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Must We Mean What We Say?

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Must We Mean What We Say?

A Book of Essays
Updated edition

B
stanley cavell

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University Printing House, Cambridge CB2 8BS, United Kingdom

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education, learning and research at the highest international levels of excellence.
www.cambridge.org
Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781107113633
© Stanley Cavell 1969
© Cambridge University Press 1976
© Stanley Cavell 2002
This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception
and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements,
no reproduction of any part may take place without the written
permission of Cambridge University Press.
First published 1969
First paperback edition 1976
Second, updated edition 2002
Reprinted 2005, 2008
Cambridge Philosophy Classics edition 2015
A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication data
Cavell, Stanley, 1926–
[Essays. Selections]
Must we mean what we say? : a book of essays /
Stanley Cavell, Harvard University. – Updated edition.
pages cm
Includes index.
ISBN 978-1-107-11363-3 (Hardback) – ISBN 978-1-107-53423-0 (Paperback)
1. Philosophy, Modern. I. Title.
B945.C271 2015
190–dc23 2015019139
ISBN 978-1-107-11363-3 Hardback
ISBN 978-1-107-53423-0 Paperback
Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or
accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in
this publication, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is,
or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

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To Cathy and Rachel

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Contents
B
Permissions page viii
Acknowledgments ix
Preface to this edition by stephen mulhall xv
Preface to updated edition of Must We Mean What We Say? xvii
Foreword: An audience for philosophy xxx

1 Must we mean what we say? 1

2 The availability of Wittgenstein’s later philosophy 41
3 Aesthetic problems of modern philosophy 68
4 Austin at criticism 91
5 Ending the waiting game: A reading of Beckett’s Endgame 107
6 Kierkegaard’s On Authority and Revelation 151
7 Music discomposed 167
8 A matter of meaning it 197
9 Knowing and acknowledging 220
10 The avoidance of love: A reading of King Lear 246

Thematic index 326

Index of names 329

vii

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Permissions
B
“Aesthetic problems of modern philosophy” appeared in Philosophy in
America (1965), edited by Max Black, and is reprinted by permission of
the publishers, the Cornell University Press, and George Allen & Unwin
Ltd., copyright under the Berne Convention by George Allen &
Unwin Ltd.
“Music discomposed” and “A matter of meaning it” were both first
published in Art, Mind, and Religion, edited by W. H. Capitan and D. D.
Merrill, copyright 1967 by the University of Pittsburgh Press, and
reprinted by permission of the publisher.
“Ending the waiting game: A reading of Beckett’s Endgame”contains
selections from Endgame, by Samuel Beckett (translated by the author),
copyright 1958 by Grove Press. These selections are reprinted by permis-
sion of Grove Press, NY, and Faber and Faber Ltd., London.
“The availability of Wittgenstein’s later philosophy” contains selections
from The Later Philosophy of Wittgenstein (1958) by David Pole, and these
are reprinted by permission of the Athlone Press, London.
Excerpts from the works of Wittgenstein are reprinted by permission of
the Executors of Ludwig Wittgenstein and Basil Blackwell, Publisher.
Excerpts from King Lear are reprinted by permission of the publishers,
from Kenneth Muir, editor, Shakespeare’s King Lear, Harvard University
Press, Cambridge, Mass., and Associated Book Publishers Ltd., London.

viii

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Acknowledgments
B
Four of the ten essays in this volume are published here for the first time:
The reading of Endgame was written in the summer and fall of 1964 and
I have used some selection of its material each spring since then in the
Humanities course which the Department of Philosophy at Harvard offers
in the General Education program of the college. Similar selections were
the basis for lectures given at Western Reserve University and the Case
Institute, at the University of Saskatchewan, and at the University of
North Carolina.
“Kierkegaard’s On Authority and Revelation” was prepared for a collo-
quium on that book held at the University of Minnesota by its Department
of Philosophy in January 1966.
“Knowing and Acknowledging” is an expansion of my contribution to a
colloquium held at the University of Rochester in May 1966. Its original
version was written as a set of comments on a paper presented at that
Colloquium by Professor Norman Malcolm; that is the paper of his,
subsequently published with minor revisions, which is cited in this essay.
Part I of the reading of King Lear was written in the summer of 1966,
partly as preparation for, partly out of dissatisfaction with, my lectures in
the Humanities course mentioned previously. Part II was written in the
summer and fall of 1967, during a period in which a sabbatical term was
generously granted early by Harvard University in order that I might
bring this book to a finish.
Nothing like it would have been started apart from Harvard’s Society of
Fellows, in which I was a Junior Fellow from 1953–1956. The highest
praise of the Society, and all it asks, is expressed in the work produced
by the years of freedom it provides. In my case, the most precious benefit
of those years was the chance to keep quiet, in particular to postpone the
Ph.D., until there was something I wanted, and felt readier, to say.
The six essays which have already been published have been brought
into uniform stylistic format; otherwise they appear here without, or with
trivial, alterations. I might mention here one stylistic habit of mine which,
in addition to irritation, may cause confusion. I use dots of omission in the
usual way within quoted material, but I also use them apart from
ix

