice would otherwise urge me to do’ (1995: 149).154 Though one may or
may not respond to this ‘call,’ to not hear it is to not recognize suffering
qua suffering; it would, for example, be to perceive only indentations in
another’s flesh, as though these were mere marks on a paving stone.155 In
the company of the genuine amoralist rational argumentation would
indeed be to no avail, for the efficacy of such argumentation requires
some commonality to already be in place. Without this shared natural
‘background’ (Wittgenstein 1990: §567) against which to debate – or
against which to simply show her an instance of suffering and await an
appropriate response – there is nothing more to say. This is why ‘[t]here
can be no more dramatic way of falling away from the ethical than seri-
ously to doubt its reality’ (Gaita 2000: 179). Giving reasons cannot start
‘from so far down’ (Williams 1973: 17)156 because here reasoning ‘comes
to an end’ (Wittgenstein 1999: §192)157 – indeed, with the genuine
amoralist, reasoning does not even get a chance to begin. In such cases
one must try to ascertain how deep her indifference runs. But with regard
to the persistent amoralist ultimately all we have recourse to is ‘persuasion’
(ibid.: §262, 612), whatever that might entail.158
As mentioned earlier, Wittgenstein is sometimes characterized as the
philosopher of linguistic-conceptual plurality; a pluralism that (allegedly)
becomes most conspicuous in his vocabulary of ‘language-games,’ ‘forms
of life’ and ‘world-pictures.’ But what this reading neglects is that beneath
all the ‘differences’159 Wittgenstein shows us lies a more unifying natural-
ism. Indeed, it is precisely this that enables him to escape the snares of
Lyotard’s portrayal of radical social fragmentation. When exploring
Wittgenstein’s naturalism, however, ‘Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough’
demands particular attention.160 Rather than attempt a survey of the dis-
proportionately large secondary literature this text has provoked, I will
instead reconstruct its central themes in order to address the specific
ethical-political implications of Wittgenstein’s suggestion that ‘man is a
ceremonial animal’ (1996a: 67).
The primitive and the modern: Wittgenstein on Frazer’s
Golden Bough
Despite its fragmentary nature, ‘Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough’ can be
roughly divided into three parts: those remarks pertaining to (1)
methodological issues, (2) ‘opinion,’ ‘reason’ and ‘ritual,’ and (3) the
relation between the ‘primitive’ and ‘modern’ subject. I will return to (2)
and (3) later. First, I want to focus on the methodological distinctions
Wittgenstein draws between his own project and Frazer’s anthropology.
Although Wittgenstein concedes in Philosophical Investigations that his
‘interest certainly includes the correspondence between concepts and very

general facts of nature,’ he does not want to ‘fall back upon these possible
causes of the formation of concepts’ because in the end he is ‘not doing
natural science; nor yet natural history – since we can also invent fictitious
natural history for our purposes.’161 He proceeds:
[I]f anyone believes that certain concepts are absolutely the correct
ones, and that having different ones would mean not realizing some-
thing that we realize – then let him imagine certain very general facts
of nature to be different from what we are used to, and the formation
of concepts different from the usual ones will become intelligible to
him.
(1958: p. 230)162
In short, the concepts and practices we have are not a priori necessary or
determined. This implies two things: (1) given the facts of our actual
natural history, a considerable degree of conceptual variety is nevertheless
possible, and (2) were this natural history different then so too would our
present concepts and practices. In effect what we are presented with here
is simultaneously a recognition of cultural diversity and a commitment to
the basic commonality of human life as it is ‘given.’163 It is in large part the
philosophical-anthropological necessity of maintaining this dual emphasis
that ‘Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough’ addresses.
For Wittgenstein the central problem with Frazer’s anthropology is its
implicit scientism, and specifically Frazer’s tendency toward interpretation
and explanation. According to Wittgenstein the ‘very idea of wanting to
explain a [religious] practice . . . seems wrong’ (1996a: 61), for one should
‘only describe and say: this is what human life is like’ (ibid.: 63). Echoing
numerous other passages in his later writings,164 Wittgenstein here high-
lights both his ontological commitments regarding the ‘givenness’ of lan-
guage practices and how this ought to determine the philosophical
enterprise insofar as we cannot explain why a certain form of life exists,
‘[a]ll we can do is to describe it – and behold it!’ (Malcolm 1993: 76).165
Having ‘put the question mark deep enough down’ (having gone ‘right
down to the foundations’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 62)) explanatory and justi-
ficatory discourse ‘comes to an end’ (1999: §204). At this point ‘all one
can say is: where that practice and these views occur together, the practice
does not spring from the view, but they are both just there’ (1996a: 62).
That ‘the practice does not spring from the view’ is an important and
recurrent theme in ‘Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough,’ not least because
Frazer misrepresents ‘the magical and religious views of mankind’ as
pseudo-scientific ‘errors’ or ‘pieces of stupidity.’166 But, Wittgenstein insists,
religious and magical rituals can only be ‘erroneous’ to the extent that
they ‘set forth a theory’ (ibid.: 61) and thereby constitute hypothetical
speculation.167 For Wittgenstein, however, ‘[n]o opinion serves as the

foundation for a religious symbol’ (ibid.: 64), and ‘the characteristic
feature of primitive man is that he does not act from opinions (contrary to
Frazer)’ (ibid.: 71).168
A question of primacy naturally arises here of whether reason grounds
action or vice versa? But the problem with framing things in these terms is
that one thereby makes an implicit distinction between language and
behavior. This is why Wittgenstein is reluctant169 to talk of ‘primacy,’ and
instead stresses the simultaneity of these phenomena.170 Nevertheless, there
is a genuine ambiguity here. For elsewhere, as has already become clear,
Wittgenstein emphasizes the derivative nature of language-behavior from
‘primitive reactions.’171 Thus, language and reasoning are said to have their
roots in natural, pre-linguistic behavior. The primary function of language
is not to report or describe such primitive reactions – though this is some-
thing one eventually acquires the skill to do. Rather, language is both
taught and learnt in an auxiliary role; as an extension of such natural behav-
iors.172 One might therefore talk of the ‘primacy’ of action (primitive
behaviors) over reason (deliberation), so long as that is not taken to mean
that ‘the natural’ determines the specificities of ‘the cultural’ – and, by impli-
cation, that the latter could simply be reduced to or deduced from the
former. What the former does provide, however, are the boundary con-
ditions only within which the latter can develop in its various forms.
As we have begun to see, what troubles Wittgenstein about Frazer’s
anthropology is its speculative character and the way it misrepresents the
‘primitive’ religious rituals under analysis. For by characterizing such prac-
tices in pseudo-scientific garb Frazer trivializes them as mere ‘pieces of stu-
pidity’ (ibid.: 61). The Wittgensteinian corrective can immediately be seen
in the following passage:
[O]ne could begin a book on anthropology by saying: When one

examines the life and behavior of mankind throughout the world, one
sees that, except for what might be called animal activities, such as
ingestion, etc., etc., etc., men also perform actions which bear a char-
acteristic peculiar to themselves, and these could be called ritualistic
actions.
(1996a: 67)
Wittgenstein thus effectively closes the divide (a potentially Lyotardian
‘differend’) between the ‘primitive’ and ‘modern’ subject – a lacuna Frazer
not only assumes to be in place but takes to be primarily epistemic. For
the principle according to which these practices are arranged . . . is

a much more general one than in Frazer’s explanation and it is
present in our own minds, so that we ourselves could think up all the
possibilities . . . Indeed, if Frazer’s explanations did not in the final
analysis appeal to a tendency in ourselves, they would not really be
explanations.
(1996a: 65–6)
The possibility for Frazer to even formulate his explanatory hypotheses

is itself grounded upon those cultural practices he describes not being
wholly alien to his (or our) own. We can make some sense of these rituals
(and indeed, of Frazer’s own analyses) precisely because the differences
between the ‘primitive’ and ‘modern’ are not ‘radical’ in the Lyotardian
sense.173 This is not to say that what essentially unites these epochs is a
shared epistemology; it is not that we can make sense of such rituals
because they represent childish versions of our modern scientific world-
picture. (Though were they ‘to write it down, their knowledge of nature
would not differ fundamentally from ours’ (ibid.: 74).) Rather, the import-
ant connection lies in the ‘more general’ fact that we share a common
humanity comprising of shared instinctive, natural behaviors. Indeed, only
once ‘a phenomenon is brought into connection with an instinct which I
myself possess’ (ibid.: 72) is the difficulty of understanding those cultural
practices resolved:
Frazer: ‘ . . . That these observances are dictated by fear of the ghost of

the slain seems certain . . . ’ But why then does Frazer use the word
‘ghost’? He thus understands this superstition very well, since he
explains it to us with a superstitious word he is familiar with. Or
rather, this might have enabled him to see that there is also some-
thing in us which speaks in favor of those savages’ behavior. – If I, a
person who does not believe that there are human-superhuman
beings somewhere which one can call gods – if I say: ‘I fear the wrath
of the gods,’ that shows that I can mean something by this, or can give
expression to a feeling which is not necessarily connected with that
belief.
(1996a: 68)174
What Frazer thus fails to appreciate is the nature of the ‘kinship’ between
‘those savages’ behavior’ (ibid.: 70) and ‘any genuine religious action of
today’ (ibid.: 64). In other words: ‘All these different practices show that it
is not a question of the derivation of one from the other, but of a
175
common spirit’ (ibid.: 80) or a ‘general inclination’ (ibid.: 78) – that is,
natural propensities that relate to Wittgenstein’s various remarks on ‘prim-
itive behaviors’ and ‘instinct reactions’ previously discussed. One might
therefore say that the initiation and longevity of religious rituals are
dependent upon their ability to bear witness to the most basic tendencies
and concerns of human beings,176 and thus are not, as Frazer construes
them, rooted in confused quasi-scientific conjectures. Frazer’s mistake is
to take instrumental, means–ends oriented actions to be the archetype of
all meaningful human activities. Assessing ritual activities in this way
clearly does render them epistemically impoverished, but it is Frazer’s own

model of comparison that generates this apparent deficiency.177 After all,
as Wittgenstein notes:
When I am furious about something, I sometimes beat the ground or

a tree with my walking stick. But I certainly do not believe that the
ground is to blame or that my beating can help anything. ‘I am
venting my anger’. And all rites are of this kind. Such actions may be
called Instinct-actions. – And an historical explanation, say, that I or
my ancestors previously believed that beating the ground does help is
shadow-boxing, for it is a superfluous assumption that explains
nothing. The similarity of the action to an act of punishment is
important, but nothing more than this similarity can be asserted.
(1996a: 72)
Burning an effigy. Kissing the picture of one’s beloved. That is obvi-

ously not based on the belief that it will have some specific effect on
the object which the picture represents. It aims at satisfaction and
achieves it. Or rather: it aims at nothing at all; we just behave this way
and then we feel satisfied. One could also kiss the name of one’s
beloved, and here it would be clear that the name was being used as a
substitute.
(1996a: 64)178
The point to be emphasized here is that we all, qua human beings,

engage in ritualistic activities. And it is in this sense that ‘man’ might be
said to be ‘a ceremonial animal’ (ibid.: 67). These activities should not be
sneered at as remnants of an unenlightened, superstitious age,179 or as a
‘false physics.’ To judge them, as Frazer does, according to scientific cri-
teria is not only erroneous180 and ‘foolish’ (ibid.), it is also fundamentally
unjust.181 Keeping these central themes of ‘Remarks on Frazer’s Golden
Bough’ in mind I finally want to cast a critical eye back over Lyotard’s
radical pluralism.182
Reconsidering Lyotard’s pagan justice
In ‘Pagans, Perverts or Primitives?’ Readings concludes that it is the
‘assumption of our common humanity’ that ‘lights the way to terror’
(1992: 186). Indeed, according to him, ‘it is unjust to the cultural diversity
of the Aborigines to presume that they are human’ (ibid.: 185). But Read-
ings’s skepticism is misplaced, for his own argument (like Frazer’s) must
in some important respects presuppose the falsity of this extreme position.
First, we can reasonably assume that even Readings would only affix the
term ‘culture’ (and thus also ‘cultural diversity’) to human beings183 – or at
least to that which ‘resembles’ (Wittgenstein 1958: §281)184 the human.

His argument is thus paradoxical, for if the other – here the Aborigines –
were truly ‘other’ (that is, the very epitome of unintelligibility, incommen-
surability, untranslatability and conceptual difference) then how could
Readings himself: (1) identify them as such, and (2) bear witness to their
predicament – or for that matter bear witness to the need for politics itself
to ‘bear witness’ to their predicament? If the other is indeed radically
‘other’ then how could one ever know that there had been an encounter,
for as such the other ‘would not even show up’ (Derrida 1992a: 68)?185
Second, Readings (like Surin186) is right to be circumspect concerning the
predication of ‘human nature’ insofar as any such predication can facili-
tate political exclusion, marginalization and violence.187 But all this really
warns us against is a certain type of predication. If one characterizes
‘human nature’ too narrowly then of course the possibility of ‘racism,
sexism and homophobia’ (Readings 1992: 174) becomes dangerously
grounded.188 But then Readings’s own respect for radical ‘cultural diver-
sity’ could itself simply reinforce the undesirable ethical-political traits of
fear, misunderstanding, distrust or patronizing exoticism. There is a corre-
sponding danger here that in over-emphasizing the ‘otherness of the
other’ one might unwittingly encourage the tendency toward alienation
that is so integral to precisely those injustices Readings identifies.189 And
third, while Readings may also be right that positing a ‘common human-
ity’ necessarily entails the possibility of excluding individuals from that cat-
egory, even this is not inherently unjust. As previously discussed regarding
the amoralist, in extreme cases where reasons and justification have been
thoroughly ‘exhausted’ (Wittgenstein 1958: §217)190 it is not merely excus-
able but the only appropriate response to claim that someone has ‘lost
their humanity’ – albeit temporarily.191 The neo-fascist who tours
Auschwitz to laugh at the photographs of mass graves, or to entertain a
friend by climbing into the incineration ovens192 (in short, the man who
persistently indulges in an utterly ‘malicious joy at the misfortune of
others’ (Schopenhauer 1995: 135)), can indeed be said to have ‘lost his
humanity’ in this sense. His failing is not epistemic; he has neither merely
nor primarily made an error of judgement.193 Rather, his moral reactions
and priorities have become so skewed that he no longer understands what
it means to make such a judgement in the first place. (This is also why the
counter-exclamation: ‘How could anyone do such a thing?’ is not appeal-
ing for explanatory answers.194 This exclamation is, again, more ‘a sigh, or
a cry’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 30); an appeal for hope, comfort, or a conces-
sion of shared bewilderment from another.195) That this individual might
be said to ‘not live in our world’ (Cavell 1979: 90) or to be ‘inhuman’
(though not, I will argue in later chapters, ‘an animal’) is no mere rhet-
orical extravagance. It is absolutely fitting.196
What is striking about Readings’s account of the predicament of the
Aborigines is that it necessarily presupposes that these beings possess the

capacity to suffer an injustice in the first place. In his essay Readings
expresses no doubt concerning this potentiality. Indeed, if there were any
doubt about that then his entire argument would be superfluous, and we
could only consider it a matter of contingency that his meditations focus
on the plight of the Aborigines and not on the numerous ‘injustices’ suf-
fered by carpets or iron filings. This highlights another important point
concerning the Lyotardian project more generally. The notion of a differ-
end relies, we will recall, on the possibility of radical conflict.197 But, one
might ask, how would such a conflict manifest itself? In order for there to
be a conflict as such there must be some commonality between conflicting
parties – there must at least be ‘conflicting parties.’ Thus, a conflict
between judgement-criteria can only meaningfully be said to occur
between those who employ judgement-criteria, and this is partly why one
cannot be said to be ‘in conflict’ with stones, carpets, trees, and so on.
Likewise, conflict between (allegedly) incommensurable language-games
or world-pictures presupposes that both parties ‘play’ language-games or
‘partake in’ world-pictures.198 In short, what is again necessarily presup-
posed here is that both the Aborigines and their opponents share the
(human) form of life only within which language-games and world-
pictures have a function. As I said earlier of the notion of ‘radical other-
ness,’ a genuinely radical conflict would not even disclose itself as a
‘conflict.’ (Paradoxically, a radical conflict might be exactly like love,
peace or friendship.) Readings’s polemic thus possesses considerable rhet-
orical force precisely because the Aborigines are human beings and as such
are capable of suffering injustice or being ‘damaged’199 in analogous ways
to ourselves.200 While it may not be possible to derive a substantive ethical
code from Wittgenstein’s minimal naturalism, it does demonstrate that
the proclamation (explicit or otherwise) of a ‘we’ is not merely ‘hasty but
excusable’ (1999, §150); it is absolutely necessary for ethical-political theo-
rizing to even get off the ground.201
4 Interlude
On preferring peace to war
That a people, as a people, ‘should accept those who come and settle
among them – even though they are foreigners,’ would be the proof [gage]
of a popular and public commitment [engagement], a political res publica
that cannot be reduced to a sort of ‘tolerance,’ unless this tolerance
requires the affirmation of a ‘love’ without measure.
J. Derrida, ‘A Word of Welcome’
‘There is neither God nor the Good, but there is goodness’ – which is also
my thesis. That is all that is left to mankind . . . There are acts of stupid,
senseless goodness.
E. Levinas, Is It Righteous To Be?
Conversation requires renunciation, the renunciation of the power to per-

suade someone by illegitimate means.
R. Gaita, A Common Humanity
In the preceding chapters I have argued that Wittgenstein’s naturalism is

not only an essential – albeit frequently understated – component of his
later work but that it is also of considerable ethical-political significance.
Before moving on, it will be helpful to summarize the main themes of the
discussion so far.
In Chapter 1 I showed how both Sextus and Wittgenstein share a
certain therapeutic teleology, where the possibility for emancipation from
abstract theoretical anxieties constitutes the objective of good philosophi-
cal practice. I also noted how this liberation was rendered possible only
through embracing the ‘natural.’ For the Pyrrhonist this involved two
main elements: (1) eradicating belief and thereby submitting oneself to
the life of immediate phenomenological experience, and (2) simultan-
eously assimilating oneself into surrounding social-cultural practices. Only
in this way, the Pyrrhonist argues, can one achieve and maintain ataraxia.
For Wittgenstein, attaining the non-philosophical life is intimately con-
nected with the ‘grammatical’ nature of philosophical problems. Lan-
guage itself leads us astray here – an estrangement that is exacerbated by
Interlude: on preferring peace to war 97
philosophers. The new descriptive procedures Wittgenstein advocates thus
aim at recontextualizing language within ‘ordinary,’ non-philosophical
life. By providing these grammatical reminders of how language actually
functions, philosophical perplexities are thereby dissolved. In short,
Wittgenstein attempts to free us from certain misleading assumptions
about language by situating it within practical human activities. Most
significant in this regard is his insistence that language functions in an
auxiliary role to natural, instinctive behaviors. Now, Wittgenstein’s deeply
anti-philosophical project of linguistic-conceptual recontextualization has
led some commentators to draw quasi-Pyrrhonian conclusions about the

ethical-political implications of his later work. Here Wittgenstein is charac-
terized as a fundamentally ‘conservative’ thinker whose overriding preoc-
cupation lies with training, rule-following and conforming to the mores of
one’s community. In Chapter 2 I explored these allegations by consider-
ing the central motifs of On Certainty – Wittgenstein’s last, and purportedly
most ‘conservative’ writings. Given his numerous reflections on the limits
of justification, the legitimacy of holding fast to one’s inherited world-
picture, and the role of persuasion in rational argument, this text does
indeed appear to advocate a certain epistemic-cultural dogmatism (some-
thing that also emerges in the anti-apologeticism of ‘Lectures on Religious
Belief’). Nevertheless, I argued that a more tormented subtext haunts On
Certainty. This problematizes the aforementioned ‘conservative’ reading
insofar as Wittgenstein is frequently torn between: (1) an epistemological
relativism (what some have interpreted as his later ‘pluralism’), and (2) a
deeper, unifying naturalism. In response to this ambiguity, I suggested in
Chapter 3 that one must situate On Certainty alongside other of Wittgen-
stein’s writings, not least because this reveals how his naturalism tempers
the potentially radical epistemological relativism of the later descriptive-
therapeutic philosophy. Thus, what emerges in ‘Remarks on Frazer’s
Golden Bough’ (a text to which I will return in Chapter 5), is a much
deeper commitment to the underlying commonality of humankind. While
Wittgenstein far from trivializes cultural-conceptual ‘difference,’ he never-
theless insists that in the aforementioned ‘primitive’ human behaviors
(and, I would add, particularly those associated with suffering) emerges
something capable of bridging the seemingly radical divide that separates:
(1) presently existent human communities, (2) modern (or for that
matter ‘postmodern’) forms of cultural life and those of antiquity, and (3)
the human and non-human animal.
Recalling the comparative analysis of Wittgenstein and Sextus in
Chapter 1, these main points can be summarized as follows: While
both philosophers practice therapeutic techniques aimed at alleviating
conceptual anxieties, and identify such liberation with immersion into a
more ‘natural’ way of life, they differ fundamentally as to the ethical
implications of this naturalism. While the Pyrrhonist sees this return
to the natural as also a liberation from ethical concerns (advocating a
98 Interlude: on preferring peace to war
troubling social-cultural parasitism), for Wittgenstein the realm of the
natural contains the very instinctive-behavioral building blocks upon
which ethical life is founded. That is, while the Pyrrhonist hopes to extri-
cate moral burdens by abandoning belief, she fails to recognize that the
realm of the natural is already ‘contaminated’ by the ethical. Thus,
Wittgenstein’s philosophical ‘ideal’ may be ‘a certain coolness’ (1994a: 2) or
‘[t]houghts that are at peace’ (ibid.: 43), but this is not – as it is for the
Pyrrhonist – an ethical ideal. These, then, are the central themes of the
previous three chapters. But in order to set the stage for the proceeding
discussion, I would briefly like to comment on two passages; the first from
Wittgenstein’s Zettel, the second from Levinas’s ‘Meaning and Sense.’
In accordance with much of what Wittgenstein says in On Certainty
about ‘stay[ing] in the saddle’ (1999: §616) of belief and our learning ‘not
one proposition but a nest of propositions’ (ibid.: §225), in Zettel he
remarks:
If someone does not believe in fairies, he does not need to teach his
children ‘There are no fairies’: he can omit to teach them the word
‘fairy’. On what occasion are they to say: ‘There are . . . ’ or ‘There are
no . . . ’? Only when they meet people of the contrary belief.
(1990: §413)
The logical point here is straightforward enough. When educating a child

one need not account for all those things which the imparted world-
picture excludes – just as one does not teach her all the ungrammatical
ways of structuring sentences in her natural language.1 Invariably the child
of the atheist (for example) will at some point ask her parents about God,
heaven, immortality (and so on), but such an inquiry does not arise
because her parents have overlooked something in her education. Rather,
she will here come to experience a lacuna in her own conceptual vocabu-
lary when faced with others whose world-pictures include such concepts.2
What the passage above thus brings to our attention is the disruptive
potential of encountering others who have ‘contrary’ beliefs. This is worth
noting because, as was seen in Chapter 2, the general thrust of On Cer-
tainty appears to emphasize the unnecessary hospitality of engaging with
an ‘alternative’ world-picture in this way. Although ‘staying in the saddle’
of one’s world-picture is epistemically justifiable, such a position becomes
problematic (if not potentially tyrannical) on explicitly ethical grounds.
More specifically, the passage above suggests that such self-assurance
becomes destabilized when one is faced by another who contests it, and
who (as will be seen in Chapter 5) has the capacity to ‘contest’ even in her
simply being-there.3 I will come back to this in a moment. First, I want to
turn to Levinas.
Regarding the possibility of learning another’s language, in ‘Meaning
and Sense’ Levinas writes:
Interlude: on preferring peace to war 99
[W]hat has not been taken into consideration in this case is that an
orientation is needed to have the Frenchman take up learning Chinese
instead of declaring it to be barbarian (that is, bereft of the real
virtues of language) and to prefer speech to war. One reasons as
though the equivalence of cultures, the discovery of their profusion
and the recognition of their riches were not themselves the effects of
an orientation and of an unequivocal sense in which humanity stands
. . . One reasons as though peaceful coexistence did not presuppose
that in [human] being there is delineated an orientation which gives
it a unique sense.
(1996a: 46)
Keeping §413 of Zettel in mind, what Levinas says here concerning the
acquisition of natural languages might equally be applied to Wittgen-
stein’s ‘world-pictures.’ That is, the question Levinas provokes is: How are
we to understand one’s peaceful ‘orientation’ toward another’s world-
picture? How are we to make sense of the fact that, very often, encounter-
ing a world-picture that differs from one’s own does not lead to our
‘declaring it to be barbarian,’ but rather to our ‘preferring speech to
war’?4 As Levinas points out elsewhere:
[T]he great problem placed in the path of those who expect the end
of violence starting from a dialogue that would only need to perfect
knowledge is the difficulty . . . of bringing to this dialogue opposed
beings inclined to do violence to each other. It would be necessary to
find a dialogue to make these beings enter into dialogue.
(1998a: 142)5
The point I want to make here is that, again, on purely epistemic

grounds (assuming there could be such a thing) one would simply disre-
gard, reject, or denounce another’s world-picture. In short, there are no
compelling reasons why one should ‘prefer speech to war’ – or for that
matter the Pyrrhonist’s shrug of indifference.6 That typically one does not
castigate the other in this way (Wittgenstein’s own engagement with the
religious is one notable example) indicates that intersubjectivity is not
wholly saturated with – and thus confined by – epistemological categories,
but that somehow ethical sensibilities play an ineliminable and epistemi-
cally disruptive role. That generosity, hospitality and the gift, even to the
point of self-sacrifice,7 are possible – that sometimes you do ‘give up the
mastery of your space, your home, your nation’ (Derrida 1999a: 70) –
should neither be forgotten nor trivialized.8 While ethics is generally
recognized to involve epistemic concerns (a point I do not want to
dispute), it is not so well acknowledged that ethics also necessarily per-
meates the epistemological; that there is a ‘mutual contamination’9 here.
I said above that ‘somehow’ ethics plays an irreducible role in our
100 Interlude: on preferring peace to war
relations with others. I remained tentative here because the nature of this
ethical relation has yet to be adequately delineated. More specifically, it
has yet to become clear how ‘concern for the other man’ might transcend
‘the complacency in ideas agreeing with the particularism of a group and
its interests’ (Levinas 1998a: 9). Although Wittgenstein’s naturalism pro-
vides important clues as to where to begin looking for this ‘orientation’
toward others, my contention is that it is through Levinas’s work – and
Derrida’s cautious development of it – that we gain a deeper sense of how
this preference for ‘peace over war’ might emerge. In the remaining chap-
ters it is this claim that I will substantiate.

5 Wretchedness without
recompense
Wittgenstein on religion, ethics and
guilt
[T]here is no small probability that with the irresistible decline of faith in

the Christian God there is now also a considerable decline in mankind’s
feeling of guilt; indeed, the prospect cannot be dismissed that the com-
plete and definitive victory of atheism might free mankind of this whole
feeling of guilty indebtedness toward its origin, its causa prima. Atheism
and a kind of second innocence belong together.
F. Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morality
[T]he experience of the impossible . . . [is] the sole true provocation to be

reflected upon. Thinking takes place not on what we can do, but begin-
ning with what we cannot do.
J. Derrida, Negotiations
I do not think the craving for placidity is religious; I think a religious

person regards placidity or peace as a gift from Heaven, not as something
one ought to hunt after.
L. Wittgenstein, quoted in R. Rhees, Ludwig Wittgenstein
Introduction
In Chapter 3 I explored both the natural limits that frame intersubjectivity
and how even the ‘radical’ pluralism of Surin, Lyotard and Readings
necessarily presupposes such boundaries. While Wittgenstein’s later work
seems to emphasize the ‘irreducible plurality of language-games’ (Greisch
1999: 50), this appearance is deceptive. For while the diversity of cultural
practices should not be underestimated, the basis for any recognition and
understanding of such practices (even as ‘cultural practices’) lies in those
‘fundamental notions’ that ‘determine the “ethical space,” within which
the possibilities of good and evil in human life can be exercised’ (Winch
1964: 322). When faced with contemporary theorizing of ‘otherness’ and
‘radical difference’ we should therefore remember that in any justifiable
designation ‘other culture’ one has already identified ‘the other’ in some
minimally intelligible way.1 For radical pluralists like Surin, Lyotard and
Readings such identification constitutes a violation of the other’s alterity
102 Wretchedness without recompense
insofar as it (allegedly) renders her essentially a reflection of oneself. On
this account the other’s ‘absolute singularity’ is degraded in the positing
of a more-or-less homogeneous ‘we.’ But, as Derrida notes, we should be
careful when condemning this as ‘violence,’ for it is ‘at the same time non-
violence, since it opens the relation to the other’ (1997c: 128–9).2 That is,
this ‘preethical violence’ (ibid.: 128)3 marks the very beginning of ethics,
politics and justice.4 The purpose of the following two chapters is to
determine: (1) how the ethical and political are constituted through
such an ineliminable ‘violence,’ and (2) what this ‘violence’ amounts
to. In the present chapter I will begin by considering the function of

guilt in Wittgenstein’s treatment of a number of religious and ethical
themes. The extent to which his naturalism figures in these engagements
is crucial, and specifically how the practical setting to which Wittgenstein
returns religious beliefs is delineated as an ‘ethical space.’ Nevertheless,
due to the piecemeal way Wittgenstein deals with these issues, in
Chapter 6 they will be developed with explicit reference to Heidegger and
Levinas. This is not to suggest that Wittgenstein’s thinking represents a
mere preamble. On the contrary, what will emerge toward the end of
Chapter 6 is how both Heidegger’s and Levinas’s radical conceptions of
guilt (and despite their suspicions regarding ‘ordinary’ experience and
language) are actually substantiated by what might be called the
‘grammar’ of moral guilt. This then is the broader context into which the
following twofold analysis of guilt is situated. But to frame my analysis
properly it is first necessary to attend to Wittgenstein’s sympathetic – albeit
frequently troubled – engagement with a number of ethical-religious
concepts.
The consequences of belief: understanding Wittgenstein’s

hesitancy
In ‘Lectures on Religious Belief’ Wittgenstein is candid about his bewil-
derment regarding belief in immortality. This bewilderment should not,
however, be confused with the dissent of the atheist. For in response to
the petition: ‘What do you believe, Wittgenstein? Are you a skeptic? Do
you know whether you will survive death?’ all he could say with any confi-
dence is ‘I don’t know’ (1994b: 70) or similarly ‘I can’t say’ (ibid.: 55). But
neither should we conclude that this constitutes mere equivocation. On
the contrary, the specter of silence (be it the reverent silence concluding
the Tractatus, or the hesitancy punctuating ‘Lectures on Religious Belief’)
is of philosophical significance throughout Wittgenstein’s writings. Never-
theless, in their later manifestation the function of these silences becomes
more obscure, and for this reason demands textual clarification. Wittgen-
stein’s reluctance to either embrace or renounce belief in immortality is
due to his experiencing a particular kind of incomprehension and hesi-
tancy resulting from his initial inability to apply the ‘picture’ (ibid.: 54)
Wretchedness without recompense 103
presented by the statement ‘I don’t cease to exist’ after the demise of my
body.5 Here Wittgenstein does not yet have any ‘clear idea’ what is being
said or what ‘consequences’ (ibid.: 70) are to be drawn. It is, in part, for
this reason that his deeply respectful (often desirous6) attitude toward the
believer is both distinctive and more deeply rooted than a mere ‘inability
to decide’ – or, for that matter, the Pyrrhonist’s radical hesitancy dis-
cussed in Chapter 1.7 Indeed, although it is tempting to describe Wittgen-
stein as ‘agnostic’ this would be misconceived,8 not least because he would
judge the rationally prolonged hesitancy of the agnostic to be inherently
irreligious rather than theologically neutral. (I will return to this later).

Wanting to avoid the traditionally polarized stances of belief and non-
belief (including agnosticism), Wittgenstein thus casts his own bewilder-
ment otherwise. Any straightforward dissent is problematic here since
denying the validity of this picture would presuppose comprehension of
what one was in fact denying, and thus of what the picture involved.9 But,
he proceeds:
If you ask me whether or not I believe . . . in the sense in which reli-

gious people have belief in it, I wouldn’t say: ‘No. I don’t believe there
will be such a thing.’ It would seem to me utterly crazy to say this. And
then I give an explanation: ‘I don’t believe in . . . ’, but then the reli-
gious person never believes what I describe.
(1994b: 55)
In other words, when explaining to the believer what it is I deny, this is

rarely felt to have adequately represented what it is she believes. Obviously
there may be occasions when the believer judges such a paraphrase to be
sufficiently representative, but such assurances become less likely the
higher the existential stakes rise – that is, the more one proceeds from dis-
cussing specific theoretical or doctrinal matters to the deeper normative
role those play in the believer’s life. The point is nicely illustrated in
Tolstoy’s A Confession. This text is pertinent, not only because Wittgen-
stein’s attitude to religion owes much to Tolstoy’s vision, but also because
the following passages highlight a common ‘fideistic’ misinterpretation of
Wittgenstein’s work on religious belief. Despite his ‘recognition of the
existence of God,’ Tolstoy thus describes his anguish at not being in ‘rela-
tionship’ with Him as follows: ‘I fell into despair and felt that there was
nothing else I could do except kill myself. And worst of all was that I did
not even feel I could do that’ (1987: 64). Tolstoy proceeds, however, to
speak of ‘joyous waves of life’ breaking through this desolation, where
everything around him ‘came to life and took on meaning.’ But such
rapture was short-lived, for Tolstoy kept returning to abstract theological
matters. It was not a ‘concept of God’ that he sought, but rather, that
‘without which there cannot be life.’ Momentarily tempted (again) by
thoughts of suicide, Tolstoy recalls that he had ‘only lived during those
times when [he] believed in God,’ for ‘[t]hen, as now, I said to myself: I
have only to believe in God in order to live. I have only to disbelieve in
Him, or to forget Him, in order to die.’ This momentous self-revelation,
experienced ‘more powerfully than ever before’ (ibid: 65), cast everything
in a new light which was henceforth never extinguished. Without suggest-
ing that what Tolstoy describes here is typical of all believers, these pas-
sages illustrate not only the depth at which religious faith can be
experienced but, moreover, the immense existential stakes that can rest
on such commitments.10 That Tolstoy’s entire life could only find meaning
through a relationship with God11 could surely only be articulated by

someone who has shared a similar experience. (I will return to this poten-
tially problematic claim in a moment.) As a non-believer one might be
able to paraphrase another’s belief concerning matters of Christology. It
is, however, significantly less assured that one could adequately represent
the existential significance of Christ’s sacrifice for their daily life. This is
why a thorough grounding in theology or metaphysics guarantees nothing
with regard to acquiring (or maintaining) genuine religious faith. Analo-
gously, any attempt to elucidate the reasons for one’s non-belief would, to
both believer and non-believer, seem necessarily obtuse,12 for the
presentation of such ‘reasons’ would be akin to paraphrasing an unaccept-
able hypothesis.13 In specifying what it is I do not believe, the believer may
well agree that neither does she believe that. That she would feel
fundamentally misrepresented by such a hypothetical gloss is often
enough to indicate that one has inadvertently distorted her beliefs.
Indeed, one might suggest that such a representation – if it remains
wholly insensitive to the believer’s protestations – constitutes what
Wittgenstein refers to as a philosophical ‘dogmatism’ (1994a: 26), ‘preju-
dice’ (1958: §340) or ‘injustice.’14 And this is in part why he ‘would be
reluctant to say’:
‘These people rigorously hold the opinion (or view) that there is a
Last Judgement’. ‘Opinion’ sounds queer.
It is for this reason that different words are used: ‘dogma’, ‘faith’.
We don’t talk about hypothesis, or about high probability. Nor
about knowing.
In a religious discourse we use such expressions as: ‘I believe that
so and so will happen,’ and use them differently to the way in which
we use them in science.
(1994b: 57)15
Wittgenstein thus warns that between the respective claims of believer and
non-believer lies a vast conceptual-linguistic chasm. There is in fact no
‘contradiction’ (ibid.: 53) here because such people ‘think entirely differ-
ently’; they have ‘different pictures’ (ibid.: 55) or an ‘entirely different
kind of reasoning’ (ibid.: 58).16 He proceeds:
If some[one] said: ‘Wittgenstein, do you believe in this?’ I’d say: ‘No.’
‘Do you contradict the man?’ I’d say: ‘No.’
If you say this, the contradiction already lies in this.
Would you say: ‘I believe the opposite’, or ‘There is no reason to
suppose such a thing’? I’d say neither.
Suppose someone were a believer and said: ‘I believe in a Last
Judgement,’ and I said: ‘Well, I’m not sure. Possibly.’ You would say
that there is an enormous gulf between us. If he said ‘There is a
German aeroplane overhead,’ and I said ‘Possibly. I’m not so sure,’
you’d say we were fairly near.

It isn’t a question of my being anywhere near him, but on an
entirely different plane which you could express by saying: ‘You mean
something altogether different, Wittgenstein.’
(1994b: 53)17
With this in mind the aforementioned suggestion that ‘the religious

person never believes what I describe’ (ibid.: 55) can be elucidated
further. Such a discrepancy occurs due to a certain negligence of the prac-
tical setting within which religious beliefs have their life. That my
representation seems artificial to the believer (that she is compelled to
reject my gloss as insufficient, mistaken, or perhaps blasphemous) should
lead to a different style of philosophical analysis.18 Rather than assuming
religious claims to be quasi-empirical hypotheses, philosophers must ‘only
describe’ (1958: §124) such language use.19 This descriptive analysis must
do more than merely catalog religious utterances. Indeed, that a concern
with ‘words alone’ (1990: §144) would lead to the sort of representational
problems already mentioned, is why Wittgenstein urges us to attend to
language rooted in its various practical settings.20 (This is also what turns
on his distinction between ‘surface’ and ‘depth grammar’ (1958: §664).)
What requires descriptive analysis is not only what is said but also the way
what is said integrates with one’s practical orientation toward life. But
neither is Wittgenstein concerned with drawing up an inventory of ‘words’
on the one hand, and corresponding ‘actions’ on the other, for this would
still presuppose exactly what his later work repudiates – namely, that lin-
guistic and non-linguistic behavior are discrete phenomena (hence
Wittgenstein’s vocabulary of ‘language-games’). What calls for description
is rather the complex web of relationships only within which linguistic and
non-linguistic behavior has meaning. In this way, then, ‘Lectures on Reli-
gious Belief’ maps onto a much broader philosophical strategy.21 In the
previous chapter I discussed Wittgenstein’s naturalism with specific refer-
ence to ‘Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough.’ What remains to be examined
is the relationship between this naturalism and his reflections on religious
belief. This is important, not only because it holds the key to a proper
understanding of Wittgenstein’s views on religion and their place in his
broader therapeutic philosophy but also because without appreciating the
role of his naturalism we will likely misconstrue the ethical implications of
his work.
As previously noted, Wittgenstein suggests that there is no ‘contra-
diction’ between the believer and non-believer because their respective
discourses operate on ‘entirely different plane[s]’ (1994b: 53). Such pas-
sages seem to reveal precisely the sort of relativistic fideism that I have
hitherto been arguing against. For here it is tempting to read Wittgenstein
as describing a Lyotardian ‘differend’ between believer and non-believer
that renders their positions radically incommensurable. Likewise, when I
suggested that Tolstoy’s confession could only be understood by someone

who had experienced ‘something similar,’ this might be taken to mean
that only religious ‘insiders’ could begin to comprehend his anxieties.
Doubtless some interpretative work is needed here, but, mindful of the
broader philosophical-naturalistic perspective Wittgenstein presents, this
potential fideism can be circumvented – though not, as Drury implies,22 by
appealing to Wittgenstein’s ‘pluralism.’ The point I want to stress here is
analogous to that highlighted in Chapter 3 concerning the ‘primitive’ and
‘modern’; namely, that (in the present example) although the conceptual-
linguistic-practical space between theist and atheist may often be vast, it is
not unfathomable. For despite such differences, both believer and non-
believer remain united by certain primitive, natural human activities.23 As
such, the ‘entirely different planes’ Wittgenstein refers to cannot be
‘radical.’24 Thus, returning to the believer and non-believer, some ‘connect-
ing links’ (1996a: 69) might be located between: (1) certain religious and
non-religious acts of ‘piety’ (ibid.: 66),25 (2) a confession of sins and a con-
fession of love or guilt,26 (3) the adoration of a religious image and the
devotion exhibited toward a picture or name of a loved one,27 (4) talk of
ghostly ‘visitations’ by the dead (and crediting such spirits with the ‘power
of stealing the souls of the living’ (Frazer 1993: 185)) and one’s being
‘haunted’ by conscience or the memory of another,28 (5) the absolute
trusting demanded by religious faith and that which governs the maternal
relation,29 (6) prayer and expressions of basic human vulnerabilities and
needs (thus paralleling the child’s appeals for help, comfort and love30),
(7) notions of fate and predestination, and natural feelings of helplessness
in the face of the world’s vacillations,31 and (8) following Wittgenstein’s
own suggestion that ‘[c]alling something “the cause” is like pointing and
saying: “He’s to blame!”’ (1993: 373), certain eschatological beliefs might
similarly correspond to a natural desire or hope for justice.32 In more
general terms, then, the ‘connecting links’ Wittgenstein refers to are often
– though, as the previous inventory suggests, not exclusively – found in
those basic human activities associated with mortality, the parental rela-
tion, and suffering.33 As Clack notes, what is most interesting in Wittgen-
stein’s reflections on religion is his suggestion that ‘the origins and nature
of religion must be attributed to human nature, that its roots lie in
humanity’s natural responsiveness to the world’ (Clack 1999: 120).34 But,
we might ask, if such analogies can be justified then what are we to make
of his general approach to religious belief? To what extent does Wittgen-
stein’s naturalism undermine the religiosity of religious beliefs by linking
them to natural human behaviors? Wittgenstein is not being intentionally
reductive,35 but surely it would be strange for someone to come to accept
this account and yet remain as firmly in the ‘saddle’ of his or her religious
world-picture as before. Likewise, it is most unlikely that anyone could be
‘converted to Christianity having understood it in Wittgenstein’s terms’
(ibid.: 125). Framing the question in this way inevitably leads toward athe-
istic conclusions concerning Wittgenstein’s work.36 On this view Wittgen-

stein’s remark that it is ‘always a tragic thing when a language dies. But it
doesn’t follow that one can do anything to stop it doing so. It is a tragic
thing when the love between a man and wife is dying; but there is nothing
one can do. So it is with a dying language’ (Drury 1981: 152)37 could be
similarly applied to his views on religious belief. That is, Wittgenstein’s
position is ‘atheistic’ to the extent that he recognizes (and even laments)
the death of a certain way of life. As Clack summarizes, this is a ‘despair-
ing, apocalyptic atheism . . . the frustrated and bitter recognition that the
passionate beauty of the religious life is no longer open to us’ (1999: 129).
While Clack’s reading has some biographical plausibility, it is, philosophi-
cally speaking, neither the most fruitful nor interesting. Wittgenstein’s
naturalization of religious belief is better understood not as a sort of natu-
ralistic-anthropological apologetic or lamentation but rather as something
distinctly cathartic; a re-description of religious practice that ‘aims at’ the
‘satisfaction’ (Wittgenstein 1996a: 64) of his aforementioned ‘bewilder-
ment.’ Thus, in ‘Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough,’ we are cautioned that
a ‘hypothetical explanation will be of little help to someone, say, who is
upset because of love,’ for ‘it will not calm him’ (ibid.: 63). Being troubled
by love (by the end of an affair, or by the longing for love) will not be
eased by theoretical formulations. Indeed, often all one can say in such
circumstances is ‘this is what human life is like’ (ibid.: 63). Analogously,
being troubled by religious belief (by a crisis of faith, or by the desire for
faith38) will not be abated by theorizing, even of an ‘evolutionary’ sort.
What Wittgenstein’s naturalism offers is a way to ‘sharpen [one’s] eye’ for
‘connecting links’ (ibid.: 69) between seemingly incommensurable human
activitities. Such a ‘perspicuous representation’ thus enables Wittgenstein
to account for his own sympathetic attitude toward religious practice (his
‘religious point of view’ (Drury 1981: 94) and tendency to speak of reli-
gion ‘with a sort of religio-sity’ so as ‘not to introduce anything alien’
(Derrida 1998b: 23)), despite being unable to immerse himself fully in
any particular religious world-picture.39 In short, we should interpret
Wittgenstein’s reflections on religion as one way of reconciling these
apparently conflicting inclinations by tracing those recurrent patterns of
behavior that manifest themselves in ‘the life of mankind’ (1994a: 70). We
should also remember that what Wittgenstein finds objectionable about
Frazer’s anthropology – and the ‘narrow spiritual life’ (1996a: 65) to
which it bears witness – is Frazer’s apparent incapacity to suspend his own
reductive scientism.40 All Frazer discerns in the practices he seeks to
‘explain’ are epistemic blunders and inferior methods of handling the
natural environment. What he overlooks is, as Wittgenstein puts it, that
one ‘can fight, hope and even believe without believing scientifically’
(1994a: 60).41 On Frazer’s account, between ‘primitive’ and ‘modern’
society lies an epistemic gulf in virtue of which we ‘civilized’ Westerners
can legitimately judge the former to be essentially impoverished. Wittgen-
stein’s point is that not only are our respective epistemologies not
‘fundamentally’ (1996a: 74) different42 but, more crucially, neither is the
religious-ritualistic life of the ‘primitive’ so far removed from our own
‘civilized’ existence. Their practices may seem at odds with those of
modern Western society, but scratch the surface of the latter and one
soon finds the same non-instrumental, ritual activities that are (to the
Western eye) more immediately conspicuous in the former.43
What I referred to above as Wittgenstein’s project of ‘reconciliation’ is
not therefore merely of biographical import concerning his own self-
understanding (though it may indeed begin there44). Other religious
believers and non-believers alike (not to mention radical pluralists like
Surin, Lyotard and Readings) would benefit from reminding themselves
that, despite the linguistic-conceptual gulf that sometimes divides human
beings, there nevertheless remain natural grounds upon which mutual
understanding can be built – though, of course, ‘peaceable’ intercourse
can never be guaranteed.45 This is not, as it is for Frazer, simply to render
‘foreign’ practices palatable to people who think as we do.46 Rather, such
‘connecting links’ between the life of religious belief and non-belief (or
between different faiths, cultures, and so on) demonstrate the ‘common
spirit’ (ibid.: 80) we share as human beings. But neither is this to suggest
that religious practices can simply be reduced to primitive human activ-
ities.47 Such a position would not only render Wittgenstein’s account
fundamentally atheistic, it would also underestimate the inherent com-
plexities of such practices as they have hitherto developed and continue to
change.48 Maintaining that ritual is not an activity peculiar to the explicitly
‘religious’ sphere – but rather finds a place in many regions of human
life49 – is not to trivialize religious rituals in their particularity but simply to
deny their radical singularity. For without rooting such activities in ‘primi-
tive’ human tendencies they would become irredeemably alien phenom-
ena, and as such unidentifiable as ‘religious rituals’ – or indeed as ‘rituals’
of any sort.
This, then, is how Wittgenstein’s naturalism feeds into his account of
religious belief. It also suggests how Wittgenstein’s later work need not be
silent regarding questions of social justice. But, as previously suggested,
this naturalism leads him to a distinctly ethical interpretation of specific
religious concepts. It is to these that I will now turn.
Immortality and ethical responsibility
Regarding the notion of immortality, Wittgenstein elucidates further his
reason for hesitancy between assent and dissent:
‘If you don’t cease to exist, you will suffer after death’, there I begin to
attach ideas, perhaps ethical ideas of responsibility. The point is, that
although these are well-known words, and although I can go from one
sentence to another sentence, or to pictures [I don’t know what con-
sequences you draw from this statement].

(1994b: 70, my emphasis)50
Again, what is expressed here is puzzlement regarding religious notions,

despite the familiarity of their ‘surface’ grammar. Yet, in what becomes a
characteristic move in Wittgenstein’s work, he thereby also presents the
key to understanding such beliefs by asking what ‘consequences’ subse-
quently procure?51 – ‘consequences’ that are, of course, not merely logical
but also practical. Of particular interest here are how these ‘con-
sequences’ are taken to likely involve ‘ethical ideas of responsibility.’
Wittgenstein continues:
A great writer said that, when he was a boy, his father set him a task,
and he suddenly felt that nothing, not even death, could take away
the responsibility [in doing this task]; this was his duty to do, and that
even death couldn’t stop it being his duty. He said that this was, in a
way, a proof of the immortality of the soul – because if this lives on
[the responsibility won’t die.]
(1994b: 70)52
This was not an isolated remark, for Malcolm similarly recalls Wittgenstein
suggest that ‘a way in which the notion of immortality can acquire a
meaning is through one’s feeling that one has duties from which one
cannot be released, even by death’ (1958: 71):
Wittgenstein did once say that he could understand the conception of

God, in so far as it is involved in one’s awareness of one’s own sin and
guilt. He added that he could not understand the conception of a
Creator. I think that the ideas of Divine judgement, forgiveness, and
redemption had some intelligibility for him, as being related in his
mind to feelings of disgust with himself, an intense desire for purity,
and a sense of the helplessness of human beings to make themselves
better. But the notion of a being making the world had no intelligibility
for him at all.
(Malcolm 1958: 70–1)
Such passages testify to Wittgenstein’s general orientation toward bring-
ing the ethical and religious spheres together. As I have been arguing,
reclaiming religious utterances ‘from their metaphysical to their everyday
use’ (1958: §116) need not undermine them.53 Rather, no real sense can
be made of religious beliefs (even those which appear wholly ontological)
which are not rooted in the practical-ethical lives of those professing
them.54 Thus, recalling Tolstoy’s A Confession, one might ‘believe that God
exists’ and yet from this nothing else follows.55 After all, belief in the being
of God could take the form of a quasi-cosmological judgement about
which one remains existentially unaffected. There is a stark contrast,

however, between this and ‘belief in God.’ Although the latter must in
some sense require a latent commitment to the being of God, the point is
that no meaningful access can be gained to the ontological conception
except through the ethical.56 Belief in God is (as we saw in Chapter 2)
more akin to what Wittgenstein calls an absolute ‘trusting’ (1994a: 72) or
‘passionate commitment’ (ibid.: 64) by means of which the ‘shape’57 of
one’s life is both changed and continually molded.58 In short, one’s appli-
cation of ‘the word “God” does not show whom you mean – but, rather,
what you mean’ (ibid.: 50). For the genuine believer the question pertain-
ing to God’s existence becomes a question regarding the orientation of
their life as a whole; a question to which they can only adequately respond
by ‘showing’ that orientation. Thus, in a markedly Tolstoyan passage,
Wittgenstein concludes:
Suppose somebody made this guidance for this life: believing in the
Last Judgement. Whenever he does anything, this is before his mind.
In a way, how are we to know whether to say he believes this will
happen or not?
Asking him is not enough. He will probably say he has proof. But
he has what you might call an unshakeable belief. It will show, not by
reasoning or by appeal to ordinary grounds for belief, but rather by
regulating for all in his life.
. . . Suppose you had two people, and one of them, when he had to
decide which course to take, thought of retribution, and the other did
not. One person might, for instance, be inclined to take everything
that happened to him as a reward or punishment, and the other
person doesn’t think of this at all.
(1994a: 53–4)59
As Malcolm intimates, this emphasis on the practical setting only within

which ‘words [get] their sense’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 85) results in drawing
ethical and religious concepts together. Wittgenstein’s bemusement
regarding an essentially ontological conception of God leads him not to a
dogmatic atheism but rather to a sympathetic appreciation of religious
concepts in terms of sin, guilt and ethical responsibility. And as I said
above, this is not merely a biographical point, for what Wittgenstein here
bears witness to is the broader possibility of making sense of religious con-
cepts in terms of those behaviors we share as human beings.60
In keeping with this, Wittgenstein writes:
If someone who believes in God looks around and asks ‘Where does
everything I see come from?’, ‘Where does all this come from?’, he is not
craving for a (causal) explanation; and his question gets its point from
being the expression of a certain craving. He is, namely, expressing an
attitude to all explanations. – But how is this manifested in his life?

(1994a: 85)61
There are obvious resonances between this and Wittgenstein’s 1929 ‘A

Lecture on Ethics’62 where, struggling to find an adequate expression, he
remarks:
I believe the best way of describing [this feeling] is to say that when I
have it I wonder at the existence of the world. And I am then inclined to
use such phrases as ‘how extraordinary that anything should exist’ or
‘how extraordinary that the world should exist.’
(1993: 41)
Unsurprisingly, Wittgenstein’s subsequent emphasis lies on the way a

‘characteristic misuse of our language runs through all ethical and reli-
gious expressions’ (ibid.: 42).63 But still, some nine years earlier than ‘Lec-
tures on Religious Belief,’ he concludes in characteristically sympathetic
fashion that this ‘running against the walls of our cage is perfectly,
absolutely hopeless . . . But it is a document of a tendency in the human
mind which I personally cannot help respecting deeply and I would not
for my life ridicule it’ (ibid.: 44).64 That this primitive ‘impulse’ (1978: 80)
to speak of ethics and religion is simultaneously futile and worthy of pro-
found respect is important to remember when considering the appropria-
tion of Wittgenstein’s early work by the Logical Positivists.65 For while both
might be said to have placed the term ‘God’ under erasure, for Wittgen-
stein such a ‘boundary line’ (1958: §499) was not a mark of disavowal but
rather ‘a way . . . to save the name of God, to shield it from all onto-
theological idolatry’ (Derrida 1995c: 62).66 Nevertheless, these sentiments
of ontological wonderment become more intelligible against the practical
backdrop of the later writings’ contextualization of language-usage, and,
not least, in the light of Wittgenstein’s suggestion that the ontological
question ‘gets its point from being the expression of a certain craving’
(that one is here ‘expressing an attitude to all explanations’ that is ‘mani-
fested in [one’s] life’).67 Genuinely religious utterances do not describe a
transcendent reality. Rather, they express a fundamental orientation
toward one’s terrestrial life.68 If such utterances ‘describe’ anything, it is
not to the supernatural realm that we should direct our attention but to
the human.69 Hence, ‘Christianity is not a doctrine’ – that is, ‘not . . . a
theory about what has happened and will happen to the human soul’ –
but rather ‘a description of something that actually takes place in human
life.’ In other words: ‘ “consciousness of sin” is a real event and so are
despair and salvation through faith,’ and ‘[t]hose who speak of such
things . . . are simply describing what has happened to them, whatever
gloss anyone may want to put on it’ (1994a: 28). In such passages we again
get a sense of Wittgenstein’s normativity, for it is clear that for some the
notion of immortality does denote the continuation of the self beyond the
demise of the body. But it would be wrong to consider this belief to be
inherently ‘religious.’ For one may profess such convictions ‘either reli-
giously or nonreligiously’ (Malcolm 1972: 215); that is, either with or
without a practical-ethical attitude. There is nothing to prevent someone
from believing that they will ‘survive death’ as though this was merely an
incidental, quasi-empirical fact. It is not necessary that anything need follow
from such a conviction.70 Of course, this is not to suggest that such classifi-
catory ‘wrong turnings’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 18) are easily avoided.71 On
the contrary, what often leads us astray is the ‘power language has to make
everything look the same’ (ibid.: 22) when abstracted from its manifold
practical settings.72 The notion of immortality – like Moore’s fundamental
propositions discussed in Chapter 2 – begins to look like a quasi-empirical
hypothesis due to the very language in which it is couched.73 As Wittgen-
stein notes, we naturally become confused ‘by certain analogies between
the forms of expression in different regions of language’ (1958: §90), not
least because ‘our language has remained the same and keeps seducing us
into asking the same questions’ (1994a: 15).74 Thus:
Philosophers who say: ‘after death a timeless state will begin’, or: ‘at
death a timeless state begins’ . . . do not notice that they have used the
words ‘after’ and ‘at’ and ‘begins’ in a temporal sense, and that tem-
porality is embedded in their grammar.
(1994a: 22)75
Talk of immortality thereby lends itself to certain misunderstandings.76

Due both to the temporality rooted in language, and the ‘urge’ (1958:
§109) to assume that language functions in one way,77 we are prone to mis-
construe the notion of immortality quantitatively as more-of-the-same;
more life after this life, more time after death. But what separates the
believer and non-believer here is not a difference in their respective post-
mortem anticipations. Rather, the difference is exhibited in their respective
existential attitudes towards this life.78 By bringing words back ‘to their
everyday use’ (ibid.: §116) and rejecting explanation in favor of ‘descrip-
tion alone’ (ibid.: §109), Wittgenstein thus attempts to show that talk of
immortality is essentially of practical-ethical significance.
Of course, these conditions apply when talking about numerous other
religious concepts and practices. But in ‘The Groundlessness of Belief’
Malcolm brings to light something else of particular significance for the
present analysis. There, Malcolm remarks that while he (like Tolstoy)
finds ‘great difficulty with the notion of belief in the existence of God,’ the
idea of ‘belief in God’ is quite ‘intelligible.’ For if
a man did not ever pray for help or forgiveness, or have any inclina-
tion toward it; nor ever felt that it is ‘a good and joyful thing’ to thank
God for the blessings of his life; nor was ever concerned about his
failure to comply with divine commandments – then . . . he could not
be said to believe in God . . . [B]elief in God in any degree does
require, as I understand the words, some religious action, some
commitment, or if not, at least a bad conscience.
(1972: 211)79
All of this is in keeping with Wittgenstein’s own views. But it is Malcolm’s

closing remark that is striking; that a ‘bad conscience’ is the minimal man-
ifestation required of the authentically religious life. Wittgenstein emphas-
izes the same thing when he remarks: ‘People are religious to the extent
that they believe themselves to be not so much imperfect, as ill. Any man
who is half-way decent will think himself extremely imperfect, but a reli-
gious man thinks himself wretched’ (1994a: 45).80 It is to this dramatic char-
acterization of the ‘religious man’ that I will now turn.
Sin, wretchedness and bad conscience

As we have begun to see, Wittgenstein’s religiosity is far from transparent.
Indeed, this ambiguity is compounded insofar as it becomes central to his
philosophical treatment of religious belief. It is thus sometimes difficult
not to become impatient with Wittgenstein’s aforementioned ‘hesitancy’
on such matters. One source of dissatisfaction here can be located in his
demarcation between decency and religiosity when characterizing the
genuinely ‘religious man’ as thinking himself to be not merely ‘imperfect’
but positively ‘wretched.’ For here we are presented with a portrait that
immediately calls to mind Wittgenstein himself.81 But again, this is not
merely of biographical interest. Thus Drury recalls Wittgenstein once
remarking: ‘If you and I are to live religious lives, it mustn’t be that we talk
a lot about religion, but that our manner of life is different. It is my belief
that only if you try to be helpful to other people will you in the end find
your way to God.’82 Drury then proceeds: ‘Just as I was leaving [Wittgen-
stein] suddenly said, “There is a sense in which you and I are both Chris-
tians” ’ (1981: 129–30). Whatever contingent circumstances might have
prompted Wittgenstein’s remark, it raises a more general question regard-
ing his approach to religious belief; namely, is it possible (and if so, what
might it mean) to ‘live a Christian life’ without actually ‘being a Christian’?
For if to be a Christian is essentially to ‘live a Christian life,’ then the latter
must surely amount to more than practicing a Christian ethic (assuming
there is such a thing83), or of merely trying ‘to be helpful to other people.’
This question is germane because it is not clear that Wittgenstein’s work
provides any obvious response.84 One reason for this is the deeply Tol-
stoyan picture of Christianity he tends toward.85 For in both thinkers we
find a certain idealization of what Tolstoy describes as the ‘true’ faith of
the ‘illiterate peasant’ (1987: 71) or ‘simple working people’ (ibid.: 63).86
Alongside this portrait emerges a deep suspicion of the theology of

‘learned believers’ (ibid.: 72) (which destroys ‘the thing it should be
advancing’ (ibid.: 74))87 and institutionalized ritual practice.88 This con-
currence is worth noting because it is precisely the Tolstoyan dimension
of Wittgenstein’s work that becomes potentially disabling at a philosophi-
cal level.89 For if one undermines the significance of doctrinal and theo-
logical tradition in distinguishing believers from non-believers – in short,
if one is denied recourse to the sort of organizational ‘trappings’ of reli-
gion that Wittgenstein appears to have thought to be ‘pretentious’ (1994a:
30)90 – then one is in danger of rendering that very distinction superflu-
ous.91 In what substantive ‘sense’ might one understand Wittgenstein’s
claim that both himself and Drury were Christians? A plausible response
to this question can be formulated, but only by returning to the deeper
naturalism orienting Wittgenstein’s treatment of religiosity. Although he
may not do justice to the ‘trappings’ of religious practice – and despite the
fact that such phenomena as ‘hierarchy, honours and official positions’
(ibid.) or the importance of one’s ‘saying alot of prayers’ (Drury 1981:
109) are extremely marginal in the Wittgensteinian account – this margin-
ality is due not to their being inherently ‘pretentious’92 but because for
someone at his ‘level’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 32) of belief they could hardly
appear otherwise.93 Wittgenstein focuses on those beliefs that have a more
obvious ethical dimension because it is only by means of these deeply
human phenomena that he can even begin to make sense of the particu-
larities of Christianity.94 Thus, although we are warned that ‘[e]verything
ritualistic (everything that, as it were, smacks of the high priest) must be
strictly avoided, because it immediately turns rotten,’ Wittgenstein never-
theless proceeds: ‘Of course a kiss is a ritual too and it isn’t rotten, but
ritual is permissible only to the extent that it is as genuine as a kiss’ (ibid.:
8).95 Wittgenstein’s attitude is not therefore condemnatory toward institu-
tionalized practices per se. Rather, he is recommending vigilance with
regard to their inherent seductions. And it is on the basis of this sensitivity
toward both the fundamentally ethical orientation of religious faith and
the importance therein of genuine ritual that Wittgenstein can, without
excessive hyperbole, describe himself as being in ‘a sense’ a Christian.
Reading Wittgenstein against the backdrop of the Christian conception
of original sin, Shields suggests that Wittgenstein’s work represents a sort
96
of exorcism of philosophical ‘temptations’ (Shields 1997: 61). By empha-
sizing Wittgenstein’s continued preoccupation with ‘the thought of
absolute dependence on arbitrary power’97 Shields reasonably claims that
‘one point is clear . . . Wittgenstein shows that this is not a warm personal
God but a fearful Power whose main attribute is his otherness’ (ibid.:
33).98 Wittgenstein stresses this, we are told, by reference to the sheer
‘givenness’ of ‘the world,’ ‘logical form,’ ‘form[s] of life’ and ‘grammar’
(ibid.: 34) that are ‘not of our own making’ but rather ‘thrust upon us’
(ibid.: 36).99 Indeed, ‘[m]eaning is given like a gift, or a covenant of God
made toward the undeserving’ (ibid.: 46).100 Now, although Shields’s

account is compelling, some restraint is nevertheless needed when apply-
ing the notion of ‘original sin’ here. As I previously suggested with refer-
ence to Tolstoy (and as Shields himself notes), Wittgenstein’s work does
often display a certain ‘nostalgia’ (ibid.: 88) for the honest, simple faith of
the ‘peasant.’ Still, the sort of ‘wretchedness’ Wittgenstein perceives to lie
at the heart of the genuinely religious life problematizes the reparative
teleology of the Christian concept of original sin. (In this sense we might
ask whether Wittgenstein’s conception of religiosity is more Judaic than
Christian?) In view of Wittgenstein’s focus on the categorical nature of
religious belief,101 I would therefore like to pursue other interpretative
possibilities. Most striking in this regard is his warning in Culture and Value:
‘God has commanded it, therefore it must be possible to do it.’ That

means nothing. There is no ‘therefore’ about it . . . in this context ‘He
has commanded it’ means roughly: He will punish anybody who
doesn’t do it. And nothing follows from that about what anybody can
or cannot do.
(1994a: 77)
While this passage bears witness to Wittgenstein’s tendency to characterize

God as ‘a fearful Power’ (Shields 1997: 33), what should also be noted is
the way God’s having ‘commanded’ something dislocates the conceptual-
practical boundaries which ordinarily circumscribe human responsibility.
For when God commands me this does not necessarily entail the possibility
of my being able to fulfill that injunction.102 God’s commandments come
from a moral ‘height’ outside the customary rules governing ethical dis-
course.103 And it is this severing of the realm of responsibility (the ethical
ought) from that of possibility (the ontological can) that enables us to relo-
cate the feeling of ‘wretchedness’ Wittgenstein describes outside the tele-
ology of original sin. As previously noted, Wittgenstein makes a
connection between ‘the immortality of the soul’ and an experience of
responsibility ‘that even death couldn’t stop’ (1994b: 70).104 In this cou-
pling it is evident that the usual criteria of moral responsibility are sim-
ilarly disrupted, for here not even death relieves the moral burden.105 In
these passages responsibility is therefore presented as unconditional; what
God demands never logically entails the possibility of one’s satisfying that
demand, and, likewise, the notion of the immortal soul may itself gain its
sense from the ‘feeling’ that even my (or the other’s) death cannot always
annul my duty to another.106 Now, it might appear that these remarks
provide striking examples of language going ‘on holiday’ (1958: §38),
becoming ‘like an engine idling’ (ibid.: §132) and thus of lacking ‘prac-
tical consequences’ (1999: §§450, 668). That is, it may seem as though
divorcing the ethical ‘ought’ from the ontological ‘can’ effectively severs
the normal connection between linguistic and non-linguistic behavior. If I
am ‘commanded’ to do something that I cannot possibly do, or if even

death does not cancel my responsibilities to another, then surely any sub-
sequent talk of obligations, duties, guilt (and so on) can lead only to con-
ceptual confusion. That such notions can have important practical-ethical
consequences will be central to my examination of Levinas in Chapters 6
and 7. But in order to prepare the way for those analyses, I would first like
to show how, even in Wittgenstein’s earlier writings (where ethics is
described as ‘supernatural’ (1993: 40)), this correlation between guilt and
responsibility plays an important role.
Guilt, being judged and Dostoyevsky’s imperative: religion

without recompense
Although ‘A Lecture on Ethics’ post-dates the Tractatus by eight years or
so, this text possesses a distinctly Tractarian atmosphere.107 Thus, echoing
a number of his earlier ideas, Wittgenstein there remarks:
Suppose one of you were an omniscient person and therefore knew all
the movements of all the bodies in the world dead or alive and that he
also knew all the states of mind of all human beings that ever lived, and
suppose this man wrote all he knew in a big book, then this book would
contain the whole description of the world; and what I want to say is,
that this book would contain nothing that we would call an ethical judge-
ment or anything that would logically imply such a judgement.
(1993: 39)
Developing Kant’s distinction between hypothetical and categorical imper-

atives,108 Wittgenstein maintains that whereas the former (judgements of
‘relative’ value) can be translated into the language of ontology, the latter
(judgements of ‘absolute’ value) cannot.109 (I will return to this distinction
later.) The contents of this imagined ‘world-book’ would thus consist only
of facts all ‘stand[ing] on the same level’ (ibid.), from which no judge-
ments of absolute value could be derived.110 Indeed, Wittgenstein proceeds
to suggest that ‘if a man could write a book on Ethics which really was a
book on Ethics, this book would, with an explosion, destroy all the other
books in the world . . . Ethics, if it is anything, is supernatural and our
words will only express facts’ (ibid.: 40). Meaningful language, on this early
account, is tethered to mirroring the structure of the world. But, as previ-
ously noted, Wittgenstein repeatedly emphasizes that although attempting
to speak of the ethical may be ‘hopeless’ it nevertheless remained a human
‘tendency’ (ibid.: 44) he respected.111 It is therefore significant that in a
letter to von Ficker he should remark of the Tractatus itself:
[T]he point of the book is ethical. I once wanted to give a few words
in the foreword which now actually are not in it, which, however, I’ll
write to you now because they might be a key for you: I wanted to
write that my work consists of two parts: of the one which is here, and
of everything which I have not written. And precisely this second part
is the important one.
(1996b: 94)112
On this account the Tractatus performs a sort of negative theology that,

indirectly, ‘points to something’ (1978: 81).113 By remaining (almost) silent
about the ethical, Wittgenstein nevertheless maintains that it is this
(almost) unspoken part of his book that is ‘the important one.’ By deter-
mining what could – and thus could not – be meaningfully said within the
language of ontology, the Tractatus positions the realm of the ethical
‘outside the world’ (1995: 6.41), thereby exiling it from meaningful, fact-
stating speech.114 In order to ‘write a book on Ethics which really was a
book on Ethics’ would therefore be to write the book Wittgenstein did not
himself write – and presumably did not think could be written; the silent,
co-present underside of the Tractatus itself.115 Of course, the metaphysical
vision underpinning the Tractatus (and specifically the account of language
expounded therein) is at odds with Wittgenstein’s later thought, and it is
this that primarily concerns me. Nevertheless, by returning to ‘A Lecture
on Ethics’ it will become clear how, even here where ethics is described as
‘sublime’ and ‘supernatural’ (1993: 40), human guilt plays a central role.
When distinguishing between relative and absolute value judgements,
Wittgenstein employs the following illustration:
[I]f I say that it is important for me not to catch cold I mean that catch-
ing a cold produces certain describable disturbances in my life and if I
say that this is the right road I mean that it’s the right road relative to a
certain goal. Used in this way these expressions don’t present any dif-
ficult or deep problems. But this is not how Ethics uses them.
(1993: 38)
He then proceeds:
Supposing that I could play tennis and one of you saw me playing and
said ‘Well, you play pretty badly’ and suppose I answered ‘I know, I’m
playing badly but I don’t want to play any better,’ all the other
man could say would be ‘Ah then that’s all right.’ But suppose I had
told one of you a preposterous lie and he came up to me and
said ‘You’re behaving like a beast’ and then I were to say ‘I know I
behave badly, but then I don’t want to behave any better,’ could
he then say ‘Ah, then that’s all right’? Certainly not; he would say
‘Well, you ought to want to behave better.’ Here you have an absolute
judgement of value, whereas the first instance was one of a relative
judgement.
(1993: 38–9)
My not wanting to play tennis ‘any better’ presents no direct ethical

problem. Any suggestion that one ought to want to play ‘better’ would only
be commensurate to certain other relatively valuable states of affairs (such
as ‘you will get fitter’), the importance of which I could still reasonably
contest.116 But my not wanting to ‘behave any better’ is not dependent on
such additional commitments. This is why, in the above scenario, such an
exclamation would likely be treated as facetious or met with bewilder-
ment. For there is no ‘right time’ (no specific or determinable occasions)
in which to seek the moral good.117 You might find it odd that I do not
want to play tennis ‘any better,’ but you would not perceive this listlessness
to be a deep moral character flaw.118 The differences that separate these
two cases will thus likely be shown in: (1) the extent to which you would
employ your powers of persuasion to convince me that I am mistaken,
and/or (2) what you would ultimately risk on account of it. In short,
having exhausted your reasons and rhetoric, there will be little option but
for you to re-evaluate the basis, depth and prospects of our relationship.
Wittgenstein then concludes:
The right road is the road which leads to an arbitrarily predetermined

end and it is quite clear to us all that there is no sense in talking about
the right road apart from such a predetermined goal. Now let us see
what we could possibly mean by the expression, ‘the absolutely right
road.’ I think it would be the road which everybody on seeing it would,
with logical necessity, have to go, or be ashamed for not going. And sim-
ilarly, the absolute good, if it is a describable state of affairs, would be
one which everybody, independent of his tastes and inclinations,
would necessarily bring about or feel guilty for not bringing about. And
I want to say that such a state of affairs is a chimera. No state of affairs
has, in itself, what I would like to call the coercive power of an
absolute judge.
(1993: 40)
What is noticeable here is the vocabulary Wittgenstein employs in dis-

cussing this ‘chimera.’ For he does not simply say that failure to follow
‘the absolutely right road’ or pursue ‘the absolute good’ would be wrong
or bad. Rather, Wittgenstein explicitly cashes out the latter in terms of
guilt, shame and the wrath of an ‘absolute judge.’
To the extent that Wittgenstein’s emphasis on guilt (notably in those
passages from ‘Lectures on Religious Belief’ and Culture and Value) dis-
rupts orthodox ethical precepts by divorcing the ‘ought’ from the ‘can,’ it
may seem merely paradoxical, no matter how biographically revealing.119
But despite the piecemeal nature of Wittgenstein’s reflections on guilt,
they do suggest another, more strictly philosophical rendering. First, one
can begin to piece together a rather different conception of ‘genuine’

religiosity that emphasizes its fundamentally categorical structure. Just as
inquiring: ‘Why should I be good?’ or ‘What’s in ethics for me?’ would be to
erroneously conceive of the categorical in hypothetical terms, so too
would it be mistaken to ask of religion: ‘Why should I believe that?’ or
again, ‘What’s in it for me?’120 Doubtless non-believers frequently ask such
questions of believers. Doubtless too, the apologetic responses of the latter
to such petitions can often be cashed out in similarly prudential terms (‘If
you want salvation then . . . ’; ‘If you do not want to suffer God’s wrath then
. . . ’). But these sorts of responses are themselves profoundly irreligious.
The person who loves another essentially because they love him can never
be said to have truly loved the other, for ‘love exists without worrying about
being loved’ (Levinas 2001: 143).121 Likewise, giving gifts only to those
who one knows will compensate with a gift in return is a similarly hollow
practice. Analogously, she who decides in favor of ‘being moral’ because
we convince her that (qua the Pyrrhonist) it is prudent to do so, can hardly
be said to be genuinely moral.122 And he who decides in favor of Christian
belief because it promises salvation is not merely superficially religious, he
is not religious at all.123 This, then, is the deeper meaning to draw from
Wittgenstein’s claim (referred to in Chapter 2) that he who states his
belief ‘categorically’ is ‘more intelligent than the man who [is] apologetic
about it’ (1994b: 63). Such remarks do not bear witness to a dogmatic
fideism – though they might lend themselves to that reading. Rather, they
say something important about the grammar of genuine religiosity. With
this in mind, it here seems natural to raise questions concerning the possi-
bility of a purely categorical religion that says only ‘Do this!’ (Wittgenstein
1994a: 29) without promising anything at all – or, more radically perhaps,
that promises only losses.124 As Levinas asks:
Are we entering a moment in history in which the good must be loved

without promises? Perhaps it is the end of all preaching. May we not
be on the eve of a new form of faith, a faith without triumph, as if the
only irrefutable value were saintliness, a time when the only right to a
reward would be not to expect one?
(1999: 109)
Is it therefore conceivable that one might ‘believe’ beyond the economics
of eschatological-salvationist hope; beyond the ‘promise . . . of the Happy
End’ (Levinas 1988a: 175)? Could religious faith consist in an absolute
expenditure without the assurance, faith or hope that one will be ‘well paid’
(Nietzsche 1968: §188)?125 To these questions I will return in later chap-
ters, but Wittgenstein’s remarks on immortality already gesture in this
general direction. For, we will recall, it is the feeling that ‘even death
couldn’t stop’ a sense of ‘duty’ to another that is said to provide a ‘proof
of the immortality of the soul – because if [the soul] lives on’ then so too
would the ‘responsibility’ not ‘die’ (1994b: 70). Here the reality of the
immortal soul does not offer potential recompense for (or an annulment
of) one’s mortal ethical responsibilities. Rather, the ‘proof’ that the soul is
immortal lies in the sense that one’s obligations to another hold even
beyond death. In short, the immortal soul does not achieve Pyrrhonian
ataraxia but instead retains its state of ‘wretchedness’ eternally. The
second point to note here is how many of Wittgenstein’s reflections
provoke a rethinking of ethical responsibility itself, and specifically how
much traditional ethical theory constitutes the theoretical circumscription
of a primordially boundless responsibility – itself prompted by a certain
experience of guilt.126 As Levinas suspects, and as I will discuss in Chapter
6, perhaps the realm of the ‘human’ in general (and ‘scruples’ in particu-
lar) ‘are always already remorse’ (1999: 179).
It is widely acknowledged that Dostoyevsky’s work fascinated Wittgen-
stein at least as much as Tolstoy’s.127 Indeed, Malcolm recalls that when
Wittgenstein was incarcerated at Monte Cassino ‘he and a fellow prisoner
read Dostoyevsky together . . . it was this writer’s “deeply religious attitude”
that commended him to Wittgenstein’ (1993: 8). Redpath similarly notes
that Wittgenstein read Crime and Punishment ‘at least ten times, and both
in that novel and in The Brothers Karamazov he thought Dostoyevsky
expressed “a whole religion” ’ (1990: 53).128 And likewise, Monk reports
that Wittgenstein had read the latter text ‘so often he knew whole pas-
sages of it by heart’ – indeed, The Brothers Karamazov was one of the very
‘few personal possessions’ (1991: 136) he had taken to the Eastern Front
in 1916. We can only speculate as to what portions of Dostoyevsky’s work
Wittgenstein had deemed worthy of committing to memory, but there is
one passage in The Brothers Karamazov (a passage that preoccupies
Levinas) that encapsulates perhaps the most significant aspect of Dos-
toyevsky’s work; namely, its treatment of guilt as ‘having a positive func-
tion’ (Johnston 1991: 123). There he writes:
‘every one of us is responsible for everyone else in every way, and I

most of all.’ Mother could not help smiling at that. She wept and
smiled at the same time. ‘How are you,’ she said, ‘most of all respons-
ible for everyone? There are murderers and robbers in the world, and
what terrible sin have you committed that you should accuse yourself
before everyone else?’ ‘Mother . . . my dearest heart, my joy, you must
realize that everyone is really responsible for everyone and everything.
I don’t know how to explain it to you, but I feel it so strongly that it
hurts . . . ’
(Dostoyevsky 1967: 339)129
This excerpt highlights many of the themes in Wittgenstein’s work dis-

cussed in this chapter130 – notably those remarks pertaining to the rela-
tionship between responsibility and a certain ‘experience . . . of feeling
guilty’ (1993: 42), and his characterization of the ‘religious man’ as

