Académique Documents
Professionnel Documents
Culture Documents
edited by
David Macarthur
First printing
10. What the Spilled Beans Can Spell: The Difficult and Deep
Realism of William James 159
Hilary Putnam and Ruth Anna Putnam
Acknowledgments 465
Index 469
Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce, 8 vols. Ed. Charles Hartshorne, Paul
Weiss, and Arthur W. Burks. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1931–1958.
Vols. 1–6 ed. Charles Hartshorne and Paul Weiss (1931–1935); vols. 7–8 ed.
Arthur W. Burks (1958).
The Works of William James, 17 vols. Ed. Frederick H. Burkhardt, Fredson Bowers,
and Ignas K. Skrupskelis. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975–1988.
The Collected Works of John Dewey, 1882–1953, 37 vols. Ed. Jo Ann Boydston.
Produced by the Center for Dewey Studies, Southern Illinois University, Carbondale.
3: 1903–1906, Essays
4: 1907–1909, Essays, Moral Principles in Education
5: 1908, Ethics
6: 1910–1911, Essays, How We Think
7: 1912–1914, Essays, Interest and Effort in Education
8: 1915, Essays, German Philosophy and Politics, Schools of Tomorrow
9: 1916, Democracy and Education
10: 1916–1917, Essays
11: 1918–1919, Essays
12: 1920, Essays, Reconstruction in Philosophy
13: 1921–1922, Essays
14: 1922, Human Nature and Conduct
15: 1923–1924, Essays
The Later Works of John Dewey, 1925–1953, 17 vols. Carbondale: Southern
Illinois University Press, 1985.
1: 1925, Experience and Nature
2: 1925–1927, Essays, The Public and its Problems
3: 1927–1928, Essays
4: 1929, The Quest for Certainty
5: 1929–1930, Essays, The Sources of a Science Education, Individualism,
Old and New, and Construction and Criticism
6: 1931–1932, Essays
7: 1932, Ethics, rev. ed.
8: 1933, Essays, How We Think, rev. ed.
9: 1933–1934, Essays, A Common Faith
10: 1934: Art as Experience
11: 1935–1937, Essays, Liberalism and Social Action
12: 1938, Logic: The Theory of Inquiry
13: 1938–1939, Essays, Experience and Education, Freedom and Culture,
and Theory of Valuation
14: 1939–1941: Essays
15: 1942–1948: Essays
16: 1949–1952: Essays, Knowing and the Known
17: 1885–1953, Essays
Citations from these volumes will appear in the form:
Dewey, ——— Works, vol., page.
sensus, its antirealist treatment of statements about the past). Ruth Anna
Putnam complements this treatment by showing the systematic concerns of
James’s philosophy, exploring the connection between James’s religious com-
mitments and his controversial idea that, sometimes, we have a right to
commit to some truth on passional grounds.
In general, both of our authors are keen to provide (and provoke in their
readership) a just appreciation of James and Dewey against a perception of
them as being curiously underappreciated or slighted in academic philo-
sophical circles. Nonetheless, the Putnams assiduously follow the experi-
mental fallibilist approach of James and Dewey themselves by subjecting the
writings of these champions of pragmatism, as well as many other philoso-
phers and commentators, to searching criticism (e.g., Austin, Bradley,
Brandom, Carnap, Cavell, Emerson, Flanagan, Fodor, Gibbard, Goodman,
Haldane, Harris, Hookway, Lamberth, McDowell, McIntyre, Meyers,
Moody-Adams, Murdoch, Nozick, Quine, Rawls, Rorty, Royce, Russell,
Sartre, Sen, F. C. S. Schiller, Taylor, Weber, West, Westbrook, B. Williams,
and Wittgenstein). Philosophy, as Dewey and the Putnams conceive and
practice it, is “criticism of criticisms.”7
4. Another notable feature of this collection is the sense that both Hilary
and Ruth Anna Putnam have that one can find in the writings of James and
Dewey, in particular, the materials for what Hilary Putnam elsewhere de-
scribes as the “third enlightenment.”8 Like the great Enlightenment thinkers
of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, pragmatists want to do justice
to both the scientific forms of intelligibility associated with the rise of the
natural sciences in the modern world and the ideal-involving intelligibility
associated with our various moral and religious images of the world.
According to the Putnams, pragmatism represents a more enlightened en-
lightenment in its unprecedented understanding of the social and experi-
mental character of reason—putatively overcoming apriorism, skepticism,
and scientism—and in its appreciation of the need for philosophy to work
cally sensitive experimentalist methodology, the two most important ideas are,
first, the need to overcome the widespread assumption of a fact/value dualism
in contemporary culture and science—a metaphysical assumption that often
finds support from both working scientists and “naturalist” philosophers.
Hilary Putnam provides a powerful epistemological argument against this
dogma, showing that what we call “facts” presuppose epistemic values (e.g.,
simplicity, reasonableness, coherence, Occam’s razor). Ruth Anna Putnam
provides a complementary ethical argument, exploring the reality and factual
basis of moral values in our valuings. Together they make the point that while
it is possible for certain purposes to distinguish some facts from some values
e.g., a scientist might work on building an atomic bomb or synthesizing a
chemical agent without considering the human costs of its military applica-
tion, the possibility of such local and specific fact/value distinctions provides
no support for a universal (or metaphysical) fact/value dichotomy that is pre-
sumed to be fixed and absolute, casting all facts on one side and all values on
the other. In order to stake out their ideas in this difficult terrain, they fight
the twin tendencies toward incredible “realisms” and unlivable “skepticisms.”
The second important lesson is the need for us to take seriously what Hilary
Putnam calls “the agent point of view,” especially when philosophizing. In
light of Ruth Anna Putnam’s work it is, perhaps, more perspicuously thought
about as the ethical point of view—though that needs immediate qualifica-
tion. The difficulty of understanding their teaching is indicated by the fact that
the philosophy of (ethical) value they espouse cannot be plotted on any known
philosophical map. It is like the fabled Terra Australis of early Renaissance ge-
ographers: it is not a form of moral realism (or Platonism or intuitionism), nor
moral skepticism, nor moral subjectivism, nor moral relativism, nor moral
naturalism, and so on. Thus Hilary Putnam remarks, “What we want is an
ethical standard external to the subjective opinions of any one thinker, but not
external to all thinkers or all life.”11 We have no name for this heady mix of
independence and dependence. The present volume is, then, a provocation to
investigate this unique pragmatist vision of value that the Putnams have done
us the great service of uncovering for our serious consideration.
7. Furthermore, the role of the moral philosopher is here radically recon-
ceived. No more is the moral philosopher seen as an expert wielding abstract
and universal moral principles and rules from some imagined position of
authority.12 For the pragmatist writing about ethics does not presume to any
special knowledge or insight or training. Our authors presume no authority
and openly admit that they can do no better than accept that, despite having
limited knowledge, fallible capacities, and disruptive human passions, it is
still worth the effort to engage in philosophical criticism of what we should
do in order to overcome the domination of the poor by the rich, or the weak
by the strong, as well as countering our all-too-familiar tendencies to
self-aggrandizement or complacent and consoling myths. As Hilary Putnam
puts it, the “idea that we must not be afraid of offering our own philosophic
picture, even though we know that our picture is fallible (and based on ‘our
own ideals’) and that it always needs to be discussed with and by others,
seems to me much needed at a time when the image of philosophy as a sort
of final authority still dominates so much moral philosophy.”13
8. It is from this enigmatic ethical standpoint that we should understand
Hilary Putnam’s extraordinary capacity to address the complexities of philo-
sophical debate in ordinary jargon-free language. So, too, the personal en-
gagement of Ruth Anna Putnam’s ‘voice’ and its plethora of real-life exam-
ples: of tragic poverty; or Gauguin’s leaving his family to pursue his artistic
ideals; or the short-sightedness of U.S. government policy decisions con-
cerning welfare; or the extreme intolerance and inhumanity of Nazism. The
quiet simmering passion and confronting plainspokenness of this writing
implicates and involves its readers—who are addressed face-to-face at eye
level as equals in an ongoing conversation akin to the conversations of
Socrates in the midst of some Athenian street or marketplace from within
the very midst of life.14
9. Without a theory/practice dichotomy or a clearly circumscribable
realm of “the moral,” pragmatism becomes an unheard-of way of life that
12. James writes that “there is no such thing possible as an ethical philosophy dog-
matically made up in advance”; see “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life,” The
Will to Believe, in Works, 6:141–162, 156–157.
13. Chapter 21 of this volume.
14. Ruth Anna Putnam elsewhere remarks, “Moral progress consists largely in the
extinction of ideals of domination and exclusion by ideals of equality and inclusion”;
see “Some of Life’s Ideals,” The Cambridge Companion to William James, ed. Ruth Anna
Putnam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 282–299, 296.
The collection is divided into three sections: the first concerns essays that ar-
ticulate the general vision of pragmatism that the Putnams endorse—that is,
the pragmatism they associate with the promise of a “third enlightenment”;
the second concerns specific problems in the interpretation of the writings of
James and Dewey; e.g., James on partial and absolute truth, Dewey on the
relation between knowledge and the known; and the third explicates and
discusses the importance of the ethical point of view from which both James
and Dewey philosophize, as well as defending “the sort of wide democracy
that James and Dewey championed in their day, and that seems to [us] to be
the most important social ideal.”16 Here it is worth recalling Dewey:
Democracy as compared with other ways of life is the sole way of living which
believes wholeheartedly in the process of experience as end and as means; as
that which is capable of generating the science which is the sole dependable
authority for the direction of further experience and which releases emotions,
needs and desires so as to call into being the things that have not existed in the
past. For every way of life that fails in its democracy limits the contacts, the
exchanges, the communications, the interactions by which experience is
steadied while it is also enlarged and enriched. The task of this release and
enrichment is one that has to be carried on day by day. Since it is one that can
have no end till experience itself comes to an end, the task of democracy is
forever that of creation of a freer and more humane experience in which all
share and to which all contribute.17
and Deweyan spirit, was his way of life: a world-renowned intellect who was
humble and kind, open-minded and warmly responsive to other people, pre-
pared to share his wisdom with anyone and everyone in order to bring about
a better tomorrow. In the world of academic philosophy he refused to fixate
(out of fear or fame or pride) on one or more “positions.” No one has a more
opened-up mind. He had the courage and pioneering hope to always think
anew––adjusting his thinking and feeling and valuing to an ever-changing
world. This volume is dedicated with deep affection to his memory.