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x acknowledgments

quotations in place of marks such as “etc.” or “and so on” or “and the

like.” My little justifications for this are (1) that since in this use they often
indicate omissions of the end of lists of examples or possibilities which
I have earlier introduced, I am in effect quoting myself (with, therefore,
welcome abbreviation); and (2) that marks such as “and the like,” when
needed frequently, seem to me at least as irritating as recurrent dots may
be, and in addition are false (because if the list is an interesting one, its
members are not in any obvious way “like” one another). I also use these
dots, and again at the end of lists, as something like dots of suspension;
not, however, because I suppose this device to dramatize the mind at work
(generally, the opposite is truer) but because I wish to indicate that the
mind might well do some work to produce further relevant examples.
I can hardly excuse my use of list dots, any more than other of my habits
which may annoy (e.g., a certain craving for parentheses, whose visual
clarity seems to me to outweigh their oddity); for if I had found better
devices for helping out my meaning, there would be no excuse for not
having employed them. A further idiosyncracy is especially noticeable in
the later essays, the use of a dash before sentences. Initial recourse to this
device was as a way of avoiding the change of topic (and the necessity for
trumped up transitions) which a paragraph break would announce, while
registering a significant shift of attitude or voice toward the topic at hand.
The plainest use of the device is an explicit return to its old-fashioned
employment to mark dialogue.—But there are so many justifications for
not writing well.
My editors at Scribners have evidently had a mixed lot to contend with
in helping to order this work. I am grateful for their indulgences, as well as
for tact in drawing lines.
For permission to reprint I am grateful to the original publishers:
“Must We Mean What We Say?” is a greatly expanded version of a
paper read as part of a symposium at a meeting of the American Philo-
sophical Association, Pacific Coast Division, on December 19, 1957. The
first part of that symposium was “On the Verification of Statements About
Ordinary Language,” by Professor Benson Mates. These papers were first
published together in Inquiry, Vol. 1 (1958) and both are reprinted in V. C.
Chappell, ed., Ordinary Language (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, Inc.,
1964). The page references to Professor Mates’ paper are according to its
occurrence in the Chappell collection.
“The Availability of Wittgenstein’s Later Philosophy” was first pub-
lished in The Philosophical Review, LXXI (1962), and reprinted in George
Pitcher, ed., Wittgenstein: The Philosophical Investigations (Garden City,

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acknowledgments xi

New York: Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1966). Material for this paper
was prepared during a period in which I received a grant from the Henry
P. Kendall Foundation, to which I wish to express my gratitude.
“Aesthetic Problems of Modern Philosophy” was prepared for a volume
of original essays by younger American philosophers, edited by Max
Black, Philosophy in America (London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd., 1965;
Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1965). Approximately the first half of this
paper was presented to a meeting of the American Society for Aesthetics in
October 1962. It was written during the year 1962–63 in which I was in
residence at the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton, as was a longer
study from which the Austin paper, listed immediately below, was
extracted. These are fragments of the continuing profit that year remains
for me.
“Austin at Criticism” was published first in The Philosophical Review,
LXXIV (1965), and reprinted in Richard Rorty, ed., The Linguistic Turn
(Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1967).
“Music Discomposed” was read as the opening paper of a symposium
held at the sixth annual Oberlin Colloquium in Philosophy in April
1965 and was published, together with the comments on it by Professor
Monroe Beardsley and by Professor Joseph Margolis, as part of the Pro-
ceedings of that Colloquium, in Capitan and Merrill, eds., Art, Mind, and
Religion (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1967). Most of the
material in sections V, VI, and VII of this essay was presented as part of
a symposium called “Composition, Improvisation and Chance,” held at a
joint meeting of the American Musicological Society, the Society for Ethno-
musicology, and the College Music Society, at the University of California,
Berkeley, December 1960. The title of the symposium, as well as my
participation in it, were both the work of its moderator, Joseph Kerman.
I am grateful to him also for suggestions about the initial material
I presented at Berkeley and about an earlier draft of the present paper.
“A Matter of Meaning It” constitutes my rejoinders to Beardsley and
Margolis; while not read at the Oberlin Colloquium, it is included in its
Proceedings.

B
The few personal acknowledgments which are scattered through these
essays scarcely suggest the debts I have accumulated in the writing of
them. Because the largest of these are debts of friendship as much as
of instruction, I must hope that they were partly discharged in the course

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xii acknowledgments

of incurring them, for certainly the essays alone are insufficient repay-
ment. I am thinking of conversations with Thomas Kuhn (especially
during 1956–58, our first two years of teaching at Berkeley) about the
nature of history and, in particular, about the relations between the
histories of science and of philosophy; of the countless occasions on
which I have learned about continental philosophy and literature from
Kurt Fischer, in everything from isolated remarks to the course of lec-
tures he gave to his graduate seminar at Berkeley on Nietzsche’s Zara-
thustra; of the years during which Thompson Clarke taught me to
understand the power of traditional epistemology, and in particular of
skepticism. My debt to Clarke is systematic, because it was through him,
together with a study of Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations (on
which we gave a joint seminar in 1959–60), that I came to see that
everything I had said (in “Must We Mean What We Say?”) in defense
of the appeal to ordinary language could also be said in defense, rather
than in criticism, of the claims of traditional philosophy; this idea grew
for me into an ideal of criticism, and it is central to all my work in
philosophy since then. Its most explicit statement, in the work which
appears here, is given in the opening pages of “Knowing and Acknow-
ledging.” It is a guiding motivation of my Ph.D. dissertation. The Claim to
Rationality (submitted to Harvard University in 1961, now soon to be
published), a fact I mention here because ideas and formulations of that
book (in particular, the view it develops of Wittgenstein’s later philoso-
phy) appear throughout the essays collected here, and I am uneasy about
the possibility that from time to time I am relying on it as backing for
claims which in the space of an essay are not developed enough to stand
by themselves. This creates obvious risks of delusion.
The piece on Kierkegaard, the two on music, and that on Lear—that is to
say, the bulk of the latest work—were written during periods in which
their controlling ideas were recurrent topics of conversation with Michael
Fried and John Harbison; the reservations and the satisfactions they
expressed were always guiding for me. Their wives, Ruth Fried and Rose
Mary Harbison, were frequently very much a part of those conversations,
as they are part of those friendships; if what I owe to them is less specific, it
is no less real. To say, in addition, that I owe to Michael Fried’s instruction
any understanding I have come to about modernist painting and sculp-
ture, scarcely describes the importance that access of experience has had
for me over the past three or four years. Its confirmation and correction
and extension of my thoughts about the arts and about modernism is
suggested by the writings of his to which I refer in various of the later