‘wretched’ (1994a: 45).131 What might be said to be prerequisite for genuine
religiosity is not merely the ‘ “belief that only if you try to be helpful to
other people will you in the end find your way to God” ’ (Drury 1981:
129), but the conviction that the greatest immorality and blasphemy is to
be found in the experience of good conscience;132 in believing that one’s
duty has been done and one’s responsibilities placated before God or
one’s neighbor.133
Given that Wittgenstein’s treatment of these themes is not systematic, it
is necessary to look elsewhere for a way to clarify the relationship between
guilt and responsibility. This, I believe, can best be approached through
Levinas’s work. Shifting between not only specific philosophers but also
(alleged134) philosophical traditions, is beneficial for both sides of the so-
called ‘Analytic/Continental divide.’ For while Levinas provides a crucial
supplement to Wittgenstein’s reflections on both the face (discussed in
Chapter 3) and the relationship between guilt and ethics, the internal
complexities of Levinas’s own thought can be unraveled by bringing to
our reading many of the themes already considered. Indeed, the first obs-
tacle facing the uninitiated reader of Levinas is that his work seldom pro-
gresses in an orthodox linear fashion. Of course, much the same might be
said of Wittgenstein, but in Levinas’s writings the matter seems more
complex. For there we find a number of apparently synonymous ideas –
and a steady accumulation of metaphors – revolve in such a way as to
intimate a nucleus.135 Some tentativeness is unavoidable here because it is
not made clear by Levinas (or his commentators) that there is such a
pivotal point around which his thinking moves. And while those that are
suggested (for example, Levinas’s conviction that philosophy has
systematically annulled the ‘alterity of the other’) are not inaccurate, they
tend to compound the internal difficulties of his work. I will instead argue
that this challenging body of work is best understood as an extended med-
itation on what we might – along with Wittgenstein – refer to as a certain
‘experience of feeling guilty.’136
6 Trespassing
Guilt and sacrifice in Heidegger,
Levinas and ordinary life
[N]o profit can be made except at another’s expense . . . let anyone search
his heart and he will find that our inward wishes are for the most part born
and nourished at the expense of others.
M. Montaigne, Essays
‘You shall not steal! You shall not kill!’ – such words were once called holy;
in their presence people bowed their knees and their heads and removed
their shoes. But I ask you: Where have there ever been better thieves and
killers in the world than such holy words have been? Is there not in all life
itself – stealing and killing?
F. Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
Where is the main stress . . . in being-there: on being, or on there? In there –

which it would be better to call here – shall I first look for my being?
G. Bachelard, ‘Trust and Antitrust’ The Poetics of Space
Introduction
If the question emerging from both Wittgenstein’s Tractatus and ‘A
Lecture on Ethics’ ultimately concerns the possibility of writing on ethics
in a conceptual vocabulary too ontologically laden (indeed, this ‘running-
up against the limits of language is Ethics’ (Wittgenstein 1978: 80)), then
Levinas’s work represents one attempt to do precisely this.1 That is,
Levinas endeavors ‘to run against the boundaries’ (Wittgenstein 1993: 44)
of a language that seems to prohibit any genuine expression of the
ethical, and this leads him toward writing philosophy ‘as a poetic
composition’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 24).2 It would be an exaggeration to
suggest that Levinas succeeds in writing the explosive ‘book on Ethics’
Wittgenstein refers to – indeed, it will become clear later why the very
notion of ‘success’ is problematic here.3 Nevertheless, the general aspira-
tions of Levinas’s work can initially be framed in this way. An important
question thus arises: If both Levinas and the later Wittgenstein can be read
as responding to the challenges outlined in the Tractatus and ‘A Lecture
on Ethics,’ to what (if any) extent do their respective responses inter-
Trespassing, guilt and sacrifice 123
twine? One recent commentator approaches this question by recommend-
ing that Levinas’s work be read as a non-foundationalist4 account of the
‘transcendental language game’ (Greisch 1991: 70).5 Provocative though
this suggestion is, I will resist its ‘non-foundationalist’ trajectory, not least
because it is inconsonant with the deeper spirit of both philosophers’
work.6 What is more philosophically interesting is the extent to which
Wittgenstein and Levinas each bear witness to a certain experience of guilt.
Toward the end of Chapter 5 I cited a passage from The Brothers Karama-
zov that usefully brought together a number of Wittgenstein’s concerns.
But that excerpt was selected for another, equally important, reason. For
Levinas is also much taken with Dostoyevsky (along with those other
Russian literary figures who were to influence his early thinking7), and
expressly the idea that ‘every one of us is responsible for everyone else in
every way, and I most of all’ (Dostoyevsky 1967: 339).8 What fascinates
Levinas about this passage is, as I will argue later, the way in which both:
(1) my responsibility is presented as exceeding the reciprocal economics of
what he deems to be ‘traditional’ ethical thinking (including Buber’s I and
Thou 9 ), and (2) subjectivity itself can be characterized in terms of ‘an origi-
nary . . . responsibility or guilt’ (Robbins 1999: 147).10 However, in order to
illuminate how guilt functions in Levinas’s work it is first necessary to
situate it in relation to Heidegger’s exposition of Conscience and Guilt11 in
Being and Time – a text Levinas considered ‘one of the finest books in the
history of philosophy’ (1992: 37) (despite the fact that its author has ‘never
been exculpated . . . from his participation in National-Socialism’ (ibid.:
41)).12 The extent to which Levinas transforms Heidegger’s ontological
analyses into something distinctively ethical should not be underestimated.
But the root of Levinas’s thinking here is not exclusively Heideggerian.
Close attention must also be paid to the profound influence the Holocaust
has on both the rhetoric and substance of his work.13 Only through a com-
bined appreciation of these two sources will we be in a position to discern
the pivotal position Guilt plays in his philosophy.
Conscience and guilt in Heidegger’s Being and Time

In keeping with the enterprise of ‘fundamental ontology,’ Heidegger
claims that his analysis of Conscience and Guilt diverges from the ‘mani-
fold ways’ (1999: 313) such phenomena have hitherto been dealt with by
anthropology, psychology and theology.14 This is not to say that such tradi-
tional investigations, or our ‘everyday’ (ibid.: 314) understanding, are
entirely worthless. Rather, Heidegger’s project aspires to operate on a
more fundamental philosophical level, providing the ontological grounds
for all such interpretations.15 But what is most distinctive about Heideg-
ger’s approach can best be seen by reviewing his more ‘positive’ (ibid.:
341) reflections on these themes.
Dasein, we will recall, is defined as that being that has as its Being a
124 Trespassing, guilt and sacrifice
‘potentiality-for-Being’ (ibid.: 315).16 In other words, Dasein is distinct
from other beings because ‘in its very Being, that Being is an issue for it’
(ibid.: 32). Dasein is thus to be determined not by reference to ‘a “what”
of the kind that pertains to a subject matter’ but rather as that being
which ‘always understands itself in terms of its existence – in terms of a
possibility of itself: to be itself or not’ (ibid.: 32–3). In this way then Dasein
is in its very Being concerned with its own potentialities.17 Moreover, the
sort of Being Dasein ‘has’ is originarily social. For even when Dasein is
‘alone,’ this solitude is possible only because its primary mode of Being is
Being-with-others.18 Indeed, this essential Being-with structure is already

present in Dasein’s self-concerned involvement with the inanimate
world.19 Thus, in its practical dealings with worldly objects, Dasein is pre-
sented with implicit reference-relations to other Daseins20 – to those who
have perhaps constructed these objects, or who may later encounter and
use them for themselves.21 Taking clothing as his example, Heidegger thus
writes: ‘In the work [the thing produced] there is also reference or assign-
ment to “materials”: the work is dependent on leather, thread, needles,
and the like. Leather . . . is produced from hides. These are taken from
animals . . . someone else has raised.’ He proceeds:
The work produced refers not only to the ‘towards-which’ of its usabil-
ity and the ‘whereof’ of which it consists: under simple craft con-
ditions it also has an assignment to the person who is to use it or wear
it. The work is cut to his figure; he ‘is’ there along with it as the work
emerges . . . Thus along with the work, we encounter not only entities
ready-to-hand but also entities with Dasein’s kind of Being – entities
for which, in their concern, the product becomes ready-to-hand; and
together with these we encounter the world in which weavers and
users live, which is at the same time ours. Any work with which one
concerns oneself is ready-to-hand not only in the domestic world of
the workshop but also in the public world.
(1999: 100)22
I will return to this idea in later chapters, for such characterizations of

Being-with are only part of the Heideggerian narrative. Like Sextus and
Wittgenstein, Heidegger does not escape a certain normativity here23
insofar as he repeatedly warns Dasein of its tendency to lose itself in ‘inau-
thenticity’ (ibid.: 312),24 or of letting itself be ‘dispersed’ (ibid.: 167) into
the anonymous collectivity of das Man (the ‘nobody’ (ibid.: 312) or the
‘they’25). When one programmatically does (or omits to do) something
simply because this is how the majority act,26 or when one appeals to social
convention and justifies oneself that ‘this is what is expected of me,’ one
thereby relinquishes responsibility for choosing what oneself is to be.27 This
is a radically non-Pyrrhonian vision, for, as Kellner puts it, to ‘be authentic
one must resolutely choose to liberate oneself from domination by social
conventions and inauthentic ways of being and liberate oneself for one’s
own projects and self-determination’ (1992: 202). In Being and Time we are
thus presented with ‘a model of the individual struggling against society’
where only the inauthentic person ‘blindly follows social convention,
evades decisive choice by losing itself in distraction, or ineffectually sur-
mising what it should do.’ An inauthentic person ‘surrenders to the way
things have been publicly interpreted and falls into the ways of being that
are socially prescribed and recommended’ (ibid.).28 Due to what Heideg-
ger describes as Dasein’s being ‘thrown into existence’ (1999: 321)29 it is
thereby ‘factically submitted’ (ibid.: 344) to the world. That is, through
being ‘brought into its “there” . . . not of its own accord’ (ibid.: 329)
Dasein’s potentiality-for-Being is inevitably restricted.30 But even taking
into account that such ‘thrownness’ often renders choice difficult, Dasein
is always able to make some choices.31 Absorbed in the everyday anonymity
of the ‘they’ Dasein is prevented ‘from taking hold of [its] possibilities’
(ibid.: 312) and subsequently ‘kept away’ from authentic Being.32 Dasein
cannot simply escape responsibility by losing itself in the ‘they,’ for this
‘losing oneself’ (or choosing not to choose33) still constitutes a choice for
which Dasein is responsible.34 In other words, although Dasein cannot
escape choosing, what it chooses is always (relatively) open.35
It is at this juncture that Heidegger introduces the notion of ‘Con-
science.’ As traditionally delineated the ‘call of conscience’ provides an
inner voice of moral guidance. More specifically, this ‘ordinary’ experience
of conscience is thought to occur ‘after the deed has been done or left
undone’ (ibid.: 335–6) and thus ‘follows the transgression and points back
to that event which has befallen and by which Dasein has loaded itself with
guilt’ (ibid.: 336–7). In its Being-toward-death, however, ‘Dasein “is” ahead
of itself,’ for although the voice of Conscience ‘does call back . . . it calls
beyond the deed which has happened . . . to the Being-guilty into which
one has been thrown, which is “earlier” than any indebtedness’ (ibid.: 337)
(I will return to this later). Heidegger’s concept of Conscience therefore
differs from the traditional rendering insofar as the former is constitutive of
Dasein’s Being, and as such is ‘manifestly not present-at-hand’ (ibid.: 343).
Conscience calls with a commanding voice, ‘wrenching’ Dasein ‘away from
das Man’ (Macann 1992: 230). Furthermore, in contrast to the ‘ontical
common sense’ (Heidegger 1999: 314) interpretation, Conscience lacks
explicit content36 and thereby demands a special sort of ‘hearing’ (ibid.:
314). The call of Conscience, Heidegger claims, ‘asserts nothing, gives no
information about world-events, has nothing to tell.’ Nevertheless, this
‘keeping silent’ (ibid.: 318) – though informationally barren – possesses ‘the
momentum of a push – of an abrupt arousal’ (ibid.: 316) in its invoking
‘the Self to its potentiality-for-Being-its-Self’ (ibid.: 319). That is, the ‘call of
conscience has the character of an appeal to Dasein by calling it to its
ownmost potentiality-for-Being-its-Self,’ and ‘this is done by way of summon-
ing it to its ownmost Being-guilty’ (ibid.: 314).37
Given that Conscience is said to both ‘appeal’ to Dasein and constitute
Dasein’s Being, the relationship between that which calls and that which is
called requires elucidation. According to Heidegger then, this ‘alien’
(ibid.: 321) call does not come from anywhere other than Dasein’s own
Being.38 From its ‘lostness’ (ibid.: 319) or ‘hiding-place’ in the ‘they,’
Dasein ‘gets brought to itself by the call’ (ibid.: 317). But this is not simply
a moment of soliloquy, for in its disclosure39 the call possesses the capacity
to surprise Dasein; to come ‘against [its] expectations and even against
[its] will’ (ibid.: 320). In being called by Conscience Dasein is thus force-
fully summoned ‘to its ownmost Being-guilty’ (ibid.: 319). ‘Where . . . shall
we get our criterion for the primordial existential meaning of the
“Guilty!”?’ Heidegger rhetorically inquires:
From the fact that this ‘Guilty!’ turns up as a predicate for the ‘I am’.
Is it possible that what is understood as ‘guilt’ in our inauthentic inter-
pretation lies in Dasein’s Being as such, and that it does so in such a
way that so far as any Dasein factically exists, it is also guilty?
(1999: 326)
The crucial point here is that Dasein – in its very status as an ‘I am’40 – ‘is
guilty’ (ibid.: 331), and it is this ‘primordial’ (ibid.: 332) Guilt that arouses
the call of Conscience.41 Moreover, the charge of ‘Guilty!’ picks out
Dasein as a particular ‘I.’42 On this view, then, the notion of a ‘public con-
science’ is little more than ‘the voice of the “they.” ’ As Heidegger causti-
cally remarks: ‘A “world-conscience” is a dubious fabrication, and Dasein
can come to this only because conscience, in its basis and its essence, is in
each case mine’ (ibid.: 323). Insofar as Dasein’s Guilt has thus been
divorced from any common, social morality, one might ask what it is that
Dasein is supposed to be Guilty of? But for Heidegger, posing the question
this way would be simultaneously problematic and philosophically reveal-
ing insofar as it perpetuates certain errors inherent in the ‘common
sense,’43 ‘ordinary’ (ibid.: 327),44 ‘everyday’ (ibid.: 336) understanding of
being-guilty. Asking ‘What Dasein is Guilty of ?’ implies a specific object of
Guilt, and thereby lends itself to the economic interpretation of guilt as
‘ “owing”, of “having something due on account” ’ or ‘as “having debts” ’
(ibid.: 327) commonly proffered by the ‘they.’45 For the latter guilt is like
a ‘business procedure that can be regulated’ (ibid.: 340), but the ontologi-
cal understanding both grounds and undercuts this economic model:
‘Being-guilty does not first result from an indebtedness . . . but that, on the contrary,
indebtedness becomes possible only “on the basis” of a primordial Being-guilty’
(ibid.: 329).46 According to Heidegger then, the ‘they’ understand Being-
guilty as a being-in-arrears; as a situation ‘in’ which one sometimes finds
oneself.47 This interpretation suggests the possibility of neutralizing the
burden of debt by ‘reckoning things up’ or ‘balancing them off.’48 (At the
very least it suggests that the occasions of one’s being-guilty might be
‘balanced off’ against periods of innocence.) But for Heidegger Dasein’s
Being-guilty prohibits such compensatory moves, and this is why here
‘there is no counter-discourse in which . . . one talks about what the con-
science has said, and pleads one’s case. In hearing the call understand-
ingly, one denies oneself any counter-discourse’ (ibid.: 342).49 In short,
the primordiality of Heideggerian Guilt renders all apologetics – ontologi-
cally speaking – both impotent and inauthentic.
Now, although Heidegger problematizes any talk of ‘what’ Dasein’s
Being-guilty amounts to, he does suggest one way of approaching this
question:
Dasein is its basis existently – that is, in such a manner that it under-
stands itself in terms of possibilities, and, as so understanding itself, is
that entity which has been thrown. But this implies that in having a
potentiality-for-Being it always stands in one possibility or another: it
constantly is not other possibilities, and it has waived these in its exis-
tentiell projection . . . what we have here is . . . something existentially
constitutive . . . The nullity we have in mind belongs to Dasein’s Being-
free for its existentiell possibilities. Freedom, however, is only in the
choice of one possibility – that is, in tolerating one’s not having
chosen the others and one’s not being able to choose them.
(1999: 331)
This is, I believe, the key passage to understanding Heidegger’s notion of

Conscience and Guilt if one is to understand Levinas – and arguably
Derrida too. Heidegger’s general point is straightforward enough.
Dasein’s Being is a ‘potentiality-for-Being’ (ibid.: 315),50 for in its having
been ‘thrown into existence’ (ibid.: 321) Dasein ‘understands itself in terms
of possibilities’ (ibid.: 331). However, in its pursuit of every such possibility
Dasein must simultaneously exclude all other possibilities. In its essential
finitude Dasein can only ever pursue ‘one possibility or another’ (ibid.),
and as such its Being is inherently sacrificial.51 Naturally, the dimensions of
the negative side of such choices (the sacrificial ‘not’) are vast.52 Dasein’s
Being-guilty can therefore be described in terms of the trace of all those
possibilities it cannot pursue in every pursuit of this or that possibility.
Hence ‘a “not” . . . is constitutive for [the] Being of Dasein’ (ibid.: 330).53
The call of Conscience can therefore be ‘heard’54 to haunt Dasein with
the latter’s necessarily manifold omissions.55 And the emphasis here must
(again) be placed on the necessity of these sacrificial omissions; that is, on
their constitutive and ontological nature. For it is not as though such neg-
ativities represented mere ‘privations’ which could in turn be replenished
without thereby excluding other possibilities. And this accounts for Heideg-
ger’s further suspicions regarding the common economic interpretation
of both good and bad conscience.56 For what Dasein is summoned to by
the call of Conscience is to face its primordial, inescapable Being-guilty
‘resolutely,’57 and thus to resist the good conscience of the ‘they’ and their
tendency to neutralize ‘ “guilt and innocence” ’ by ‘balancing them off’
(ibid.: 338).
This then is how Guilt and Conscience are explained in Being and Time.
With Heidegger’s analysis in mind I now want to turn to Levinas, for here
one finds many of Heidegger’s basic insights at work – though negotiated
rather differently. Now the emphasis lies on an ethics that, in Levinas’s
view, severely problematizes Heidegger’s prioritization of ontology, and
specifically Dasein’s essential self-concern.58
Levinas’s ghosts: trespassing and the violence of being

I referred above to Dasein’s being ‘haunted’ by those possibilities-for-
Being it necessarily excludes in every word (or silence) and deed (or inac-
tion). This spectral metaphor becomes increasingly relevant when reading
Levinas insofar as he provides an account of subjectivity that ethicalizes the
Heideggerian ‘not’ discussed above. But there is another sense in which
Levinas’s work undergoes a certain ‘haunting.’59 As will become clear,
Levinas’s ‘ghosts’ emerge from the Nazi death camps of the 1940s.60 But
what makes this haunting so philosophically important is the specific way
it transcends anything one might locate historically as ‘the Holocaust’ or
‘Shoah.’61 Indeed, this is why Levinas’s work runs counter to any project
attempting to attain ‘[t]houghts that are at peace’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 43).
Approaching Levinas by way of the Holocaust is not, however, to take
interpretative liberties. For Levinas himself acknowledges that the ‘explic-
itly Jewish moment’ in his thought is indeed ‘the reference to Auschwitz,
where God let the Nazis do what they wanted.’ He proceeds:
Consequently, what remains? Either this means that there is no reason

for morality and hence it can be concluded that everyone should act
like the Nazis, or the moral law maintains its authority. Here is
freedom; this choice is the moment of freedom . . . before the twenti-
eth century, all religion begins with the promise. It begins with the
‘Happy End’. It is the promise of heaven. Well then, doesn’t a phe-
nomenon like Auschwitz invite you, on the contrary, to think the
moral law independently of the Happy End? That is the question . . .
The essential problem is: can we speak of an absolute commandment
after Auschwitz? Can we speak of morality after the failure of morality?
(1988a: 175)62
Levinas’s personal history would be significant here were my objective to

provide a biographical reconstruction of his thinking.63 But what I want to
highlight are those recurrent themes within Levinas’s philosophy that
demand to be read alongside what we can begin to know and imagine of
the horror of the Nazi death camps. Of specific interest here is Levinas’s
64
repeated emphasis on the ‘trespassing’ nature of being-in-the-world; that
in my very being I thereby take the place of (or sacrifice) another. One can
begin to trace this theme in the following confessional remarks:
No one has forgotten the Holocaust, it’s impossible to forget things

which belong to the most immediate and most personal memory of
every one of us, and pertaining to those closest to us, who sometimes
make us feel guilty for surviving.
(Levinas 1996b: 291)
Most striking here is Levinas’s reference to feeling ‘guilty for surviving’65 –

a sentiment repeated elsewhere and which Derrida has also recently
noted.66 While the experience of ‘survivor’s guilt’ is (psychologically
speaking) of common heritage, this remark is illuminating when reading
Levinas’s philosophy.67 For it is a distinct rhetoric he employs when
describing being-in-the-world as an ‘exclusion’ or ‘exiling’ (1996b: 82) of
another human being.68 Thus, Levinas asserts: ‘This is in fact the question
one must ultimately pose. Should I be dedicated to being? By being, by
persisting in being, do I not kill?’ (1992: 120). He proceeds elsewhere:
Language is born in responsibility. One has to speak, to say I, to be

in the first person, precisely to be me . . . But from that point, in affirm-
ing this me being, one has to respond to one’s right to be . . . My being-
in-the-world or my ‘place in the sun’, my being at home, have these not
also been the usurpation of spaces belonging to the other man whom I
have already oppressed or starved, or driven out into a third world; are
they not acts of repulsing, excluding, exiling, stripping, killing? . . . A
fear for all the violence and murder my existing might generate . . . It is
the fear of occupying someone else’s place . . .
(1996b: 82)69
That Levinas here has Being and Time in mind becomes clear when he re-
casts this general point as follows:
The self is the very crisis of the being of beings in the human . . .
because I myself already ask myself if my being is justified, if the Da of
my Dasein is not already the usurpation of someone’s place. A bad
conscience which comes to me from the face of the other who, in his
mortality, uproots me from the solid ground where, as a simple indi-
vidual, I stand and persevere naively – naturally – in my stance. A bad
conscience which puts me in question.
(1998b: 148)70
This ‘bad conscience’ resulting from my being ‘accused’ for my ‘very pres-
ence’ (1999: 21) is not therefore to be understood in wholly Heideggerian
terms. For my being-in-the-world is already my ‘being-in-question’ (ibid.).71
Thus, when Pascal suggests that ‘the primitive model for the usurpation of
the whole earth’ lies in the naive and natural exclamation ‘this is my place
in the sun’ (1961: §231),72 Levinas adds that it is to this extreme point that
‘Pascal’s “the I is hateful” must be thought through’ (1999: 22).73 Indeed,
it is in this way that ‘the subjective’ is irrevocably ‘knotted in ethics’ (1992:
95), for, as Caputo rightly notes, Levinas has ‘installed bad conscience as a
kind of structural feature of ethical life’ (2000: 116).74
This is only a preliminary sample of such murderous reflections in
Levinas’s work, but it provides enough of a backdrop against which to

read more confessional Holocaust writers. Thus, in The Drowned and the
Saved, Levi similarly laments:
[A]lmost everybody feels guilty of having omitted to offer help. The

presence at your side of a companion who is weaker . . . or too young,
hounding you with his demands for help or with his simply being
there, which is itself an entreaty, is a constant in the life of the Lager.
The demand for . . . a human word, advice, even only a listening ear,
was permanent and universal but rarely satisfied.
(1998: 59)75
He then proceeds to interrogate himself:
Are you ashamed because you are alive in place of another? And in
particular, of a man more generous, more sensitive, wiser, more
useful, more worthy of living than you? You cannot exclude this: you
examine yourself, you review your memories, hoping to find . . . that
none of them are masked or disguised; no, you find no obvious trans-
gressions, you did not usurp anyone’s place, you did not beat anyone
. . . you did not steal anyone’s bread; nevertheless, you cannot exclude
it. It is no more than a suspicion, indeed the shadow of a suspicion;
that everyone is his brother’s Cain, that everyone of us . . . has usurped
his neighbour’s place and lived in his stead. It is a suspicion, but it
gnaws at us . . . [that] I might be alive in the place of another, at the
expense of another; I might have usurped, that is, in fact killed.
(1998: 62)76
The concurrence between Levi’s rhetoric77 and Levinas’s own becomes

even more striking when the latter speaks of being held ‘hostage’ (1996a:
91) and ‘persecuted’ (ibid.: 89)78 by the other, of my ‘occupying someone
else’s place,’ my ‘usurpation of spaces belonging to the other man,’ my
‘repulsing . . . stripping, killing’ (1996b: 82) and ‘despoiling’ (1999: 23)
another, and not least in his numerous references to the neighbor as
‘exposed’ (1993: 94), ‘defenseless’ (ibid.: 158), ‘destitute’ (1996c: 75),
‘impoverished’ (1992: 86), ‘frail’ (1988a: 170), ‘vulnerable’ (1996a: 102)
79
and ‘naked’ (1993: 102). This deliberately shocking vocabulary is not,
however, mere rhetoric.80 Rather, it is employed to remind us that even the
most peaceable life is possible as such only to the extent that it is also sacri-
ficial and murderous. In this terrifying thought – in this ‘shadow of a sus-
picion’ as Levi puts it – it would be negligent not to hear resonances of
the daily realities of Auschwitz, Treblinka and the life of the Lager as Levi
and others describe it.81
Before leaving Levi’s work, I want to draw attention to a specific
passage from If This is a Man. There we are told of those new prisoners
who ‘through basic incapacity, or by misfortune, or through some banal

incident . . . are overcome before they can adapt themselves’ to the harsh
realities of the Lager, that ‘[t]heir life is short, but their number is
endless; they . . . the drowned, form the backbone of the camp, an anony-
mous mass . . . of non-men who march and labor in silence.’ Levi then
confesses: ‘They crowd my memory with their faceless presences, and if I
could enclose all the evil of our time in one image, I would choose this
image’ (1996: 96).82 Such ‘imagery’ played an important part in my discus-
sion of Wittgenstein in Chapter 3, and specifically of how the body and
face can be described as ‘a moral space’ or ‘the locus of . . . the basis of
moral life’ (Tilghman 1991: 115). The face imposes ethical questions on
us,83 and Wittgenstein’s work goes some way toward bearing witness to this
primitive fact. However, it is in the unique way that the face haunts
Levinas’s thinking that we discover more explicit connections between the
face, Guilt and responsibility. Although Levinas’s reflections on the face
are complex – and will therefore take up part of the next chapter – in
order to see how his analyses supplement Wittgenstein’s, it is to this
‘image’ that I will now turn.
Guilt and the grammar of the face

While it would not be wholly inaccurate to describe Levinas’s reflections on
the face84 as phenomenological (not least because he always saw himself
indebted to that tradition85), his relationship with phenomenology is tense.
For one of his main objectives is to highlight the inadequacies of how
Western thought, culminating in the work of Husserl and Heidegger, has
construed intersubjectivity.86 Levinas is uncomfortable speaking of a
phenomenology of the face since ‘phenomenology describes what appears’
(1992: 85) and ‘the face is special’ insofar as it transcends ‘an exact phe-
nomenological description.’ At the very most such an analysis would be
‘negative’ (1988a: 168). In other words, Levinas suspects that the face
cannot be understood as ‘a phenomenon,’ for appearance is not its
primary ‘mode of being’ (ibid.: 171).87 A straightforward phenomenology
is problematic here in much the same way as a spatial-geometrical account
of the face was inadequate for Wittgenstein.88 As I discussed in Chapter 3,
the ethical significance of the face is due to its being saturated with
meaning from the start.89 With this Levinas would agree – indeed, Wittgen-
stein’s insistence that here one does not ‘make inferences’ (1990: §225)
parallels Levinas’s own claim that what the face expresses ‘is not just a
thought which animates the other; it is also the other present in that
thought,’ for the ‘expression does not speak about someone, is not
information about a coexistence, does not invoke an attitude in addition to
knowledge . . . Expression is . . . the archetype of direct relationship’ (1987:
21).90 For both philosophers then, the face is not primarily an object of
comprehension toward which consciousness is coolly directed.91 Rather, as
Levinas puts it: ‘access to the face is straightaway ethical’ (1992: 85).92 The
face does not wait to be deciphered as a collection of distinguishing fea-
tures, for it is not ‘the mere assemblage of a nose, a forehead, eyes, etc.; it
is all that, of course, but takes on the meaning of a face through the new
dimension it opens up in the perception of a being’ (1997a: 8),93 and this is
why ‘the word face must not be understood in a narrow way’ (1998b: 231).
Levinas summarizes: ‘The best way of encountering the Other is not even
to notice the color of his eyes! When one observes the color of the eyes one
is not in social relationship with the Other’ (1992: 85).94 Levinas’s treat-
ment of the face thus not only parallels Wittgenstein’s own, it also deepens
the former’s more general attempt to question the traditional philosophi-
cal prioritization of knowledge over responsibility (or ontology over
ethics).95 Still, in order to situate Levinas’s account of the face within this
broader critical enterprise I would like to draw on some phenomenological
observations Wittgenstein makes in Zettel. Although these passages refer to
the face (specifically the eyes), my initial interest here is methodological –
that is, with Levinas’s broader suspicion of visual metaphors and his sub-
sequent tendency to describe the face in auditory terms.
In Zettel Wittgenstein writes:
We do not see the human eye as a receiver, it appears not to let any-
thing in, but to send something out. The ear receives; the eye looks.
(It casts glances, it flashes, radiates, gleams.) One can terrify with
one’s eyes, not with one’s ear or nose. When you see the eye you see
something going out from it. You see the look in the eye.
(1990: §222)
(I have never yet read a comment on the fact that when one shuts one
eye and ‘only sees with one eye’ one does not simultaneously see dark-
ness (blackness) with the one that is shut.)
(1990: §615)
When one encounters the other’s face, her eyes are not entirely passive;
one experiences ‘the look in the [other’s] eye.’96 (As will become clear
later, a central part of Levinas’s own work is to elucidate the ethical
meaning of this ‘look.’) But what these passages highlight is the wider
97
function of the ocular in Levinas’s work. For while Levinas must –
despite his protestations98 – rely upon visual metaphors simply in virtue of
his emphasis on the face (a face that is both ‘what is seen . . . and also that
which sees’ (Derrida 1997c: 98)) it becomes apparent that this same
metaphor motivates his criticism of philosophy’s misrepresentation of the
other. According to Wittgenstein, the eye might be said to be ravenous for
the world in a way that the ear (or nose) is not,99 and this is why ‘one does
not simultaneously see darkness’ when one eye is closed. This broadly
phenomenological point corresponds to Levinas’s general characteriza-
tion of philosophy from ‘Aristotle to Heidegger’ (1996c: 189) as a sim-

ilarly insatiable enterprise committed to a knowledge that seeks the
systematic ‘assimilation’ (1992: 60) of the world to understanding.100 As
Derrida summarizes, for Levinas philosophy’s quest for ‘inhuman univer-
sality’ (1997c: 97) represents an attempt to ‘bring the other back into the
midst of the same’ (ibid.: 96) and is thus ‘in its meaning and at bottom’
(ibid.: 91) an ‘imperialism’ (ibid.: 84)101 or ‘totalitarianism’ (ibid.: 91) –
indeed, traditional philosophies are ‘summoned’ by Levinas to ‘transpose
themselves into [his] language by confessing their violent aims’ (ibid.:
97). To this extent Levinas engages in a deliberate act of synesthesia as his
work moves toward an increasingly auditory characterization of a face that
speaks, accuses and commands.102 Levinas emphasizes this because the visual
metaphor harbors precisely those dangers he thinks should be guarded
against; namely, the assimilation of what is ‘other’ to ontological-
epistemological categories.103 In short, while sight is perhaps the most
voracious of senses,104 hearing is markedly more passive105 and vulnerable
– themes central to Levinas’s thinking.106
These points may seem to be only of general methodological interest.
However, if we keep this synesthetic movement in mind the significance of
Levinas’s characterization of the other’s face (and specifically the ‘lan-
guage of the eyes’ (1996c: 66)) as the ‘meaning prior’ (1998a: 13) to lan-
guage that embodies the commandment ‘ “Thou shalt not kill . . . ” ’ (1992:
89) becomes clearer. In Levinas we find numerous remarks pertaining to
the face as ‘an order issued to me not to abandon the other’ (1993: 44), as
‘the categorical imperative’ (ibid.: 158), and likewise as not being ‘offered
to serene perception’ but rather as ‘summoning’ or ‘recalling’ me ‘to a
responsibility I incurred in no previous experience’ (ibid.: 93–4).107 And it
is precisely this ‘active’ dimension of the face that lies at the heart of
Levinas’s rejection of a purely empirical exegesis thereof (thus deepening
the ethical significance of Wittgenstein’s aforementioned observations on
the ‘look’ (1990: §222)). The central point here is that, while the face
‘presents’ itself to me, insofar as I am thereby also faced by the face,108 its
meaning transcends what would otherwise be a pure plasticity.109
As Harvey notes: ‘le visage is not translatable into English as simply “the
face” without a violent . . . reduction of its meaning.’ Rather, ‘[l]e visage is
“a facing” more precisely; it is an opening of the face and is therefore
expression as well as face as such’ (1986: 171). Although inanimate objects
might be said to ‘face’ me, the manner in which the other’s face ‘faces’ me
is unique. But Levinas develops this in a rather specific way: ‘The face is
exposed, menaced, as if inviting us to an act of violence. At the same time,
the face is what forbids us to kill’ (1992: 86):
The first word of the face is the ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ It is an order.
There is a commandment in the appearance of the face, as if a master
spoke to me. However, at the same time, the face of the Other is desti-
tute; it is the poor for whom I can do all and to whom I owe all.
(Levinas 1992: 89)110
This seems to complicate matters insofar as the face is here presented as

both masterful and impoverished; both forbidding and inviting violence.111
Indeed, Levinas acknowledges ‘these two strange things in the face: its
extreme frailty – the fact of being without means and, on the other hand,
there is authority’ (1988a: 169).112 This characterization thus suggests
strength113 and weakness simultaneously;114 the authority of a commanding
position of ‘height’ (1996a: 12)115 which is also a pleading.116 For ‘in its
expression, in its morality, the face before me summons me, calls for me,
begs for me . . . and in doing so recalls my responsibility, and calls me into
question’ (1996b: 83).117 But this dual emphasis is not as paradoxical as it
might first appear. The wailing of a young child (for example) might be
described as simultaneously an appeal and a demand.118 (Likewise, the
exclamation ‘Do not kill me!’ can be simultaneously an entreaty and com-
mandment for mercy – if not also a counter-threat.119) According to Levinas
then, the face of the other ‘calls me into question’ through the ‘extreme
exposure’120 of her inherent ‘defenselessness, vulnerability’ (1998b: 145),121
‘dereliction,’ ‘timidity’ (1996a: 69), ‘destitution,’122 ‘poverty’ (1992: 86),
‘nakedness’ (1993: 102),123 ‘loneliness’ (ibid.: 158), ‘decomposition,’124
‘frailty,’125 ‘original frankness’ (1996d: 95), and shivering ‘nudity’ (1996a:
54). That is, the authority of the face and its capacity for ‘awakening and
sobering [me] up’ (1998b: 114)126 lies precisely in its fragility.127
From these reflections Levinas argues that the other’s face challenges
the particular ‘I’128 as it has variously been construed by Western thought,
including Heidegger’s Dasein.129 On Levinas’s view all such characteriza-
tions participate in a fundamental spirit of egocentrism – what might be
called a domestication of the ‘foreigner.’ Philosophy’s treatment of the
other human130 thus represents simultaneously the most important and
lamentable instance of its broader ‘assimilating’131 trajectory toward ‘a
reduction of all experience . . . to a totality wherein consciousness
embraces the world, leaves nothing other outside of itself’ (1992: 75).132
According to Levinas, the ‘I’ has been construed primarily in terms of
self-presence or self-coincidence (what he refers to as the ‘haughty priority
of the A is A’ (1998a: 174)), where any relation to others is seen to form a
secondary, derivative layer to this prior ‘egotism of the I’ (1998b: 189).133
From this perspective others are essentially another species of object
(albeit a particularly interesting sort) to be known, and are thereby
approachable only insofar as they reflect oneself, one’s interests, potential-
ities-for-being, and so on.134 In other words, philosophy has treated the
social relation as being either structurally symmetrical and reciprocal,135 or
dissymmetrically weighted on the side of the ego.
Much of what I said above concerning the ‘authority’ of the face is rele-
vant here. For what Levinas emphasizes is the disruption136 of the philosophi-
cal-egological account of the subject.137 If this latter model can be

characterized by its appeal to self-sufficiency and self-coincidence (a certain
‘being at home with oneself’ (1994a: 178)138) then Levinas’s conception of
subjectivity can, by contrast, be characterized as one of essential displace-
ment, uneasiness and ‘bad conscience’ (1998a: 174).139 What the other’s face
interrupts is consciousness returning safely to itself in self-consciousness,
‘into an I think’ existing primarily ‘for [it]self’ (1996a: 143):140
[A] face imposes itself upon me without my being able to be deaf to

its call or to forget it, that is, without my being able to suspend my
responsibility for its distress. Consciousness loses its first place . . . Con-
sciousness is called into question by the face . . . Visitation consists in
overwhelming the very egoism of the I . . . A face confounds the inten-
tionality that aims at it . . . The I loses its sovereign self-coincidence, its
identification, in which consciousness returns triumphantly to itself to
rest on itself. Before the exigency of the Other . . . the I is expelled
from this rest . . .
(Levinas 1996a: 54)141
Levinas proceeds elsewhere:
As soon as I acknowledge that it is ‘I’ who am responsible, I accept

that my freedom is anteceded by an obligation to the other. Ethics
redefines subjectivity as this heteronymous responsibility in contrast to
autonomous freedom. Even if I deny my primordial responsibility to
the other by affirming my own freedom as primary, I can never escape
the fact that the other has demanded a response from me before I
affirm my freedom not to respond to his demand.
(1984: 63)142
Although my exclusion of the other is here couched in a violent terminol-

ogy (and could indeed be understood as the originary condition of all
violence) it would be mistaken to read such passages as representing the
ethical relation as something essentially savage143 or tragic.144 It would, for
example, be mistaken to here join Baudelaire and lament ‘the tyranny of
the human face’ (1996: 53). Such a Sartrean145 gloss would miss Levinas’s
point that there is no pre-existent ‘I’ to which this disruption ‘happens.’
Only if this were the case would the vocabulary of violence (or tragedy) be
appropriate, for only then would an existential nostalgia be possible:146
[T]he responsibility for the other . . . is the contracting of an ego,

going to the hither side of identity – identity gnawing away at itself –
in a remorse. Responsibility for another is not an accident that
happens to a subject, but precedes essence in it, has not awaited
freedom, in which a commitment to another would have been made. I
have not done anything and I have always been under accusation –
persecuted.
(Levinas 1994a: 114)147
That the face ‘calls me into question’ is thus not the clearest way for
Levinas to express himself, as this does seem to imply a prior ‘me’ to which
being ‘called into question’ happens.148 Levinas provides a better formula-
tion when he remarks: ‘One comes not into the world but into question’
(1996b: 81),149 and similarly: ‘Responsibility . . . is not a simple attribute of
subjectivity, as if the latter already existed in itself, before the ethical rela-
tionship. Subjectivity is not for itself; it is . . . initially for another’ (1992:
96).150 The ‘I’ is thus actually ‘defined’ in its exposure to another human
being, for the ‘ethical I is a being who asks if he has a right to be!, who
excuses himself to the other for his own existence’ (1984: 62–3).151
Earlier I discussed Wittgenstein’s remark to Drury that there was ‘a
sense in which’ they were ‘both Christians’ (Drury 1981: 130). Although I
will return to this in Chapter 7, it is here worth noting that Derrida sim-
ilarly recalls Levinas once describe himself as being (in some sense)
‘Catholic’; a remark that would ‘call for long and serious reflection’
(Derrida 1996c: 9). It is reasonable to suppose that this meditation would
involve Derrida considering the place of Guilt (and perhaps confession)
in Levinas’s work.152 But I allude to Levinas’s ‘Catholicism’ because his
treatment of Guilt, though rarely named as such, requires careful negotia-
tion.153 As previously suggested, Levinas does not seek atonement or liber-
ation from his ‘ghosts,’ and thus his preoccupation with Guilt is, contrary
to the intimation above, emphatically not that of Catholic orthodoxy, or of
Christian theology more generally.154 Although both Catholic and Lev-
inasian Guilt recast the self as ethically burdened, for Levinas this burden
is not merely of ancient origin, but immemorial. That is, the Guilt around
which Levinas’s thought revolves remains Heideggerian insofar as it does
not first emerge through specific acts or omissions perpetrated. Neither
can it be subsumed under the rubric of ‘original sin’ or any other archaic
inheritance.155 For although the mark of original sin in its various Chris-
tian formulations may cut deep into human nature, insofar as this notion
maintains an origin – and thereby the potential for nostalgia – it simultan-
eously remains tethered to the possibility of reparation, salvation and
156
eventual good conscience. But it is precisely this ‘promise . . . of the
“Happy End” ’ (1988a: 175) or of ‘divine pardon’ (1998b: 18) that the face
of the other calls into question. In ‘the augmentation of guilt,’ Levinas
thus remarks, ‘there is no rest for the self’ (1996a: 144):
Conscience welcomes the Other. It is the revelation of a resistance to

my powers that does not counter them as a greater force, but calls in
question the naïve right of my powers, my glorious spontaneity as a
living being. Morality begins when freedom, instead of being justified
by itself, feels itself to be arbitrary and violent.

(1996c: 84)157
On this account, to be ‘in the first person’ (1996b: 82) is already to be a

trespasser. It is not that I am first – or potentially (even by the grace of
God) – an innocent subject upon whom guilt and responsibility are
inscribed. Rather, we must think of subjectivity as being in its meaning
accountable to the other.158 I am a trespasser because, simply through my
being-in-the-world, I am Guilty of taking another’s place. And it is on
account of this that one must attempt to think beyond the economics of
Catholic guilt to ‘a debt in the I, older than any loan’ (1998b: 227).159
(‘What is an individual if not a usurper?’ Levinas further inquires, ‘What is
signified by the advent of conscience, and even the first spark of spirit, if
not the discovery of corpses beside me and my horror of existing by assas-
sination?’ (1997a: 100).160) In short, I occupy a site that can only be con-
ceived as ‘rightfully mine’ by indulging in what Derrida calls the ‘scandal
. . . [of] good conscience’ (1999: 67).161 Thus, contrary to the Heidegger-
ian account, my primordial Guilt is not to be understood in terms of
the necessary exclusion of my own latent possibilities, but in terms of my
exclusion of an other. For Levinas my responsibility is therefore due to a
certain play of absences of those others denied such a place by my-being-
here. My existence might therefore be described as ‘differentially consti-
tuted’162 insofar as it carries along with it a ‘trace’ of the other whose
‘place’ (1996b: 82) I continually occupy.163 And it is with this ‘irremissible
guilt with regard to the neighbor’ (1994a: 109) in mind that the ‘I’ can
be said to be ‘constituted by a certain work of mourning’ (Derrida 1997a:
14).164
Even with these points in mind, it is easy to misconstrue Levinas’s posi-
tion. For there are times when he appears to advocate little more than a
distributive justice; as when, for example, he remarks of the face’s
command ‘Thou shalt not kill’:
This does not mean simply that you are not to go around firing a gun
all the time. It refers, rather, to the fact that, in the course of your life,
in different ways, you kill someone. For example, when we sit down at
the table in the morning and drink coffee, we kill an Ethiopian who
doesn’t have any coffee. It is in this sense that the commandment
must be understood.
(1988a: 173)165
Here we might hear an echo of Rousseau’s Discourse on the Origin of Inequal-

ity.166 Reading Levinas in this way would, however, lead to misunderstand-
ings. For while the development of a Levinasian politics (assuming such a
thing is conceivable167) may naturally take this trajectory, Levinas’s posi-
tion is neither reducible to a ‘scarcity argument’ nor a straightforward
rebuttal of the ‘acts and omissions’ distinction. For one should again
recall: my responsibility for you does not spring from, and is not simply
proportionate to, our relative material assets or ‘proprietorship’
(Rousseau 1930: 220). Rather, my asymmetrical responsibility precedes the
responsibilities arising from such material inequalities.168 I am responsible,
not in virtue of what I have or can do, but in virtue of the fact that I am.169
In the concluding part of this chapter I want to bring these points
together by: (1) demarcating where the Heideggerian and Levinasian pro-
jects both intertwine and part company, and (2) explaining why Wittgen-
stein remains of crucial importance here.
Confessions: the singularity of guilt and ordinary

experience
Like Wittgenstein’s portrayal of one’s being ‘addressed’ (1990: §717) by
God, the ‘calls’ of both Heideggerian Conscience and the Levinasian
other have authority due to their capacity to summon and accuse the ‘I’ in
its particularity.170 Both ‘calls’ resist thematization into a simple informa-
tional content and manifest themselves as an interruption of the subject in
its various states of good conscience, tearing it out of its domestic and cul-
tural retreats.171 On this the Heideggerian and Levinasian projects are in
broad agreement. However, they differ on the specific nature and source
of this ‘call.’ While for Heidegger the call constitutes an appeal that
summons Dasein to itself, for Levinas it is the other who calls me – even, as
Levi puts it, by ‘his simply being there’ (1998: 59). Likewise, on Heideg-
ger’s account, the call’s interruption of good conscience is primarily the
interruption of Dasein’s lostness in the anonymous inauthenticity of the
‘they.’ But, according to Levinas, Dasein’s aspiration for resolute self-
sufficiency does not escape the other’s accusation. It is not the good con-
science of the ‘they’ that primarily concerns Levinas but rather the
subject’s attempted withdrawal into the ‘ “nobility,” [and] proud virility’
(1998b: 226) of its own authentic relation to Being172 (a relation that,
Levinas reminds us, is not primarily concerned either with its ‘owing any-
thing to anyone’ (ibid.) or ‘giving, feeding the hungry and clothing the
naked’ (ibid.: 116)). Although Heidegger characterizes Dasein as
fundamentally ‘ “not-at-home” ’ (1999: 321)173 in its thrownness,174 what
distinguishes the Levinasian subject from Dasein is that, in the latter, this
primordial ‘anxiety’175 concerns ‘its ownmost potentiality-for-Being’
(ibid.). In its finitude Dasein is never able to achieve full authenticity,176
but its primary concern nevertheless remains (or ought to remain) with
the project of authenticity. Because Heidegger’s analyses are therefore
essentially egological,177 Levinas seeks to uncover the ‘bad conscience that
is not the finiteness of existing signified in [Heideggerian] anguish’
(1999: 28).178
On the question of Guilt similar points of convergence and divergence
emerge between Heidegger and Levinas. Both resist a more judicial-

economic understanding, and instead stress the primordiality and singular-
ity of a Guilt that both precedes any particular act or omission and also
identifies me alone as responsible. Primordial Guilt is not something that
befalls a pre-existent ‘I’ by virtue of specific crimes or misdemeanors.
Rather, it is constitutive of one’s very being-in-the-world; to be an ‘I’ is
already to be Guilty. But it is the nature of this ‘being-in-the-world’ that again
indicates the difference between Heidegger and Levinas. For the former,
Being-in-the-world is essentially a Being-before-Dasein’s-own-potentialities. I
am (as Dasein) primordially Guilty face-to-face with myself, and specifically
with my ‘ownmost potentiality-for-Being’ (1999: 321). For Levinas, however,
the ‘I’ is Guilty face-to-face with the other who reminds it of the murderous-
ness of its very being.179 Finally, Heidegger’s emphasis on the ‘nullity’ or
‘not’ (ibid.: 331) constitutive of Dasein’s Being is taken up by Levinas (and
Derrida) and given a distinctly ethical twist. Although I will turn more
explicitly to Derrida in Chapter 8, it is here worth citing one particularly
striking reformulation of Heidegger’s ‘not.’ In The Gift of Death Derrida
writes:
The absoluteness of duty and of responsibility . . . calls for a betrayal of

everything that manifests itself within the order of universal generality
. . . In a word, ethics must be sacrificed in the name of duty . . . What
the knights of good conscience don’t realize, is that ‘the sacrifice of
Isaac’ illustrates . . . the most common and everyday experiences of
responsibility. The story is no doubt monstrous, outrageous, barely
conceivable . . . But isn’t this also the most common thing?
(1995b: 66–7)
In other words: ‘what binds me thus in my singularity to the absolute sin-

gularity of the other, immediately propels me into the space or risk of
absolute sacrifice’ because there are ‘innumerable’ other others ‘to whom I
should be bound by the same responsibility’ (ibid.: 68). What Derrida is
highlighting here is that in any response to the ‘call’ of this other (here,
facing me) I necessarily sacrifice countless other others. That is, ‘I always
betray someone to be just; I always betray one for the other, I perjure
myself like I breathe’ (2001b: 49):180
By preferring my work, simply by giving it my time and attention, by
preferring my activity as a citizen or as a . . . philosopher, writing and
speaking here in a public language . . . I am perhaps fulfilling my duty.
But I am sacrificing and betraying at every moment all my other
obligations: my obligations to the other others whom I know or don’t
know, the billions of . . . my fellows who are dying of starvation or sick-
ness . . . to those who don’t speak my language . . . to those I love in
private, my own, my family, my son, each of whom is the only son I
sacrifice to the other, every one being sacrificed to every one else in
this land of Moriah that is our habitat every second of every day.
(1995b: 69)181
The trace of Heidegger here is relatively transparent (certainly it is more

difficult to locate anything in Levinas’s work that echoes Heidegger so
conspicuously). Nevertheless, the essential point is that for both Derrida
and Levinas it is not the necessary exclusion of my own possibilities that is
of primary importance but rather the necessary exclusion of the other
other (in even the most generous, hospitable and ‘responsible’ of
acts) that marks my being-in-the-world as primordially Guilty.182 It is,
one might say, the very condition of possibility of my having possibilities-
for-Being that I take the place of another. Although Heidegger maintains
that Being-guilty is ‘the existential condition for the possibility of
the “morally” good and for the “morally” evil – that is, for morality in
general’ he quickly adds that this ‘primordial “Being-guilty” cannot
be defined by morality, since morality already presupposes it for itself’
(1999: 332).183 According to Heidegger then, insofar as Dasein is first
Guilty before itself, morality is a subsidiary issue.184 For Levinas, however,
given that I am first Guilty before the other, ethics has philosophical primacy:
‘In the responsibility for the other person, my being calls for justification’
because the ‘Da of Dasein is already an ethical problem’ (1993: 48).185
If Heidegger’s Dasein can be said to be haunted by the trace of its
own excluded possibilities-for-Being, then for Levinas (and Derrida) it is
the trace of the excluded other who haunts the subject’s Being-in-the-
world.186
In his refusal to offer an ‘optimistic philosophy for the end of history’
(ibid.: 114), Levinas’s is indeed an ‘austere doctrine’ (1997a: 20) – if not
in some sense ‘masochistic’ (2001: 46). There is no Pyrrhonian ataraxia in
this conception of ethics, and no safe haven (not even the domestic home,
as we will see in Chapter 8) in which to shield oneself from the other. And
yet Levinas’s work does not appear excessively dark or brooding. His overt
rejection of the religious-eschatological assurance of the ‘Happy End’187 is
not then mere renunciation or protest. From a life scarred by the Nazi
horror, and a philosophy continually haunted by the countenance of the
other,188 Levinas finds something affirmative to say: I am primarily for-the-
other. Indeed, were this otherwise then there would be no goodness in
189
the world, not even the everyday ‘after you.’ All this is doubtless ‘not
pleasant’ or ‘enjoyable, but it is “good” ’ (2001: 135).
Earlier I highlighted those passages in Wittgenstein’s writings that
gesture toward a notion of responsibility beyond the traditional moral
principle that ‘ought implies can.’190 Wittgenstein never systematically
works through these ideas – although certain biographical facts191 are rele-
vant here. Due to this insufficiency in Wittgenstein’s work I turned to the
Heideggerian and Levinasian analyses of Guilt, indicating where these
respective projects both intersect and diverge. What I would finally like to
suggest is how a more Wittgensteinian approach might be developed to

integrate with both the analysis of Guilt provided in Heidegger’s ‘funda-
mental ontology,’ and the sense of ‘bad conscience’ motivating Levinas’s
ethics. This is important because, while Levinas does occasionally allude to
‘everyday’ phenomena in an affirmative manner192 (the aforementioned
‘after you’ being perhaps the most notable example), his more general
attitude echoes Heidegger’s own suspicion of ‘ordinary’ language and
‘everyday’ concepts.
In Robinson Crusoe (a text to which Levinas refers on a number of occa-
sions193) Defoe tells us of the protagonist’s thoughts of suicide upon
finding himself to be the sole survivor of a shipwreck. Tortured by feelings
of both relief (for himself) and remorse (for his companions) Crusoe
reproves his ‘pensive’ state as follows:
Well, you are in a desolate condition, ’tis true, but pray remember,
where are the rest of you? Did not you come eleven of you into the
boat? where are the ten? Why were they not saved and you lost? Why
were you singled out? Is it better to be here or there? and then I
pointed to the sea. All evils are to be considered with the good that is
in them.
(Defoe 1985: 80)
In this way Crusoe keeps a tight rein on his ‘melancholy’ (ibid.: 81).
Mindful of Crusoe’s predicament, Levinas’s reading of Genesis 4:9
becomes pertinent:
[W]hen someone says to [Cain]: ‘Where is your brother?’ He answers:

‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ . . . We must not take Cain’s answer as if
he were mocking God or as if he were answering as a little boy: ‘It isn’t
me, it’s the other one.’ Cain’s answer is sincere. Ethics is the only
thing lacking in his answer; there is only ontology: I am I, and he is
he.
(1998b: 110)194
Insofar as the others’ deaths haunt Crusoe’s own survival, his pragma-
tism is (ontologically speaking) perfectly reasonable 195 – after all, what third
party would contest his motives? Analogously, Cain’s response to God is
hardly exceptional: Abel is not an infant requiring constant supervision.
Still, the responses of Crusoe and Cain are by no means inevitable; that
‘there is only ontology’ here is not, as it were, predetermined. Such prag-
matism is, for example, lacking in Rousseau’s The Confessions. There we are
told how, upon his father’s homecoming from Constantinople, Rousseau
himself became ‘the unhappy fruit of his return.’ An ‘unhappy fruit,’ not
merely due to his being a ‘poor and sickly child’ who was ‘almost born
dead,’ but specifically because this birth ‘cost [Rousseau’s] mother her
life’:
I never knew how my father stood up to his loss, but I know that he
never got over it. He seemed to see her again in me, but could never
forget that I had robbed him of her; he never kissed me that I did not
know by his sighs and his convulsive embrace that there was a bitter
grief mingled with his affection . . . When he said to me, ‘Jean-Jacques,
let us talk of your mother,’ I would reply: ‘Very well, father, but we are
sure to cry.’ ‘Ah,’ he would say with a groan; ‘Give her back to me,
console me for her, fill the void she has left in my heart! Should I love
you so if you were not more to me than a son?’
(1953: 19)196
Rousseau thus proceeds to describe his birth as ‘the first of my misfor-

tunes,’ later pardoning his principal carers for ‘causing me to live’ (ibid.).
Doubtless one could speculate on the relationship between this and
Rousseau’s soon-discovered masochism197 (if not also between this
masochism and his desire to make his ‘soul transparent’ (ibid.: 169)198 and
lay himself entirely ‘open to human malice’ (ibid.: 65) in The Confessions
itself). But what these passages also highlight is, again, an experience of
guilt that disrupts the customary precepts of moral culpability. What then
is one to make of Rousseau’s ghosts? Are they only of biographical (or
pathological) significance?
With these examples in mind it is notable that, in his commentary on
Heidegger, Kellner should berate moral philosophy for being ‘merely pre-
scriptive or emotive, confessional (or trivial, apologetic, and conformist, as
in the case of much “ordinary language” ethics)’ (1992: 207). What
Kellner is presumably attacking here is the reparative nature of ethical
theory, and specifically its preoccupation with an essentially economic
understanding of guilt.199 But does this appraisal do justice, not so much
to moral philosophy but more particularly to the ‘ordinary language’ Hei-
degger200 (and Levinas201) treats so disparagingly? Or might there be a
certain ‘grammar’ of guilt that would account for Rousseau’s experience
and also bear witness to precisely those characteristics of Guilt emphasized
by Heidegger and Levinas? What is at stake here is the assumption that the
‘ordinary’ understanding of guilt is inherently deficient, and that a proper
conception would demand an entirely ‘new vocabulary’ (ibid.: 209). Such
skepticism is, I believe, both misplaced and liable to blind philosophers
sympathetic to Heidegger and/or Levinas to features of ‘everyday’ dis-
course that actually substantiate their own objectives. I will now explain
how.
Gaita recalls a specific episode of the documentary series The World at
War where a Dutchwoman was interviewed about the Nazi death camps:
She had given shelter to three Jews fleeing the Nazis, but after some
days she asked them to leave because she was involved in a plot to
assassinate Hitler and judged that it would be at risk if she were
caught sheltering Jews. The three were caught within days of leaving
her house and murdered in a concentration camp. She said Hitler
had made a murderess of her.
(1991: 43)
Although the woman clearly ‘was not a murderer: no court would judge
her to be that . . . no one could seriously say to her, nor even of her, that
she was, morally speaking, a murderess’ (ibid.), it is nevertheless meaning-
ful for her to feel remorse for her actions.202 Gaita thus rightly concludes
that it is the ‘tendency to connect moral responsibility too tightly to culpa-
bility’ that ‘leads to a moralistic distortion in much contemporary discus-
sion of moral responsibility’ (ibid.: 44).203 A similar example of this occurs
toward the end of Spielberg’s Schindler’s List. There, the morally ambigu-
ous figure of Schindler realizes that, despite his contribution to the safe-
keeping of ‘his’ Jews, he could nevertheless have done so much more. The
‘Schindler Jews’ attempt to curb what seems to them a perversely harsh
self-condemnation (earlier, Schindler is assured that what he was doing
was an ‘absolute good’). But for Schindler this provides little solace as he
continues to interrogate himself regarding how many more lives could have
been saved had his lifestyle during the war been less opulent – despite the
fact that it was precisely this opulence that had enabled him to safeguard
‘his’ Jews in the first place. Both the Dutchwoman and Schindler thus bear
witness to a remorseful guilt that no third party could ever seriously
endorse. In short, theirs is a guilt marked by its ‘radical singularity.’204 As
Gaita puts it, whatever reassurances are offered by others, it ‘should be no
consolation if what we did was also done by the best of people’ (ibid.: 49),
for ‘there can be only corrupt consolation in the knowledge that others
are guilty as we are’ (ibid.: 47). A final example from Wittgenstein’s own
life illustrates the point well. In the 1930s Wittgenstein delivered a ‘confes-
sion of sins’ to a number of friends.205 One of those recipients, Fania
Pascal, has since confessed her own ‘feeling of guilt’ (1996: 45) for her
‘coldness and for being at a loss what to say’ (ibid.: 49) in response. After
contemplating the possible reasons for Wittgenstein’s confession she pro-
ceeds: ‘These are idle speculations. Yet the question seems relevant:
should he not have realized that many people live with a constant feeling
of guilt?’ (ibid.: 49–50). What is interesting about Pascal’s question is how,
having suggested that Wittgenstein’s confession was unnecessary because
‘many people live with a constant feeling of guilt,’ she does not excuse her
own confession and guilt in the same way. Why? Because while it may be
perfectly natural and justifiable to say to the other ‘Take comfort; you do
not need to confess. After all, we are all similarly guilty,’ to console oneself
with such sentiments could only reveal an indecent and questionable pre-
sumptuousness.206 Recalling Dostoyevsky’s remarks in The Brothers Karama-
zov, while I might concede that ‘every one of us is responsible for everyone
else in every way,’ this is not to say that such responsibility divides equally
amongst us: I may still be guilty ‘most of all’ (1967: 339). In Heidegger’s
terms, what is being resisted by the Dutchwoman, Schindler and Pascal is
the possibility of falling into the good conscience of the ‘we’; of saying ‘ “I
am good” ’ (1999: 338) because ‘they’ assure me so.207 Here too, then,
guilt functions outside the rules that, according to Heidegger and Levinas,
govern the ‘everyday,’ reparative model. But although their characteriza-
tion may fit a certain legal-judicial model of guilt, it is unlikely that model
adequately represents how moral guilt functions ‘ordinarily’ (ibid.: 314).
In other words, it is unclear that this ‘radical singularity’ or ‘mineness’208 is
not already inscribed into the grammar of moral guilt. If this is correct
then Guilt does not need a ‘new vocabulary’ (Kellner 1992: 209). Rather,
what is required is more attentiveness regarding our ‘ordinary’ language –
a language that is often quite ‘extraordinary’ (Derrida 2000a: 415).209
Although the previous examples dramatize my main point, their lesson
is by no means exceptional. Indeed, such phenomena are so common-
place we often fail to notice them.210 It is not unusual to feel guilty for
having done or said something (or omitted to do so) to someone who is
now long since dead.211 This guilt might persist beyond any possible repa-
ration, haunting us for the rest of our lives212 – even though, as others
remind us, the offended party did not die with any sort of grudge. Indeed,
the offence in question might itself be spectral, having been explicitly for-
given long before the other’s demise. One might, for example, feel an
unshakeable guilt for having omitted to tell a partner ‘I love you’ on the
morning of their death – a morning that lacked any special reason for inti-
macies of this sort. With a variety of such facts others may try and console
us. But this was the morning of their death, and no recourse to circum-
stantial details need ever relieve our bad conscience. Of course, this sense
of guilt is prone to ‘egocentric corruptions’ (Gaita 1991: 52), where one
adorns oneself in the garbs of guilt to wallow in self-pity or play the role of
martyr.213 In this respect the mere recognition of bad conscience can itself
simply disguise a deeper good conscience.214 Piety, or any ritualized activity
that is not ‘as genuine as a kiss’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 8), is something to
be wary of here too,215 as is the descent into narcissistic self-destruction.
Thus, recalling Crusoe, it may sometimes
be a proper rebuke against moral haughtiness and hubris to remind
someone who judges their failings of character too harshly that they
are only human, meaning, that they should gain a perspective on
their failings by remembering they are not alone in such failings.
(Gaita 1991: 49)
Nevertheless, it is often quite ‘different with guilt’:
It should be no consolation if what we did was also done by the best of

people. That is not pride because remorse does not focus on what
kind of person we are: its focus is on what we have become . . . It is
therefore not inaccurate or fanciful to say that the guilty, in recogni-
tion of what they have become, have a sense of being placed else-
where: placed, because of their concentrated radical singularity under
judgement; elsewhere, because their suffering can find no relief in a
humbling acknowledgement of their humanity.
(Gaita 1991: 49–50)
Rephrasing this in the vocabulary of On Certainty (discussed in Chapter 2)

we can summarize as follows: When faced with another suffering such a
‘radically singular’ guilt it would be natural to try and ease their burden by
stressing our common humanity and finitude, or by appealing to the prag-
matic necessity of them not overburdening themselves to the point of inca-
pacity. All such rhetorical strategies – and countless others – could be
employed here. However, one could not (in the sort of examples I have
been considering) simply pronounce the other to have made a ‘blunder’
(Wittgenstein 1994b: 59) in their reasoning. For how does one reason
from a common ground or shared criterion when what is in question
(one’s own guilt) operates precisely where appeals to universality break
down? Here, it would seem, one finds a paradigm case of what Wittgen-
stein refers to as a ‘fundamental’ (1999: §512), ‘groundless’ (ibid.: §166)
and ‘unshakeable’ (ibid.: §86)216 conviction. At this juncture one might
attempt to provide reasons against another’s guilt, but ‘how far do they
go? At the end of reasons comes persuasion’ (ibid.: §612).217
It is in this sense that the possibility of a ‘radically singular’ guilt dis-
rupts the notion of a ‘we’ or ‘common humanity.’ But this admission does
not demand that we abandon such categories altogether, for this ‘radical-
ity’ is not a quasi-Lyotardian space of fathomless incommensurability. As
previously argued, those passages from On Certainty cited above should not
be taken on face value, but rather read alongside Wittgenstein’s natural-
ism. Only by tempering the apparently resignatory (or ‘conservative’)
spirit of such remarks in this way can one properly understand his later
work. More pointedly, this unifying naturalism is itself necessary for
understanding the ‘singularity’ of guilt expounded by Heidegger and
Levinas. For while it is doubtless true that a profound disturbance occurs
here in the (potential) good conscience of the appeal to an underlying
‘common humanity,’ this nevertheless remains a disturbance and not a
total dissolution of this category. Recognizing one’s natural commonality
with others does not mean that my guilt cannot be disproportionately
excessive. Moreover, though no ‘relief’ from guilt may be found ‘in a
humbling acknowledgement of [one’s] humanity,’218 this does not mean
that my guilt is wholly idiosyncratic or incommunicable. The claim that the
guilty can find themselves ‘placed elsewhere’ by the ‘radical singularity’ of
their guilt219 must not therefore be taken in the extreme Lyotardian sense
criticized in Chapter 3. Indeed, Rousseau’s The Confessions is instructive on

precisely this point. For although its author is at pains to stress the singu-
larity of his revelatory exercises,220 in his attempt to make his ‘soul trans-
parent to the reader’s eye’ by presenting the minutiae of his life ‘from all
points of view, to show it in all lights, and to contrive that none of its
movements shall escape his notice’ (1953: 169) (that is, in his frequent
appeal to the reader221), Rousseau thereby bears witness to the natural
limits of this singularity. The signature Rousseau wants to inscribe in his
confession is not – and cannot be qua signature – wholly singular.222 For
despite the remarkable frankness of The Confessions, this does not render it
unintelligible.223 The very possibility for the reader to ‘follow’ Rousseau ‘in
all the extravagances of [his] heart and into every least corner of [his] life’
(and, not least, for Rousseau to thus lay himself ‘sufficiently open to
human malice by telling [his] story’ (ibid.: 65)) necessarily depends upon
there being some degree of commonality between author and reader.
There are doubtless times in The Confessions where one wonders precisely
why Rousseau is divulging certain events, yet even here it would be a gross
exaggeration to suggest that these peculiar expositions are radically singu-
lar in the Lyotardian sense.
This cautionary point is, however, of additional significance when
approaching Levinas’s work. For it is a remarkable philosophical move he
makes when claiming that ‘What I say here of course only commits me!’
(1992: 114).224 This quasi-confessional moment – though of obvious inter-
est given the specific relationship we have traced between Levinas’s work
and the Holocaust – would seem to abandon all the standard criteria of
philosophical argumentation. At this juncture we might reasonably ask: If
all this only commits Levinas then why should we bother to read him – or
at least bother to read him philosophically? This is an important question.
But again, I do not think that one is forced to make such a dismissive
gesture. It is true that Levinas seems largely preoccupied with the
‘encounter with the face’ that lies ‘[b]eneath solidarity, beneath compan-
ionship, before Mitsein’ (Derrida 1997c: 90) – an emphasis that tends to
marginalize questions pertaining to the gritty realm of political contin-
gency.225 (Indeed, it is the former preoccupation that prevents him from
expounding any definitive moral code.226) Nevertheless, what Levinas says
regarding the asymmetrical nature of responsibility does not – as it
presumably would were this singularity radically ‘radical’ – commit him to
a solitary, quietistic mysticism.227 The rhetorical force of Levinas’s vocabu-
lary of trespassing and Guilt228 lies rather in its ability to touch upon very
basic (though rarely thematized) human tendencies. While he may not be
able to compel us to acknowledge our own primordial Guilt before the face
of the other – which would, after all, only amount to a ‘forced confession’
– Levinas must at least hope for a change of perspective in his readership.
This point is, however, important for a more pressing reason. I said above
that Levinas’s work tends to pass over the political contingencies of the
historical-cultural world. Given his repeated emphasis on both the face-to-

face relation and the asymmetrical singularity of my responsibility for the
other, the orientation of Levinas’s work may thus appear to be fundament-
ally a-political – if not in fact anti-political. On such a reading, what he
invokes is at best a quasi-Rousseauistic state in which one is, like Crusoe,
faced by an other. What Levinas (allegedly) underestimates, however, is
the brute fact that in my being-in-the-world I am always also faced by many
others; many different and incompatible claims on my responsibility.
While the primordial Guilt Levinas alludes to is not radically singular (it is
not simply Levinas’s own), it is not yet clear precisely how such Guilt func-
tions in the ethical-political realm. It is to this important question that I
will now turn.
7 The unreasonableness of ethics
Levinas and the limits of
responsibility
For the first time I began to perceive that true sympathy cannot be switched
on and off like an electric current, that anyone who identifies himself with
the fate of another is robbed to some extent of his own freedom.
S. Zweig, Beware of Pity
If you offer a sacrifice and are pleased with yourself about it, both you and
your sacrifice will be cursed.
L. Wittgenstein, Culture and Value
So long as ethics cannot point to a foundation . . . it may carry on its dispu-

tations and make a show in the lecture halls, but real life will make it an
object of ridicule. I must, therefore, give the teachers of ethics the para-
doxical advice of first looking around a little at the lives of men.
A. Schopenhauer, On The Basis of Morality
Introduction
In Chapter 3 I argued that characterizing the human body as a ‘moral
space’ facilitates a deeper understanding of the ethical terrain of Wittgen-
stein’s later work.1 What he calls into question is the assumption that
ethics constitutes a subsidiary layer of experience that is essentially para-
sitic on more fundamental philosophical issues.2 This is not to deny
reason its place, but rather to highlight the ‘common behavior of
mankind’ (1958: §206) upon which reason – including ethical-political
deliberation – is hinged. Levinas also questions philosophy’s prioritization
of knowledge and reason over ethical responsibility, and similarly denies
that the latter is ‘superimposed ... as a second layer’ (1998a: 11).3 On this
point the Wittgensteinian and Levinasian projects are in broad agree-
ment. However, this accord comes unstuck at the level of the ‘natural.’
Despite their mutual preoccupation with the face and vulnerability, a
crucial disparity occurs at the precise moment Wittgenstein’s unifying nat-
uralism is revealed. My objective in this chapter is to: (1) elucidate this
tension between the Levinasian and Wittgensteinian projects, and (2)
provide a Wittgensteinian corrective to Levinas’s anti-naturalism. But in
The unreasonableness of ethics 149
order to do this a number of additional Levinasian themes need to be
explored. Thus, developing my previous analysis of the face, I will first
assess the significance of Levinas’s ‘religious’ conceptual vocabulary
(specifically with reference to his account of the ‘third-party’), and then
critique his ‘inhospitality’ toward the non-human animal.
Thanking God for the third party: the haunting of the

political/Levinas’s prayer
Although Levinas distinguishes between his philosophical writings and

those of a more religious and confessional bent,4 this demarcation is far
from clear-cut. As Derrida rightly notes, in Levinas’s work there lies a
certain ‘complicity of theology and metaphysics’ (1997c: 109).5 So, for
example, Levinas describes the face as ‘the indispensable circumstance of the
meaning’ of the word ‘God,’ and likewise as the ‘first prayer’ and ‘first
liturgy’ (1993: 94) coming ‘from most high outside the world’ (ibid.:
103).6 What then should we make of such passages, and what (if any) sub-
stantive philosophical work are they doing? The first thing to note here is
that, despite Levinas’s insistence that the face and the ‘transcendent’ are
intimately associated, it is not clear that his remarks compel us toward an
explicitly ‘religious’ interpretation of the latter. Such passages might be
read in a more straightforwardly phenomenological way, where the ‘trans-
cendence’ of the other represents only the ineptitude of consciousness to
‘grasp’ them fully (thereby retaining their ‘otherness’ and demanding of us
a little ‘faith’ (Ward 1998: 188)). In other words, Levinas’s religious vocab-
ulary might allude only to the difference between one’s experience of
objects7 (which are always open to verification and therein ‘appresented’
in their partial manifestation8) and one’s experience of other people.9
Thus interpreted, Levinas’s terminology becomes something of a rhet-
orical extravagance,10 and his work an unnecessarily spiritualized develop-
ment of the fifth of Husserl’s Cartesian Meditations.11 This is one possible
reading, but not one Levinas would endorse. For him, the ‘transcendent,’
‘God,’ the ‘Infinite’12 and ‘most high’13 are not translatable into even
quasi-epistemological terms.14 The otherness of the other, Levinas insists,
is not simply a ‘not-knowing’ or ‘privation of knowledge.’ It is not merely
that the other is incalculable or ‘unforeseeable,’ just as it is ‘not as a mis-
carried knowledge that love is love’ (1992: 66–7).15 One must therefore
take Levinas’s (philosophical) religiosity seriously. For when he claims
that ‘the relation to God is . . . a relation to another person’ he denies that
this is ‘a metaphor’; on the contrary ‘it is literally true. I’m not saying that
the other is God, but that in his or her face I hear the Word of God’
(1998b: 110).16 According to Levinas then, the face is inextricably linked
to the religious, and the latter is not shorthand for the limits of epis-
temology. A lot turns on this point, for as Derrida notes, Levinas will actu-
ally describe ‘this being-together as separation . . . [as] religion’ (1997c: 95)
or the ‘religious relation . . . the religiosity of the religious’ (ibid.: 96).17
Ultimately I will argue against this account in favor of something more
naturalistic (in the Wittgensteinian sense). Nevertheless, it is first neces-
sary to tease more from Levinas’s religious imagery, and thereby identify
some important ambiguities within his broader project.
Levinas’s religiosity is far from orthodox, for here God is emphatically
not conceived as ontological – not even as ‘the being . . . par excellence’
(1996a: 129–30).18 In keeping with Wittgenstein’s (and Malcolm’s) bewil-
derment concerning the notion of God as ‘creator,’ Levinas warns that
God’s reality ‘cannot be proved.’ Rather, the existence of God ‘is sacred
history itself, the sacredness of man’s relation to man through which God
may pass’ (1984: 54).19 Thus, regarding Picard’s suggestion that ‘the face of
man is the proof of the existence of God,’ Levinas remarks:
Clearly the concern here is not with deductive proof, but with the very
dimension of the divine . . . disclosing itself in that odd configuration of
lines that make up the human face. It is in the human face that . . . the trace
of God is manifested, and the light of revelation inundates the universe.
(1996d: 95)
In the other’s face one does not ‘see’ the face of God.20 Neither does one
infer from it that God exists.21 Rather, the other’s face testifies to the
divine in a way that cannot be assimilated to epistemic categories.22 Obvi-
ously the face can be treated as merely one object among many23 (as can
the other more generally24), and this possibility is why Levinas cautions
that the ‘best way of encountering the Other is not even to notice the
color of his eyes!’ (1992: 85). Estheticizing the other in this way bypasses
the social relation and results in an essentially pornographic encounter.
But while Levinas avoids speaking of the face in purely surface terms, so
too does he want to avoid any suggestion that the face is a material obs-
tacle to the divine.25 It is not that the phenomenal appearance of the face
(including the other’s capacity to use it as a ‘mask’) is irrelevant to the
social relation – how could it be? What Levinas is resisting is the reduction
of its meaning to these material features.26 But a familiar problem re-
emerges here, for opposing the tendencies of reductionism does not
necessarily liberate us from the categories of knowledge – assuming we
seek such liberation. Even if we concede that the face should not be
‘understood’ solely in terms of its surface qualities,27 it remains unclear
whether Levinas’s point is not fundamentally epistemological. Again, how
is it possible to think the transcendent without a more-or-less implicit
appeal to knowledge – albeit the impotence of knowledge and ontological
language here?28 Thus, one might say, Levinas’s negative theology of the
face is – like all negative theologies perhaps – not sufficiently negative.29
Still, Levinas’s denial that the face provides a ‘proof of the existence of
God’ but rather represents ‘the indispensable circumstance of the meaning of
30
that word’ (1993: 94) opens another possible avenue for exploring his
intermingling of philosophy and religion. The intimate relation between
the face and language is clearly insinuated in Levinas’s remarks on
‘prayer’ and ‘liturgy’ cited above. But why should he mention these spe-
cific discourses? As previously suggested, one potentially fruitful way of
approaching this question would be through Wittgenstein’s remarks on
religious belief. That the face testifies to the Infinite (that it is ‘the locus of
the [“Thou shalt not kill”] of God’ (Levinas 1999: 104)) could then be
understood in terms of its ‘imperative’ (1993: 158), commanding author-
ity.31 That is, the face of the other in Levinas’s work functions in much the
same way as God’s command does in Wittgenstein’s observation that one
can only ‘hear God speak’ if one is ‘being addressed’ (1990: §717) – a
point Levinas himself makes.32 Indeed, the authority Levinas claims on
behalf of the face mirrors Wittgenstein’s more general remarks on the cat-
egorical nature of genuinely religious utterances.33 A further correlation
between Levinas and Wittgenstein emerges here insofar as the face of the
other alludes to killing in the twofold sense that I am both ‘straightaway’
(Levinas 1992: 85)34 commanded not to kill and simultaneously accused of
having killed (and indeed of continuing to be an ‘accomplice’ (1998b:
186) to murder) through my very being-in-the-world.35 The face’s
command ‘thou shalt not kill’ (ibid.: 168) is, like Wittgenstein’s example
in Culture and Value,36 an impossible command; a mandate I have necessarily
already violated and continue to violate with every breath, word and deed.
The face both warns and accuses me of crimes already committed, and this
is why ‘in approaching the neighbor’ I am ‘always late for the appointed
time’ (Levinas 1996a: 106).37 In short, there is an important and telling
concurrence between the ‘depth grammar’ of religion and the face.38
With these points in mind, we are now better placed to understand
Levinas’s remarks that:
The infinite does not announce itself in the testimony as a theme. In

the sign given to the other . . . in my ‘here I am’ – immediately present
in the accusative – I testify to the Infinite . . . The sentence in which
God comes forth, for the first time, and mingles with words, cannot be
expressed: ‘I believe in God.’ Testifying to God does not consist in
stating this extraordinary word or phrase . . . ‘here I am’ signifies me
in the name of God, in the service of men . . .
(1996a: 105–6)
And similarly:
I am a testimony . . . The Infinite is not ‘in front of’ me; I express it,
but precisely by giving a sign of the giving of signs, of the ‘for-the-
other’ in which I am dis-interested: here I am (me voici)! The
accusative here is remarkable: here I am, under your eyes, at your
service, your obedient servant . . . The religious discourse that pre-
cedes all religious discourse is not dialogue. It is the ‘here I am’ . . .
(1996a: 146)39
The meaning of the ‘here I am’ is therefore similarly twofold: (1) ‘here I
am’ offering myself to you, ‘at your service,’40 and (2) ‘here I am’ accused
and guilty. Situated before the other’s face the ‘I’ is at once both submis-
sive to her demands and confessional regarding the violence of its own
being-in-the-world. In this second sense the ‘here I am’ constitutes a ‘testi-
mony’ to one’s primordial Guilt; it is nothing short of a confession of mass

murder.41 Indeed, given Levinas’s occasional denial of the universality of
his claims, and his emphasis on both primordial Guilt and the apologetics
of language, I would suggest that the increasing difficulty of his writings is
due to their fusion of philosophical and confessional genres. While
Levinas begins as a fairly orthodox phenomenologist, that career eventu-
ally culminates in a number of semi-phenomenological confessional per-
formances – most notably Otherwise than Being. In attempting to say the
ethical whilst avoiding the lures of philosophical ‘totalization,’ Levinas
engages in a confessional discourse that elucidates the meaning of
responsibility by saying ‘Here I am, accused and guilty.’42
Recalling Levinas’s claim that ‘the face before me summons me, calls
for me, begs for me’ (1996b: 83), this testimonial-confessional dimension
facilitates a better understanding of the relation between the face and lan-
guage. Levinas’s terminology here is far from incidental,43 but when he
states that the ‘face speaks’ (1992: 87)44 the point is not merely physiologi-
cal (that one ‘could not speak without a face’ (1988a: 174)); rather, it is
the face that provides the ethical conditions of possibility for discourse.45
For it is from the (vulnerable) authority of the other’s face that the silent46
demand that I justify myself first comes, and toward the (authoritative) vul-
nerability of the face that my response is ultimately addressed.47 That is:
[T]he beginning of language is in the face . . . Language does not

begin with the signs that one gives, with words. Language is above all
the fact of being addressed . . . One speaks to someone . . . And to
speak to someone is not simply to speak in front of the plastic form
that the other is . . . I am called upon to respond . . . the first language
is the response.
(Levinas 1988a: 169–74)48
That the face inaugurates language is a common theme in Levinas’s

writings.49 As Derrida notes: ‘the face is given simultaneously as expression
and as speech. Not only as glance, but as the original unity of glance and
speech, eyes and mouth, that speaks, but also pronounces its hunger.’
That is, the face ‘does not incarnate, envelop, or signal anything other
than self, soul, subjectivity . . . The other, therefore, is given “in person”
and without allegory only in the face’ (1997c: 100–1). Though characteris-
tically attentive, Derrida’s synopsis is also instructively misleading in sug-
gesting that the face ‘does not signal anything other than self.’ For,
according to Levinas, the other’s face is not in the end saturated with
meaning of such an intimate sort; other others are also therein ‘presented,’
and thus we find ourselves in the realm of politics. It is to this that I now
want to turn.
As previously noted, Levinas’s claim that the face inaugurates discourse
is not merely a physiological point. But this becomes even clearer when
Levinas extends the meaning of ‘face’ to encompass the ‘whole sensible

being, even in the hand one shakes’ (1993: 102). Indeed, it is in this sense
that ‘the whole human body is . . . more or less face’ (1992: 97).50 As dis-
cussed in Chapter 3, Wittgenstein makes a similar claim,51 but Levinas’s
subsequent remark that the ‘human face is the face of the world itself, and
the individual of the human race’ (1996a: 73) suggests that there is some-
thing more radical at stake here. What ultimately turns on this point is
elucidated in the following passage:
Everything that takes place here ‘between us’ concerns everyone . . .