—David Macarthur
LET ME SAY , right off the bat, that I do not know what it means today to
be a pragmatist. Richard Rorty calls himself a pragmatist, but I am in-
clined to think that his pragmatism is profoundly different from that of,
say, John Dewey. The key words in Dewey’s philosophy, as I understand it,
are ‘interaction’ and ‘inquiry’; the key words in Rorty’s recent philosophy
are ‘conversation’ and ‘solidarity’. Not that Dewey would not approve of
conversation and solidarity—both are essential to inquiry—but he would
insist that what prompts the inquiry and what must be its ultimate upshot
is experience, that is, interactions between a human organism and its envi-
ronment. I have been puzzled for years why Rorty fails to note the role of
experience in Dewey’s thinking; the word ‘experience’ occurs in the titles
of several of Dewey’s most important later books. Nor is this emphasis on
experience unique to Dewey; we find it as well in the philosophies of Peirce
and of James.
So perhaps I ought to consider another contemporary philosopher, say,
Hilary Putnam. He certainly does not ignore inquiry, and while I do not
recall frequent occurrences of the word ‘interaction’ in his writings, he has
been emphasizing the importance of practice, or the agent’s point of view.
And like Rorty, he frequently refers to the works of one or the other of the
great pragmatists. But Hilary Putnam has said in recent lectures, “I am not
it for granted, for example, that we sometimes think of the same building,
and that we can sometimes communicate this fact to each other, and so we
sometimes succeed in meeting at an appointed time in a certain place.
But this is not the place to elaborate on pragmatist epistemology or prag-
matist philosophy of language or of mind. For the way in which pragmatists
take the existence of other people seriously—and it is, of course, significant
that I say “other people” rather than “other minds”—is more basic. I men-
tioned above that Peirce rejects Cartesian doubt. The other thing Peirce does
in his seminal paper “The Fixation of Belief “ is to examine what he calls
“methods of inquiry” and to reject three of them before he comes to the
scientific method.
What interests me here about Peirce’s comments on these other methods,
methods that do not fix belief as a result of experience, is that he says that
they succumb to the social impulse rather than that they succumb to expe-
rience. Why does he say that? Well, to the extent that one’s beliefs are altered
in the light of contrary experience one is following the scientific method. So
what Peirce is asking is what will move someone from a dogmatically held
belief, a belief which one claims to be immune to falsification, if one is not
willing to count any sense experience as contrary evidence, or if the belief is
such that no sense experience could count as contrary evidence? And his
answer is that it will be one’s coming to see that these beliefs are not shared
by others. Thus, one may have accepted the religious beliefs of one’s commu-
nity until one discovers that other people have different religious beliefs, or
none at all, and that will cause one to rethink these matters. Or one may
have been persuaded by Descartes until one discovers other philosophers
who question Cartesian assumptions.
But this is not just a piece of clever psychology, for two quite distinct
reasons. On the one hand Peirce holds that we cannot defend our beliefs
using the scientific method to fix beliefs and using the probabilities so estab-
lished to guide our conduct unless we are interested not in our own success
but in the success of humanity as a whole or, as Peirce would say, the com-
munity of inquirers indefinitely prolonged. On the other hand, and this
holds whether or not one accepts Peirce’s theory of truth, all pragmatists
insist on the social character of inquiry. What is wrong with the Cartesian
question “How do I know that there is an external world?” is not only that
it reflects an unreal doubt but that it assumes that this doubt can be laid to
rest by a single individual. Of course, if one takes the Cartesian doubt seri-
ously one would have to take the solipsism seriously as well. But even if one
does not take Cartesian doubt seriously, there are times when one doubts
one’s own objectivity, and only others (and thus one’s trust in these others)
can lay such doubts to rest. Finally, and commonsensically, all our knowl-
edge is built upon foundations laid by our predecessors, and most of our
new knowledge depends on the work of communities of inquirers.
So to take pragmatism seriously is to take oneself to be living in a world
that one shares with others, others with whom one cooperates in inquiry,
others with whom one may compete for scarce resources or with whom
one may cooperate in seeking to achieve common goals. It is to see oneself
not as a spectator of but as an agent in the world. And that means that one
often confronts the question “What is to be done?” In other words, I have
finally come to the problems of human beings. What then does it mean to
take pragmatism seriously when one confronts moral and social problems?
First of all, it means that one does not see a sharp distinction between
moral problems on one side and social or political problems on the other;
every social or political problem is a moral problem. Second, it means that
one does not see a sharp distinction between moral problems and other
problems, or between moral inquiry and other inquiry. A moral problem
is a problem; the same methods of inquiry apply here as in the case of, say,
an engineering problem or a physics problem. In Dewey’s language it is to
reject the distinction between means and ends, to replace it by a means/
ends continuum. Dewey speaks of ends-in-view rather than ends simplic-
iter, for we may discover as we seek to realize our ends-in-view that the
price we would have to pay is too high, that we must modify or even aban-
don our cherished goal. Or we may discover, having achieved our goal,
that we now confront worse problems than before. Think, for example, of
the environmental problems we have created in the process of raising our
standards of living.
Dewey says, more than once, morality is social. That seems obvious—
how could there be morality unless there were people interacting, having
to do with each other, taking an interest, not necessarily benevolent, in
each other? But consider how philosophers have approached morality
since the Enlightenment, since they understood that morality is a human
enterprise. In morality more than anywhere else, we have taken seriously
Kant’s injunction “Für sich selber denken”—think for yourself! Of course,
taking pragmatism seriously does not mean giving up on thinking for one-
self, on rejecting blind faith in an authority. But thinking for oneself does
not mean “thinking by oneself.” In morality, as in science, inquiry is a co-
operative enterprise. Subjectivity in the sense of giving too much weight to
one’s own interests, or in the sense of taking one’s own perspective as the
only perspective, can be avoided only by engaging with others, with all
relevant others. Finally, and I have hinted at this already, taking pragma-
tism seriously is to reject the fact/value distinction—that is, to deny that
that distinction will bear any ontological or epistemological weight. I have
already indicated that value inquiry is like scientific inquiry; I need only to
add that there is no scientific inquiry that does not involve the making of
value judgments, not only judgments of relevance and reliability, but judg-
ments that something is interesting, is worth one’s while pursuing, etc. To
gesture at just one way in which the fact/value distinction does not bear
ontological weight, I might just suggest that our moral codes (or the im-
plicit norms that guide our conduct), like our scientific theories, are means
by which we find our way in this complex world so full of opportunities
and of dangers; they are, each in its own way, products of human ingenu-
ity, as are our tools, from Stone Age choppers to the latest automated
machine. We do not question the reality of the latter; why should we ques-
tion the reality (call it objectivity) of the former? That’s what taking prag-
matism seriously means to me: to try to philosophize in ways that are rel-
evant to the real problems of real human beings.
Reply
2. Richard Rudner, who was a Churchman student, later published a famous article
explaining this connection: “The Scientist Qua Scientist Makes Value Judgments,” The
Philosophy of Science 20, no. 1 (1953): 1–6.
Hilary Putnam
PRAGMATISM is a very large subject. My aim in this essay is not a survey, and
certainly not an overall evaluation of the movement’s insights and errors.
Instead, I want to examine those insights and errors with respect to just one
issue—an issue which was of central importance to the pragmatists, but by
no means only to the pragmatists: verificationism.
1. The pragmatist who is supposed to have held this theory most explicitly is, of
course, William James. For my account of the extremely complicated view that James
actually had, see Chapter 11 (“James’s Theory of Truth”) of this volume.
Consider what effects, that might conceivably have practical bearing, we con-
ceive the object of our conception to have. Then our conception of these ef-
fects is the whole of our conception of the object.2
In the paragraph that precedes the statement of the pragmatic maxim, Peirce
identifies these “effects that might have practical bearing” with “sensible ef-
fects.”3 And his application of the maxim in that paragraph (a criticism of
the Catholic doctrine of the “real presence” of Jesus’s flesh and blood in the
Eucharist) shows that he takes the pragmatic maxim to imply that there can
be no difference in conceptions where there is no difference in the sensible
effects that we suppose would obtain if one or the other of those conceptions
were to be correct.
All this sounds very much like the logical positivists’ “verification princi-
ple,” and, indeed, Carnap and Reichenbach assumed that that was more or
less what the pragmatists had been trying to state. Yet there are a number of
important differences between the ways in which the pragmatists under-
stood their maxim and the ways in which the positivists understood the
verification principle.
First of all, although it later moved away from its initial phenomenal-
ism, logical positivism began with the idea that knowledge must be re-
duced to the knowledge (by the subject, conceived of as a single isolated
individual) of sense data, which were initially conceived of as a “given”
incorrigible foundation. The movement was committed to the epistemo-
logical priority of the “Eigenpsychisch” and to “methodological solipsism.”