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acknowledgments xiii

essays; but conversations with him about those topics, and about history
and criticism, and about poetry and theater, are equally, if silently, present
in them.
First books tend to over-ambitiousness, and nowhere more than in the
bulk of debts they imagine themselves able to answer for.
I cannot forgo the pleasure of thanking my teachers of philosophy—
Henry David Aiken, Abraham Kaplan, and Morton White—especially for
their encouragement to think of, or to remember, philosophy as something
more than the preoccupation of specialists. To the late J. L. Austin I owe,
beyond what I hope is plain in my work, whatever is owed the teacher
who shows one a way to do relevantly and fruitfully the thing one had
almost given up hope of doing. And because all the pieces of this book
were written after I had begun to teach, the responses of my students are
often guiding in the way I have written, in everything from the specific
choice of an example or allusion to a general tendency to swing between
dialogue and harangue. Here I single out Allen Graubard and John
McNees and Timothy Gould, whose intellectual companionship and
whose acts of friendship since I came back to Cambridge to teach, are
unforgettable.
That since that time I have enjoyed the friendship of Rogers Albritton,
and therewith the power of his intelligence and sensibility, is a fortune
which only those who know him can begin to appreciate.
My mother and father have waited for, and supported, these first fruits
in the peculiar patience, and impatience, known only to parents. My uncle,
Mendel Segal, began his avuncularity by supporting my infancy on his
shoulders, and continued it, through my years in graduate school and my
first years of teaching, with brotherly advice which usually cost him
money. My wife, Cathleen Cohen Cavell, beyond the moments of timely
editing and encouragement, kept in balance the sabbatical months in
which the final stages of composition were accomplished. And now my
daughter Rachel can see what it was I was doing as I inexplicably
scribbled away those hundred afternoons and evenings.
That I am alone liable for the opacities and the crudities which defeat
what I wanted to say, is a miserably simple fact. What is problematic is the
expense borne by those who have tried to correct them, and to comfort the
pain of correcting them.
s.c.
31 December I968
Cambridge, Massachusetts

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Preface to this edition

stephen mulhall

B
I had. . . fancies of putting [this] book out in a newspaper format, so that each essay
could begin on the front page and end on the back page, with various conjunctions
in between. (Cavell)

Suppose that a classic text is one whose ability to go on speaking to new

generations of readers is grounded in the precision and depth of its
address to its own time and place. Then a better understanding of the
continuing fertility of Stanley Cavell’s first book requires an appreciation
of its penetratingly various engagements with North American culture in
the late 1960s.
That culture’s philosophy was divided between what were called “ana-
lytic” and “Continental” approaches to the subject, and—within the ana-
lytic side—between the earlier reception of logical positivism (with its
attempted elevation of science and denigration of evaluative judgement)
and the more recent reception of Wittgenstein’s later philosophy (often
affiliated with J. L. Austin’s ways of affirming ordinary language). Its
foremost artistic figures confronted the threats and opportunities of mod-
ernism (in the aftermath of the New Criticism, Abstract Expressionism and
non-tonal music); and its political and moral life was wracked by inter-
generational incomprehension and repudiation—a civil war of the spirit at
once engendered by and fueling combat in foreign fields.
Each essay in Cavell’s book is in conversation with at least one of these
sites of confusion and conflict: and their inter-relatedness reveals that they
are internally related to – hence interpretable by or in terms of—one
another, and so can be (if not overcome, then ameliorated or at least better
understood by being) brought into conversation. Cavell’s interpretations
of Shakespeare, Beckett and Schoenberg show that literature and music
have ways of acknowledging (and so of denying) the authority of their
own history, call it the significance of inherited forms of meaningfulness;
and this brings out analogous difficulties in politics and morality—say,
how temptations towards fraudulent speech and action (modes of self-
presentation from which one’s real self is absent, often unknowingly) can

xv

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xvi preface to this edition

afflict inter-generational understanding. His essay on Kierkegaard traces

the genealogy of such problems, showing how deeply post-Enlightenment
religion, politics and art suffer difficulties of authority that are also diffi-
culties of authorship—of making one’s thoughts, words and deeds fully
one’s own.
Cavell’s perceptions of these broader human opacities and modes of
self-injury enable and are enabled by his specifically philosophical invest-
ments, as broached in the opening sequence of essays on Austin and
Wittgenstein. By allowing neither author to eclipse the other’s individu-
ality, Cavell there discloses a fascinating interpretation of “ordinary lan-
guage philosophy” that sidesteps criticisms long viewed as licensing its
dismissal, and reveals how extensively it interacts with the broader pre-
occupations of its culture. The emancipatory potential of Cavell’s Wittgen-
stein has not thus far been properly acknowledged, let alone realized; but
could anyone seriously deny that our contemporary culture continues to
suffer versions and consequences of the failures of sense-making that he
identifies and aspires to overcome? Until we can, this book of essays will
have something to say to us.