Language as the presence of the face does not invite complicity with
the preferred being, the self-sufficient ‘I-Thou’ forgetful of the uni-
verse; in its frankness it refuses the clandestinity of love . . . The third
party looks at me in the eyes of the Other – language is justice . . . the
epiphany of the face qua face opens humanity. The face in its naked-
ness as a face presents to me the destitution of the poor one and the
stranger . . . the whole of humanity, in the eyes that look at me.
(Levinas 1996c: 212–13)52
How, then, are we to understand this extension of the meaning of

‘face’ to the ‘whole of humanity’? Again, in a more strictly phenomenolog-
ical manner, one might suggest that the other others are ‘co-presented’ in
the face of this particular other insofar as the
existence-sense [Seinssinn] of the world and of Nature in particular, as

Objective Nature, includes . . . thereness-for-everyone. This is always
cointended wherever we speak of Objective actuality . . . These
Objects, in respect of their origin and sense, refer us to subjects,
usually other subjects, and their actively constituting intentionality.
Thus it is in the case of all cultural Objects.
(Husserl 1982: 92)53
In other words, even if one were to take the face in its ‘plasticity’54 as merely
another ‘cultural Object,’ its sense as such refers us to other others in its being
part of a ‘common surrounding world’ (Husserl 1989: 201).55 However,
constituting the other others in such a way would, for Levinas, still be too
ontological56 in its safely housing the ‘I’ in a community of observers.57 This
broadly phenomenological point Levinas thus ethicalizes as follows:
[I]n the relationship with another I am always in relation with the

third party. But he is also my neighbor. From this moment on, prox-
imity becomes problematic: one must compare, weigh, think; one
must do justice, which is the source of theory. The entire recovery of
Institutions . . . is done . . . starting from the third party . . . we must
have comparison and equality: equality between those that cannot be
compared. And consequently, the word ‘justice’ applies much more to

the relationship with the third party than to the relationship with the
other. But in reality, the relationship with another is never uniquely
the relationship with the other: from this moment on, the third is
represented in the other; that is, in the very appearance of the other
the third already regards me.
(1998a: 82)
The problem that now emerges is how ‘to reconcile . . . the infinite ethical
requirement of the face that meets me . . . and the appearance of the
other as an individual and as an object’ (1998b: 205).58 According to the
passage above the relation to both the singular other and the third party
must be understood in terms of the demand for worldly justice.59
Although, as discussed in Chapter 5, Levinas tends to focus on the rela-
tionship with the singular other, here he insists that such a relationship is
(though in a rather specific sense) a fiction; ‘in reality, the relationship
with another is never uniquely the relationship with the other.’60 Levinas’s
preoccupation with the ‘uniqueness of the other man’ is not therefore ‘a
repudiation of politics’ (ibid.: 195).61 For if
there was only the other facing me, I would say to the very end: I owe
him everything. I am for him . . . I am forever subject to him. My resis-
tance begins when the harm he does me is done to a third party who is
also my neighbor. It is the third party who is the source of justice, and
thereby of justified repression; it is the violence suffered by the third
party that justifies stopping the violence of the other with violence.
(1998a: 83)
In short, the ‘Other’s hunger – be it of the flesh, or of bread – is sacred;

only the hunger of the third party limits its rights’ (1997a: xiv). Levinas’s
reservations concerning the ‘society of love’ (1998b: 20) (namely, the
society that perceives love to be the social relation par excellence) are perti-
nent here. For what remains problematic about the relation between
lovers is precisely their tendency toward I-Thou exclusivity, and thus their
forgetting of the third party. In the face of the lover one tends to see only
the lover – the lover’s face is saturated with its own intimate significance
and thereby ‘does not . . . signal anything other than [it]self’ (Derrida
1997c: 100).62 But at the heart of the love relation lies an easily neglected
sacrificial injustice insofar as one always loves the beloved ‘to the detri-
ment of another’ (Levinas 1998b: 21).63 If there were only two (you and I),
our relation could indeed be understood in terms of the intimacy of
‘love.’ But we are not alone; there is a third party who also demands love,
and who is therefore ‘wounded’ by our ‘amorous dialogue’ (ibid.). Thus,
Levinas concludes, insofar as ‘the lover and the loved one’ exist as though
they ‘were alone in the world . . . love is not the beginning of society, but
its negation’ (ibid.: 20). To summarize: If there were only two of us I

would be infinitely indebted to you – even being obliged to suffer at your
hand. Between only the two of us there would be no possible question of
(or appeal to) justice, and to that extent ‘there wouldn’t be any problem’
(ibid.: 106).64 However, given that we are not alone in this way, any viol-
ence you (as other) perpetrate against a third (another other) demands
justice65 – indeed, this is the very birth of justice, political-economic insti-
tutions and the world-pictures of which they are a part. Here I must make
a ‘judgement’ (ibid.: 202) between parties and thus ‘calculate with the
incalculable’ (Derrida 1990: 947)66 in order to ascertain ‘which of the two
takes precedence’ (Levinas 1998b: 104).67 In this way a ‘measure superim-
poses itself on the “extravagant” generosity of the “for the other,” on its
infinity’ (ibid.: 195). If necessary, I will now appeal to the political estab-
lishment and official powers.68 And if these appeals fail, or if the mechan-
isms of legal arbitration are too cumbersome or ponderous, I might have
to repress, silence and confront you with violence.69 Not, however, for my
own well being, but for the sake of the other; your ‘neighbor’ (1994a: 157) or
‘brother’ (ibid.: 158) whom you wrong. This movement from the infinite
responsibility for the singular other to the more measured realm of poli-
tics is crucial to understanding Levinas’s work. Indeed, it is here that the
quasi-genealogical dimension of his philosophy comes to the fore. On the
one hand, the face-to-face relation with the singular other is essentially
mythical, for there never was such an ethically ‘pure’ encounter between
just two.70 Yet, on the other hand, in every encounter with another there
remains a trace of just such a ‘pure’ relation. As Levinas remarks: ‘what
seems to me very important, is that there are not only two of us in the
world. But I think that everything begins as if we were only two’ (1988a:
170, my emphasis). Thus, in every actual relation with another (which is
also a relation with the third party) it is as if I were ‘reminded’ of the one-
to-one relation of infinite ethical expenditure.71 And this quasi-remem-
brance is of ethical-political import insofar as it raises a question of
priority. For the pragmatic demands of worldly justice inaugurated with
the third party must always be ‘held in check’ (2001: 132) by the ‘initial
charity’ (1998b: 104) of the face-to-face relation.72 In short, the political
realm is haunted by the ethical.
I referred above to the ‘quasi-genealogical’ dimension of Levinas’s
work. I would now like to substantiate this characterization by briefly com-
paring Levinas’s position here with Rousseau’s lamentations in A Discourse
on the Origin of Inequality (a text to which I referred in Chapter 6).73 This
will enable me to highlight a number of important – though again, easily
misconstrued – points about the Levinasian project.
In A Discourse on the Origin of Inequality Rousseau presents a quasi-
Pyrrhonian characterization of ‘natural man’ whose ‘first care [was] that
of self-preservation’ and whose life was, like the animal, ‘limited . . . to
mere sensations’ (1930: 207).74 For Rousseau this primitive self-concern is
not to be scorned. On the contrary, it is sociality and the awareness of

others75 that ultimately corrupts the blithe animality of ‘infant man.’76 It
would therefore be mistaken to assume ‘that man is naturally cruel, and
requires civil institutions to make him more mild,’ for there is nothing
‘more gentle than man in his primitive state . . . restrained by natural com-
passion’ (ibid.: 213)77 where he ‘lived [a] free, healthy, honest and happy’
(ibid.: 214) life. According to Rousseau then, ‘from the moment one man
began to stand in need of the help of another . . . equality disappeared,
property was introduced . . . [and] slavery and misery were soon seen to
germinate’ (ibid.: 214–15).78 Along with society ‘each became in some
degree a slave even in becoming the master of other men’:
[T]here arose rivalry and competition on the one hand, and conflicting
interests on the other . . . All these evils were the first effects of property
. . . Usurpations by the rich, robbery by the poor, and the unbridled pas-
sions of both, suppressed the cries of natural compassion.
(Rousseau 1930: 218–19)
According to this genealogy, ‘natural compassion’ was eventually smoth-

ered by the need to compete with our neighbors – this competitive drive
finding its impetus in the emergence of a sense of property inaugurated by
the ‘first man who, having enclosed a piece of ground, bethought himself
of saying This is mine’ (ibid.: 207). There are two things worth noting about
Rousseau’s speculations here: (1) his emphasis on the ‘usurpation’79 that
lies at the heart of socio-political reality, and (2) his nostalgia concerning
both the goodness of ‘natural man’ and the relative simplicity of that pre-
social stage of human existence. It is clear that Rousseau’s reflections on
the inherent violence of property80 strike a chord with certain Levinasian
themes.81 But Rousseau’s second point (that pre-social existence was an
essentially simple affair) also seems to find a parallel in Levinas’s work. For,
as previously discussed, it is only with the advent of the third party (‘from
this moment on’ (Levinas 1998a: 82)) that my responsibility to the other
becomes increasingly compromised and ‘problematic’ (ibid.).82 With the
third party the sacrificial component of ethical responsibility is no longer
merely a matter of my own self-sacrifice (my being-for-the-other without
reserve), but also my sacrificing the demands and needs of the other other
for the sake of this other. The call for justice thus augments bad conscience
ever further: Between only the two of us I simply owe everything, although
I can never rest assured that I have done enough (hence bad conscience).
But along with the third party, not only is this level of guilt maintained, it is
infinitely supplemented by the fact that, in my choosing you over him or
her or them (and, I would suggest along with Derrida, even the ‘it’ of the
animal83), I am additionally guilty. Indeed, the more I do for you, the less I
have done for the other other.84 In short, if it were not for the third party my
relation to the other would be straightforwardly asymmetrical.85 Of course,
the respective emphases of Rousseau and Levinas differ in one very import-
ant sense: Rousseau’s interest lies with the life experienced by ‘infant man’
(1930: 207) in glorious isolation from others (or at least in a primitive, pre-
linguistic, pre-rational form of sociality86), whereas Levinas would question
Rousseau’s valorization of this state of natural ‘self-preservation’ (ibid.). (I
will return to the latter.) These differences aside, it is nevertheless striking
that both philosophers stress the inherently problematic nature of being-
with-(other)-others. To what (if any) extent then does Levinas share
Rousseau’s nostalgia? As Derrida has recently inquired,87 might Levinas’s
claim that ‘there wouldn’t be any problem’ (1998b: 106) if there were only
two of us constitute a lamentation regarding the way the third party becomes
a ‘complication’ (1997b: 82) to the face-to-face relation? These important
questions can, I think, be answered with reference to the following pas-
sages from Otherwise than Being:
In the proximity of the other, all the others than the other obsess me,
and already this obsession cries out for justice, demands measure and
knowing . . . The other is from the first the brother of all the other
men. The neighbor that obsesses me is already a face, both compara-
ble and incomparable, a unique face and in relationship with faces,
which are visible in the concern for justice . . . The relationship with
the third party is an incessant correction of the asymmetry of proxim-
ity in which the face is looked at. There is weighing, thought, objectifi-
cation, and thus a decree in which my anarchic relationship with
illeity is betrayed . . .
(Levinas 1994a: 158)
Thus far Levinas could be read as indulging in precisely the sort of

Rousseauist lamentation previously mentioned; a mourning, ‘complaint’
or ‘cry’ (Derrida 1999a: 68) concerning the way responsibility for the sin-
gular other is ‘betrayed’ by the third party.88 But Levinas proceeds to
dispel this suspicion:
There is betrayal of my anarchic relation with illeity, but also a new

relationship with it: it is only thanks to God that, as a subject incompa-
rable with the other, I am approached as an other by the others, that
is, ‘for myself.’ ‘Thanks to God’ I am another for the others . . . The
passing of God, of whom I can speak only by reference to this aid or
his grace, is precisely the reverting of the incomparable subject into a
member of society . . . It is thus that the neighbor becomes visible,
and, looked at, presents himself, and there is also justice for me.
(1994a: 158–9)
This ‘Thanks to God’ (or similarly ‘ “with the help of God” ’ (ibid.: 160))
could be variously interpreted. So, for example, Critchley suggests that
this phrase refers to something ‘classical[ly] Christian’; namely, that ‘the

universality of fraternity is ensured through the mediation of the divine’
(1999b: 273). But Levinas does not offer any clear indication how this
‘Thanks to God’ ought to be understood in relation to the question of the
third party. I would therefore like to offer the following interpretation.
Given that Levinas claims not to be offering a hypothesis concerning
God’s existence, the ‘Thanks to God’ might be understood as ‘less a
theory than a sigh, or a cry’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 30). Where Derrida dis-
cerns a ‘cry’ of ‘complaint’ (1999a: 68) in Levinas’s remarks on the third
party, one should instead hear rejoicing. Although it is only through this
‘new relationship’ that I ‘become an other like the others’ (Levinas 1994a:
161) and thereby have care owed to myself, this need not be taken as the
primary source of Levinas’s ‘Thanks to God.’ The fact that the other other
demands justice may mean that I can legitimately care (and demand
justice) for myself, but what motivates this is not primarily my own needs
(for myself), but rather the needs of the other.89 That is, ‘[m]y lot is [also]
important’ (ibid.) insofar as it provides the requisite protection and provi-
sions to aid the other, and it is in this sense that worldly justice rightly
permits me a degree of self-preservation. On this reading Levinas’s
‘Thanks to God’ does not constitute an expression of self-satisfaction
(‘Thanks to God I am now unburdened of infinite responsibility!’). One
might indeed discover a certain relief here, but this is again relief for the
other whose suffering can now be eased from other resources (to which I do
not have access) in addition to my own limitless efforts in this regard. The
point I want to make here is that, contrary to both Rousseau’s genealogy
and Derrida’s suspicions, the co-presence of the third party is a cause for
adulation rather than bemoaning. Thus, if the ‘Here I am!’ before the
face of the singular other constitutes the ‘first liturgy’ (1993: 94) (even
‘the origin of language’ (2000: 192)) I would suggest that the third party
and her demand for worldly justice constitutes the ‘Amen’ at the close of
Levinas’s own philosophical confession.
For Levinas and Wittgenstein (as for Derrida too90) the meaning of reli-
gion is thus fundamentally ethical rather than onto-theological. As dis-
cussed earlier, Wittgenstein not only naturalizes religious belief, he also
stresses the ethical dimension such beliefs have – or at least ought to have
if they are to qualify as ‘genuinely’ religious. I now want to consider
further Levinas’s own conception of religion. By this I am not referring
primarily to his Judaism, as this would go against his own intentions to elu-
cidate ‘a human fact, of the human order, and entirely universal’ (1988a:
177).91 Rather, I am concerned with what Derrida refers to as the ‘religios-
ity of the religious’ (1997c: 96) or the ‘morality of morality’ (1995c: 16),
specifically in relation to Levinas’s anti-naturalism.
The unreasonableness of ethics: Levinas’s anti-naturalism

Levinas is emphatic that he is ‘not afraid of the word God, which

appears quite often in my essays.’ As discussed earlier, the reason for
this boldness is that ‘the Infinite comes in the signifyingness of the face.
The face signifies the Infinite’ (1992: 105). Levinas need not be ‘afraid’ of
this word because the only thing to be apprehensive of here is falling
into idle onto-theological speculation, and he would be the first to
condemn such a maneuver.92 This is, no doubt, how Levinas would
perceive the situation. But then what remains of the significance of
this most provocative of terms? And what becomes of religion once its
theological voice is so dramatically curtailed? The recurrent emphasis in
Levinas’s work is that religion and one’s relation to others are inextricably
connected:
‘Going towards God’ is not to be understood here in the classical

ontological sense of a return to, or reunification with, God as the
Beginning or End of temporal existence. ‘Going towards God’ is
meaningless unless seen in terms of my primary going towards the
other person. I can only go towards God by being ethically concerned
by and for the other person.
(1984: 59)
That is, ‘[f]aith is not a question of the existence or non-existence of God.

It is believing that love without reward is valuable’ (1988a: 176).93 That
both ‘going towards God’ and ‘faith’ should here be explicated in ethical
rather than theological terms makes Levinas’s orientation clear, and there
are numerous other passages which demonstrate this transcription of the
religious into the ethical.94 That ‘the Infinite enters into language,’ that
‘the subject who says “Here I am!” testifies to the Infinite’ (1992: 106), and
that ‘responsibility . . . is a way of testifying to the glory of the Infinite’
(ibid.: 113) are familiar themes by now. But they pose one of the most dif-
ficult questions regarding the Levinasian project; namely, whether –
despite his protestations95 – Levinas’s conception of God is in any substan-
tive way distinguishable from the other human?96 If the only ‘access’ to the
divine is through the inter-human encounter, and one is denied a
traditionally onto-theological voice, then why preserve this distinctly reli-
gious terminology? That Levinas’s thinking is in danger (assuming it is
a danger) of collapsing into ‘mere’ humanism – where ‘God’ and the
‘Infinite’ become thoroughly saturated with the human – is implicit here.97 I
therefore want to follow Levinas’s own advice and negotiate this question
through his belief in the possibility of ‘love without reward.’98 To do this I
will use the previously outlined relationship between the face and lan-
guage as an interpretative template.
As discussed in Chapter 5, the face is simultaneously a facing. While the
face cannot be thought without recourse to its material embodiment,
neither can its meaning be reduced to this ‘plasticity.’ Now, Levinas makes
a parallel claim about language, again emphasizing the inseparability yet

non-reducibility of its twin dimensions. Thus, regarding Western philo-
sophy, he wonders whether
in that whole tradition, language as Said has not been privileged, to

the exclusion or minimizing of its dimension as Saying. There is, it is
true, no Saying that is not the saying of a Said. But does the Saying
signify nothing but the Said? Should we not bring out, setting out
from the Saying, an intrigue of meaning that is not reducible to the
thematization and exposition of a Said . . . ?
(1993: 141)
According to Levinas, philosophy has concerned itself only with the

content of language (its Said) and thereby its capacity to facilitate the
exchange of ‘information’ (1996a: 80).99 What has passed relatively unno-
ticed is the significance of the Saying of the Said – that is, the elementary
‘movement toward the other’ (1994b: 48), ‘ “hello” ’ (1999: 98) or ‘gift’
(Derrida 1997c: 148) necessary for all such informational (or indeed per-
formative100) exchanges to be possible.101 In short, what interests Levinas is
language as ‘contact’ (1996a: 80) with another human being.102 In a strik-
ing passage he illustrates this with reference to Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe (a
text discussed in Chapter 6), and specifically Crusoe’s first encounter with
Man Friday. Defoe describes this initial meeting as follows:
I smiled at him, and looked pleasantly, and beckoned to him to come

still nearer; at length he came close to me . . . I took him up, and made
much of him, and encouraged him all I could . . . he spoke some words
to me, and though I could not understand them, yet I thought they
were pleasant to hear, for they were the first sound of a man’s voice
that I had heard, my own excepted, for about twenty five years . . .
(1985: 207)
But Levinas reads much more into this encounter. Having described the
‘sounds and noises of nature’ as ‘words that disappoint us’ (and again
warned philosophy of its neglect of the ‘direct social relations between
persons speaking’103), he thus remarks:
But this is a disdain that cannot gainsay a situation whose privileged
nature is revealed to Robinson Crusoe when, in the tropical splendor
of nature, though he has maintained his ties with civilization through
his use of utensils, his morality, and his calendar, he experiences in
meeting Man Friday the greatest event of his insular life – in which a
man who speaks replaces the ineffable sadness of echoes.
(1993: 148)
Here Levinas seems relatively unconcerned with Friday’s pending ‘subjec-

tion, servitude, and submission’ (Defoe 1985: 209) at the hands of Crusoe.
Indeed, this apparent nonchalance toward the colonialism at the heart of
Defoe’s narrative is manifest in Levinas’s silence concerning Friday’s sub-
sequent ‘education’ – and, not least, that the second word Crusoe would
teach him was ‘Master’ (ibid.).104 Rather, what preoccupies Levinas is the
way Friday’s utterances despite their unintelligibility figure as the most
momentous ‘event’ in Crusoe’s ‘silent life’ (ibid.: 81).105 Putting this in
more theoretical terms, what concerns Levinas is that:
Beyond the thematization of the Said and of the content stated in the
proposition . . . The proposition is proposed to the other person . . . It
is communication not reducible to the phenomenon of the truth-that-
unites: it is a non-indifference to the other person, capable of ethical
significance.
(1993: 142)106
In short, the Said is always simultaneously a Saying of the Said, and

while there is no ‘access’ to (ethical) Saying aside from its inevitable
crystallization into a (ontological) Said, the meaning of the Saying is
not therein exhausted.107 Now, this characteristic Levinasian move
whereby a mundane phenomenon is imbued with significance beyond
its ‘ordinary’ function – yet while at the same time retaining this ‘ordin-
ariness’ as the necessary vehicle through which this excess of meaning
flows – is echoed in what might be called Levinas’s ‘religious humanism.’
For while the religious cannot be reduced to a secular humanism, neither
can it be approached in entirely non-humanistic terms. What (allegedly)
distinguishes Levinas’s humanism from more traditional humanisms is
the sheer ‘gratuitousness’108 of the former – indeed, its very ‘unreason-
ableness’ in this regard.109 What Levinas wants to emphasize here (on
one occasion he describes it as the ‘principal thesis’ that embodies
his ‘entire philosophy’) is the way ‘the human breaks with pure
being’ (1988a: 172). (I will return to this claim later.) That is, a ‘being is
something that is attached to being, to its own being . . . However,
with the appearance of the human . . . there is something more import-
ant than my life, and that is the life of the other.’110 This possibility of
putting the other first is striking because it is ‘unreasonable.’ ‘Man,’ it
would seem, insofar as ‘he’ is ethical, is ‘an unreasonable animal’
(ibid.).111
Most of the time my life is dearer to me, most of the time one looks
after oneself. But we cannot not admire saintliness . . . that is, the
person who in his being is more attached to the being of the other
than to his own. I believe that it is in saintliness that the human
begins; not in the accomplishment of saintliness, but in the value. It is
the first value, an undeniable value . . . I maintain that [the] ideal of
saintliness is presupposed in all our value judgements.

(Levinas 1988a: 172–7)112
The universality of this ‘ideal’ is reiterated where Levinas claims that the
‘only absolute value is the human possibility of giving the other priority
over oneself. I don’t think that there is a human group that can take
exception to that ideal, even if it is declared an ideal of holiness’ (1998b:
109),113 and likewise:
[W]hat emerges is the valorization of holiness as the most profound

upheaval of being and thought, through the advent of man . . . the
human (love of the other, responsibility for one’s fellowman, an even-
tual dying-for-the-other, sacrifice even as far as the mad thought in
which dying for the other can concern me well before, and more than,
my own death) – the human signifies the beginning of a new ration-
ality beyond being. A rationality of the Good higher than all essence.
(1998b: 228)
On this account, traditional secular humanism establishes itself upon a

being-with or -alongside others, and thereby begins in the assumed equality
and similitude of individual ‘I’s’ – a sort of egological economics.114 Secular
humanism is thus presumptuous because it starts with the third party
without understanding the nature of the relation with the singular other.115
But for Levinas ‘it is ethics which is the foundation of justice’ not the
inverse. Indeed, even within the realm of politics ‘justice is not the last
word,’ for therein a certain excessiveness is still at work insofar as ‘we seek a
better justice.’116 And this, accordingly, bears witness to the inherent supe-
riority of liberal democracy: ‘The truly democratic state,’ Levinas claims,
‘finds that it is never democratic enough’ (1988a: 175). It is Levinas’s
emphasis on the excessiveness (and, by implication, ineliminable bad con-
science117) governing one’s relation with the other that distinguishes his
humanism from more traditional forms. Whatever reciprocity the mechan-
isms of state, politics, law and justice might demand, the ethical conditions
of possibility118 for these lie in my non-reciprocal, a-symmetrical respons-
ibility.119 It is in this sense that Levinasian humanism can be described as
simultaneously an anti-humanism; not merely because it deviates from
humanism’s more measured, orthodox forms but because it demands that
we transcend the animality of human being to become, as it were, more
human. In short, humanism ‘has to be denounced . . . because it is not suf-
ficiently human’ (1994a: 128).120
It is clear that much of Levinas’s anxiety concerns Heidegger’s prioriti-
zation of ontology. But at this point one might also ask whether Levinas’s
apprehensions are simultaneously focused (like Wittgenstein’s) on what
he perceives to be the dangers of scientism. Thus, Levinas warns (rather
implausibly) of the acquiescence between physics and ‘the interiority of
pure being before or without ethics’ that is ‘already a metaphor for the
cruelty of the cruel in the struggle for life and the egotism of wars’
(1998b: 201–2).121 More notable, however, is where Levinas proposes a
certain complicity between Heideggerian ontology and Darwinism insofar
as both (allegedly) allude to a being that ‘is something that is attached to
being, to its own being . . . a struggle for life.’ He proceeds: ‘Dasein is a
being who in his being is concerned for this being itself. That’s Darwin’s
idea: the living being struggles for life. The aim of being is being itself’
(1988a: 172).122 What distinguishes the truly human from such a character-
ization is that here it first becomes possible to speak of there being ‘some-
thing more important’ than myself; namely, ‘the life of the other’
(ibid.).123 Ethics is ‘against nature because it forbids the murderousness of
my natural will to put my own existence first’ (1984: 60).124 With the ‘awak-
ening to the human’ thus comes an ‘ideal of holiness contrary to the laws
of being’ (1998b: 114). Indeed, this is why the human – insofar as it ‘inter-
rupts the pure obstinacy of being and its wars’ (ibid.: 231) – is nothing less
than ‘a scandal in being’ (ibid.: 115).125 The orientation of such passages
is clear enough. But although Levinas is candid regarding what this break
with ‘pure being’ (1988a: 172) inaugurates (namely, the possibility of
saintly self-sacrifice), it remains unclear precisely how this rupture is sup-
posed to occur.126 While Levinas is ‘not saying men are saints, or moving
toward saintliness,’ but rather that ‘the vocation of saintliness is recog-
nized by all human beings as a value, and that this recognition defines the
human’ (1999: 171), there here lies an ambiguity concerning the extent
to which his point is essentially descriptive or prescriptive (or both). Do all
human beings actually recognize ‘the vocation of saintliness . . . as a value,’
or is this the criterion for ‘genuine’ humanity? Is Levinas alluding to a fact
about human beings qua human beings, and if so is he identifying a more-
or-less latent capacity on the part of human beings for ‘saintliness’? On
this latter reading Levinas’s point may be both descriptive (human beings
do possess the capacity to transcend their animal nature) and prescriptive
(human beings should pursue such ‘saintliness’), but the constitution of
this ‘capacity’ still remains obscure. It presumably cannot be a rational
capacity as this would make being-for-the-other essentially a matter of
deliberation, and thus relative to the subject’s own cognitive powers.127 If
it is a natural capacity then can one be so assured that it is peculiar to
human beings? If it is neither rational nor natural then how does it arise?
– presumably not from God mysteriously endowing the human with a
spark of the divine. Given that Levinas is ‘not saying men are saints, or
moving toward saintliness’ (1999: 171), it would seem that he does not
want to suggest that human beings are essentially constituted by ‘saintli-
ness’ – as though saintliness were somehow unavoidable. But even here
things are not straightforward. For Levinas does suggest that something
‘saintly’ precedes (or is at least co-extensive with) every encounter with the
other – even encounters of an explicitly violent sort. (To put this differ-
ently, the Saying remains ‘saintly’ regardless of what transpires in its being
Said.) Levinas provides no clear answer to these questions, but his general
motivation is patently exclusivistic: that only we (that is, not the non-human
animal) possess the capacity to even aspire to such saintliness.128 Much like
Heidegger’s descriptive-prescriptive account of authenticity, insofar as we
are constituted by an ineliminable Guilt, ‘pure’ saintliness is necessarily
impossible. Nevertheless, in our practical dealings with others we can
approach the saintly more-or-less adequately. The ‘human’ in Levinas’s
work thus appears to be more an ethical than biological category. In other
words, the ‘break’ with the natural realm is not something that has, in any
determinate sense, ‘occurred,’ but is rather something that we need
continually to attempt. For Levinas, being (biologically) human is there-
fore the necessary condition for (ethical) saintliness. It is not, however, a
sufficient condition.
According to Levinas then, it is the potential for self-sacrifice that con-
stitutes the ‘meaning of the human adventure’ (ibid.: 227):
Goodness, a childish virtue; but already charity and mercy and

responsibility for the other, and already the possibility of sacrifice in
which the humanity of man bursts forth, disrupting the general
economy of the real and standing in sharp contrast with the persever-
ance of entities persisting in their being.
(1998b: 157)129
In the realm of pure animality one’s interests move circularly from self to
world and back again. Like a love, gift or confession that ultimately seeks
its own satisfaction, Being is marked by its continual recuperation, replen-
ishment and nostalgic homeward-ness.130 Such a model is thus marked by
what Levinas describes as the interestedness of ‘need’ (1996a: 51).131 But
the other disrupts this economy of satisfaction, interjecting the exuber-
ance of ‘desire’ (ibid.)132 into an otherwise egological narrative.133 Hence-
forth the inter-human relation can be ‘considered from another
perspective’:
[As] concern for the other as other, as a theme of love and desire
which carries us beyond the finite Being of the world . . . God, as the
God of alterity and transcendence, can only be understood in terms of
that interhuman dimension which, to be sure, emerges in the phe-
nomenological-ontological perspective of the intelligible world, but
which cuts through and perforates the totality of presence and points
towards the absolutely Other.
(1984: 56–7)
Levinas proceeds elsewhere:

Need opens up a world that is for me: it returns to itself. Even a

sublime need, such as the need for salvation, is still a nostalgia, a
longing to go back. A need is return to self, the anxiety of the I for
itself, egoism . . . In Desire the I is borne toward the Other (Autrui) in
such a way as to compromise the sovereign self-identification of the I,
for which need is only nostalgia . . . The movement toward the Other
(Autrui), instead of completing me or contenting me, implicates me
. . . The Desirable does not gratify my Desire but hollows it out, and
somehow nourishes me with new hungers . . . The Desire for the
Other (Autrui), which we live in the most ordinary social experience,
is the fundamental movement, a pure transport, an absolute orienta-
tion, sense.
(1996a: 51–2)
Like Derrida’s analyses of the gift, this emphasis on ‘desire’ enables

Levinas to speak of an orientation toward the other that never seeks a
return; an absolute or ‘pure’ gratuitousness that disrupts the economy
of Being.134 Desire, in order to be worthy of that name, must be
distinguished from need insofar as the former maintains its own insati-
ability135 – it is, in Derrida’s words, ‘without horizon of expectation’
(2002d: 106).136 Levinas thus relates desire to a specific type of sensibility;
the touch of the caress ‘where the subject who is in contact with another
goes beyond this contact . . . what is caressed is not touched, properly
speaking’:
It is not the softness or warmth of the hand given in contact that the
caress seeks. The seeking of the caress constitutes its essence by the
fact that the caress does not know what it seeks. This ‘not knowing’,
this fundamental disorder, is the essential. It is like a game with some-
thing slipping away, a game absolutely without project or plan, not
with what can become ours or us, but with something other, always
other, always inaccessible, and always still to come . . .
(1997b: 89)137
In short, the desire for the other subverts ontological being-in-the-world

by denying the subject its ‘needful’ intentionality and nostalgia.138 And it is
precisely this emphasis on the gratuitousness of desire that enables
Levinas to position himself politically139 and also respond to the charge
that his work is fundamentally a-political.140
Versions of the natural: Levinas, Nietzsche and Wittgenstein

Levinas’s work may not therefore be a-political, but it remains deeply anti-
naturalistic, and this restricts its ethical scope. It has already become clear
that his characterization of the natural realm is, contra Rousseau,141 pro-
foundly bleak.142 Indeed, Levinas’s harsh vision of ‘natural man’ echoes

some of the Enlightenment’s darker philosophical figures.143 According to
Helvétius, for example, human nature is fundamentally ‘bloodthirsty’
(1969: 46) and ‘deaf to the cry of pity’ (ibid.: 45) if not ‘civilized’ by moral
education. De Sade agrees, yet goes further in actively recommending this
‘primal sentiment’ (1991a: Dialogue 3) of cruelty.144 But in Nietzsche’s
work a more subtle and challenging vision of the relationship between
nature, humanity and morality emerges. Nietzsche’s naturalism is particu-
larly interesting here because it inverts almost all of Levinas’s central
themes.145 For this reason it will be instructive briefly to reconstruct the
Nietzschean account.
Focusing his critical naturalistic gaze on morality, Nietzsche remarks:
‘When it is trodden on a worm will curl up. That is prudent. It thereby
reduces the chance of being trodden on again. In the language of morals:
humility’ (1972: p. 26),146 and likewise: ‘The beginning of justice, as of pru-
dence, moderation, bravery – in short, of all we designate as the Socratic
virtues, are animal: a consequence of that drive which teaches us to seek
food and elude enemies.’ One might therefore ‘describe the entire phe-
nomenon of morality as animal’ (1977: §67), for all the so-called virtues
are in fact just ‘physiological conditions . . . refined passions and enhanced
states.’ So, for example, ‘[p]ity and love of mankind’ are really the ‘devel-
opment of the sexual drive.’ Justice is the ‘drive to revenge,’ while virtue is
the ‘pleasure in resistance, [the] will to power,’ and honor is the mere
‘recognition of the similar and equal-in-power’ (1968: §255). One gets a
flavor of Nietzsche’s more substantive views on nature and ethics when he
castigates traditional morality as ‘a piece of tyranny against “nature” ’
insofar as the ‘essential and invaluable element in every morality is that it
is a protracted constraint’ (1987: §188). What the latter amounts to is elu-
cidated a few pages later:
One altogether misunderstands the beast of prey and man of prey . . .

one misunderstands ‘nature’, so long as one looks for something
‘sick’ at the bottom of these healthiest of all tropical monsters and
growths . . . as virtually all moralists have done hitherto. It seems . . .
that there exists in moralists a hatred for the jungle and the tropics . . .
(Nietzsche 1987: §197)
On this account the concepts of selfishness and self-sacrifice are there-
fore ‘psychologically nonsense,’ for morality has systematically ‘falsified all
psychologica to its very foundations – has moralized them – to the point of
the frightful absurdity that love is supposed to be something “unegoistic” ’
(1992a: p. 45).147 For Nietzsche, traditional morality spawns from a certain
weakness, and constitutes the preferred ‘form of revenge of the spiritually
limited on those who are less so’ – or a way (for the former) to recom-
pense themselves for ‘having been neglected by nature’ (1987: §219).
Accordingly, a distinction must be drawn between ‘healthy’ (natural) and
‘unhealthy’ (anti-natural) morality. Healthy morality is driven by ‘an

instinct of life,’ whereas its unhealthy, anti-natural counterpart (morality’s
most dominant form) stands ‘against the instincts of life,’ offering only
‘condemnation of these instincts’ (1972a: p. 45).148 Insofar as morality repre-
sents ‘the judgement of the judged’ (ibid.: p. 46), ‘Man is finished when
he becomes altruistic’ (ibid.: p. 87). Given that morality thus constitutes
the revenge of the weak upon the strong,149 Nietzsche’s avowed intention
is ‘to re-translate the apparently emancipated and denatured moral values
back into their nature – i.e., into their natural “immorality” ’ (1968:
§299).150
Unsurprisingly, Christianity gets singled out in this ‘cult of altruism’
(ibid.: §297)151 as nourishing the aforementioned ‘sickness’ through its
systematic (and seemingly insatiable) attempts to burden humanity with
bad conscience.152 In effect, Christianity has rendered our natural inclina-
tions ‘inseparable from [our] “bad conscience” ’ (1992b: Essay 2, §24).
These mongers of guilt thus utilize religion in order ‘to drive [man’s] self-
torture to its most gruesome pitch of severity and rigor.’ Here God
becomes the ‘ultimate antithesis’ of humanity’s ‘ineluctable animal
instincts’ whereby ‘man’
ejects from himself all his denial of himself, of his nature, naturalness,
and actuality, in the form of an affirmation . . . as God, as the holiness
of God, as God the Judge . . . as torment without end, as hell, as the
immeasurability of punishment and guilt.
(Nietzsche 1992b: §22)
Here we thus find a certain ‘madness of the will’ to judge ourselves ‘guilty
and reprehensible to a degree that can never be atoned for’; to be ‘pun-
ished without any possibility of the punishment becoming equal to the
guilt’ (ibid.).153 Such Judaic-Christian virtues as neighborly love are, Niet-
zsche insists, ‘always something secondary . . . when compared with fear of
one’s neighbor’ (1987: §201).154 That is, ‘the emancipated are . . . the under-
privileged whose deepest instinct is revenge’ (1992a: p. 46).155 While more
‘noble cultures’ judge neighborly love, pity and selflessness to be ‘some-
thing contemptible’ (1972a: p. 91), we have taken cruelty and transformed
it into ‘tragic pity, so that it is denied the name of cruelty’ (1968: §312).
And it is for these reasons that Nietzsche questions the teleology of
Darwinism:
As regards the celebrated ‘struggle for life,’ it seems to me for the

present to have been rather asserted than proved. It does occur, but
as the exception; the general aspect of life is not hunger and distress,
but rather wealth, luxury, even absurd prodigality – where there is a
struggle it is a struggle for power . . . Supposing, however, that this
struggle exists – and it does indeed occur – its outcome is the reverse
of that desired by the school of Darwin, of that which one ought

perhaps to desire with them: namely, the defeat of the stronger, the
more privileged, the fortunate exceptions. Species do not grow more
perfect: the weaker dominate the strong again and again . . .
(1972a: pp. 75–6)
Continuing his assault on the naive belief (or apparent need to believe156)
that ‘we have really grown more moral’ (ibid.: p. 89), Nietzsche proceeds to
condemn our ‘modern’ era as ‘a weak age.’ Indeed, these virtues are
‘demanded by our weakness’ (ibid.: p. 91). Thus, our ‘belated constitution,
a weaker, more delicate, more vulnerable one, out of which is necessarily
engendered a morality which is full of consideration’ does not betoken any
moral advancement. On the contrary, it ‘represents . . . our general decay
of vitality,’ for here, where ‘everyone helps everyone else . . . everyone is
. . . an invalid and everyone a nurse.’ Among those ‘who knew a different
kind of life, a fuller, more prodigal, more overflowing life,’ this alleged
virtue ‘would be called something else: “cowardice”, perhaps, “pitiable-
ness”, “old woman’s morality”.’ In short: ‘Our softening of customs . . . is a
consequence of decline’ (ibid.: p. 90).
Mindful of these passages, one can imagine what a Nietzschean critique
of Levinas would look like, for each account represents the pathological
shadow of the other. Indeed, given Levinas’s emphasis on Guilt and asym-
metrical responsibility (in Nietzschean terms, given Levinas’s profound
‘condemnation of [the] instincts’ (1972a: p. 45) or ‘tyranny against
“nature” ’ (1987: §188)) Nietzsche’s critique of Christianity would become
even more caustic. In this respect it is notable that Nietzsche refers to the
‘madness’ of ‘man’ having judged ‘himself guilty . . . to a degree that can
never be atoned for’ (1992b: Dialogue 2, §22). (Indeed, Levinas not only
refers to one’s being accused by the other as ‘a seed of madness . . . a psy-
chosis’ (2000: 188),157 he suggests that his conception of ethics is in some
sense ‘masochistic’ (2001: 46).) Both Nietzsche and Levinas could agree
that morality is fundamentally against the (allegedly) most primitive of
human drives toward self-assertion, and thereby ‘[a]nti-natural’ (Nietzsche
1972a: p. 45). Likewise, there is a sense in which Nietzsche’s claim that
morality ‘is the judgement of the judged’ (ibid.: p. 46) might also ring
true for Levinas.158 Indeed, Levinas could even accept that ‘Man is fin-
ished when he becomes altruistic’ (ibid.: p. 87), if by this one means
natural ‘man’ immersed in the egotistic ‘instinct of life’ (ibid.: p. 45). Both
philosophers therefore demand that we become more human, but while
for Levinas this requires a radical break from the natural instinct of self-
preservation, according to Nietzsche we need rather to rediscover our nat-
uralness and thereby be liberated from our ‘unnaturalness,’ our
degenerate, otherworldly ‘spirituality’ (ibid.: p. 23). What Nietzsche’s
untimely vision thus bears witness to is precisely what Levinas most fears of
the natural realm – namely, the subject’s primitive drive toward self-
assertion over the ‘suffering and unfortunate’ (Nietzsche 1968: §217).159

The questions I want to draw from Nietzsche are as follows: Is Levinas’s
anxiety regarding human nature justified? Is the realm of the natural really
incommensurable with that of the ethical? In order to answer these ques-
tions I want to briefly return to Wittgenstein, for it is specifically through
his later work that Levinas’s (and by implication, Nietzsche’s) savage char-
acterization of ‘the natural’ can be shown to be fundamentally misleading.
Although ‘the human’ has a certain priority in Wittgenstein’s work,160
this should not be exaggerated. For Levinas ‘the human is a new phenom-
enon,’ and subsequently any responsibilities toward other beings are
merely an extension from the human realm. While one may procure
certain responsibilities to other living beings, ‘the prototype of this is
human ethics’ (1988a: 172), for the ‘human face is completely different
and only afterwards do we discover the face of the animal’ (ibid.:
171–2).161 This anthropocentrism (which he inherits from Heidegger162)
constitutes a troubling ethical blind spot in Levinas’s work, given its
alleged ‘radicality.’ However, Wittgenstein’s prioritization of ‘the human’
is not of this sort. Indeed, it provides an important corrective to Levinas’s
anthropocentrism and anti-naturalism. For Wittgenstein the human face
and body may enable a far greater degree of expressivity than other
beings,163 but this is indeed a matter of degree, not of kind.164 Although
the archetype of human animality in part circumscribes that to which one
can meaningfully attribute suffering,165 the boundaries of this are notably
broad. Thus, for example, Wittgenstein writes:
Look at a stone and imagine it having sensations. – One says to

oneself: How could one so much as get the idea of ascribing a sensa-
tion to a thing? One might as well ascribe it to a number! – And now
look at a wriggling fly and at once these difficulties vanish and pain
seems able to get a foothold here.
(1958: §284)
This passage is interesting for a number of reasons. First, it problematizes

Wittgenstein’s often quoted remark: ‘If a lion could talk, we could not
understand him’ (ibid.: p. 223). This passage is, I believe, poorly expressed
and thus frequently misconstrued as signifying a radical incommensurability
(that is, the sort of ‘break’ Levinas envisages) between the human and
animal realms. This remark is incongruous because: (1) elsewhere
Wittgenstein describes language as ‘an extension of primitive behavior’
(1990: §545),166 and (2) according to §284 of Philosophical Investigations
(quoted above) there is enough commonality between the ‘wriggling fly’
and manifestations of human suffering for the notion of pain ‘to get a
foothold here.’ Given these two points it seems reasonable to suppose that
were a lion to ‘speak’ its language would have important points of contact
with our own. On matters pertaining to birth, sex, death167 and suffering
the lion’s ‘form of life’ is not radically different from the human. Indeed,
we already (without the lion’s ‘speaking’) perceive such connections, so
why assume that its acquisition of language would not extend these
further? (What Wittgenstein perhaps ought to have said is: ‘If a stone could
talk, we could not understand it.’) With this in mind Wittgenstein’s occa-
sional remarks on other humans being ‘a complete enigma’ (1958, p. 223)
– and similarly: ‘ “These men . . . have nothing human about them” ’
(1990: §390) – should be treated with caution. But a further point can be
drawn from §284 of Philosophical Investigations regarding Levinas’s
emphasis on the ‘otherness’ of the other. For Levinas must presuppose
some sort of recognition of (or, more naturalistically, reaction to) the
human qua human in order to assert that ‘the prototype . . . is human
ethics’ (1988a: 172) and ‘[t]he human face is completely different and
only afterwards do we discover the face of the animal’ (ibid.: 171–2).168 In
other words, Levinas must already presuppose that the ‘human’ is signific-
antly distinguishable from the realm of either inert nature or ‘mere’ ani-
mality.169 As such, his emphasis upon the radical otherness of the other
(who, we are repeatedly told, transcends all traditional philosophical cat-
egories) turns out to be not so ‘radical’ after all. As I suggested in Chapter
3 and earlier in this chapter (and as Derrida himself intimates170), for
another to be absolutely ‘other’ would mean that that other remained
wholly unrecognizable even as an other to whom one was ethically
bound.171 Indeed, without this identification we would be forever ‘at a
loss’ as to whether such an encounter was taking place, or had ever taken
place.172 In short, this would plunge Levinas into the most extreme form
of ethical skepticism or Pyrrhonian quietism.173 Thus, his recurrent claim
that the ‘human community . . . does not constitute the unity of genus’
(1996c: 213–14),174 or that the other is ‘irreducible . . . to the individual of
the human race’ (1998a: 10) must be treated with the same degree of cir-
cumspection as Surin’s, Lyotard’s and Readings’s (not to mention
Levinas’s own175) suspicion of positing a human ‘we.’ It is, of course,
correct to insist that the singular other (here, face to face with me) is not
experienced merely as a specific incarnation of the ‘human race as a bio-
logical genus’ (Levinas 1996c: 213),176 or a specific ‘instance of humanity’
(Winch 1987: 174), for such a picture of intersubjectivity would be
absurdly deliberative. It is also correct to highlight the ethical significance
of our ‘involvement with . . . particular human beings’ (ibid.: 172), each
with ‘his own nature and history’ (ibid.: 174).177 Yet while the other should
not be construed as merely one replaceable (and to that extent more-or-
less anonymous) sample of ‘the human,’ neither is her specificity radically
separable from ‘the human.’ This is why the minimal naturalism I have
been drawing from Wittgenstein is important, for without it sensitivity
toward the singular other would be rendered a fundamentally mysterious
phenomenon.178
If we recall, Levinas is concerned with language as a medium through
which the ethical passes.179 The face, after all, addresses me in its ‘mute
and accusatory eloquence’ (Derrida 1992b: 117).180 Here Levinas decom-
poses language into its dual function as: (1) informational-communicative
content (Said), and (2) quasi-performative offering or gift (Saying),181
thus extending the ethical significance of language beyond a mere ‘truth-
that-unites’ (1993: 142).182 Consequently the linguistic realm is demarcated
from the ‘sounds and noises of nature’ that merely represent ‘words that
disappoint us’ (ibid.: 148). In order to explore this demarcation I want to
turn to Levinas’s brief discussion of ‘Bobby,’ a stray dog who (albeit tem-
porarily) reconfirmed Levinas’s humanity during his wartime incarcera-
tion.
The bark of a dog: the other (as) animal

Although Levinas refers to Bobby as ‘the last Kantian in Nazi Germany,’ it
is apparent that Bobby’s ‘jumping up and down and barking in delight’ –
his ‘friendly growling, his animal faith’ (1997a: 153) – is here celebrated
only as a hollow counterfeit of the fully ‘human.’183 Despite his exuberant
affection, in his ‘brutish dumbness’ (1995: 110) Bobby functioned only as
a momentary relief from ‘the children and women who passed by and
sometimes raised their eyes – [stripping] us of our human skin’ (1997a:
152–3).184 Bobby thus granted Levinas and his fellow prisoners a precious
distraction in the midst of human misery. But, as one commentator notes,
there is good reason to believe that Levinas ‘would consider it crucial for
his account whether Bobby merely barks or whether in doing so he can
say Bonjour’ (Llewelyn 1991: 56). Although Levinas is hesitant when
pressed on the question if ‘the animal has a face’ (ibid.: 57) – remarking
cautiously that a ‘more specific analysis is needed’ – his general position is
that the ethical significance of the animal derives from the human.185
Levinas thus observes: ‘Children are often loved for their animality. The
child is not suspicious of anything. He jumps, he walks, he runs, he bites.
It’s delightful’ (1988a: 172). Bobby’s playful enthusiasm may be similarly
‘delightful,’ but it remains highly doubtful that for Levinas this delight
harbors anything of direct ethical import.186 As discussed earlier with ref-
erence to Robinson Crusoe, what is striking about Levinas’s commentary is
his prioritization of human language over the ‘sad echoes’ or ‘failed
words’ (1993: 148) of the natural world.187 But such a position does little
more than reiterate traditional philosophical prejudices concerning the
alleged ‘dignity of man.’ Indeed, that the realm of the human does not
constitute a radical ‘break’ (1988a: 172) with nature is one important –
albeit frequently overlooked – dimension of Wittgenstein’s later work.
Thus, as previously noted, Wittgenstein variously characterizes language as
‘auxiliary to,’ an ‘extension’ (1990: §545), ‘refinement’ (1994a: 31) or
‘replacement’188 of ‘primitive behavior’ (1990: §545).189 This is not to
question the complexity and subtlety of human linguistic communication,
for doubtless ‘the language of sensation provides finer descriptions of sen-

sation than would be possible with purely non-linguistic behavior’
(Malcolm 1986: 304). Neither is it to suggest that other species possess a
communicative system analogous to human language.190 The point is
rather to ask why is such increased complexity ethically significant? More
precisely, if language acquisition is an extension or replacement of primi-
tive behaviors (for example, of non-linguistic pain behavior – including
reacting to other’s pain) then there is no reason to attribute any more
ethical weight to language-use (or language-users) than to those primitive
behaviors upon which language-use is grounded.191 Levinas’s mistake lies
in his needing to know whether Bobby’s bark was really a ‘Bonjour,’ for
this question presupposes a sharp boundary between ‘mere’ behavior and
‘genuine’ language.192 Whether Bobby’s behavior can be translated into
something linguistic is beside the point, for if Bobby howls when abused
can we meaningfully doubt he is suffering?193 When Bobby’s ‘content of suf-
fering merges with the impossibility of [his] detaching [himself] from suf-
fering’ (Levinas 1997b: 69) (when he experiences the ‘blindness of pain
. . . interiority of agony . . . solitude of misery . . . the worldlessness of suf-
fering’ (Caputo 1993: 205)194), is this any less certain or deplorable than
our human neighbor’s simply because the former does not speak?195 With
Levinas in mind, it is notable that Picard claims that ‘the perfection in
animals’ lies in the fact that ‘there is no discrepancy in them, as there is in
man, between being and appearance, inward and outward nature’ –
indeed, it is this ‘perfect correspondence’ that ‘constitutes the innocence
of animals’ (1948: 109). Picard’s assertion is partly correct; human infants
and most non-human animals can be neither dishonest nor insincere.
However, he misrepresents the nature of pain. For, even in human suffer-
ing (including another’s suffering) this inner/outer dualism remains ques-
tionable. As Wittgenstein suggests:
[W]ords are connected with the primitive, the natural, expressions of

the sensation and used in their place. A child has hurt himself and he
cries; and then adults talk to him and teach him exclamations and,
later, sentences. They teach the child new pain behavior . . . the verbal
expression of pain replaces crying and does not describe it.
(1958: §244)
Whereas for Levinas ethics is fundamentally anti-naturalistic, Wittgen-
stein’s suggests that ethics is only possible on the grounds of certain
‘natural, instinctive, kinds of behavior’ (1990: §545) toward others; our
language-games are ‘based on it . . . it is the prototype of a way of thinking
and not the result of thought’ (ibid.: §§540–1).196 This point runs contrary
to (for example) Trigg’s recent claim that, for Wittgenstein ‘the world is
merely the world revealed in language . . . In a real sense, according to
Wittgenstein, society determines what it is to be human, since it is in
society that language is learnt’ (1999: 176–7). Unsurprisingly, Trigg pro-
ceeds to emphasize the ‘relativistic’ (ibid.: 178) interpretation of Wittgen-

stein I have argued against, and to conclude that ‘the possibility of
understanding alien societies’ in the wake of Wittgenstein’s later work
becomes ‘very problematic’ (ibid.: 179). But Trigg’s error is to read
Wittgenstein as ‘stressing the distinct nature of the human social world
and its separation from the animal world’ (ibid.: 180). Though it is true
that Wittgenstein suggests that ‘an education quite different from ours
might also be the foundation for quite different concepts’ (1990: §387), it
would be mistaken to interpret this as meaning that our concepts are
entirely unbounded, or as denying that certain primitive ‘concepts’ (pain,
for example) will always play some role in human affairs. At this juncture
it is worth recalling Levinas’s claim that ethics is ‘unreasonable’ and ‘Man
is an unreasonable animal’ (1988a: 172) insofar as being-for-others rup-
tures both the natural drive for self-preservation and the pragmatic-
economic calculations necessary for political life. That ethics is, at its root,
not ‘reasonable’ Wittgenstein would agree. However, conceding this much
is not to say that ethics is unreasonable; to speak of ‘reason’ (even of
‘unreason’) here overlooks the natural basis upon which being-for-others
is hinged. To ask whether our primitive ethical responses are ‘reasonable’
would be as misconceived as inquiring whether other parts of ‘our natural
history’ (such as ‘walking, eating, drinking, playing’ (Wittgenstein 1958:
§25)) are also ‘reasonable’? Ethics is indeed ‘not based on grounds,’ if
one takes that to mean rational-deliberative grounds. (In this restricted
sense Wittgenstein’s work is indeed anti-foundationalist.) It is, however,
‘grounded’ insofar as it represents an extension of primitive, natural reac-
tions that are ‘not reasonable (or unreasonable)’ but simply ‘there – like
our life’ (1999: §559). The problem that Levinas simply reiterates – if not
compounds further in his spiritualized humanism – is succinctly expressed
by Wittgenstein in the following passage:
Reason . . . presents itself to us as the gauge par excellence against which

everything that we do, all our language games, measure and judge
themselves. – We may say: we are so exclusively preoccupied by con-
templating a yardstick that we can’t allow our gaze to rest on certain
phenomena or patterns. We are used, as it were, to ‘dismissing’ these
as irrational, as corresponding to a low state of intelligence, etc. The
yardstick rivets our attention and keeps distracting us from these phe-
nomena, as it were making us look beyond . . .
(1993: 389)
While both Wittgenstein and Levinas agree that ethics does not ulti-
mately have a rational ground, Levinas’s error is to conflate what is reason-
able with what is natural.197 For Levinas ethics cannot be grounded in the
natural because he assumes that the realm of the natural is saturated with
the egological ‘instinct of life’ (Nietzsche 1972a: p. 45). It thus only
becomes possible to speak of ethics when this natural drive toward being-
for-oneself is disrupted by concern for another.198 And this, we should
recall, is precisely what Levinas claimed was missing from Cain’s response
to God (‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’) for here ‘[e]thics is the only thing
lacking in his answer; there is only ontology: I am I, and he is he’ (1998b:
110). In other words, for Levinas, Cain’s response is entirely rooted in his
animal nature.199 It does not seem significant to Levinas that it is also ‘a
primitive reaction to tend, to treat, the part that hurts when someone else is
in pain; and not merely when oneself is’ (Wittgenstein 1990: §540, my
emphasis).200
Earlier I discussed how, on Levinas’s account, the other’s face embod-
ies the commandment ‘thou shalt not kill’ (1992: 87–8), and thereby con-
stitutes ‘the categorical imperative’ (1993: 158) or ‘order issued to me not
to abandon the other’ (ibid.: 44). All this lies in the face that faces me.
But, as I also noted, Levinas contrasts these more active determinations by
suggesting that the face is simultaneously ‘exposed, menaced, as if inviting
us to an act of violence. At the same time, the face is what forbids us to
kill’ (1992: 86). The face is thus the very junction at which authority and
vulnerability meet – indeed, its authority is its fragility. For Levinas all
these characterizations pertain explicitly to the human face.201 But here I
want to suggest that the vulnerability he attributes to the face of the other
lies not in their humanity but in their animality – that is, in their elemen-
tary needs for sustenance, shelter and care.202 Thus, where Levinas dis-
cerns a spark of the ‘divine’ in the eyes of the other, we should instead
rediscover the animal in the other’s eyes.203 With this in mind, it is interest-
ing that Derrida should draw attention to a passage in Baudelaire, where a
beggar’s gaze of ‘ “mute eloquence” ’ is explicitly associated with ‘ “the
tear-filled eyes of a dog being beaten”.’ Why should Baudelaire make this
comparison? Perhaps, as Derrida suggests, because the ‘poor man is a dog
of society, [and] the dog is the fraternal allegory of social poverty, of the
excluded, the marginal, the “homeless” ’ (1992b: 143). But Derrida goes
further than Baudelaire, declaring that ‘[n]othing is less stupid, less beast-
like than “dogs being beaten” and whose “tear-filled eyes” speak the infi-
nite demand’ (ibid.: 167).204 Must one take these latter remarks
metaphorically and thereby conclude that such sentiments are (as Levinas
maintains) only possible because the ‘prototype . . . is human ethics’ and
concern for non-human animals ‘arises from the transference to [them]
of the idea of suffering’ (1988a: 172)? In short, what is to be gained by
endorsing Levinas’s claim that ‘[i]n my relation to the other, I hear the
Word of God. It is not a metaphor . . . it is literally true’ (1998b: 110),
rather than evacuating the unnecessary metaphysics?205
In Chapter 2 I explored Wittgenstein’s remarks on ‘trust’ in On Cer-
tainty, and specifically how distrust belongs to ‘a fairly advanced stage of
human relations’ (Hertzberg 1988: 318). The child thus displays a ‘primi-
tive’ trusting toward its principal carers, only upon which subsequent (and
increasingly deliberative) trust-relations can be founded. Regarding this

sort of unconditional trust – as opposed to ‘reliance’ – Hertzberg thus
claimed:
[I]n so far as I trust someone, there will be no limits, given in

advance, of how far or in what respects I shall trust him . . . In relying
on someone I as it were look down at him from above. I exercise my
command of the world. I remain the judge of his actions. In trusting
someone I look up from below. I learn from the other what the world
is about. I let him be the judge of my actions.
(1988: 314–15)
Now, Levinas accepts that the child ‘is a pure exposure of expression’ or a
‘pure vulnerability,’ not least because she ‘has not yet learned . . . to
deceive, to be insincere’ (1984: 64).206 It is, one might say, through the
inherent vulnerability of the child that her unconditional trust is manifest,
and that this primitive (pre-linguistic, pre-rational) trusting demands the
responsibility of others.207 But if this is true regarding the human infant,
then it also pertains to non-human animals. Moreover, Hertzberg’s
remarks enable us to say something, not only about the natural vulnerabil-
ity of the other but also about the subject who responds to the vulnerable
other. In short, the minimal naturalism I have been defending cuts both
ways in the ethical relation. Thus, at a primitive level, the dog (for
example) is the very epitome of Levinasian responsibility; that is, of an
unconditional ‘love without reward’ (or ‘gratuitous gift of . . . friendship’
(Gaita 2003: 10)), even in the face of violence. Pure animality is pure
trust, faith and obedience to the demands of another who is absolute
authority. The dog responds without concern for reciprocity, for, as
Levinas remarks of Bobby, he lacks ‘the brain needed to universalize
maxims’ (1997a: 153). Of course, this rational incapacity excludes the
non-human animal from playing an active208 role in the realm of justice –
where, for the sake of the third party, reciprocity, equality and calculation
become necessary. But this should not blind us to the fact that the
complex, often agonizing decisions justice requires can only arise as such
against a backdrop of primitive, natural behaviors – many of which we
share with non-human animals.209 Thus, when Levinas claims that the
‘Here I am!’ constitutes the ‘religious discourse that precedes all religious
discourse’ (1996a: 146),210 this casts things in the wrong light. It would, I
believe, be better to say that the ‘Here I am!’ is in fact the natural ‘dis-
course’ that precedes all discourse, including the ‘religious.’ In this regard
it is notable that Levinas (again, like Rousseau211) should allude to ‘the
original language, a language without words or propositions . . . a commu-
nication without phrases or words’ (1987: 119–20). For, as previously
noted, he is adamant that the ‘sounds and noises of nature’ merely repre-
sent ‘words that disappoint us’ (1993: 148). To reiterate my earlier ques-
tion: Why should Bobby’s bark need to be translated into a ‘Bonjour’ to

gain ethical significance? In keeping with Levinas’s views on the superfi-
cial ‘noises of nature,’ Picard writes:
It is true that the raven croaks, the dog barks, and the lion roars. But
animal voices are only chinks in the silence. It is as though the animal
were trying to tear open the silence with the force of its body.
‘A dog barks today exactly as it barked at the beginning of Cre-
ation’, said Jacob Grimm. That is why the barking of dogs is so desper-
ate, for it is the vain effort, since the beginning of creation until the
present day, to split the silence open, and this attempt to break the
silence of creation is always a moving thing to man.
(1948: 111)212
Thus, according to Picard, what is so ‘desperate’ about the bark of a dog is

its sameness. From its inaugural performance in the Garden of Eden to the
present day, the dog’s bark has remained the same, and it is this relentless
futility that ‘moves’ us. But Picard overlooks something crucial here. For
not only does he fail to distinguish between the bark of a ‘friendly’
(Levinas 1997a: 153) and maltreated dog,213 he omits to note that the cry
of human pain is similarly marked by its sameness across the ages. Doubt-
less new forms of suffering have become possible in different historical
periods, but the anguished cries of broken human bodies span the millen-
nia in the same way as the bark of the maltreated dog. Indeed, as already
suggested, it is precisely in those phenomena associated with finitude and
vulnerability that the natural commonality between the human and non-
human animal is manifest. If one is to take seriously what Levinas says con-
cerning the Said and Saying, I want to suggest that the latter is best
thought of in terms of the non-propositional ‘sounds and noises’ of the
human infant and the non-human animal. In short, if Levinas wants to
attempt the impossible and think the ‘Saying without [the] Said’ (1996a:
103),214 then he could do no better than recall and reflect more deeply on
the bark of Bobby, ‘the last Kantian in Nazi Germany’ (1997a: 153).
Something animal
In his striking ‘inhospitality’ toward the animal Levinas reiterates some of
the founding assumptions of the traditional humanism he aims to tran-
scend. For despite his attempt to rethink language and ethics, Levinas fails
to rid himself of certain philosophical presuppositions concerning (most
notably) the relationship between linguistic and non-linguistic behavior.
As has become clear, in Levinas’s schema the human is that unique being
through whom a trace of God passes, thus breaking the relentless domina-
tion animality would otherwise have over the mortal realm. From a Lev-
inasian perspective one might therefore supplement Wittgenstein’s

remark that ‘When you see the eye you see something going out from it’
(1990: §222) by suggesting that what one ‘sees’ is a spark of the divine in
the eyes of the other human. What can be said of the eyes of the non-
human animal? For Levinas, these signify only a dumb, brutish concern
for self-preservation; a moral lacuna. (‘If a lion could talk,’ Levinas would
say, ‘it would speak only the language of ontology.’) Indeed, even in the
eyes of an animal like Bobby – who appears to demonstrate otherwise –
one could not describe his ‘goodness’ without considerable anthropomor-
phic distortion. But against this picture I have argued that, from the ideal
of saintly holiness to the one who says simply ‘after you,’ we discern a
‘spark’ of the animal in the other’s face. Not, that is, the egoistic brute
Levinas sees, but those propensities and reactions upon which ethical life
is founded (most notably a natural vulnerability and orientation toward
others).215 In the final part of this chapter I want to highlight this latter
point by turning to Derrida’s recent remarks on Levinas. Although I have
hitherto alluded to Derrida only in passing, his distinct contribution to
Levinasian scholarship deserves attention, and in Chapter 8 I will elabor-
ate on his cautious reformulation of certain Levinasian themes. Of more
immediate concern is how Derrida misrepresents Levinas on a crucial
point when he claims that the latter possesses ‘no concept of nature’
(1999b: 90). Clearly, given my previous analysis, this assertion is problem-
atic. Nevertheless, Derrida’s additional remarks on Levinas correlate with
the broadly naturalistic position I have been defending.
Despite Derrida’s criticisms of both Levinas’s and Heidegger’s anthro-
pocentric bias216 (Derrida even claims that his account of iterability
‘should be valid beyond the marks and society called “human” ’ (1997d:
134)217) it nevertheless remains unclear whether his own understanding of
the ethical218 hinges upon Levinas’s presupposition that the human ‘bursts
forth’ (1998b: 157) from the natural, thereby representing a ‘scandal
in being’ (ibid.: 115).219 This ambiguity emerges in those passages
(cited above) where Derrida refers to the ‘beaten dog’ as the ‘fraternal
allegory of social poverty, of the excluded, the marginal, the “homeless” ’
(1992b: 143), and his subsequent remarks on the ‘infinite demand’
(ibid.: 167) spoken by the eyes of such a creature. For here it is precisely
the non-human animal that is characterized, not as Levinas’s dumb
brute220 but as the very epitome of the vulnerable other. A particularly
interesting complication emerges, however, when Derrida begins to trace
‘the logic of an extremely complex relation’ between Levinas and ‘the
Kantian tradition’ (1999b: 48–9). The crux of the matter here is that Kant
thinks ‘hospitality . . . must be [politically] instituted in order to interrupt
a bellicose state of nature’ (a ‘natural hostility,’ for ‘nature . . . knows only
actual or virtual war’), whereas, according to Derrida, for Levinas there
lies ‘a backdrop of peace’ and ‘hospitality that does not belong to the
order of the political’ (1999b: 49).221 Although this claim is not wholly
improvident (Levinas does indeed speak of a ‘prior non-indifference to
the other man’ (1998a: 141), the ‘religious discourse that precedes all . . .
discourse’ (1996a: 146), and so on222), Derrida’s reading nevertheless
underestimates Levinas’s anti-naturalism. Indeed, later in his commentary
Derrida compounds this oversight by suggesting that ‘there is no concept
of nature or reference to a state of nature in Levinas . . . and this is of the
utmost importance.’ He then proceeds to reiterate the significance of this
(alleged) omission in the Levinasian project:
[E]verything [for Levinas] seems ‘to begin,’ in . . . the welcoming of

the face of the other in hospitality, which is also to say, by its imme-
diate and quasi-immanent interruption in the illeity of the third . . .
[Levinas] suggests that war, hostility, even murder, still presuppose
and thus always manifest this originary welcoming that is openness to
the face . . .
(Derrida 1999b: 90)223
As I said, this reading is not without some legitimacy, for Levinas does
place ethics before (or ‘above’) ontology. Nevertheless, given what
Levinas says about the radical ‘break’ humanity makes with natural ani-
mality – not to mention the anomaly between genuine language and the
disappointing ‘sounds and noises of nature’ (1993: 148)224 – Derrida’s
claim that the former lacks a ‘concept of nature’ is mistaken. While we
might accept that there is no analysis of ‘the natural’ in Levinas’s work,
this is precisely the problem insofar as his treatment of the natural hinges
on a number of misguided assumptions. Derrida’s oversight is thus
perhaps due more to an ambiguity within Levinas’s work. But what pri-
marily interests me is how this oversight again raises the question whether
goodness (generosity, hospitality, and so on) can be said to have its roots
in the natural realm? Earlier in his exposition Derrida makes a very perti-
nent remark in this regard. There, referring to Levinas’s account of inter-
subjectivity, he speculates: ‘It is as if the welcome, just as much as the face,
just as much as the vocabulary that is co-extensive and thus profoundly
synonymous with it, were a first language, a set made up of quasi-primitive
. . . words’ (1999b: 25).225 I have already alluded to the notion of a ‘first
language’ in Levinas’s work, and specifically how this might be thought of
in more naturalistic terms. Nevertheless, Derrida’s allusion to the ‘quasi-
primitive’ offers something of much broader significance for my argu-
ment. Of course, one is here faced with a slight equivocation: it is as if the
welcome, generosity and hospitality consisted of something ‘primitive’
before or beneath culture, society and politics. Although the ‘as if’ (and
the ‘if there is’) has a crucial and unequivocal function in Derrida’s
work,226 on this point such a qualification seems to me unnecessary. To
put it bluntly, why not simply drop the ‘quasi’ and say with Wittgenstein
that ‘it is a primitive reaction to tend, to treat, the part that hurts when
someone else is in pain; and not merely when oneself is’ (1990: §540), and
likewise that ‘this sort of behavior is pre-linguistic: that a language-game is
based on it, that it is the prototype of a way of thinking and not the result
of thought’ (ibid.: §541).227 Why posit a mysterious pre-natural dimension
of hospitality228 when the natural itself proves adequate to the ethical
task?229 Interestingly, in another recent text (concerned with issues of ‘for-
giveness’), Derrida addresses ‘the question of the animal’ as follows: ‘it
would be very imprudent to deny all animality access to forms of sociality
in which guilt, and therefore procedures of reparation, even of mercy –
begged or granted – are implicated in a very differentiated way.’ Derrida
then suggests that, just as there is an animal ‘act of war,’ there is ‘no
doubt’ an animal ‘thank you,’ ‘shame, discomfort, regret, anxiety’ and
‘remorse’ – indeed, in the realm of the animal one can also witness ‘rites
of reconciliation, of the interruption of hostility, of peace, even of mercy’
(2001b: 47).230 In short, without wanting to deny the significance of
‘verbal language’ for these complex phenomena, the ‘possibility, even
[the] necessity of extra-verbal forgiveness’ (ibid.: 48) must be acknow-
ledged. If there is such a thing as a ‘pure’ gift, hospitality and generosity,
and if there is such a thing as giving without calculation or the expectation
of return (and I take Derrida’s point to be that one can only have faith
that such things occur231), then I want to say that they happen blindly every
day as a ‘ “goodness without thought” ’ (Levinas 1999: 108).232 In other
words, these occurrences are – like the violence of being itself – so ordin-
ary, so banal that one does not even designate them as such. The ‘imposs-
ible’ that Levinas invests so much faith in has ‘already occurred’ (Derrida
1997c: 80) as an entirely natural phenomenon – that is, as ‘something
animal’ (Wittgenstein 1999: §359).
8 Contaminations
Levinas, Wittgenstein and Derrida
A man is capable of infinite torment . . . and so too he can stand in need of

infinite help.
L. Wittgenstein, Culture and Value
Hearts open very easily to the working class, wallets with more difficulty.
What opens with the most difficulty of all are the doors of our own homes.
E. Levinas, Nine Talmudic Readings
[T]he problem of hospitality [is] coextensive with the ethical problem. It is

always about answering for a dwelling place, for one’s identity, one’s space,
one’s limits, for the ethos as abode, habitation, house, hearth, family, home.
J. Derrida, in Derrida and Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality
Introduction
In the preceding chapters we have been concerned with ‘hauntings’ of
various sorts; of knowledge by doubt, reason by rhetoric, politics by ethics,
justice by violence, good conscience by Guilt, and the human by ‘the
animal.’1 Throughout these analyses I have referred to Derrida’s work on
numerous occasions. In this final chapter I want to bring the aforemen-
tioned themes together by releasing Derrida from his (as yet) somewhat
spectral presence. In particular I want to explore: (1) the extent to which
Derrida’s work has become increasingly possessed by Levinasian themes,
and (2) how Wittgenstein might in turn be invited to ‘haunt’ Derrida.2 In
a number of recent texts the influence of Levinas on Derrida’s thinking is
prominent – most notably where Derrida focuses on the aporetic demands
of ‘hospitality.’3 As we will see, these ‘quasi-prophetic’ (Caputo 1993: 91)
interventions demonstrate that there is perhaps nobody more attuned to
the question of what Levinas’s thinking might mean for contemporary
ethical-political theorizing.4 Of course, the precise degree of proximity
between Levinas and Derrida remains contentious.5 Nevertheless, the con-
tinual reformulation of Levinasian motifs in Derrida’s writings is, I believe,
undeniable.6 In the following discussion I will summarize how Derrida has
Contaminations 181
developed and politicized Levinas’s work. More specifically, what interests
me here are: (1) what Derrida’s explicit reflections on hospitality owe to
Levinas’s phenomenology of ‘home’ (outlined in Totality and Infinity7), (2)
how the question of hospitality figures as a backdrop to Derrida’s work on
‘iterability,’ and (3) how his remarks on testimony, trust and faith might
be read along broadly Wittgensteinian lines. As we will see, these three
topics are intimately connected.
Haunted houses: Levinas’s phenomenology of home