(As Neurath remarked, it is hard to explain how “methodological solip-
sism” differs from real solipsism.) Secondly, logical positivism began with
the idea that to be meaningful an idea must be capable of conclusive verifi-
cation.4 (In 1936–1937 Carnap described how the positivists moved away
2. Peirce, “How to Make Our Ideas Clear,” in Collected Papers, 5:388–410, 402.
3. Ibid., 401.
4. Rudolf Carnap, Der Logische Aufbau der Welt (Hamburg: Meiner, 1961); unal-
tered reprint of the 1928 text.
from this position—and one sees from his account what a struggle that
took.)5
Such ideas were anathema to the pragmatists from the beginning. As early
as 1868 in his “Questions concerning Certain Faculties Claimed for Man,”
Peirce claimed, “We have no Power of Introspection, but all knowledge of
the internal world is derived by hypothetical reasoning from our knowledge
of external facts.”6 Moreover, in every one of his writings, Peirce emphasizes
the importance of conceiving of the knowing subject as a community. But
the difference from the positivists is even greater when we come to the issue
of conclusive verification. The positivists began with the idea that the unit of
verification or falsification was the individual sentence. But from the very
first, the pragmatists applied their pragmatic maxim to whole metaphysical
systems and to ethical and religious beliefs as well as to scientific utterances
and theories. Thus it is that William James could write, “In every genuine
metaphysical debate some practical issue, however conjectural and remote is
involved.”7 Thus it is that in his Cambridge Conference Lectures, Peirce
could propose a metaphysical system many of whose assertions one could
not hope to test in isolation, but with the intention that it should (and in
fact it does) make predictions about the geometry of space and about other
cosmological issues; the whole idea is that a naturalistic metaphysics can and
should be confirmable in this way.8 In short, for the positivists, the whole
idea was that the verification principle should exclude metaphysics (even if
they were mistaken in thinking that their own ideas were simply scientific
and not metaphysical), while for the pragmatists the idea was that it should
apply to metaphysics, so that metaphysics might become a responsible and
significant enterprise. There is all the difference in the world between these
attitudes.
My sympathy with the pragmatists in this dispute does not mean that I ac-
cept verificationism, even in the very liberal sense in which pragmatism is
committed to a kind of verificationism.9 An example is the following: con-
sider the statement that a physical system of a certain kind (one whose exis-
tence is improbable but not actually excluded by physical laws as far as we
know)—say a system of 100 stars arranged at the vertices of a regular 100-
gon, in a region of space otherwise free of stars—does not happen to exist
anywhere in space-time. It could, of course, be the case that there is some
presently unknown law which we do not know which prohibits such a for-
mation; but this seems unlikely. Let us assume that this is not the case, and
that there is a small finite probability of such a system existing in many dif-
ferent parts of the space-time universe. Especially if the whole space-time
universe is finite, it could nevertheless be the case that such a system just
doesn’t happen to occur. It follows from our present scientific world-picture itself
that there is no way we could know that this is the case if it is. After all, we
cannot have any causal interaction of any kind with space-time regions out-
side our light cone (i.e., with regions such that a signal from those regions
would have to travel faster than light to reach us). There is no point in space-
time from which it is possible for beings who have to rely on physical signals
for their information to survey all of space-time. We can know that there are
some things which are possible (possible according to our scientific
world-picture itself ), but which are such that if they are the case, then we
cannot know that they are the case. If the statement:
(I) There do not happen to be any stars arranged as the vertices of a regular
100-gon (in a region of space otherwise free of stars).
9. This represents a change in views which I held for a number of years; a fuller
account of those views, and of my reasons for giving up some of them—in particular,
verificationism—can be found in my Replies and Comments to C. Hill, “The
Philosophy of Hilary Putnam,” Philosophical Topics 21, no. 1 (Spring 1992), as well as
in my “Sense, Nonsense, and the Senses: An Inquiry into the Powers of the Human
Mind” (Dewey Lectures, 1994), The Journal of Philosophy 91, no. 9 (September 1994):
445–517.
is true, there is no way in which we could know that it is true. Yet to con-
clude from the fact that, in the context of our present scientific world-picture,
(I) has no “consequences that might conceivably have practical bearing”
that are not consequences of
(II) No one will ever encounter any causal signals from a group of stars ar-
ranged as the vertices of a regular 100-gon (in a region of space otherwise free
of stars).
and that therefore (I) and (II) have the same meaning—or, better, that the
conjunction of (I) with our present scientific world-picture has the same
meaning as the conjunction of (II) with our present scientific world-pic-
ture—would obviously be a mistake.
Peirce would almost certainly have responded that, if there are no stars
arranged in this way, then this is something that we could and would find
out eventually if inquiry were indefinitely prolonged. But this assumes (1) that
future time is infinite—something we are no longer willing to postulate, and
(2) that no information is ever irretrievably destroyed—something which
also contradicts our present physical theories (though not, of course, the
physical theories of Peirce’s time).10 Peirce’s own pragmatic maxim rested on
a scientific world-picture important parts of which we no longer accept. (In
view of Peirce’s desire that his metaphysics should itself be testable, the fact
that he was making empirical assumptions should not have bothered
Peirce—given his strong and repeatedly expressed commitment to falli-
bilism, he might have been delighted to find himself refuted in this way.)
This brings me to my real topic: why I believe that, notwithstanding the
fact that we cannot say that conformity to any verification principle, includ-
ing the pragmatists’ “pragmatic maxim,” is even a necessary condition for
meaningfulness (or even a necessary condition for sameness of meaning, for
that matter), there is, nonetheless, an insight in pragmatism. This is a con-
troversial issue, as well as a difficult one, and it will take the remainder of my
time, not, indeed, to do it justice (that would take a much longer essay than
this one), but to sketch the reasons for saying what I just said—that there is
some insight in verificationism.
10. Hawking has shown that there is irrecoverable loss of information in black
holes.
Because the issue is a subtle one, I shall proceed by the method of successive
approximations. Here is a first approximation to an answer: the reason that
there is some insight in verificationism is that there is a conceptual connec-
tion between grasping an empirical concept and being able to recognize a
perceptually justified application of that concept.
Please note that even this first approximation to what I want to say does
not imply a number of familiar if problematic philosophical claims. It does
not imply, for example, that empirical concepts are reducible to perceptual
ones. Indeed, I have elsewhere argued that we should not think of talk of
“objects too small to see with the naked eye” as employing a different mean-
ing of the word ‘small’ than that involved in talk of one observable thing’s
being smaller than another; and the former kind of talk is clearly not bound
up with the kind of direct perceptual verification that is envisaged here (nor
can it be exhaustively analyzed in terms of indirect verification either, but
that is another story).11 It does not imply that perceptual claims themselves
are statable in some language that doesn’t presuppose the existence of “exter-
nal objects”—indeed, I have already pointed out that from the beginning
Peirce insisted that the language in which perceptual claims are stated does
presuppose the existence of external objects. It does not presuppose that
perceptual claims have “nonconceptual content.” All of the ‘Kantian’ points
on which Strawson has insisted (rightly, in my view) are fully compatible
with this claim.
Still, one of the reasons that this is only a first approximation to a correct
story should already be obvious from example (I) above. ‘Group of stars ar-
ranged as the vertices of a regular 100-gon’ is an empirical concept, and (it
seems) we grasp this concept without knowing what would justify its appli-
cation. But that is not quite right. What we do not know how to justify
(what seems to be impossible to justify, as a matter of physical necessity) is a
negative existential generalization involving the concept. But if we were in a
position to refer to something we saw in a telescope by the description “group
of stars arranged as the vertices of a regular 100-gon,” we would know how
to justify that referring use. So even in the case of an empirical concept that
(D) Group of stars outside our light cone arranged as the vertices of a regular
100-gon.
of us defer to experts. In the case of ‘bachelor’ the situation is much the same
as with respect to the descriptions just discussed—in fact, the definition of
‘bachelor’ (man who is eligible to be married but who has not ever been
married) involves a negative existential quantifier just as do the descriptions
we discussed (and under some circumstances one can perceptually falsify the
claim that someone is a bachelor—by witnessing the person being married,
although one cannot within a reasonable period of time perceptually verify
that someone is a bachelor). So a second and better approximation would
have to restrict the thesis to terms which are not analytically defined.
Terms with respect to which we defer to experts include both technical
terms in science and such terms as ‘elm’ or ‘beech’ (in the United States, at
least, most people cannot tell an elm from a beech, but anyone who knows
that ‘elm’ and ‘beech’ are the names of common sorts of deciduous trees counts
as understanding them). A third approximation would have to restrict the
thesis to terms which are not under expert control in this way. Still, the great
majority of the terms we employ are neither analytically defined nor such that
we need to call on an expert to advise us in their application in everyday use.
But is it really true, even with these exclusions, that the understanding of
even the most ordinary terms, say ‘chair’ or ‘cat’, is intimately connected
with verification—indeed, with perceptual justification? Here too, subtle
issues are involved. At first blush (and, in the end, the first blush answer is
largely right, or so I shall argue), the answer seems clear enough. Under
normal circumstances, to understand the word ‘chair’, for example, involves
knowing what chairs look like. But what of blind people? Yes, blind people
know how to recognize chairs by touch, and both blind and sighted people
know what it feels like to sit in a chair. Could one grasp the concept of a
chair, grasp our actual ordinary concept of a chair and not some made-up
substitute, and not know what chairs look like or what they feel like or what
it feels like to sit in one? The answer seems to be no.
Moreover, it is not just that normal possessors of the concept know what
chairs look like or feel like, etc.; they also know how to tell that they are in the
presence of a chair by means of these “sensible effects” (as Peirce called them).
In short, they have the practical ability to verify—to verify perceptually—
that they are in the presence of something that falls under the concept in
question. (The reference to being “in the presence” of something is closely
connected with the Strawsonian notion of reference, by the way, which is
why I believe that there is a Strawsonian route to my conclusions.)