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Preface to updated edition of

Must we mean what we say?
B
Friends have repeatedly remarked to me that some later preoccupation of
mine can be found foreshadowed in passages of Must We Mean What We
Say? This quality of previewing might be understood merely as a conse-
quence of the book’s history, that although it is my first book, and
although its title essay was written in 1957, it collects work from the
ensuing dozen years and was not published until I was into my fourth
decade, when my interests may be thought to have been fairly developed.
But I understand the presence of notable, surprising anticipations to
suggest something more specific about the way, or space within which,
I work, which I can put negatively as occurring within the knowledge that
I never get things right, or let’s rather say, see them through, the first time,
causing my efforts perpetually to leave things so that they can be, and ask
to be, returned to. Put positively, it is the knowledge that philosophical
ideas reveal their good only in stages, and it is not clear whether a later
stage will seem to be going forward or turning around or stopping,
learning to find oneself at a loss.
I received my first copy of the book from its publisher on the day of
what I recall as the most tortured of the emergency faculty meetings
following the massive arrest of students occupying the main administra-
tion building of Harvard College, in April of 1969, so that my initial joy, or
its expression, in perceiving the book’s existence in the world, was largely
put aside, whether as a relief from isolation or as a source of refuge it was
hard to tell. But each of the ten essays making up the book has its own
history, as does its Foreword, and a way of introducing this new edition of
them is to give a little of the history in each case.
For some years, the only essays in the book that were discussed in print,
or reprinted from it, were the opening two, sometimes as a pair; and those
discussions were responses to their original appearance in philosophy
journals, and, I believe, subsided after their collection into the book. The
context of their companion essays in Must We Mean What We Say? would
have, perhaps, made it plainer to their readers (as they made it plainer to
me) that in their declarations of indebtedness to the work of J. L. Austin
and of Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations, my motivating question
xvii

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xviii preface to updated edition

was less how we know what we say and mean (which was the point on
which criticism of those two papers were centered) than it was the ques-
tion of what it betokens about our relation to the world, and others, and
myself, that I do in fact, to an unknown extent, inescapably know (barring
physical or psychic trauma), and that I chronically do not know or cannot
say what I mean, and that I can know further by bethinking myself of
what I would rather or might or must or could say, or not say, or rather
not. Few philosophers would now, I believe, deny that the ability to speak
a language carries with it the ability to perform these linguistic feats, but
I assume most do not attach the importance I continue to do to the bearing
of this ability on the questions of self-knowledge and of skepticism.
Controversy over the importance of the ordinary is more likely now to
arise in the form of a question not of the epistemological but of the political
bearing of the ordinary, say upon whether the appeal to the ordinary is a
mode of conforming to the state of one’s society or of criticizing it.
The opening essay, “Must We Mean What We Say?,” was undertaken as
the result not so much of an invitation as of an assignment. Near the end of
my first year of teaching at Berkeley, in the spring of 1957, I was told that a
panel on ordinary language philosophy was being scheduled at the
coming Christmas meetings of the Pacific Division of the American Philo-
sophical Association, in which I would have a chance, let’s say an obliga-
tion, to defend in public the views I had been advancing all year
concerning the ground-breaking philosophical importance of the work of
Austin, in the form of a response to a paper to be presented by my senior
colleague Benson Mates. I had, as a result of Austin’s visiting Harvard my
last semester there, thrown away what may have been a partially written
Ph.D. dissertation, and consequently arrived in Berkeley to take up the
position of Assistant Professor there not only without a degree but with no
concrete idea for a dissertation (an unthinkable circumstance after my
generation in graduate school). The imposition of the obligation was fair
enough. It was time that I get into the open some formulation of what had
seemed so enlivening in my encounters with Austin, or else suffer the
humiliation of finding that it was not, at my hands, defensible in grown-
up discussion.
Reading the essay now, I still sense in it the initial exhilaration in finding
ways to mean everything I was saying, and to say a larger fraction of what
I had philosophically to say, than I had ever experienced. The elation was
an experience as of escaping from what I had inarticulately felt in my
philosophical education, and remaining in much of philosophy’s dispen-
sation as I began my life of teaching philosophy, as prohibitions on, or

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preface to updated edition xix

suspicions of, everyday speech, quite in the absence of patient attention to

the individual utterance. I am struck by a double anticipation in a formu-
lation from the last page of “Must We Mean What We Say?” which speaks
of Socrates “coax[ing] the mind down from self-assertion—subjective
assertion and private definition—and leading it back, through the com-
munity, home.” First, the sense of the philosopher as responding to one
lost will become thematic for me as my understanding of Wittgenstein’s
Investigations becomes less primitive than it was; second, the literary or
allegorical mode of the formulation is something I recognized early as a
way of mine of keeping an assertion tentative, that is, as marking it as a
thought to be returned to. The implication that philosophical lostness
requires something like guidance of a therapeutic sort may or may not
be clear to others in these words, but they were ones in which at that
period of my life I associated with the work of psychoanalysis. (The
formulation “back, through the community, home” seems ambiguous as
between meaning leading the mind back to its home in the community, or
rather back, beyond this, to itself. Ambiguity was perhaps the best I could
do then with the idea of philosophy’s ancient therapeutic ambition, before
I had gotten into questions of the fantasy of a private language, of skepti-
cism’s power to repudiate ordinary language, and of philosophy’s arro-
gance in its calling to speak for humanity, for “us.”)
I suppose that the idea of the philosopher as guide was formed in me in
resistance to the still current idea of the philosopher as guard. So I should
perhaps add that at no period of my life has it occurred to me that
philosophical problems are unreal, that is, that they could be cured and
philosophy thus ended, as if left behind. The problems I was concerned
with are better expressed as about the all but unappeasable craving for
unreality; Kant’s diagnosis of such perplexities was as Transcendental
Illusions.
I had in “Must We Mean What We Say?” already suggested under-
standing the philosophical appeal to the ordinary in relation to Kant’s
transcendental logic (Must We Mean ... ? p. 13), namely as the sense of
uncovering the necessary conditions of the shared world; but not until the
second essay of the book, “The Availability of Wittgenstein’s Later Phil-
osophy,” was I able to give a certain textuality to this relation to Kant, at
the point at which Wittgenstein in the Investigations announces that “Our
investigation . . . is directed not toward phenomena, but, as one might say,
toward the ‘possibilities’ of phenomena” (ibid. p. 65). And it would not be
until after completing The Claim of Reason that I would feel I had secured
some significant progress in assessing the difference it makes that