Near the beginning of his phenomenology of ‘home,’ Levinas identifies

the existential stakes involved in this ‘privileged’ theme when he claims
that the ‘recollection necessary for nature to be able to be represented
and worked over, for it to first take form as a world, is accomplished as the
home’ (1996c: 152). That is:
Man abides in the world as having come to it from a private domain,

from being at home with himself, to which at each moment he can
retire . . . Concretely speaking, the dwelling is not situated in the
objective world, but the objective world is situated by relation to the
dwelling.
(1996c: 152–3)8
To truly ‘have a world’ presupposes that one first ‘have a home’ – no

matter how temporary or fragile the latter might be. ‘Home’ here signifies
a site from which the subject’s worldly excursions are oriented, and to
which they return, thereby maintaining a ‘circular . . . law of economy’
(Derrida 1992b: 7–8) between self and world.9 And it is in this sense that
the home (including the ‘mobile home’10) is ‘not a possession in the same
sense as the movable goods it can collect and keep’ (Levinas 1996c: 157).
Of course, insofar as the home provides a ‘refuge’ (ibid.: 154)11 or site of
‘withdrawal from the elements’ (ibid.: 153), it thereby constitutes a break
with ‘natural existence’ (ibid.: 156).12 Levinas’s point is that this taking
refuge is, existentially speaking, more significant than a mere sheltering
from natural forces.13 In the subject’s ‘recollecting’ itself in the ‘dwelling,’
both ‘labor and property [become] possible.’ (Indeed, recalling what I
said in Chapter 6 of Levinas’s misgivings concerning the visual metaphor,
it is notable that he here describes the ‘window’ as that which ‘makes pos-
sible a look that dominates’ – that, when viewed from the home, the ‘ele-
ments remain at the disposal of the I – to take or to leave’ (ibid.: 156).)
The ‘raw material’ (ibid.: 159) of the natural world is thus ‘fixed between
the four walls of the home’ and to that extent becomes ‘calmed in posses-
sion’ (ibid.: 158). The home would therefore appear to be ‘in fact egoist’
insofar as it is first ‘hospitable for its proprietor’ (ibid.: 157).14 Thus far
the subject has been described as if it existed in glorious isolation – like
182 Contaminations
Crusoe’s ‘insular life’ (1993: 148) before meeting Friday. That is to say,
the home understood as essentially a ‘project of acquisition’ (1996c: 162)
cannot as yet, it seems, be described as a ‘violence’ because, Levinas sug-
gests, here acquisition and possession concern ‘what is faceless’ (ibid.:
160).15 But, like the lover’s relation with her beloved (discussed in
Chapter 7), this economy of ‘intimacy’ (ibid.: 153) – and the domestic
good conscience it spawns – is little more than an egoistic fantasy. For
‘possession itself refers to more profound metaphysical relations’; namely,
‘the other possessors – those whom one cannot possess – [who] contest
and therefore can sanction possession itself.’ That is, in the ‘face of
another being’ (ibid.: 162) the subject’s home (and all ‘possession’ mani-
fest therein) is called ‘in question’ (ibid.: 163),16 and this is why the ‘some-
where of dwelling’ constitutes ‘a primordial event’ (ibid.: 168).
It is at this point that the question of hospitality arises – or, more accu-
rately, shows itself to have already arisen. For now the issue is not primar-
ily about the home as ‘hospitable for its proprietor’ (ibid.: 157) but rather
about the ‘welcome [that] the Home establishes’ (ibid.: 170–1), or my
knowing how to ‘give what I possess’ and thereby ‘welcome the Other who
presents himself in my home by opening my home to him’ (ibid.: 171).
Levinas thus concludes:
[N]o face can be approached with empty hands and closed home. Rec-
ollection in a home open to the Other – hospitality – is the concrete
and initial fact of human recollection and separation; it coincides with
the Desire for the Other absolutely transcendent. The chosen home is
the very opposite of a root . . . The possibility of the home to open to
the Other is as essential to the essence of the home as closed doors and
windows. Separation would not be radical if the possibility of shutting
oneself up at home with oneself could not be produced without
internal contradiction as an event in itself, as atheism.
(1996c: 172–3)17
These points might be summarized as follows: In order for a thing (a

found natural object, for example) to become a possession for me it must
also be possible for another to possess it.18 In an analogous way the home’s
being made ‘hospitable for its proprietor’ (ibid.: 157) (that I can occupy
this site as home) refers to other possible proprietors.19 Indeed, it is this
necessary possibility to which the face of the other gestures when it
accuses me of taking the place of another and thereby partaking in the
violence of being. My-dwelling-here is therefore necessarily ‘haunted’
(Derrida 1999b: 112)20 by the ghosts of others ‘whose presence is dis-
creetly an absence’ (Levinas 1996c: 155).21 As such, Levinas insists, ‘my’
home can never be described as thoroughly ‘intimate’22 or ‘calm,’23 never
a total ‘secrecy’ (ibid.: 156) or ‘refuge’ (ibid.: 154) – indeed, not even as
wholly ‘mine.’24
Contaminations 183
With these general points in mind, Derrida’s allusion to the etymologi-
cal link between ‘host and hostage’ (1999b: 57) (and specifically why the
‘host . . . is a hostage insofar as he is a subject put into question’ (ibid.:
56)25) becomes extremely pertinent. It is to this that I will now turn.
The perils of hospitality

While Derrida maintains that the ‘separation’ between self and other ‘is
the condition of the social bond’ (1999a: 71)26 (even of ‘love’ and ‘friend-
ship’ (1997e: 14)27), he seems more willing than Levinas28 to cast this in
quasi-epistemological terms. So, for example, Derrida remarks that this
‘nonknowledge is the element of friendship or hospitality for the trans-
cendence of the stranger, the infinite distance of the other’ (1996c: 6).29
This reference to ‘hospitality’ is significant, not only because I previously
identified a certain Levinasian ‘inhospitality’ toward the animal but more
particularly because it is around this Levinasian theme that Derrida devel-
ops a number of ethical, political and quasi-religious concepts.30 Employ-
ing Derrida’s conceptual vocabulary, intersubjectivity can be cashed out as
follows: The other qua other (that is, if she is not merely a reflection of
myself31) can always surprise me.32 That is, for ‘the other to happen, to
come to me’ (1997a: 5) means that I find myself in the domain of the
‘unforeseeable’ (2002a: 361) or ‘perhaps’ (1997a: 5).33 (Levinas similarly
remarks that the ‘perhaps’ is ‘the modality of an enigma, irreducible to
the modalities of being and certainty’ (1996a: 75).34) As discussed in
Chapter 3, Wittgenstein makes a number of related points when contrast-
ing ‘fixed’ behaviors with a natural ‘liveliness’ (1958: §420),35 ‘incalculabil-
ity’ (1994a: 73) and ‘unpredictability of human behavior’ (1990: §603).36
But Derrida’s emphasis on the other’s unforeseeableness takes on more
explicitly political overtones when he proceeds to distinguish between the
‘invitation’ and ‘visitation’ (or hospitality).37 In the invitation – by which
Derrida is primarily referring to the closed invitation (‘Come at 4
o’clock’), not the open invitation (‘Come whenever you want’38) – the
coming of the other is brought under regulatory control; you are invited
and I am therefore ‘expecting you and am prepared to meet you’ (1999a:
70).39 Though even here there remains a necessary possibility (otherwise
this would be mere coercion40) that the other will surprise me by coming
sooner or later than requested – or even not at all41 – the function of the
invitation is to inhibit such possible interruptions of my being-at-home.42
The grammar of the invitation thus shows it to be infused with condition-
ality insofar as it neither stands indefinitely nor precludes its later amend-
ment or withdrawal.43 More specifically, this conditionality is ultimately
founded upon notions of property rights; my being ‘at home’ (Derrida
2000b: 51).44 What the invitation effectively says is: You are permitted
to come and I will thereby grant you some of ‘my’ space and time, for I
rightfully belong here; I am not (and here cannot be) a trespasser.45 These
184 Contaminations
presuppositions are clearly problematic on Levinasian grounds, for, as
previously discussed, ‘the Other . . . calls me into question’ and ‘paralyzes
possession, which he contests by his . . . face’ (Levinas 1996c: 171).46 Given
this fundamentally ‘accusative’ (Levinas 1998b: 111) structure of intersub-
jectivity, one is never simply or unproblematically ‘at home.’ Rather, as
Derrida puts it, one is always the ‘stranger at home’ (1993b: 10), for ‘my
home’ undergoes a continual haunting by the other: ‘[h]ospitality is the
deconstruction of the at-home’ (2002a: 364).47 In contrast to the eco-
nomics of the invitation (though, as we will see, this demarcation is neces-
sary blurred), hospitality (subject to the visitation) knows no such

prudence.48 Like Derrida’s account of the ‘pure’ gift,49 hospitality is
without ‘ruse’ (1995c: 74) and ‘supposes a break with reciprocity,
exchange, economy and circular movement’ (1999a: 69).50 Genuine hos-
pitality depends rather upon one’s being open to the possibility of ‘an
absolute surprise,’51 for the other, ‘like the Messiah, must arrive whenever
he or she wants’ (ibid.: 70) not when I decide they are least inconve-
nient.52 This ‘messianicity’ (1998b: 17) or not-knowing when, how or even if
the Messiah will arrive53 is ‘the unconditional law of hospitality . . . [which]
gives us the order or injunction to welcome anyone’ even ‘without check-
ing at the border who he or she is, what his or her nationality is.’ The law
of hospitality is therefore ‘a way of being open whoever comes. Whoever
comes should feel at home here’ (1997a: 8).54 If ‘I am unconditionally
hospitable,’ Derrida concludes, ‘I should welcome the visitation,’ not
merely the ‘invited guest’ (1999a: 70).55
According to Derrida then, I must be vigilant in my nonvigilance, ‘ready
to not be ready’ (2002a: 361) or ‘prepared to be unprepared’ (1999a: 70).56
Unsurprisingly, this curious practice of interminable openness to the
other (this ‘madness . . . linked to the essence of hospitality’ (1998c: 89,
n. 9)57) brings in its wake considerable risks.58 As previously noted, the
‘invitation’ represents one way of circumscribing such perils. But, as also
became clear, it is precisely the desired invulnerability (or quasi-Pyrrhon-
ian ataraxia) motivating such practices that renders them ethically prob-
lematic. Regarding the ‘visitation,’ however, such risks play a constitutive
role. That the visitor might come bearing tribulations and catch me
‘without protection . . . incapable of even sheltering [myself]’ (1993b: 12)
(that she might oppose my being-at-home to the point of ‘ruin[ing] the
house’ (2000a: 353), or even by bringing death) is a necessary condition
of hospitality qua hospitality.59 It is also, we should note, a necessary con-
dition for the home to be a home, and not some self-regulated quaran-
tine, that I am vulnerable in this way.60 (I will return to the notion of
quarantine later.) If there is such a thing as ‘pure’ hospitality one cannot
therefore ‘exclude the possibility that the one who is coming . . . is a figure
of evil’ (1997a: 9) – even of ‘radical evil’ (1998b: 17),61 and the force of this
prohibition is not merely empirical, but structural, or part of the grammar
of hospitality. In other words, evil is always a risk, but this risk is not itself
Contaminations 185
evil. Rather, such risk constitutes the very chance of hospitality. Of course,
in ‘ordinary circumstances’ the visitor is most often courteous toward the
hospitality she receives; trespassing, burglary and eviction are more-or-less
exceptional occurrences. But in keeping with his preoccupation with the
‘production of the extraordinary within the ordinary’ (2000a: 415),
Derrida insists that this customary goodwill can neither be demanded nor
pre-programmed.62 Locking away one’s valuables to avoid their possible
theft by the visitor, or physically restraining her upon entering one’s
home for fear of possible violence; these sorts of practices (no matter how
reasonable in specific circumstances) would be incommensurable with pure

hospitality, just as a necessary condition for the gift to be a gift (and not
merely an item of exchange) is the possibility of it being unwanted, inap-
propriate or offensive.63 In much the same way as an authentic prayer
must not be merely repeated ‘mechanically’ (1992a: 269), so a ‘gesture “of
friendship” or “politeness” would be neither friendly nor polite if it were
purely and simply to obey a ritual rule’ (1995c: 7).64 In short, ‘[f]or an
event to happen, the possibility of the worst, of radical evil, must remain a
possibility . . . Otherwise the good event, the good Messiah, could not
happen either’ (1997a: 9).65 That is, ‘what threatens is also what makes
possible’ (2002c: 135).
In some wonderfully evocative passages, Bachelard writes that ‘the door
is an entire cosmos of the Half-open’ (1994: 222), for ‘a mere door . . . can
give images of hesitation, temptation, desire, security, welcome and
respect.’ He then inquires: ‘onto what, toward what, do doors open? Do
they open for the world of men, or for the world of solitude?’ (ibid.: 224).
The pertinence of this question for our analysis is clear enough. Indeed,
earlier Bachelard asks the following (and notably Levinasian) question:
‘Where is the main stress . . . in being-there : on being, or on there? In there –
which it would be better to call here – shall I first look for my being?’ (ibid.:
213). He then provides a rather convenient synopsis of what, I have
argued, preoccupies both Levinas and Derrida:
Outside and inside are both intimate – they are always ready to be
reversed, to exchange their hostility. If there exists a border-line
surface between such an inside and outside, this surface is painful on
both sides . . . The center of ‘being-there’ wavers and trembles.
(Bachelard 1994: 218)66
The ‘at home’ can ‘project an image . . . of closedness, of selfish and

impoverishing and even lethal isolation,’ but this very same ‘at home’ is
‘also the condition of openness, of hospitality, and of the door’ (Derrida
2002d: 81). That is to say, the ‘at-home has always been tormented by the
other, by the guest, by the threat of expropriation. It is constituted only in
this threat’ (ibid.: 79). Although ‘[w]alls and closed doors have always
been experienced as invitation to trespass’ (Harries 1998: 168), this is not
186 Contaminations
an empirical failing or lamentable vulnerability of the home. Rather, these
‘threats’ represent the home’s positive condition of possibility. For ‘in
order to constitute the space of a habitable house and a home, you also
need an opening, a door and windows . . . a passage to the outside world.
There is no house or interior without a door or windows’ (Derrida 2000b:
61).67
Now, such aporias of giving are hardly new concerns for Derrida.68 For
the risk inscribed in hospitality (what sometimes appears as a hazardous
moment of theodicy in his work69) relates directly to his reflections on
‘writing’ and ‘iterability.’70 Thus, the necessary threat of death can be seen
to haunt language in general insofar as: (1) the human (linguistic) subject
is vulnerable and mortal, and (2) language, in its structure, transcends the
empirical conditions of this mortality.71 It is to the relationship between
language and finitude that I now want to turn.
From the law of iterability to the confessional

Whatever particular theory of language we might favor, one thing remains
incontestable: some day I will utter my last words (or, more precisely, I will
have uttered my last words for ‘those who remain’ (Heidegger 1999:
282)72). Moreover, barring an impossibly rigorous quarantine – where not
only my environment but every physio-biological process were subject to
the strictest surveillance and prediction (something only God could
oversee73) – never can I be sure whether these words at this very moment will
not turn out to be my unwitting valediction.74 No matter how expected my
death might be, it can always come sooner than anticipated and, like the
visitor or Messiah who ‘comes like a thief in the night’ (1 Thessalonians
5:2),75 catch me unawares.76 Sooner than I have time to compose myself
(my location, posture, or preferred ‘last words’), death can always arrive as
a surprise77 – indeed, as the ultimate surprise, for I will have nothing to say
about it; I will barely even experience its arrival.78 Insofar as these might be
my last words,79 ‘last words’ are, structurally speaking, remarkably unre-
markable.80 But this structural ‘ordinariness’ has further implications. It is
not merely that any word could, as a matter of fact, prove to be my last,
but rather, that every word functions as if it were my last.81 That is, it
remains essential to the functioning of language qua language that a sign
(written or otherwise) be detachable from its ‘source,’ and that this source
be capable of being absent to the point of death. It seems obvious that
‘my’ words are in a relation of authorial dependence upon ‘me.’ But this
picture is misleading insofar as any word I offer must, by definition, be
capable of surviving me – whether this ‘survival’ pertains to a breach
with my intentions, my spatio-temporal location, or my actual death.82 As
such, even the most direct and mundane acts of communication between
determinate subjects already gesture toward their indeterminate dissemi-
nation.83
Contaminations 187
There are doubtless affinities between these points and Wittgenstein’s
remarks on ‘private language’84 and following a rule ‘only once’ (1958:
§199).85 But Derrida’s account of iterability can also be approached
through Wittgenstein’s suggestion that it is often illuminating to ‘invent
[a] fictitious natural history’ where ‘very general facts of nature’ (ibid.:
p. 230) are different from those with which we are familiar. One might, for
example, imagine a world where the subject and her written word were
inextricably bound, and even determined by her mortality.86 Here, the
death of the subject naturally results in the disappearance of her written
word from the world. (One might further imagine that her death obliter-
ates the memories of others concerning anything she may have written
during her lifetime.87) The point of this thought experiment is to illustrate
not only how strange the world would be were language confined by
human finitude but, more radically, whether the concepts of ‘language,’
‘writing’ and ‘communication’ (and, not least, the very distinction between
‘author’ and ‘text’) could even get a foothold.88 That the mortality of the
(linguistic) subject needs to be contrasted with the immortality of the lan-
guage she ‘uses’ is, to borrow Wittgenstein’s words, something about ‘the
natural history of human beings’ (ibid.: §415) which does ‘not strike us
because of [its] generality’ (ibid.: p. 230).89 It is doubtless this ‘generality’
that has contributed to the ill reception of Derrida in certain philosophical
circles (and specifically to his being charged with making ‘trivial’ (1995a:
420) propositions). Of course, were Derrida’s point left in the stark
formulation ‘language is . . . “immortal” ’ (2000a: 402) then it would indeed
appear to be of little philosophical interest.90 What is significant is the way
such general ‘observations which no one has doubted’ (Wittgenstein 1958:
§415) – once their implications are pursued – necessarily effect other,
more specific areas of philosophical, political and ethical concern. Recall-
ing my earlier remarks on Levinas’s preoccupation with Guilt, and the
seemingly ‘trivial’ assertion (made above) that I will some day utter my ‘last
words,’ we can now bring these two themes together: With each word I
testify to my mortality,91 and, by implication, to my having escaped death thus
far. As Derrida puts it, I write, speak, act (and so on) in the name of my
‘survival’ (1995a: 346),92 and as such my activities (linguistic or otherwise)
constitute a ‘living death liturgy’ (1993a: 137).93 But as I argued in Chapter
6, my ‘survival’ is problematic insofar as to be is ‘already an ethical problem’
(Levinas 1993: 48).94 Granted, I am now surviving; this is the condition of
possibility of being an ‘I.’ But, as Levinas inquires, at ‘whose cost’ (1999:
179) is this survival?95 To the extent that my activities (or ‘writing’ in the
broader sense Derrida assigns that term) testify to my survival, they
simultaneously testify to my Guilt for surviving,96 and in doing so betray
their inherently confessional, apologetic nature.97 Levinas thus speculates:
I wonder whether there has ever been a discourse in the world that
was not apologetic, whether . . . our first awareness of our existence is
188 Contaminations
an awareness of rights, whether it is not from the beginning an aware-
ness of responsibilities, whether, rather than comfortably entering
into the world as if into our home, without excusing ourselves, we are
not, from the beginning, accused.
(1994b: 82)
To be is already to be in the confessional mode – or, in Derrida’s words,

‘[o]ne always writes in order to confess . . . in order to ask forgiveness’
(2001b: 49); one ‘confesses, even when [one] does not confess or denies
confessing’ (2002a: 383).98 Indeed, he explicitly links this request for for-
giveness to the fact that ‘one is always failing, lacking hospitality . . . one
never gives enough’ (ibid.: 380),99 and, more significantly, to the ‘guilt . . .
for living, for surviving . . . for the simple fact of being there’ (ibid.: 383).
Skepticism, trust and violence

Derrida’s work continues to provoke both venomous hostility and uncriti-
cal imitation. The latter does not interest me unduly. The former,
however, is pertinent to my analysis insofar as the pervasive suspicion here
is that Derrida’s thinking betrays a radical skepticism. Now, one only has
to consider Derrida’s frequent use of the qualifier ‘if there is such a thing’
(1993b: 79)100 (notably in his ethical-political work) to see how a cursory
reading can generate such anxieties. The surface grammar of such
remarks does indeed lend them to skeptical interpretation, but, like
Wittgenstein’s hesitancy between religious belief and denial, Derrida’s
caution here is not fundamentally skeptical.101 The comparison with
Wittgenstein is germane, for – as we will see – just as he speaks of religion
out of a certain religiosity,102 so too does Derrida speak in the name of a
minimal (and ineliminable) trust or faith.103 Derrida thus insists that the
apparently circumspect ‘if there is’ is actually constitutive of responsibility,
the decision, hospitality, and so on. These are not merely themselves
empirically impossible, but rather the ‘very figure of the impossible’
(1992b: 7).104 It is not that specific instances of a ‘pure’ hospitality (gift,
decision, and so on) never actually happen, but that such things never could
be said to have ‘happened,’105 and this is an essential feature of what they
are. Their impossibility is thus not to be lamented as an insufficiency or
failing – which would indeed render Derrida’s account skeptical in the
traditional sense. On the contrary, they owe their very life to such impossi-
bility. In a similar manner, Derrida’s account of iterability106 may appear
skeptical insofar as any meaningful sign (linguistic or otherwise107) is
inscribed with the necessary possibility of ‘failure’ (1971: 325).108 Contrary
to Austin’s analysis of performatives,109 Derrida insists that the ‘risk’ of per-
formative failure Austin highlights does not ‘surround language like a
kind of ditch, a place of external perdition into which [it] might never
venture’ (ibid.: 325). Rather, this ‘risk’ is an ‘essential predicate or law’
Contaminations 189
(ibid.: 323) that actually constitutes language’s ‘power’ (1992a: 42)111
110
and ‘internal and positive condition of possibility’ (1971: 325).112 For a

sign to function ‘normally’113 (to reach its intended destination, to be
understood, and so on) one cannot, as Austin attempts to do, exclude the
possibility of its ‘going astray.’114 Indeed, even when a sign does function
‘successfully’ its failure remains inscribed as a necessary possibility.115 Again
then, iterability does not call for philosophical bemoaning because this is
a law not a ‘lure’ (ibid.: 327). In keeping with Wittgenstein’s reminders in
On Certainty concerning the intimate grammatical relationship between
‘knowledge’ and ‘doubt,’116 Derrida reminds us that the possibility for sin-
cerity, authenticity, success, truthfulness (and, not least, hospitality, friend-
ship and goodness) necessarily depends upon the ineliminable potential
for insincerity, inauthenticity, failure, lying (hostility, enmity and evil). In
short, there is a necessary ‘reciprocal contamination’ (1984: 122) between
the grammar of these concepts.117 (As Wittgenstein suggests in Philosophi-
cal Investigations, this is why one cannot, without a certain distortion,
describe the ‘unweaned infant’ (1958: §249) – or many non-human
animals118 – as ‘sincere,’ ‘honest’ or ‘truthful.’119) Of course, circum-
stances may indicate that danger is at hand, be it in the form of physical
violence or mere insincerity. But even here ‘transcendent certainty’
(Wittgenstein 1999: §47)120 is neither available nor required, and thus
cannot be an object of philosophical nostalgia. There is no way of deter-
mining a ‘total context,’121 not least because one ‘cannot precisely
describe’ what constitutes ‘normal circumstances’ (ibid.: §27).122 After all,
what possible contextualization could provide quarantine against any
utterance being used ironically or in quotation?123 Indeed, to this extent
Derrida’s misgivings concerning the simple demarcation between ‘ordin-
ary’ and ‘extraordinary’ language (because what he is ‘trying to find . . .
[is] the production of the extraordinary within the ordinary, and the way
the ordinary is . . . “vulnerable” to or not “immune” to what we understand
as extraordinary’ (2000a: 415)124) are in line with much of Wittgenstein’s
later work. Thus, recalling Wittgenstein’s remarks on ‘trust’ and ‘founda-
tional propositions’ in On Certainty, we can re-cast a number of Derrida’s
points on iterability as follows: I have to trust what the other says to me –
or at least trust my own judgement that she is not to be trusted.125 Like-
wise, I trust that what I say will be believed and understood as it was
intended.126 More radically perhaps, I must even trust that I will survive to
the end of this sentence,127 and that you will survive too, no matter how
undetermined the ‘you’ is here.128 (In other words, I trust that the Apoca-
lypse will not arrive in the meantime.129) Such ‘primitive’ (Wittgenstein
1999: §475),130 ‘elementary faith’ (Derrida 1998b: 45) is not therefore
‘hasty but excusable’ (Wittgenstein 1999: §150), for without it one would
simply be ‘incapable of learning,’ and subsequently engaging in ‘language
games’ (ibid.: §283).131 In this crucial sense then, trust is not one
language-game among others.132 Rather, it constitutes that which all
190 Contaminations
language-games133 are hinged upon.134 As Derrida remarks, there could be
‘no society . . . without trust in the other . . . [without] this minimal act of
faith’ (1997e: 23), or, in Winch’s words, the ‘notion of a society in which
there is a language but in which truth-telling is not regarded as the norm
is a self-contradictory one,’ and therefore it would ‘be nonsense to call the
norm of truth-telling a “social convention”, if by that were meant that
there might be a human society in which it were not generally adhered to’
(1960: 242–3).135 That is, ‘some concern with the virtue of truthfulness is a
necessary background condition in any society in which it is possible for
anyone to make true statements’ (ibid.: 244).136 At its root such trust is
neither reasonable nor unreasonable,137 not least because ‘it may never
have been expressed’ or even ‘thought’ (Wittgenstein 1999: §159).138 On
this point, I want to suggest, the Wittgensteinian naturalism I have hith-
erto been defending is itself minimal enough to be read into Derrida’s
remarks on ‘testimony’ and ‘trust.’139 Thus Derrida variously remarks:
‘Testimony, which implies faith or promise, governs the entire social space
. . . theoretical knowledge is circumscribed within this testimonial space’
(1999a: 82):
[O]ne can testify only to the unbelievable. To what can, at any rate,
only be believed; to what appeals only to belief and hence to the given
word, since it lies beyond the limits of proof, indication, certified
acknowledgement . . . and knowledge . . . when we ask others to take
our word for it, we are already in the order of what is merely believ-
able. It is always a matter of what is offered to faith and of appealing to
faith . . . Such is the truth to which I am appealing, and which must be
believed, even, and especially, when I am lying or betraying my oath.
(1998c: 20–1)
Take, for example, trusting someone, believing someone. This is part

of the most ordinary experience of language. When I speak to
someone and say ‘Believe me’, that is part of everyday language. And
yet in this ‘Believe me’ there is a call for the most extraordinary. To
trust someone, to believe, is an act of faith which is totally hetero-
geneous to proof, totally heterogeneous to perception.
(2000a: 418)140
As I discussed in Chapter 2, if one’s survival (be it one’s communica-

tive-social or physio-biological survival141) is to be possible, one cannot
begin with doubt in this regard.142 For this ‘elementary trust . . . is involved
. . . in every address of the other. From the first instant it is co-extensive
with this other and thus conditions every “social bond”, every questioning,
all knowledge, performativity’ (Derrida 1998b: 63),143 and this is why
‘there is no culture that is not also a culture of hospitality’ (2002a: 361).144
Trusting the other is logically prior to any suspicion one might later
Contaminations 191
harbor because suspicion is itself necessarily grounded upon what is not
open to suspicion.145 But as soon as one is surviving (one of ‘the survivors’
(Derrida 1988e: 593)) doubt becomes inscribed as a necessary – though, I
would add, local146 – possibility. Insincerity, distrust, doubt and lying may
be logically ‘parasitic’ upon sincerity, trust, certainty and truthfulness, but
this can do nothing to quarantine the social-moral arena – and again, this
is a structural point rather than a lamentable failing.147 Likewise, that a
certain pre-performative truthfulness (an implicit ‘believe me’ (Derrida
1998b: 63)148 and ‘ “unconditional” affirmation’ or ‘yes’ ‘independent of
every determinate context’ (Derrida 1997d: 152)149) remains co-extensive

with every utterance, does not inhibit the possibility for deceit. Rather, it is
what makes deceit both possible and especially easy with regard to chil-
dren and many non-human animals. In an analogous way to Wittgen-
stein’s suggestion that Moore misrepresents ‘foundational propositions’
by claiming to ‘know what he asserts’ (1999: §151), so Derrida argues that
Austin’s account of performatives misrepresents deceit by characterizing it
as something ‘accidental’ (Derrida 1971: 323), ‘unhappy’ (Austin 1976:
15) or ‘infelicitous.’150 Although the implicit normativity in Austin’s
serious/non-serious distinction provokes Derrida to wonder about the
political significance of the term ‘parasite’ in speech-act theory,151 I want
to return to ethical-political matters of a different kind.
Earlier I discussed how the possibility for hospitality is haunted by evil
insofar as it is structurally necessary that the guest can always manifest
herself as radically inhospitable. There are no absolute safeguards against
this possibility, and if there were then hospitality as such would be a hollow
concept. The possibility for my being hospitable thus depends upon a
certain intractable vulnerability, both of the relation of hospitality in
general (the contexts of its occurrence) and of its specific ‘participants’
therein.152 Clearly measures can be taken to render hospitality less suscep-
tible to breaches of trust. But if, as Derrida sometimes suggests, a measured
hospitality is no hospitality at all,153 then how can such cautious maneuvers
be justified?154 To answer this question we must here recall the structural
importance of the ‘third party’ in Levinas’s work. To recap: If there were
only two of us inhospitality would indeed be unjustifiable. But given that
the third party also addresses me in the face of the singular other, my
responsibility toward this other other must be given due consideration.
Only in this way does inhospitality become inscribed into the demands of
hospitality itself.155 ‘One must be responsible for what one gives and what
one receives,’ Derrida notes, because even the ‘excess of generosity of the
gift – in which the pure and good gift would consist’ can turn into ‘the
bad . . . even the worst’ (1992b: 63–4).156 With the third party (who, let us
recall, has always already ‘arrived’ in the face of the singular other), not
only do we find the birth of theory, justice and institutions, it is ‘now’ that
the call for legitimate violence can be heard. Thus, if I am protecting x
from the violence of y, then my inhospitality to y becomes an essential
192 Contaminations
component of my hospitality toward x; my inhospitality toward y constitutes
the conditions of possibility of my being hospitable toward x.157 As Schopen-
hauer pithily remarks, while on the one hand ‘friendship is only limitation
and partiality’ insofar as ‘it is the restriction to one individual of what is
due of all mankind,’ on the other hand ‘the man who is everyone’s friend
is no one’s friend’ (1918: 123).158 The paradox that arises here is that a
‘pure’ hospitality would be indistinguishable from the Pyrrhonist’s radical
indifference, where one nonchalantly said
yes to who or what turns up, before any determination . . . before any
identification, whether or not it has to do with a foreigner, an immi-
grant, an invited guest, or an unexpected visitor, whether or not the
new arrival is the citizen of another country, a human, animal, or
divine creature, a living or dead thing, male or female.
(Derrida 2000b: 77)
It is in this way that there (again) remains a necessary mutual ‘contamina-

tion’ (1992a: 68)159 between pure hospitality and inhospitality, between
‘the unconditional law of hospitality’ and ‘conditional . . . laws of hospital-
ity’ (2000b: 79),160 between love and violence, friendship and enmity.161
Here the categories of ‘exclusion and inclusion are inseparable’ (ibid.:
81), and as such ‘[h]ospitality is a self-contradictory concept’ (2000c: 5).162
For Derrida then, violence (and thus an ineliminable bad conscience) is
inscribed into the gratuitousness of Levinasian ethics insofar as: (1) the
other first needs to be identified as such – that is, as an other, (2) I can
never rest assured that I have done enough or made ‘the just choice’
(2001e: 56) for this other, (3) any ethical relation I have with this other (or
these others) is always at the expense of another other (or those others), and
(4) my responsibility to this other (or these others) may thereby demand
my violence toward another other (or those others).163 In short, there is a
necessary ‘infidelity at the heart of fidelity’ (2002a: 388), and this is why
Derrida insists that ‘bad conscience . . . is the main motivation of my ethics
and my politics’ (2001b: 69).164 Ultimately it may not be possible to ‘derive
a politics’ from Derrida’s (Levinasian) notion of hospitality, but (again,
like Levinas) Derrida insists: ‘a politics that does not retain a reference to
this principle of unconditional hospitality is a politics that loses its refer-
ence to justice’ (2002d: 17).165
Thus far I have been concerned with certain contaminations between
hospitality and violence, truthfulness and insincerity, and so on. What
Derrida thus brings to our attention is how a Levinasian ethics of ‘pure’
generosity is necessarily impossible.166 It is this intermingling of the possible
and impossible that I now want to focus on.
Contaminations 193
(Deciding) On the impossible
In ‘A Lecture on Ethics’ Wittgenstein maintains that a ‘characteristic
misuse of our language runs through all ethical and religious expressions’
(1993: 42). Yet the futility of this ‘tendency in the human mind’ to ‘run
against the boundaries of language’ does not prevent him from ‘respect-
ing [it] deeply’ (ibid.: 44). Likewise, God’s commanding something
beyond the realms of possibility167 does not prompt Wittgenstein to
dismiss such grammatical peculiarities as instances of language ‘idling’
(1958: §132) or having gone ‘on holiday’ (ibid.: §38).168 Rather, he wants to
preserve these aporias as essential to the genuinely religious life.169 In

Derrida’s work similar tendencies emerge insofar as justice, responsibility,
hospitality, the gift (and so on) demand that we ‘endure’170 the
‘experience of the impossible’ (1995a: 359)171 – or the ‘experience of the
desire for the impossible’ (1999c: 72).172 To take one particularly striking
example, Derrida remarks that ‘the so-called responsible decision’ must
not merely be the ‘technical application of a concept’ or ‘the con-
sequence of some preestablished order’ (1993b: 16–17)173 (as though one
were following ‘a doctor’s prescription’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 53)174).
Rather, ‘the decision must arise against a background of the undecidable
. . . As a condition of the decision as well as that of responsibility, the
undecidable inscribes threat in chance, and terror in the ipseity of the
host’ (Derrida 1998c: 62).175 Providing an ethical twist to the Pyrrhonian
narrative discussed in Chapter 1, Derrida insists that this backdrop of
undecidability neither constitutes nor sanctions ‘paralysis’ (1999a: 66)176
or ‘resignation’ (2001e: 56) in the face of mutually incompatible choices.
For ‘there would be no decision . . . in ethics, in politics, no decision, and
thus no responsibility, without the experience of some undecidability’
(1999a: 66).177 This is not, however, to say that undecidability is mere inde-
terminacy. Rather: ‘I am in front of a problem and I know that the two
determined solutions are as justifiable as one another. From that point, I
have to take responsibility’ (ibid.).178 (That is, in a given situation I know
that my options are x and y. As far as possible I know how to implement x
and y and the likely outcome of each. The problem is that between these
two determinate choices I do not know how to justify deciding on x rather
than y (or vice versa), as the reasons and justifications for either x or y
seem equally distinct, compelling and legitimate. This then is the moment
of undecidability Derrida is referring to, not the sort of quandary resulting
from x and/or y themselves being ambiguous or indeterminate.179)
Although Derrida acknowledges the aporetic nature of judgement
criteria180 – an aporia that occasionally prompts him to speak of the neces-
sity for a quasi-Kierkegaardian ‘leap’ (ibid.: 73)181 – he nevertheless resists
the Pyrrhonian teleology of ataraxia. There is no liberation from respons-
ibility or the ‘madness’ (1995c: 59)182 that constitutes the decision, for
here there could only be the corrupt assurance of ‘good conscience’
194 Contaminations
(1999a: 67);183 of having applied the rule absolutely correctly or of only
having ‘obeyed orders.’184 After all, how does one justify applying this crite-
rion and not another, or account for the necessary exclusion of other pro-
grams by the adoption and implementation of this one?185 And how does
one justify applying a rule in this way rather than that? As I argued in Chap-
ters 2 and 3, appealing to one’s inherited world-picture may have epis-
temic acumen but it will never be ethically sufficient to justify good
conscience. For any world-picture must as such be inhabitable by other
others; there can no more be a private world-picture than there can be a
private language. My world-picture is no less haunted than are those

‘internal’ features (my decisions,186 my home,187 my friendships and
loves188) previously discussed. If the other ‘haunts’ (Levinas 1984: 63)189
my being-in-the-world as such, then the specificities of my world-picture
will provide neither an adequate means of exorcism nor quarantine in
which to withdraw:
[S]ince there is . . . no hospitality without finitude, sovereignty can

only be exercised by filtering, choosing, and thus by excluding and
doing violence. Injustice, a certain injustice, and even a certain
perjury, begins right away, from the very threshold of the right to hos-
pitality.
(Derrida 2000b: 55)
That I choose you over her, friends over strangers, my family or commun-
ity (or even species) over ‘foreigners’ – all this I routinely justify. But that
in this very process of justification I apply this set of criteria over another, I
cannot justify.190 In short: ‘I will never know that I have made a good
decision’ (Derrida 2001b: 62). We must of course ‘calculate’191 between
possible choices; Derrida is not advocating random192 or arbitrary action,
neither of which would constitute a ‘decision.’193 Likewise, we have a
responsibility to accumulate as much knowledge as possible in order to
make judgements.194 We must not be willfully anti-rational (after all, how
could this be justified without appealing to another rationality?195). But
the decision to calculate is not itself ‘of the order of the calculable’
(Derrida 1990: 963).196 More specifically, the ‘decision between just and
unjust is never insured by a rule’ (ibid.: 947) because the justice of the rule
– and there might always be a better justice and a better rule197 – would
thereby have to be assumed. Recalling the paradox of Pyrrhonian qui-
etism discussed in Chapter 1, we are always already within the decision:
‘[t]he decision takes place’ (2002f: 312). Even when I am indecisive (even
when I say ‘No!’ to the incessant demands of decision) I have already said
‘Yes’ to indecision.198 This being-in-the-decision is not itself deliberative or
quasi-contractual, but due to the very structure of human finitude.199 In
this way, then, Derrida is not advocating a voluntaristic decisionism but
rather attempting to articulate (which is difficult, if not impossible, insofar
Contaminations 195
as every discourse or meta-discourse presupposes the pre-performative
‘Yes’ for itself200) the affirmative backdrop against which all particular
deliberations occur.201
Despite this ‘always already’ of one’s being-in-the-decision – and some
avowedly ‘hazardous’ reflections regarding Heidegger’s ‘inexcusable
silence’ on ‘Auschwitz and many other topics’ (1988a: 147)202 – Derrida
does not (as Heidegger seems to203) cast suspicion upon apologetic-
confessional practice per se. Rather, what he emphasizes is the necessary,
though again impossible, vigilance demanded by such practices;204 a vigi-
lance that would both maintain bad conscience and yet also ensure that
such bad conscience never simply masked a deeper good conscience.205
(Though even in this risky formulation Derrida would question the ethi-
cality of a bad conscience that could be ‘ensured.’) There may seem to be
something ‘terrible’ (1997b: 20)206 about all this, but, let us recall, these
aporias do not delineate a ‘trap.’ Rather, they are the very ‘condition of a
decision’ (1999a: 69) and thus of responsibility itself. What characterizes
the experience of the impossible is a ‘perpetual uneasiness’ (1984: 120) in
acknowledging that my worldly activities – insofar as they are necessarily
sacrificial207 – are never wholly just(ifiable).208 As such, ‘remorse’ becomes
‘an essential predicate of the relation we have to any decision’ (1998a:
37), for ‘in our relations with others . . . we should never be sure of having
done the right thing’ (1997b: 23):209
[T]he mortal . . . is someone whose very responsibility requires that he

concern himself not only with an objective Good but with the gift of
infinite love, a goodness that is forgetful of itself. There is thus a struc-
tural disproportion or dissymmetry between the finite and responsible
mortal on the one hand and the goodness of the infinite gift on the
other hand. One can conceive of this disproportion without assigning
to it a revealed cause or without tracing it back to the event of original
sin, but it inevitably transforms the experience of responsibility into
one of guilt . . . What gives me my singularity . . . is what makes me
unequal to the infinite goodness of the gift that is also the first appeal
to responsibility. Guilt is inherent in responsibility because respons-
ibility is always unequal to itself: one is never responsible enough.
(1995b: 51)210
In other words, my Guilt is not predicated on any specific act or omission –

not even upon the inheritance of original sin. (Derrida instead refers to this
as ‘original sin prior to any original sin’ (2002a: 388), and my being ‘a priori
guilty’ (ibid.: 384).) Rather, Guilt is a constitutive part of my ‘finite and . . .
mortal’ being-in-the-world; my being-here (which is a usurpation of another),
my attending to this other rather than that other, and the illegitimacy of ever
assuring myself that I have been ‘responsible enough’ to any other.
Derrida recalls Levinas once disclosed that his real interest was ‘not
196 Contaminations
ethics alone, but the holy, the holiness of the holy’ (Derrida 1996c: 4).211
In the political realm Levinas thus refers to ‘a religious breath or a
prophetic spirit’ (1998b: 203) insofar as ‘within justice, we seek a better
justice’ (1988a: 175)212 – that is, because ‘the ceaseless deep remorse’
(1998b: 229) or ‘bad conscience’ (ibid.: 230) of justice keeps good con-
science at bay.213 Similarly, Derrida remarks that ‘justice is not the law’
because ‘[j]ustice is what gives us the impulse, the drive, or the movement
to improve the law’ (1997e: 16). Justice ‘is always unequal to itself . . . the
call for justice is . . . never fully answered,’ and this is why it is impossible
to ‘say “I am just” ’ (ibid.: 17) without corruption.214 To this extent,

Levinas insists, there ‘is no moral life without utopianism’ (1988a: 178) –
though, of course, this utopianism is profoundly a-teleological.215 Indeed,
it is the possibility for ‘gratuitous’ (1998a: 147)216 self-sacrifice or ‘saintli-
ness’217 that Levinas describes as the ‘essence of human conscience’
(1998b: 107) or ‘religion’ (ibid.: 7). With this in mind, I want to close with
a few remarks on Derrida’s distinction between ‘religion’ and ‘faith.’
Enduring faith
As noted previously, Wittgenstein maintains that the ‘tendency’ of those
who attempt ‘to run against the boundaries of language’ when talking
about ethics and religion ‘is perfectly, absolutely hopeless’ (1993: 44).
Though worthy of respect, such endeavors nevertheless attempt the
impossible. But, as discussed in Chapter 5, Wittgenstein does not leave us
stranded in the silent landscape of the Tractatus. Despite his claim that
‘Ethics, if it is anything, is supernatural’ (ibid.: 40), Wittgenstein provides
some clues as to the terrestrial dimension of ethical life in his subsequent
references to ‘shame’ and feeling ‘guilty’ (ibid.: 40). Although for both
Levinas and Derrida the ‘desire for the impossible’ is more directly linked
to the question of good conscience and Guilt, to what extent Derrida
shares Levinas’s religiosity is difficult to determine. Thus, in keeping with
both Levinas and the later Wittgenstein, Derrida cautions: ‘We should
stop thinking about God as someone, over there, way up there, transcend-
ent,’ and instead ‘think of God and of the name of God without such idol-
atrous stereotyping or representation’ (1995b: 108). But, we might ask,
what then can be said about God? What viable function can this term now
have? Interestingly, in ‘Circumfession’ Derrida claims that ‘nobody under-
stands anything’ about his ‘religion’ (1993a: 154) – not even his mother
‘who asked other people a while ago, not daring to talk to me about it, if I
still believed in God.’ He proceeds: ‘but she must have known that the
concept of God in my life is called by other names, so that I quite rightly
pass for an atheist’ (ibid.: 155). As Caputo notes, to ‘pass for an atheist’
seems a rather cryptic formulation218 – one might – like the culturally
assimilated Pyrrhonist – ‘pass for’ many things without that determination
getting to the heart of the matter. Here we might recall Wittgenstein’s
Contaminations 197
own remarks concerning the ‘sense in which’ (Drury 1981: 130) he could
be called ‘a Christian.’ Conversely, there is a ‘sense in which’ Derrida
‘quite rightly’ passes for an atheist because ‘God’ goes relatively unnamed
(or at least ‘by other names’) in his life and work. The situation is compli-
cated, not least because Derrida wonders whether it is even ‘possible to
think of responsibility, decision, remorse, and so on . . . outside of a Chris-
tian tradition’ (1997b: 21).219 But it is not difficult to see what ‘other
names’ might pertain to the divine in Derrida’s writings. His preoccupa-
tion with confession, negative theology, the messianic and even prayer220
are pertinent here, as are his numerous reflections on sacrifice, mourning

and conscience. Of course, one should not base too much on a man’s ‘cir-
cumfession,’ but it might still be asked whether Derrida shares Wittgen-
stein’s preoccupation with trying to make sense of the religious in non- or
quasi-religious terms. As intimated above, I am not suggesting that these
Derridean themes can be straightforwardly interpreted as ‘religious’ (after
all, it is not clear that even Levinas’s work demands an explicitly ‘religious’
interpretation). Indeed, Derrida denies that such motifs ‘mean that I am
simply a religious person or that I am simply a believer’:
For me, there is no such thing as ‘religion’ . . . Within what one calls
religions . . . there are again tensions, heterogeneity, disruptive volca-
noes, sometimes texts, especially those of the prophets, which cannot
be reduced to an institution, to a corpus, to a system.
(1997e: 21)
Derrida is wary of the term ‘religion’ because it implies homogeneity within

the realm of ‘the religious.’ As discussed in Chapter 3, such caution is judi-
cious, but his emphasis on the ‘heterogeneity’ of ‘what one calls religions’
should not be exaggerated to the point of a radical (Lyotardian or quasi-
Wittgensteinian fideistic) incommensurability thesis. For having expressed a
certain admiration for Kierkegaard’s ‘paradoxical’ (ibid.) faith, Derrida pro-
ceeds to draw the following distinction between ‘religion and faith’:
[W]hat I call faith in this case is like something that I [say] about
justice and the gift, something that is presupposed by the most radical
deconstructive gesture. You cannot address the other, speak to the
other, without an act of faith, without testimony . . . This ‘trust me, I
am speaking to you’ is of the order of faith, a faith that cannot be
reduced to a theoretical statement . . . So this faith is not religious,
strictly speaking; at least it cannot be totally determined by a given
religion. That is why faith is absolutely universal.
(1997e: 22)
No critique of religion, or of each determinate religion, however neces-

sary or radical that critique may be, should or can, in my view, impugn
198 Contaminations
faith in general . . . the experience of belief, of credit, of faith in the
pledged word (beyond all knowledge and any ‘constative’ possibility)
is part of the structure of the social bond or the relation to the other
in general, of the injunction, the promise, and the performativity that
all knowledge and all political action, and in particular all revolutions,
imply. The critique of religion itself, as a scientific or political under-
taking, makes appeal to this ‘faith’. It therefore seems to me imposs-
ible to eliminate all reference to faith.
(1999d: 255–6)221
Like Wittgenstein, Derrida does not commit himself to any specific reli-
gious world-picture, and to this extent his position might be described as
atheistic. However, insofar as all world-pictures – indeed, every human
(and perhaps animal) activity, including deconstruction – are governed by
a ‘minimal’ (ibid.: 23) faith, this hesitancy regarding the religious is not
straightforwardly atheistic.222 Indeed, that religious faith is itself dependent
upon a more ‘elementary faith’ (1998b: 45) is consistent with my own sug-
gestion that the absolute ‘trusting’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 72) demanded by
religion finds a natural counterpart in the ‘primitive’ trusting manifest in
(for example) the parent–child relation.223 In short, the ‘testimonial
space’ Derrida maintains ‘governs the entire social space’ (1999a: 82) is a
natural horizon which, as Wittgenstein might put it, is ‘given’ (1958:
p. 226), or ‘there – like our life’ (1999: §559).224
Synopsis
From ancient Pyrrhonian skepticism to Derrida’s most recent ethical-

political thinking, in the preceding chapters we have covered a very broad
philosophical terrain. Although Chapter 8 brought the main preoccupa-
tions of these analyses together, I would here like to offer a brief synopsis
of the five central themes of the book.
1 Wittgenstein’s later philosophy shares a number of striking similarities

with the therapeutic practices of ancient Pyrrhonian skepticism.
However, unlike the Pyrrhonists, his search for ‘peaceful thoughts’
does not represent an ethical-political ideal. In this crucial sense the
claims of some commentators that Wittgenstein is a ‘conservative’
thinker are fundamentally mistaken. Likewise, that Wittgenstein is fre-
quently taken to be primarily concerned with the ‘radical plurality’ of
language-games, forms of life and world-pictures overlooks his under-
lying naturalism, for this presents a distinctly unifying picture of
human life. More specifically, the minimal naturalism underpinning
(for example) Wittgenstein’s remarks on ‘trust’ in On Certainty identi-
fies the necessary preconditions for ethical-political theorizing and
practice.
2 Contrary to the suspicions of a number of philosophers, the deep anti-
apologeticism of Wittgenstein’s remarks on religious belief does not
necessarily lead to a troubling relativistic fideism. What Wittgenstein
cautions against is rather a conception of religiosity too closely teth-
ered to both hypothetical speculation and what is practically ‘reason-
able.’ Genuine religious belief is, according to him, a categorical
commitment or ‘trusting’ insofar as what is demanded of the believer
may be neither possible nor profitable. In short, Wittgenstein raises
the possibility of thinking of religiosity beyond the inherent eco-
nomics of eschatological-salvationist hope. This can be seen most
clearly in his remarks on guilt, the ‘wretchedness’ of belief, and a
sense of ethical responsibility that transcends even death.
3 Mindful of these latter themes, Levinas’s work can best be understood
as an extended meditation on existential guilt, or the ‘guilt of the
200 Synopsis
survivor.’ This notion has broadly Heideggerian roots, but its primary
source must be located in the impact of the Holocaust on Levinas’s
thinking. Because in my very being ‘I take the place of another’
Levinas’s fundamental question is not ‘Why is there something rather
than nothing?’ but rather ‘Do I have a right to be?’ My ethical stand-
ing before the face of the other is therefore essentially apologetic and
confessional. However, due to the ‘primordiality’ of such guilt no
apologetic discourse can ever be complete. In short, ‘bad conscience’
is an ineliminable feature of the human condition.
4 While Wittgenstein’s naturalism has tended to be underestimated by

commentators, it is Levinas’s anti-naturalism that has been neglected.
Only if we take this latter omission into account will we properly
understand both the philosophical motivations behind his explicitly
‘religious’ conceptual vocabulary, and his persistent anthropocen-
trism. Levinas’s conception of ‘religion’ ultimately hinges on his con-
viction that ‘love without reward’ is both possible and of the utmost
value. However, given Wittgenstein’s insistence that language is a
natural extension of pre-linguistic ‘primitive behaviors’ (of, for
example, ‘pain behavior’), his minimal naturalism provides not only
an important corrective to Levinas’s ‘inhospitality’ toward the non-
human animal but also a more naturalistic perspective from which to
account for the aforementioned possibility of ‘love without reward.’
5 Derrida’s recent work on ‘hospitality’ (and related themes) takes its
lead from Levinas’s brief sketch of a phenomenology of ‘home’ in
Totality and Infinity. Nevertheless, Derrida teases out the internal
aporias of the Levinasian account, arguing that the distinction
between hostility and hospitality is necessarily blurred insofar as each
‘contaminates’ the other. Both the ‘trust’ demanded by hospitality
and its inherent risks are not, however, contingent or empirical facts
warranting philosophical lamentation. Rather, such mutual contami-
nation constitutes the positive condition of hospitality per se. It is in
this important sense that the conditions of possibility of hospitality are
simultaneously its conditions of impossibility. Hence, Derrida’s overrid-
ing (and avowed) ethical-political concern lies with the ‘scandal of
good conscience’ and one’s being ‘a priori guilty.’
Notes
Introduction
1 See Kerr 1997: Chs 1–6.
2 See Chapter 2.
3 See also Wittgenstein 1993: 40–4; 1996b: 94–5. As I explain in later chapters, a
‘desire for the impossible’ preoccupies both Levinas and Derrida.
4 Although Derrida’s earlier work is intimately related to these recent preoccu-
pations, I only indicate some of their more striking correlations (see also Bern-
stein 1991: 172–98). The tendency of some commentators (notably Baker
1995: 97–116; Patrick 1997: 71–90) has been to examine the ‘ethics’ of decon-
structive practice. Interesting though these analyses are, their broad methodo-
logical focus often obscures the ethical terrain of Derrida’s thinking.
5 See Caputo 1993; Bernasconi 1997; Critchley 1999a, 1999b; De Vries 1999;
Bennington 2000b: Ch. 3; Llewelyn 2002.
6 See Staten 1986; Garver and Lee 1994; Glendinning 1998; Wheeler 2000.
7 Greisch (1991: 69–74) and Werhane (1995: 61–3) suggest some possible corre-
lations between Wittgenstein and Levinas.
8 Clack (1999) is a notable exception.
9 For his later work Wittgenstein chose ‘ “I’ll teach you the differences” ’ as his
preferred ‘motto’ (Drury 1981: 171).
10 Although I allude to a number of biographical details (on both Wittgenstein
and Levinas), nothing philosophical ultimately turns on them.
11 Though this multiplicity is ‘not . . . fixed, given once for all’ (Wittgenstein
1958: §23).
12 In Chapter 8 I develop this point in relation to Derrida’s remarks on ‘testi-
mony’ and ‘faith.’
13 See also Schutz 1964: 234.
14 See Nielsen 1967; Clack 1999: 78–89. That is, the view that the ‘internal’ rule-
bound religious practices of specific communities are quarantined from the
critical assessment of those ‘outside.’
15 See Nielsen 1967: 193, n. 1.
16 See Trigg 1999: 178.
17 See Nielsen 1967: 191.
18 Unlike Wittgenstein, Frazer’s use of this term is pejorative.
19 See also Wittgenstein 1996a: 64–6, 68, 70, 72–4.
20 As will become clear in later chapters, I would here add ‘vulnerability’ and ‘suf-
fering.’
21 As I argue in Chapter 3, this is why Wittgenstein has interested ‘radical’ plural-
ists like Lyotard.
22 I develop this in Chapters 2 and 3.
202 Notes
23 Similar ideas emerge in Wittgenstein’s suggestion that God’s having ‘com-
manded’ something does not entail that it is even ‘possible’ (1994a: 77) to
meet that demand. I explore this in Chapter 5.
24 As Derrida remarks of his own work: ‘What I am trying to do is to find . . . the
production of the extraordinary within the ordinary’ (2000a: 415).
25 This has partly been due to Levinas (and Derrida) frequently being described
as ‘postmodernists’ – an unhelpfully vague term that tends to be used as a
synonym for ‘skepticism’ and ‘relativism’ (Gellner 1993: 22–4; Gaita 2000:
15–16, 184–5, 258; Graham 2001: 21, 47, 203–4).
26 See Gellner 1993: 23; Davis 1996: 3.
27 See, for example, the essays collected in Campbell and Shapiro 1999. I refer to
a number of these in later chapters.

28 See Chapter 3.
29 One might argue that the genuinely ‘radically other’ is not to be found in the
familiar realm of sentient beings, but in the realm of inanimate objects (where
the ‘radically other’ has never even been acknowledged as such). I return to
this in Chapter 3.
30 See also Bernstein 1991: 74.
31 For a recent (though problematic) ‘naturalistic’ reading of Levinas, see Nuyen
2000.
32 See Derrida 1995a: 219.
1 Peaceful thoughts
1 For a condensed version of the present chapter see Plant 2004b.
2 See Drury 1981: 161.
3 See Derrida’s criticism of Wittgenstein (1993a: 62–3), and the former’s more
recent ‘confession’ of his ‘failure’ (2000a: 351) to address Wittgenstein’s work
properly.
4 See Wittgenstein 1993: 462. For some notable exceptions see Drury 1981:
102–8.
5 I here take my lead from Fogelin’s remarks on Wittgenstein and Pyrrhonism
(1986, 1987: Ch. XV; see also Hardwick 1971: 24; Hookway 1990: 16). Fogelin
suggests that this correlation has been overlooked due to the seeming
perversity of reading Wittgenstein alongside any form of skepticism, given
his persistent attempts to undermine the ground upon which the
skeptic stands (1987: 226). But what is at stake here is not whether Wittgen-
stein was ‘really’ a Pyrrhonist (actually familiar with their writings, and so on),
but whether Wittgenstein’s methods and motives exhibit Pyrrhonian tend-
encies.
6 See Drury 1981: 97, 99.
7 See Nussbaum 1991: 521–2, 536, 538, 541.
8 See Nussbaum 1991: 527.
9 Stated otherwise ‘unperturbedness’ (Hookway 1990: 4) or ‘freedom from dis-
turbance’ (Nussbaum 1991: 529). Pyrrho of Elis is thought to have visited
India (Diogenes 1925: 475; Hankinson 1995: 58ff.), which raises interesting
questions about the relationship between Pyrrhonism and Eastern philo-
sophy.
10 See Nussbaum 1991: 538; Sextus 1996: 1:13–17.
11 See also Nussbaum 1991: 540, 545. As we will see, while the strength of treat-
ment may alter, there remains an essential methodology of oppositional argu-
mentation here. As such it is misleading for Sextus to claim that Pyrrhonism
lacks a definitive method.
12 See Diogenes 1925: 491; Hookway 1990: 1; Nussbaum 1991: 548.
Notes 203
13 See Sextus 1996: 1:3–4.
14 On philosophical ‘dogmatism’ see Wittgenstein 1958: §131; 1994b: 72; Niet-
zsche 1968: §446.
15 See Nietzsche 1968: §455.
16 There remains a question as to whether she must implicitly allude to ‘truth.’
On a related point see Derrida 1992a: 257, 265, 288, 296–8; 1996b: 82; 1998b:
18, 26–8, 30, 44–5, 47, 63–4.
17 See Diogenes 1925: 515–17. This is not a trivial maneuver, for ‘[w]hen lan-
guage-games change, then there is a change in concepts, and with concepts
the meaning of words change’ (Wittgenstein 1999: §65; see also 1990: §438).
Note also Rorty’s voluntarism on this matter (1999: pp. xviii–xix, xxii, 176),
and passages of a more voluntaristic flavor in Wittgenstein (1979b: 98).