In the end I believe that this is a correct line of argument, but there is an
important objection to it that I have to consider, one that will require a
careful examination of what we mean—or better, what we ought to mean in
philosophy—by speaking of a “conceptual connection” between abilities.
But first a word about my own reasons for being especially interested in this
topic.
As some of you know, for a number of years I defended the principle that
a statement is true if and only if its acceptance would be justified were epis-
temic conditions good enough. While I no longer accept this principle—our
consideration of (I) has shown us how it can have exceptions—I think it is
important to determine the extent to which it holds as well as to point out
instances in which it fails. And what I contend is that, in the case of the great
majority of our everyday assertions, assertions about the familiar objects and
persons and animals with which we interact, truth and idealized rational
acceptability do coincide. The reason that they so often coincide is not, how-
ever, that truth means idealized rational acceptability but that, first, it is
built into our picture of the world itself that these statements can be verified
under good enough conditions (when they are true); and, second, the exis-
tence of statements of this kind is a conceptual prerequisite of our being able
to understand a language at all. (Why this is a partial vindication of pragma-
tism is a subject to which I shall return.)
13. Jerry Fodor and Ernest Lepore, Meaning Holism: A Shopper’s Guide (Oxford:
Basil Blackwell, 1992).
14. For a criticism of this view, see my “Rethinking Mathematical Necessity,” in
Words and Life (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994), which also develops
the view of ‘conceptual’ truth urged here in more detail.
15. Josiah Royce, The World and the Individual (New York: Macmillan, 1901), and
Problems of Christianity (New York: Macmillan, 1916).
The leap from “there are conceptual truths” to “there are unrevisable truths”
(this is, of course, where the unstated Premise Two is needed!) is utterly un-
justified.
This is not to deny that Quine’s essay contains an important insight.
Many analytic philosophers did think that conceptual truths were somehow
unrevisably known to us, and against a notion of conceptual truth that car-
ries that consequence, Quine’s essay is a salutary and powerful corrective.
But against what I might call the pragmatist notion of conceptual truth it
has no force at all.
Indeed, even Premise One fails when A and B are words in different lan-
guages.16 Moreover, one must resist the tendency—which Premise One per-
haps exemplifies—to take every claim that something or other is a concep-
tual truth as a claim that some sentence or other is analytic. Certainly it is
unhappy to think of an arithmetical truth such as ‘5 + 7 ≠ 13’ as analytic
(either in the Kantian sense or, less metaphysically, in the sense of being a
“verbal” truth like “all bachelors are unmarried”); but, nonetheless, there is a
significant sense in which we can say that it is a conceptual truth that 5 + 7
≠ 13, namely that we simply do not understand what they would be asserting if
some people were to claim that five plus seven is sometimes thirteen, or that they
had just found out that five plus seven is sometimes thirteen.
Of course, it can sometimes happen that words to which we are not pres-
ently able to attach a sense turn out to have significance. At one time we
could attach no sense to the words “two straight lines can be perpendicular
to a third straight line and still meet at a point” (if intended as a serious
claim and not, say, as a part of a proof by reductio ad absurdum). It took the
invention of a whole new theory—more precisely, of a new kind of theory—
to give those words a sense, that is, to provide them with a use in which we
can see the sense. Once they had been provided with such a use, we could
also come to see that use, that “new sense,” as an inevitable extension of the
way they had always been used—a new sense, in this sense, is not the same
thing as a new meaning. But it is a matter of methodological importance, not
just of sociological fact, that some statements cannot be falsified unless
someone invents a kind of theory, or better, a kind of use of language that we
cannot presently foresee (and that we do not know whether any use of lan-
guage that involves saying that seven plus five sometimes equal thirteen
would be one which we could regard as an inevitable continuation of our
present uses of the words ‘seven’, ‘five’, ‘thirteen’, ‘plus’, ‘equals’, and ‘some-
times’).17
Similarly, when I say that there is a conceptual connection between un-
derstanding the concept ‘chair’ and being able to perceptually verify that one
is in the presence of a chair, I am not talking of analytic truths of the “all
bachelors are unmarried” variety—these bake no philosophical bread and
cut no philosophical ice—but of the limits of sense as we presently experi-
ence those limits in our lives and in our thought. That those limits may, in a
phrase from James, sometimes prove “casual”—that we may, in the future,
see how they could have been transgressed—does not make them philosoph-
ically insignificant or nonexistent.18
My point might also be expressed by saying that conceptual truths depend not
only on the interpretation of words but also on the interpretation of ways of
life.19 But even if one grants this, one might still doubt whether the particular
conceptual connections that I have claimed to find are really there. Let us see
if we can really perform the thought experiment of imagining a being who
grasps a concept of the sort that I have been talking about, say, the concept of
a chair, while having no idea of how to perceptually verify that something is a
chair, indeed, no idea of what chairs look like, feel like, etc.
If the being has sense organs like ours and imaginative capacities like
ours, then, even if we introduce the notion by means of a description, if
17. This is a better way to put it, because scientific revolutions do not just produce
new theories; they renegotiate the limits of what counts as a ‘theory’ at all.
18. James writes, “We call those things [Ptolemaic astronomy, Euclidean space,
Aristotelian logic, scholastic metaphysics] only relatively true, or true within those
borders of experience. ‘Absolutely’ they are false; for we know that those limits were
casual, and might have been transcended by past theorists just as they are by present
thinkers.” Pragmatism, in Works, 1:107.
19. Peirce famously said that man is a sign. Collected Papers, 6:344.
the being really and truly ‘grasps’ the concept it will acquire the ability to
tell that something is a chair when it does finally see one, or sit in one,
even if has not exercised that ability before. Indeed, if it cannot, then we
will doubt that it has truly grasped the concept. But let us imagine a
being that does not have such sense organs (and whose “mental images”
are not visual or tactile, etc., as ours are). The astronomer Dyson once
imagined intelligent beings whose bodies were gaseous nebuli. Such be-
ings would presumably have concepts of space and time, and be able to
learn the laws of physics; could we teach them to grasp our notion of a
chair by supplying a definition in terms of these highly abstract scientific
concepts?
If the answer is “Yes, we can already attach a clear sense to the notion of
doing that,” then a very large revision will be required in my claim that the
understanding of even the most ordinary term—say ‘chair’ or ‘cat’—is inti-
mately connected with justification. The claim will still be true, if what I
have so far argued is at all right, in the sense that understanding the term
‘chair’ or ‘cat’ will require—both in the case of the Nebulous People and in
our own case—the mastery of some empirical concepts whose use is linked
to perceptual verification, but it will be possible to make large alterations in
the system without removing the understanding of the concept ‘chair’, or
whatever. It will, we are supposing, be possible to understand it by an ex-
plicit description in terms of the fundamental notions of physics, where
those notions themselves can be given empirical content in an indefinite
variety of different ways. Understanding “this is a chair,” “this is a cat,” etc.,
will presuppose the ability to verify some perceptually controlled proposi-
tion or other, but exactly which perceptually controlled proposition will be
a matter about which very little can be said. My first approximation to a
formulation of the insight in verificationism will have been far too “molecu-
lar.” (Although there will have been an insight in verificationism, none the
less, namely that the grasp of concepts requires that there somewhere be an
ability to verify something.) But I shall argue that we need not retreat to
such an extreme holism.
My reasons for thinking that we cannot, in fact, presently make clear
sense of the idea of acquiring the notion of a chair (or whatever it may be)
in the manner just suggested are connected with a remark by the psycholo-
gist Eleanor Rosch, and a remark of Wittgenstein’s. Rosch at one time de-
fended a theory according to which we perceptually recognize chairs by see-
20. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, 2nd ed., trans. G. E. M.
Anscombe (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1958), §71.
21. “I can give the concept ‘number’ rigid limits . . . that is, use the word ‘number’
for a rigidly limited concept, but I can also use it so that the extension of the concept
is not closed by a frontier.” Ibid., §68.
if you like.22 I suggest that what has been called “conceptual analysis” is best
(re)conceived of as the description of the hinges on which the very under-
standing of our language turns.
I want to close with a word about the respects in which this is a partial vin-
dication of pragmatism. What I have defended is the idea that our grasp of
empirical concepts depends on our perceptual verification abilities.
I have emphasized that on the pragmatist picture perceptual verification
is not identified with knowledge of private objects and also does not involve
any sort of incorrigibility. To round out even this very preliminary examina-
tion of the pragmatic maxim, I need to mention one further fact. From the
earliest discussions in “The Metaphysical Club” in which Peirce, James,
Chauncey Wright, and others participated, the idea of ‘belief ’ as simply a
freestanding mental ability was resolutely opposed. The pragmatists one and
all saw beliefs as complex and multitracked habits of action. What is insight
and what is error in that formulation would require another essay at least as
long as this one! But certainly at least this much deserves to be listed on the
‘insight’ side of the ledger: a belief, even the belief that I am seeing a chair, is
not a self-identifying mental state. What identifies it as the belief that it is,
at least in part, is its connection with action—including, of course, further
intellectual action. The insistence, not just on the interdependence of our
grasp of truth-claims and our grasp of verification but also on the interde-
pendence of our conceptual abilities and our practical abilities, is at the heart
of pragmatism. Given the profound originality of their vision, it is hardly to
be wondered if the pragmatists sometimes depicted the relationships be-
tween these various abilities as simpler than they actually are. But they were
profoundly right in supposing that it is an important task of philosophy to
explore and describe their interdependence.
22. The comparison of propositions on which the language game turns to ‘hinges’
comes, of course, from Ludwig Wittgenstein, On Certainty, trans. and ed. G. E. M.