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Wittgenstein sees illusions of meaning as something to which the finite

creature is subject chronically, diurnally, as if in every word beyond the
reach of philosophical system. The idea that there is no absolute escape
from (the threat of) illusions and the desires constructed from them, say
there is no therapy for this, in the sense of a cure for it—or rather the
pervasiveness and hence invisibility of the idea that there might be some
such escape—was evidently something that captured my fascination,
halfway through Must We Mean What We Say?, with Samuel Beckett’s
Endgame, in effect a study of the circumstance that “You’re on earth,
there’s no cure for that” (ibid. p. 129).
“The Availability of Wittgenstein’s Later Philosophy” was written in
answer to the invitation to prepare a review-essay of the publication of
Wittgenstein’s The Blue and Brown Books together with David Pole’s The
Later Philosophy of Wittgenstein, the first book (to my knowledge, in Eng-
lish) on its subject. My writing in this essay is from time to time marked by
exasperation, even anger, always philosophically suspicious. No doubt the
emotion was a response to encountering in Pole’s book a dismissive
treatment of work that had changed my sense of philosophy’s possibilities
(and rather encouraged my sense of intellectual isolation), a dismay
exacerbated by the book’s uniformly receiving praise, in my hearing, for
its efforts. Nevertheless, I am not pleased to see my declaration that “none
of [Wittgenstein’s] thought is to be found” in Pole’s book; I remember once
changing that accusation to read “little of Wittgenstein’s thought . . . etc.”
and finding the change to be evasive and condescending. A more interest-
ing reason for my review’s moments of extreme impatience was my
beginning to learn how difficult it was going to be, difficult in some way
unprecedented in my experience, to say in some undisappointing way
what my sense of the importance of Wittgenstein’s work turned upon.
Hence my impatience, not surprisingly, was in large part impatience with
myself.
Accepting the invitation had in effect meant committing myself to
reading Wittgenstein’s Preliminary Studies for the “Philosophical Investiga-
tions” (the over-title of The Blue and Brown Books) with a seriousness I knew
I had not begun to give to the Investigations itself. No deadline for my
essay was set or imagined, and I waited until the end of the academic year
to allow the project uninterruptedly to take all summer if necessary. In fact
what took all summer was just reading through Wittgenstein’s two (pre-
liminary) texts, which initiated notes and elaborations on my part larger in
bulk than the bulk of Wittgenstein’s texts. Along with finding my way to
the excitement of accompanying the intensity of thought expressed in

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these pages, I was discovering about the ordinary what I missed in Austin,
namely, that if, as Wittgenstein puts the matter, “What we do is lead
words back from their metaphysical to their everyday use,” then to under-
stand how this happens we must understand how we have drifted, or
been driven, away from the everyday, living as it were in exile from our
words, not in a sure position from which to mean what we say. In short
I discovered that skepticism, which metaphysics is apt to undertake to
defeat, is a renewed threat in Wittgenstein, whereas Austin rather
imagines that both skepticism and metaphysics can fairly readily be put
aside, with the attentiveness and good will appealed to by his methods, as
if the strength of ordinary language were more characteristic of it than its
vulnerability. I note three passages, or formulations, from the essay,
beyond the thematic matters, for example, of rules and of our knowledge
of our language, that recurrently motivate later work of mine.
Take first the paragraph in “The Availability of Wittgenstein’s Later
Philosophy” that runs: “We learn and teach words in certain contexts, and
then we are expected, and expect others, to be able to project them into
further contexts. . . Nothing insures that we will make . . . the same projec-
tions. That on the whole we do is a matter of our sharing routes of interest
and feeling . . . senses of humor and of significance . . ., of what is outra-
geous, of what is similar to what else . . . all the whirl of organism
Wittgenstein calls ‘forms of life’.. . . It is a vision as simple as it is difficult
and as difficult as it is (and because it is) terrifying” (p. 52). In recent years
this passage has been receiving increasing attention. The “vision” I speak
of in the passage becomes further worked out ten years later as Chapter
VII of The Claim of Reason, entitled “Wittgenstein’s Vision of Language,”
where the idea in Must We Mean . . . ? of the communicative power of
language as requiring nothing beyond (behind, beneath) our sharing, and
maintaining, our human forms of life to ensure its success, is expressed in
The Claim of Reason as there being “no reason” (p. 178) for our sharing
them. (Such a requirement—for, let’s say, a metaphysical grounding of our
ability to communicate—would amount to requiring that we have a
reason for caring about one another in general, for attaching any signifi-
cance to the fact that some things on earth manifest forms of life, and that
some of these, to speak so, have souls. I also say there that these possibil-
ities and necessities of our forms of life are nothing more and nothing less
than natural (having two chapters earlier gone to some lengths to show
that the distinction between the natural and the conventional is unstable).
Second, the characterization of the style of Philosophical Investigations as,
among other matters, a crossing of the genres of Dogmatics and