Derrida’s remarks on ‘philosophical’ and ‘natural’ language (1995a: 374) are
also pertinent here.
18 See Hookway 1990: 9.
19 See also Diogenes 1925: 501–3, 507. On a similar point made by Hume
against the Cartesian, see Passmore 1968: 135–6. Popkin reiterates many of
these issues in relation to the epistemological crisis inaugurated by the
Reformation (1979: 1–2, 13, 51). Derrida makes a similar point regarding the
foundations of law (1990: 943, 1001; 2001e: 57), and the ‘decision to calcu-
late’ (1990: 963) – though, as we will see in Chapter 8, this does not lead
Derrida to Pyrrhonian quietism (1990: 947, 963, 971).
20 See also Diogenes 1925: 515.
22 The reason I here avoid the word ‘cause’ will become clear later.
23 While the Pyrrhonist criticizes the dogmatist for opposing natural inclination,
she also suggests that theoretical dogmatism is itself of natural origin (Nuss-
baum 1991: 530; see also 526).
24 See Nussbaum 1991: 523, 534.
25 On the similarities between the human and animal, see Sextus 1996: 1:59–79.
27 See also Inwood and Gerson 1988: 238.
28 See Burnyeat 1983: 126.
30 See also Nussbaum 1991: 524, 531.
31 See Sextus 1996: 1:25–30 (compare with Nietzsche 1968: §260).
33 That ‘painful exertion is not something unqualifiedly worth avoiding,’ see
Sextus’ remarks quoted in Inwood and Gerson 1988: 238. Note also Caputo
1993: 29.
34 See Sextus 1996: 1:27–8.
35 See also Nussbaum 1991: 529.
39 Even conceding this minimal necessity for belief, the Pyrrhonist could still
justify himself on the aforementioned pragmatic grounds; that although a life
totally devoid of commitment may be impossible, Pyrrhonism still offers the
best way of minimizing such troublesome commitments.
40 For a summary of the ten ‘modes’ of Pyrrhonian argumentation see Diogenes
1925: 493–9.
41 See Popkin 1979: 63.
43 See also Inwood and Gerson 1988: 181–2.
204 Notes
44 See Diogenes 1925: 484–5.
45 We should here note the quasi-performative character of the Pyrrhonist’s
utterances (Nussbaum 1991: 535). On a related point see Rousseau 1930: 210.
46 Nussbaum thus draws attention to the principle of non-contradiction in the
Pyrrhonian method (1991: 548).
47 See Mates 1996: pp. 30–2.
48 Interestingly, Wittgenstein refers to doubt as ‘a moment of hesitation’ (1993:
379).
49 Doubtless even this phrase could, in specific circumstances, be intelligible
(Wittgenstein 1999: §350).
50 One might say that the Pyrrhonist attempts to place herself between or
outside language-games, thereby lacking ‘a criterion . . . that is, a basis for

deciding’ (Mates 1996: p. 31) sense from nonsense.
51 Or a ‘standstill of reason’ through which one will ‘neither deny nor assert any-
thing’ (Nussbaum 1991: 528; see also Hookway 1990: 5). Nussbaum likewise
refers to this as the ‘paralysis’ (1991: 530) of ‘rational commitment’ (ibid.:
547). There are correlations here between the Pyrrhonian (Sextus 1996:
1:36ff.) and phenomenological (Husserl 1982: §§7–9) epoche, which is unsur-
prising given the influence of the sixteenth-century revival of Pyrrhonism on
Descartes (Popkin 1979: Chs II–X), and Husserl’s Cartesian inheritance.
52 Derrida also speaks of the ‘perhaps’ and ‘maybe,’ though for him these are
not synonymous (1992b: 95; 1997a: 2, 4, 13, 16–17). Of additional interest
here is Derrida’s claim that the ‘aporia’ is not ‘a failure or a simple paralysis’
(1993b: 32; see also 1999a: 66, 73). I will return to these points in Chapter 8.
53 The Pyrrhonist’s ‘being-at-a-loss’ does not apply to immediate appearances,
for although he ‘withholds assent . . . from all categorical assertions . . . he is
willing to say how things now seem to him to be, but on the question of how
they are in fact, he takes no position’ (Mates 1996: p. 31).
54 Ataraxia is not purposely sought, for if it became a teleological goal then it too
would likely generate additional anxieties. Rather, ataraxia comes about ‘by
mere chance’ (Nussbaum 1991: 530; see also 532, 541–5; Sextus 1996:
1:25–30).
55 See Burnyeat 1983; Nussbaum 1991: 551ff.
56 Indeed, the ‘orientation to ataraxia’ itself becomes quite ‘natural’ (Nussbaum
1991: 546; see also 528, 540).
57 See Nussbaum 1991: 554. A question already arises here as to what extent
‘indifference’ (Diogenes 1925: 477) and ‘tolerance’ are being conflated? I will
return to this in Chapter 3.
58 See also Inwood and Gerson 1988: 174.
59 It was this inherent ‘conservatism’ that lay at the heart of the Catholic
Pyrrhonian-fideism of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries (Popkin 1979:
Ch. III).
60 See Annas and Barnes 1985: 163–4, 169.
61 See Sextus 1996: 1:145–63.
62 See also Inwood and Gerson 1988: 239; Sextus 1996: 1:231.
63 See Nussbaum 1991: 531, 534.
64 See Nussbaum 1991: 535. The final part of the ‘Skeptic Way’ is ‘instruction in
arts and crafts’ (Sextus 1996: 1:23–4; see also Burnyeat 1983: 126).
65 The necessity of making this qualification highlights a deeper problem;
namely, that the very concepts of ‘prejudice’ and ‘intolerance’ (and their
antitheses) cannot even get a foothold in a Pyrrhonian framework.
66 See Hankinson 1995: 293.
67 See Annas and Barnes 1985: 169.
68 The question of why one would or should make a ‘movement toward the
Notes 205
other’ (and not simply bask in one’s unperturbedness) will be discussed in
Chapters 6 and 7.
69 The same can be said of the Pyrrhonist’s supposed lack of epistemic commit-
ments.
70 See Nussbaum 1991: 528, 540, 546.
71 See Derrida 1992a: 257, 265, 288, 296–8; 1995a: 384; 1996a: 68.
72 See Sartre 1977: 48; Derrida 1992a: 195.
73 See Heidegger 1999: p. 386. Somewhat paradoxically, then, a pluralistic
society would pose more problems for the Pyrrhonist than would a totalitarian
dictatorship. I will return to pluralism and totalitarianism in Chapter 3.
74 See Annas and Barnes 1985: 169.
75 I use the term ‘categorical’ in Kant’s sense (1976: 78ff.), to which I will return
in Chapter 5 with reference to Wittgenstein.
76 See Rhees 1969: 171; Wittgenstein 1993: 161.
77 Both Wittgenstein (1958: §106; 1993: 183; 1994a: 74) and Freud use the
metaphor of untying a knot to characterize their respective projects. Note also
a certain ‘entanglement’ both within and between psychoanalysis and decon-
struction (Derrida 1998a: 1–38).
78 On Wittgenstein’s remarks on the ‘trivial,’ see Moore 1993: 114.
79 On Wittgenstein’s fear of his work leading him ‘to insanity,’ see 1993: 468.
80 See Luckhardt 1991: 255–72. Neither Rhees nor Luckhardt mention Pyrrhon-
ism.
81 See Drury 1981: 96.
82 See Drury 1981: 136; Monk 1991: 334ff.; Shusterman 1997: 21.
83 In this sense Wittgenstein maintains a highly teleological view of philo-
sophical practice in general (and philosophical argument in particular) as
he seems not to address the possibility of someone simply enjoying philo-
sophical perplexity and argumentation. On the possibility and value of non-
teleological argumentation, see Bennington 2000.
84 Philosophy-as-therapy is thus a profoundly ‘counter-institutional institution’
(Derrida 1992a: 58, see also 36; 1995a: 327–8, 346, 376; 2002f: 74–5) insofar as
it both laments its own existence and dreams of its own demise.
85 See also Moore 1993: 114.
86 See Wittgenstein 1958: §93.
87 See Monk 1991: 335, 356–7. Like psychoanalysis, Wittgenstein’s work stresses
the importance of ‘discussion’ (Moore 1993: 113).
88 See Nussbaum 1991: 538, 540, 545; Sextus 1996: 3:280.
89 See Rosenzweig 1999: 55. Putnam (1999, 1–20) here likens Rosenzweig’s posi-
tion with Wittgenstein’s.
90 See also Derrida 1998a: 3, 17.
91 Wittgenstein also speaks of one’s being ‘calmed’ regarding what makes us ‘so
profoundly uneasy’ (1993: 173), that the ‘disorder in our concepts’ can be
remedied in such a way that ‘certain troubles . . . disappear’ (at which point
we reach ‘complete satisfaction’ (ibid.: 181–3)), and that ‘[o]ur object is to
get rid of certain puzzles’ by ‘pulling ordinary grammar to bits’ (1979b: 31).
92 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§25, 244, 343, 415; 1990: §§391, 540–1, 545; 1994a:
31.
93 See Wittgenstein 1996a: 61–81. On the similarities between Wittgenstein’s
work and Tolstoy’s Confessions, Thompson notes their shared emphasis on: (1)
the ‘dissolution’ of life’s problems (1997: 101–7, 109, 111), (2) action over
theory (ibid.: 110), and (3) the non-eschatological nature of religious belief
(ibid.: 104–5). Thompson also alludes to Tolstoy’s naturalistic ‘nostalgia,’ as
does Sontag (1995: 125).
94 See also Wittgenstein 1958: §109; 1990: §690; 1999: §435.
206 Notes
95 See Wittgenstein 1993: 183–7.
96 See also Wittgenstein 1990: §405.
97 See also Wittgenstein’s remarks on the relation between the ‘instinct’ to ask
certain questions and what ‘leads children to ask “Why?” ’ (Moore 1993: 114).
98 In his own commentary on Wittgenstein, Wood mistakenly suggests that it is
traditional philosophy’s ‘attempts to make language behave in artificial ways
that generate philosophical problems’ (1990: 55, my emphasis; see also Rorty
1999: xxi–xxii).
99 Staten’s deconstructive reading of Wittgenstein overlooks his naturalism (see
especially Staten 1986: 75).
100 Wittgenstein suggests that our tendency toward confusion (and the mistaken
belief that philosophical perplexities can be ‘solved’ by new discoveries and

explanations) is also due to our obsession with the methods of scientific prac-
tice (1958: §230; 1969: 18).
101 This distinction pertains to our being preoccupied with words alone (‘surface
grammar’), rather than attending to the way words function within various
human activities (‘depth grammar’). I will return to this in later chapters.
102 See also Moore 1993: 114; Blanchot 1997: 238–40.
103 Thus ‘philosophizing has to be as complicated as the knots it unties’ (Wittgen-
stein 1990: §452; see also §382). Echoing Nietzsche (1977: p. 58; 1989: 209),
Wittgenstein also refers to an ‘entire mythology laid down in our language’
(1993: 199).
104 See also Moore 1993: 109–10.
105 Note Nietzsche’s remarks on the seductive nature of words and grammar
(1972a: pp. 37–8; 1987: §§16–17, 19), and his accusation that philosophers fail
to notice that ‘concepts and words are our inheritance from ages in which
thinking was very modest and unclear’ (1968: §409; see also 1989: 209).
Regarding Nietzsche’s views on the relation between language and philo-
sophy, see Hollingdale’s remarks in Nietzsche 1972a: p. 191.
106 See Staten 1986: 77.
107 See also Wittgenstein 1993: 453. Wittgenstein provides the following examples
of such an ‘urge’: ‘What happens with the words “God” and “soul” is what
happens with the word “number”. Even though we give up explaining these
words ostensively, by pointing, we don’t give up explaining them in substanti-
val terms. The reason people say that a number is a scratch on the blackboard
is the desire to point at something’ (1979b: 32), and likewise: ‘we are misled if
we think that [ostensive definition] is a peculiar process of christening an
object which makes a word the word for an object. This is a kind of supersti-
tion’ (1993: 448). He similarly refers to our ‘powerful urge . . . to see every-
thing in terms of cause and effect,’ which effectively means that ‘we are going
to apply this picture come what may’ (ibid.: 375).
108 See also Moore 1993: 114.
109 See also Wittgenstein 1994a: 17.
110 Here lies the difficulty facing the Pyrrhonist when attempting to extract the
vocabulary of ‘belief’ and ‘truth’ from her life.
111 See Putnam 1999: 2.
112 Just as a molecular biologist does not necessarily make a good doctor, neither
does a Wittgensteinian therapist require a thorough grounding in current
evolutionary theory (Wittgenstein 1996a: 69). There lies a question of ‘preci-
sion’ here; of whether the sort of precision required in the natural sciences
would even be of possible use in other domains (Wittgenstein 1958: §88).
113 As will become clear in later chapters, this normativity is particularly apparent
in Wittgenstein’s reflections on religious belief.
114 Compare this with Diogenes 1925: 487–8.
Notes 207
115 See also Wittgenstein 1958: §§109, 124–8, 665; 1990: §220; 1993: 177; 1996a:
61–2; 1999: §189.
116 Although the term ‘solution’ sits uncomfortably alongside Wittgenstein’s
objective of ‘dissolution,’ the general point remains applicable.
118 See Moore 1993: 113.
119 See Sluga 1996: 13. Nietzsche employs a similar metaphor (1972a: 27, n. 42).
120 See Wittgenstein 1995: 4.114–4.1212.
121 See Wittgenstein 1995: 4.46–4.4661, 6.22.
122 See Wittgenstein 1995: 4.121, 5.511, 6.13.
123 See also Diogenes 1925: 490–1.
124 See Wittgenstein 1995: 6.41–445, 6.522. As will become clear in Chapter 2, the
saying/showing distinction re-emerges in On Certainty (Clack 1999: Chs 1–2).
125 Indeed, Wittgenstein claims that the ‘point of the book is ethical,’ and his
concern is with the (absent) book the Tractatus renders impossible to write
(Monk 1991: 178). I will return to this in Chapter 5.
126 Compare with Wittgenstein 1958: §§128–9, 415; 1994a: 63.
127 Compare with Wittgenstein 1958: §§89, 109.
128 See Wittgenstein 1993: 183. This is not, for example, to deny the reality of
free will, but rather to acknowledge that the choices one can make are always
framed within given natural and cultural horizons.
129 See Monk 1991: Chs 8–9. Wittgenstein identifies his happiest times as those
spent away from philosophy (see his letter to Fouracre in Monk 1991: 494).
130 See Drury 1981: 92, 186 n. 9. This is not entirely accurate; one only has to
consider his brief excursion into architecture to see his abilities in other fields
(Monk 1991: 235–8). It would thus perhaps be better to say that Wittgenstein
failed to find anything that captivated him so intensely as philosophy.
131 See also Burnyeat 1983: 123–4; Hookway 1990: 2; Nussbaum 1991: 539, 548.
132 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§23, 114.
133 Recalling the Pyrrhonist’s emphasis on the need to bend with the vacillations
of the world, what Wittgenstein effectively does in Philosophical Investigations is
replace the methodological assumption that ‘the world must fit the theory’
with non-theorizing, descriptive procedures.
134 See Fogelin 1996: 34.
135 On this point, Cioffi’s suggestion (1998: 155–81) that, despite appearances,
Wittgenstein’s anti-instrumentalist reading of Frazer ought not to be taken as
wholesale is in keeping with this warning. I will return to ‘Remarks on Frazer’s
Golden Bough’ in Chapters 3 and 5.
136 See also Wittgenstein 1958: §§103, 115, 133, 255; 1994a: 63; Genova 1995: 33;
Fogelin 1996: 34.
137 See Wittgenstein 1958: §656, p. 200.
138 See Wittgenstein 1958: §133; 1994a: 9.
139 See McGinn 1997: 25.
140 See Burnyeat 1983: 121.
141 See Derrida’s remarks on the relation between the ‘fragment’ and ‘system’
(1999c: 181).
142 See Feyerabend 1988: 281.
143 See Rhees 1969: 170.
144 There is doubtless something to be said about more orthodox confessional
practices and Wittgenstein’s frequent use of an interrogative interlocutor in
his later writings. I will return to confession in Chapter 8 with reference to
Derrida.
145 See Wittgenstein’s remarks on ‘confession’ (1994a: 18) and Derrida’s remarks
on the ‘futurity’ of confession and guilt (1997b: 19–21).
208 Notes
146 See Shields 1997: 55–6.
147 I will argue in Chapter 5 that it is this lack of institutional allegiance (and not,
as Holland maintains, Wittgenstein’s alleged incapacity to pray) that lies
behind his claim: ‘ “I am not a religious man . . .” ’ (Drury 1981: 108, 117, 144,
162, 179–80). Holland attempts to address the apparent discrepancy between
the previous remark and Wittgenstein’s comment that ‘I cannot kneel to pray
because it’s as though my knees were stiff’ (1994a: 56). Using Taylor’s ‘The
Faith of the Moralist’ for comparison, Holland concludes that ‘the point
above all which differentiates Taylor’s position from Wittgenstein’s is that a
person in Taylor’s shoes gets down on his knees and prays’ (1990: 28). But
Holland makes no mention of the fact that upon his return from Norway
Wittgenstein claimed to have there ‘spent his time in prayer’ (Drury 1981:
135), or that on another occasion he remarked that there was ‘a sense in
which’ both he and Drury were ‘both Christians’ (ibid.: 130).
148 See Wittgenstein’s remarks on being ‘obsessed by a certain language form’
(1979b: 98).
149 See Moore 1993: 113.
150 Although Wittgenstein criticizes Freud’s essentialism (1994b: 47–8, 50) and
his failure to show ‘how we know where to stop – where is the right solution’
(ibid.: 42, see also 51; 1994a: 16, 34), Wittgenstein is not unduly perturbed by
Freud’s attempt to develop a new ‘way of thinking’ that makes ‘certain ways of
behaving and thinking natural’ for people (1994b: 45) (see also Wittgen-
stein’s remarks on Darwin and Copernicus (1994a: 18)). But how could he
object, given that – on Wittgenstein’s own admission – this is precisely what he
is attempting to do?
151 See Rhees 1969: 170.
152 See Wittgenstein 1958: p. x.
153 Although one might have to start with oneself before helping others (Wittgen-
stein 1994a: 44).
154 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 32, 53, 64, 86.
155 See Monk 1991: 334ff.; Pascal 1996: 34ff.; Shusterman 1997: 21.
157 As will become clear in Chapter 3, this emphasis on multiplicity (Wittgen-
stein’s alleged ‘pluralism’) is tempered by his naturalism.
158 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§23, 97, 114; 1999: §321.
159 We should note that in §133 of Philosophical Investigations Wittgenstein speaks
of the ‘discovery’ that makes him ‘capable of stopping doing philosophy’ when
he ‘wants to.’
160 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 48. In the preface to Philosophical Investigations
Wittgenstein remarks: ‘Up to a short time ago I had really given up the idea of
publishing my work in my lifetime. It used, indeed, to be revived from time to
time: mainly because I was obliged to learn that my results (which I had com-
municated in lectures, typescripts and discussions), variously misunderstood,
more or less mangled or watered down, were in circulation. This stung my
vanity and I had difficulty in quieting it’ (1958: pp. ix–x, my emphasis).
161 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§105–8. As will become clear in Chapter 5, while
Wittgenstein rejects the linguistic-conceptual perfectionism of his early work,
he maintains a certain ethical perfectionism – something which is perhaps
most apparent in his confession of ‘sins’ to (amongst others) Fania Pascal
(1996: 45–50). I will return to the latter in Chapter 6.
162 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§24, 79–80, 179, 203, 304, p. 224; 1990: §17; 1999:
§§348, 432.
163 See Wittgenstein 1993: 183.
164 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§108, 132, 271.
Notes 209
165 One must distinguish this from the biographical question regarding Wittgen-
stein’s own – often naïve – political sympathies (Monk 1991: 178, 342–4;
Pascal 1996: 55–7).
166 Nyíri focuses on the conservatism elucidated by (amongst others) Kaltenbrun-
ner, Oakeshott, Mannheim, Mohler and Grabowsky.
167 See also Nyíri 1982: 54.
168 See also Nyíri 1982: 45.
169 See Derrida’s remarks on Wittgenstein’s silence and the ‘mystical’ founda-
tions of law (1990: 943).
170 Phillips takes issue with this conservative reading, claiming that ‘[l]eaving
everything where it is involves taking account of cultural turmoil as much as
cultural stability’ (1986: 49). But this compounds the problem, for the ques-
tion is not whether the descriptive method (coupled with Wittgenstein’s prin-
ciple of non-interference (1958: §§126, 226)) is ‘conservative’ due to its
selectivity, but whether this approach is conservative insofar as it is descriptive.
171 As will become clear in later chapters, Wittgenstein remained suspicious of
our obsession with ‘reason’ and neglect of more natural ‘phenomena’ and
behavioral ‘patterns’ (1993: 389).
172 See Popkin 1979: 1–17, 49, 70ff.
173 See Nielsen 1967.
174 See also Wittgenstein 1999: §559. Concerning ‘lifestyles, customs and laws’
Philo remarks that ‘since among different people these things are not just
slightly different but utterly discordant, so as to compete and conflict,
necessarily the appearances experienced will differ and the judgments be at
war with one another. This being so, who is so senseless and idiotic as to say
steadfastly that such-and-such is just or intelligent or fine or advantageous?
Whatever one person determines to be such will be nullified by someone else
whose practice from childhood has been the contrary’ (quoted in Annas and
Barnes 1985: 155). I will return to (apparently) similar remarks in On Certainty
in Chapters 2 and 3.
175 Regarding this alleged ‘conservative’ element in Wittgenstein’s work, see also
Jones 1986: 282; Wittgenstein 1993: 407.
176 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§126, 226. With reference to a specifically political
question (the survival of the Irish language), Drury recalls Wittgenstein claim
that: ‘ “It is always a tragic thing when a language dies. But it doesn’t follow
that one can do anything to stop it doing so. It is a tragic thing when the love
between a man and wife is dying; but there is nothing one can do. So it is with
a dying language . . .” ’ (Drury 1981: 152). On a related point, see Derrida
1998c: 30.
177 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 4, 27.
178 For a critique of Nyíri’s ‘conservative’ reading, see Jones 1986; Schulte 1986.
179 Interestingly, when referring to ‘training’ Wittgenstein frequently employs the
German word abrichten; a term normally associated with the ‘conditioning’ of
animals. I thank Peter Baumann for bringing this to my attention.
1 Parts of this chapter have appeared in Plant 2003a and 2003b.
2 See Pitkin 1993: 325; Scheman 1996: 384.
3 On Certainty was never intended for publication, but rather represents ‘first-
draft material’ Wittgenstein ‘did not live to excerpt and polish’ (1999: p. vi).
Nevertheless, I would suggest that it is precisely the ‘rough edges’ of this text
that make it so provocative (Hudson 1986a: 123–4; Plant 2003b). Indeed,
Wittgenstein’s suggestion that ‘[o]ne could teach philosophy solely by asking
210 Notes
questions’ (1979b: 97) seems especially pertinent when reading On Certainty
(Bambrough 1992: 242).
4 Wittgenstein appears to substantiate Edwards’s reading when he remarks: ‘On
all questions we discuss I have no opinion; and if I had, and it disagreed with
one of your opinions, I would at once give it up for the sake of argument
because it would be of no importance for our discussion’ (Wittgenstein
1979b: 97). But Wittgenstein’s point here is methodological; that he is not
concerned with offering theoretical solutions, but rather with providing gram-
matical reminders concerning the actual use of words.
5 Edwards does not make this Pyrrhonian connection.
6 As I will discuss in later chapters, radically ‘nonfoundationalist’ interpreta-
tions of Wittgenstein underestimate the ‘worries’ (Gill 1974: 279) haunting

On Certainty.
7 See Gill 1974: 282; Kober 1996: 414, 418.
8 The two classic statements of this are Moore’s ‘A Defence of Common
Sense’ (1994a) and ‘Proof of an External World’ (1994b). Gill plausibly sug-
gests that there is no more ‘concise statement’ (1974: 279) of Wittgenstein’s
position in On Certainty than that provided in §521: ‘Moore’s mistake lies in
this – countering the assertion that one cannot know that, by saying “I do
know it”.’
9 See Kober 1996: 411.
10 That Wittgenstein’s Pyrrhonism is not thoroughgoing can be seen in his atti-
tude toward belief. For while the Pyrrhonist maintains a fundamental
dichotomy between natural life and the life of belief, Wittgenstein insists that
reason and deliberation are derivative of natural behaviors. Moreover, while
the Pyrrhonist attempts to escape the aporia of justification by abandoning
belief, Wittgenstein’s therapeutic strategy is to acknowledge the ‘groundless-
ness’ of our believing. Wittgensteinian ataraxia thus comes not in the renunci-
ation of belief but in accepting that many beliefs cannot be given (and do not
require) justification. I will return to these points later.
11 See also Fann 1969: 169.
12 See Malcolm 1958: 89; Wittgenstein 1990: §314. It will become clear later why
this formulation is provisional.
14 See Malcolm 1958: 89.
15 See Malcolm 1958: 90; Wittgenstein 1999: §9.
16 See Diogenes 1925: 481; Nussbaum 1991: 523.
17 See also Wittgenstein 1999: §475. This is in keeping with Wittgenstein’s reflec-
tions on causality (1993: 371–411).
18 Although, as I will discuss later, belief is prerequisite for doubt (Wittgenstein
1999: §480).
19 See also Wittgenstein 1999: §504. There are occasions when even one’s own
pain is uncertain. As often happens in childhood, the mere shock of a (poten-
tially) injurious event can be enough to temporarily make one suppose that
one is ‘in pain.’
20 See Gill 1974: 280; Wittgenstein 1999: §549.
21 See also Moore 1994b: 81–2.
22 See also Moore 1994a: 48.
23 See also Moore 1994a: 48; 1994b: 80–1, 83.
26 Moore also refers to the certitude of the existence of other human beings
(1994a: 48, 53–4, 55) and objects in the past (1994b: 83). Note also Schutz’s
remarks on ‘the zone of things taken for granted’ (1970b: 111; see also 1974:
Notes 211
4–5; Husserl 1970: 110, 121–5, 127–32, 140–1, 146–9, 165; 1982: 17, 37, 132,
151).
27 See also Wittgenstein 1999: §§21, 481–2.
28 See Malcolm 1958: 88; Wittgenstein 1999: §§91, 243, 550–1.
29 See also Malcolm 1958: 92; Wittgenstein 1993: 379; 1999: §260.
31 To put this in Derridean terms, what interests Wittgenstein here is the iterabil-
ity of the phrase ‘I know.’ I will return to Derrida in Chapter 8.
32 See Wittgenstein 1999: §554. Finch calls this a ‘universal context’ (1975: 385).
33 That is, his ‘accompanying feeling’ (Wittgenstein 1999: §524) of ‘subjective
certainty’ (ibid.: §563; see also 1958: §607).
34 See also Martin 1984: 594.

35 Moore’s propositions have a peculiar ‘grammatical’ status that means: ‘the “I”
cannot be important. And [“I know”] properly means “There is no such thing
as a doubt in this case” or “The expression ‘I do not know’ makes no sense in
this case”. And of course it follows from this that “I know” makes no sense
either’ (Wittgenstein 1999: §58; see also Hudson 1986a: 119).
36 See Wittgenstein 1999: §§54, 56, 87–8, 526, 653. They might be meaningful in
very ‘particular circumstances’ (ibid.: §423; see also §§25, 372, 387, 433, 461,
553, 622). Moore’s error is therefore partly one of omission; that is, of not
determining those situations in which such propositions can meaningfully be
used (Malcolm 1958: 89), and this is why his propositions make Wittgenstein
‘feel as if these words were like “Good morning” said to someone in the
middle of a conversation’ (1999: §464).
38 See Malcolm 1958: 89; Wittgenstein 1999: §308. Wittgenstein remarks: ‘Why is
it not possible for me to doubt that I have never been on the moon? And how
could I try to doubt it? First and foremost, the supposition that perhaps I have
been there would strike me as idle. Nothing would follow from it, nothing
could be explained by it. It would not tie in with anything in my life’ (1999:
§117). This, and other passages in both On Certainty and ‘Lectures on Reli-
gious Belief,’ echoes James’s application of the principles of pragmatism to
the question of religious belief (1985: 444–7).
39 See Finch 1975: 384, 394; Wittgenstein 1999: §§94, 105, 153, 204, 472.
40 The role of the imagination in On Certainty is ambiguous, for it remains
unclear to what extent the inability to imagine circumstances in which one’s
fundamental beliefs would be falsified is itself determined by one’s current
‘frame of reference’ (1999: §83) or ‘world-picture’ (ibid.: §§162, 167). What
qualifies as a fundamental belief (or its falsification) would thus be dependent
upon the imaginative capacities of specific individuals within specific
communities. On the limits of imagination, see also Cavell 1979: 117–18.
41 See also Wittgenstein 1999: §§472–3, 492, 516, 558, 576–9.
42 See Hudson 1986a: 120.
44 See Finch 1975: 392.
45 See Gill 1974: 281.
46 See Wittgenstein 1999: §§337, 509, 672. Josipovici rightly suggests that On Cer-
tainty ‘could equally well have been called On Trust’ (1999: 271).
47 See Hudson 1986a: 122; Wittgenstein 1999: §§7, 115, 150, 162–7, 283, 401–2,
472–7. Schutz likewise refers to ‘trust’ in this regard (1964: 95, 102; 1970a: 78;
1970b: 74, 92; 1971: 228; 1974: 7, 107–8). It will become clear later how
Moore’s ‘trivialization’ parallels Wittgenstein’s views on blasphemy.
48 See Wittgenstein 1999: §§141–2, 144, 446. The example of gambling has
further significance for the question of religious belief, for Wittgenstein (like
212 Notes
Kierkegaard) not only speaks about ‘risk’ (1994b: 54) in this context, he also
maintains that in religious discourse one does not ‘talk about . . . high probab-
ility’ (ibid.: 57).
49 See Gill 1974: 283–5, 290; Finch 1975: 385. As I will discuss in later chapters,
Levinas makes a similar distinction between the ‘Said’ and its ‘Saying.’
50 See Wittgenstein 1993: 397; 1999: §§7, 285, 411, 414, 427, 431.
51 See Wittgenstein 1958: §325; 1999: §§501, 524, 552. Wittgenstein remarks:
‘What is the proof that I know something? Most certainly not my saying I know
it’ (1999: §487). This is not to deny that what one says can itself be a form of
showing (indeed, what Moore wishes to say is already shown in his saying any-
thing (ibid.: §114)). My point is rather to highlight the non-propositional
(even persuasive (ibid.: §669)) nature of such instances of ‘showing.’ It

should nevertheless be noted that Moore himself is concerned with the
im/possibility of articulating this certitude ‘directly’ (1994a: 56–7; 1994b:
83–4).
52 See also Wittgenstein 1958: §129; Hudson 1986a: 122–3.
53 See also Wittgenstein 1958: §§109–15, 664, p. 224; 1969: 27; 1990: §690; 1993:
183–7; 1999: §§31, 435.
54 See Gill 1974: 282; Finch 1975: 389. As we will see later, this is central to
Wittgenstein’s distinction between ‘genuine’ religiosity and mere ‘supersti-
tion.’
55 See Descartes 1976: 20–1, 31ff., 61.
56 See Morawetz 1978: 121; Wittgenstein 1999: §§4, 220, 323, 458, 519; Gaita
2000: 172.
57 See Gill 1974: 281.
58 See also Wittgenstein 1993: 377, 379, 381; 1999: §§354, 509, 625, 672.
59 See also Drury 1981: 114; Wittgenstein 1994a: 16; 1999: §§459, 641, 672. That
‘the earth has existed for many years,’ or that ‘this is my hand’ are not
(indeed, cannot be) open to the sort of verification Moore attempts to offer
(Wittgenstein 1999: §§103, 138) because ‘[a]ll testing, all confirmation and
disconfirmation of a hypothesis takes place already within a system. And this
system is not a more or less arbitrary and doubtful point of departure for all
our arguments: no, it belongs to the essence of what we call argument. The
system is not so much the point of departure, as the element in which argu-
ments have their life’ (ibid.: §105).
61 See Wittgenstein 1999: §§111, 125, 138, 150, 245, 459, 515.
63 See Malcolm 1958: 92; Schutz 1964: 233; 1966: 119–20; 1970a: 84; 1970b: 81,
96; 1971: 7, 13; 1974: 7, 174–5, 244–5; Wittgenstein 1990: §413. As I have
argued elsewhere (Plant 2003a) there are a number of important correlations
between Wittgenstein and Reid’s ‘Common Sense’ philosophy (note espe-
cially Reid’s remarks on the principles of ‘veracity’ and ‘credulity’ (1997:
193–4)).
64 See Hertzberg 1988: 318; Wittgenstein 1999: §160. Wittgenstein suggests that,
because foundational propositions like ‘I have two hands’ are ‘on the same
level’ as propositions of arithmetic, his remarks are ‘logical’ rather than ‘psy-
chological’ (1999: §447; see also Hudson 1986a: 121; Lagenspetz 1992: 7).
65 See Hertzberg 1988: 314.
66 See Lagenspetz 1992: 8; Wittgenstein 1999: §344.
67 See Hudson 1986b: 176. Note also Schutz’s remarks on ‘inheritance,’ one’s
‘biographically determined situation,’ ‘predecessors,’ ‘contemporaries’ and
‘successors’ (1964: 23, 25, 57–8, 59, 95, 229, 232–3; 1966: 119; 1970a: 91; 1971:
7, 15, 318; 1974: 19, 88).
Notes 213
69 See Wittgenstein 1990: §§413–16; 1999: §§170, 374, 472, 476, 509, 534, 538;
Gaita 2000: 161–2. Whereas doubt is parasitic upon certitude, distrust is sim-
ilarly parasitic upon trust. Thus, according to Hertzberg, although distrust is
‘what happens normally in the process of growing up,’ the ‘distrustful person’
is ‘someone who has been damaged by other people.’ Indeed, the ‘destruc-
tion of our trust in others’ is, despite its familiarity, ‘a tragedy’ (1988: 320).
71 This relation of trust works both ways (Wittgenstein 1993: 383).
72 I will return to this in Chapter 8 with reference to Derrida.
73 See Hertzberg 1988: 313–14.
74 See Hertzberg 1988: 309, 316.

75 See also Hertzberg’s account of this episode (1988: 309–10).
76 See Isaiah 6:8–9. In Chapters 6 and 7 I will explore why Levinas often uses the
‘Here I am’ in discussing intersubjectivity.
77 Hertzberg qualifies this point by claiming that, only if Isaac had ‘known what
was on his father’s mind, and had still gone on without resisting’ would his
trust ‘have been similar to his father’s trust in God’ (1988: 310).
78 It is this unconditionality that accounts for children’s vulnerability with regard
to abuses of trust (Gaita 2000: 22).
80 As I will discuss in Chapters 6 and 7, this can be related to Levinas’s remarks
on the other’s moral ‘height’ (1996a: 17, 54).
81 See also Malcolm 1958: 92.
82 See also Wittgenstein 1999: §§95, 209, 262.
83 See also Wittgenstein 1999: §§102, 105, 108, 136, 144, 185, 247, 279, 410–11.
84 Wittgenstein likewise refers to a ‘hinge on which your dispute can turn’
(1999: §655; see also §§341, 343), ‘generally accepted axioms’ (ibid.: §551),
one’s ‘point of view’ (ibid.: §92), a ‘host of interdependent propositions’
(ibid.: §274), the ‘foundations of our language-game’ (ibid.: §558; see also
§§449, 614), the ‘rock bottom of my convictions’ or the ‘foundation-walls’
(ibid.: §248), one’s ‘fundamental attitudes’ (ibid.: §238; see also §517), ‘our
whole way of looking at things’ (ibid.: §292; see also §291), a ‘nest of proposi-
tions’ (ibid.: §225), one’s ‘principles’ (ibid.: §611), and a ‘mythology’ (ibid.:
§§95, 97). We should also note that Wittgenstein frequently speaks of dissen-
sion from such propositions in terms of madness and imbecility (ibid.: §§71,
155, 217, 257, 420, 611; see also Kober 1996: 423; Plant 2003a), and even
remarks that ‘[t]here are cases where doubt is unreasonable, but others
where it seems logically impossible. And there seems to be no clear boundary
between them’ (1999: §454; see also §673; Bambrough 1992: 242–3).
85 See also Wittgenstein 1999: §§475, 614.
86 See Wittgenstein 1999: §§5, 95, 105, 108, 129, 131, 162, 209, 262, 291–2, 298,
517. A related ambiguity emerges between Schutz’s analyses of ‘the funda-
mental structures of . . . the life-world’ and ‘relative-natural world view[s]’
(1974: 104). Schutz has a similarly diverse vocabulary to describe ‘the natural
attitude’ of the ‘everyday life-world’ (ibid.: 243). These include ‘the attitude
of common sense’ (ibid.: 3), a ‘scheme of reference’ (1971: 7; see also 13, 74,
77, 208; 1964: 233), a ‘system of relevances’ (1964: 236; see also 1966: 125,
130–1; 1970b: 120; 1971: 5, 227, 228, 317; 1974: 91, 243, 261), a ‘network of
typifications’ (1964: 232), and ‘the unquestioned background of the world
just taken for granted’ (ibid.: 234). Note also Husserl’s references to the ‘life
world’ and related concepts (1970: 108, 113, 116, 119, 121–2, 125–6, 131, 136,
138, 140, 144–5, 158–9, 164; 1982: 19–20, 33, 135–6, 138, 156).
87 See Nyíri 1982: 59.
214 Notes
88 Gaita suggests that it is upon the love relation (and the ‘language of love’)
that our moral vocabulary has been ‘built’ (2000: p. xviii; see also pp. xix, 5).
89 A similar point is made by Wittgenstein (1999: §§599, 606, 662–3).
90 See Wittgenstein 1994b: 56. Note also Gaita’s remarks on the grammar of love
(2000: 24). Concerning the relationship between love and history, one might
say that there is a quasi-messianic dimension to the love relation insofar as the
lover inaugurates a ‘new history’ liberated from the ghosts of one’s previous
relationships (Barthes 1990: 23, 38, 174). This clearly relates to more explic-
itly religious matters, and, as I will discuss in Chapter 5, the conversion
process Tolstoy describes.
91 See also Morawetz 1978: 134. Compare these remarks with Kolakowski’s com-
ments on tolerance (1999: 36–7).

92 Contrast Morawetz’s remarks just quoted with Svensson 1981: 90–1.
93 See Bambrough 1992: 241–2.
94 Wittgenstein recognizes this potential for ‘circularity’ (1999: §191).
96 A similar example appears in Malcolm 1990: 4–5.
98 For a literary example of this see Wells 1988: 99–103. A more philosophical
example appears in Graham’s Evil and Christian Ethics. While conceding that
his explanation of evil (by returning to a ‘pre-scientific’ cosmology of Satanic
forces) is ‘antithetical to . . . naturalistic and humanistic . . . thinking’ (2001:
164; see also 157, 159, 219), Graham nevertheless insists that such a reorienta-
tion would do ‘explanatory work that alternative [secular] conceptions cannot
do’ (ibid.: 192). Indeed, this pre-modern ‘cosmic drama within which our
moral lives are set’ (ibid.: 159; see also 153) ‘provides . . . the best available
explanation of evil, and since evil is something which cries out to be
explained, we ought to believe the best explanation’ (ibid.: 161). But
Graham’s advice that we should ‘in so far as we are to be rational . . . prefer
better explanations to less good ones’ (ibid.: 157; see also 154) begs the ques-
tion. For what is also at stake here is what is to count as a ‘better’ account,
‘rationality,’ ‘explanatory work,’ and so on. Likewise, when he asserts that this
cosmological-theological picture ‘makes more sense of human existence’
(ibid.: 229; see also 223) than secular alternatives, Graham presupposes that
‘making more sense’ has an obvious and homogeneous application across –
or even within – world-pictures. It is hardly self-evident that, for example, any
‘satisfactory explanation of why evil things happen must include reference to
their intrinsic nature and not merely appeal to their causal antecedents’
(ibid.: 163), for this surely depends upon the sort of account of ‘explanation’
one’s system of reference provides. In this way Graham thus underestimates
the stakes involved in shifting from a ‘secular’ (or even liberal Christian) to a
‘pre-modern’ eschatological perspective.
100 Which is not to deny that they may retrospectively be seen to falter. I will return
to this qualification later.
101 See Derrida 1990: 945; 1992b: 30, 97; 1995a: 360, 393; 1995b: 77; 1996b: 82;
1998b: 3, 18, 31, 44–5, 47–8, 54, 60, 63–4; 1998c: 9, 20–1, 85; 1999a: 80; Gaita
2000: 160. I will return to Derrida in Chapter 8.
103 See Wittgenstein 1999: §§140, 142, 225, 274; Kober 1996: 422. This point
might usefully be read alongside Heidegger’s claim that ‘in our natural com-
portment toward things we never think of a single thing, and whenever we
seize upon it expressly for itself we are taking it out of a contexture to which it
belongs in its real content’ (1982: 162; see also 163–5).
Notes 215
104 That is, ‘not explicitly’ for ‘[n]o one ever taught [him this]’ (Wittgenstein
1999: §§152–3).
107 Although (again) retrospective acknowledgment of such ‘fundamental judg-
ments’ (Wittgenstein 1999: §517, see also §152) may be possible.
109 See Derrida 1998: 18, 28, 44–5, 63.
110 See Tilghman 1991: 103; Wittgenstein 1999: §§7, 152, 185, 204, 217, 220, 344,
427, 524.
111 See Wittgenstein 1958: §23; 1999: §§231, 250, 672.
112 See also Wittgenstein 1990: §320; 1999: §§141, 554, 620.
113 See Malcolm 1972: 208; Wittgenstein 1999: §§110, 130. Note also Derrida’s
remarks on the groundlessness of law (1992a: 192, 202–5, 208).
114 It is thus false to say that philosophy begins with doubt (Wittgenstein 1993:
399). On a related point see Derrida’s remarks on the ‘pre-originary pledge’
or ‘faith’ before any ‘question’ (1989: 129–30, n. 5).
115 See Wittgenstein 1999: §110. It is Wittgenstein’s recurrent emphasis on a ‘way
of acting’ that not only discloses his naturalism but also problematizes the
nonfoundationalist reading of his work. As will become clear in Chapters 3
and 5, although Wittgenstein is nonfoundationalist if one means ‘rational’
foundationalism, he nevertheless emphasizes the instinctive, primitive founda-
tions of human life.
116 See Wittgenstein 1958: p. 200; 1999: §475. In this sense there can be no meta-
discourse on trust that would not thereby enact (show) what it aspired to eluci-
date (say). Again, I will return to this in Chapter 8 with reference to Derrida.
117 See Wittgenstein 1958: §116, p. 200; 1999: §§164, 192, 212, 370, 375, 519, 620.
118 See Wittgenstein 1999: §§495, 513, 526, 616, 619, 657.
119 Some notable exceptions include Malcolm 1972; Gill 1974: 282, 290; Martin
1984; Hudson 1986a: 127; 1986b: 175–83; Phillips 1988: 38ff.
120 This is not to say that all types of religious belief are entirely non-hypothetical
(Hudson 1986b: 177).
121 See also Drury 1981: 105.
122 See Martin 1984: 608–13.
123 See Hudson 1986b: 176.
124 See Wittgenstein 1994b: 61.
125 See also Wittgenstein 1994b: 53, 55.
126 See Nietzsche 1968: §161. It would, for example, prove more difficult to
demarcate so sharply between belief in the Last Judgment and the Marxist’s
belief in the coming Revolution.
127 See also Kierkegaard 1973: 255.
128 See Hudson 1986b: 179–80; Wittgenstein 1999: §199.
129 This is an adaptation of one of Sartre’s examples (1977: 35–8). That ‘it is I
myself . . . who have to interpret the signs’ is again brought out by Sartre when
he comments on a ‘remarkable’ Jesuit, who, having experienced ‘a succession
of rather severe [personal] setbacks’ interpreted all this ‘as a sign that he was
not intended for secular successes, and that only the attainments of religion,
those of sanctity and of faith, were accessible to him.’ But of course, this inter-
pretation was not dictated by the phenomena themselves; ‘[o]ne could have
drawn quite different conclusions’ (ibid.: 38). We should here note that
another’s suffering constitutes one ‘phenomenon’ that does not require inter-
pretation, but rather commands us immediately to offer help. I will expand on
this in Chapters 3, 7 and 8.
130 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§5, 630; 1990: §419; 1999: §128.
216 Notes
131 See Wittgenstein 1958: p. 224. Should ‘an irregularity in natural events . . .
suddenly occur’ even that ‘wouldn’t have to throw me out of the saddle’
(Wittgenstein 1999: §619).
132 See Kober 1996: 422.
133 It is possible that a response to such an occurrence would not involve any
deliberation at all – one would instead ‘obey [a] rule blindly’ (Wittgenstein
1958: §219).
134 ‘For me to question my world-picture in this way is already for me to disown it
in the face of a new conviction about how things are’ (Morawetz 1978: 132).
Sartre similarly remarks: ‘if you seek counsel – from a priest, for example –
you have selected that priest; and at bottom you already knew, more or less,
what he would advise. In other words, to choose an adviser is nevertheless to

commit oneself by that choice’ (1977: 37).
135 See Derrida 1990: 1015; 1992a: 192, 204–5; 1998a: 9, 13. This point also
relates to Derrida’s remarks on the inherent ‘coloniality of culture’ (1998c:
24, see also 39; 2001d: 88, 102; 2002f: 57) and the ‘border’ (1993b: 11).
136 See Hudson 1986b: 179; Wittgenstein 1999: §472.
137 A notable example of the former appears in On Certainty itself, where Wittgen-
stein comments on the impossibility of flying to the moon (1999: §106) – a
proposition that was ‘in principle falsifiable,’ ‘has since been falsified,’ and
therefore ‘belongs to the sand of the river bank’ (Hudson 1986a: 124).
138 Elsewhere Hudson attempts to refine this by making a threefold distinction
between those fundamental propositions that are: (1) ‘absolutely fundamen-
tal to our entire world view,’ (2) ‘fundamental to a certain discipline or uni-
verse of discourse,’ and (3) ‘taken for granted at certain times.’ He concludes:
‘Fundamental propositions of these three kinds constitute a limit to thinking,
though with varying degrees of exclusiveness and permanence’ (1986b: 177).
139 Moreover, if we now drop the distinction between ‘sand’ and ‘rock’ and speak
instead of ‘fundamental propositions’ in general, what distinguishes these from
mere hypotheses – a distinction Hudson makes earlier (1986a: 120; see also
1986b: 176)?
141 We get a sense of this when Wittgenstein remarks: ‘I do not explicitly learn
the propositions that stand fast for me. I can discover them subsequently like the
axis around which a body rotates’ (1999: §152, my emphasis). See also
Morawetz 1978: 132–5 and Wittgenstein’s allusions to ‘prophesy’ (1999:
§§492, 652).
142 See Gaita’s remarks on the ‘unthinkable’ and ‘ruling things out of considera-
tion’ (2000: 164–6, 181, 185).
143 See Hertzberg 1988: 309–10.
145 See Lagenspetz 1992: 19.
146 What Flew primarily objects to is the inability of the religious believer to
specify falsification conditions in advance (1971: 14–15).
147 This often happens when extreme personal suffering undermines belief in
God’s infinite power and love. But again, though someone may lose their
faith in such circumstances, these conditions could not be delineated in
advance.
148 Identifying any possible ‘fundamental proposition’ that could not be taken as
absolute seems problematic. The question here is therefore whether some
fundamental convictions are more ‘reasonable’ (as rock) than others –
though what criteria could govern such an assessment remains equally
unclear.
149 As Kierkegaard quips, though it is ‘true, as philosophers say, that life must be
Notes 217
understood backwards’ they nevertheless ‘forget . . . that it must be lived for-
wards’ (1965: 89).
150 Or a ‘sacred gesture’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 50). Although Wittgenstein alludes to
stigmata in particular (1994b: 60), other possible examples include visions,
miraculous healings and glossolalia.
151 See also Wittgenstein’s remarks on the ‘grammar of the word “God” ’ and
specifically that ‘[w]hat is ridiculous or blasphemous also shows the grammar
of the word’ (1979b: 32).
152 Gaita makes a similar point concerning the ethical (2000: 179).
153 As Kierkegaard remarks, to possess genuine faith ‘you must still have it for
yourself in such a way that you . . . retain it even if all others renounce it’
(1973: 293; see also 1965: 185).

154 See Drury 1981: 128. Sometimes this sensitivity becomes rather perverse – as
when Wittgenstein expresses his sympathy with Calvin for having ‘Michael
Servetus burnt for heresy’ (Drury 1981: 180, see also 183). Contrast this with
Helvétius’ remarks on this event (1969: 47).
156 See Wittgenstein 1999: §§609–12.
158 One might deny that the former belief is ‘really’ quasi-empirical. Given both:
(1) the believer’s determination to ‘stay in the saddle’ of belief (even in the
face of predictive failure), and (2) the existential risks they would take for
their belief, such an individual thereby shows the truly ‘religious’ nature of
their faith.
160 See Cavell 1979: 106–7.
161 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 72; 1994b: 59.
162 It is difficult to see how Wittgenstein could deny this formulation without
thereby condemning generations of Christians as merely ‘superstitious.’ For
an interesting account of the possible difference between religious and super-
stitious belief, see Gaita’s reflections on his father’s faith (1998: 174ff.).
163 See Wittgenstein 1994b: 56. Kuhn makes a number of remarks pertinent to
the Wittgensteinian schema here – not least concerning the reluctance to
accept falsifying data of specific scientific laws (where those laws are treated as
tautologies (1996: 133) or ‘quasi-analytic’ (Hoyningen-Huene 1993: 211)).
Compare this with Wittgenstein’s suggestion that the distinction between
empirical and mathematical certainties is blurred (1999: §§455, 651, 657).
164 See Wittgenstein 1994b: 54, 56, 57, 69, 70.
165 The difficulty of maintaining this distinction parallels the difficulty facing
Hudson’s distinction between the ‘sand’ and ‘rock’ of the ‘river-bed.’
166 Many such religious groups do not recognize themselves as ‘fundamentalists,’
and in that sense this term remains pejorative. Caputo confesses how
‘[f]undamentalism seems almost impossible for intellectuals to understand,’
for it ‘looks just plain mad to those of us who fancy ourselves critical and intel-
ligent’ (2001: 94).
167 See Barrett 1998: 71.
168 See Barrett 1998: 84. The Christadelphians similarly forecast Christ’s return
for 1868 and 1910.
169 See Barrett 1998: 88.
170 As Wittgenstein notes, this is not to say that they are ignorant of evolutionary
theory, for ‘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’ (1999: §336).
171 See Nelson 1987: 77–8. The Christadelphians are notable on this point, given
218 Notes
their beliefs concerning the eschatological significance of the establishment
of the State of Israel in 1948 (Barrett 1998: 76).
172 Along Derridean lines, Caputo remarks of early Christianity (‘where the faith-
ful believed the Messiah did come and take flesh’ and ‘concluded that the
world was over’) that when the world ‘did not end, they set about asking and
praying, when will you come again? For this “when will you come?” is the key
to having a future’ (2000: 116).
173 See Wittgenstein 1958: p. 224.
174 See Caputo 1993: 143. These terms are not necessarily synonymous, and for
that reason I am using ‘dogmatism’ and ‘sectarianism’ in a rather strong
sense. There is an ongoing debate here between the sort of pluralism Hick
advocates and Plantinga’s religious exclusivism. I will return to Hick in

Chapter 3.
175 And similarly, that religion ‘becomes repellent’ when it attempts to ‘justify’
(Wittgenstein 1994a: 29) itself. In On Certainty Wittgenstein remarks: ‘One
might simply say “O, rubbish!” to someone who wanted to make objections to
the propositions that are beyond doubt. That is, not reply to him but admon-
ish him’ (1999: §495). He proceeds: ‘The queer thing is that even though I
find it quite correct for someone to say “Rubbish!” and so brush aside the
attempt to confuse him with doubts at bedrock, – nevertheless, I hold it to be
incorrect if he seeks to defend himself (using, e.g., the words “I know”)’
(ibid.: §498).
177 See Matthew 24:23–4. Along with others, the Christadelphians now concede
their past predictive errors and – in line with Matthew 24:36, 39, 42–4 – stress
the ineffability of knowing when Christ will return (Barrett 1998: 76).
178 See Matthew 25:31–3; Mark 13:22–3. There is also a tendency to use scriptures
such as Matthew 24:7–10, Luke 21:12 and John 16:18–27; 16:33 to explain why
the faithful will experience profound difficulties in maintaining their belief
during the ‘Last Days.’ This inbuilt persecution complex (something Niet-
zsche identifies (1968: §§173–4, 202)) is not, one suspects, peculiar to reli-
gious world-pictures.
179 Wittgenstein refers to ‘unshakable’ belief regarding Moore’s fundamental
propositions (1999: §§86, 103, 173) and religious belief (1994a: 54;
1994b: 73).
180 See Barrett 1998: 87–8.
181 Though, one should add, these only appear ‘minor’ in retrospect; prior to such
predictive failures the very idea that revisions might be needed would have
been significantly unthinkable, if not blasphemous.
182 See also Schutz 1964: 105; Bambrough 1992: 240–1. For this reason Graham’s
perplexity (2001: 41) in the face of such phenomena is itself puzzling.
183 See Bambrough 1992: 243.
184 These worries lie at the heart of Flew’s ‘Theology and Falsification’ (1971).
185 See Gaita 2000: p. xxxii.
187 This relates to Hudson’s ‘discipline-relative’ and ‘historically-relative’ (1986b:
177) fundamental propositions.
188 As Kuhn and Feyerabend have argued, this picture of scientific practice is sim-
plistic. Indeed, given Wittgenstein’s remarks in On Certainty regarding the
non-falsifiability of foundational beliefs, his own demarcation between
‘science’ and ‘religion’ thereby becomes less obvious.
190 See Wittgenstein 1993: 181. This point is bilateral; neither religion nor science
requires support from the other. Having noted Wittgenstein’s dislike of reli-
Notes 219
gious apologetics, we should also recall those remarks that extend this aver-
sion to apologetics of any ‘primitive’ language-game (1958: p. 200; 1999:
§475).
191 Wittgenstein’s allusion to ‘language-games’ conflicting is unhelpful. I will
therefore refer to conflicting ‘world-pictures.’
192 This scenario is perhaps simplistic, for although on Wittgenstein’s account
one may not be able to judge one world-picture by the rules of another, this
does not seem to prevent one from spotting a ‘blunder’ in another’s world-
picture. Moreover, for such a judgement to be possible only a fairly rudimen-
tary grasp of these rules is required; one would not need to be a ‘player.’ (We
should recall that, regarding religious belief, Wittgenstein himself was not in
any traditional sense a ‘player.’) Likewise, Wittgenstein’s account does not

prohibit one from condemning a third party who attempts to impose the
rules of their world-picture onto another’s. Indeed, Wittgenstein himself must
rely on these very possibilities in his own demarcation of genuine belief from
pseudo-scientific superstition. I will return to the question of the ‘third party’
in Chapters 7 and 8 with reference to Levinas and Derrida.
194 See Wittgenstein 1999: §§34, 110, 164, 192, 204, 563, 625.
195 See Schutz 1964: 247.
196 On this soft case of dissensus see also Quine and Ullian 1970: 125–38;
Morawetz 1978: 119. I will return to Lyotard in Chapter 3.
197 See Sextus 1996: 2:20.
198 Although I am here assuming that such ‘radical difference’ is a coherent
notion, I will argue in Chapter 3 that to find oneself ‘in conflict’ with another
is already to have (implicitly) acknowledged some degree of commonality.
This is one way of understanding Levinas’s suggestion that ‘the gratuitousness
of the for-the-other, the response of responsibility . . . already lies dormant in a
salutation, in the hello, in the goodbye’ (1997b: 106) – or, as Derrida summa-
rizes: ‘war, hostility, even murder, still presuppose and thus always manifest
[an] originary welcoming that is openness to the face’ (1999b: 90). I will
199 See Gill 1974: 283–4.
200 See Quine 1994: 44.
201 See Quine 1994: 45.
202 See Glock 1996: 48. While The Structure of Scientific Revolutions appeared in
1962, On Certainty was not published until 1969. Unless unpublished manu-
scripts of the latter were already in circulation, Wittgenstein could not have
influenced Kuhn in this way. Indeed, although Kuhn cites Philosophical Investi-
gations (1996: 45), he identifies Piaget, Whorf and Quine as more specific
influences on his own thinking (ibid.: p. viii).
203 See Kuhn 1996: 125–6. A related point is made by Schutz on the ‘selectivity’ of
experience (1964: 236; 1966: 125, 130–1; 1970b: 120; 1971: 5, 8, 76, 82, 227,
228, 317; 1974: 91, 243, 261). Note also Schutz’s remarks on anomalies or
crises of experience (1964: 96; 1966: 124; 1970a: 69, 88; 1971: 231; 1974: 12,
168–9, 171).
204 Although Kuhn indicates some important differences between the process of
scientific revolution and gestalt perceptual change (1996: 85, 114–15).
205 See Kuhn 1996: 150–2, 204. Compare this with Wittgenstein 1999: §§92, 262.
206 See Kuhn 1996: 84ff.
207 See Kuhn’s remarks on the customary understanding of ‘progress’ and his
aversion to questions concerning ‘what nature is really like’ (1996: 206).
208 A similar point can be made concerning Wittgenstein’s remark that ‘one is
sometimes convinced of the correctness of a view by its simplicity or symmetry, i.e.,
220 Notes
these are what induce one to go over to this point of view’ (1999: §92), for if
such criteria are to have any rhetorical force it must either be the case that
there is already agreement about what constitutes ‘simplicity’ and ‘symmetry,’
or that the new criteria must simultaneously be what one is being persuaded
of.
210 See Wittgenstein 1999: §§160, 283, 374, 472, 476.
211 See Sextus 1996: 2:20. For a historical contextualization of this see Popkin
1979: 1–17.
212 See Wittgenstein’s allusion to ‘missionaries convert[ing] natives’ (1999:
§612), and Kuhn’s remarks on ‘persuasion’ and ‘force’ (1996: 93).
213 To this extent Feyerabend is right to emphasize the connection between

science and society – although Kuhn makes similar allusions (1996: 92–4).
214 As will become clear, this is not to conflate language-games with world-
pictures. Rather, language-games constitute the building blocks of world-
pictures.
215 In a peculiar formulation Wittgenstein refers to ‘the human language-game’
(1999: §554).
216 See Phillips 1986: 5–16; Clack 1999: 78–89.
217 See Wittgenstein 1958: §71; 1990: §392.
219 See also Wittgenstein 1999: §§63, 65, 256, 646.
220 See also Wittgenstein 1958: p. 188; 1999: §555.
221 See Wittgenstein 1999: §§393, 396, 554, 620.
222 Kuhn’s understanding of incommensurability came to approximate this softer
position (Hoyningen-Huene 1993: 218–22; Kuhn 1996: 198–207).
223 In Chapter 3 I will develop Winch’s suggestions on precisely this possibility.
On why moral disagreement might often seem impossible to resolve, see
Winch 1987: 186.
225 I use this term in the Habermasian sense (Steuerman 1992: 103–7; Love
1995: 53–4; Moon 1995: 146–8). With §23 of Philosophical Investigations in
mind, Steuerman questions Habermas’s distinction between the ‘strategic’
and ‘communicative’ by noting that Wittgenstein ‘stresses that giving reasons
is one possible language game and not the foundation of all possible games’
(Steuerman 1992: 106). But this criticism can be pushed further. For Haber-
mas’s demarcation is problematic, not merely because it is insensitive to the
multiplicity of language-games but also because even within (or, more pre-
cisely, at the end of) the language-game(s) of ‘reason giving’ the strategic
plays a crucial role (Wittgenstein 1999: §612). Thus, ‘communicative action’
ultimately finds itself in the realm of the ‘strategic,’ thereby undermining
Habermas’s prioritization of the former over the latter (Steuerman 1992:
105).
226 See Wittgenstein 1994b: 28.
227 See Wittgenstein 1999: §206. The rhetorical force of such an attempt lies in its
implicit claim that the ‘new’ way of looking at things is not merely different but
also better (Kuhn 1996: 203). I will return to this point later.
229 Kuhn refers to the internal ‘circularity’ of ‘[e]ach group [using] its own para-
digm to argue in that paradigm’s defence’ (1996: 94).
230 To make this move would itself ‘be a particular kind of substantive position,
viz. extreme relativism’ (Johnston 1991: 143). I will return to this in Chapter
3.
231 See Wittgenstein 1999: §512. Although Wittgenstein’s overriding emphasis is
Notes 221
upon one’s inheriting and being trained in such world-pictures, he does
speak of ‘decid[ing] to retain my old belief’ (1999: §516).
233 See Morawetz 1978: 123; Wittgenstein 1999: §199. Morawetz’s claim that such
a move ‘is not to make a grounded decision’ is misleading, for it is a thor-
oughly ‘grounded decision’ according to my criteria. Taking his lead from
other passages in On Certainty, Morawetz emphasizes that the ‘concepts one
uses to describe alien ways of thinking are one’s own concepts; one’s attitude
toward truth and falsity of the beliefs of others is determined by one’s own cri-
teria for what is true’ (1978: 133), and thus the suggestion that one cannot
(or must not) judge an ‘alien’ practice is utterly misconceived (ibid.: 128).
While I agree with much of Morawetz’s analysis (and specifically his emphasiz-
ing the stakes involved in questioning one’s own world-picture (ibid.: 132–7)),
I remain unconvinced that one can so easily sidestep the relativism of On Cer-
tainty on these epistemic grounds – that is, without reference to moral consid-
erations. As I will argue in Chapters 3 and 5, other of Wittgenstein’s writings
open the way to a more ethical challenge to relativism.
234 See Kuhn 1996: 151.
235 Kuhn similarly alludes to the ‘conversion experience’ that occurs in the
‘transfer of allegiance from paradigm to paradigm’ (1996: 151). For a more
sympathetic interpretation of this aspect of Kuhn’s work see Hoyningen-
Huene 1993: 221, 252–8.
236 Which is not to say that silence can be adequately characterized as a mere
absence or lack (Lyotard 1988: p. xii, 29; Derrida 1988a: 145–8; 2000b: 135;
Levinas 1989: 487; Heidegger 1999: 208–9).
237 See Bambrough 1992: 243. Note also Derrida’s remarks on ‘forgiveness’
(1992b: 164–8).
238 See James 1985: 209.
239 This terminology is steadily replacing previous discussion of ‘cults’ and ‘brain-
washing.’ For an overview of these ‘new’ religions see Barker 1990: 31–40.
240 This parallels what James says of Revivalism’s understanding of religious con-
version (1985: 228).
242 This might be contrasted with the more formal recruitment procedures of Sci-
entology, where an individual can (allegedly) ‘convert’ themselves (Nelson
1987: 139). From a Wittgensteinian perspective such groups would doubtless
fail the criteria demanded of genuine religiosity. It is perhaps significant that
the ‘religious’ status of Scientology has indeed been contested by a number of
governments (Barker 1990: 40, n. 6).
243 See also Drury 1981: 114.
245 See Wittgenstein 1999: §5. One might be tempted to claim that A’s position
is superior insofar as it can accommodate B’s, whereas B’s position
cannot accommodate A’s (Morawetz 1978: 130–1). But this is questionable.
After all, it is hardly self-evident that B’s position could not accommodate A’s.
One’s temptation to assume this simply reveals a deeper obsession with a
specific, empirical-scientific account of what constitutes genuine ‘accommo-
dating.’ A could doubtless provide a compelling account (to her community)
of B’s activities. But so could B likely provide a compelling account (to
his community) of A’s. The question here is whether cashing out ‘superiority’
in terms of ‘accommodating’ (or ‘being capable of explaining’) is itself
the product of a specific scientific world-picture (ibid.: 124; Wittgenstein
1999: §298)? Moreover, the very notion of being able to ‘embrace and
include’ an alien world-picture and ‘say what they believe’ (Morawetz 1978:
222 Notes
130) is itself problematic (Wittgenstein 1994b: 55). I will return to the latter
in Chapter 5.
246 See Johnston 1991: 142–3; Plantinga 1998: 187–209.
247 This relates to Wittgenstein’s distinction between judgements of ‘relative’ and
‘absolute’ value. I will discuss this in Chapter 5.
248 This is why Rorty simply begs the question when he asserts that ‘the benefits
of modern astronomy and space travel outweigh the advantages of Christian
fundamentalism’ (1999: p. xxv).
249 See Feyerabend 1988: 258.
250 See Plantinga 1998: 131.
251 This point can be seen as a development of Wittgenstein’s remark that ‘[y]ou
must ask yourself: what does one accept as a criterion for a medicine’s helping
one?’ (1993: 403). The situation concerning Jehovah’s Witnesses’ rejection of
blood transfusions is pertinent here, for even enforced transfusions fre-
quently make the recipient feel as though they have committed (or at least
been instrumental in) an act of blasphemy.
253 Even on the broadly scientific criteria of theory-simplicity (Kuhn 1996: 206),
B’s account may prove the ‘better’ option (Morawetz 1978: 124).
254 To this extent Wittgenstein’s claim that, through such descriptive procedures,
the other will be ‘convinced’ (1999: §671), is questionable. Regarding A’s
‘explaining’ to B what she is doing – and even showing him microscopic ‘evid-
ence’ in support – we should note Feyerabend’s remarks on Galileo’s argu-
ment with the Church concerning his telescopic findings. Feyerabend
considers the Church’s response to have been ‘scientifically correct’ and also
as having ‘the right social intention, viz. to protect people from the machina-
tions of specialists’ (1988: 137). One of the reasons he draws this conclusion is
Galileo’s failure to substantiate his findings theoretically by volunteering any
cogent reason why the telescope offered ‘better’ observational data than the
unaided eye (ibid.: 89–105, 131–8). Likewise, in my example, B’s coming to
accept A’s ‘evidence’ does not rest on the data presented but rather on B’s
having been trained in A’s world-picture. There is no reason why B should
accept A’s procedures (and microscopic data in particular) as providing ‘evid-
ence’ for anything at all.
255 Preston summarizes Feyerabend’s position on the alleged superiority of
Western medicine as follows: ‘By the very different standards of another tradi-
tion, the “achievements” of Western science may seem piffling’ (Preston 1997:
201). Presumably Preston does not mean that the achievements of Western
science seem ‘piffling’ in the sense that they are only small achievements, but
rather that they are not seen to be ‘achievements’ at all.
256 See Morawetz 1978: 128.
257 And the additional point here is that the criterion of ‘effectiveness’ is also
accepted. The context of my assertions here should make it clear that I am
not advocating an uncritical attitude toward Western medicine per se.
258 See Levinas 1988b: 158.
259 See Caputo 1993: 32–3, 54. The frequent accusation that television news
betrays a deep morbidity in its preoccupation with ‘bad’ news is in this sense
itself morally questionable. For it is precisely the ‘disasters’ that highlight our
shared humanity. The same objection could be made against Rousseau’s
lamentations concerning the tendency of historians to focus on ‘catastrophes’
(1973: 107).
Notes 223
2 See Wittgenstein 1995: 4.121.
3 It is here worth noting the ontological wonder expressed in the Tractatus, ‘A
Lecture on Ethics’ and ‘On Heidegger on Being and Dread.’ Interestingly, in
‘A Lecture on Ethics’ Wittgenstein adds that ‘the right expression in language
for the miracle of the existence of the world . . . is the existence of language
itself’ (1993: 43–4). On this point see Derrida’s remarks on the ‘telephonic yes
. . . which recalls the origin of the universe’ (1992a: 271, see also 260, 270,
273), and the givenness of language (1992b: 27, 80–1; 1998c: 40, 64, 67–8) –
including any discourse on the nature of ‘the gift’ and ‘giving’ in general
(1992b: 62, 80, 82, 90–2, 99; 1999c: 58, 66–7, 71). I return to a number of
these themes in Chapter 8.
4 This is a contentious point, and, as will become clear, I favor a minimally nat-
uralistic interpretation of such concepts.
5 See also Sextus’ remarks, cited in Schopenhauer 1995: 122.
6 This relates to Winch’s reflections on the need to contextualize the concepts
of ‘decision’ (1960: 235–7), ‘facts’ (ibid.: 237–8), ‘objective reality’ (1964:
308–9, 313; 1970: 253), and the possibility of ‘different rationalities’ (1964:
316–18; 1960: 236). The extent to which the moral realm is actually frag-
mented in the way Feyerabend (and others) suggest is debatable (Graham
2001: 8–9).
7 Without some appeal to universal criteria Feyerabend could not justify this
use of ‘reasonable’ and ‘civilized,’ for what constitutes each of these will be a
matter of contention between traditions.
8 See Wittgenstein 1958: §23; 1999: §609.
9 See Feyerabend 1987: 106ff.
10 Winch likewise alludes to the mutability of scientific concepts (1960: 234). For
his reflections on scientism, see 1964: 308–9, 321; 1970: 250, 253–4, 258–9.
11 See also Morris 1990: 194. Compare Feyerabend’s remarks with Rousseau’s
advice concerning religious education (1973: 115–16).
12 Concerning Feyerabend’s political agenda, see Preston 1997: 191–211.
13 A similar problem arises when Critchley asserts that ‘the problem of politics is
that of delineating a form of political life that will repeatedly interrupt all
attempts at totalization’ (1999a: 223; see also Campbell 1999: 42, 51), for even
this imperative must thereby enact something of a ‘totalizing’ gesture. Much
the same could be said of Derrida’s claim: ‘This is what must be avoided –
dogmatic theses – this is a categorical imperative; dogmatism . . . must be
avoided at any price’ (2002f: 213).
14 See Johnston 1991: 143.
15 Bernstein (1991: 222) makes a similar point regarding Lyotard.
16 Since 9/11 and the so-called ‘War on Terror’ the themes I will discuss in
this chapter have become even more pressing. Likewise, my discussion of
Levinas and Derrida in Chapter 8 (specifically on the question of ‘hospitality’)
is especially relevant in the current political climate of anxiety about immi-
gration.
17 I will refer primarily to The Rainbow of Faiths where Hick explicitly responds to
his critics (1995).
18 See Hick 1995: 31. Hick suggests that his own pluralism does not claim a ‘priv-
ileged vantage point’ (ibid.: 49) but ‘is arrived at inductively, from ground
level’ (ibid.: 50), and, further, that his hypothesis is ‘offered as the “best
explanation” . . . from a religious point of view, of the facts of the history of
religion’ (ibid.: 51).
224 Notes
19 See Hick 1995: 34–7. A distinction should be made between pluralism and the
mere recognition of plurality (Surin 1990: 117) – a distinction lacking in, for
example, Sugden’s ‘informed evangelicalism’ (1990: 148, see also 150–2).
Pluralism, as Sugden construes it, amounts only to a certain patience and
non-coerciveness regarding the non-evangelical (that is, yet-to-be-converted)
world. Refer also to Derrida 1998b: 21–2; 1998c: 37–8; 2001a: 62–3.
20 See Hick 1995: 34.
21 See Hick 1995: 16, 125.
22 See also Caputo 2001: 20.
23 See Hick 1977: 167–84; 1995: 87.
24 The ‘quasi’ is important here, for although Hick alludes to Wittgenstein’s
employment of Jastrow’s ‘duck-rabbit picture’ (Hick 1995: 24), he is antago-

nistic to Wittgenstein’s (alleged) ‘fideism’ (Hick 1966: 237–8; 1988: 7ff).
25 See Hick 1995: 45–9.
26 See Hick 1977: 184; 1995: 121.
27 See also Hick 1995: 133.
28 Hick’s political agenda is thus, like Feyerabend’s, deeply voluntaristic (con-
trast with Wittgenstein 1999: §317).
29 There is, after all, not just ‘one way of assembling the [historical] data’
(Wittgenstein 1996a: 69).
30 See Hick 1995: 12.
31 See also Hick 1995: 19. Thus, ‘one of the primary motivations behind [the
pluralist’s] adoption of a “theocentric” . . . theological standpoint is precisely
the desire to discredit and to undo the theological legacy’ of these sorts of
‘shameful’ (Surin 1990: 119) practices.
32 Hick’s criterion is covertly homogenizing (Surin 1990: 121–2) insofar as he
claims that what ‘is of central concern to each of the great world faiths’ (Hick
1995: 17) is their preoccupation with ‘salvation/liberation’ – that is, ‘of an
actual change in human beings from natural self-centredness towards a recen-
tering in the Divine’ (ibid.: 18; see also Derrida 1998b: 42–3).
33 See also Surin 1990: 114.
34 Or what differentiates the ‘sand’ from the ‘rock’ (Wittgenstein 1999: §99) of
the riverbed. Hick fails to give this point due attention in his explicit hope
that ‘different traditions . . . will each gradually winnow out the aspect which
entails its own superiority’ (1995: 123). This desire to down-play the normativ-
ity of his work similarly manifests itself when Hick asserts that ‘it is not for me
to presume to tell my Muslim or Jewish or Hindu or Buddhist colleagues how
to try to develop their own traditions’ (assuming, of course, they were not of
an exclusivist disposition), because ‘in the end change has to come from
within a religious tradition’ (ibid.: 121).
35 See Hick 1995: 30.
36 See Wittgenstein 1994b: 61. Note also Levinas’s remarks on the possibility of
there being ‘a place for the pre-eminent absolute of faith’ (1997a: 172–3).
37 Hick also alludes to the ‘implicit religious pluralism’ (1995: 122) prevalent in
everyday contexts.
38 See Caputo 2001: 102–3. Note also Levinas’s remarks on confession (1997a:
172).
39 See Derrida 1995b: 106.
40 See also Derrida 1995a: 198–9, 386–7; 2000b: 39.
41 See Derrida 1993b: 10–11, 33; 1995b: 64; 1999a: 69–70, 81; 2000b: 51. Or,
more paradoxically, one might ask: ‘How can the unforgivable be forgiven?
But what else can be forgiven?’ (Derrida 2000b: 39).
42 This relates to my earlier discussion regarding the limits of justification, and
the extent to which the possibility of reaching a ‘rational’ consensus depends
Notes 225
upon shared judgement-criteria (and thus our being trained appropriately)?
See also Winch 1960: 234–5, 239.
43 See Surin’s remarks on the ‘homogenizing tendency’ of Hick’s argument that
is ‘obscured’ by his ‘loud disavowal of “exclusivism” ’ (Surin 1990: 125).
44 See Derrida 1995b: 61; 2000a: 405.
45 See Morris’s appeal for a ‘“genuine pluralism” ’ (1990: 193) and his criticism
of Western liberalism regarding its treatment of Jewish religious practice
(ibid.: 179–96).
46 See Hick 1995: 31.
47 Derrida’s account of ‘iterability’ is relevant here (1992a: 42–3, 64, 276, 304;
1995a: 175, 200, 372–3, 378, 388). I return to this in Chapter 8.
48 On Surin’s reading what is paradoxical about Hick’s pluralism is that it is only

the religious exclusivist who truly recognizes the ‘otherness’ of the other.
49 See Surin 1990: 125–6. Caputo similarly refers to the ‘mutually irreducible
forms of life’ (2001: 131) that constitute ‘religion.’
50 See Lyotard 1985: 51–4. Lyotard claims that ‘postmodern’ society is character-
ized by its ‘incredulity toward metanarratives,’ for now we instead find a distri-
bution of ‘clouds of narrative language elements’ and a basic ‘heterogeneity’
of localized ‘language games’ (1997a: xxiv; see also 1993: 20).
51 Lyotard is here attacking Levinas’s prioritization of the ethical over other
‘narratives’ or ‘language games’ (Lyotard 1985: 60). Lyotard’s criticism
of Wittgenstein’s alleged voluntarism (the latter’s ‘anthropological assump-
tion’ (Lyotard 1993: 21; see also 1985: 51; 1988: xiii; Readings 1991: 107))
is misplaced, for Lyotard is similarly at fault (1985: 61) – assuming this is a
fault. I criticize Lyotard’s position later, and return to Levinas in Chapters 6
and 7.
52 Compare with Wittgenstein’s remarks on game playing (1994a: 27). Of
course, at this stage Lyotard (like Hick) would have trouble accommodating
the hardened religious exclusivist who wants to ‘stick to [their] signified’ and
‘think that they are in the true.’ But, as will become clear, accommodation is
precisely not what Lyotard recommends. Compare also Lyotard’s remarks on
Parmenides and Freud (1985: 62) with Wittgenstein’s remarks on Copernicus,
Darwin (1994a: 18), and Freud (1994b: 51–2).
53 See Carrol 1987: 160. This emphasis on ‘narrative imagination’ re-emerges in
The Differend where the vocabulary of the ‘phrase’ replaces that of ‘language-
games.’ The ‘phrase’ now comes to represent the indubitable, simplest and
‘smallest of discursive units’ (Carrol 1987: 164), for ‘[w]hat escapes doubt is
that there is at least one phrase, no matter what it is. This cannot be denied
without verifying it ideo facto. There is no phrase is a phrase, I lie is a phrase’
(Lyotard 1988: 65, see also xii). (Indeed, Lyotard claims that even silence is ‘a
phrase’ (ibid.: xii, 29).) That-there-is-a-phrase is necessary. What remains open is
how linkages between phrases are made (ibid.: 29). It is here, then, that ‘the
problem of politics’ (ibid.: xiii) emerges, not least because any linkage
necessarily operates at the expense of other linkages (ibid.: xii).
54 Compare with Wittgenstein 1999: §609.
56 See also Lyotard 1993: 20.
57 Of course, the distinction between playing the same game differently and playing
a different game will itself be contentious.
58 See Carrol 1987: 159. Lyotard thus seems to rule out the possibility of totali-
tarianism itself forming a ‘given’ and legitimate region of discourse.
59 See Readings 1991: 113.
60 See Readings 1991: 118.
61 See also Lyotard 1988: 13.
226 Notes
62 See Graham 2001: 8.
63 But, it might be argued, one is always already compromised, for ‘[a]ll culture is
originarily colonial . . . Every culture institutes itself through the unilateral
imposition of some “politics” of language’ (Derrida 1998c: 39).
64 See also Lyotard 1985: 66–7.
65 See Lyotard 1985: 25; Readings 1991: 108.
66 See Readings 1991: 112. For Lyotard, politics is thus a necessarily experimen-
tal, a-teleological endeavor (ibid.: 124), and this is why he further claims
(without a hint of pessimism (Readings 1992: 184)) that ‘there is no just
society’ (Lyotard 1985: 25). If it were not for the fact that one can always do
more, better, be more just, the very notion of justice itself would be meaningless.
Any society (or individual) inclined to affirm its (or their) moral rectitude is
either dangerously naive or despotic (Caputo 2000: 112, 115). As we will see
in Chapters 7 and 8, both Levinas and Derrida make similar claims.
67 See also Derrida’s remarks on the silencing of madness (1998a: 80–1).
68 Hick seems to think his pluralistic hypothesis constitutes a natural extension
of this implicit pluralism.
69 See Hick 1995: 19.
70 See Readings 1991: 109; Lyotard 1997a: xxiv–xxv.
71 See Lyotard 1988: xiii; 1997a: 82.
72 See also Derrida 1990: 951.
73 For a rather unconvincing account of radical cultural ‘otherness’ regarding
methods of spatialization see Shapiro 1999: 62.
74 See Readings 1992: 181–2. Note also Winch’s remarks on ‘magical influence’
and ‘causation’ (1964: 320).
75 Readings insists that any notion of ‘common humanity’ (or ‘human nature’)
is by definition totalitarian (1992: 174–6, 184, 186). I contest this claim later.
76 See Derrida 2000b: 15, 27, 135. Readings later remarks that the ‘injustice per-
petrated on indigenes is not a racism accidental to modernism which might
be prevented by including them within a wider concept of human nature.
Rather, the assumption of universal human nature, like all modernist meta-
narratives, lights the way to terror even as it upholds the torch of human
rights’ (1992: 186).
77 Here we might recall the Pyrrhonist’s ‘being-at-a-loss,’ discussed in Chapter 1.
Compare these passages with Morawetz’s remarks on On Certainty (1978: 123).
78 See also Pitkin 1993: 325–6; Greisch 1999: 50. Note Husserl’s remarks on
‘empathy’ (1982: 134–5; 1989: 84).
79 Although I will not pursue this here, there is doubtless a story to be told about
Wittgenstein and Hume at this juncture (Clack 1999: 11–24).
80 Similarly, Werhane has misplaced ‘Levinasian’ reservations concerning
Wittgenstein’s later work – specifically his (alleged) inability to develop a
‘notion of the self or of interrelationships between selves’ (1995: 62).
81 See Cockburn 1990: 6, 76; Tilghman 1991: 98.
82 This passage should be contrasted with Wittgenstein’s remark that others are
sometimes ‘a complete enigma’ (that ‘[w]e cannot find our feet with them’),
especially when entering ‘a strange country with entirely strange traditions’
(1958: p. 223; see also Glendinning 1998: 71). The claim that such others are
a complete mystery is misleading. Indeed, these remarks are immediately fol-
lowed by Wittgenstein’s equally deceptive remark that ‘If a lion could talk, we
could not understand it’ (ibid.). I return to the latter in Chapter 7.
84 Even applying the term ‘colony’ presupposes some minimally identifiable form
of social – though not necessarily human – structure (Derrida 2000a: 405).
85 See Winch 1987: 144; Cockburn 1990: 119.
Notes 227
86 See also Wittgenstein 1958: §415; Tilghman 1991: 100–1; Gaita 2000: 269. A
related point is made in Merleau-Ponty 1996: 353.
87 See Cockburn 1990: 77.
88 Wittgenstein also remarks: ‘Only of what behaves like a human being can one
say that it has pains’ (1958: §283), and ‘only of a living human being and what
resembles (behaves like) a living human being can one say: it has sensations;
it sees; is blind; hears; is deaf; is conscious or unconscious’ (ibid.: §281, see
also §360; Cockburn 1990: 66, 70; Gaita 2003: 44, 59).
89 Wittgenstein’s remarks on slavery illustrate something of the disingenuous-
ness of treating others as mere machines (1990: §§108, 528–30; see also Cavell
1979: 376; Gaita 2000: 48–9, 54–5, 68). One might say that even in ‘hatred’
one exhibits a certain ‘form of desire’ (Derrida 1995c: 47) for the other; that
in my saying ‘no’ to the other there lies an indelible trace of a ‘yes’ (Derrida
1996b: 82). I return to these suggestions in Chapters 7 and 8.
90 Gaita alludes to the ‘face’ on a number of occasions (2000: 15, 61–2, 266–8),
though fails to explain its significance. I pursue this in later chapters with ref-
erence to Levinas.
91 See Wittgenstein 1990: §220; Merleau-Ponty 1996: 351.
92 See Wittgenstein 1958: §286; Cockburn 1990: 66–7, 70–1, 77; Rose 1997: 61,
67.
94 Wittgenstein’s allusions to the face may be surprising from a biographical
perspective insofar as he is thought to have suffered from Asperger’s syn-
drome (Guardian Education supplement, 20/2/01: 45).
95 See Tilghman 1991: 97–8; Gaita 2000: 270.
96 See Wittgenstein 1958: p. 179; Winch 1987: 147, 151–2; Kerr 1997: 80; Gaita
2000: 264–6.
97 Eye contact is especially significant here (Cockburn 1990: 5).
99 Although Husserl similarly insists that one does not make an ‘inference from
analogy’ (1982: 111), he nevertheless maintains this general ‘from-me’ struc-
ture insofar as ‘the body over there, which is . . . apprehended as an animate
organism, must have derived this sense by an apperceptive transfer from my
animate organism’ (ibid.: 110; see also Schutz 1964: 22–4, 37; 1974: 62, 104).
For a more sympathetic reading of Husserl on this point, see Derrida 1997c:
123ff.
100 See also Wittgenstein 1958: §285; Dilman 1987: 31.
101 See also Wittgenstein 1969: 162.
102 Compare this with Schopenhauer 1995: 143, 147, 148.
103 Regarding the natural priority of the human face, see Wittgenstein 1958:
§§281, 283, 583.
104 See Descartes 1976: 73–4.
105 See Hume 1988: 159; Tilghman 1991: 98ff.; Gaita 2000: xxviii.
106 See Wittgenstein 1996a: 69; 1994a: 37.
107 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 4. This is perhaps akin to the sense of wonder at
one’s own body (ibid.: 11).
108 See Bergson 1911: 30.
109 By ‘unmechanical’ I do not mean random, which would itself likely generate
an ‘uncanny feeling.’
110 Or better, a degree of iterability (repetition-without-sameness (Derrida 2001d:
76; 2002d: 24)), thus allowing for the possibility of distinguishing between
natural behavioral repetition and catatonia.
112 See Bergson 1911: 32, 34. The history of film bears witness to the fact that
228 Notes
madness, possession and the alien are most effectively portrayed by stunted,
repetitive movements, lifeless speech, limited and inapt facial expressions
(ibid.: 24, 56). Of this repertoire of cinematic devices the ‘fixed look’
(Wittgenstein 1958: §420) stands out. On the role of the face in cinema, see
Balázs 1985: 255–64.
113 See also Cockburn 1990: 119.
114 Bergson’s analysis of comedy is essentially an extended meditation on this
point (1911: 8–10, 16, 18, 20, 24–5, 29–34, 36–7, 43, 48, 57–9, 69, 72–3, 77, 79,
87, 101–2, 109).
115 What does change between each listening is oneself; one’s circumstances,
memories, anticipations, and so on (Derrida 2000d: 65–6). Note also Schutz’s
remarks on the impossibility of ‘pure’ repetition in social relations (1964:

115), and regarding experience in general (1970b: 118).
116 See Buber’s remarks quoted in Gaita 2000: 271.
117 The sort of predictability I have in mind here is not deliberative. Rather, we
react to the regularity of another’s behavior quite naturally, and it is upon this
sort of reaction that deliberation is subsequently founded. I return to this
point in a moment.
118 See Mulhall 1993: 76.
119 Contrast: (1) predicting the results of a simple physics experiment, with (2)
predicting that a friend will find a specific anecdote amusing. In both cases we
can meaningfully speak of ‘prediction’ (even ‘calculation’), but the type of
exactness involved in each differs (Wittgenstein 1958: §§69–70, 88; 1990:
§438).
120 See also Wittgenstein 1958: p. 178; 1999: §221; Winch 1987: 149. Of course,
this does not ensure against illusion or deception. But, recalling On Certainty,
the question to ask the skeptic here is why, if I cannot trust this, should I trust
anything – including my powers of suspicion?
121 See Wittgenstein 1958: p. 178; 1994a: 49; Winch 1987: 140–1; Kerr 1997: 90–4.
123 Levinas similarly remarks that the soul ‘shows itself in the non-reified face . . .
in expression’ as the ‘glimmer of someone’ (2000: 12) – although, as we will
see in Chapter 7, he excludes animals from this.
124 See Cockburn 1990: 6, 9; Mulhall 1993: 80.
125 See also Wittgenstein 1994b: 57; 1996a: 64.
126 See also Tilghman 1991: 115.
127 See Winch 1987: 147.
128 See Cavell 1979: 372–3; Graham 2001: 8.
129 See Gaita’s remarks on different types of ‘nonsense’ (2003: 128–9). Interest-
ingly, Benso has attempted to articulate a Heideggerian–Levinasian ‘ethics of
things’ (2000: 59–196).
130 The same sort of question could be asked of both Shapiro’s gloss on the
‘absolute alterity’ (1999: 63) of the other, and Molloy’s claim that the other is
‘beyond my . . . grasp’ (1999: 218).
131 See Cockburn 1990: 72. Any ‘concernful’ gesture toward such an object would
be derivative of our responses to others. To treat a stone as if it were suffering
would be to treat it as though it were human (Wittgenstein 1958: §§283–4).
There are at least two things wrong with Connolly’s remark that ‘it is
extremely probable that all of us today are unattuned to some modes of suf-
fering and exclusion that will have become ethically important tomorrow after
a political movement carries them across the threshold of cultural attentive-
ness and redefinition’ (1999: 147). First, there is no necessary reason why we
should presently think this to be a future possibility – and certainly no reason
why we should think it ‘extremely probable’ (recall both Wittgenstein’s
Notes 229
remarks in On Certainty concerning ‘staying in the saddle’ of one’s world-
picture, and my analysis of ‘retrospection’ in Chapter 2). And second, even if
we concede Connolly’s general point, the ‘modes of suffering’ to which he
refers would only appear as such if they were not radically different from
present forms of suffering.
132 See Winch 1987: 149; Wittgenstein 1996a: 64–71; 1999: §§475, 538, 559.
133 See also Husserl 1982: §§50–4. Wittgenstein is not denying the possibility that
in exceptional circumstances one may reason in this way (1990: §539). For an
overly rationalized account of ‘empathy,’ see Molloy 1999: 214–16.
134 With these passages in mind, Gaita’s reticence to describe ‘primitive reac-
tions’ as ‘pre-linguistic’ (2000: 272–3) is rather puzzling.
135 See Winch’s remarks on ‘truth-telling’ (1960: 242–6, 250) and Wittgenstein’s
remarks on lying (1958: §249).
136 See also Wittgenstein 1958: p. 223. Of course, none of this is to deny that we
also possess a natural capacity for violence (indeed, Wittgenstein sometimes
appears overly fatalistic regarding this (Drury 1981: 131)). The point is that –
contrary to philosophers like Levinas who judge ‘the natural’ to be essentially
egoistic – it is also natural to care for others. As will become clear in Chapters
6 and 7, the problem with Levinas’s anti-naturalism is that it makes any other-
oriented acts seem like a ‘miracle’ (Greisch 1999: 51; Caputo 2001: 139).
137 See also Wittgenstein 1999: §§391–2, 458.
138 See also Cavell 1979: 110–11; Wittgenstein 1990: §391; Cockburn 1990: 76.
139 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§244, 343; Kerr 1997: 85.
140 It is not incidental that children do not generally display the same sort of
curiosity (‘is this suffering?’) with regard to stones, carpets or iron filings.
141 Despite Tilghman’s later comments (1991: 113), in emphasizing beliefs ‘that
“stand fast” for us’ (ibid.: 104) he does not give due weight to Wittgenstein’s
naturalism.
142 See also Nietzsche 1992b: Essay 2, §7. Caputo makes too much of the possibil-
ity for a ‘genealogy’ of pain (1993: 208–9). Indeed, such a genealogy would
severely problematize Caputo’s forthright condemnation of ‘cruelty or the
causing of useless suffering’ (2003: 177). In a similar vein, Foucault remarks:
‘We believe in the dull constancy of instinctual life and imagine that it con-
tinues to exert its force indiscriminately in the present as it did in the past.
But historical knowledge easily disintegrates this unity . . . We believe, in any
event, that the body obeys the exclusive laws of physiology, and that it escapes
the influence of history, but this too is false. The body is molded by a great
many distinct regimes . . . Nothing in man – not even his body – is sufficiently
stable as the basis for self-recognition or for understanding other men’ (2000:
379–80; see also Derrida 2001c: 262; 2002f: 204, 210). Needless to say, I think
these claims are fundamentally misguided.
143 See Caputo 1993: 196, 216. My suggestions here correlate with Winch’s ‘limit-
ing notions’ of ‘birth, death’ and ‘sexual relations’ (1964: 322) (categories
echoed in Wittgenstein 1996a: 66–7) which ‘are inescapably involved in the
life of all known human societies in a way which gives us a clue where to look,
if we are puzzled about the point of an alien system of institutions.’ For
Winch, then, ‘the very notion of human life is limited by these conceptions’
(1964: 322, see also 324), and in this crucial sense his position is not relativis-
tic (ibid.: 308, 320–1; 1960: 232–3, 238, 244, 250; 1970: 249). With Winch’s
‘limiting notions’ in mind, note also Derrida’s remarks on the transcultural
preoccupation with death (1993b: 24, 42–4, 60–1).
144 See Tilghman 1991: 113; Caputo 2000: 111.
145 See Winch’s remarks on the necessary presuppositions for understanding
another human being and/or culture (1960: 232–3; 1970: 250). Wittgen-
230 Notes
stein’s remarks on ‘agreement . . . in form of life’ (1958: §241) should likewise
be read in this minimally naturalistic light.
146 See also Schopenhauer 1995: 139.
147 See Mates 1996: pp. 30–1.
148 I am not denying that genuine amoralism and/or ‘moral blindness’ are pos-
sible (Gaita 2003: 167ff.). My point is to caution against applying these cat-
egories too hastily.
149 Wittgenstein’s reflections on ‘free will’ are interesting here, particularly his
suggestion that determinism is a form of ‘fatalism’ (1993: 431) and signifies
‘that you don’t want to make [the other] responsible, or be harsh in your
judgment’ (ibid.: 433) (‘It is the way in which we look at a case when we don’t
want to judge’ (ibid.: 437, see also 440–1)). He proceeds in Nietzschean

fashion: ‘That you are inclined in this way . . . is a fact of psychology’ (ibid.:
433).
150 As Gaita puts it: ‘morality does not serve our purposes but is the judge of
them’ (2003: 181).
151 See Gaita 2000: 17–27.
152 The same point is made by Levinas (1996b: 247).
153 See also Caputo 1993: 28–9. Caputo is therefore mistaken when he (along
with Lyotard (1985: 60)) criticizes Levinas for prioritizing ethics above other
‘language games’ (Caputo 1993: 125). Indeed, Caputo himself relies upon
this prioritization of the ethical when he asserts that there is ‘nothing subjec-
tivistic about obligation,’ for the other’s suffering ‘places us under its claim’
(ibid.: 31–2). This confusion can be further seen when Caputo insists (rightly
in my view) that, methodologically speaking, we should not attempt to deter-
mine what constitutes the ‘Good Life’ but rather ‘start from below, with the
multiple disasters (evils) by which we are daily visited, with broken bodies and
damaged lives’ (ibid.: 32–3, see also Ch. 9), because the latter ‘have an
ominous sameness’ (ibid.: 41) and thus possess the capacity for ‘binding us
together’ (ibid.: 54). With such claims in mind it is therefore unnecessary for
Caputo to deny that he is ‘trying to make flesh into an ahistorical principle’
(ibid.: 208). For a more concise account of this ‘ethics without principles’
(and all its paradoxes), see Caputo 2003.
154 See also Gaita 2000: 209, 267, 276.
155 See Caputo 1993: 31–3, 36–7. Even the most brutal writings of De Sade bear
witness to this, for it is only the suffering of others that excites his passions.
156 See also Cavell 1979: 115; Winch 1987: 153.
157 See also Wittgenstein 1958: §217; 1999: §563.
158 Of course, the specific form such ‘persuasion’ takes will itself be a question for
moral consideration. In his reading of Levinas, Nuyen fails to distinguish
between ‘the problem of moral motivation’ (2000: 411) (that is, asking pre-
cisely ‘[w]hat awakens . . . conscience?’ (ibid.: 417) on Levinas’s account) and
the assumed threat the amoralist poses to morality per se (ibid.: 412, 416, 421).
159 See Drury 1981: 171.
160 Wittgenstein began writing ‘Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough’ in 1931,
adding notes as late as 1948. I return to this text in Chapter 5.
161 See Wittgenstein 1996a: 69, 80.
163 See Wittgenstein 1999: §559. Thus, although Wittgenstein distances himself
methodologically from questions pertaining to natural history, ontologically
he nevertheless remains naturalistic.
164 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§109, 126, 217, 654, 656, p. 224; 1999: §§204, 559;
Nyíri 1982: 59.
165 See also Malcolm 1993: 81.
Notes 231
166 This relates to Wittgenstein’s criticism of O’Hara in ‘Lectures on Religious
Belief’ (1994b: 57–9) – although it is O’Hara’s theological scientism that
Wittgenstein there repudiates.
167 See Wittgenstein 1996a: 68, 72–3; 1999: §477, 538.
168 This parallels those remarks in On Certainty pertaining to the child’s ‘reacting’
(1999: §538) and only much later coming to ‘know’ and ‘doubt’ (ibid.: §475).
170 See Wittgenstein 1958: §656; 1996a: 62; Rhees 1996: 56–7.
171 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§343, 244, 546, p. 224; 1990: §§391, 540–1, 545;
1994a: 31, 46; 1999: §505.
173 See Wittgenstein 1996a: 63–4, 73–4.