Anscombe and G. H. von Wright (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1969), §342.
Hilary Putnam
AS THE TITLE of this essay indicates, my concern will be with the ways in
which pragmatism is a unique metaphysical tradition. This is something I
have written about before, but in many quarters the idea still persists that
pragmatism must be either the denial (à la Rorty) that there is such a thing
as an objectively warranted idea or, on the other hand, just an outdated early
twentieth-century American movement with no real importance today.1 To
show that it is neither of these, I propose to compare pragmatism with, on
the one hand, the materialism or “naturalism” which dominates the thinking
of most analytic philosophers who do metaphysics and epistemology today
and, on the other hand, the traditional understanding (which goes back to
Aristotle) of what “metaphysics” is supposed to be. At the conclusion of this
essay I shall also say a few words about the respects in which pragmatism also
differs from European existentialism, a movement which shares pragma-
1. Materialism
2. Robert Brandom shares Rorty’s view that the pragmatists simply identified truth
with belief that satisfies the desires of the believer. In my reply to Brandom, I show that
this interpretation is “text free”—that is, it simply ignores what the pragmatists actu-
ally said. See “Comment on Robert Brandom’s Paper,” in Hilary Putnam: Pragmatism
and Realism, ed. James Conant and Urszula M. Zeglen (New York: Routledge, 2002),
59–65.
3. Dewey, The Quest for Certainty, in Later Works, 4:88 (emphasis added).
4. Bernard Williams’s views were set out at most length in Descartes: The Project of
Pure Enquiry (Hammondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin Books, 1978), and Ethics and the
Limits of Philosophy (London: Fontana, 1985). I criticized Williams’s views in Realism
with a Human Face (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), “Bernard
Williams and the Absolute Conception of the World,” in Renewing Philosophy
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), and Words and Life, ed. James
Conant (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994). Williams replied to these
criticisms in “Philosophy as a Humanistic Discipline,” Philosophy 75 (2000): 477–
496. I replied to this response in “Reply to Bernard Williams’s ‘Philosophy as a
Humanistic Discipline,’” Philosophy 76, no. 4 (October 2001): 605–614.
8. I say “end up” because earlier in that work he favors the project of accounting for
all the “perspectives” and the properties they project onto the world in absolute terms.
By the closing pages of the book (Williams, Descartes, 300–302), however, this enter-
prise has been ruefully renounced as too ambitious.
9. Ibid., 300 (emphasis added).
10. Donald Davidson, Inquiries into Truth and Interpretation (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1984), 228.
the hazy realm of “indeterminacy.” (In Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy
Williams says that ‘grass’ and ‘green’ are terms that would not occur in fin-
ished science!)11 As a consequence, this view would seem to banish such
“special sciences” as economics.
A similar criticism was made by the economist-philosopher Vivian Walsh,
who wrote:
2. Supervenience
American materialists are usually more coy about the real content of their
view than Bernard Williams was. Rather than say that the only terms that
would appear in a complete and nonperspectival account of reality are terms
for primary properties, they usually say that what Williams called the “per-
spectival” terms (including terms for psychological states) are “supervenient”
on the primary qualities.13 But what is “supervenience”?
The question is a difficult one, and the difficulty reminds me of an
episode in the history of late logical positivist philosophy of science. As
late as 1936, Rudolf Carnap still sought a way to “reduce” all the terms of
physics to “observation terms” such as ‘blue’ and ‘touches’ (for Carnap, as
later for Bernard Williams, physics was the paradigm of serious scientific
knowledge). But in 1939 Carnap gave up this project and settled for tak-
ing the “theoretical terms” of physics as primitives, while claiming that
there was still a profound difference between these terms, which, he said,
were only “incompletely” interpreted and the “completely” interpreted
observation terms.14 In a lecture titled “What Theories Are Not” that I
gave to an international congress in philosophy of science in 1960, I
explained:
I believe that the situation is very similar with respect to the term ‘superve-
nience’, except that in the case of this term many definitions have been
proposed. The problem, however, is that the term is used as if the definitions
in question entailed that the relation they define had certain properties, and
this is simply not the case!
Of the many definitions which have been proposed, the following pair
are by far the most common:
ble worlds, W1 and W2, such that the objects are the same in both worlds, and
their A-predicates are the same in both worlds, but their B-predicates are not
the same. In short, global supervenience means that global sameness of the distri-
bution of A-predicates necessitates global sameness of the distribution of
B-predicates.
16. See Jaap van Brakel, “Interdiscourse or Supervenience Relations: The Primacy
of the Manifest Image,” Synthese 106, no. 2 (February., 1996): 253–297 and
“Supervienience and Anomalous Monism,” Dialectica 53 no. 1 (1999): 3–24.
17. For example, according to externalists like myself, if we imagine that on Twin
Earth the liquid our counterparts refer to as ‘water’ is actually ‘twater’ (chemical for-
mula: XYZ) and not water (H2O), then when the words ‘I am drinking a glass of wa-
ter’ pass through the head of Twin Hilary what he is thinking is that he is drinking a
glass of twater, while what I think in the same circumstance is that I am drinking a
glass of water. Our thoughts are different even though the states of the quantized fields
that our bodies consist of are identical; and this shows that thinking a thought with a
given content is not ‘locally supervenient’ on the state of one’s body.
18. James, Works, vol. 3. See my Realism with a Human Face (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1990).
putational state,” independently of why she thinks that thought or what her
knowledge state, interests, purposes, etc., are, is science fiction, not science.
As I wrote there, “The futile search for scientific objects called ‘narrow con-
tents’ in the case of meanings and for ‘internal psychological states’ in the
case of beliefs are alike instances of the rationalist error of assuming that
whenever it is natural to project the same words into two different circum-
stances there must be an ‘entity’ that is present in both circumstances.”19
As for “global supervenience,” I and others have pointed out for many
years that global supervenience of psychological phenomena of the global
environment does not imply that psychological explanations are redundant.
If someone lets the water run in the bathtub to take a bath, for example, the
type phenomenon “deciding to turn on the water in a bathtub in order to
take a bath” is not definable in physical terms.20 And explanations, as
Davidson rightly saw, connect events under types. A physical explanation of
the trajectory of certain particles does not generalize to the same class of
cases as the psychological explanation, that the subject decided to turn on
the water in order to take a bath. Global supervenience does not mean that
individual psychological states are correlated with individual physical states
or, indeed, with a definable set of physical states. Psychological explanations
are still necessary, are still valid, and have ranges of applications which are
not the same as those of any physical explanations.
Some years ago, Martha Nussbaum and I argued that, according to Aristotle,
“the psychological activities of living beings, such as perceiving, desiring and
imagining, are realized or constituted in matter, are in fact the activities of
some suitable matter, and that the relation between form and matter is in
21. Martha Nussbaum and Hilary Putnam, “Changing Aristotle’s Mind,” in Words
and Life, 28.
22. Ibid., 55.
23. Dewey, Human Nature and Conduct, in Middle Works, vol. 14.
24. Putnam, Words and Life, 432.
criteria, as Ernst Mayr, the grand old man of today’s evolutionary biology,
always emphasized, do not yield a “clean” division of organisms into disjoint
species.25 Nor is this a defect in population biology: the basic teaching of
Darwinism is that the line between species can’t be sharp—otherwise one
species could not evolve from another! Variation is fundamental, and “essen-
tialist” thinking is taboo.
Indeed, we may say that from an evolutionary biologist’s point of view,
species are historic entities, very much like nations. Being a dog is being a
member of a species somewhat as being a Frenchman is being a citizen of a
nation; someone with much the same characteristics as a Frenchman might
be a citizen of Belgium, or of the United States, and something with many
of the same characteristics as a dog might not be a dog, because the “popu-
lation” to which it belongs has sufficient distinctness and enough genetic
and geographical isolation to count as a new species.
From a molecular biologist’s point of view, the situation is quite different.
It is true that even at the molecular level there is variation. It is not possible
to give necessary and sufficient conditions for being a dog in terms of DNA,
on account of the mechanisms of genetic variation that Mayr and other
evolutionary biologists emphasize (indeed, there may be as much similarity
between the DNA of a wolf and that of a dog as there is between a Chihuahua
and a Great Dane), but there are true statements of the form “If something
did not have DNA with such-and-such properties, it would not be a dog.”26
The anti-essentialism of which I speak is beautifully expressed in a letter
that James wrote late in his life, in 1906, to a philosophical critic, Dickinson
S. Miller:
25. Ernst Mayr, Evolution and the Diversity of Life: Selected Essays (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1976).
26. These two different points of view even lead to different decisions about what
is a dog; it would not be surprising to learn that molecular biologists classed Australian
dingos as a kind of dog and population biologists did not, for example. And there are
still other interests that can lead to still other, perfectly legitimate, decisions on what is
and is not a ‘dog’. For an ordinary “dog lover,” wild dogs are not ‘dogs’, while for a
scientist they are. Australian dingos are paradigmatic dogs for the Aboriginal inhabi-
tants, whatever population biologists (or ordinary Europeans or Americans) may say.
All of these classifications are legitimate, and useful in the contexts for which they are
designed. To ask what the ‘real’ essence of my last dog, Shlomit, was would be to ask a
meaningless question.
I got your letter about “Pragmatism,” etc., some time ago. . . . I sent you a
week ago a “Journal of Philosophy” with a word more about Truth in it, writ-
ten at you mainly; but I hardly dare hope that I have cleared up my position.
A letter from Strong, two days ago, written after receiving a proof of that pa-
per, still thinks that I deny the existence of realities outside the thinker; and
Perry . . . accused Pragmatists (though he doesn’t name me) of ignoring or
denying that the real objects play any part in deciding what ideas are true. I
confess that such misunderstandings seem to me hardly credible. . . .