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Confession and Dialogue served, even in the space of a brief concluding

section, to establish for me the issue of Wittgenstein’s writing as one to
which I have never stopped turning my thoughts.
Third, the formulation, “Belief is not enough [in reacting, for example, to
Wittgenstein’s extraordinary remark, ‘If a lion could talk we could not
understand him’]. Either the suggestion penetrates past assessment and
becomes part of the sensibility from which assessment proceeds, or it is
philosophically useless” (p. 71) prepares the way for, years later, in Part
Four (the final, longest part) of The Claim of Reason, my recognition that at
some stage in that part, the role of the Investigations is no longer one of
being interpreted (cp. The Claim of Reason, p. xv). I would say now that this
recognition was one of finding that an object of interpretation has become
a means of interpretation, and the one because of the other. This became
true of Austin for me earlier than of Wittgenstein, and it seems to me true
in varying degrees of every writer (of what person or object not?) that
I have ever taken with seriousness. Some of course prove to be more
fruitful, or fateful, than others.
But while I had gained, from writing “The Availability of Wittgenstein’s
Later Philosophy,” what I felt was a usable sense of the depth of Philo-
sophical Investigations, I was still far from seeing how to articulate this sense
with the details of that text. I had, however, enough confidence now to
make a beginning of a new dissertation that had been forming in my mind
and in my notes on the relation between epistemology and ethics, or
knowledge and the justification of confrontation, call it the articulation
of the standing from which to question conduct and character, of oneself
and of another, in differentiation from the standing to confront claims to
knowledge. The main courses I offered in 1959-60, on Wittgenstein and on
moral philosophy, were conscious preparations for the writing out of the
ideas of the dissertation, so that when I began the consecutive writing, in
the fall of 1960, even though I was still teaching full time, the dissertation
was completed seven months later, namely before the remaining essays in
Must We Mean What We Say? were written.
I mark this moment by citing a formulation, out of sequence, that I find
related to those from “The Availability . . .,” namely from the Foreword to
Must We Mean What We Say?, the piece of the book that still seems to me to
speak for itself, written as its last, in 1968, within the opening phase of the
decades of intellectual turmoil throughout the humanities and their
related social sciences, that fill much of the remaining years of the twenti-
eth century. In that phase, the students’ call for “relevance” in their studies
was at its rawest and most relentless, and the formulation I have in mind is

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more or less obviously a response to that cry: “If philosophy is esoteric,

that is not because a few men guard its knowledge but because most men
guard themselves against it” (Must We Mean . . . ?, p. xxvii). It is at the
same time a good instance of my manner of invoking an arresting concept,
one that has halted me, like esotericism, whose pertinence I felt strongly in
connection with ordinary language practice (how could we become alien-
ated from the words closest to us?—but then again, from what others?),
but which I would not be able to speak about with much consequence
until years later. Of course there seems no way of telling in the moment of
such a formulation whether it is intellectually evasive or whether it is
understandably to be trusted. What justifies creating junctures at which
readers are asked to make such wagers one way or the other?
The academic year 1962–63, in transition to returning to teach at Har-
vard, was spent on sabbatical leave, and its first fruits were represented by
the third essay, “Aesthetic Problems of Modern Philosophy,” one of a
number invited from younger American philosophers to appear in a
volume called Philosophy in America. I chose the topic both to identify
myself with the arts, which somehow joined in forming my interest in a
life in philosophy (perhaps helped by my only once in six years of teaching
at Berkeley having taught a course in aesthetics, and then not satisfyingly,
and not again, it turned out, for twenty years), and more immediately
prompted by the idea of continuing the issue of my relation to my lan-
guage by relating it to Kant’s idea of my capacity to give objectivity to
aesthetic judgments, that is, to trace their distinctive source of necessity
and universality. This was meant to open a new path in the continuing
effort to illuminate the question whether my judgments of what I mean in
speaking (or generally in conducting myself) are a priori or a posteriori.
I had nothing further substantial to say about this until my interpretation
of criteria in the opening chapters of The Claim of Reason, where my
relation to my (ordinary) speech is in effect pictured as my chronic expatri-
ation from it, the result of philosophy’s uncontrolled search for, let’s say,
purity—as if what philosophy is compelled, like revolted Coriolanus, to
say to Rome is, “I banish you.”
Only in stages have I come to see that each of my ventures in and from
philosophy bears on ways of understanding the extent to which my
relation to myself is figured in my relation to my words. This establishes
from the beginning my sense that in appealing from philosophy to, for
example, literature, I am not seeking illustrations for truths philosophy
already knows, but illumination of philosophical pertinence that philoso-
phy alone has not surely grasped—as though an essential part of its task