174 See also Wittgenstein 1996a: 70, 74, 76.
176 See Wittgenstein 1996a: 77.
177 See Wittgenstein 1996a: 81. As Wittgenstein remarks: ‘I think it might be
regarded as a basic law of natural history that wherever something in nature
“has a function”, “serves a purpose”, the same thing can also be found in cir-
cumstances where it serves no purpose and is even “dysfunctional” ’ (1994a:
72).
178 See also Wittgenstein’s remarks on Schubert’s death (1996a: 66) and laughter
(ibid.: 73). On the moral significance of humor compare Wittgenstein’s
reflections on the claim that ‘humor was stamped out in Nazi Germany’
(1994a: 78) and Gaita’s remarks on Costa-Gavras’s The Confession (Gaita 2000:
48–9).
181 See Wittgenstein 1993: 181; 1996a: 71; 1999: §§609–12. Wittgenstein further
claims that Frazer’s ‘savages’ understand only too well where the natural
boundaries of their rituals reside, for the ‘same savage, who stabs the picture
of his enemy apparently in order to kill him, really builds his hut out of wood
and carves his arrow skillfully and not in effigy’ (1996a: 64, see also 71–4). In a
similar vein Husserl remarks: ‘Truth and falsity, criticism and critical compari-
son with evident data, are an everyday theme, playing their incessant part
even in pre-scientific life’ (1982: 12).
182 Although I will not pursue this correlation, my critique of Lyotard has
certain parallels with Davidson’s ‘On the Very Idea of a Conceptual Scheme’
(1984).
184 See also Wittgenstein 1958: §§283, 360.
185 See also Winch 1960: 236; 1964: 311, 317; Caputo 1993: 74, 80–1; 2000: 113. It
is here worth recalling that Readings assures us that ‘[a]n encounter takes
place, it happens, but no language is available to phrase it’ (1992: 183). (Note
also Derrida’s remarks on Levinas’s notion of the ‘other’ (1997c: 125–9).) My
claim that an encounter with the radically other is a paradoxical notion corre-
lates with Derrida’s reflections on the aporia of the gift, and particularly the
necessity of both donor and donee of not even recognizing (indeed, of forget-
ting) the gift as such (1992b: 13–14, 15, 16–17, 23, 27, 35–6, 47, 56, 91, 101,
147, 148, 171; 1995a: 209; 1995b: 29, 31, 97, 112).
186 See Surin 1990: 120.
187 See Readings 1992: 175–6.
188 See Derrida 1985: 292; 2002d: 18–19; 2002f: 102, 207; Putnam 2002: 35; Gaita
2003: 167.
189 See Derrida 2002f: 194. To re-cast this in Derridean terms (to which I will
232 Notes
return in Chapter 8), what worries Readings here is the iterability of the term
‘human nature.’
191 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 1. Schopenhauer makes the same point regarding the
loss of ‘natural compassion’ (1995: 149).
192 This example is from MacIntyre Undercover, broadcast on BBC1, 10/11/99.
193 See Gaita 2000: 178–9.
194 See Gaita 2000: 39.
195 See Gaita’s remarks on his father’s ‘confusion’ and ‘bewilderment’ (1998:
124–5).
196 ‘Auschwitz’ has thus become an important signifier in our moral vocabulary
(Levinas 1988b: 162; Peukert 1998: 156; Gaita 2000: 111, 141).
197 Winch is unclear on this point, for while he also alludes to ‘radical disagree-
ment’ (1987: 186), in his subsequent remarks on Orwell and Ghandi he seems
to imply that such a degree of conflict would be impossible (ibid.: 187–8).
198 See Davidson 1984: 184–5, 192, 197; Bambrough 1992: 247–50; Wittgenstein
1999: §156.
199 See Caputo 1993: 29, 54.
200 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 45–6. Tilghman similarly concludes that ‘the human
body and especially the human face [is] a moral space, that is . . . the locus of
the possibility of all those expressions that are at the basis of moral life’ (1991:
115; see also Caputo 1993: Ch. 9; Gaita 2000: 283). I return to these points in
Chapters 6 and 7.
201 One commentator remarks of the Habermasian agenda: ‘If there is a univer-
sal moral community, it is constituted by a relatively narrow set of norms,’ and
proceeds: ‘Because the forms of the good are plural and because all humans
are subject to common vulnerabilities, the solidarity projected by a discourse
ethics must be based largely on a vision of the “damaged life” rather than an
affirmative view of the “good life” ’; ‘To the extent that all humans are vulner-
able in similar ways, it is plausible to suppose that there are “generalizable
interests” that could provide the basis for norms that would command univer-
sal assent’ (Moon 1995: 152; see also Caputo 1993: 41). However, Habermas
clarifies that he is primarily concerned with vulnerabilities of socialization
(1983: 120–2; 1996: 196–7), not those of ‘biological’ (1983: 120) fragility.
4 Interlude
1 This would hold even on a differential account of meaning where the absent
(excluded) terms play a constitutive role in the production of meaning.
2 Of course, we are dealing also with the practices within which words have their
life (Wittgenstein 1990: 144; 1994a: 85; 1994b: 55). The point I am drawing
from this passage might usefully be correlated with Heidegger’s remarks on
‘equipment’ that becomes ‘conspicuous’ due to its breaking or otherwise being
rendered ‘unusable’ (1999: 104–5).
3 Interestingly, Winch remarks that ‘human beings are essentially potential critics
of each other’ to the point where even another’s presence can constitute ‘an
implicit criticism’ of one’s ‘views of life’ and ‘roles in life’ (1987: 180, see also
146–7, 150). The Levinasian significance of such claims will become clear in
Chapter 6.
4 See Handelman 1991: 195.
5 This, of course, constitutes the problem at the root of every naive contractual-
ism. See also Levinas 2000: 164.
6 See Winch’s remarks on the Good Samaritan (1987: 174) and tolerance (ibid.:
190).
Notes 233
7 See Winch 1987: 174; Caputo 1993: 126–7; Schopenhauer 1995: 126, 130, 138,
144; Levinas 1998a: 163; 1998b: 227.
8 As I discuss in Chapter 8, the notion of pure self-sacrifice is complicated on
Derrida’s account (1992b: 7, 10, 12, 27, 29–30, 76, 104, 123; 1993b: 38–9, 79;
1995b: 42–5). Nevertheless, he would concede that a certain desire for ‘the
impossible’ remains essential to moral life (1992b: 8, 31, 36; 1999c: 59, 72).
9 See Derrida 1992a: 68; Bennington 1993: 310.

1 This ‘identification’ is not primarily deliberative, but ‘immediate’ in the sense
discussed in Chapter 3.
2 See also Caputo 1993: 120.
3 See also Derrida 1990: 927, 1015; 1997c: 117, 125.
4 It thereby constitutes both the conditions of possibility and impossibility of
ethical responsibility: Conditions of possibility insofar as any relationship with
the other demands such a prior identification of them as ‘other.’ Conditions of
impossibility because this identification means that any subsequent relation will
never be wholly uncontaminated by such a primary ‘violence’ (Derrida 1971:
328; 1992b: 12; 1997c: 132, 137–8, 140–1, 143, 152; 2002c: 135; 2002f: 298,
300; Caputo 1993: 74–5, 80–3; Levinas 2001: 51). I return to this in Chapter 8.
5 See Wittgenstein 1994b: 63, 71–2. One’s having no ‘clear idea’ here does not
necessarily mean that the utterance is absurd, but rather that one would not
know how to make such an assessment (Winch 1964: 311–12, 319; 1970: 256–7).
6 See Drury 1981: 162; Wittgenstein 1994a: 48.
7 See Mates 1996: pp. 30–2.
8 See Engelmann 1967: 77.
9 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 33. Only if such dissent involved a denial of the truth
of the believer’s utterance would such a pre-understanding be assumed. As
noted in Chapter 1 with reference to Pyrrhonism, such pre-understanding
would not be assumed if one denied that the believer’s utterance had
meaning. It is therefore striking that Wittgenstein does not merely dismiss the
believer’s utterances as meaningless. One of the reasons he invests so much
time in reaching a sympathetic understanding of religious concepts must be
located in the fact that people do profess such beliefs and that these beliefs do
play a pivotal role in their lives. While a specific belief may be ‘mistaken,’ how
an entire way of life could be ‘mistaken’ is significantly less clear (Wittgenstein
1996a: 61).
10 For a similarly striking example see Kierkegaard 1965: 69–78.
11 See Tolstoy 1987: 66, 68. As Wittgenstein remarks: ‘everything will be different
and it will be “no wonder” if you can do things that you cannot do now’
(1994a: 33).
12 This is not to say that the believer is necessarily better placed to understand
and represent another’s non-belief.
13 See Phillips 1970: 69; Cavell 1979: 371–2.
14 See Wittgenstein 1993: 181; 1994b: 72.
15 See also Wittgenstein 1994b: 56, 61–2, 71; 1999: §361.
16 See also Wittgenstein 1996a: 61. Note also Winch’s remarks on contradiction
(1960: 234; 1964: 312, 314–15; 1970: 254, 257–8). Wittgenstein once claimed
that ‘many controversies about God could be settled by saying “I’m not using
the word in such a sense that you can say . . . ”, and that different religions
“treat things as making sense which others treat as nonsense, and don’t
merely deny some proposition which another religion affirms” ’ (Moore 1993:
103).
234 Notes
17 See also Wittgenstein’s distinction between secular and sacred history (1994a:
31–2; 1994b: 53–4, 56–7). This might usefully be compared with Derrida’s
own distinction between the ‘future’ and that which is ‘to come’ (1990:
969–71; 1992a: 37–8; 1997a: 2, 9; 1997b: 19–20, 30; 1998b: 7, 47; 1999a: 79;
2001d: 67).
18 See Wittgenstein 1994b: 61. Note also my discussion of blasphemy in Chapter
2.
19 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§109, 126. Of course, after such analysis another’s
professed belief may show itself to be merely hypothetical – and thus, for
Wittgenstein, not ‘genuinely’ religious.
20 See Winch 1987: 198, 200; Wittgenstein 1994a: 85; 1994b: 55. For a similar
emphasis on the primacy of action, see Tolstoy 1987: 58, 61.

21 That is, despite ‘Lectures on Religious Belief’ only being available to us via
students’ notebooks that Wittgenstein hoped would not be published (Drury
1981: 155).
22 See Drury 1981: 108.
23 See Bambrough 1992: 249.
24 Wittgenstein’s metaphor of ‘different planes’ is in keeping with his more
general spatial rhetoric (1958: p. ix, §§18, 68, 71, 76, 85, 99, 119, 203, 257,
426, 499, 525, 534).
25 See also Frazer 1993: 253.
27 See Wittgenstein 1996a: 64–5. Mindful of this, it is worth noting the simil-
arities between the existential stakes involved in religious faith Tolstoy alludes
to (1987: 66, 68) and Barthes’s reflections pertaining to: (1) the gratuitous
‘stubbornness’ of love (1990: 22, 85–6, 177, 180–2, 186), (2) the inadequacy
of language when referring to, and addressing, the lover (ibid.: 35, 59, 73–4,
77–9, 147–54, 157–8, 204), (3) the lover’s being ‘simultaneously and contra-
dictorily happy and wretched’ (ibid.: 22, see also 62, 165, 171), and (4) love’s
capacity to both infuse everything with meaning and, once lost, render the
world meaningless (ibid.: 23, 38–9, 75, 155, 160–1, 173–4, 189).
28 See Frazer 1993: 207, 216, 551. On this point note Derrida’s own confession
(1993a: 161–2, 260–3) and Barthes’s discussion of the relation between the
photographic image and the ‘resurrection’ (2000: 82) or ‘return of the dead’
(ibid.: 9) (and hence also to a certain ‘wound,’ ‘mourning’ (ibid.: 21; see also
79) and guilt of the survivor (ibid.: 84)). I return to ‘survivor’s guilt’ in later
chapters.
29 See Hertzberg 1988; Wittgenstein 1994a: 72; 1999: §§34, 160, 283, 509.
30 See Wittgenstein 1996a: 61, 71–2.
31 See Derrida’s remarks on immortality (1993b: 55).
32 See Derrida 1990: 965; Wittgenstein 1994a: 25. Of course, I am not claiming
that ‘this has arisen from that,’ but rather ‘it could have arisen this way’
(Wittgenstein 1996a: 80).
33 See Winch 1964: 322–4; Wittgenstein 1996a: 66–7; Gaita 2000: 60. Wittgen-
stein also suggests that the limits of imagination are determined by such phe-
nomena (1996a: 65, 72–3, 78). Note also Derrida’s remarks on ‘cultures of
dying’ (1993b: 24, 43).
34 See also Clack 1999: 123.
35 See Clack 1999: 124.
36 Having discussed the influence of Spengler’s cultural pessimism on Wittgen-
stein, this is how Clack’s analysis proceeds (1999: 127–9). Regarding Wittgen-
stein’s pessimism, see also Drury 1981: 128, 131; Wittgenstein 1994a: 6, 27, 71.
37 See also Derrida 1998c: 30.
38 And what is an earnest desire for faith if not itself fundamentally ‘religious’?
Notes 235
Indeed, one might say that such desire is constitutive of religiosity insofar as
one can never possess ‘enough’ faith.
39 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 48. It is perhaps through this desire to discuss reli-
gion so reverently that Wittgenstein’s alleged ‘fideism’ must first be ques-
tioned.
40 Given what Wittgenstein says about ‘staying in the saddle’ of one’s world-
picture (1999: §§616, 619) we might ask why Frazer should be condemned for
holding onto his world-picture (Wittgenstein 1996a: 61, 63, 65, 67–8, 71,
73–4)?
41 This can be seen in Frazer’s references to sun worship rituals. For there is
nothing inherently superstitious in these behaviors; it is not as though
modern science has rendered such natural phenomena any less awe-inspiring
(Wittgenstein 1994a: 5; 1996a: 67). Indeed, we might recall our own ritualized
fascination with such phenomena, the decline of which is neither inevitable
nor prerequisite for one’s immersion into secular world-pictures (Winch
1987: 202–4). Note also Levinas’s phenomenology of ‘enjoyment’ (1996c:
110ff.).
42 Frazer would have to concede this in order to assess the superiority of one
over the other (Drury 1981: 134).
43 This point cuts both ways: the charge – often made from a misplaced self-
deprecation by Westerners – that the West is spiritually barren, is similarly
superficial. See Derrida’s remarks on the ‘secular’ (2001b: 67).
45 See Bambrough 1992: 249–50.
47 While the existential complexities of (for example) Kierkegaard’s troubled
relationship with Regina Olsen (Kierkegaard 1965: 69–78) can only begin to
be understood by virtue of our naturally shared orientation to seek compan-
ionship and sexual partners, to hope to illuminate this specific episode by a
study of (for example) primate behavior would clearly be misguided. Wittgen-
stein’s accusation that ‘Frazer is much more savage than most of his savages,
for they are not as far removed from the understanding of a spiritual matter
as a twentieth-century Englishman’ (1996a: 68) is not reductive in this sense.
For Frazer’s ‘savagery’ is not only not inevitable (he could be attuned to such
‘spiritual matter[s]’), it is also anomalous with a genuinely ‘anthropological’
attitude.
48 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 78; 1996a: 80.
49 See Derrida 1995c: 3.
50 The square brackets and enclosed text are present in the translation. I have
added emphasis to suggest that, although Wittgenstein can begin to identify
what ‘consequences’ might follow from such a statement (‘ethical ideas of
responsibility’), he is not sure that the person who makes such a claim
necessarily has these in mind.
51 Similar analyses could be offered of the lover’s pronouncement ‘I have always
loved you’ or ‘I will always love you.’ The ‘always’ here is not empirical-histor-
ical; ‘I will always love you’ does not mean that, if our relationship ends, I have
thereby been proved an opportunist or disingenuous. Neither does it commit
me to believing that our relationship will continue post mortem in some spir-
itual realm. The ‘always’ here is rather a performative pledge of commitment.
52 The square brackets and enclosed text are present in the translation.
53 Gaita’s position on the religious and non-religious is interesting here. On the
one hand, he claims that religious language (concerning, for example, the
‘sacredness’ of others) is a superior form of expression than its ‘secular
equivalent’ (2000: 23; see also Nielsen 1967: 196). On the other hand, Gaita
236 Notes
not only makes much of ‘non-religious’ ritual (2000: 219–21) but also suggests
of the ‘soul’ that the ‘religious or metaphysical conception . . . depends on the
conception expressed in the more natural ways of speaking’ (ibid.: 239, my
emphasis). His point would thus seem to be twofold: (1) we should not con-
flate ‘secular’ with ‘natural’ ways of speaking, and (2) the religious is closer to
the ‘natural’ than the scientific and philosophical.
54 See James 2:17–18. In response to a letter received from a pupil telling him of
their conversion to Catholicism, Wittgenstein pithily remarked: ‘ “If someone
tells me he has bought the outfit of a tight-rope walker I am not impressed
until I see what is done with it” ’ (Drury 1981: 103).
55 Regarding Tolstoy’s A Confession, Greenwood remarks: ‘What he leaves us
with, in the end, is an overwhelming feeling of his need for God to exist and
his sense that many among the people possess an enviable faith in the reality
of that existence which he himself lacks’ (1975: 121). Much the same could be
said of Wittgenstein (Drury 1981: 162, 182) – indeed, Greenwood’s allusion to
‘envy’ (a word Tolstoy himself uses (1987: 73)) goes some way toward explain-
ing why Wittgenstein cannot adequately be described as ‘agnostic.’
56 As will become clear in Chapters 6 and 7, this formulation similarly applies to
Levinas’s work.
58 See Breton 1984: 98.
59 See also Wittgenstein’s remarks on the need for one’s ‘soul . . . to be saved,’
not one’s ‘abstract mind’ (1994a: 33), and the marginal value of ‘sound doc-
trines’ (ibid.: 5) for the religious life.
60 See Malcolm 1958: 20; Engelmann 1967: 77–8.
61 In this regard it is significant that, like Nietzsche, Wittgenstein suggests that
‘even our more refined, more philosophical doubts have a foundation in
instinct’ (1994a: 73).
62 A reverence perhaps more obvious in Heidegger’s work. Interestingly, in his
own brief remarks on Heidegger, Wittgenstein again refers to ‘the astonish-
ment that anything exists’ (1978: 80).
63 See also Wittgenstein 1993: 44.
64 See also Derrida’s comments on his own preoccupation with negative theo-
logy (1995c: 69) and the ‘impossible’ more generally (1990: 981; 1995c: 81). I
return to the latter in Chapter 8.
66 See also Picard 1948: 227.
67 As discussed in Chapter 3, the traditional is/ought distinction maintained in
both the Tractatus and ‘A Lecture on Ethics’ is problematized by Wittgen-
stein’s later phenomenology of the body. Regarding Wittgenstein’s attitudinal
emphasis on the ontological question, see also his remarks on belief in pre-
destination (1994a: 30), fate (ibid.: 61) and free will (ibid.: 63).
68 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 32, 53, 61, 63; 1994b: 53–4.
69 See Phillips 1970: 44–5.
70 See Malcolm 1972: 214. This is why any alleged religious movement which
does not aim at the transformation of the moral character of the convert
might be referred to as ‘religious’ in only an attenuated sense (ibid.: 211).
72 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§38, 132. Note also Wittgenstein’s remarks on
Socrates (Drury 1981: 131) and Hegel (ibid.: 171).
74 Passages like this – where Wittgenstein appears to advocate a change in the way
we speak – clearly threaten the ‘conservative’ interpretation of his work dis-
cussed in Chapter 1 (Jones 1986: 282).
Notes 237
75 See also Moore 1993: 109–10.
78 See Phillips 1970: 49. In response to Drury’s admission that he thought of
‘death as the gateway to a permanent state of mind,’ Wittgenstein ‘seemed
disinclined to continue with this conversation’ – Drury having ‘the feeling
that [Wittgenstein] thought what [Drury] had said was superficial’ (1981: 147,
see also 183). Analogously, the same might be said of confession, for this
cannot be adequately understood as an exercise in personal reportage
(Derrida 1993a: 16–18, 48, 56; 1995c: 38–9; 1999c: 98–9). What differentiates
confession from the ‘merely’ autobiographical is the way the former ‘has to be
a part of your new life’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 18). I return to confession in

Chapter 8.
79 See also Malcolm 1960: 60–1.
80 See also Pascal 1961: §255; Kierkegaard 1973: 429–30.
81 See Engelmann 1967: 74, 77, 79–80; Monk 1991: 186–8, 367–72; Pascal 1996.
82 Compare with Levinas’s remark on ‘the search for God’ (1998a: 95).
83 See Graham 2001: 15ff.
84 I return to this question in Chapters 6 and 7 with reference to Levinas’s ‘reli-
gious’ humanism.
85 See Engelmann 1967: 79–80. That is, Tolstoy’s ‘attempt to state “the religion
of Christ . . . purged of dogmas and mysticism.” ’ It is also interesting that
Greenwood describes Tolstoy’s purpose in A Confession and What I Believe as
‘not just trying to establish the correct point of view . . . but also as trying to
awaken the educated classes to a lively sense of the realities of life and death,
and of the demands of the Christianity that many of them outwardly profess.
Tolstoy is just as concerned with a metanoia or a “change of heart” as with a
“correct point of view” ’ (Greenwood 1975: 126, see also 128–31).
86 This ‘nostalgia’ is not wholly unreserved in Tolstoy (1987: 77; Greenwood
1975: 120–1).
87 Warning Drury against theology, Wittgenstein remarked: ‘The symbolism of
Christianity is wonderful beyond words, but when people try to make a philo-
sophical system out of it I find it disgusting’ (Drury 1981: 101), and more
vehemently: ‘It is a dogma of the Roman Church that the existence of God
can be proved by natural reason . . . If I thought of God as another being like
myself, outside myself, only infinitely more powerful, then I would regard it as
my duty to defy him’ (ibid.: 123).
88 See Tolstoy 1981: 70–1. Note Wittgenstein’s reassurance to Drury on the
latter’s feeling of ‘emptiness’ at the ‘ceremonies of Holy Week and Easter’
(1981: 144). On a related matter, refer also to Wittgenstein’s lamentation that
Drury’s not having ‘lived a religious life’ (ibid.: 179) had perhaps been due to
his own baleful influence.
89 Clack is right to highlight Wittgenstein’s changing attitude toward the ‘peas-
ants’ admired by Tolstoy (and, not least, Wittgenstein’s occasional anti-
humanism and anti-romanticism (Drury 1981: 128; Wittgenstein 1999:
114–15)). Nevertheless, I think that this ambiguity lies within Wittgenstein’s
Tolstoyan attitude, for Wittgenstein never unburdened himself of a deeply
Tolstoyan ideal; the ambiguity lies rather in his inability to assimilate himself
with such ‘ordinary folk.’
90 The entire passage reads as follows: ‘In the Gospels . . . everything is less preten-
tious, humbler, simpler. There you find huts; in Paul a church. There all men
are equal and God himself is a man; in Paul there is already something like
hierarchy; honours and official positions’ (Wittgenstein 1994a: 30; see also
Nietzsche 1968: §167). Likewise, Wittgenstein warned Drury: ‘remember the
238 Notes
Christian religion does not consist in saying a lot of prayers, in fact we are
commanded just the opposite. If you and I are to live religious lives it must
not just be that we talk a lot about religion, but that in some way our lives are
different’ (Drury 1981: 109). These sentiments are best illustrated in what
Wittgenstein described as his ‘favorite’ (ibid.: 101) of Tolstoy’s short stories;
‘The Three Hermits’ (Tolstoy 1982: 280–6; see also King 1981: 87).
91 Likewise, and as I intimated earlier, although no meaningful access to the reli-
gious can be gained except through its practical-ethical consequences, the
ontological dimension of religious belief (belief that God exists) cannot
simply be jettisoned in favor of the ethical (belief in God). The ontological,
we might say, is already ethical (I return to this in later chapters with reference
to Levinas).
92 Though they are always susceptible to becoming ‘complete automatism’
(Bergson 1911: 46, see also 44–5; Derrida 1995c: 132–3). Here again one
might talk of a certain iterability (I return to this in Chapter 8).
93 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 30. One sees this lower level of religiosity emerge in
Wittgenstein’s markedly Pyrrhonian advice to Drury to ‘try experiments in
religion. To find out, by trying, what helps one and what doesn’t’ (Drury
1981: 179).
94 While in Norway Wittgenstein ‘spent his time in prayer’ and had also ‘felt it
necessary to write out a confession’ (Drury 1981: 135) – the latter was eventu-
ally offered to, amongst others, Moore and Fania Pascal (ibid.: 190–218;
Pascal 1996: 45–50).
95 Likewise, when Wittgenstein remarks to Drury that ‘the religion of the future’
will perhaps be ‘without any priests or ministers,’ he proceeds to suggest that
‘one of the things you and I have to learn is that we have to live without the
consolation of belonging to a church’ (Drury 1981: 129, my emphasis).
96 Recalling my discussion of Rhees in Chapter 1, emphasizing this terminology
tends to make Wittgenstein’s view of philosophy look overly categorical.
97 This is most evident in Wittgenstein’s ‘A Lecture on Ethics.’ Moreover, the
notion of absolute dependence relates to what I said in Chapter 2 concerning
the role of unconditional trust in On Certainty (indeed, both Hertzberg (1988:
309–10) and Shields (1997: 48) allude to Abraham and Isaac in this respect).
See also Derrida 1995b: Chs 3–4.
99 See also Shields 1997: 65; Gaita 2000: 219–20.
100 See also Shields 1997: 70.
101 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 29, 32, 45, 53; 1994b: 56, 58.
102 See Wittgenstein’s remarks on ‘How God judges a man’ (1994a: 86), and
Derrida’s comments on God not having ‘to give his reasons or share anything
with us’ (1995b: 57).
103 As Hertzberg remarks of ‘reliance’ and ‘trust’: ‘In relying on someone I as it
were look down at him from above. I exercise my command of the world. I
remain the judge of his actions. In trusting someone I look up from below’
(1988: 315, my emphasis). Of course, even in Abraham’s example, God did
not demand what was practically impossible (Kierkegaard 1985: 44–6). Wittgen-
stein’s remarks thus seem to move beyond even Abraham’s example; namely,
that God could demand of me not merely something I cannot justify (beyond
the fact that He has commanded it) but something I could not do even if I had
the will to do it. As will be seen in Chapter 8, Derrida’s remarks on respons-
ibility and im/possibility are pertinent here.
104 See also Phillips 1970: 68–9.
105 Interestingly, Tolstoy remarks: ‘the essence of any faith consists in giving a
meaning to life that will not perish with death’ (1987: 68).
Notes 239
106 That is, in this primitive experience of bad conscience one undergoes a
certain ‘haunting’ by the other (Levinas 1984: 63; Derrida 1993a: 260–3;
1993b: 20). I return to this in Chapter 6.
107 For a detailed analysis of the relationship between ‘A Lecture on Ethics’ and
the Tractatus, see Edwards 1985: 75–101.
108 See Kant 1976: 78ff.
109 See Wittgenstein 1993: 38–9; Derrida 1995a: 273, 276.
110 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 3; 1995: 6.42; Levinas 1998a: 154.
111 See Wittgenstein 1978: 80–1.
112 See also Engelmann 1967: 74–5.
113 See also Derrida 1995c: 17–21. Wittgenstein similarly remarks that he should
like to ‘put an end to all the idle talk about Ethics – whether there be know-
ledge, whether there be values, whether the Good can be defined, etc.’ (1978:
80–1).
114 See Wittgenstein 1995: 6.4–6.421.
115 In one of his more caustic moments Levinas remarks: ‘Those who have
worked on methodology all their lives have written many books that replace
the more interesting books that they could have written. So much the worse
for the philosophy that would walk in sunlight without shadows’ (1998a: 89).
The extent to which Wittgenstein’s remarks on ethics here correspond to
Levinas’s own textual practice is discussed in Chapter 6.
116 This relates to what I said in Chapters 1 and 2 regarding the need for shared
criteria in judgement. See also Drury’s remarks concerning his first meeting
Wittgenstein at the Moral Sciences Club (Drury 1981: 114).
117 See Phillips 1970: 47.
118 See Winch 1987: 176. The distinction between the ‘relative’ and ‘absolute’ is
not straightforward. One might argue that ‘You ought to want to play tennis
better because your partner will then get more enjoyment out of the game,
and her enjoyment is of greater ethical significance than your own content-
ment to play badly.’ Here playing tennis is thus the means by which a deeper
ethical obligation toward increasing the happiness of others becomes realiz-
able.
119 In Chapter 6 I discuss Levinas’s work under the rubric of the ‘guilt of the sur-
vivor’ with specific reference to the impact of the Holocaust on his work. On a
biographical note, Wittgenstein might also have experienced something of
this ‘guilt’ regarding the suicide of three of his brothers (Monk 1991: 11ff.).
Interestingly, although Wittgenstein himself contemplated suicide many
times, he nevertheless judged this to be ‘the elementary sin’ (1979a: 91; see
also Gaita 2000: 221–2).
120 Likewise, the question ‘What’s the point in friendship?’ is misplaced (assum-
ing it is not really a cry of despair). There is no essential ‘point’ to friendship,
although doubtless one can retrospectively identify certain benefits of having
friends. The initial question erroneously assumes that there are good reasons
upon which friendship is ‘founded.’ See also Derrida’s remarks on ‘forgive-
ness’ (2001e: 27).
121 See also Caputo 2000: 121; 2001: 4, 12–13.
122 See Derrida 1999e: 132–3.
123 See Schopenhauer’s remarks on how religion does not combat egoism but
rather shifts it to ‘another world’ (1995: 137).
124 On the anthropological ‘principle of loss,’ see Bataille 1996: 116–23.
125 See also Nietzsche 1968: §§172, 246; 1992b: First Essay §§14–15. Kierkegaard
remarks: ‘Official preaching has falsely represented religion, Christianity, as
nothing but consolation, happiness etc. And consequently doubt has the
advantage of being able to say in a superior way: I do not wish to be made
240 Notes
happy by an illusion. If Christianity were truthfully presented as suffering,
ever greater as one advances further in it: doubt would have been disarmed’
(1965: 209). This sentiment is echoed in Wittgenstein’s conversations with
Drury (1981: 110). King similarly recalls Wittgenstein having claimed: ‘ “of
one thing I am certain – we are not here in order to have a good time” ’
(1981: 90).
126 See Derrida 1990: 953; 1996b: 86.
127 See Malcolm 1958: 52; Redpath 1990: 50; Sontag 1995: 57, 64; Pascal 1996: 32.
128 See also Drury 1981: 101, 117–18.
129 There is a correlation between this passage and Wittgenstein’s own remark
that: ‘ “You can’t hear God speak to someone else, you can hear him only if
you are being addressed”. – That is a grammatical remark” ’ (1990: §717). The
‘grammatical’ point here concerns the impossibility (at least in the Judeo-
Christian tradition) of coolly witnessing God addressing an other, for to hear
God is always to have oneself implicated. See also Levinas’s endorsement of
Halevy’s suggestion that ‘God speaks to each man in particular’ (Levinas
1994a: 184), and Derrida’s remarks on ‘speak[ing] with God’ (1995b: 57).
130 The sentiments of this passage are repeated a number of times in The Bothers
Karamazov, particularly in ‘From the Discourses and Sermons of Father
Zossima’ (Dostoyevsky 1967: 376–9).
132 See Derrida 1993b: 19–20; 1997b: 20–1; 1999: 67.
133 See Engelmann 1967: 80. Again, Wittgenstein’s Jewish heritage may be rele-
vant here (Drury 1981: 175).
134 See Glendinning 1999, 2000.
135 See Davis 1996: 129–41.
136 According to Levinas this was his ‘main theme’ (1999: 179; see also 2000: 12,
17).
6 Trespassing
1 Parts of the present chapter have appeared in Plant 2003c.
2 See also Derrida 1997c: 90–1. Levinas claims that ethics is ‘unintelligible
within being’ (2000: 172).
3 See Levinas 1994a: 94.
4 See Greisch 1991: 71.
5 According to Greisch, what Levinas provides (specifically in his remarks on
the ‘here I am’ that precedes discourse) is an ‘answer to the question of the
essence of language’ (1991: 69), or ‘the condition of possibility of all . . . lan-
guage games’ (ibid.: 70). Greisch’s remarks on ‘sincerity’ (ibid.: 69; see also
Levinas 2000: 190–4) might usefully be read alongside Wittgenstein’s reflec-
tions on trust discussed in Chapter 2.
6 By focusing on Wittgenstein’s earlier ‘transcendental’ (Greisch 1991: 72) view
of ethics, Greisch overlooks how Wittgenstein’s naturalism problematizes the
‘nonfoundationalist’ reading. As will become clear, although Levinas denies
that he is seeking ‘the “transcendental foundation” of “ethical experience” ’
(1994a: 148; see also 2000: 200), the face of the other ‘accusing’ me is
emphatically not proffered as a hypothesis. On the contrary, insofar as the
‘flesh-and-blood’ (Nuyen 2000: 415) face makes demands on me immediately,
one might say that the other’s face is the indisputable ‘given’ of Levinas’s
work.
7 See Handelman 1991: 258; Levinas 1992: 22; 2001: 24, 28, 81, 89; Stone 1998:
5.
8 See Levinas 1992: 98, 101; 1993: 44; 1994a: 146; 1996a: 102; 1998b: 105; 2001:
Notes 241
72, 133. According to Robbins (1999: 147) this citation appears at least twelve
times in Levinas’s work.
9 See Levinas 1999: 101.
10 See also Levinas 2000: 175.
11 For the Heideggerian–Levinasian application of these terms I will, where pos-
sible, capitalize ‘Conscience’ and ‘Guilt.’
12 See also Levinas 1984: 51–2; 1989: 487–8; 1992: 38, 42; 1997a: 281; 2001: 141.
Levinas’s explicit reference to Heidegger’s remarks on Guilt are extremely
negative (Levinas 2001: 141). As will become clear, I believe that Levinas
remains blind to the affinities between his own work and Heidegger’s on this
topic.
13 Caygill (2002) has recently provided a meticulous analysis of the political

dimension to Levinas’s work – and, not least, the influence of the Holocaust
on his thinking.
14 See Heidegger 1999: 336; Derrida 1993b: 80–1; 1998b: 15; Levinas 2000: 30–1.
15 See Harries 1978: 141–2; Derrida 1993b: 45, 51, 54, 59; Heidegger 1999: 313,
317, 327–8.
16 See also Heidegger 1999: 322, 329, 334–5.
17 Ultimately, of course, Dasein is concerned with its Being-toward-death
(Harries 1978: 147–8; Derrida 1993b: 28–9, 44–6, 52, 57–8, 62, 68–9; Mulhall
1996: 116–17; Levinas 2000: 48–9).
18 See Glendinning 1998: 59; Heidegger 1999: 120, 157; Levinas 2001: 57.
19 See Mulhall 1993: 109–12.
20 See Mulhall 1993: 112; 1996: 48–52.
21 See Husserl 1982: p. 92; 1989: pp. 197, 201, 206; Merleau-Ponty 1996: 347–8,
353–4; Levinas 1998b: 17.
22 See also Mulhall 1993: 115.
24 See also Macann 1992: 220.
25 See Heidegger 1999: 313, 315, 317, 319, 321–2, 334, 342–5. Heidegger
remarks that ‘the “they” is not something like a “universal subject” which a
plurality of subjects have hovering above them,’ nor is it ‘the genus to which
Dasein belongs’ (ibid.: 166). Moreover, authentic being ‘does not rest upon
an exceptional condition of the subject, a condition that has been detached
from the “they”; it is rather an existentiell modification of the “they” . . . ’ (ibid.:
168). In other words, Dasein cannot wholly escape the ‘they–self’ (ibid.: 167)
for the ‘they’ is partly constitutive of Dasein’s very being-in-the-world (ibid.:
167, 210). Nevertheless, Dasein can resist the ‘stubborn dominion’ (ibid.:
165) of the ‘they’ to a greater or lesser extent.
26 See Kellner 1992: 199.
27 See Heidegger 1999: 326. Derrida makes much of this point in his remarks on
the non-programmatic nature of the ‘decision’ (1990: 947, 961, 963–5, 967;
1992b: 137–8, 142, 146, 162; 1993b: 16–17, 56–7; 1995a: 359; 1995b: 24, 77,
95; 1995c: 7, 59, 132–3; 1996b: 84; 1998a: 113; 1998c: 62; 1999a: 66–8, 73). I
28 See also Heidegger 1982: 170–1; Derrida 1993b: 58, 67–9, 77. This deep anti-
conventionalism is perhaps complicated by Heidegger’s remarks on Dasein’s
‘loyally following in the footsteps’ of its chosen ‘hero’ (1999: 437, see also 422;
Kellner 1992: 204–5; Derrida 2002f: 110–11).
29 See also Macann 1992: 220, 224.
30 See Heidegger 1999: 192, 344.
31 See Heidegger 1999: 345–6.
32 See Macann 1992: 217–18, 221, 223.
33 See Sartre 1977: 48; Derrida 1992a: 195; 2002f: 296, 309–10.
242 Notes
34 See Pascal 1961: p. 157. As discussed in Chapter 1, this inescapability of
choice (and hence responsibility) is precisely what the Pyrrhonist fails to
recognize, for in the attempt to extricate belief and commitment from her
life, she does not see that in even attempting this one (implicitly) commits
oneself to at least the attainment of ataraxia – and all that may entail in the
ethical-political realm. As Levinas pithily remarks: ‘Even if you adopt an atti-
tude of indifference you are obliged to adopt it!’ (2001: 50).
35 This ‘relatively’ must, I think, be stressed because the horizon of choices open
to Dasein is not unbounded. Essential to Dasein’s facticity are certain ‘very
general facts of nature’ (Wittgenstein 1958: p. 230) pertaining to ‘the natural
history of human beings’ (ibid.: §415).
36 See Heidegger 1999: 319, 322, 340.

37 See also Harries 1978: 144.
38 See Heidegger 1999: 317, 319–20, 325, 334.
39 See Heidegger 1999: 315.
43 See Heidegger 1999: 334, 340.
44 See also Heidegger 1999: 336.
46 See also Heidegger 1999: 328, 332. Nietzsche claims that guilt originates in
debt (1992b: Essay 2, §§4, 8).
49 Compare this with Levinas’s remarks on apologetics (2000: 174).
50 See also Heidegger 1999: 322, 329, 334–5.
51 See Derrida 1998a: 72. Schutz makes a related point concerning the sacrificial
nature of ‘knowledge’ (1974: 164–6, 169, 171–3, 177).
52 This point is to be understood over and above any ‘inadvertent’ (Levinas
1998b: 3) consequences a specific choice has. See also Derrida 1999b: 108.
53 While this might be interpreted as a radicalized rejection of the so-called ‘acts
and omissions’ distinction, it is not reducible to such a position. This is
because the traditional rejection of this distinction functions on an ontic
rather than ontological level. Thus, according to Singer (1995: 224), I may be
said to be responsible for (and guilty of) letting a starving man die because I
choose to buy a stereo rather than give him the money. However, what this
fails to take into account is how, even if I do give my money to the starving
man (even if I give it all) I necessarily exclude the possibility of giving that
money to another in need. No matter how much I do on behalf of the needy,
this sacrificial structure remains in place. (Even the most severe critics of the
acts and omissions distinction maintain that one’s responsibilities and guilt
are nevertheless restricted by what one can ‘reasonably’ be expected to do in
such circumstances (ibid.: 207, 222–3, 225, 228).) I return to this point later
with reference to Levinas and Derrida.
55 See Derrida 1990: 965.
57 See Heidegger 1999: 314, 343–6.
59 See Levinas 1984: 63; Derrida 1991: 18.
60 See Derrida 1995a: 380–1.
61 See Blanchot 1986: 50. Accordingly, Levinas’s Otherwise than Being is dedicated
to ‘the memory of those who were closest among the six million assassinated
Notes 243
by the National Socialists, and of the millions on millions of all confessions
and all nations, victims of the same hatred of the other man, the same anti-
Semitism’ (1994a: inside cover note; see also Derrida 1995a: 380–1; Putnam
2002: 33). Interestingly, Levinas also remarks: ‘Everyone is a little bit Jewish’
(2001: 164).
62 See also Levinas 2001: 77–8, 92, 126; Bernstein 2002: 167–83. The claim that
‘everyone should act like the Nazis’ is misleading. If morality is dead then
there can be no ‘should’ about it. What Levinas ought to have said was that
‘everyone could act like the Nazis.’
63 See Peperzak 1997: 2–3.
64 Derrida briefly alludes to ‘trespassing’ (1993b: 33).
65 See also Levinas 1994a: 91; 2001: 126.

66 See Derrida 1996c: 5–6; 2002a: 382–5, 390–1.
67 See Levinas 1993: 44. Elsewhere, Levinas alludes specifically to the ‘Holo-
caust’ and feeling ‘oneself to be already a responsible survivor’ (1999: 162),
and even describes his conception of ethics in terms of ‘the culpability of the
survivor’ (2000: 12) and ‘the responsibility of the survivor’ (ibid.: 17).
68 See Handelman 1991: 212. Levinas also refers to the effect of the ‘extreme
exposure’ of the other on the “I” as being both ‘like a shot fired at point-
blank range’ (1998a: 162), and as an ‘entry into me by burglary’ (1994a: 145).
69 See also Campbell 1999: 33; Levinas 2001: 53, 92, 98, 128, 225.
70 See also Levinas 1993: 48; 1998a: 169, 171, 175. Note Hofstadter’s remarks on
the spatial emphasis of the ‘Da’ of ‘Dasein’ (Heidegger 1982: 334–5), and
Heidegger’s own comments on the ‘here’ and ‘there’ of Dasein (1999: 171;
see also Husserl 1982: 116–19, 123; 1989: 88, 177). Schutz likewise discusses
the ‘here’ and ‘there’ (1971: 11–12, 178, 312, 315–16; 1974: 59), the ‘inter-
changeability of standpoints’ (1971: 12, 317; 1974: 60), and ‘reciprocity of
perspectives’ (1964: 54–5; 1971: 316; 1974: 4–5, 60, 67, 85). See also Schutz’s
remarks on the ‘here and now’ of the absent other (1964: 38–9).
71 See also Levinas 1999: 22. Note Derrida’s remarks on the host as hostage
(1999b: 56–7). I return to this in Chapter 8.
72 See also Levinas 1992: 121; 1998b: 130, 144, 216.
73 See also Levinas 1998b: 129.
74 In a similar vein Putnam describes Levinas as a ‘moral perfectionist’ (2002:
36). Nuyen has recently argued that Levinas’s work is best thought of as an
‘ethics of pity’ – this, he claims, would then enable Levinas to address ‘the
problem of moral motivation’ (2000: 411). There is much to be said for
Nuyen’s naturalistic reading. However, he misses the more crucial role of exis-
tential guilt in Levinas’s work – a guilt that is (to answer Nuyen’s own ques-
tion) what ‘awakens [one’s] conscience’ (ibid.: 417). It is notable that Nuyen
overlooks this because, in his discussion of pity he remarks both that
the ‘pitier feel[s] that he or she has somehow escaped the misfortune
that should have been his or hers’ (ibid.: 418), and that ‘the feeling of pity
does not just reveal the subjectivity of the I; it also puts the I in question: Why
this Other and not me? Why they rather than me?’ (ibid.: 420). Note also
Putnam’s remarks on ‘sympathy’ and ‘understanding’ in Levinas’s account
(2002: 38).
75 Levi’s reference to the other’s ‘entreaty’ through ‘his simply being there’ is
particularly interesting in view of Derrida’s recent remarks on Jankelevitch’s
work on the possibility of forgiveness after Auschwitz. Jankelevitch claims that
the Jews were persecuted not for any specific reason or (perceived) offence
but rather for their very being: ‘A Jew does not have the right to be, existing is
his sin’ (quoted in Derrida 2001b: 43). Alluding to both Heidegger and
Levinas, Derrida proceeds to suggest that this ‘sin of existing’ possesses
244 Notes
‘a horizon of possible generality’ where the ‘guilt . . . of being-there’ is ‘consti-
tutive’ (ibid.) not only of the Jew in Nazi Germany.
76 See also Wiesel 1981: 121–3. I will return to Levinas’s own reference to Cain
later.
77 On Levi’s rhetoric, see Gaita 2000: 89, 152.
78 According to Levinas ‘the subjectivity of the subject is persecution and martyr-
dom’ (1994a: 146).
79 See Levi’s remarks on the Nazi’s coercion of nudity in the death camps (1998:
90).
80 For a more critical appraisal of Levinas’s rhetoric, see Caputo 1993: 79, 82–3.
81 See Handelman 1991: 212, 272–3; Mole 1997: 148ff.
82 With this passage in mind, see Melville’s short story ‘Provenance of a face’
(1999: 169–77).
83 See Caputo 1993: 32.
84 Although Levinas provides a number of qualifications as to what he means by
this term, he is explicit that his primary concern is the other human being
(1998a: 88; 1998b: 10). I return to this in Chapter 7.
87 See also Levinas 1988a: 176. Here one might also recall Exodus 33:20–3.
89 See Wittgenstein 1958: p. 179.
90 See also Levinas 1996c: 66; Robbins 1999: 23–5.
91 See Levinas 1988a: 171; 1992: 57, 61; 1993: 158; 1996a: 22, 92. As will become
clear later, the face is not Levinas’s only route of access to the ethical (1992:
87, 117; 1993: 94, 103).
92 See also Levinas 1992: 87; 2001: 48–9, 135, 204, 208, 215.
93 See also Levinas 1992: 96; 1993: 35, 44; 1996a: 22; 1998b: 232.
94 See Handelman 1991: 209; Levinas 1992: 60; 1993: 39; 1998a: 154.
96 See Derrida 1993c: 122; 1995b: 99.
97 See Jay 1993: 555–60.
98 See Levinas 1996c: 50–1.
99 See Caputo 1993: 199–200.
100 See Levinas 1992: 75–6; Derrida 1997c: 118.
101 See also Handelman 1991: 211; Levinas 1998a: 138.
102 See Peperzak 1993: 162–3; Levinas 1996c: 295–6; Derrida 1997c: 99–100.
103 See Handelman 1991: 210.
104 See Levinas 1996c: 191; 2000: 163, 165–6.
105 See Wittgenstein 1990: §222. Of course, the ear is not entirely passive, for
there is a difference between hearing and listening (a distinction Levinas some-
times understates (2000: 201)).
106 See Handelman 1991: 220. While one can be selective regarding what one
chooses to look at, one cannot be similarly selective about what one hears (or
smells) – though one can choose to ignore what one hears (Levinas 1996a:
54). This is why it would be better to say that for Levinas the other’s face is
heard more than it is seen (2000: 173).
107 See also Levinas 1998a: 170; 1998b: 145.
108 See Handelman 1991: 211; Levinas 1996a: 76; 1998b: 96, 186; Derrida 1997c:
100.
109 See Levinas 1988a: 174; Robbins 1999: 23, 57. Barthes’s analysis of the photo-
graphic image – and specifically its power to awaken a sense of ontological
guilt in the viewer (2000: 84) – might usefully refine Levinas’s rather dismis-
sive attitude to the face in its ‘plasticity.’
Notes 245
110 See also Levinas 1998b: 168–9, 186.
111 See Levinas 1998b: 104; Robbins 1999: 64.
112 See also Derrida 1990: 929.
113 A qualification needs to be made here, for the ‘face is not a force. It is an
authority. Authority is often without force.’ Likewise, on the punitive interpre-
tation of God, Levinas proceeds: ‘That is a very recent notion. On the con-
trary, the first form, the unforgettable form, in my opinion, is that, in the last
analysis, he [God] can not do anything at all. He is not a force but an author-
ity’ (1988a: 169).
114 See Levinas 1992: 89, 86; 1998b: 108; Derrida 1997c: 104.
115 See also Levinas 1996a: 17, 54; 1998b: 105. Levinas also remarks that ‘the face
of the other is verticality and uprightness; it spells a relation to rectitude. The

face is not in front of me . . . but above me’ (1984: 59).
116 See Levinas 1996c: 118–19.
117 See also Levinas 1998a: 163.
118 See Rousseau 1973: 25.
120 See also Levinas 1992: 86; 1993: 94.
122 See also Levinas 1996c: 75–6, 213.
123 See also Levinas 1993: 158; 1996a: 10, 53, 69; 1996c: 74–5, 213; 1998b: 145.
126 See also Levinas 1998a: 167. This point can be extended and applied to ‘the
other’ more generally (as Levinas implies when remarking that ‘the other is
the richest and poorest of beings’ (1984: 63)). For what is most distinctive and
unpredictable about human beings is their capacity for both extreme vulnera-
bility and resilience (Camus 1975: 12–13). Indeed, it is this unpredictability
that, I would argue, constitutes the other’s ‘mystery’ (Levinas 1992: 67–8).
127 See Caputo 1993: 32, 214; Rose 1997: 54–5; Barthes 2000: 69; Levinas 2001:
48. Even from a more physiological perspective, the face (unlike many other
parts of the body) cannot be made taut to withstand violence. Indeed, this is
partly why the face is a natural locus for tenderness and the trust this
demands.
128 Levinas denies that his analyses refer to (or are incumbent upon) a general-
ized, universalizable ‘subject.’ Indeed, as will become clear later, he occasion-
ally claims that his analyses apply only to him (1984: 67; 1992: 98–9; 1996a:
120).
129 See Levinas 1998c: 108–9. Levinas prefers the positively charged trope of
being-for-the-other (1984: 62) to Heidegger’s ethically neutral being-with-the-
other. For a summary of Husserl’s account of subjectivity, see Levinas 1998c:
82–3.
130 Levinas remarks that the other with whom he is concerned is not merely the
‘neighbor’ (geographically speaking) but the other who is ‘very distant,’ or
‘the one with whom initially I have nothing in common.’ He thus warns
against ‘the words neighbor and fellow human being’ because they ‘establish so
many things in common . . . and so many similarities’; in short, that ‘we
belong to the same essence’ (1996a: 27; see also 2000: 138). Needless to say, I
think Levinas’s caution is (like Lyotard’s) ultimately misplaced. As I argue in
Chapter 7, Levinas clearly does prioritize humanity over animality, and in
doing so relies upon the prior identification of the genuinely ‘other’ specifi-
cally with the human other.
132 See also Robbins 1999: 4, 21.
246 Notes
133 See also Glendinning 1998: 7–23.
134 See Levinas 1998a: 9; Glendinning 1998: 1–6.
135 It is on this point that Levinas (1993: 24, 35, 44–5) criticizes Buber.
136 See Levinas 1998a: 164; 1998b: 186.
137 See Levinas 1992: 76; Robbins 1999: 23–4.
138 See also Derrida 1998c: 28.
139 See also Levinas 1998a: 91, 164–5, 169; 2000: 195–6, 202–3, 209; Derrida
1999b: 55–7.
140 See also Levinas 2000: 172, 202–3.
141 Likewise, Levinas remarks that the ‘relationship with the Other . . . puts me in
question’ (1996a: 52), the ‘face is a visitation and a coming which disturbs
immanence’ (ibid.: 59, see also 69), and that ‘[o]nly the meaning of the other
is irrecusable, and forbids the reclusion and reentry into the shell of the self’
(1994a: 183).
142 See also Levinas 2000: 187; 2001: 50, 55.
143 See Robbins 1999: 16–19; Levinas 2000: 193. Levinas does occasionally refer
to ‘violence’ (2000: 187) in this regard, but such allusions must be treated
with caution.
144 See Derrida 1998a: 21; 1999a: 69; Levinas 2000: 152. Derrida characterizes the
relation to the other as necessarily involving a ‘preethical violence’ (1997c:
125) insofar as the other must first appear (and thus be minimally assimilated
to consciousness) as an ‘other’ for Levinas’s ethics to get off the ground
(see also Merleau-Ponty 1996: 359, 361). In reference to the need for
judgement between competing responsibilities Levinas himself acknowledges
that ‘[t]here is a certain measure of violence necessary in terms of justice’
(1998b: 105; see also 2001: 167, 221; Derrida 1996a: 63; 1997b: 25, 32; 1999a:
72–3).
145 See Sartre 1993: 252ff.; Levinas 1984: 52–3. On the relationship between
Sartre and Levinas, see Howells 1988.
146 This is an important point, for otherwise Levinas’s frequently shocking termi-
nology of being ‘hostage’ and ‘persecuted’ (1996a: 80–95) could be miscon-
strued. Nevertheless, there is a sense in which Levinas himself relies on just
such a ‘mythical past’ in his holding justice accountable to the preoriginal
ethical relation, and thereby maintaining the possibility of legitimate violence
on behalf of another. I return to this in Chapter 7.
147 See also Levinas 2000: 195–6; 2001: 52, 55–6, 192, 204, 225.
148 Here one might recall Wittgenstein’s cautionary remarks concerning the
‘temporality’ that is ‘embedded in grammar’ (1994a: 22).
149 See also Levinas 1996a: 17, 94.
150 See also Levinas 1996a: 144–5.
152 This gains support from Derrida’s earlier remarks (1996c: 5–6; see also 2002a:
383–91). On Derrida’s own preoccupation with confession see 1992a: 34–35;
1998c: 60.
153 See Levinas 1996a: 144. Aside from the Heideggerian overtones of the term
‘guilt’ (Levinas 1996a: 18), there is an issue of translation here, for the French
culpabilité refers to notions of fault or blame. Levinas would want to avoid such
connotations insofar as they imply more-or-less specifiable transgressions vol-
untarily perpetrated (1996b: 83–4; 1998a: 170; 1999: 106).
154 See Levinas 2000: 203–4.
155 See Derrida 1993b: 77; Levinas 1997a: 225.
156 See Levinas 1998a: 169–70; 1999: 179; Derrida 2001b: 26, 56. Note also
Lyotard’s remarks on eschatology (1997b: 96, 98).
157 See also Levinas 1999: 106; 2000: 195–6, 208–9.
Notes 247
158 See Levinas 1998a: 152, 175. As Derrida puts it, I am ‘a priori guilty’ (2002a:
384).
159 See also Levinas 2000: 12, 20, 138, 161, 193, 195.
160 See also Levinas 1996c: 84.
161 See also Derrida 1993b: 19–20; 1995a: 184, 194, 286–7, 361–2; 1996b: 86;
1997b: 20–1; 2001d: 87. In this sense Levinas’s remark that ‘I am placed in the
accusative case, in the place of the one accused – I lose all place’ (2000: 161)
is potentially misleading. For it is not that I have no place before the other but
rather that I have no rightful place.
162 See Culler 1976: 26.
163 See Derrida 1993a: 255. Levinas did once remark that the fact that I am ‘in
one place in space and the other is at another place in space . . . is not the
alterity that distinguishes you from me. It is not because your hair is unlike
mine or because you occupy another place than me – this would only be a dif-
ference of properties or of dispositions in space, a difference of attributes’
(2001: 49). While I am not suggesting that the other’s ‘otherness’ can be
reduced to such ‘spatial differences,’ I nevertheless believe (and numerous
passages in Levinas’s work bear this out) that these cannot be dismissed as
mere differences ‘of attributes.’
164 See also Derrida 1993b: 39, 61, 76.
165 For similar remarks concerning the ‘Third World’ see Levinas 1999: 23, 30,
179; Derrida 2003: 121–2. Derrida rejects the suggestion that his own concep-
tion of ethics is reducible to a ‘distributive justice’ (2002f: 105).
166 Rousseau there refers to the ‘first man who, having enclosed a piece of
ground, bethought himself of saying This is mine’ (1930: 207) – an event along
with which came the notion of ‘property’ and ‘a thousand quarrels and con-
flicts’ (ibid.: 210), ‘slavery and misery’ (ibid.: 215). On such a reading
Rousseau’s own vocabulary of trespassing (the ‘usurpations’ of the rich, the
injustice of ‘proprietorship,’ and his reminder: ‘Do you not know that
numbers of your fellow-creatures are starving, for want of what you have too
much of?’ (ibid.: 219–20)) takes on renewed significance. Interestingly, De
Sade makes a similar point about ‘usurpation’ (1969: 173).
167 On the possible significance of Levinas’s work for politics see Derrida 1999b:
20, 70–1, 78–83, 197; Critchley 1999b: 274ff. I return to this in Chapter 8.
168 Recalling Derrida’s allusion to ‘mourning’ see Levinas’s remarks on Pascal
(Levinas 1999: 179).
169 See Blanchot 1995: 245; Levinas 1999: 23. In some astonishing passages
Levinas says of this non-symmetrical relation that ‘I am responsible for the
Other without waiting for reciprocity . . . Reciprocity is his affair’ (1992: 98),
and ‘What I say here of course only commits me!’ (ibid.: 114). I return to this
later.
170 Levinas remarks that, insofar as the face of the other ‘demands me, requires
me, summons me’ it might well be aligned with ‘the word of God.’ He pro-
ceeds: ‘Does not God come to the mind precisely in that summons . . . desig-
nating me instead in the face of the other as responsible with no possible
denial, and thus, as the unique and chosen one?’ (1999: 27). I return to this
religious subtext in Chapter 7.
171 See Levinas 1998a: 169–71.
172 See Levinas 1997b: 70; 1999: 19–20.
173 A point contested in Bachelard 1994: 5, 7, 46, 213.
174 As Levinas summarizes: ‘for a being that is always in the possible, it is imposs-
ible to be a whole’ (2000: 32).
248 Notes
179 See Levinas 1996a: 88; 1999: 20–3; 2001: 62, 92, 97–8, 128, 132. This trespass-
ing is a violation both against this particular other who faces me and, more
generally, any present or absent other.
180 See also Derrida 2001b: 67; 2001d: 86.
181 See also Derrida 1996b: 86; 2002f: 383.
182 Bernstein is therefore in danger of oversimplifying Levinas’s position when he
summarizes: ‘for Levinas, to acknowledge the supreme ethical imperative
does not mean that we always follow it; but we can obey this command. Ethics
presupposes saintliness not as an accomplishment, but as a value or an ideal. I
can always act in such a manner as will give ethical priority to the life of the
other’ (Bernstein 2002: 179, see also 181).
183 See also Heidegger 1982: 298; Husserl 1989: 427. Heidegger’s remarks on ‘my
having the responsibility for the Other’s becoming endangered in his exist-
ence, led astray, or even ruined’ (1999: 327) should be read with this in mind.
184 See Macann 1992: 214; Kellner 1992: 206.
185 See also Levinas 1998b: 148; 1999: 23, 28, 30. Recalling Wittgenstein’s
remarks on the ontological question (1994a: 85), one might say that even in
its asking the question of Being Dasein thereby sacrifices other questions
(Lyotard 1988: xii; Bennington 1993: 105; Derrida 2000b: 29). That is, in pur-
suing the issues of fundamental ontology Dasein must overlook the violence
involved in assuming the right to do even this over ‘feeding the hungry and
clothing the naked’ (Levinas 1998b: 116; see also Caputo 1993: 132) – some-
thing that problematizes all theorizing, including Levinas’s own.
186 See Lyotard 1997b: 110.
187 See Levinas 1988a: 175; 2001: 134–5, 197; Derrida 1997c: 95.
188 See Levinas 1984: 63; Derrida 1995a: 381; Mole 1997: 148–9.
189 See Levinas 1992: 89; 1994a: 117; 1996a: 91, 103; 1999: 107; 2000: 138; 2001:
49.
190 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 77; 1994b: 70.
191 Notably Wittgenstein’s moral perfectionism (Pascal 1996: 48).
192 See Levinas 1984: 68; 1996a: 103. On at least one occasion Levinas (like
Rousseau) exalts ‘the goodness of everyday life’ over the failure and corrup-
tion of ‘[e]very [political] attempt to organize the human’ (1999: 107).
193 See Levinas 1993: 148; 1997b: 43; 1998b: 18.
194 Levinas’s allusion to the ‘haughty priority of the A is A’ (1998a: 174) is not, I
think, an attack on logic. Rather, he is highlighting the danger of transferring
the logical principle of identity into the ethical-political realm. For this would
imply that ‘I am I, and he is he’ is the whole story.
195 Regarding the non-reasonableness of love, see Gaita 2000: 27.
196 A similar lamentation appears in Derrida’s own ‘confession’ (1993a: 118–19,
248). See also Derrida’s remarks on murder (ibid.: 297–8; 1999b: 108), and
being guilty without fault (1993a: 300–2, 305).
197 See Rousseau 1953: 25–8, 37, 166.
198 See also Rousseau 1953: 176.
200 See Heidegger 1999: 327. Note also Heidegger’s warning against ‘idle talk’
(ibid.: 213–14; Macann 1992: 218–19).
201 See Levinas 1993: 135–43; Robbins 1999: 16–19.
202 See Winch 1987: 168. Gaita defines ‘remorse’ as a ‘haunting’ (2000: 32) by –
or ‘pained acknowledgment’ (ibid.: 34) of – one’s guilt. I would assume all
this in what I simply refer to as ‘guilt.’
203 More recently Gaita has claimed that ‘reflection on remorse takes us closer . . .
Notes 249
to the nature of morality and of good and evil, than reflection on rules, prin-
ciples, taboos and transgressions can’ (2000: 32).
204 See Gaita 1991: 48; 2000: 36, 98; 2003: 163ff.
205 See Wittgenstein 1974: 169; Rhees 1981: 190–219; Monk 1991: 367–70;
Malcolm 1993: 12; Pascal 1996: 45–50.
206 See Derrida 2002c: 88, 101, 103.
207 See Heidegger 1999: 312–15; Gaita 2000: 33–4, 128–9. To put this differently,
there is an important disparity between the grammar of innocence and guilt,
for whereas the former ultimately refers to a public realm (a ‘we’), the latter
can be radically singular. The problem with Heidegger’s account is that while
the ‘they’ cannot absolve me of my Guilt, neither can ‘they’ accuse me of it.

209 See also Derrida 2002f: 50. Likewise, Levinas refers to ‘the everyday extra-
ordinary dimension of my responsibility for other men’ (2000: 185). It seems
to me that the child’s questions: ‘Why was I born?’, ‘Why am I here?’ and
‘Why am I me and not someone else?’ bear witness to the natural birth of moral
consciousness (in the Levinasian sense).
210 See Derrida 1995b: 67–9, 78–9, 85–6.
211 See Drury 1981: 102; Derrida 1996c: 9–10.
212 See Schopenhauer 1918: 125; Gaita 2000: 31.
213 See Gaita 2000: 4.
214 See Nietzsche 1972a: 23; Levinas 1993: 87.
215 See Caputo 1993: 65; Derrida 2001e: 43; 2002c: 134.
217 See also Martin 1984: 603.
218 While Bauman notes that ‘ “I am ready to die for the Other” is a moral state-
ment; “He should be ready to die for me” is, blatantly, not’ (1995: 51),
Levinas likewise claims that, although ethics demands self-sacrifice, ‘to say that
the other has to sacrifice himself to the others would be to preach human sac-
rifice!’ (1994a: 126). On a similar note, though here concerning theodicy,
Levinas also refers to the ‘scandal’ of ‘justifying my neighbour’s suffering’ – a
justification that constitutes ‘the source of all immorality’ (1988b: 163).
219 Given my previous discussion of Heidegger and Levinas, it is interesting that
Gaita should emphasize this dual character of guilt; that I am identified and
positioned (‘placed’) in my singularity with regard to others, and that in
being positioned thus I find myself (‘elsewhere’) unable to find relief in a
common ‘we.’
220 See Rousseau 1953: 17; Derrida 2002c: 132.
221 See Rousseau 1953: 31, 65, 134, 136, 176.
222 See Derrida 1992a: 42–3, 68–9; 1992c: 142–3; 1993b: 15; 1996a: 62–3; 1997b:
28–9; 1998a: 31; 1998c: 19–20; 2002c: 164.
223 See Gaita 2000: 31; Derrida 2000d: 32–3, 34, 36, 40–2, 92–4. This relates to
Newton’s 1662 confession where, for purposes of ‘secrecy’ as much as ‘for
speed,’ he made ‘a record of his private sins in Shelton’s shorthand’ (confess-
ing, amongst other things, his ‘breaches of the sabbath,’ a ‘more general
impiety,’ ‘normal sexual pressures,’ a ‘bad temper,’ ‘casual acts of violence’ a
‘naughty playfulness,’ ‘[p]eevishness,’ ‘stealing,’ ‘[g]luttony’ and having
threatened his ‘ “father and mother . . . to burn them and the house over
them” ’ (Hall 1996: 5–6)). Newton’s use of a coded language is pertinent
insofar as this ‘secrecy’ could likewise not be radical, for every code as such
must in principle be decipherable by others (Bennington 1993: 58, 155;
Derrida 1997d: 48ff.; 2000b: 65).
224 Handelman remarks that the ‘ “force” of Levinas’s argument has its source in
the appeal of Levinas’s own “face,” Levinas in the first person as well as
250 Notes
Levinas the philosopher’ (1991: 272–3). As Connolly notes (1999: 128–9),
Caputo makes a similar move in Against Ethics (1993).
225 See Levinas 1987: 116, 119, 121–2; 1992: 87–8; 1993: 135–7, 140–2, 147–8,
158; 1996a: 4, 8–9, 36–8, 56, 114–15, 167.
227 See Derrida 1997c: 146. As I suggested earlier, by reading Levinas’s work as a
response to the questions raised by the early Wittgenstein, one sees just how
necessary it becomes for the former to ‘run against the boundaries of lan-
guage’ (Wittgenstein 1993: 44). Note Derrida’s anecdotal remarks on
Levinas’s fear of silence (1996c: 7; see also Levinas 1998a: 99; 2000: 192).
228 See Derrida 1996c: 5–6; 1997c: 94.