Apparently it all comes from the word Pragmatism—and a most unlucky
word it may prove to have been. I am a natural realist. The world per se may
be likened to a cast of beans on a table. By themselves they spell nothing. An
onlooker may group them as he likes. He may simply count them all and map
them. He may select groups and name these capriciously, or name them to
suit certain extrinsic purposes of his. Whatever he does, so long as he takes
account of them, his account is neither false nor irrelevant. If neither, why not
call it true? It fits the beans-minus-him, and expresses the total fact, of beans-
plus-him. Truth in this total sense is partially ambiguous, then. If he simply
counts or maps, he obeys a subjective interest as much as if he traces figures.
Let that stand for pure “intellectual” treatment of the beans, while grouping
them variously stands for non-intellectual interests. All that . . . I contend for
is that there is no “truth” without some interest, and that non-intellectual in-
terests play a part as well as the intellectual ones. Whereupon we are accused
of denying the beans, or denying being in any way constrained by them.27
But in one respect, James’s image of the “cast of beans” is misleading. It sug-
gests (although I am sure that this isn’t what James himself thought) that
there is a fixed set of fundamental objects, the ‘beans’, and that human cre-
ativity is restricted to choosing different collections of fundamental objects
to name. But, for various purposes, we are constantly enlarging our notion
of an object. Talk of “quantized fields” in physics, of “neuroses” in psychia-
try, of “populations” in biology, of “recessions” in economics, etc., illustrates
the way in which our conceptual vocabularies, our very conceptions of what
there is to refer to, are constantly being enlarged. And in many cases, there
are equally good but not identical ways of enlarging those conceptual vocab-
ularies. The idea of one fixed conceptual vocabulary in which one can once
27. William James, The Letters of William James, 2 vols., ed. Henry James Jr.
(Boston: Atlantic Monthly Press, 1920), 295–296.
and for all describe the structure of reality (as if it had only one fixed struc-
ture), whether in its traditional (e.g., Aristotelian) form or its recent materi-
alist form is untenable.28
28. It is untenable not only because reality is more pluralistic than metaphysicians
are wont to admit—and “pluralism” is something James loved—but because reality is
also vaguer. Metaphysicians are wont to pretend that at some “ultimate” level, there is
no vagueness at all. But no real content attaches to this suggestion. Even to say, as some
do, that “the world itself is not vague; it is just that what we are referring to by our
words is sometimes vague” is self-refuting—for if reference is vague, then something in
the world is vague!—Or is reference supposed to be something outside the world?!
29. Abe Stone has remarked that the twentieth-century metaphysics of Husserl’s
Ideas actually retains this traditional structure; the novelty in Husserl lies in a new ac-
count of the relation of “psychology,” as the empirical science of sublunar minds, to
philosophy (“phenomenology”) as the account of the intelligible beings and their es-
sence.
tions I spoke of are often presented as if they completely overthrew this struc-
ture (or as if empiricism, at least, did so), but it is not hard to see that this is
an exaggeration. As Dewey explains in The Quest for Certainty, classical em-
piricism took it for granted that the mind is confronted with “ideas” or “sen-
sations” or Empfindungen, that these are mental objects, and that the general
form of these objects and of their “qualities” was a pretty self-evident matter.30
Although, by the time he wrote The Analysis of Mind, Russell came to see that
the possibility of dividing up every experience into a part that is simply given
and a part that is contributed by conceptualization (a “mnemic” element, in
his jargon) was contestable, he felt that he had to defend it, on virtually a
priori grounds. By way of contrast, in Dewey’s view, if rationalism made the
mistake of supposing that the most fundamental laws of nature, and hence
the form of scientific explanations at least in physics, could be known a priori,
still the empiricist belief that the most fundamental experiential objects and
their properties (and hence the nature of all empirical “data”) could be known
once and for all was a perfectly comparable mistake. Against this aspect of the
empiricist tradition, Dewey, continuing a line of thought that James had be-
gun, insisted that by creating new observation-concepts we “institute” new
data.31 Modern physics (and of course not only physics) has richly born him
out. A scientist may observe a proton colliding with a nucleus, observe a virus
with the aid of an electron microscope, or observe genes or black holes, etc.
Neither the form of possible explanations nor the form of possible data can be fixed
in advance, once and for all.32
he only knows if he makes a bad mistake, the cries of the wounded will soon
inform him of the fact. In all this the philosopher is just like the rest of us
non-philosophers, so far as we are just and sympathetic instinctively, and so
far as we are open to the voice of complaint. His function is in fact indistin-
guishable from that of the best kind of statesman at the present day. His books
on ethics, therefore, so far as they truly touch the moral life, must more and
more ally themselves with a literature which is confessedly tentative and sug-
gestive rather than dogmatic—I mean with novels and dramas of the deeper
sort, with sermons, with books on statecraft and philanthropy and social and
economical reform. Treated in this way ethical treatises may be voluminous
and luminous as well; but they can never be final, except in their abstractest
and vaguest features, and they must more and more abandon old-fashioned,
clearcut, and would-be “scientific” form.36
36. James, “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life,” in The Will to Believe, in
Works, 6:141–162, 158–159.
37. Dewey, Later Works, 1:298.
38. For criticism of Dewey see Stanley Cavell, “What’s the Use of Calling Emerson
a Pragmatist?” In The Revival of Pragmatism; New Essays on Social Thought, Law, and
Culture, ed. Morris Dickstein (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1998) 72–82.
For the reference to philosophy as a kind of education see Stanley Cavell, The Claim of
Reason (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), 125.
value in the writing of both traditional metaphysicians and the great existen-
tialists. It would be false to Dewey’s own spirit to deny that there is. But my
self-imposed task today has been to bring out the uniqueness of pragmatism,
and to do that I have had to emphasize what pragmatists see as the failures
of those traditions.
Hilary Putnam
IN THE PRESENT essay I wish to address a question which has been a focus
for my philosophical interests for the past twenty years: the existence of and
the importance of knowledge outside of the exact sciences (“nonscientific”
knowledge) and in particular the existence and importance of knowledge of
values in the widest sense—what is it to know that something is better or
worse than something else: a better way of life, or a better course of action,
or a better theory (in science), or a better interpretation (of a text, etc.). This
focus has naturally led me to point out how “paradigmatic” science (physics)
itself depends on judgments which are “nonscientific.” It has also led me into
the controversial question of how it is possible for value claims to be objec-
tive, and it has led me to a close reading of the American pragmatists, who
were my predecessors in the study of all of these problems.
What I would like to do is to give an account of the general conclusions
to which I have come, and to do so in as nontechnical a way as possible. This
is not something that philosophers do very often nowadays; usually we read
a paper to one another on some fairly well-defined topic. But if philosophy
is to retain its connection to the wide human concerns which have always
been its reason for existence, from time to time a philosopher must speak
not as a channel for a particular argument or thesis but as an individual who
embodies a point of view—a point of view whose formulation is necessarily
idiosyncratic but which, the philosopher hopes, embodies insights that are
something more than idiosyncratic at the end. For this reason, I shall allow
myself not only to sketch a point of view rather than argue for it in detail but
I shall also allow myself to explain why I hold it by describing the particular
way in which it developed in the course of my writing and teaching.
It was Rudolf Carnap’s dream for the last three decades of his life to show
that science proceeds by a formal syntactic method; today no one to my
knowledge holds out any hope for that project.1 Karl Popper rejected
Carnap’s inductive logic, but he too hoped to reduce the scientific method
to a simple rule: test all strongly falsifiable theories, and retain the ones that
survive. But that works no better than does Carnap’s “inductive logic”; for
when a theory conflicts with what has previously been supposed to be fact,
we sometimes give up the theory and we sometimes give up the supposed
fact and, as Quine famously put it, the decision is a matter of trade-offs that
are “where rational, pragmatic” (i.e., a matter of informal judgments of plau-
sibility, simplicity, and the like).2 Nor is it the case that when two theories
conflict, scientists wait until the observational data decide between them, as
Popperian philosophy of science demands they should.