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must work behind its back. I do not understand such appeals as “going
outside” philosophy.
I point to three formulations in “Aesthetic Problems of Modern Philoso-
phy” that have recurred often in my thoughts and that are characteristic of
something I can recognize as my manner, namely to introduce a remark in
a guise (calling attention to itself) meant to mark an intuition which I find
guiding, or whose obscurity or incompleteness is meant to be undisguised,
intended to remind myself in public, as it were, that I find significance here
that I have not earned, to which accordingly I know I owe a return. One
such formulation is meant to characterize a task of philosophy I find
proposed in Philosophical Investigations, one I call “undo[ing] the psycholo-
gizing of psychology” (“Aesthetic Problems . . .,” p. 91). This thought will
be taken further two years later in the essay on Kierkegaard (the sixth of
Must We Mean . . . ?). The formulation helped me in my ongoing bouts of
revising my dissertation, The Claim to Rationality, into what became The
Claim of Reason. It is specifically a way of thinking about what Wittgen-
steinian criteria and grammar do.
I point, second, to the formulation “Ordinary language philosophy is
about whatever ordinary language is about” (p. 95), which expresses a
desire of mine for philosophy, that it invites me to reason about anything
in my experience, anything I find of interest, from philosophy’s wish to
inhibit or discount certain interests (say in the arts) or to reform or escape
or limit to a minimum of distinct points its recourse to the ordinary, to
Beckett’s finding the extraordinary ordinary and Chekhov’s finding the
ordinary extraordinary.
A third formulation is “Nothing is more human than to deny them [viz.,
human necessities]” (p. 96). The human drive to the inhuman, tempting
philosophy to the monstrous, is as reasonable and uncompromised a
statement of the subject of Part Four of The Claim of Reason, as any other
I have found. That part is in effect a small book, reflecting on the larger
book to which, as it were, it is irreversibly bound, and lies in the back-
ground of much of the work I have done since then.
“Austin At Criticism,” the fourth essay of Must We Mean What We Say?,
was the result of an invitation for a review-essay of Austin’s Philosophical
Papers, published in 1962, two years after Austin’s death at the age of
forty-eight; the essay does not disguise a concluding tone fitting a memor-
ial address. My wish to articulate my undiminished, life-changing grati-
tude for Austin’s innovations seemed to require articulating my sense of
Austin’s refusal (as it struck me) to draw consequences from those innov-
ations that did justice to their radicality. What I found lacking is suggested

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in the essay’s idea of “terms of criticism,” meant to show that Austin’s

charges or images of philosophers as lazy, wily, drunk with arrogance, etc.
cannot, on his own grounds, be taken with philosophical seriousness. On
the contrary, they encourage the sense that the appeal to the ordinary is
trivial, or eccentric, directed against at most marginal errors in philosoph-
ical practice. In The Claim of Reason, my charge against Austin is centered
on his misconceived claim that his work defeated what I came to call the
threat of skepticism. So I want to add here that Austin’s work has in recent
years taken on renewed significance for me, in various ways: as I came to
appreciate more deeply than I had in the past his work on the performa-
tive utterance I wished to protect it somewhat from Derrida’s distinct but
limited admiration of it (in “Signature, Event, Context”) and somewhat
from its subsequent reception in what in Cultural Studies is called per-
formance theory, where Austin’s work plays a more explicit role than for
the moment it plays in professional philosophy (where his name is less
often mentioned than his work is assumed—his memory lives under what
is for me a puzzling grudge); and more recently I have broached the issue
of the relation of Austin’s treatment of what he calls “slips,” in his great
essay “Excuses,” with what Freud calls slips in The Psychopathology of
Everyday Life, both thinkers seeing the condition of the human as
immersed in a sea of responsibility, Austin wishing to limit responsibility
in a way that allows civilized discourse and conduct to continue, Freud to
expand it so radically as to require a new vision of the human, of its
inevitable turnings from itself that threaten civilized intercourse, as well
as of its powers to reason, in unexpected forms, with these threats, to
turn back.
I postpone for a moment considering the fifth essay, on Beckett, to
mention the three philosophical essays that follow it, the sixth on
Kierkegaard, and the seventh and eighth on music. The concluding para-
graph of the Kierkegaard essay now reads to me as a response to various
issues of meaning what we say, from the sense of Wittgenstein’s percep-
tion of us as, in philosophizing (hence when not?), estranged from our
words, to Heidegger’s identification of the everyday as caught up in
inauthentic speech, what he (and Kierkegaard, and Nietzsche) calls some-
thing like “chatter.” The main purpose of the pair on music is to lay out
explicitly some issues of the modern, a concept, or perhaps it is hardly
more than a recurrent experience of the world and the philosophy it calls
for (and the art, and what institution not?) as having decisively but not yet
intelligibly changed, as having become strange, that keeps making its
appearance throughout the essays of Must We Mean What We Say? Why,

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although I seem to recall reading music before I could read words, I have
not written about music again until fairly recently, and increasingly, is
something I am beginning to write about.
The ninth essay, “Knowing and Acknowledging,” written in response to
an invitation to respond to Norman Malcolm’s essay “The Privacy of
Experience,” represents a decisive step in the line of philosophical work
represented by what precedes it. Malcolm’s philosophical honesty and his
admiration for Wittgenstein’s achievements prompted from me reaffirm-
ations simultaneously of my roots in analytical philosophy as well as of
my conviction in Wittgenstein’s criticism of that mode of philosophizing.
Acknowledgment became a recurrent theme of my work from the time of
its isolation for attention in “Knowing and Acknowledging” and provides,
together with the essay that follows it, on King Lear (“The Avoidance of
Love”) the title of Part Four of The Claim of Reason (“Between Acknow-
ledgment and Avoidance”). Its formulation of the skeptic’s plight as one
which in mortality, let’s call it, presents itself as sort of limitation, “a
metaphysical finitude as an intellectual lack” (p. 262), is one I invoke
periodically in later work where I speak of “the threat of skepticism” as
a sort of human compulsion to over-intellectuality (not simply a Faustian
desire to know everything but a demonic will to measure every relation
against that of knowing), as it were a natural weakness (to say the least) of
the creature enamored of its intelligence.
The Lear essay, the tenth and last of the book, together with the essay on
Beckett’s Endgame, “Ending the Waiting Game’’—the two essays, what-
ever degree of philosophicality they are granted, distinguished from the
rest and linked by their constituting readings of incontestably literary
works—make up almost two-fifths of the pages of Must We Mean What
We Say? They were not invited by any field, indeed it was after the Beckett
essay had been praised and turned down for publishing by several liter-
ary/cultural journals (with requests either to shorten it for an article or
lengthen it for a book) that I recognized it would have to help me make its
own home. At some point in composing the Lear material I felt I saw what
this home was going to be. Both of these essays originated in lectures on
their respective plays that I had assigned in the large lecture course that
the Harvard Department of Philosophy offered in what was called, from
1945 to 1979, General Education; from that time it was replaced in stages
by a differently conceived Core Curriculum. Both programs were sophis-
ticated versions of a “distribution requirement” and meant to shape a
measure of intellectual community among the undergraduate body at
large. I thought of my contribution as a course in reading, a skill prior to