1 Parts of the present chapter have appeared in Plant 2003d.
2 See Cockburn 1990: 11.
4 See Levinas 1984: 54; Davis 1996: 93–5.
5 See also Derrida 1984: 107–8. Although Derrida is here referring to Totality
and Infinity, I would extend the point much further. Regarding Levinas’s
evocation of the Bible, see 2001: 62–3, 133, 149, 170, 243. On the emergence
of a troubling ethnocentrism in Levinas’s work see ibid.: 63–5, 137, 149, 170,
224, 243.
6 Levinas similarly talks of the face as a ‘visitation’ (1996a: 53). Here we might
also recall Wittgenstein’s claim that ‘[e]thics, if it is anything, is supernatural
and our words will only express facts’ (1993: 40).
8 See Husserl 1982: §§23–9; 1989: p. 171; Levinas 1993: 93, 166, n. 3; Derrida
1997c: 123–4.
10 See Caputo 1993: 79–80. Note also Hume 1988: 176.
11 Levinas’s vocabulary of ‘transcendence’ might therefore only function as a
way of drawing attention to the other’s ‘incalculability’ (Wittgenstein 1994a:
73). Critchley’s account of Levinas seems epistemological in this sense (1999a:
285), as occasionally does Derrida’s (1997c: 124). I return to this later.
12 Peperzak remarks on the ‘deceptively’ (1993: 109) religious overtones of
Levinas’s work, and Kearney comments on how, for Levinas, ‘God as the
absolutely Other can only be encountered in and through our ethical rapport
with our fellow humans’ (1984: 48).
13 See Levinas 1992: 92, 105; 1993: 47, 94, 103; 1996a: 8, 25, 29, 76. Levinas also
claims that love ‘is commanded by the face of the other man, which is not a
datum of experience and does not come from the world’ (1998b: 187).
15 See also Levinas 1992: 60, 92; 2000: 173, 186.
18 See also Levinas 1994b: 14–15, 32; 1996a: 30; 2000: 180, 193–4; Peperzak
1993: 224–6.
19 See also Levinas 1999: 95; 2000: 185.
20 See Derrida 1997c: 107–9.
21 Here we might recall Malcolm’s distinction between belief that God exists and
belief in God – the latter being inextricably linked to ‘action . . . or if not, at
least a bad conscience’ (1972: 211).
Notes 251
23 See Levinas 1998a: 80, 161.
24 See Husserl 1989: p. 200.
25 See Levinas 1992: 86; 1993: 44; 1996a: 60.
26 Levinas’s remark that ‘[i]n this sense one can say that the face is not “seen” ’
(1992: 86; see also 1988a: 176) thus becomes less bewildering.
27 Levinas makes a similarly dismissive gesture toward the attempt to limit the
meaning of the face to its cultural, socio-historical manifestations (1992: 86;
1993: 44; 1996a: 52, 53).
28 See Levinas 1992: 66–7.
29 See Caputo 1993: 75; Derrida 1997c: 90, 112, 116–17, 125, 137–8, 140–1.
31 See Shields 1997: 101.

33 See Wittgenstein 1994a: 29; 1994b: 54, 56–8, 62–3.
34 See also Levinas 1992: 87–8; 1998b: 10.
35 See Derrida 1999b: 112; 2002a: 384.
38 See Malcolm 1960: 61; Wittgenstein 1969: 179. Interestingly, Levinas refers to
the ‘great novelty of a way of thinking in which the word God ceases orienting
life by expressing the unconditional foundation of the world and cosmology,
and reveals, in the face of the other man, the secret of his semantics’ (1999:
96).
39 Levinas’s ‘here I am’ does not translate easily from the French me voici (liter-
ally ‘see-me-here’). One would, for example, employ me voici in circumstances
where one’s appearance was not expected by the other. In this sense me voici
pertains to the occurrence of something new (a ‘visitation’). As Handelman
notes, what Levinas is effectively doing here is ‘translating the “I think” of the
rational Cartesian cogito . . . into the biblical “here I am” of subjectivity and
ethics’ (1991: 266; see also Peperzak 1993: 25).
40 See Isaiah 6:9.
41 I will return to this in Chapter 8.
42 See Handelman 1991: 272–3.
43 See Levinas 1993: 164, n. 3.
44 See also Levinas 1992: 117; 1993: 94, 103; 1996a: 53.
45 See Levinas 1993: 44; 1996a: 9.
46 See Levinas 1988a: 169–74.
49 See Levinas 1992: 86–7. Levinas also remarks that ‘across all literature the
human face speaks – or stammers, or gives itself a countenance, or struggles
with its caricature,’ and similarly that the ‘Holy Scriptures do not signify
through the dogmatic tale of their supernatural or sacred origin, but
through the expression of the face of the other man that they illuminate’
(ibid.: 117).
50 See Peperzak 1993: 164, n. 28.
51 See Wittgenstein 1958: p. 178; 1994a: 23, 49.
52 See also Derrida 1999b: 32, 110.
53 See also Schutz 1964: 43; 1971: 10, 314; 1974: 17, 75; Husserl 1989: pp. 171,
206.
55 See also Husserl 1982: 19, 135–6, 138, 140; 1989: 385–7; Heidegger 1999:
153–4.
56 See Levinas 1996c: 213–14; 1998b: 185. I return to this point later.
252 Notes
57 There is a sense in which for Levinas the face of the other – while not a
‘private object’ for me alone – does regard me in a singular way. One might
say that, epistemologically, the other’s face is there-for-everyone, but ethically it
commands only me directly.
58 See also Levinas 2001: 50–1, 67–8, 100, 115–16, 133, 143, 165–8, 183, 193–4,
205–6, 214, 230, 246.
59 See Peperzak 1993: 167.
61 See also Levinas 1994a: 159; Derrida 1999b: 74, 79.
62 In Barthes’s analysis of love, even the world of objects is prone to a certain
fetishization (1990: 75, 173; see also Kundera 1998: 55, 81).
63 See also Kierkegaard 1973: 286, 288.

64 See also Levinas 1994a: 157; 1998b: 227.
65 See Levinas 1998b: 104, 195.
66 See also Derrida 1995a: 272–3; 2002f: 304–5.
67 See also Levinas 1994a: 157–8; 1998b: 205.
68 See Levinas 1998b: 103, 203–4.
69 See Caputo 1993: 118. While ‘violence must be avoided as much as possible
. . . one cannot say that there is no legitimate violence’ (Levinas 1998b: 106;
see also 1999: 172).
70 This is one way of understanding Levinas’s allusions to a past that is
‘immemorial’ (1996a: 60; 2000: 162), ‘preoriginal’ (1996a: 116), ‘never a now’
(ibid.: 77), or ‘never present!’ (1998b: 233).
71 In much the same way as ‘I am I as if I had been chosen’ (Levinas 1993: 35),
so too is it as if the other were God, or as if God commands us with ‘His Word
in the face of the Other’ (1998b: 175). God is, like Derrida’s ‘regulating idea
of pure hospitality’ (1999c: 133) (or the ‘transcendental illusion of the gift’
(1992b: 30; see also Caputo 1997a: 135)), only expressible in these excessive
terms. ‘God,’ the ‘Infinite’ (and so on) might therefore be the least inadequate
way of articulating the desire for the impossible central to both Levinas’s and
Derrida’s work (Derrida 2002f: 52). I return to this in Chapter 8.
72 See Levinas 1992: 90; 1994a: 159; Derrida 1996b: 83–4; 1997a: 12; 1997b: 25,
27, 32; 1999a: 68–9.
73 Levinas read Rousseau during his incarceration as a prisoner of war.
74 See also Rousseau 1973: 44, 54.
76 See Rousseau 1973: 45. Interestingly, Rousseau chooses the life of Robinson
Crusoe as his literary ‘touchstone’ (ibid.: 84) for the education of Emile.
77 Rousseau’s remarks on compassion and pity seem less obviously naturalistic
(1973: 101–5), despite the fact that he also maintains that ‘justice and good-
ness are . . . real affections of the soul enlightened by reason which have
developed from our primitive affections’ (ibid.: 105).
78 See also Rousseau 1930: 210, 217.
79 See Rousseau 1930: 219–21.
80 See De Sade 1969: 173–5.
81 Of course, Levinas’s emphasis on ‘usurpation’ runs deeper insofar as the ‘I’ is
accused of being a trespasser in its very being-in-the-world. Compare also
Rousseau’s suspicions concerning the divisive nature of property and
Levinas’s claim that ‘[t]he Other . . . paralyzes possession, which he contests
by his epiphany in the face’ (1996c: 171). I return to this later.
82 See also Campbell 1999: 37; Molloy 1999: 232.
83 See Derrida 1995b: 69, 71; 2002e: 394–5, 416.
84 This is presumably what Levinas means by the ‘excellence of democracy,
whose fundamental liberalism corresponds to the ceaseless deep remorse of
Notes 253
justice . . . A bad conscience of justice!’ (1998b: 229–30; see also 2001: 52, 134,
136, 194, 206; Derrida 1996b: 86–7; 1999b: 76, 112, 115; 2003: 129).
85 See Levinas 1998b: 106; Nuyen 2000: 415.
86 See Rousseau 1930: 208–10.
87 See Derrida 1999a: 68–9; 1999b: 30, 33, 97.
88 See Derrida’s remarks on ‘perjury’ (2001b: 49; 2002a: 388). Levinas is not
wholly consistent on this point. Thus, for example, he laments: ‘Unfortunately
we are three – at least – the third always appears’ (2001: 143).
90 See Derrida 1995b: 2–3, 6; 1997b: 21; 1998b: 26.
92 See Robbins 1999: 68–9.

93 See also Derrida 1999b: 72. Compare Levinas’s remarks with Wittgenstein
1994a: 77. The ‘love’ Levinas here has in mind is ‘love without Eros . . . love in
which the ethical aspect dominates the passionate aspect, love without concu-
piscence’ (1998b: 103; see also 194; 2000: 174). Gaita’s notion of ‘justice
beyond fairness’ (2000: 80–1; see also 84–5) which constitutes ‘the most
sublime aspect of our legal tradition’ (ibid.: 11) is in keeping with Levinas’s
sentiments. Likewise, Gaita’s insistence that guilt (and pity) cannot be ade-
quately accounted for in consequentialist terms (that is, in terms of actual
harm caused) is consonant with Levinasian Guilt.
94 Levinas claims that ‘the fear of God is concretely my fear for my neighbor’
(1993: 47), and that the ‘ “Here I am!” is the place through which the Infinite
enters into language’ (1992: 106) insofar as for ‘every man, assuming respons-
ibility for the Other is a way of testifying to the glory of the Infinite, and of
being inspired’ (ibid.: 113).
97 This same question arose in Chapter 5 regarding Wittgenstein’s ethicalization
of religious belief, and specifically his suggestion to Drury that, despite their
non-belief, there was ‘a sense in which’ they were ‘both Christians’ (Drury
1981: 130). I return to this in Chapter 8 with reference to Derrida.
98 See Levinas 1998a: 176; 1998b: 103. This remark might be read alongside
Barthes’s allusions to the economics of love (1990: 84–5, 171, 208–9), the poli-
tics of giving (ibid.: 76–9, 85), and the narcissism of the lover (ibid.: 161, 179,
182, 199). Barthes also emphasizes a certain gratuitousness of love in both the
a-teleology of the lover’s discourse (ibid.: 73, 85–6) and risk of the ‘I-love-you’
(ibid.: 147–54).
99 See also Levinas 1987: 115; 2000: 151. Contrast this with Husserl’s remarks on
language and communication (1989: 202–4).
100 Although this picture of language is complicated by Austin’s account of
speech-acts, he nevertheless maintains the notion of performative success
(1976: 14ff.) – which would, for Levinas, maintain even this account under
the rubric of ‘knowledge.’ Levinas’s point gains some support from Wittgen-
stein’s warning against both the temptation to look for the ‘essence of lan-
guage’ (1958: §92, see also §65; 1990: §444), and that ‘giving information’ is
what constitutes such ‘essence’ (1958: §356, p. 178; 1990: §160).
101 See Levinas 2000: 192.
102 This is not the contact ‘in which coincidence and identification occur’
(Levinas 1999: 93), but rather one’s being exposed to another – and specifically
to her ‘face [which is] weighted down with a skin’ (1994a: 89).
103 Note Picard’s nostalgia regarding how words were ‘once used’ (1948: 175,
177).
104 See also Defoe 1985: 211–13.
254 Notes
105 Picard similarly refers to ‘the creation of the word’ as ‘the greatest event’
(1948: 100).
106 See also Levinas 2000: 164, 192. Note too Derrida’s remarks on the ‘promise’
(1995a: 384; 1996b: 82; 1997a: 3, 11, 16; 1997b: 27, 30, 35).
108 See Levinas 1988a: 176; 1993: 44.
109 See Levinas 1984: 60; 1988a: 172; Davis 1996: 84–5.
110 See Picard 1948: 102; Caputo 2001: 139.
111 Although I will not expand on this, the ‘unreasonableness’ Levinas considers
to lie at the heart of ethics parallels his remarks on the persistent return of
skepticism (1994a: 166–71). Briefly stated, while the propositional, constative
Said of the skeptic’s claims clearly render them refutable (‘There is no truth’
is patently self-contradictory), on the level of the quasi-performative Saying
the skeptic can – and does – always return to haunt philosophy (1994a:
167–8). For a summary of this, see Critchley 1999a: 156–69.
112 Of course, Nietzsche vehemently denies that he wants to be ‘pronounced
holy’ or ‘a saint’ (1992a: 96). What is interesting is his subsequent quasi-
prophetic remarks on the potential significance of his own transvaluation of
value: ‘all the power-structures of the old society have been blown into the air
– they one and all reposed on the lie: there will be wars such as there never
yet have been on earth. Only after me will there be grand politics on earth’
(ibid.: 97; see also 101; 1968: §273). Thus, Nietzsche speaks against saintliness
in the name of another saintliness (Derrida 2002f: 223–5, 227).
113 See also Derrida 1999b: 61; Levinas 2001: 90, 111, 170, 183–4, 207, 218, 220.
114 See Rousseau 1930: 213–14. Indeed, according to Levinas, ‘Heideggerian
being-with-one-another’ sounds ‘like a marching together’ (2001: 137).
115 See Levinas 1998b: 229–30.
116 See Gaita’s remarks on loving ‘better’ (2000: 25–7).
117 Levinas remarks that ‘[t]he Desirable does not gratify my Desire but hollows it
out, and somehow nourishes me with new hungers’ (1996a: 52). This passage
is relevant here insofar as the bad conscience inaugurated with the third party
is similarly insatiable insofar as the more I do for this other, the more I have
failed to do for that other. I return to Levinasian ‘desire’ later.
118 And also the conditions of impossibility, for it is precisely this excessiveness
(and thus bad conscience) that prevents me from ever claiming to have ‘ful-
filled’ my responsibilities.
119 See Levinas 1988b: 165. For Levinas’s distinction between the ‘moral’ (or
‘just’) and the ‘ethical’ see 1988a: 171; 1992: 80–1, 90; 1996b: 237–8.
121 See also Levinas 1998c: 130–4.
122 See Levinas 1984: 62; 2001: 136, 145, 191. Levinas’s characterization of Dasein
in terms of a ‘struggle for life’ (1988a: 172) is contentious, not only because
Dasein is always being-towards-death (indeed, given Heidegger’s anti-biologism
(Derrida 1988c: 165), this purported complicity between fundamental ontol-
ogy and Darwinian evolution becomes additionally problematic), but also
because his reading of Darwin is questionable (Darwin 1875: 97–145).
123 The implication would thus seem to be that Heidegger’s Dasein is not properly
human. Levinas’s allegation is curious given that the very ‘natural’ relation
between parent and offspring represents a paradigm case of both ‘love
without reward’ and ‘putting the other first.’ I return to this later.
124 See also Picard 1948: 102–4; Levinas 1998a: 164, 171; 2001: 47.
125 See also Levinas 2001: 53, 113, 119, 132. Picard similarly remarks that ‘human
nature’ is so ‘absolutely different’ from the animal that the former ‘could
never have come straight out of animal [nature]’ (1948: 104). Indeed,
Notes 255
‘[a]nimals seem to have dropped out of a human dream’ (ibid.: 103).
Compare this with Levinas 1984: 61.
126 The same ambiguity occurs when Levinas claims that ‘Goodness’ (though a
‘childish virtue’) is ‘already . . . the possibility of sacrifice in which the human-
ity of man bursts forth’ (1998b: 157).
127 Neither can it be a matter of will, as this would subordinate responsibility to
autonomy, and Levinas maintains that ethics calls my freedom into question
(1994b: 37, 85).
128 Even if one accepts the claim that only the human can be saintly, this does not
warrant Levinas’s conclusion that the human ‘breaks’ with the natural. The
advent of the human might mark an unprecedented evolutionary stage, but
that does not sever the human from such natural processes (of course, given
Levinas’s comments on Darwinism (1984: 62; 1988a: 172), and more general
suspicions concerning the notion of a ‘human race’ (1998a: 10), it is doubtful
that he has anything ‘evolutionary’ in mind). I will return to some of these
points.
129 Interestingly, Levinas refers to our ‘natural goodness . . . with respect to the
other’ (2001: 55).
130 See Robbins 1999: 3–4.
131 See also Levinas 1996a: 55; 1996c: 117.
132 See also Levinas 1996a: 52, 55, 76; 1996c: 117; Blanchot 1997: 53.
133 Although I return to this point later, one might object that this classification
gets things precisely backwards; that needs are in fact what remain insatiable.
See Derrida 1992b: 158; 1995a: 282.
134 See Derrida 1992b: 7, 12–13, 35, 38, 45–7, 64, 76, 91, 126, 137, 139, 147–8,
156. Of course, the very notion of a pure gift (or absolute expenditure) is itself
caught up in a certain economics of return. For my giving everything could
likewise harbor entirely teleological hopes for a ‘good conscience.’ Somewhat
paradoxically then, sacrificing one’s life for another may not (as Levinas occa-
sionally suggests) be the ‘ultimate’ gift. On this general point see Bernasconi
1997: 258.
135 See Levinas 1992: 92; 1996a: 44–5, 76–7; 1996c: 63; Weil 1987: 86.
136 See also Derrida 2002f: 242.
137 See also Jay 1993: 558–60; Levinas 1998a: 176. There remains an ambiguity
here concerning who/what touches who/what in the caress? That is, do I
here touch the other, or rather touch myself with or through the other?
(Derrida 1993c: 126–7, 133–4, 140). Regarding the ethics of touch, see Benso
2000: 160, 162ff.
138 See Levinas 1992: 32, 61, 67–9.
139 See Levinas’s remarks on ‘justice,’ the ‘liberal state’ and his own ‘utopianism’
(1988a: 177–8).
140 According to Rorty, Levinas’s ethics is ‘pointless hype’ (1996: 42). Rorty’s
objection is, I think, metaphilosophical; namely, that he sees no pragmatic
value in even attempting an ‘ethics of ethics.’ But while Levinas is not con-
cerned with offering a specific ethical-political agenda, this is not to say that
(for example, on the question of moral Guilt) his work lacks ‘practical con-
sequences.’ I have discussed some of these points in Plant 2003d.
141 See Rousseau 1973: 13ff. D’Holbach similarly claims that the ‘compassion in
man is a habitual inclination to feel more or less keenly the ills with which
others are afflicted’ (1969: 66) which is made possible by way of ‘man’s struc-
ture’ (his ‘faithful memory’ and ‘active imagination’ (ibid.: 67)) – in short, his
capacity to ‘transfer’ the pain of an other to himself. However, as I have previ-
ously argued, this deliberative notion of ‘transference’ (Levinas 1988a: 172)
needs to be questioned.
256 Notes
142 See Picard 1948: 105; Levinas 2001: 47, 59, 97, 106, 183, 204, 235.
143 Levinas occasionally refers to Hobbes in this regard (1996a: 51; 1996b: 273).
144 See also De Sade 1991a: Dialogue 5; Nietzsche 1992b: Essay 2, §§5–6. De
Sade’s critique of the Christian ‘invention’ of the notion of brotherhood (a
claim reiterated in his ‘Dialogue entre un Prêtre et un Moribond’ (1991b:
23)) is developed by Nietzsche.
145 Regarding Levinas’s identification of Nietzsche with Nazism, see Bataille 1996:
192–3.
146 There is something quasi-Pyrrhonian about remarks such as this – though for
Nietzsche there is no corresponding ataraxia. For a more striking similarity
between Nietzsche and Pyrrhonism see Nietzsche 1994: pp. 71, 99.
147 For a powerful literary account of the corruption of pity, see Zweig 2000.
148 See also Nietzsche 1968: §§268, 297.
149 See Nietzsche 1968: §§266, 276, 280, 285, 296; Derrida 2001a: 33–4.
150 See also Nietzsche 1968: §327.
151 See also Nietzsche 1968: §§173–4, 200.
152 See Nietzsche 1992b: Essay 2, §§16, 19.
153 See also Nietzsche 1968: §§245–6. Compare this with Malcolm’s remarks on
guilt and the Judaic-Christian conception of God (1960: 60–1).
154 See also Nietzsche 1968: §176. According to Levinas fear of the other (which is
‘fear for the self’) is subordinate to fear for the other, and he likens the latter
to the ‘mother who fears for the child, or even, each of us who fears for a
friend’ (1998b: 117; see also 1993: 47; 2001: 124, 177). As will become clear in
Chapter 8, Derrida would be more cautious here insofar as one must ask to
what extent fear-for-the-other is also a fear-for-oneself (for one’s own potential loss
or mourning)?
155 In this sense traditional moralities constitute a ‘sign-language of the emotions’
(Nietzsche 1987: p. 92).
156 See Nietzsche 1992b: Essay 1, §13.
157 See also Levinas 2001: 54, 250.
158 The ‘judged’ would here refer to the poor and vulnerable other, while the
‘judgement’ would designate the accusation of my being Guilty.
159 Even Derrida acknowledges that ‘it is not by chance that Nietzsche could be
reappropriated by Nazism’ (Derrida 2002f: 221).
160 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§281, 283, 583; 1990: §506.
161 See also Levinas 1996a: 8, 73.
162 See Derrida 1993b: 35, 75–6, 78; 1995a: 268, 277–9, 284–5. Although Levinas
is critical of Heidegger’s concept of ‘Dasein’ (insofar as it prioritizes the self
over the other), for both philosophers the emphasis remains squarely anthro-
pocentric. On this feature of Heidegger’s work refer to Glendinning 1998:
62–70. I return to this point later.
163 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§250, 357, 650, pp. 174, 229; 1990: §§389, 518.
164 See Glendinning 1998: 71.
166 See also Wittgenstein 1958: §244, p. 218; 1993: 389; 1994a: 67; 1999: §§359,
475, 538.
167 See Wittgenstein 1996a: 66–7.
168 And similarly: ‘the epiphany of the Other (Autrui) involves a signifyingness of
its own, independent of this meaning received from the world . . . The nudity
of a face is a bareness without any cultural ornament . . . The face enters into
our world from an absolutely foreign sphere’ (Levinas 1996a: 53). On the
relation between concepts, humans and animals, contrast Levinas’s remarks
with Gaita 2003: 60–1.
169 See Caputo 1993: 81; Derrida 1997c: 89, 107. This is not simply a matter of
Notes 257
bodily form, for the ‘behavior one meets is human behavior in the first place
. . . One sees it and responds to it as such’ (Dilman 1987: 29).
170 See Derrida 1997c: 114–16, 121–3, 125, 127, 132, 137–8, 140–1, 143. Of
course, Derrida’s argument is broadly phenomenological rather than natural-
istic.
171 See Caputo 1993: 74–5, 80.
172 See Derrida 1997c: 125. This parallels Derrida’s remarks on the necessary
non-recognition of the gift (1992b: 13–17, 23, 27, 35–6, 47, 56, 91, 101, 147;
1995b: 106–7).
173 See Derrida 1997c: 112, 116–17, 125. To reiterate: this is why Derrida refers to
a ‘preethical violence’ (ibid.: 125, 128) only upon which an ethical relation to
the other is possible. That is, although this minimal recognition of the other
as an other (not a thing, ‘not a stone’ (ibid.: 125)) constitutes a ‘violence,’
insofar as such an assimilation is a necessary condition for my being respons-
ible for her, it is therefore ‘preethical.’
174 See also Levinas 1996a: 7, 28, 73; 1998b: 185.
176 See also Levinas 1994a: 87, 159; Putnam 2002: 55.
177 See also Gaita 2000: 32.
178 Or what Levinas refers to as a ‘miracle’ (2001: 59, see also 106, 111, 113,
216–18, 250). The difficulty Levinas’s anti-naturalism presents is how this sin-
gularity is to be understood given that any commonality enabling the (singu-
lar) face to be recognized as such is condemned as inherently unethical.
179 To what extent Levinas emphasizes verbal communication is contentious.
Thus, Critchley argues against the charge of anthropocentrism (and against
Derrida’s reading of Levinas here (Critchley 1999a: 180)) that Levinas
‘reserves a privileged place for non-verbal communication.’ Critchley then
alludes to a parallel ‘non-verbal language of the skin’ (ibid.: 178–9). But even
if he is right to conclude that ‘the original logos of ethics from which the
experience of obligation derives can be shown to be rooted in the non-verbal’
(ibid.: 181) this simply makes Levinas’s neglect of the animal more bemusing.
180 See also Derrida 1992b: 139, 142, 145; Handelman 1991: 210.
184 See also Levinas 2001: 41, 90.
185 While Winch does ‘not want to deny that in some attenuated sense one could
speak of allowing a dumb animal to choose and of “respecting” its choice,’ he
nevertheless insists that the ‘sense’ would be ‘attenuated’ (1987: 176–7).
While we might concede Winch’s point concerning deliberative ‘choice,’
there is little reason to accept this general criterion for moral worthiness.
What Winch overlooks here (although he emphasizes it regarding other
matters) is Wittgenstein’s naturalism.
186 Interestingly, Levinas begins the essay by referring to our becoming ‘vegetar-
ian again’ like Adam, and to ‘the butchery that every day claims our “conse-
crated” mouths!’ (1997a: 151).
187 See also Derrida 2002e: 388.
189 See also Malcolm 1986: 303; Dilman 1987: 49–50.
191 For an example of how Wittgenstein’s remarks on animals have been misap-
plied, see Pinker 1994: 56. Note also Gaita 2000: 240.
192 See Glendinning 1998: 72–5.
193 See Gaita 2003: 61. Certainly one can become deaf to the cry of the
258 Notes
non-human animal – those working in abattoirs presumably do. My point is
that such cases represent an erosion of a more primitive responsiveness to
animals.
194 See also Levinas 1988b: 156–7. In these circumstances even the human is
(albeit temporarily) ‘worldless’ or without a ‘world-picture.’
195 Interestingly, in response to the question ‘Can animals suffer?’ Derrida
claims that there is ‘no doubt. In fact it has never left any room for doubt . . .
it is not even indubitable; it precedes the indubitable, it is older than it’
(2002e: 397).
196 See also Wittgenstein 1993: 381, 383.
197 It is due to this that remarks such as: ‘The great “experiences” of our life have
properly speaking never been lived’ (1987a: 68) seem enigmatic.

198 See Levinas 1995: 103, 112.
200 See also Wittgenstein 1990: §545. Although Levinas acknowledges that
‘[c]ompassion is . . . a natural sentiment,’ he qualifies this by adding ‘on the
part of him who was hungry once, toward the other and for the hunger of the
other.’ But it is only due to such a partial account of natural compassion that
Levinas can then conclude that (genuine) ethical responsibility constitutes a
‘break’ in this ‘mechanical solidarity’ (2000: 173).
202 This is not entirely out of keeping with Levinas’s remark that ‘[t]he Other
comes to us not only out of context but also without mediation . . . The nudity
of a face is a bareness without any cultural ornament’ (1996a: 53). One might
therefore re-cast Levinas’s dichotomy between need and desire as follows:
What I desire is that the other’s needs be satisfied. Though this desire is insa-
tiable insofar as I can never legitimately assure myself that ‘I have done
enough,’ it is nevertheless from their basic needs that the other’s call comes to
me, and toward their basic needs that my responsibility is first oriented (indeed,
elsewhere Levinas seems to suggest precisely this (1994b: 99)).
203 See Dufourmantelle 2000: 142.
204 See also Derrida 2002e: 372–3, 378, 380, 382–3.
205 See Blanchot 1997: 50.
206 See also Levinas 1988a: 172; 1997a: 293.
208 Of course, the non-human animal may still demand justice from those
capable of universalizing maxims – just as many humans (children, the
severely mentally ill, and so on) make their silent demands.
209 See Glendinning 1998: 142.
212 See also Levinas 1984: 64–5.
213 See Sextus 1996: 1:75. Levinas also makes the questionable claim that ‘the dog
. . . cannot suppress its bark’ (1984: 65).
214 See also Levinas 1996a: 114. Although, as Levinas often maintains, there may
be no way of separating the Saying from the Said (in the same way as there
can be no ethical facing without an empirical face or body), clearly some ‘Saids’
are closer to the spirit of their Saying than others.
215 See Gaita’s remarks on ‘the love of saints’ (2000: 24).
216 See Caputo 1993: 145; Derrida 1988c: 173ff.; 1990: 953; 1992b: 144, 167;
1995a: 268, 277–9; 1995b: 71; 1997c: 142–3; 1999c: 135; 2000a: 406–7; 2000c:
4; 2003: 133.
217 See also Derrida 1997d: 136; 2000a: 404–5; 2000b: 137–8; 2002d: 87. Regard-
ing one’s responsibility to those other others necessarily excluded by one’s
Notes 259
being responsible to this other, Derrida refers to ‘animals’ as being ‘even
more other others than my fellows’ (1995b: 69).
218 And specifically Derrida’s own ‘desire for the impossible’ (1999c: 72). I return
to this in Chapter 8.
219 Derrida ‘refuse[s] to speak of “the animal” in general’ – indeed, he does not
even ‘think there is such a thing as “the animal” ’ (2000a: 407; see also 2002c:
231; 2002e: 292, 402, 415; 2002f: 241, 308–9).
220 See Levinas 1995: 110.
221 See also Derrida 1999b: 86–8; 2002b: 7, 8; Dufourmantelle 2000: 4.
222 Levinas also refers to ‘the gratuitousness of the for-the-other, the response of
responsibility that already lies dormant in a salutation, in the hello, in the
goodbye’ (1997b: 106).

223 See also Derrida 1999b: 95.
225 See also Caputo 1993: 205, 218; 1997a: 143.
226 See Derrida 2000b: 123; 2002f: 377. I explain this in Chapter 8.
229 And why equate ‘nature’ with the ‘rootedness’ (Derrida 1999b: 92) Levinas
problematizes in his phenomenology of the ‘home’? (I return to the latter in
Chapter 8). Critchley claims that Levinas provides a ‘material phenomenology of
subjective life’ that emphasizes the ‘sentient subject of sensibility.’ That is, the
‘ethical relation takes place at the level of sensibility, not at the level of con-
sciousness, and thus, in a way that recalls both Bentham’s and Rousseau’s cri-
teria for ethical obligation . . . it is in my pre-reflective sentient disposition
towards the other’s suffering that a basis for ethics and responsibility can be
found’ (1996: 33; see also Derrida 2002e: 395–7). While I am sympathetic to
Critchley’s application of Levinas, it is misleading to suggest that the latter’s
intentions are in any way naturalistic. As Levinas insists, the ethical relation he
is describing is ‘earlier than nature’ or ‘pre-nature’ (1994a: 75).
230 See also Derrida 2001d: 111–13.
231 See Derrida 1999e: 118; 2001d: 101; 2002f: 372. I return to these themes in
Chapter 8.
232 Interestingly, in her commentary on Derrida’s remarks on hospitality, Dufour-
mantelle refers to ‘the body’s most archaic instinctual reactions [which] are caught
up in an encounter [with the other]’ (2000: 26–8; see also Caputo 1997a: 143).
These are what I want to encompass under ‘the natural.’
8 Contaminations
1 Parts of the present chapter have appeared in Plant 2003c.
2 That is, beyond the methodological correlations between deconstruction and
Wittgenstein’s later philosophy (Staten 1986).
3 See Derrida 1999c: 57. In a discussion with Ricoeur in 1971 Derrida claims
that his interest is with ‘a type of questioning which has not yet coincided with
the need for ethics’ (1992c: 159). However, the beginnings of the so-called
‘ethical turn’ in Derrida’s work can be identified as early as ‘Violence and
Metaphysics’ where a certain rhetoric of hospitality emerges (1997c: 152–3;
see also Bernstein 1991: 172–229).
4 According to Critchley, Derrida’s recent work represents a ‘quasi-phenomenolog-
ical . . . description and analysis of particular phenomena.’ That is, Derrida is
‘concerned with the particular qua particular . . . with the grain and enigmatic
detail of everyday life’ (Critchley 1996: 32). Of course, what also ‘regulates’
Derrida’s analyses of the gift, hospitality (and so on) is ‘what is inscribed’ in
260 Notes
the ‘heritage’ of these concepts ‘in a number of traditions’ (Derrida 2001b:
53).
5 See Critchley 1999a.
6 Dooley (1999, 2001) has recently attempted to show the fundamental dispar-
ity between Derrida and Levinas. I have criticized this in Plant 2003c.
7 Derrida himself alludes to this section of Totality and Infinity in ‘A Word of
Welcome’ (1999b: 16, 21), although he there focuses on Levinas’s discussion
of the ‘feminine.’ For other analyses of ‘home’ (and related concepts), see
Bollnow 1967; Dovey 1978; Seamon 1979; Seamon and Mugerauer 1985: Bird
et al. 1993; Bachelard 1994; Benjamin 1995; Ingold 2000.
8 See also Bachelard 1994: 47, 51; Levinas 1994b: 107.
9 See Bachelard 1994: 5–7, 66; Levinas 1996c: 162.

10 See Harries’s somewhat disparaging remarks on the ‘mobile home’ (1998:
144–8).
11 See also Levinas 1996c: 156.
12 See also Heidegger 1994: 351.
13 See Levinas 1996c: 157.
14 See also Peperzak 1993: 157–8.
15 For Levinas this would presumably include the domestication of animals. For
a critique of Levinas’s claim that ‘things’ are ‘faceless,’ see Benso 2000.
16 See also Levinas 1996c: 171; 1998b: 17.
17 See also Heidegger 1999: 156–7.
18 See Levinas 1996c: 162; Heidegger 1999: 99–100.
19 See Husserl 1989: pp. 31, 88, 177.
20 See also Derrida 1993b: 20; Levinas 1984: 63.
21 See also Derrida 1999b: 111; 2001a: 84–5.
24 See Derrida 1992b: 10–11; 1995a: 282; 1999b: 99.
25 See also Derrida 1999b: 55; 2000b: 109; 2000c: 3.
27 See also Derrida 1996b: 84–5; 1997a: 13–14; 1999a: 81.
28 See Levinas 1992: 66–7.
29 See also Derrida 1997e: 17; 1998c: 68; 2001a: 21. Schutz also refers to the
‘stranger’ (1964: 91–105; 1970b: 87–8), and the concept of ‘home’ (1964:
106–19; 1970b: 82).
30 Thus perhaps revealing a ‘complicity of theology and metaphysics’ (Derrida
1997c: 108–9) in Derrida’s own work. See also Derrida 1995b: 108–9; 1999c:
57.
31 See Derrida 1999c: 75–6.
32 See Derrida 1988e: 593; 1992b: 122–3, 147; 1997a: 3, 4, 7; 1998b: 17; 2003: 90,
91–2. Note also Gaita’s remarks on ‘conversation and Otherness’ (1998: 73).
33 See also Derrida 1990: 971; 1992b: 95; 2002c: 159; 2003: 118.
34 Clearly, the other often does not surprise me, and in that sense even the
‘perhaps’ cannot be reduced ‘to the modalities of being and certainty.’ In
short, the ‘perhaps’ necessarily entails that the other might not surprise me in
the least. See Wittgenstein’s remarks on the ‘surprise’ (1994a: 45).
36 See also Husserl 1982: p. 114; Tilghman 1991: 100.
37 See Derrida 1999c: 77; 2000c: 14, 17 n. 17; 2001d: 98; 2002a: 360–2. Levinas
refers to the other (and specifically the face) in terms of a ‘visitation’ (1996a:
53–4, 59; see also Derrida 1999b: 62–3).
38 See Derrida 1995c: 14. However, the openness of the latter is of a restricted
kind, for most often an invitation to ‘Come whenever’ does not mean at any
Notes 261
time. The sort of genuinely open invitation I have in mind therefore relates to
Derrida’s notion of ‘pure’ hospitality.
39 Recalling my discussion of Hertzberg in Chapter 2, the invitation could thus
be said to parallel the relation of reliance, whereas the visitation (as will
become clear shortly) parallels the relation of trust.
41 See Derrida 1993b: 10–11.
42 See Derrida 1992b: 7; 1995a: 355; 1999b: 99. Again, the ‘interruption’ of the
other is a term Levinas uses (1996a: 69).
43 See Derrida 2000b: 25. Derrida also claims that – by contrast – the genuine
gift permits no such signature (1992b: 148, 171).
44 See also Derrida 1992b: 126; 2000b: 55; Caputo 1997a: 110–11.
45 See Derrida 1998c: 28; 2000c: 4–5. On ‘giving time’ to others refer to Derrida
1992b: 28.
47 See also Levinas 1984: 63; Derrida 1997e: 14; 2003: 95. This is why Derrida
remains suspicious of the notion of ‘tolerance’ (2003: 127–9).
48 See Kant 1976: 79; Derrida 1998c: 67.
50 See also Derrida 1992b: 7, 12–13, 35, 76, 91, 147, 156; 1997e: 18–19; 2001a:
34, 56; 2001e: 44, 48–51, 55. Regarding the aporia of the gift, compare
Christ’s warning: ‘when you do some act of charity, do not let your left hand
know what your right is doing’ (Matthew 6:3–4) with Derrida’s claim that ‘like
a gift confession must be from the unconscious’ (1993a: 233). I discuss this in
Plant 2004a.
51 Although this cannot be an absolute surprise, for otherwise ‘that would make it
impossible to recognize the surprise as a surprise.’ Indeed, we would not even
know ‘that anything was happening at all’ (Caputo 1993: 74; see also 2000:
113).
52 See Derrida 1993b: 33–4; 1997e: 17; 2000c: 8, 10; 2001a: 83; 2002a: 361, 372,
381. Again, this ‘surprise’ relates to Derrida’s reflections on the gift (1992b:
122–3, 147).
53 See Matthew 24:36, 39, 42–51; Derrida 1997e: 22–4; 2001a: 31; 2002d: 14;
2002f: 94–6; Smith 1998.
54 See also Derrida 1993b: 33; 2001e: 22–3; 2002d: 12, 17; Caputo 2000: 113.
55 See also Luke 14:12–13. Contrast with 2 John 9–11. While Derrida acknowl-
edges that all this is ‘politically unacceptable’ insofar as ‘every nation-state is
constituted by the control of its border’ (2002f: 100, see also 115), he never-
theless maintains that ‘a politics that does not maintain a reference to this
principle of unconditional hospitality is a politics that loses its reference to
justice’ (ibid.: 101).
56 See also Derrida 1992b: 15–16, 82; 1993b: 11; 2000a: 353.
57 See also Derrida 1992b: 9, 35, 45–6, 55; 2002a: 362; Gaita 2000: 105–6. Note
Derrida’s remarks on the ‘madness’ of the gift (1992b: 9, 35, 45–6, 55).
58 See Derrida 1995a: 198; 1995b: 68; 1997a: 10; 1997b: 23, 28–9; 1998b: 31;
1998c: 62; 1999a: 70–1; 1999c: 72; 2001d: 68–9; 2002d: 11, 22, 79–81.
59 See Derrida 1997d: 112; 1998c: 14; 1999b: 35. On this point note also
Derrida’s memories of the Algerian war (1995a: 120).
60 See Baier 1986: 235; Derrida 2000b: 61, 125. Indeed, vulnerability is prerequi-
site for love and friendship in general, and this is why Levinas insists that the
exposed, mortal ‘body is the very condition of giving, with all that giving costs
. . . [giving] implies a body, because to give to the ultimate degree is to give
bread taken from one’s own mouth’ (2000: 188; see also 1994a: 77).
61 See also Derrida 1992b: 12, 53–4, 64; 1995a: 387, 392; 1995c: 143; 1997a:
262 Notes
12–13, 16–17; 1997b: 28–9; 2000a: 352; 2002a: 402; 2003: 101; Bennington
2000a: 341, 348. Freud and Nietzsche are notable in this regard insofar as
each ‘shows himself hospitable to madness’ (Derrida 1998a: 104); that is,
insofar as each attempts a ‘dialogue with madness itself ’ (ibid.: 83; see also
2002f: 217).
63 See Derrida 1992b: 12, 53–4, 62–4; Gaita 2000: 26–7.
64 See also Wittgenstein 1994a: 8; Levinas 1999: 101; Derrida 2000b: 25, 81–2;
2002c: 134.
65 See also Derrida 1995a: 198, 387; 1999c: 132–3; 2002f: 106, 108, 179, 238. The
force of this ‘must’ is descriptive; radical evil is of necessity a possibility that
haunts every event, even the most ‘ethical.’

66 Despite these passages, for Bachelard the home remains essentially a shelter
for ‘day-dreaming’ (1994: 6), where one’s ‘being’ is first ‘well-being’ (ibid.:
12).
67 The ‘threshold,’ Lang remarks, is ‘where I hospitably receive others into my
personal domain . . . My history is present at the portal and is preserved in the
benign lingering or haunting presence of the people who have passed
through this gateway’ (1985: 207). In the light of our discussion, Lang’s obser-
vation requires two qualifications. First, if the threshold (and ‘home’ more
generally) is ‘haunted,’ it is not only by the ‘people who have passed
through,’ but also the other others who have not been granted hospitality. The
‘haunting presence’ Lang rightly identifies cannot be restricted to those who
have actually visited, for ‘the other’ as possible guest similarly troubles the
home. Likewise, Lang’s conjunction of ‘benign lingering’ and ‘haunting pres-
ence’ tends to imply that only the hospitable guest truly ‘haunts’ the thresh-
old. But hauntings are not always ‘benign,’ for even the most amiable of
guests must (qua guest) harbor the possibility of ingratitude, violence or evil.
Moreover, even if the guest turns out to have been wholly peaceable, during
their sojourn other other’s have been denied their ‘place in the sun’ and
thereby suffered a certain violence.
68 See Derrida 1990: 929; Kearney 1993; Baker 1995: 97–116.
69 Similarly hazardous moments appear in Derrida’s remarks on Heidegger’s
‘silence’ (Derrida 1988a: 145–8). This should be qualified, however, for
Derrida is not necessarily suggesting that a world in which evil (and thus also
good) was not possible would be ‘worse’ than this world.
70 Not to mention Derrida’s preoccupation with confession (1992a: 34–5; 1993a:
160).
72 Even of those who believe (in a quasi-empirical way) in immortality, this point
would still apply to their present ‘earthly’ existence. The structural law of iter-
ability is not undermined by immortality (only here the figure of actual death
would not represent iterability’s most radical form of ‘absence’). See
Derrida’s remarks on the immortality of language (2000a: 402–3), to which I
will return.
75 See also 2 Peter 3:10; Revelation 16:15.
76 See Derrida 1993b: 4, 26, 49, 65. Although ‘[d]eath carries off what it touches’
and in that sense ‘it precisely does not “visit” ’ (Dufourmantelle 2000: 148–50).
77 See Derrida 1993b: 165, 206–7; 2001a: 23.
79 See Kierkegaard 1973: 103.
80 As such they are also always potentially inappropriate for the tragedy of the
Notes 263
deathbed scene (Rousseau 1953: 86; see also Derrida 2002c: 95), or, as in
Wittgenstein’s case, simply puzzling with respect to the life they bring to a
close (Monk 1991: 579). In this respect every signature aspires to the finality
of the last word of the deathbed (Bennington 1993: 157). Note also Mon-
taigne’s remarks on ‘this last scene’ which is ‘judge of all the rest’ (1958: 35).
82 By implication, this relation of independence necessitates caution regarding
the notion of a wholly authoritative source or ‘author.’
83 Obviously, this is not to deny that one’s words are frequently lost or forgotten.
The claim that language is ‘immortal’ is a structural point.
85 See also Glendinning 1998: 107–27.

86 By means of this fiction I am deliberately attempting to constrain Derrida’s
suggestion that ‘language is, in its structure, “immortal” ’ (2000a: 402).
87 This scenario could be developed to encompass speech and non-linguistic
‘marks.’
88 See Derrida 1992c: 142–3.
89 Indeed, Derrida responds to a skeptical interlocutor: ‘show me a mark which
cannot be iterated’ (1992c: 155).
91 See Bennington 1993: 49, 52, 148.
92 See also Derrida 1988e: 593; 1993a: 191; 1996e: 186; 2000d: 45; 2001a: 88;
2002a: 382–4. The pre-performative ‘Yes’ Derrida refers to is at least a ‘Yes,
here I am surviving.’
93 Derrida criticizes one commentator for translating iterability into a ‘thesis on
our mortality,’ when in fact it is a structural point: ‘that for a sentence such as
“I am dead” to be a sentence . . . it has to be implied that I may be absent and
that it can continue to function’ (2000a: 400). After all, when Derrida speaks
of ‘death’ it is ‘just a figure to refer to this absence, to refer to the structural
conditions of possibility for the sentence to be performed . . . Thus, it is not a
thesis about death’ (ibid.: 401). While this point is well taken (not least
because the law of iterability would still hold were one ‘immortal’ (2000a:
401)), given that death (in the usual sense of the word) is the most radical
form of such ‘absence,’ Derrida’s criticism is somewhat unjust.
94 Even the ‘proper name’ suffers this differential guilt (Bennington 1993: 105).
95 See Levinas 1999: 22–3, 32.
96 See Levinas 1994a: 91; Derrida 1996c: 5–6.
97 Confessional practice embodies certain features of the ‘literary institution’ –
notably, the latter’s right to ‘say everything’ (Derrida 1992a: 37; 2000d: 28).
Here we might, for example, note the inherent risks of both offering
(Rousseau 1953: 25, 31, 65, 84, 114–15, 134, 136) and receiving (Monk 1991:
368; Pascal 1996: 45–6, 49–50) a confession, and the status of the confessee as
‘visitor’ (thereby requiring a certain ‘hospitality’ of the confessor). Note also
Levinas’s remarks on the perils of forgiveness (1994b: 13–29).
98 See also Derrida 2001b: 56; 2001e: 29; 2002e: 389–90.
100 See also Derrida 1997a: 10; 1997b: 20; 2000b: 83; 2000c: 8.
103 See Derrida 1997e: 22; 1998b: 18, 44–5, 47, 63–4; 1999a: 80, 82; 2001c: 254.
104 See also Derrida 1992b: 122–3; 2000a: 353; 2001d: 64–5, 99. These are ‘quasi-
transcendental’ (Bennington 2000b: 41) insofar as they constitute both the con-
ditions of possibility and impossibility.
105 At least, not in any ‘ordinary’ sense. This does not contradict my claim
264 Notes
(in Chapter 7) that such things happen ‘all the time.’ For here we must
demarcate between: (1) their ‘happening’ as known and intended con-
sequences of one’s actions, and (2) their ‘happening’ without intention or
recognition (where one could only have a certain faith that they ‘happen’).
106 See Bennington 1993: 42–64.
107 See Derrida 1971: 309.
108 See also Derrida 1971: 324; 1998a: 31.
109 See Austin 1976: 9, 22, 104–5. According to Derrida, while Austin recognizes
the structural possibility of such ‘failures,’ he trivializes them by appealing to
‘ordinary language’ and ‘extenuating circumstances’ (Derrida 1971: 323–5).
110 See also Derrida 1997d: 129.
111 See also Derrida 1992a: 68–9; Bennington 1993: 58.

112 See also Derrida 1997d: 117; 2001a: 72–3. For a synopsis of Derrida’s reading
of Austin, see Derrida 1992c: 154ff.; Glendinning 2000: 320ff. On a related
point see also Levinas’s remarks on phenomenology (1998c: 93).
113 See Derrida 1971: 321.
114 See Derrida 1993a: 12; 1995a: 175, 200, 372–3; 1995c: 143; 1996a: 62–3;
1997b: 28–9.
115 Even if all signs did as a matter of fact pass with total success, this would not
undermine the structural point Derrida is making.
117 See Bennington 1993: 310; Derrida 1997d: 119.
118 While dogs (for example) may not be able to ‘simulate pain’ (Wittgenstein
1958: §250), I remain unconvinced that they are incapable of pretense more
generally. Certainly many primates are capable of sophisticated types of
deception.
120 See also Bennington 1993: 85–6; Wittgenstein 1995b: 80.
121 See Derrida 1971: 322–5.
122 See also Derrida 1997d: 89–90, 131.
123 See Derrida 1971: 310, 324–5, 327; 1995c: 143; Glendinning 2000: 328.
124 See also Dufourmantelle 2000: 136; Glendinning 2000: 330.
125 See Hertzberg 1988: 309; Lagenspetz 1992: 6, 8; Derrida 1997e: 22; 1998b: 18,
64; 1999a: 80; Ricoeur 1999: 17.
126 See Derrida 1971: 328; 1990a: 945; 1992b: 98; 1996b: 82; 1997e: 22; 1998b: 44,
63–4; 1998c: 9, 20–1. Compare Derrida’s remarks on the ‘believe me’ and
‘promise’ (1996b: 82) with Winch 1960: 250.
127 See Derrida 1993a: 43, 51, 127; 1998c: 22.
129 Interestingly, Derrida describes himself as ‘the last of the eschatologists’
(1993a: 75; see also 1999e: 156–7, 165–7).
131 See also Wittgenstein 1999: §§310, 329; Winch 1960: 242–4, 246.
132 See Derrida 1995a: 383–4; 1997e: 23.
133 See Wittgenstein 1958: §§8, 19–21, 60, 86, 143, 630.
134 See Baier 1986: 233–4; Bok 1989: 31; Wittgenstein 1999: §509.
135 Contrast Winch’s point with Panaccio’s remarks in Derrida 1992c: 147.
136 See also Winch 1960: 245–6; Derrida 2001a: 10.
138 See also Baier 1986: 233.
139 Derrida would doubtless question this as sounding suspiciously like an ‘origi-
nary presence’ (Culler 1987: 102ff.). On a related point, Wittgenstein’s
remarks on the relationship between ‘ “primitive” . . . pre-linguistic’ (1990:
§541) and linguistic behavior (that the latter ‘is merely an auxiliary to, and
Notes 265
further extension of’ (ibid.: §545) the former), would also seem to call for
deconstructive analysis. Here one might recall Derrida’s work on Rousseau in
Of Grammatology, and specifically: (1) Rousseau’s phonocentric characteriza-
tion of writing as a ‘supplement’ to speech (Derrida 1998d: 141ff.; Norris
1987: 97–141; 1991: 32–41; Howells 1999: 43–60), and (2) his nostalgia for
pre-social or ‘primitive’ (Norris 1987: 104) human expression. The question
that emerges here is whether a deconstructive reading of Wittgenstein would
reveal a similar phonocentrism at work? But Wittgenstein’s position cannot be
phonocentric in the sense Rousseau’s perhaps is, for what Wittgenstein
emphasizes is the continuity between pre-linguistic and linguistic behavior
(1990: §545). As such, the hierarchical opposition between the primitive
(natural) and linguistic (cultural) that Rousseau posits – and which feeds his
nostalgia for the former – is effectively ruled out for Wittgenstein.
140 Of course, as Derrida notes, this notion of ‘truth’ is not ‘truth in a theoretical
sense’ insofar as ‘giving a false testimony’ (2000a: 383) is here inscribed as a
necessary possibility (2000d: 27–8, 29–31, 49, 72, 75; 2002c: 173). Note also
Gaita’s numerous references to ‘confessional’ writers (2000: 187–258).
141 See Hertzberg 1988: 309, 313.
142 See Baier 1986: 241–6; Hertzberg 1988: 318; Wittgenstein 1993: 377, 379, 381,
383, 385, 397, 399; 1999: §§115, 160, 341, 354. Bok thus notes how normally
‘[l]ying requires a reason, while truth-telling does not’ (1989: 22).
143 From such passages one might build common ground between Derrida and
Gadamer. I here have in mind their (almost) meeting in 1981, and specifically
Derrida’s suspicions concerning Gadamer’s reference to the necessity of
‘good will’ in conversation (Wood 1990: 118–31). Likewise, Ricoeur’s remarks
on the necessity for sincerity in ‘all the language games which can be con-
sidered acts of discourse’ (and that ‘[a]ll the ways of being committed are
marked by prior ethical structures. We don’t know an ethically neutral world’
(1992: 147)), seem consonant with Derrida’s recent work.
144 See also Derrida 2001d: 97; 2001e: 16–17; 2002a: 362, 364.
145 See Derrida’s remarks on the ‘pledge’ in 1989b: 129–30, n. 5.
146 This qualification is important, for, as discussed in Chapter 2, one can only
doubt x on the grounds of not doubting many other things (Wittgenstein
1999: §§115, 160, 341, 450, 519).
147 See Glendinning 2000: 319, 327–31. Winch similarly claims that one can only
‘mean what [one] says’ if it is also possible to ‘not mean what [one] says’
(1960: 248).
148 See also Derrida 1997e: 22–3; 2000b: 67.
149 Winch’s reflections on the primacy of ‘truth-telling’ (that ‘to act in the
context of a social institution is always to commit oneself in some way for the
future’ (1960: 250)) parallel Derrida’s emphasis on the pre-performative ‘yes,’
‘promise’ and ‘believe me’ (1992a: 38, 70, 74, 257, 265, 272, 276, 279, 288–9,
294, 296–305; 1995a: 171–2, 261, 268, 382–4; 1996a: 68; 1996b: 82; 1996c: 3;
1997a: 16; 1997b: 28, 35; 1998b: 18, 26–8, 30, 44–5, 47, 63–4; 1998c: 21–2,
66–8, 93 n. 11; 1999a: 82; 2002f: 33–4, 247).
150 See Austin 1976: 25–52.
151 See Derrida 1997d: 122, 135; 1999b: 89. Compare also Derrida’s remarks on
the ‘police’ (1997d: 132–4, 138) with Wittgenstein’s remarks on drawing a
‘boundary’ (1958: §499).
152 See Derrida 1995b: 67–71; 1996d: 215; 2000b: 55; 2001b: 49.
153 See Derrida 1992b: 64, 137–8, 142, 146, 162; 1995b: 107, 111–12; 1995c, 74,
133; 1996b: 86; 1997e: 48; 1999b: 48.
155 Derrida thus resists equating ‘violence’ with ‘evil’ (2001a: 90; see also 2002f: 80).
266 Notes
156 See also Derrida 1992b: 12; 2001b: 22.
157 See Hill 1997: 179–80; Derrida 2000b: 53–4, 59–61. Note also Levinas’s
remarks on ‘wronging the third one’ (1998b: 19).
158 On Derrida’s account of friendship see Bennington 2000b: 110–27.
159 See Weil 1987: 88; Derrida 1997d: 112.
160 See also Derrida 2000b: 147–8; 2001a: 17; 2001e: 44–5.
161 See Gaita 2000: 7.
162 Blanchot suggests that the question ‘Who is the other?’ already perpetrates a
violence insofar as it implies ‘a nature . . . or an essential trait.’ Nevertheless,
he later concedes that while this point ‘must be recalled’ such a ‘precaution is
somewhat ludicrous’ (1997: 70; see also Derrida 2001e: 23). I take Blanchot’s
point to be in line with Derrida’s; that such questions have to be asked, dis-
criminations must be made (and so on) for ethics to get off the ground.
163 Moreover, in order to be hospitable and ‘open my home’ (Levinas 1996c:
171) to the other, I must thereby have a ‘home’ of some description (Derrida
1992b: 126; 2000c: 14). Indeed, recalling my previous remarks on Levinas’s
phenomenology of home, part of the tragedy of human destitution might be
said to lie not only in the other’s being without a ‘private domain’ (1996c:
152) in which to ‘withdraw from the elements’ (ibid.: 153) but also in their
being denied the gift of giving hospitality (Derrida 1999b: 41–2).
164 See also Derrida 2001d: 87, 101, 107; 2002f: 92; 2003: 115.
165 See also Levinas 1988a: 177–8; Derrida 2001d: 98.
166 ‘It is necessary to do the impossible. If there is hospitality, the impossible must
be done’ (Derrida 2000c: 14).
169 See Derrida 1997e: 21–2.
171 See also Derrida 1990: 981; 1995c: 43, 81; 1998c: 9; 1999c: 60; 2001e: 31–3,
37–9.
172 See also Derrida 1992b: 8, 31; 1997b: 30; 1999c: 77.
173 See also Derrida 1997d: 116; 2002f: 31; 2003: 134.
174 See also Wittgenstein’s remarks on genuine ritual (1994a: 8). Although I will
not pursue this, there is doubtless much to be said regarding Derrida’s
account of the ‘decision’ and Wittgenstein’s remarks on ‘rule following.’ One
wonders, for example, whether Wittgenstein’s notion of following a ‘rule
blindly’ (1958: §219) complicates Derrida’s account of the ‘programmatic’
decision? (note, however, Derrida’s suspicion of the term ‘blind’ in this
context (2002f: 231–2)).
175 See also Winch 1987: 179; Derrida 1999b: 116; 2002f: 229, 231–2; 2003: 118.
176 See also Derrida 1997b: 23; 2001b: 62; 2001d: 63.
177 Winch makes some closely related points regarding ‘judgment’ and ‘risk’
(1979: 60–2) in his critique of Apel.
178 See also Derrida 1995b: 24, 77; 1997a: 10; 1997b: 20, 34; 1997d: 148; 1998a:
113; 1999c: 133–4.
179 The minimal naturalism I have been defending does not undermine
Derrida’s account of the decision. Rather, all meaningful talk of ‘decision’
can only occur within certain natural boundaries. My decision to attend to the
suffering of x rather than y is conditioned by x and y first being the sort of
thing one could ‘attend to’ in this way. As such, when Wittgenstein claims that
‘it is a primitive reaction to tend, to treat, the part that hurts when someone
else is in pain; and not merely when oneself is’ (1990: §540 my emphasis) this is
not a refutation of the possibility (or necessity for) deliberation.
180 See Derrida 1990a: 963; 1997c: 133; 1999c: 133–4.
Notes 267
181 See also Derrida 1990: 967; 1997e: 117; 1999a: 67; 1999b: 117; 2000a: 383,
416; 2002f: 181, 200, 372; Caputo 1997a: 138.
182 See also Derrida 1990a: 965; 2001d: 103.
183 See also Derrida 1995b: 25; 2001a: 22; 2002f: 13–14.
184 Here we might recall Heidegger’s remarks on the ‘they’ discussed in Chapter
6 (there is also more than a little Nietzchean suspicion of ‘morality’ in
Derrida’s work). See Bernstein 1991: 215.
185 See Derrida 1990a: 965; 1997d: 135.
187 See Levinas 1996c: 157, 170–4.
188 See Levinas 1998b: 20–1.
189 See also Derrida 2001a: 89.

190 See Derrida 1995b: 67–8, 70–1.
191 See Derrida 1995a: 272–3.
192 There is an internal peculiarity about the very notion of ‘randomness’ here
insofar as any genuine randomness must necessarily be inscribed with the pos-
sibility of order. That is to say, there is a tendency to misconstrue randomness
as that which defies a rule, whereas genuine randomness could manifest itself
as complete order.
193 See Derrida 1990a: 961; 1996b: 83–4. In any case, there would here be a
decision to act chaotically (just as one may decide not to decide about a spe-
cific matter) that would not itself be of the order of the ‘chaotic.’
194 See Derrida 1988b: 594; 1995a: 272–3, 359; 1996d: 223; 1999a: 66; 2001a: 61.
195 To be anti-rational is to take a distinctive (subversive) stance toward ration-
ality, and thus to recognize – albeit tacitly – the rule of reason itself.
197 See Derrida 1999b: 112–13, 115. Note also Derrida’s remarks on ‘the rule of
translation’ (1997f: 233).
198 As Pascal remarks concerning the ‘wager’ on God’s existence: ‘you must bet.
There is no option; you have [already] embarked on the business’ (1961:
p. 157). On the ‘wager’ and the ‘incalculable,’ see Derrida 2001a: 13.
200 See Derrida 1992a: 297, 299; Levinas 2001: 47, 59, 211–12. Derrida makes a
similar claim about ‘messianicity’ (1999d: 253–5).
201 See Derrida 1992a: 257, 265, 270, 288, 296–9, 302; 2002f: 314.
202 See Derrida 1988a: 148; Plant 2001.
203 See Kellner 1992: 207; Heidegger 1999: p. 342.
204 See Derrida 1995a: 286–7. Not least because it is always possible to speak ‘in
order not to say anything’ (Derrida 1995b: 76).
205 See Derrida 1989a: 837; 1992b: 16, 142, 148; 1995c: 16–17.
206 See also Derrida 1999a: 67–9; 2002f: 195.
208 See Derrida 1997e: 17.
209 A curious parallel emerges here with Moore’s moral intuitionism, and specifi-
cally his account of the naturalistic fallacy. Moore argues that the ‘Good’ is
indefinable insofar as it is not a ‘composite’ concept. That is: ‘there is no
meaning in saying that pleasure is good, unless good is something different
from pleasure’ (1948: 14). Moreover, ‘whatever definition [of Good] be
offered, it may be always asked, with significance, of the complex so defined,
whether it is itself good’ (ibid.: 15). With this in mind one might therefore
note Derrida’s claim that justice is undeconstructible (1997b: 27; 2001d: 87;
2002f: 104–5), and his suspicion of anyone’s claiming to have acted ‘justly’
(1990: 935, 947, 949, 961–3, 967; 2001d: 87).
210 I thus take Caputo’s remark that Derrida provokes us to think of ‘obligation
268 Notes
without . . . the deadening weight of guilt’ (1997a: 149) to be potentially mis-
leading. See Caputo’s more recent remarks on ethics and ‘bad conscience’
(2000: 116).
213 See Levinas 1999: 170.
214 See Levinas 1999: 105; Derrida 2001a: 21–2. Although Derrida’s account of
literature is complex, a few general observations seem pertinent here. Derrida
claims that ‘[w]hat we call literature . . . implies that license is given to the
writer to say everything he wants to or everything he can, while remaining
shielded, safe from all censorship, be it religious or political’ (1992a: 37; see
also 1993a: 210; 1995a: 346; 1995c: 28; 1996b: 80). This ‘promise’ (1992a: 39)
and ‘power’ to ‘say everything’ (ibid.: 37) is inseparable from those ethical-
political questions pertaining to ‘democracy . . . human rights’ and ‘freedom
of expression’ (1996b: 80; see also 1995a: 10, 86, 213–14; 1995c: 15; 1997b:
31–2; 1999a: 67, 70). And this cardinal verbosity enables the literary establish-
ment (and perhaps philosophy also (Derrida 1995a: 219, 327–8, 376–7)) to
call its own institutionality into question, thus demarcating itself as a ‘counter-
institutional institution’ (1992a: 58, see also 36, 72, 346). In other words, it is
precisely literature’s incessant desire to question the ‘rules’ (ibid.: 37) of its
own institutionality that constitutes its ethical-political power. Of course, there
could be no such transgression were there not some relatively determinate
and regulated institution in the first place – Derrida (like Levinas) is not
‘against’ institutions per se (Derrida 1997d: 132–3, 141; 1997e: 12, 16–17, 21,
27). Nevertheless, the curious nature of the literary institution is constituted
by this reflexive ability to call itself into question and thus, one might say, bear
witness to a certain bad conscience.
215 See Levinas 1998a: 97; 2001: 98; Derrida 2001a: 20.
216 See also Levinas 1993: 44; 1998a: 93; 1999: 30.
217 See Levinas 1988a: 172–3; 1998b: 227.
218 See Caputo 1997b: 288ff. Note also Caputo’s more recent remarks on his own
(apparent) atheism (2001: 32).
219 See also Derrida 1995b: 6; 1999c: 73.
221 See also Derrida 2001a: 20; 2002c: 111–12, 140, 166, 189; 2002f: 27.
222 See Scanlon 1999: 224. Derrida’s allusion to the ‘absolutely universal’ here
(something Levinas also refers to (1988a: 177; 1994b: 15)) constitutes a direct
challenge to those who judge his thinking to be essentially skeptical or rela-
tivistic (Derrida 2001a: 63–4).
223 As does the possibility of ‘love without reward’ (Levinas 1988a: 176; see also
Derrida 1999b: 72).
224 With reference to §559 of On Certainty, Culler remarks that a Derridean might
here object ‘that one can never be quite certain who is playing [a language-
game], or playing “seriously” ’ (1987: 130–1). This seems to me to rely too
heavily on a quasi-communitarian reading of Wittgenstein that, as I have
argued, neglects his underlying naturalism.
Bibliography
Annas, J. and Barnes, J. (eds) (1985) The Modes of Skepticism: Ancient Texts and
Modern Interpretations, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.
Austin, J.L. (1976) How To Do Things With Words, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Bachelard, G. (1994) The Poetics of Space, trans. M. Jolas, Boston, Mass.: Beacon Press.
Baier, A. (1986) ‘Trust and Antitrust,’ Ethics 96 (January): 231–60.
Baker, P. (1995) Deconstruction and the Ethical Turn, Gainesville, Fla.: University
Press of Florida.
Balázs, B. (1985) ‘The Close-Up’ and ‘The Face of Man,’ in G. Mast and M. Cohen
(eds) Film Theory and Criticism: Introductory Readings, Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 255–64.
Bambrough, R. (1992) ‘Fools and Heretics,’ in P. Griffiths (ed.) Wittgenstein: Cente-
nary Essays, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 239–50.
Barker, E. (1990) ‘New Lines in the Supra-market: How Much Can We Buy?,’ in I.
Hamnett (ed.) Religious Pluralism and Unbelief: Studies Critical and Comparative,
London and New York: Routledge, 31–42.
Barrett, D.V. (1998) Sects, ‘Cults’ & Alternative Religions: A World Survey and Source-
book, London: Blandford.
Barron, A. (1992) ‘Lyotard and the Problem of Justice,’ in A. Benjamin (ed.)
Judging Lyotard, London and New York: Routledge, 26–42.
Barthes, R. (1990) A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, trans. R. Howard, Har-
mondsworth: Penguin.
—— (2000) Camera Lucida, trans. R. Howard, London: Vintage.
Bataille, G. (1996) Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927–1939, trans. and ed. A.
Stoekl et al., Theory and History of Literature, 14, Minneapolis: University of Min-
nesota Press.
Baudelaire, C. (1996) The Poems in Prose (Vol. II) and La Fanfarlo, trans. and ed. F.
Scarfe, London: Anvil Press Poetry.
Bauman, Z. (1995) Postmodern Ethics, Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
Benjamin, D.N. (ed.) (1995) The Home: Words, Interpretations, Meanings, and Envi-
ronments, USA/Hong Kong/Singapore/Sidney: Avebury.
Bennington, G. (1988) Lyotard: Writing the Event, Manchester: Manchester Univer-
sity Press.
—— (1993) ‘Derridabase,’ in G. Bennington and J. Derrida, Jacques Derrida,
Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press.
—— (2000a) ‘For the Sake of Argument (Up to a Point),’ in Arguing with Derrida,
Ratio (new series), XIII, 4 (December): 332–54.
270 Bibliography
Bennington, G. (2000b) Interrupting Derrida, London and New York: Routledge.
Benso, S. (2000) The Face of Things: A Different Side of Ethics, Albany: State University
of New York Press.
Bergson, H. (1911) Laughter: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic, trans. C. Brere-
ton and F. Rothwell, London: Macmillan.
Bernasconi, R. (1997) ‘What Goes Around Comes Around: Derrida and Levinas in
the Economy of the Gift and the Gift of Genealogy,’ in A.D. Schrift (ed.) The Logic
of the Gift: Toward an Ethic of Generosity, London and New York: Routledge, 256–73.
Bernstein, R.J. (1991) The New Constellation: The Ethical-Political Horizons of Moder-
nity/Postmodernity, Oxford: Polity Press.
—— (2002) Radical Evil: A Philosophical Investigation, Oxford: Polity Press.