An example I have often used in this connection is the following: both
Einstein’s theory of gravitation and Alfred North Whitehead’s 1922 theory
(of which very few people have ever heard!) agreed with special relativity,
and both predicted the familiar phenomena of the deflection of light by
gravitation, the non-Newtonian character of the orbit of Mercury, the
exact orbit of the moon, etc. Yet Einstein’s theory was accepted and
Whitehead’s theory was rejected fifty years before anyone thought of an ob-
servation that would decide between the two.3 Indeed, a great number of
theories must be rejected on nonobservational grounds, for the rule “Test
every theory that occurs to anyone” is impossible to follow. As Bronowski
once wrote to his friend Popper, “You would not claim that scientists test
every falsifiable theory if as many crazy theories crossed your desk as cross
mine!”4
In short, judgments of coherence, simplicity, etc., are presupposed by
physical science. Yet coherence and simplicity and the like are values. Indeed,
each and every one of the familiar arguments for relativism (or radical con-
textualism) in ethics could be repeated without the slightest alteration in
connection with these epistemic values; the argument that ethical values are
metaphysically “queer” (because, inter alia, we do not have a sense organ for
detecting “goodness”) could be modified to read “epistemic values are onto-
logically queer (because we do not have a sense organ for detecting simplic-
ity and coherence)”; the familiar arguments for relativism or noncognitivism
from the disagreements between cultures concerning values (arguments
which are often driven by the fashionable, but I believe wholly untenable,
pictures of different cultures as “incommensurable”) could be modified to
read that there are disagreements between cultures concerning what beliefs
are more “coherent,” “plausible,” “simpler as accounts of the facts,” etc.; and
in both the case of ethics and the case of science there are those who would
say that when cultures disagree, saying that one side is objectively right is
mere rhetoric.5
By the way, with respect to this idea of the “incommensurability” of cul-
tures, I cannot resist pointing out that when it comes to imperatives to ab-
stain from pride and cruelty and hatred and oppression, one can find the
same universalistic statements in ancient Egyptian literature that one hears
today. For example, as Simone Weil writes: “There has never been a more
moving definition of virtue than the words, spoken in The Book of the Dead
by the soul on the way to salvation”:
Lord of Truth . . . I have brought truth to thee, and I have destroyed wicked-
ness for thee . . . I have not thought scorn of God . . . I have not brought
forward my name for honors . . . I have not caused harm to be done to the
servant by his master . . . I have made no one weep . . . I have not struck fear
into any man . . . I have not spoken haughtily . . . I have not made myself deaf
to the words of right and truth.6
I have emphasized the fact that familiar arguments for relativism with respect
to values would, if they were correct, apply to our epistemic values as well
because it is only by appreciating this that one can see just how self-refuting
relativism actually is. Consider, for example, the well-known views of Richard
Rorty, a philosopher who holds that we should scrap the whole notion of an
objective world and speak of views which “our culture” would accept (some-
times he adds “at its best”) instead. This view that all there is to values—in-
cluding the epistemic values—is the consensus of “our” culture presupposes
that at least some of our commonsense claims can be accepted without phil-
osophical reinterpretation of the kind proposed. For instance, talk of “cul-
5. For a devastating critique of this idea, and of the way it has infected cultural
anthropology since the days of Herder, see Michelle Moody-Adams, Fieldwork in
Familiar Places: Morality, Culture and Philosophy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1997).
6. Simone Weil, Selected Essays (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), 131–132.
tures” only makes sense when talk of other people, talk of beliefs—in short, the
idea of a common world—is already in place. If Rorty were to say that talk of
other people is just “marks and noises” that help me “cope,” it would become
obvious that his talk of “the standards of our culture” is empty by his own
lights. Commonsense realism about the views of my cultural peers coupled with
antirealism about everything else makes no sense. If, as Rorty likes to claim, the
notion of an objective world makes no sense, then the notion of “our cul-
ture” cannot be more than Rorty’s private fantasy, and if there is no such
thing as objective justification—not even of claims about what other people
believe—then Rorty’s talk of “solidarity” with the views of “our culture” is
mere rhetoric.
Rorty, of course, would agree with my claim that scientific inquiry pre-
supposes that we take seriously claims which are not themselves scientific,
including value claims of all kinds; he would simply say that we should give
up the notion that there is such a thing as objectivity either in scientific or
nonscientific inquiry. But at least some philosophers who wish to hold on to
the idea of scientific objectivity without admitting that science presupposes
judgments which are not themselves scientific would take a different tack.
The only serious alternative, in fact, to admitting that the existence of
warrantedly assertible claims as to matters that are “nonscientific,” warrant-
edly assertible claims as to what is more plausible than what, warrantedly as-
sertible claims as to what is more coherent than what, warrantedly assertible
claims as to what is simpler than what—that are presupposed by the activity
of gathering knowledge even in the paradigm science of physics—is the so-
called reliabilist epistemology proposed by Alvin Goldman.7 According to
that epistemology, what makes a belief in science justified is that its accep-
tance was arrived at by a method which is ‘reliable’ in the sense of having a
high probability of resulting in the acceptance of true hypotheses. Effective objec-
tions have been made to this idea, and Goldman has made sophisticated al-
terations in his original formulations in order to meet them, but these are not
the grounds on which I would argue that this approach does not succeed. To
see why, let us simply consider a question: on what “method” was Einstein
relying when he accepted the special and general theories of relativity?
Einstein’s own views are well known. He tells us that he arrived at the
special theory of relativity by applying an empiricist critique to the notion of
“simultaneity” and that he arrived at general relativity by seeking the “simplest”
theory of gravity compatible with special relativity in the infinitesimal domain.
We know that the physicists who accepted these two theories also regarded
these as compelling considerations in their favor. Both of these “methods”
are completely topic specific (so much so, that the reference class of theories
involved is much too small for it to make sense to speak of “probabilities”
here at all!), and both of these methods presuppose judgments of reasonable-
ness.8 And judgments of reasonableness simply do not fall into classes to
which we are able to assign probabilities.9 In sum, not only is there no reason
to think that the sorts of judgments I have been talking about—judgments
of reasonableness—can be reduced to nonnormative judgments; there is not
even a serious sketch of such a reduction.
Objectivity
The claim that judgments of fact presuppose judgments of value has been
around at least since Dewey. This makes one wonder at the enormous reluc-
tance of so many philosophers to acknowledge that value judgments can have
any objectivity at all. The real source of our difficulties, I believe, is the crudity
of the notions of “objectivity” that are so often brought to these discussions.
Let us begin by thinking about how we judge objectivity when we are not
trying to do “metaphysics.” Normally we call statements which are made
10. By “statements” what I mean here are things that are said on particular occasions,
not “sentences” in the abstract.
11. For the first of these notions of objectivity see Brian Leiter, “The Middle Way,”
21–31, 21; for the second see Jules L. Coleman, “Truth and Objectivity in Law,” 33–
68, 56. Both appear in Legal Theory 1 (March 1995).
nothing to interfere with their seeing the mountains, etc.) it will be warrant-
edly assertible that there are mountains in the area in question. (Perhaps
conceptual independence is not what is meant either?! It is no accident that
metaphysical realists never do tell us what they mean by “independent.”)
That in such a case (and in the case of most ordinary statements about ob-
servable things) truth—“realist truth,” if you please—and warranted assertibil-
ity under appropriate conditions coincide is no accident. To understand the
claim that there is a mountain in a certain place I must know what a mountain
is, and normally this means knowing what mountains look like.14 Grasp of the
content of a claim (and hence of its “truth conditions”) and grasp of its verifi-
cation conditions are conceptually related, even if they are not the same.
Moreover, such extreme requirements for “objectivity” as total indepen-
dence from what humans could do or could know or believe are irrelevent to
ethics from the start. No ethicist except a rampant Platonist would say that
what is right and wrong is independent of human nature, or, more particu-
larly, independent of how human beings who are raised in a community
with a moral tradition would regard things.15 Certainly Aristotle did not
hold that what it is right for human beings to do or to be is “independent of
how human beings would regard it” in any and all circumstances. Yet it is
decidedly odd to suppose that the sort of objectivity Aristotle sees ethical
statements as having is, for that reason, not “realist” or not “cognitivist.” For
these (and other reasons, too numerous to go into now) I find the attempt
to force us to classify our beliefs as “objective” or “subjective” (and the as-
sumptions that are tacitly made about which beliefs are which, and about
what follows if a belief is put in one box or the other), decidedly objection-
able.16 A pressing task for philosophy, as I see it, is to challenge these classifi-
cations, so that we may see the terrain without the distortions which they
inevitably produce.
14. I neglect the possibility of someone’s learning the word ‘mountain’ by having it
defined in terms of other notions which have observational import—ultimately our
concepts must connect to what we can observe if our thought is to have bearing on
reality at all.
15. As John McDowell remarks in Mind and World (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 1994), it is not clear that Plato himself was a rampant Platonist!
16. See my The Many Faces of Realism (La Salle, IL: Open Court, 1987), but note
the change of view mentioned in note 12.
By now I hope to have convinced you that the denial of the very possibility
of objective value claims threatens to turn into a denial of the very possibility
of (a reasonable sort of ) objectivity tout court. But I know that this will not
shake the confidence in the fact/value dichotomy of people who have come
to see that dichotomy as inseparable from modern scientific sophistication.17
Such people may agree that we should not think of objectivity in the way in
which metaphysical realists think of it, but they do not see how value judg-
ments in ethics can have any sort of objectivity at all. In their view, accep-
tance of a fact/value dichotomy is part of the epistemology that goes with
modern science. I have already alluded to the crudest of the epistemological
defenses of the fact/value dichotomy, which run like this: “How can there be
‘objective ethical values’? We can say how we detect yellow, since we have
eyes, but what sense organ do we have for detecting value?”
What makes this argument crude is its naiveté about perception.
Perceptions of yellow may, indeed, be pretty minimally conceptually in-
formed. But consider the parallel question: “How could we come to tell that
people are elated? After all, we have no sense organ for detecting elation.” We
can tell that other people are elated, and sometimes we can even see that
other people are elated. But we can only do so after we have acquired the
concept of elation. Perception is not innocent; it is an exercise of our con-
cepts, an exercise of what Kant called our “spontaneity.”18 Once I have ac-
quired the concept of elation, I can see that someone is elated, and similarly,
once I have acquired the concept of a friendly person, or a malicious person,
or a kind person, I can sometimes see that someone is friendly, or malicious,
or kind. To be sure such judgments are fallible, but pragmatists have never
believed in infallibility, either in perception or anywhere else. As Peirce once
put it, in science we do not have or need a firm foundation; we are on
swampy ground, but that is what keeps us moving.
Connected with the idea that to know that there are values we would
need to have a special sense organ is the empiricist psychology according to
17. The idea that it is was, of course, eloquently defended by Max Weber. See, for
example, his “Science as a Vocation,” in From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, ed. H. H.
Gerth and C. Wright Mills (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974), 129–157.
18. See McDowell, Mind and World, 4.
19. For a discussion of this psychology, and its survival in both linguistic philoso-
phy and existentialism, see Iris Murdoch, The Sovereignty of Good (New York: Schocken,
1971). The American pragmatists were early critics of just this psychology.
20. See, for example, “The Construction of Good,” chap. 9, in The Quest for
Certainty, in Later Works, vol. 4.