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the ability to distinguish among fields of study, and of its mission as

providing an introduction to philosophy for those who may or may not
go (or have gone) on to a career in the profession of philosophy. But these
intentions do not in themselves warrant calling these somewhat unplace-
able essays philosophical.
My sense that they are to be understood so arose negatively from the
realization that they fit into no standing idea of a literary essay, a sense
confirmed explicitly in recent years by several literary scholars and critics
of Shakespeare who have reported their experience of strangeness upon
encountering the Lear piece when it first appeared. Positively, it would not
be until completing The Claim of Reason that I could claim explicitly of a
Shakespearean tragic hero that his fate is bound up with a process phil-
osophy calls skepticism. And not until writing the Introduction to the
collection of my essays on six plays of Shakespeare, Disowning Knowledge,
in the mid-1980s, would I find that I could fully articulate the fact and the
way that the principal concepts that govern my reading of Othello, which
closes The Claim of Reason, though they are not marked as technical, had
been developed with increasing pertinence across the pages of the book
that precede it, in characterizing the process, or call it the problematic, of
skepticism with respect to the existence of others.
That the concepts which in my writing do the work of theory are not
distinguished as technical, or given technical restrictions, may be
expressed as saying that for philosophy, as I care about it most, ordinary
language is no less or more an object of interpretation than a means of
interpretation, and the one because of the other.
It could, I think, also justly be said of the texture and progress of the Lear
essay, which closes Must We Mean What We Say?, that it works out, in
terms developed in sketching the idea of acknowledgment in the essay
that precedes it, the consequences, which prove tragic, of the avoidance of
acknowledgment, work which as it were completes the analysis of
acknowledgment as philosophy had come upon it. But that evidently
was not something the author of Must We Mean What We Say? was capable
then of saying. In that sense he can be said not to have known what he
was doing.
What I did seem to know about what I was doing, namely, that I was
glad to have reached the point of entrusting a book to the world (some-
thing my teacher Austin had never done, something a number of philoso-
phers I admired in my generation working in relation to analytical
philosophy had never done, have until now, I believe, not done),
I indicated in the Foreword to Must We Mean What We Say?, where my

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tone of, let me say, anxious elation, as of finding myself roughly intact,
dreams evidently alive after many chances to disparage them, seems to
have found responsive chords in others who have also had to be patient
longer than they had figured to begin to see their attraction to philosophy
manifest itself in work of their own, in however unpredictable forms. This
unpredictability may be linked with my impression, mentioned near the
beginning of this new Preface, that with the appearance of Must We Mean
What We Say? even the public discussion of its opening two papers
subsided—as if I had put together a book in such a way that it asked to
be accepted or rejected as a whole. While I cannot deny such an impulse in
myself, I must add that it also makes me happy to learn that the individual
parts of it continue to find acceptance sufficient to warrant the reissuing of
the whole.
I did discover something further a year after completing the book, on a
fellowship at Wesleyan’s Humanities Center, about the effect on myself of
putting the book behind me, or perhaps I should say, of having it to stand
behind. Its independence of me freed me for I suppose the most product-
ive, or palpably so, nine months of my life, in which I recast the salvage-
able and necessary material of my Ph.D. dissertation as the opening three
parts of what would become The Claim of Reason and completed small
books on film (The World Viewed) and Thoreau (The Senses of Walden).
I consider those small books to form a trio with Must We Mean What We
Say?, different paths leading from the same desire for philosophy. I think
of Must We Mean . . . ? as a lucky book, not because, as in other instances, it
came so quickly, or else with so much difficulty that it is easy to imagine
its never coming to pass. I call it, on its title page, a Book of Essays, having
found that the interaction of the essays, despite the differences of their
causes, have the feel of a sequence of chapters as much as a collection of
independent texts. It is a texture I am glad of and feel lucky to have
managed, supposing it is there; but lucky most distinctly in not having
had, for institutional or professional reasons, to rush a book into print
before I had one I felt lucky in having. (It would have been nice for me if
this had all happened years earlier than it did; but that would have
required a different life, nicer or not.)
My gratitude to the book in hand, associated with this surprise at its
existence, is somehow expressed in a fact I learned of some years after
hearing little about any consequences its publication may have had,
namely, that two large libraries, one on each coast, had listed the book
among those that had been repeatedly stolen, and consequently were no
longer to be reordered for their catalogues. Moved as I am by the fantasm

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