Bird, J. et al. (eds) (1993) Mapping the Futures: Local Cultures, Global Change, London
and New York: Routledge.
Blanchot, M. (1986) ‘Our Clandestine Companion,’ in R.A. Cohen (ed.) Face to
Face with Levinas, New York: State University of New York Press, 41–50.
—— (1995) The Blanchot Reader, M. Holland (ed.) Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
—— (1997) The Infinite Conversation, trans. S. Hanson, Theory and History of Liter-
ature, 82, Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press.
Bloor, D. (1983) Wittgenstein: A Social Theory of Knowledge, London: Macmillan.
Bok, S. (1989) Lying: Moral Choice in Public and Private Life, New York: Vintage.
Bollnow, O.F. (1967) ‘Lived-Space,’ in N. Lawrence and D. O’Connor (eds) Read-
ings in Existential Phenomenology, Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 178–86.
Breton, S. (1984) ‘Being, God and the Poetics of Relation,’ in R. Kearney, Dia-
logues with Contemporary Continental Thinkers: The Phenomenological Heritage, Man-
chester: Manchester University Press, 90–104.
Burnyeat, M.F. (1983) ‘Can the Skeptic Live His Skepticism?,’ in M. Burnyeat (ed.)
The Skeptical Tradition, Berkeley: University of California Press, 117–48.
Cage, J. (1968) A Year from Monday: Lectures and Writings, London: Calder and
Boyars.
Campbell, D. (1999) ‘The Deterritorialization of Responsibility: Levinas, Derrida,
and Ethics after the End of Philosophy,’ in D. Campbell and M.J. Shapiro (eds)
Moral Spaces: Rethinking Ethics and World Politics, Minneapolis: University of Min-
nesota Press, 29–56.
Campbell, D. and Shapiro, M.J. (eds) (1999) Moral Spaces: Rethinking Ethics and
World Politics, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Camus, A. (1975) The Myth of Sisyphus, trans. J. O’Brien, Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Caputo, J.D. (1993) Against Ethics: Contributions to a Poetics of Obligation with Con-
stant Reference to Deconstruction, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana Univer-
sity Press.
—— (1997a) ‘Commentary,’ in J.D. Caputo (ed.) Deconstruction in a Nutshell: A
Conversation with Jacques Derrida, New York: Fordham University Press, 31–202.
—— (1997b) The Prayers and Tears of Jacques Derrida: Religion without Religion,
Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press.
—— (2000) ‘The End of Ethics,’ in H. Lafollette (ed.) The Blackwell Guide to Ethical
Theory, Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 111–28.
—— (2001) On Religion, London and New York: Routledge.
—— (2003) ‘Against Principles: A Sketch of an Ethics without Ethics,’ in E.
Wyschogrod and G.P. McKenny (eds) The Ethical, Oxford: Basil Blackwell,
169–80.
Bibliography 271
Carrol, D. (1987) Paraesthetics: Foucault, Lyotard, Derrida, London: Methuen.
Cavell, S. (1979) The Claim of Reason: Wittgenstein, Skepticism, Morality, and Tragedy,
Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Caygill, H. (2002) Levinas & the Political, London and New York: Routledge.
Cioffi, F. (1998) Wittgenstein on Freud and Frazer, Cambridge UK: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press.
Clack, B.R. (1999) An Introduction to Wittgenstein’s Philosophy of Religion, Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press.
Cockburn, D. (1990) Other Human Beings, Basingstoke: Macmillan.
Connolly, W.E. (1999) ‘Suffering, Justice, and the Politics of Becoming,’ in D.
Campbell and M.J. Shapiro (eds) Moral Spaces: Rethinking Ethics and World Politics,
Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 125–53.
Critchley, S. (1996) ‘Deconstruction and Pragmatism – Is Derrida a Private Ironist
or a Public Liberal?,’ in C. Mouffe (ed.) Deconstruction and Pragmatism, London
and New York: Routledge, 19–40.
—— (1999a) The Ethics of Deconstruction: Derrida and Levinas, Edinburgh: Edin-
burgh University Press.
—— (1999b) Ethics–Politics–Subjectivity: Essays on Derrida, Levinas and Contemporary
French Thought, London and New York: Verso.
Culler, J. (1976) Saussure, Glasgow: Fontana/Collins.
—— (1987) On Deconstruction: Theory and Criticism after Structuralism, London and
New York: Routledge.
Darwin, C. (1875) The Descent of Man, and Selection in Relation to Sex, London: John
Murray.
Davidson, D. (1984) ‘On the Very Idea of a Conceptual Scheme,’ in Inquiries into
Truth and Interpretation, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 183–98.
Davis, C. (1996) Levinas: An Introduction, Oxford: Polity Press.
Defoe, D. (1985) The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, Harmondsworth:
Penguin.
Derrida, J. (1971) ‘Signature Event Context,’ in (1982) Margins of Philosophy, trans.
A. Bass, Brighton: Harvester Press, 309–30.
—— (1982) Positions, trans. A. Bass, London: Athlone Press.
—— (1984) ‘Deconstruction and the Other,’ in R. Kearney, Dialogues with
Contemporary Continental Thinkers: The Phenomenological Heritage, Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 107–26.
—— (1985) ‘Racism’s Last Word,’ trans. P. Kamuf, Critical Inquiry 12 (Autumn):
290–9.
—— (1988a) ‘Heidegger’s Silence,’ trans. J. Neugroschel, in G. Neske and E. Ket-
tering (eds) (1990) Martin Heidegger and National Socialism, New York: Paragon
House, 145–8.
—— (1988b) ‘Like the Sound of the Sea Deep within a Shell: Paul De Man’s War,’
trans. P. Kamuf, Critical Inquiry 14 (Spring): 590–652.
—— (1988c) ‘Geschlecht II: Heidegger’s Hand,’ in J. Sallis (ed.) Deconstruction and
Philosophy: The Texts of Jacques Derrida, Chicago and London: University of
Chicago Press, 161–96.
—— (1989a) ‘Biodegradables: Seven Diary Fragments,’ trans. P. Kamuf, Critical
Inquiry 15 (Summer): 812–73.
—— (1989b) Of Spirit: Heidegger and the Question, trans. G. Bennington and R.
Bowlby, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
272 Bibliography
Derrida, J. (1990) ‘Force of Law: The “Mystical Foundation of Authority”,’ trans.
M. Quaintance, Cardozo Law Review 11, Nos 5–6, 921–1045.
—— (1991) ‘At This Very Moment In This Work Here I Am,’ trans. R. Berezdivin,
in R. Bernasconi and S. Critchley (eds) Re-Reading Levinas, Bloomington and
Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 11–48.
—— (1992a) Acts of Literature, D. Attridge (ed.) London and New York: Routledge.
—— (1992b) Given Time: I. Counterfeit Money, trans. P. Kamuf, Chicago and
London: University of Chicago Press.
—— (1992c) ‘Philosophy and Communication: Round-table Discussion Between
Ricoeur and Derrida,’ trans. L. Lawlor, in L. Lawlor, Imagination and Chance: The
Difference Between the Thought of Ricoeur and Derrida, Albany: State University of
New York Press, 131–63.
—— (1993a) ‘Circumfession,’ trans. G. Bennington, in G. Bennington and J.
Derrida, Jacques Derrida, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press.
—— (1993b) Aporias, trans. T. Dutoit, Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press.
—— (1993c) ‘Le toucher: Touch/To Touch Him,’ Paragraph, Vol. 16, No. 2 (July):
122–57.
—— (1995a) Points . . . Interviews, 1974–1994, trans. P. Kamuf et al., E. Weber (ed.),
Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press.
—— (1995b) The Gift of Death, trans. D. Wills, Chicago and London: University of
Chicago Press.
—— (1995c) On the Name, trans. D. Wood et al., T. Dutoit (ed.), Stanford, Calif.:
Stanford University Press.
—— (1996a) Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression, trans. E. Prenowitz, Chicago and
—— (1996b) ‘Remarks on Deconstruction and Pragmatism,’ trans. S. Critchley, in
C. Mouffe (ed.) Deconstruction and Pragmatism, London and New York: Rout-
ledge, 77–88.
—— (1996c) ‘Adieu,’ trans. P.A. Brault and M. Naas, Critical Inquiry 23 (Autumn):
1–10.
—— (1996d) ‘As If I Were Dead: An Interview with Jacques Derrida,’ in J. Branni-
gan, R. Robbins and J. Wolfreys (eds) Applying: To Derrida, Basingstoke: Macmil-
lan, 212–26.
—— (1996e) ‘By Force of Mourning,’ trans. P.A. Brault and M. Naas, Critical
Inquiry 22 (Winter): 171–92.
—— (1997a) ‘Perhaps or Maybe’ (interview with A.G. Düttmann), in J. Dronsfield
and N. Midgley (eds) Responsibilities of Deconstruction, Warwick Journal of Philosophy
6 (Summer): 1–18.
—— (1997b) ‘On Responsibility’ (interview with J. Dronsfield and others), in J.
Dronsfield and N. Midgley (eds) Responsibilities of Deconstruction, Warwick Journal
of Philosophy 6 (Summer): 19–35.
—— (1997c) ‘Violence and Metaphysics: An Essay on the Thought of Emmanuel
Levinas,’ trans. A. Bass, in Writing and Difference, London and New York: Rout-
ledge, 79–153.
—— (1997d) Limited Inc. (trans. various), Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University
Press.
—— (1997e) ‘The Villanova Roundtable: A Conversation with Jacques Derrida,’ in
J.D. Caputo (ed.) Deconstruction in a Nutshell: A Conversation with Jacques Derrida,
New York: Fordham University Press, 3–28.
Bibliography 273
—— (1997f) Politics of Friendship, trans. G. Collins, London: Verso.
—— (1998a) Resistances of Psychoanalysis, trans. P. Kamuf et al., Stanford, Calif.:
Stanford University Press.
—— (1998b) ‘Faith and Knowledge: the Two Sources of “Religion” at the Limits
of Reason Alone,’ trans. S. Weber, in J. Derrida and G. Vattimo (eds) Religion,
Oxford: Polity Press, 1–78.
—— (1998c) Monolinguism of the Other; or, The Prosthesis of Origin, trans. P. Mensah,
—— (1998d) Of Grammatology, trans. G.C. Spivak, London: Johns Hopkins Univer-
sity Press.
—— (1999a) ‘Hospitality, Justice and Responsibility: A Dialogue with Jacques

Derrida,’ in R. Kearney and M. Dooley (eds) Questioning Ethics: Contemporary
Debates in Philosophy, London and New York: Routledge, 65–83.
—— (1999b) ‘A Word of Welcome,’ trans. P.A. Brault and M. Naas, in Adieu: To
Emmanuel Levinas, Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 15–152.
—— (1999c) Various remarks in J.D. Caputo and M.J. Scanlon (eds) God, the Gift
and Postmodernism, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press.
—— (1999d) ‘Marx & Sons,’ in M. Sprinker (ed.) Ghostly Demarcations: A Sympo-
sium on Jacques Derrida’s Spectres of Marx, London: Verso, 213–69.
—— (1999e) ‘On a Newly Arisen Apocalyptic Tone in Philosophy,’ trans. J. Leavey
Jr., in Raising the Tone of Philosophy: Late Essays by Immanuel Kant, Transformative
Critique by Jacques Derrida, Baltimore, Md.: Johns Hopkins University Press,
117–71.
—— (2000a) Various remarks in Arguing with Derrida, Ratio (new series), XIII 4
(December).
—— (2000b) ‘Foreigner Question’ and ‘Step of Hospitality/No Hospitality,’ in
J. Derrida and A. Dufourmantelle, Of Hospitality: Anne Dufourmantelle Invites
Jacques Derrida to Respond, trans. R. Bowlby, Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University
Press.
—— (2000c) ‘Hostipitality,’ trans. B. Stocker and F. Morlock, Angelaki Vol. 5, No.
3 (December): 3–18.
—— (2000d) (with M. Blanchot) The Instant of My Death/Demeure: Fiction and Testi-
mony, trans. E. Rottenberg, Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press.
—— (2001a) ‘I Have a Taste for the Secret,’ in J. Derrida and M. Ferraris, A Taste
for the Secret, trans. G. Donis, G. Donis and D. Webb (eds), Oxford: Polity Press,
1–92.
—— (2001b) Various remarks in J.D. Caputo, M. Dooley and M.J. Scanlon (eds)
Questioning God, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press.
—— (2001c) ‘A Roundtable Discussion with Jacques Derrida,’ in L. Simmons and
H. Worth (eds) Derrida Downunder, Palmerston North, New Zealand: Dunmore
Press, 249–63.
—— (2001d) Various remarks in P. Patton and T. Smith (eds) Deconstruction
Engaged: The Sydney Seminars, Sydney: Power Publications.
—— (2001e) On Cosmopolitanism and Forgiveness, trans. M. Dooley and R. Kearney,
London and New York: Routledge.
—— (2002a) ‘Hostipitality,’ trans. and ed. G. Anidjar, in Acts of Religion, London
and New York: Routledge, 358–420.
—— (2002b) Ethics, Institutions, and the Right to Philosophy, trans. and ed. P.P. Tri-
fonas, New York and Oxford: Rowman and Littlefield.
274 Bibliography
Derrida, J. (2002c) Without Alibi, trans. and ed. P. Kamuf, Stanford, Calif.: Stanford
University Press.
—— (2002d) (with B. Stiegler) Echographies of Television: Filmed Interviews, trans. J.
Bajorek, Cambridge, UK: Polity Press.
—— (2002e) ‘The Animal That Therefore I Am (More to Follow),’ trans. D. Wills,
Critical Inquiry 28 (Winter): 369–418.
—— (2002f) Negotiations: Interventions and Interviews 1971–2001, trans. and ed. E.
Rottenberg, Stanford, Calif,: Stanford University Press.
—— (2003) ‘Autoimmunity: Real and Symbolic Suicides – A Dialogue with Jacques
Derrida,’ in G. Borradori, Philosophy in a Time of Terror: Dialogues with Jürgen
Habermas and Jacques Derrida, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press,
85–136.
Descartes, R. (1976) Philosophical Writings, trans. E. Anscombe and P.T. Geach,
Middlesex: Nelson’s University Paperbacks, Open University.
De Vries, H. (1999) Philosophy and the Turn to Religion, Baltimore, Md and London:
Johns Hopkins University Press.
Dilman, I. (1987) Love and Human Separateness, Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
Diogenes, L. (1925) Lives of the Eminent Philosophers, trans. R.D. Hicks, London:
Heinemann.
Dooley, M. (1999) ‘The Politics of Exodus: Derrida, Kierkegaard, and Levinas on
“Hospitality”,’ in R.L. Perkins (ed.) International Kierkegaard Commentary: Works of
Love, Macon, Ga.: Mercer University Press, 167–92.
—— (2001) ‘The Civic Religion of Social Hope: A Response to Simon Critchley,’
in Philosophy and Social Criticism, Vol. 27, No. 5: 35–58.
Dostoyevsky, F. (1967) The Brothers Karamazov I, trans. D. Magarshack, Har-
Dovey, K. (1978) ‘Home: An Ordering Principle in Space,’ Landscape, Vol. 22, No.
2: 27–30.
Drury, M. (1981) ‘Some Notes on Conversations with Wittgenstein’ and ‘Conversa-
tions with Wittgenstein,’ in R. Rhees (ed.) Ludwig Wittgenstein: Personal Recollec-
tions, Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 91–189.
Dufourmantelle, A. (2000) ‘Invitation,’ in J. Derrida and A. Dufourmantelle, Of
Hospitality: Anne Dufourmantelle Invites Jacques Derrida to Respond, trans. R. Bowlby,
Edwards, J.C. (1985) Ethics Without Philosophy: Wittgenstein and the Moral Life,
Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
Engelmann, P. (1967) Letters from Ludwig Wittgenstein, with a Memoir, B.F. McGuin-
ness (ed.), Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
Fann, K.T. (1969) Wittgenstein’s Conception of Philosophy, Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
Feyerabend, P. (1987) Science in a Free Society, London: Verso.
—— (1988) Against Method, London: Verso.
Finch, H.R. (1975) ‘Wittgenstein’s Last Word: Ordinary Certainty,’ International
Philosophical Quarterly 15: 383–95.
Flew, A. (1971) ‘Theology and Falsification: A Symposium’ (with R.M. Hare and B.
Mitchell), in B. Mitchell (ed.) The Philosophy of Religion, Oxford: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 13–22.
Fogelin, R.J. (1986) ‘Wittgenstein and Classical Skepticism,’ in S. Shanker (ed.)
Ludwig Wittgenstein: Critical Assessments (Vol. II), London: Croom Helm, 163–75.
—— (1987) Wittgenstein, London and New York: Routledge.
Bibliography 275
—— (1996) ‘Wittgenstein’s Critique of Philosophy,’ in H. Sluga and D.G. Stern
(eds) The Cambridge Companion to Wittgenstein, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge Uni-
versity Press, 34–58.
Foucault, M. (2000) Aesthetics: Essential Works of Foucault 1954–1984 (Vol. 2),
London: Penguin.
Frazer, J. (1993) The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion, Ware, Herts:
Wordsworth.
Gaita, R. (1991) Good and Evil: An Absolute Conception, Basingstoke: Macmillan.
—— (1998) Romulus, My Father, London: Headline Book Publishing.
—— (2000) A Common Humanity: Thinking about Love and Truth and Justice, London
and New York: Routledge.

—— (2003) The Philosopher’s Dog, London and New York: Routledge.
Garver, N. and Lee, S.C. (1994) Derrida & Wittgenstein, Philadelphia: Temple Uni-
versity Press.
Gellner, E. (1993) Postmodernism, Reason and Religion, London and New York: Rout-
ledge.
Genova, J. (1995) Wittgenstein: A Way of Seeing, London and New York: Routledge.
Gill, J. (1974) ‘Saying and Showing: Radical Themes in Wittgenstein’s On Cer-
tainty,’ Religious Studies, Vol. 10, No. 3 (September): 279–90.
Glendinning, S. (1998) On Being With Others: Heidegger–Derrida–Wittgenstein,
—— (1999) ‘The Ethics of Exclusion: Incorporating the Continent,’ in R. Kearney
and M. Dooley (eds) Questioning Ethics: Contemporary Debates in Philosophy,
—— (2000) ‘Inheriting “Philosophy”: The Case of Austin and Derrida Revisited,’
in Arguing with Derrida, Ratio (new series) XIII 4 (December): 307–31.
Glock, H.J. (1996) A Wittgenstein Dictionary, Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
Graham, G. (2001) Evil and Christian Ethics, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University
Press.
Greenwood, E.B. (1975) Tolstoy: The Comprehensive Vision, London: J.M. Dent and
Sons.
Greisch, J. (1991) ‘The Face and Reading: Immediacy and Mediation,’ in R.
Bernasconi and S. Critchley (eds) Re-Reading Levinas, Bloomington and Indi-
anapolis: Indiana University Press, 67–82.
—— (1999) ‘Ethics and Lifeworlds,’ in R. Kearney and M. Dooley (eds) Question-
ing Ethics: Contemporary Debates in Philosophy, London and New York: Routledge,
44–61.
Habermas, J. (1983) Philosophical–Political Profiles, trans. F.G. Lawrence, London:
Heinemann.
—— (1996) The Habermas Reader, W. Outhwaite (ed.), Cambridge, UK: Polity Press.
Hall, R.A. (1996) Isaac Newton: Adventurer in Thought, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge
University Press.
Handelman, S.A. (1991) Fragments of Redemption: Jewish Thought & Literary Theory in
Benjamin, Scholem, & Levinas, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University
Press.
Hankinson, R.J. (1995) The Skeptics, London and New York: Routledge.
Hardwick, C.S. (1971) Language Learning in Wittgenstein’s Later Philosophy, The
Hague: Mouton.
Harries, K. (1978) ‘Death and Utopia: Towards a Critique of the Ethics of
276 Bibliography
Satisfaction,’ in J. Sallis (ed.) Radical Phenomenology: Essays in Honor of Martin Hei-
degger, Atlantic Highlands, N.J.: Humanities Press, 138–52.
—— (1998) The Ethical Function of Architecture, Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
Harvey, I.E. (1986) Derrida and the Economy of Différence, Bloomington: Indiana Uni-
versity Press.
Heidegger, M. (1961) An Introduction to Metaphysics, trans. R. Manheim, New York:
Anchor.
—— (1982) The Basic Problems of Phenomenology, trans. A. Hofstadter, Indianapolis:
Indiana University Press.
—— (1994) Basic Writings, trans. various, D.F. Krell (ed.), London and New York:
Routledge.
—— (1999) Being and Time, trans. J. Macquarrie and E. Robinson, Oxford: Basil
Blackwell.
Heller, J. (1961) Catch-22, London: Corgi.
Helvétius, C.A. (1969) ‘On Man’ (excerpt from De L’Homme), in L.G. Crocker
(ed.) The Age of Enlightenment, New York: Harper and Row, 45–7.
Hertzberg, L. (1988) ‘On the Attitude of Trust,’ Inquiry 31: 307–22.
Hick, J. (ed.) (1966) Faith and the Philosophers, New York: St Martin’s Press.
—— (1977) ‘Jesus and the World Religions,’ in J. Hick (ed.) The Myth of God Incar-
nate, London: SCM Press, 167–85.
—— (1988) God and the Universe of Faiths: Essays in the Philosophy of Religion, Bas-
ingstoke: Macmillan.
—— (1995) The Rainbow of Faiths: Critical Dialogues on Religious Pluralism, London:
SCM Press.
Hill, L. (1997) Blanchot: Extreme Contemporary, London and New York: Routledge.
D’Holbach, P.H.D. (1969) ‘Universal Morality, or the Duties of Man Founded on
His Nature’ (excerpt from La Morale Universelle), in L.G. Crocker (ed.) The Age of
Enlightenment, New York: Harper and Row, 66–8.
Holland, R.F. (1990) ‘Not Bending the Knee,’ Philosophical Investigations Vol. 13,
No. 1 (January): 18–30.
Hookway, C. (1990) Skepticism, London and New York: Routledge.
Howells, C. (1988) ‘Sartre and Levinas,’ in R. Bernasconi and D. Wood (eds) The
Provocation of Levinas: Rethinking the Other, London and New York: Routledge, 91–9.
—— (1999) Derrida: Deconstruction from Phenomenology to Ethics, Oxford: Polity
Press.
Hoyningen-Huene, P. (1993) Reconstructing Scientific Revolutions: Thomas S. Kuhn’s
Philosophy of Science, trans. A.T. Levine, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Hudson, W.D. (1986a) ‘Wittgenstein on Fundamental Propositions,’ in S. Shanker
(ed.) Ludwig Wittgenstein: Critical Assessments (Vol. IV), London: Croom Helm,
116–28.
—— (1986b) ‘The Light Wittgenstein Sheds on Religion,’ in S. Shanker (ed.)
Ludwig Wittgenstein: Critical Assessments (Vol. IV), London: Croom Helm, 167–84.
Hume, D. (1988) Enquiries Concerning Human Understanding and Concerning the Prin-
ciples of Morals (rev. P.H. Nidditch), Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Husserl, E. (1970) The Crisis of European Sciences and Transcendental Phenomenology:
An Introduction to Phenomenological Philosophy, trans. D. Carr, Evanston, Ill.: North-
western University Press.
—— (1982) Cartesian Meditations: An Introduction to Phenomenology, trans. D. Cairns,
The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff.
Bibliography 277
—— (1989) Ideas Pertaining to a Pure Phenomenology and to a Phenomenological Philo-
sophy (Second Book: Studies in the Phenomenology of Constitution), trans. R. Rojcewicz
and A. Schuwer, Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers.
Ingold, T. (2000) The Perception of the Environment: Essays in Livelihood, Dwelling and
Skill, Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
Inwood, B. and Gerson, L.P. (trans.) (1988) Hellenistic Philosophy: Introductory Read-
ings, Indianapolis, Ind./Cambridge, Mass.: Hackett.
James, W. (1985) The Varieties of Religious Experience: A Study in Human Nature, Har-
Jay, M. (1993) Downcast Eyes: The Denigration of Vision in Twentieth-Century French
Thought, Berkeley: University of California Press.

Johnston, P. (1991) Wittgenstein and Moral Philosophy, London and New York: Rout-
ledge.
Jones, K. (1986) ‘Is Wittgenstein a Conservative Philosopher?,’ Philosophical Investi-
gations Vol. 9, No. 4 (October): 274–87.
Josipovici, G. (1999) On Trust: Art and The Temptations of Suspicion, New Haven,
Conn: Yale University Press.
Kant, I. (1976) ‘Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals,’ trans. H.J. Paton, in
H.J. Paton, The Moral Law: Kant’s Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals, London:
Hutchinson and Co., 53–123.
Kearney, R. (1984) Dialogues with Contemporary Continental Thinkers: The Phenomeno-
logical Heritage, Manchester: Manchester University Press.
—— (1993) ‘Derrida’s Ethical Re-Turn,’ in G.B. Madison (ed.) Working Through
Derrida, Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 28–50.
Kellner, D. (1992) ‘Authenticity and Heidegger’s Challenge to Ethical Theory,’ in
C. Macann (ed.) Martin Heidegger: Critical Assessments (Vol. IV), London and New
York: Routledge, 198–213.
Kerr, F. (1997) Theology after Wittgenstein, London: SPCK.
Kierkegaard, S. (1965) ‘The Journals,’ trans. and ed. A. Dru, in The Journals of
Kierkegaard 1834–1854, London and Glasgow: Fontana, 39–254.
—— (1973) A Kierkegaard Anthology, R. Bretall (ed.) Princeton, N.J.: Princeton Uni-
versity Press.
—— (1985) Fear and Trembling, trans. A. Hannay, Harmondsworth: Penguin.
King, J. (1981) ‘Recollections of Wittgenstein,’ in R. Rhees (ed.) Ludwig Wittgen-
stein: Personal Recollections, Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 83–90.
Kober, M. (1996) ‘Certainties of a World-picture: The Epistemological Investiga-
tions of On Certainty,’ in H. Sluga and D.G. Stern (eds) The Cambridge Companion
to Wittgenstein, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 411–41.
Kolakowski, L. (1999) Freedom, Fame, Lying and Betrayal: Essays on Everyday Life,
trans. A. Kolakowski, Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Kuhn, T. (1996) The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, Chicago and London: The
University of Chicago Press.
Kundera, M. (1998) Identity, trans. L. Asher, London and Boston: Faber and Faber.
Lagenspetz, O. (1992) ‘Legitimacy and Trust,’ Philosophical Investigations Vol. 15,
No. 1 (January): 1–21.
Lang, R. (1985) ‘The Dwelling Door: Towards a Phenomenology of Transition,’ in
D. Seamon and R. Mugerauer (eds) Dwelling, Place and Environment: Towards a
Phenomenology of Person and World, Dordrecht/Boston/Lancaster: Martinus
Nijhoff, 201–13.
278 Bibliography
Levi, P. (1996) If This is a Man/The Truce, trans. S. Woolf, London: Vintage.
—— (1998) The Drowned and the Saved, trans. R. Rosenthal, London: Abacus.
Levinas, E. (1984) ‘Ethics of the Infinite,’ in R. Kearney, Dialogues with Contempor-
ary Continental Thinkers: The Phenomenological Heritage, Manchester: Manchester
University Press, 49–69.
—— (1987) Collected Philosophical Papers, trans. A. Lingis, Dordrecht: Martinus
Nijhoff Publishers.
—— (1988a) ‘The Paradox of Morality: An Interview with Emmanuel Levinas,’
trans. A. Benjamin and T. Wright, in R. Bernasconi and D. Wood (eds) The
Provocation of Levinas: Rethinking the Other, London and New York: Routledge,
168–80.
—— (1988b) ‘Useless Suffering,’ trans. R. Cohen, in R. Bernasconi and D. Wood
(eds) The Provocation of Levinas: Rethinking the Other, London and New York:
Routledge, 156–80.
—— (1989) ‘As if Consenting to Horror,’ trans. P. Wissing, Critical Inquiry 15
(Winter): 485–8.
—— (1992) Ethics and Infinity: Conversations with Philippe Nemo, trans. R.A. Cohen,
Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press.
—— (1993) Outside the Subject, trans. M.B. Smith, London: Athlone Press.
—— (1994a) Otherwise Than Being Or Beyond Essence, trans. A. Lingis, Dordrecht:
Kluwer Academic Publishers.
—— (1994b) Nine Talmudic Readings, trans. A. Aronowicz, Bloomington and Indi-
anapolis: Indiana University Press.
—— (1995) ‘Philosophy and the Idea of the Infinite,’ in A. Peperzak, To The Other:
An Introduction to the Philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas, Indiana: Purdue University
Press, 88–119.
—— (1996a) Basic Philosophical Writings, A. Peperzak et al. (eds), Bloomington and
Indianapolis: Indiana University Press.
—— (1996b) The Levinas Reader, S. Hand (ed.), Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
—— (1996c) Totality and Infinity: An Essay on Exteriority, trans. A. Lingis, Pittsburgh:
Duquesne University Press.
—— (1996d) Proper Names, trans. M.B. Smith, London: Athlone Press.
—— (1997a) Difficult Freedom: Essays on Judaism, trans. S. Hand, Baltimore, Md.:
Johns Hopkins University Press.
—— (1997b) Time and the Other, trans. R.A. Cohen, Pittsburgh: Duquesne Univer-
sity Press.
—— (1998a) Of God Who Comes To Mind, trans. B. Bergo, Stanford, Calif.: Stanford
University Press.
—— (1998b) Entre Nous: Thinking-of-the-Other, trans. M.B. Smith and B. Harshav,
New York: Columbia University Press.
—— (1998c) Discovering Existence with Husserl, trans. R.A. Cohen and M.B. Smith,
Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press.
—— (1999) Alterity & Transcendence, trans. M.B. Smith, London: Athlone Press.
—— (2000) God, Death, and Time, trans. B. Bergo, Stanford, Calif.: Stanford Uni-
versity Press.
—— (2001) Is It Righteous To Be? Interviews with Emmanuel Levinas, J. Robbins (ed.),
Llewelyn, J. (1991) The Middle Voice of Ecological Conscience: A Chiasmic Reading of
Responsibility in the Neighborhood of Levinas, Heidegger and Others, London: Macmillan.
Bibliography 279
—— (2002) Appositions of Jacques Derrida and Emmanuel Levinas, Bloomington and
Indianapolis: Indiana University Press.
Love, N.S. (1995) ‘What’s Left of Marx?,’ in S.K. White (ed.) The Cambridge Com-
panion to Habermas, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press:, 46–66.
Luckhardt, C.G. (1991) ‘Philosophy in the Big Typescript,’ in J. Hintikka (ed.)
Wittgenstein in Florida (Proceedings of the Colloquium on the Philosophy of
Ludwig Wittgenstein, Florida State University, 7–8 August 1989),
Dordrecht/Boston/London: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 255–72.
Lyotard, J.F. (1985) Just Gaming, trans. W. Giodzich, Manchester: Manchester Uni-
versity Press.
—— (1988) The Differend: Phrases in Dispute, trans. G. Abbeele, Manchester: Man-

chester University Press.
—— (1993) Political Writings, trans. B. Readings and K.P. Geiman, London: Uni-
versity College London Press.
—— (1997a) The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, trans. G. Bennington
and B. Massumi, Manchester: Manchester University Press.
—— (1997b) Postmodern Fables, trans. G. Abbeele, Minneapolis: University of Min-
nesota Press.
Macann, C. (1992) ‘Who is Dasein? Towards an Ethics of Authenticity,’ in C.
Macann (ed.) Martin Heidegger: Critical Assessments (Vol. IV), London and New
Malcolm, N. (1958) Ludwig Wittgenstein: A Memoir, London: Open University Press.
—— (1960) ‘Anselm’s Ontological Arguments,’ The Philosophical Review, Vol.
LXIX: 41–62.
—— (1972) ‘The Groundlessness of Belief,’ in Thought and Knowledge: Essays by
Norman Malcolm, Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 199–216.
—— (1986) ‘Wittgenstein: The Relation of Language to Instinctive Behavior,’ in S.
Shanker (ed.) Ludwig Wittgenstein: Critical Assessments (Vol. II), London: Croom
Helm, 303–18.
—— (1990) ‘On “Ceasing to Exist”,’ in R. Gaita (ed.) Value and Understanding:
Essays for Peter Winch, London and New York: Routledge, 1–12.
—— (1993) Wittgenstein: A Religious Point of View?, P. Winch (ed.), London and
Martin, D. (1984) ‘On Certainty and Religious Belief,’ Religious Studies, Vol. 20, No.
4 (December): 593–613.
Mates, B. (trans., introduction and commentary) (1996) The Skeptic Way: Sextus
Empiricus’s Outlines of Pyrrhonism, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
McGinn, M. (1997) Wittgenstein and the Philosophical Investigations, London and
Melville, P. (1999) The Migration of Ghosts, London: Bloomsbury.
Merleau-Ponty, M. (1996) Phenomenology of Perception, trans. C. Smith, London and
Mole, G.D. (1997) Lévinas, Blanchot, Jabès: Figures of Estrangement, Gainesville, Fla.:
University Press of Florida.
Molloy, P. (1999) ‘Face-to-Face with the Dead Man: Ethical Responsibility, State-
Sanctioned Killing, and Empathetic Impossibility,’ in D. Campbell and M.J.
Shapiro (eds) Moral Spaces: Rethinking Ethics and World Politics, Minneapolis and
London: University of Minnesota Press, 211–37.
Monk, R. (1991) Ludwig Wittgenstein: The Duty of Genius, London: Vintage.
280 Bibliography
Montaigne, M. (1958) Essays, trans. J.M. Cohen, Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Moon, D. (1995) ‘Practical Discourse and Communicative Ethics,’ in S.K. White
(ed.) The Cambridge Companion to Habermas, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press, 143–64.
Moore, G.E. (1948) Principia Ethica, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University
Press.
—— (1993) ‘Wittgenstein’s Lectures in 1930–33,’ in L. Wittgenstein, Philosophical
Occasions 1912–1951, J. Klagge and A. Nordmann (eds), Indianapolis,
Ind./Cambridge, Mass.: Hackett, 46–114.
—— (1994a) ‘A Defence of Common Sense,’ in R. Ammerman (ed.) Classics of
Analytic Philosophy, Indianapolis, Ind./Cambridge, Mass.: Hackett, 47–67.

—— (1994b) ‘Proof of an External World,’ in R. Ammerman (ed.) Classics of Ana-
lytic Philosophy, Indianapolis, Ind./Cambridge, Mass.: Hackett, 68–84.
Morawetz, T. (1978) Wittgenstein and Knowledge: The Importance of On Certainty,
Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press.
Morris, P. (1990) ‘Judaism and Pluralism: The Price of Religious Freedom,’ in I.
Mulhall, S. (1993) On Being in the World: Wittgenstein and Heidegger on Seeing Aspects,
—— (1996) Heidegger and Being and Time, London and New York: Routledge.
Nelson, G.K. (1987) Cults, New Religions and Religious Creativity, London and New
York: Routledge.
Nielsen, K. (1967) ‘Wittgensteinian Fideism,’ Philosophy: The Journal of the Royal
Institute of Philosophy, Vol. XLII, No. 161 (July): 191–209.
Nietzsche, F. (1968) The Will to Power, trans. W. Kaufmann and R.J. Hollingdale, W.
Kaufmann (ed.), New York: Vintage.
—— (1972a) Twilight of the Idols and The Anti-Christ, trans. R.J. Hollingdale, Har-
—— (1972b) Thus Spoke Zarathustra: A Book for Everyone and No One, trans. R.J.
Hollingdale, Harmondsworth: Penguin.
—— (1977) A Nietzsche Reader, trans. R.J. Hollingdale, London: Penguin.
—— (1987) Beyond Good and Evil, trans. R.J. Hollingdale, Harmondsworth:
Penguin.
—— (1989) ‘On the Origin of Language,’ in Friedrich Nietzsche on Rhetoric and Lan-
guage, trans. and eds S.L. Gilman, C. Blair and D.J. Parent, New York and
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 209–12.
—— (1992a) Ecco Homo: How One Becomes What One Is, trans. R.J. Hollingdale,
London: Penguin.
—— (1992b) On the Genealogy of Morality, trans. C. Diethe, K. Ansell-Pearson (ed.),
Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.
—— (1994) Human, All Too Human, trans. M. Faber and S. Lehmann, London:
Penguin.
Norris, C. (1987) Derrida, London: Fontana Press.
—— (1991) Deconstruction: Theory and Practice, London and New York: Routledge.
Nussbaum, M. (1991) ‘Skeptic Purgatives: Therapeutic Arguments in Ancient
Skepticism,’ Journal of the History of Philosophy, Vol. 29, No. 4 (October): 521–57.
Nuyen, A.T. (2000) ‘Lévinas and the Ethics of Pity,’ International Philosophical Quar-
terly, Vol. XL, No. 4, Issue No. 160 (December): 411–21.
Bibliography 281
Nyíri, J.C. (1982) ‘Wittgenstein’s Later Work in Relation to Conservatism,’
in B. McGuinness (ed.) Wittgenstein and His Times, Oxford: Basil Blackwell,
44–68.
Pascal, B. (1961) The Pensées, trans. J.M. Cohen, Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Pascal, F. (1996) ‘Wittgenstein: A Personal Memoir,’ in C.G. Luckhardt (ed.)
Wittgenstein: Sources and Perspectives, Bristol: Thoemmes Press, 23–60.
Passmore, J. (1968) Hume’s Intentions, London: Duckworth.
Patrick, M. (1997) Derrida, Responsibility and Politics, Aldershot, Ashgate:
Athenaeum Press.
Peperzak, A. (1993) To the Other: An Introduction to the Philosophy of Emmanuel
Levinas, Indiana: Purdue University Press.

—— (1997) Beyond: The Philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas, Evanston, Ill.: Northwest-
ern University Press.
Peukert, H. (1998) ‘Unconditional Responsibility for the Other: The Holocaust
and the Thinking of Emmanuel Levinas,’ trans. F.S. Gardiner, in A. Milchman
and A. Rosenberg (eds) Postmodernism and the Holocaust, Amsterdam/Atlanta,
Ga.: Rodopi, 155–65.
Phillips, D.Z. (1970) Death and Immortality, London and Basingstoke: Macmillan, St
Martin’s Press.
—— (1986) Belief, Change and Forms of Life, Atlantic Highlands, N.J.: Humanities
Press International.
—— (1988) Faith After Foundationalism, London and New York: Routledge.
Picard, M. (1948) The World of Silence, trans. S. Goodman, London: Harvill Press.
Pinker, S. (1994) The Language Instinct: The New Science of Language and Mind,
London: Lane.
Pitkin, H.F. (1993) Wittgenstein and Justice: On the Significance of Ludwig Wittgenstein
for Social and Political Thought, Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of Cali-
fornia Press.
Plant, B. (2001) ‘On Heidegger’s Silence,’ Philosophical Writings, Nos. 15–16
(Spring): 3–21.
—— (2003a) ‘Our Natural Constitution: Wolterstorff on Reid and Wittgenstein,’
in Journal of Scottish Philosophy, Vol. 1, No. 2 (Autumn): 157–70.
—— (2003b) ‘Blasphemy, Dogmatism and Injustice: The Rough Edges of On Cer-
tainty,’ in International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, Vol. 54, No. 2 (October):
101–35.
—— (2003c) ‘Doing Justice to the Derrida-Levinas Connection: A Response to
Mark Dooley,’ in Philosophy and Social Criticism, Vol. 29, No. 4 (July): 427–50.
—— (2003d) ‘Ethics without Exit: Levinas and Murdoch,’ in Philosophy and Liter-
ature, Vol. 27, No. 2 (October): 456–70.
—— (2004a) ‘Christ’s Autonomous Hand: Simulations on the Madness of Giving,’
in Modern Theology, Vol. 20, No. 4 (October): 547–66.
—— (2004b) ‘The End(s) of Philosophy: Rhetoric, Therapy and Wittgenstein’s
Pyrrhonism,’ in Philosophical Investigations, Vol. 27, No. 3 (July): 222–57.
Plantinga, A. (1998) The Analytic Theist: An Alvin Plantinga Reader, Grand Rapids,
Mich.: W.B. Eerdmans Publishing.
Popkin, R.H. (1979) The History of Skepticism from Erasmus to Spinoza, Berkeley, Los
Angeles, London: University of California Press.
Preston, J. (1997) Feyerabend: Philosophy, Science and Society, Oxford: Polity Press.
Putnam, H. (1999) Introduction, in F. Rosenzweig, Understanding the Sick and the
282 Bibliography
Healthy: A View of World, Man, and God, trans. N. Glatzer, Cambridge, Mass. and
London: Harvard University Press, 1–20.
—— (2002) ‘Levinas and Judaism,’ in S. Critchley and R. Bernasconi (eds) The
Cambridge Companion to Levinas, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press,
33–62.
Quine, W.V.O. (1994) From a Logical Point of View: Nine Logico-Philosophical Essays,
Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Press.
—— (with J.S. Ullian) (1970) The Web of Belief, New York: Random House.
Readings, B. (1991) Introducing Lyotard: Art and Politics, London and New York:
Routledge.
—— (1992) ‘Pagans, Perverts or Primitives? Experimental Justice in the Empire of

Capital,’ in A. Benjamin (ed.) Judging Lyotard, London and New York: Rout-
ledge, 168–91.
Redpath, T. (1990) Ludwig Wittgenstein: A Student’s Memoir, London: Duckworth.
Reid, T. (1997) An Inquiry into the Human Mind: On the Principles of Common Sense,
D.R. Brookes (ed.), Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.
Rhees, R. (1969) Without Answers, London and New York: Routledge.
—— (1981) ‘Postscript,’ in R. Rhees (ed.) Ludwig Wittgenstein: Personal Recollections,
Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 190–231.
—— (1996) Discussions of Wittgenstein, Bristol: Thoemmes Press.
Ricoeur, P. (1992) ‘Philosophy and Communication: Round-table Discussion
Between Ricoeur and Derrida,’ trans. L. Lawlor, in L. Lawlor, Imagination and
Chance: The Difference Between the Thought of Ricoeur and Derrida, Albany: State Uni-
versity of New York Press, 131–63.
—— (1999) ‘Imagination, Testimony and Trust,’ in R. Kearney and M. Dooley
(eds) Questioning Ethics: Contemporary Debates in Philosophy, London and New
Robbins, J. (1999) Altered Reading: Levinas and Literature, Chicago and London:
University of Chicago Press.
Rorty, R. (1996) ‘Response to Simon Critchley,’ in C. Mouffe (ed.) Deconstruction
and Pragmatism, London and New York: Routledge, 41–6.
—— (1999) Philosophy and Social Hope, London: Penguin.
Rose, G. (1997) Love’s Work, London: Vintage.
Rosenzweig, F. (1999) Understanding the Sick and the Healthy: A View of World, Man,
and God, trans. N. Glatzer, Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University
Press.
Rousseau, J.-J. (1930) The Social Contract & Discourses, trans. G.D.H. Cole, London
and Toronto: J.M. Dent and Sons.
—— (1953) The Confessions, trans. J.M. Cohen, London: Penguin.
—— (1973) (excerpts from) Emile, trans. W. Boyd, in W. Boyd (ed.) Emile For
Today, London: Heinemann.
Sade, D.A.F. (1969) (excerpt from) Juliette, or the Prosperities of Vice, trans. L.G.
Crocker, in L.G. Crocker (ed.) The Age of Enlightenment, New York: Harper and
Row, 172–6.
—— (1991a) Philosophy in the Boudoir, trans. M. Bodroghy, London: Creation Press.
—— (1991b) The Passionate Philosopher: A Marquis de Sade Reader, M. Crosland
(ed.), London: Owen.
Sartre, J.-P. (1977) Existentialism and Humanism, trans. P. Mairet, London:
Methuen.
Bibliography 283
—— (1993) Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology, trans. H.E.
Barnes, London and New York: Routledge.
Scanlon, M.J. (1999) ‘A Deconstruction of Religion: On Derrida and Rahner,’ in
J.D. Caputo and M.J. Scanlon (eds) God, the Gift, and Postmodernism, Blooming-
ton and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 223–8.
Scheman, N. (1996) ‘Forms of Life: Mapping the Rough Ground,’ in H. Sluga and
D.G. Stern (eds) The Cambridge Companion to Wittgenstein, Cambridge, UK: Cam-
bridge University Press, 383–410.
Schopenhauer, A. (1918) On Human Nature: Essays (Partly Posthumous) in Ethics and
Politics, trans. T.B. Saunders, London: Allen and Unwin.
—— (1995) On The Basis of Morality, trans. E.F.J. Payne, Oxford: Berghahn.

Schulte, J. (1986) ‘Wittgenstein and Conservatism,’ in S. Shanker (ed.) Ludwig
Wittgenstein: Critical Assessments (Vol. IV), London: Croom Helm, 60–9.
Schutz, A. (1964) Collected Papers II: Studies in Social Theory, A. Brodersen (ed.), The
Hague: Martinus Nijhoff.
—— (1966) Collected Papers III: Studies in Phenomenological Philosophy, I. Schutz
(ed.), The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff.
—— (1970a) Reflections on the Problem of Relevance, R.M. Zaner (ed.), New Haven,
Conn. and London: Yale University Press.
—— (1970b) On Phenomenology and Social Relations: Selected Writings, H.R. Wagner
(ed.), Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press.
—— (1971) Collected Papers I: The Problem of Social Reality, M. Natanson (ed.), The
Hague: Martinus Nijhoff.
—— (with T. Luckmann) (1974) The Structures of the Life-World, trans. R.M. Zaner
and H.T. Engelhardt, Jr., London: Heinemann.
Seamon, D. (1979) The Geography of the Lifeworld: Movement, Rest and Encounter,
London: Croom Helm.
Seamon, D. and Mugerauer, R. (eds) (1985) Dwelling, Place and Environment:
Towards a Phenomenology of Person and World, Dordrecht/Boston/Lancaster: Mart-
inus Nijhoff.
Sextus Empiricus (1996) ‘Outlines of Pyrrhonism,’ trans. B. Mates, in B. Mates,
The Skeptic Way: Sextus Empiricus’s Outlines of Pyrrhonism, Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 88–217.
Shapiro, M.J. (1999) ‘The Ethics of Encounter: Unreading, Unmapping the
Imperium,’ in D. Campbell and M.J. Shapiro (eds) Moral Spaces: Rethinking Ethics
and World Politics, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 57–91.
Shields, P.R. (1997) Logic and Sin in the Writings of Ludwig Wittgenstein, Chicago and
Shusterman, R. (1997) Practicing Philosophy: Pragmatism and the Philosophical Life,
Singer, P. (1995) Practical Ethics, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.
Sluga, H. (1996) ‘Ludwig Wittgenstein: Life and Work An introduction,’ in H.
Sluga and D.G. Stern (eds) The Cambridge Companion to Wittgenstein, Cambridge,
UK: Cambridge University Press, 1–33.
Smart, N. (1971) ‘Conversation with Ninian Smart: Philosophy and Religion,’ in B.
Magee, Modern British Philosophy, London: Secker and Warburg, 166–77.
Smith, J.K.A. (1998) ‘Determined Violence: Derrida’s Structural Religion,’ The
Journal of Religion, Vol. 78: 197–212.
284 Bibliography
Sontag, F. (1995) Wittgenstein and the Mystical: Philosophy as an Ascetic Practice,
Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press.
Staten, H. (1986) Wittgenstein and Derrida, Lincoln and London: University of
Nebraska Press.
Steuerman, E. (1992) ‘Habermas vs Lyotard: Modernity vs Postmodernity?,’ in A.
Benjamin (ed.) Judging Lyotard, London and New York: Routledge, 99–118.
Stone, I.F. (1998) Reading Levinas/Reading Talmud: An Introduction, Philadelphia
and Jerusalem: The Jewish Publication Society.
Sugden, C. (1990) ‘Evangelicals and Religious Pluralism,’ in I. Hamnett (ed.) Reli-
gious Pluralism and Unbelief: Studies Critical and Comparative, London and New

Surin, K. (1990) ‘Towards a “Materialist” Critique of Religious Pluralism: An
Examination of the Discourse of John Hick and Wilfred Cantwell Smith,’ in I.
Svensson, G. (1981) On Doubting the Reality of Reality: Moore and Wittgenstein on Skep-
tical Doubts, Stockholm: Almqvist and Wiksell International.
Thompson, C. (1997) ‘Wittgenstein, Tolstoy and the Meaning of Life,’ Philosophi-
cal Investigations, Vol. 20, No. 2 (April): 97–116.
Tilghman, B.R. (1991) Wittgenstein, Ethics and Aesthetics: The View from Eternity, New
York: State University of New York Press.
Tolstoy, L. (1982) The Raid and Other Stories, trans. L. and A. Maude, Oxford:
Oxford University Press.
—— (1987) A Confession and Other Religious Writings, trans. J. Kentish, London:
Penguin.
Trigg, R. (1999) Ideas of Human Nature: An Historical Introduction, Oxford: Basil
Blackwell.
Ward, G. (1998) Barth, Derrida and the Language of Theology, Cambridge, UK: Cam-
bridge University Press.
Weil, S. (1987) Gravity and Grace, trans. E. Craufurd, London: ARC Paperbacks.
Wells, H.G. (1988) The Time Machine, London: Everyman’s Library, J.M. Dent and
Sons.
Werhane, P.H. (1995) ‘Levinas’s Ethics: A Normative Perspective without Metaeth-
ical Constraints,’ in A.T. Peperzak (ed.) Ethics as First Philosophy: The Significance
of Emmanuel Levinas for Philosophy, Literature and Religion, London and New York:
Routledge, 59–67.
Wheeler III, S.C. (2000) Deconstruction as Analytic Philosophy, Stanford, Calif.: Stan-
ford University Press.
Wiesel, E. (1981) Night, trans. S. Rodway, Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Williams, B. (1973) Morality: An Introduction to Ethics, Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Winch, P. (1960) ‘Nature and Convention,’ Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, Vol.
20: 231–52.
—— (1964) ‘Understanding a Primitive Society,’ American Philosophical Quarterly,
Vol. 1, No. 4 (October): 307–24.
—— (1970) ‘Comment,’ in R. Borger and F. Cioffi (eds) Explanation in the Behav-
ioral Sciences, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 249–69.
—— (1979) ‘Apel’s “Transcendental Pragmatics”,’ in S.C. Brown (ed.) Philosophi-
cal Disputes in the Social Sciences, Chichester: Harvester Press, 51–73.
—— (1987) Trying to Make Sense, Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
Bibliography 285
Wittgenstein, L. (1958) Philosophical Investigations, trans. G.E.M. Anscombe,
Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
—— (1969) The Blue and Brown Books, Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
—— (1974) Letters to Russell, Keynes and Moore, G.H. von Wright and B.F. McGuin-
ness (eds), Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
—— (1978) ‘On Heidegger on Being and Dread,’ trans. M. Murray, in M. Murray
(ed.) Heidegger and Modern Philosophy: Critical Essays, New Haven, Conn. and
London: Yale University Press, 80–1.
—— (1979a) Notebooks 1914–1916, trans. G.E.M. Anscombe, G.H. von Wright and
G.E.M. Anscombe (eds), Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
—— (1979b) Wittgenstein’s Lectures, Cambridge 1932–35 (from the Notes of A.

Ambrose and M. Macdonald), A. Ambrose (ed.), Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
—— (1990) Zettel, trans. G.E.M. Anscombe, G.E.M. Anscombe and G.H. von
Wright (eds), Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
—— (1993) Philosophical Occasions 1912–1951, J. Klagge and A. Nordmann (eds),
Indianapolis, Ind./Cambridge, Mass.: Hackett.
—— (1994a) Culture and Value, trans. P. Winch, G.H. von Wright (ed.), Oxford:
Basil Blackwell.
—— (1994b) Lectures and Conversations on Aesthetics, Psychology and Religious Belief,
C. Barrett (ed.) Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
—— (1995) Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, trans. D.F. Pears and B.F. McGuinness,
—— (1996a) ‘Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough,’ trans. J. Beversluis, in C.G. Luck-
hardt (ed.) Wittgenstein: Sources and Perspectives, Bristol: Thoemmes Press, 61–81.
—— (1996b) ‘Letters to Ludwig von Ficker,’ trans. B. Gillette (A. Janik, ed.), in
C.G. Luckhardt (ed.) Wittgenstein: Sources and Perspectives, Bristol: Thoemmes
Press, 82–98.
—— (1999) On Certainty, trans. G.E.M. Anscombe and D. Paul, G.E.M. Anscombe
and G.H. von Wright (eds), Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
Wood, D. (1990) Philosophy at the Limit, London: Unwin Hyman.
Zweig, S. (2000) Beware of Pity, trans. P. and T. Blewitt, London: Pushkin Press.
All biblical quotations are from The New English Bible, Oxford and Cambridge Uni-
versity Press, 1970.
Index
Aboriginal people 79–80, 95, 226n76 Cain 130, 141, 174

Abraham 47–8, 53, 55 can/ought 115, 119
acts/omissions 242n53 Caputo, J.D.: atheism 196; bad conscience 130;
agnosticism 17, 103 Derrida 180; disasters 69, 222n259;
altruism 167, 169 fundamentalism 217n166; Levinas 130, 180,
amoralism 88, 230n148 230n153; pain 87, 229n142; religion 41
Analytical philosophy 10–11 Cartesian method 46
animals: children 171; Derrida 178, 179; ethics Cavell, S. 41
9; face 177; humanity 169–70, 174–6, 189; children: animality 171; education 98; learning
Winch 257n185; see also non-humanity 47, 50; moral consciousness 249n209;
anthropocentrism 177–8, 257n179 suffering 88, 172, 229n140; vulnerability 175
anti-humanism 162–3 Christadelphians 58, 217n168, 218n171
anti-naturalism 8–9, 148–9, 166, 173–4, 178, Christianity: altruism 167; conversion 107,
200, 257n178 221n235; enlightenment 73; fundamentalism
anti-skepticism 42–3, 51–2 57–8, 74, 75, 217n166; Hick 74–5;
anti-terrorism measures 223n16 Kierkegaard 239–40n125; Nietzsche 168;
ataraxia: belief 16; Pyrrhonian Skepticism Tolstoy 114; Wittgenstein 112, 238n90
13–15, 17, 49, 62, 96, 140; reason 18; Sextus cinematic devices 228n112
4, 14, 15–16, 28, 43, 202n9; suffering 16–17; Clack, B.R. 106, 107, 237n89
undecidability 193–4; Wittgenstein 32, clothing example 124
210n10 commonality 80–1, 92, 176
atheism 101, 107, 196, 197 compassion 156, 255n141
Austin, J.L. 188–9, 191, 253n99 confession: Derrida 188, 261n50, 263n97; guilt
authenticity 124–5, 139 143–4; Levinas 152; Newton 249n223; Tolstoy
automata 83–4 106; Wittgenstein 143–4, 207n144, 238n94
conscience: bad 113, 129–30, 144, 167, 192,
Bachelard, G. 122, 185 195, 200; good 3, 88, 121, 144, 182, 193–4;
Baudelaire, C. 1, 135, 174 guilt 123, 125–8; haunting 106; Levinas 7,
Bauman, Z. 249n218 137; public 126
being-at-a-loss 18, 204n53 conservatism: fideism 204n59; Nyíri 37–8, 46;
belief: ataraxia 16; conflicting xiii, 98; On Certainty 70, 97; Phillips 209n170
foundational 54; grounds for 51; Last contamination 98, 192
Judgement 52–3; Moore 64; On Certainty xiii, Continental philosophy 9–11
66–8; Pyrrhonian Skepticism 206n110, conversion 107, 221n235
210n10; stubbornness 59; suffering 216n147; creationism 217n170
superstition 58, 217n152; trust 110; Critchley, S. 158, 223n13, 257n179, 259n4
Wittgenstein 59, 102–3, 210n10, 233n9;
world-pictures 53, 59; see also religious belief Darwinism 168
believers/non-believers 104–5, 106 Dasein: authenticity 139; Heidegger 123–8, 134,
Bernstein, R.J. 10, 248n182 138–9, 241n25, 254n123; Levinas 254n122
blame 246n153 death 186, 187–8, 237n78
Blanchot, M. 266n162 decision-making 194–5, 266n179
blasphemy 56, 57, 121, 222n251 Defoe, Daniel: Robinson Crusoe 141–2, 144–5,
Bloor, D. 38, 40, 42, 46, 70 160–1, 171, 181–2
Bobby, the dog 171, 172, 175–6 democracy 252–3n84; relativistic 71, 72–3
body 83, 85–6, 131, 232n200; see also face Derrida, Jacques xii–xiii, 70; animals 178, 179;
Buber, Martin 123 Baudelaire 174; Caputo 180; ‘Circumfession’
196; confession 261n50, 263n97188;
Cage, John viii decision-making 194–5, 266n179; dogmatism
Index 287
223n13; Ethics, Institutions and the Right to free will 230n149
Philosophy 12; face 152–3; gift-giving 165, Freud, Sigmund 208n150
185–6; The Gift of Death 139; God 111, 197; fundamentalism 57–8, 74, 75, 217n166
guilt 136, 140; hospitality 178, 179, 180–1,
183–4, 192, 200; Of Hospitality 180; Gadamer, H.G. 265n143
hostage/host 183; iterability 177–8, 187, Gaita, R. 96, 143, 144–5, 227n90, 235–6n53,
188–9, 225n47, 262n72, 263n93; justice 196; 248–9n203, 249n219
Levinas 2–3, 8, 149–50, 177–8; literature Galileo 222n254
268n214; love/tolerance 96; Negotiations 101; generosity, pure 192
other 10, 170; plurality 77; religion 197–8; Genesis 47, 58, 141
skepticism 188; survivor’s guilt 129; truth 28; gift-giving 119, 165, 185–6, 191–2
violence 192 God 53, 115, 151; Derrida 111, 197; face 150–1;
Descartes, René 46, 83 Hick 74; Levinas 149, 150, 151, 159–60;
desire for other 165–6, 182, 254n117 Malcolm 250n21; Nazism 128–9; Tolstoy
differences 3–7, 75–6, 80, 92, 95 103–4, 110, 113; Wittgenstein 109, 110–11,
Diogenes 15, 16 115, 206n107, 240n129
disasters 69, 222n259 goodness 96, 119
disfigurement 82–3 Graham, G. 214n98
dissensus 4, 71, 78, 79 grammar, surface/depth 105, 206n101
dogmatism 218n174; Derrida 223n13; Greisch, J. 6, 70, 81–2, 101, 240n5, 240n6
Pyrrhonian Skepticism 17; religion 58; Sextus guilt: confession 143–4; conscience 123, 125–8;
43; skepticism 19; Wittgenstein 41, 104 Derrida 136, 140; ethics 121; Gaita 249n219;
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor: The Brothers Karamazov Heidegger 102, 140, 141, 241n12; innocence
120–1, 123, 144; Crime and Punishment 120 249n207; Levinas 1, 102, 120–1, 123, 136,
doubt 18, 43, 44–5, 51–2 140, 141, 147, 164, 187, 199–200; On Certainty
Drury. M. 12–13, 106, 107, 113, 136, 209n176, 81; punishment 167; radical singularity 143,
237n78 145–6, 147; responsibility 116, 120–1, 143,
195; shame 196; suffering 145; survivor 7, 8,
education 65, 98 129, 130–1, 141–2, 187–8; value judgements
Edwards, J.C. 42, 210n4 117–19; Wittgenstein 119, 123
Enlightenment 80, 166
epistemology 99 Habermas, J. 232n201
equipollence 17, 18, 19, 32 Harvey, I.E. 133
ethical approach xiii, 2, 131–2 haunting 128, 182, 194
ethical/political factors 18–21, 41 Heidegger, Martin: Auschwitz 195; Being and
ethics: animals 9; epistemology 99; guilt 121; Time 8, 123–7; clothing example 124; Dasein
language 122–3, 171; naturalism 8–9; On 123–8, 134, 138–9, 241n25, 254n123; good
Certainty 81; Philosophical Investigations 82; conscience 144; guilt 102, 140, 141, 241n12;
politics 18–21; predator 166; reason 9, 173–4; hesitancy 18; Levinas 7–8, 129–30, 139–40;
religion 6–7, 158, 159–60; responsibility 109, ontology 7–8, 163; sacrifice 127; silence
233n4; skepticism 254n111; social relations 262n69
99–100; subjectivity 2, 135; supernatural Heller, Joseph 20, 37
116–17, 196; Winch 232n3; world-book 116–17 Helvétius, C.A. 166
evil 184–5, 191, 214n98 Hertzberg, L. 48, 54, 55, 175, 213n77, 238n103
evolution, theory of 217n170 Herzog, Werner 79–81
expression, facial 84–5, 134 Hick, J.: Christianity 74–5; God 74; religion 77;
religious exclusivism 78–9; religious
face: animality 177; body 131; Derrida 152–3; pluralism 71, 73–4, 75, 76, 81, 223n18
disfigurement 82–3; ethical approach 131–2; history 214n90, 234n17
expression 84–5, 134; God 150–1; humanity D’Holbach, P.H.D. 255n141
132, 153; language 151, 160; Levinas 7, 9, holiness 162, 196, 254n112; see also saintliness
131–5, 149, 151–3, 245n113, 251n49; other Holland, R.F. 208n147
132, 134, 153–4, 219n198, 247n170, 258n202; Holocaust 128
‘Thou shalt not kill’ 137–8; visitation 250n6; home 181–2, 186, 259n229
vulnerability 174; Wittgenstein 83 hospitality: Derrida 178, 179, 180–1, 183–4,
faith: crisis of 53, 107; Culture and Value 56; 192, 200, 262n67, 266n163; evil 191;
Kierkegaard 217n153; Levinas 159–60, 179; language 262n67; Levinas 178, 266n163;
love 56; sacrifice 104; trust 47, 56; world- radical indifference 192; refuge 181–2; third
pictures 198 party 191–2; trespassing 185–6; trust 190–1;
Feyerabend, P. 71–3, 77, 222n254 vulnerability 183–5
von Ficker, Ludwig 117 host 183
fideism 5, 63, 106, 197, 199, 224n24 hostage 130–1, 183, 246n146
Fogelin, R.J. 202n5 house keys analogy 49–50
forgiveness 243–4n75 Hudson, W.D. 50, 54–5, 216n138
Frazer, James 91–3, 106, 108, 231n181; see also human behavior 183, 264–5n139
Wittgenstein, ‘Remarks on Frazer’s Golden human nature 169, 254–5n125
Bough’ humanism 161–2, 162–3, 177
288 Index
humans: Aboriginal peoples 95; animals Last Judgement 52–3, 57, 58, 104, 110
169–70, 170–1, 174–5, 174–6, 189; automata learning 47, 50–2, 57, 81
83–4; body 86; commonality 80–1, 92; Levi, P. 130–1, 243–4n75
disasters 222n259; face 132, 153; Levinas Levinas, Emmanuel 136, 239n115; anti-
170–1; lost 94–5; non-humanity 82; sacred naturalism 8–9, 148–9, 166, 173–4, 178, 200,
objects 80 257n178; Caputo 130, 180, 230n153;
humour 231n178 confession 152; conscience 137; Dasein
Husserl, Edmund 81–2, 85, 149, 153 254n122; Derrida 2–3, 8, 149–50, 177–8;
desire for other 165–6, 182, 254n117; face 7,
ideal 31 9, 131–5, 149, 151–3, 245n113, 251n49; faith
imagination 211n40 159–60, 179; God 149, 150, 151, 159–60; guilt
immorality 121 1, 102, 120–1, 123, 136, 140, 141, 147, 164,
immortality 262n72; responsibility 6–7; 187, 199–200; Heidegger 7–8, 129–30,
Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus 102–3; 139–40; home 181–2, 259n229; hospitality
Wittgenstein 109, 112, 115, 120 266n163178; humanism 162–3, 177;

imperatives: categorical 116, 133, 223n13; humans/animals 170; justice 154–5;
hypothetical 116; ‘Thou shalt not kill’ 137–8, language 2, 122–3, 160–1, 171–2; love
151, 174 253n93; ‘Meaning and Sense’ 98–9; Nine
impossible 193, 216n137 Talmudic Readings 180; other 10, 140–1,
indifference 88, 192 149–50, 157–8, 161–2, 165, 170, 245n130;
innocence 249n207 Otherwise than Being 152, 157; religion/ethics
instinct-actions 93 7, 159–60; responsibility 138, 146–7, 148;
inter-personal relations 82–3, 164–5 Rousseau 156–7; saintliness 119, 162, 163–4,
intersubjectivity 131, 170–1, 178, 183–4 177, 255n128; subjectivity 1–2, 70, 128, 135;
invitation 183–4 survivor’s guilt 129, 187–8; ‘Thou shalt not
Isaac 47–8, 55, 213n77 kill’ 137–8, 174; Totality and Infinity 200
iterability 177–8, 187, 188–9, 225n47, 262n72, literature 263n97, 268n214
263n93 Logical Positivism 111
love: as analogy 48–9; faith 56; history 214n90;
James, William 66 intimacy 182; Levinas 253n93; performative
Jehovah’s Witnesses 57–8, 222n251 235n51; social relations 167–8, 154–5;
1 John 53 tolerance 96; vulnerability 261n60
2 John 261n55 Luke’s Gospel 261n55
judgement 60, 62; see also value judgements Lyotard, J.F. 77–9, 225n50; differences 92, 95;
just society 72 The Differend 78–9, 225n53; dissensus 4, 71,
justice: Aboriginal people 226n76; Derrida 196; 78, 79; paganism 77, 81; politics 226n66;
Levinas 154–5; Lyotard 77–8; Nietzsche 166; radical pluralism 101–2, 108
Certainty 62; Schopenhauer 70
Malcolm, N. 109, 110–13, 120, 250n21
Kant, Immanuel 116, 178 Martin, D. 54
Kellner, D. 124–5, 142 Marx, Werner 81–2
Kierkegaard, S. 53; Christianity 239–40n125; Messiah 184, 186
faith 197, 217n153; life 216–17n149; Olsen mining companies 79–80
235n47 Monk, R. 120
kiss as ritual 114 Montaigne, M. 122
knowledge 43, 44–5, 48, 51–2, 189 Moore, G.E. 46; belief 64; common sense 43;
Kolakowski, L. 41 hinged learning 47, 57, 81; knowledge 44–5,
Kuhn, T. 60; conversion 221n235; The Structure 51; moral intuitionism 267n209; other
of Scientific Revolutions 61–2, 219n202 210–11n26; propositions 112, 191, 211n35
moral community 88–9
ladder metaphor 28–9 moral consciousness 249n209
land ownership 79–80 moral intuitionism 267n209
Lang, R. 262n67 moral philosophy 142
language: ethics 122–3, 171; face 151, 160; Irish morality 137, 167, 168–9
209n176; last words 186; Levinas 2, 122–3, Morawetz, T. 49, 221n233
160–1, 171–2; meanings 32–3, 117; mortality 187
mortality/immortality 187; Nietzsche 206n105; mourning 137, 157
ontology 223n3; ordinary 27, 142, 189;
Philosophical Investigations 90–1; predictability natural realm 27–8, 39–40, 98, 163
84; responsibility 129; social relations 160–1; naturalism: ethics 8–9; Nietzsche 166–7;
translatability 133–4; Wittgenstein 4, 23, 26–7, Pyrrhonian Skepticism 25, 39; Wittgenstein
31–3, 90–1, 96–7, 172 5, 10, 42, 89, 100, 105, 108, 173, 190, 199,
language acquisition 98–9, 172 215n115, 230n163, 268n224
language-games: Lyotard 79; On Certainty 38, Nazism 128–9
63–4; primitive 86; social relations 63–4; trust negative theology 117
189–90; Wittgenstein 3–5, 38–9, 44, 46, 48, Nelson, G.K. 66
71, 101, 173–4, 203n17 New Religious Movements 66
Index 289
Newton, Sir Isaac 249n223 Putnam, H. 243n74
Nietzsche, Friedrich: Christianity 168; Pyrrho of Elis 202n9
Darwinism 168; On the Genealogy of Morality Pyrrhonian Skepticism 207n133; ataraxia
101; holiness 254n112; justice 166; language 13–15, 17, 49, 62, 96, 140; ‘being-at-a-loss’ 18,
206n105; morality 167, 168–9; naturalism 204n53; belief 206n110, 210n10;
166–7; Thus Spake Zarathustra 122 ethical/political implications 18–21;
non-believers 104–5 liberation 96, 97–8, 203n39; naturalism 25,
non-commitment 21 39; persuasion 17–18; therapeutic techniques
non-humanity 9, 82, 87, 228–9n131, 258n208; 13–14, 24; truth 14, 18; Wittgenstein 4, 13,
see also animals 35–6, 202n5
Nussbaum, M. 15, 16, 18–19, 25
Nuyen, A.T. 88, 230n158, 243n74 quasi-communitarianism 41, 43–4
Nyíri, J.C. 37, 38–9, 40, 42, 46, 70 Quine, W.V.O. 60–1
On Certainty (Wittgenstein) 51–2, 209–10n3; randomness 267n192

belief xiii, 66–8; conservatism 70, 97; ethics Readings, B. 79–81, 80, 87, 94; radical pluralism
81; imagination 211n40; irreconcilable 101–2, 108
principles 32; judgement 60; justice 62; reason: ataraxia 18; consensus 224–5n42; ethics
knowledge/doubt 44–5, 48, 189; language- 9, 173–4; persuasion xiii, 4, 34, 64, 145;
games 38, 63–4; quasi-communitarianism 42, Rousseau 12
43–4; reason/persuasion 4, 32; religious Redpath, T. 120
belief 52; science/religion 218n188; refuge 181–2
skepticism 42–3; trust 175, 189 relativism 42, 71–2, 239n118
ontology 7–8, 111–12, 163, 223n3, 248n185 reliance 48, 55, 238n103
ordinary language philosophy 27, 142 religion: Caputo 41; conversion 66; Derrida
original sin 114–15, 136–7, 195 197–8; dogmatism 58; ethical approach 2;
other 86, 101–2, 256n168; Derrida 10, 170; ethics 6–7, 158, 159–60; faith 197–8; Frazer
desire 165–6, 182, 254n117; differences 75–6; 91–2; fundamentalism 74; Hick 77; Levinas 7,
face 132, 134, 153–4, 219n198, 247n170, 159–60; predictions 58–9; responsibility 7;
258n202; fear of 256n154; Levinas 10, 140–1, ritual 91–2, 108; superstition 5–6;
149–50, 157–8, 161–2, 165, 170, 245n130; Wittgenstein 5–6, 33–4, 106; see also
Lyotard 78; Moore 210–11n26; openness to confession; faith
184; responsibility 136, 137; sacrifice 139–40; religiosity 55–6, 107–8, 113, 150, 199
self-presence 134–5; space 247n163; suffering religious belief 41, 56, 57, 217n152; On Certainty
174; violence 102; world-pictures 99, 52; Wittgenstein 105–6, 107, 113–14, 115,
219n192, 221n245 158
religious exclusivism 78–9
paganism 77, 81, 94–5 remorse 120, 195
pain 87, 88, 210n19, 227n88, 229n142; see also responsibility: ethics 109, 233n4; guilt 116,
suffering 120–1, 143, 195; immortality 6–7; language
Pascal, Blaise 1, 130 129; Levinas 138, 146–7, 148; moral 143;
Pascal, Fania 143–4, 208n161 other 136, 137; religion 7; sacrifice 156–7;
persuasion xiii, 4, 17–18, 34, 64, 145 unconditional 115–16
Phillips, D.Z. 209n170 Rhees, R. 21–2, 33, 34
Philo 209n174 ritual: Frazer 231n181; instinct 93; non-
Philosophical Investigations (Wittgenstein): ethics religious 236n53; religious 91–2, 108;
82; humans/animals 170, 189; ideal 31; Wittgenstein 114, 266n174
language 90–1; language-games 63–4; nature river-bed metaphor 54–5, 216n139, 224n34
90; philosophical practices 24, 207n133; river-blindness analogy 67–8
preface 33 Robbins, J. 123
philosophical practice: Levinas 239n115; Robinson Crusoe (Defoe) 141–2, 144–5, 160–1,
Wittgenstein 21–3, 24, 35, 205n83 171, 181–2
physics 59, 163 Rorty, Richard 203n17, 222n248, 255n140
Picard, M. 150, 172, 176, 254–5n125 Rousseau, J.-J. 265n139; The Confessions 142,
pluralism: Hick 73–4, 76, 223n18; plurality 146; A Discourse on the Origin of Inequality 138,
224n19; radical 101–2, 108; relativistic 71–2; 156; and Levinas 156–7; property 247n166;
religious 71, 73–4, 75, 76, 81, 223n18; reason 12
universality 76
plurality 70–1, 77, 224n19 sacrifice: Abraham 47–8, 53, 55; faith 104;
politics/ethics 18–21, 226n66 Heidegger 127; other 139–40; responsibility
postmodernism 225n50 156–7; self-sacrifice 99, 164, 167;
predators 166 Wittgenstein 148
predictions 58–9 De Sade, D.A.F. 166, 230n155
principles: foundational 189, 191; hinged saintliness 8–9, 119, 162, 163–4, 177, 255n128
213n84; reconciliation of 32, 59, 63–4, 65, 68; Sartre, J.-P. 215n129, 216n134
unifying 82; world-pictures 59–60 Schilndler’s List (Speilberg) 143
prophets, false 53 Schopenhauer, A. 70, 94, 148, 192
290 Index
science 61–2, 218n188, 220n213 truth 14, 18, 28, 41, 44
scientism 108, 163 truth-telling 265n149
sectarianism 218n174
selfishness 167 undecidability 193–4
Seventh-day Adventists 57–8 universality 48, 76, 133, 162
Sextus Empiricus: ataraxia 4, 14, 15–16, 28, 43; unperturbedness see ataraxia
dogmatism 43; natural realm 27–8; see also unpredictability 183
Pyrrhonian Skepticism
Shields, P.R. 34, 114–15 value judgements 116, 117–19, 239n118
sign 189 violence: Derrida 192; natural capacity for
silence 29, 221n236, 262n69 229n136; other 102; preethical 102, 246n144;
skepticism 41; anti-skepticism 42–3, 51–2; third party 154; vulnerability 134
Derrida 188; dogmatism 19; ethics 254n111 le visage 133–4
Smart, N. 5, 6 visitation 183–5, 250n6, 251n39
social conformity 37, 124–5 voluntarism 72

social prejudices 19, 20 vulnerability: children 175; commonality 176;
social relations: differences 4; ethics 99–100; face 174; home 186; hospitality 183–5; love
language 160–1; language-games 63–4; love 261n60; trust 69; violence 134
154–5, 167–8; Rousseau 156; trust 4–5, 190
society: primitive/modern 108; science Where the Green Acts Dream (Herzog) 79–81
220n213 Winch, P.: animals 257n185; community 88–9;
space, other 247n163 contradiction 233n16; ethics 101; humans
speech-act theory 191, 253n99 232n3; truth-telling 265n149
Speilberg, Steven 143 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 12–13, 30–1; ataraxia 32,
stubbornness 59, 61–2 210n10; belief 59, 102–3, 210n10, 233n9;
subjectivity 1–2, 70, 128, 135 believers/non-believers 104–5, 106; body 83,
suffering: ataraxia 16–17; belief 216n147; 85–6, 131, 232n200; Christianity 112, 238n90;
children 88, 172, 229n140; commonality 176; confession 143–4, 238n94; differences 3–7;
guilt 145; inevitability 25; non-humanity 87, face 83; forms of life 3, 71; frame of
228–9n131; other 174; pain 88, 210n19, reference 48; free will 230n149; God 109,
227n88; primitive reaction 86–7; trivialized 110–11, 115, 206n107, 240n129; guilt 119,
68–9; Wittgenstein 82, 172 123; humour 231n178; immortality 109, 112,
supernatural ethics 116–17, 196 115, 120; language 4, 23, 26–7, 31–3, 90–1,
superstition 5–6, 58, 217n152 96–7, 172; language-games 3–5, 38–9, 44, 46,
Surin, K. 76–7, 81, 86, 101–2, 108 48, 71, 101, 173–4, 203n17; learning 50; ‘A
survivor’s guilt 7, 8, 129, 130–1, 141–2, 187–8 Lecture on Ethics’ 111, 116, 122–3, 193;
‘Lectures on Aesthetics’ 34; ‘Lectures on
tennis-playing analogy 117–18 Religious Belief’ 52, 55, 57, 59, 97, 102, 105,
testimony 151–2, 190 119; natural realm 27–8, 39–40, 98, 163;
therapeutic techniques: Culture and Value 24; naturalism 5, 10, 42, 89, 100, 105, 108, 173,
ethical-political factors 41; Pyrrhonian 190, 199, 215n115, 230n163, 268n224; non-
Skepticism 13–14, 24; Sextus 4, 70, 96; philosophical life 25, 96–7, 208n159;
Wittgenstein 4, 70, 96, 199 normativity 72, 112, 206n113; philosophical
1 Thessalonians 186 practice 21–3, 24, 35, 205n83; publishing
third party 154–5, 157, 191–2; see also other work 208n160; Pyrrhonian Skepticism 4, 13,
‘Thou shalt not kill’ 137–8, 151, 174 35–6, 202n5; religion 5–6, 33–4, 106;
Tolstoy, Leo: Christianity 114; confession 106; religiosity 55–6, 107–8, 199; religious belief
A Confession 103–4, 110, 205n93, 236n55, 105–6, 107, 113–14, 115, 158; ‘Remarks on
237n85; God 103–4, 110, 113 Frazer’s Golden Bough’ 5, 59, 89, 90–3, 97,
totalitarianism 71–3, 78 105–6, 107; ritual 114, 266n174; sacrifice 148;
Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (Wittgenstein): suffering 82, 172; therapeutic techniques 4,
completion of 31; immortality 102–3; and ‘A 36, 70, 96, 199; truth 28; universality 48; Zettel
Lecture of Ethics’ 116, 122–3; negative 25, 35, 98, 132; see also Culture and Value; On
theology 117; propositions 28–9; Certainty; Philosophical Investigations; Tractatus
saying/showing 45–6; silence 196 Logico-Philosophicus; world-pictures
tradition 71–3, 77 world-pictures: belief 53, 59; conflicting 67–8;
transcendence 250n11 excluded items 98; faith 198; haunting 194;
trespassing 129, 147, 183, 185–6 language 3, 50; other 99, 219n192, 221n245;
Trigg, R. 173 principles 59–60
trust: Abraham and Isaac 47–8; belief 110; world-book 116–17
dissipation of 50; faith 47, 56; foundational wretchedness 113, 120, 199
principles 189; Hertzberg 54; hospitality
190–1; language-games 189–90; learning 47, Zweig, Stefan viii, 148
50–1; On Certainty 175, 189; primitive 50, 175;
reliance 48, 55, 238n103; social relations 4–5,
190; vulnerability 69

维特根斯坦与列维纳斯

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

维特根斯坦与列维纳斯

Uploaded by

Document Information

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

维特根斯坦与列维纳斯

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Downloaded by [Nanjing University] at 08:34 06 December 2012

Wittgenstein and Levinas

1 The Story of Analytic Philosophy

3 Philosophy and Ordinary Language

4 The Subject in Question

7 Grammar in Early Twentieth-Century Philosophy

8 Rules, Magic and Instrumental Reason

Politics and metaphysics

12 From Kant to Davidson

13 Collingwood and the Metaphysics of Experience

14 The Logic of Liberal Rights

16 Philosophy After Postmodernism

17 Phenomenology and Imagination in Husserl and Heidegger

19 Trust and Toleration

20 The Metaphysics of Perception

22 Ineffability and Philosophy

23 Kant, Cognitive Metaphor and Continental Philosophy

24 Wittgenstein and Levinas

First published 2005

© 2005 Bob Plant

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or

ISBN 0-203-02311-0 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-415-34995-8 (Print Edition)

For Joy and John Wharton

1 Peaceful thoughts: philosophy as therapy in

2 Trusting in a world-picture: knowledge, faith and

4 Interlude: on preferring peace to war 96

5 Wretchedness without recompense: Wittgenstein on

6 Trespassing: guilt and sacriﬁce in Heidegger, Levinas

7 The unreasonableness of ethics: Levinas and the limits

Is it wrong for me to be guided in my actions by the propositions of

In these few brief remarks Wittgenstein raises a host of troubling ques-

Wittgenstein’s work that is easily overlooked in the routine excavation of

Wittgenstein: radical pluralism and the natural

What are the philosophical motives for Wittgenstein’s concern with

nature is therefore ethically signiﬁcant insofar as it liberates us also from

How deep do the aforementioned ‘differences’ actually go?

stein is – as I argue in Chapter 3 – necessarily presupposed by even the

As intimated above, Wittgenstein’s naturalism is not immediately obvious

the ‘unifying principle’ (Greisch 1999: 50) of sympathy. Greisch thus

Levinas: the guilt of the survivor

Saintliness and Levinas’s anti-naturalism

existence ﬁrst’ (1984: 60).

A note on ‘radical otherness’

philosophers are wholly innocent on this score. Philosophical sectarianism

A philosopher is always someone for whom philosophy is not given,

although Wittgenstein rarely showed much interest in his philosophical

The abandonment of belief: Pyrrhonian naturalism

physical symptoms have remedies that differ in strength . . . so too the

When [Pyrrho’s] fellow-passengers on board a ship were all unnerved

What creature escapes being wrecked in the tempest? The creature

Supplementing his suggestion that a deep congruity exists between

with ﬂeeting ‘appearances’ (Sextus 1996: 1:19) and the guidance of

[T]he person who believes that something is by nature good or bad is

[H]aving in addition a belief [that something is by nature good or

Disquiet, pain and suffering are an inextricable feature of natural life.

whereas ordinary people are affected by two circumstances – namely

Physical and psychological suffering is naturally unpleasant and often best

gation simply compounds one’s anguish.34 To attain ataraxia we do not

We oppose phenomena to phenomena or noumena to noumena . . .