3. With the appearance of the term ‘intelligence’ we come to the last part of
Dewey’s answer to the “By what criteria?” question. If Dewey does not be-
lieve that inquiry requires “criteria,” in the sense of algorithms or decision
procedures, either in the sciences or in daily life, he does believe that there
are some things that we have learned about inquiry in general from the con-
duct of inquiry. In our writing on Dewey, Ruth Anna Putnam and I have
insisted that if one thing distinguishes Dewey as an ethicist or a meta-ethi-
cist (the whole normative ethics/meta-ethics distinction tends to collapse for
pragmatists), it is his emphasis on the importance of, and his consistent ap-
21. The fullest statement of Dewey’s account is his Logic: The Theory of Inquiry, in
Later Works, vol. 12. A terse statement is his Theory of Valuation, in International
Encyclopedia of Unified Science, ed. Otto Neurath, Rudolf Carnap, and Charles W.
Morris, vol. 2, no. 4 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1939). See also Hilary
Putnam and Ruth Anna Putnam, “Dewey’s Logic: Epistemology as Hypothesis,” in
Words and Life (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994).
22. Dewey, Later Works, 1:305.
plication of, the idea that what holds good for inquiry in general holds for value
inquiry in particular.23
But what does hold good for inquiry in general? We have learned,
Deweyans insist, that inquiry which is to make full use of human intelli-
gence has to have certain characteristics, including the characteristics which
I have elsewhere referred to by the phrase “the democratization of inquiry.”24
For example, intelligent inquiry obeys the principles of what Habermasians
call “discourse ethics”; it does not “block the paths of inquiry” by preventing
the raising of questions and objections, or obstructing the formulation of
hypotheses and criticism of the hypotheses of others. At its best, it avoids
relations of hierarchy and dependence; it insists upon experimentation
where possible, and observation and close analysis of observation where ex-
periment is not possible. By appeal to these and kindred standards, we can
often tell that views are irresponsibly defended in ethics as well as in science.
Not everyone will be convinced, I know. Some of the undergraduates in
a class I taught recently suggested that belief in giving reasons and actually
observing how various ways of life have functioned in practice, what the
consequences have been, discussing objections, etc., is just “another form of
fundamentalism”! The experience of these students with real fundamental-
ism must be rather limited. Anyone who has seen real fundamentalists in
action knows the difference between insisting on observation and discussion
and the repressive and suppressive mode of conducting discussion that is
characteristic of fundamentalism. But in any case I think that this objection
was both anticipated and adequately responded to by the founder of prag-
matism, Charles Sanders Peirce, in his famous essay “The Fixation of
Belief.”25 The discovery that inquiry which is to be successful in the long run
requires observation and experimentation and public discussion of the re-
sults of that observation and experimentation is not something a priori, but
is itself something that we learned from observation and experimentation
with different modes of conducting inquiry: from the failure of such meth-
23. In addition to the paper with R. A. Putnam cited in note 21, see Realism with a
Human Face (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), and H. Putnam and
R. A. Putnam, “Education for Democracy,” in Putnam, Words and Life.
24. See my “Pragmatism and Moral Objectivity,” in Words and Life.
25. “The Fixation of Belief,” in Collected Papers, vol. 5.
ods as the method of tenacity, the method of authority, and the method of
appeal to allegedly a priori reason.
Conclusion
I said at the outset that the distinction between science and nonscientific
knowledge is a fuzzy one. But even the two cases that I have considered, the
science-related case (choosing between theories in advance of any crucial
experiment or when a crucial experiment is not possible) and the case of
social ethics illustrate one aspect of the distinction: while judgments of rea-
sonableness (coherence, plausibility, simplicity, and the like) are presup-
posed by science, they are not often thematized by science, whereas in the
“nonscientific” case they are likely to be the explicit subject matter of our
controversies and discussions. Textbooks of physics do not very often con-
tain statements to the effect that one theory is more “reasonable” than an-
other (although in periods of scientific “revolution” they may), whereas es-
says on ethical and political questions constantly contain claims of this sort.
I have argued that judgments of reasonableness can be objective. That
does not mean that they are totally independent of what human beings can
know and do; “reasonableness” means reasonableness for human beings, and
invariably for human beings in a particular context. On the other hand, the
view that there is “no more” to reasonableness than what a particular culture
believes leads immediately to paradox; for since our own culture does not
believe that cultural relativism is correct as a general view of truth and justi-
fication, it follows from cultural relativism itself that cultural relativism is
neither true nor justified! (Rorty, of course, hopes to change this awkward—
from his point of view—state of affairs, but I don’t think he will succeed.) In
brief, reasonableness is relative to context, including culture, but not simply
what a culture takes to be reasonable. Also, I have argued in various books
and papers, and again in good pragmatist fashion, that the fact that we can-
not reduce reasonableness to an algorithm does not mean that we cannot say
a good deal about it.
I mentioned at the outset that I have been writing and lecturing about
these topics for over two decades. There is one topic that I have invariably
discussed in my courses which has not yet entered into my discussion in
this essay, and I want to rectify that omission right now. I have always dis-
cussed at some length the curious fashion in which recent disputes about
the objectivity of meaning facts (viz. the “indeterminacy of translation”)
exactly parallel the older disputes about the objectivity of value claims, par-
ticularly of ethical claims. Interestingly, almost every move that has ever
been made in the meta-ethical dispute has been repeated in the dispute over
Quine’s claim that there are no meaning facts. Corresponding, for example,
to the utilitarian attempt to give ethics objectivity by reducing ethical claims
to natural-scientific claims (e.g., claims about “pleasure,” thought of as
something we would eventually be able to measure), are the attempts by
such philosophers as Fred Dretske and Jerry Fodor to reduce meaning
claims to claims about causal-probabilistic covariation. (The idea being
that, in some way, the fact that ‘cat’ refers to cats, or that ‘cat’ means cat,
can be reduced to the alleged fact that “tokenings” of the word ‘cat’ covary
with occurrences of cats, or to the alleged fact that there is a “nomic con-
nection” between tokenings of ‘cat’ and a property of Cathood.) And corre-
sponding to the noncognitivist strategy of denying that there is such a thing
as an ethical fact is the Quinian strategy of denying that there is any such
thing as a meaning fact. Ethical claims are just expressions of feeling, for the
emotivists; meaning claims are just expressions of a decision to translate a
discourse one way rather than another—a decision which may be conve-
nient or inconvenient, but not scientifically right or wrong, for Quine. (Of
course, Quine also believes that there are no ethical facts, and he has ex-
pressed skepticism about “confirmation”—that is, the objectivity of scien-
tific justification. What keeps him from total skepticism is only his positiv-
ist faith in prediction as the sole touchstone of objectivity.)26
In sum, if ethical questions are not the subject matter of a special science,
they have a surprising number of “companions in the guilt.” Justification,
coherence, simplicity, and now meaning and reference all exhibit the same
problems that ethical predicates do from an epistemological point of view.
Nor is this something to be wondered at; for like ethical predicates all of
them have to do with reasonableness: reasonableness in action, in belief, and
in interpretation. And it is the refusal to tolerate any sort of objectivity that
is not underwritten by a grand metaphysical narrative that leads to the cor-
rosive skepticism that we find with respect to each of them in at least some
26. See my “The Last Logical Positivist,” in Realism with a Human Face.
Where are we then? On the one hand, the idea that science (in the sense of
exact science) exhausts rationality is seen to be a self-stultifying error. The very
activity of arguing about the nature of rationality presupposes a notion of
rationality wider than that of laboratory testability. If there is no fact of the
matter about what cannot be tested by deriving predictions, then there is no
fact of the matter about any philosophical statement, including that one. On
the other hand, any conception of rationality broad enough to embrace phi-
losophy—not to mention linguistics, mentalistic psychology, history, clinical
psychology, and so on—must embrace much that is vague, ill-defined, no
more capable of being “scientized” than was the knowledge of our ancestors.
The horror of what cannot be “methodized” is nothing but method fetishism.
It is time we got over it. Getting over it would reduce our intellectual hubris.
We might even recover our sense of mystery; who knows?28
ON A HOT sleepy summer day an old truck rattles along a dusty road. A
turnip falls off the truck; the truck does not stop. Perhaps the old man who
drives the truck does not know that the turnip fell off, or perhaps he does
not care. He values his time or his ease more than he values the turnip. We,
who know not only that turnips are nourishing but that many people go
hungry, may say that the man ought to have stopped to pick up the turnip.
According to the prevailing view, the turnip fell off the truck regardless of
whether anyone knows that it fell off. According to the prevailing view, tur-
nips are nourishing regardless of whether anyone knows that they are nour-
ishing; but that turnips are nourishing is a fact relative to us. Strictly speak-
ing, turnips are nourishing for omnivores. According to the prevailing view,
these hard facts (absolute and relative) are to be distinguished from values
(i.e., really valuings). Turnips have value only if human beings value them,
only if they choose to eat them or to feed them to their domestic animals;
the man’s not caring is wrong only if we care about people going hungry.
All this is vague; it is a mere gesturing in the direction of the fact/value
distinction, or the science/morality distinction, or the description/pre-
scription distinction. It is not necessary for me to be clearer than this, for
my aim in this essay is to defend the view that nonmoral facts and moral
facts are so intimately interwoven that the distinctions alluded to will bear
hardly any philosophical weight at all; in particular, they will not support
moral skepticism.
The first contrast between science and morality to which moral skeptics
point is that nature presents us with facts but not with moral values, and
they conclude from this that there are no moral values at all. But we need
moral values and moral rules to provide us with certain kinds of reasons—
moral reasons—for choosing and acting, although there are other kinds of
reasons and causes and motives as well. We need to appeal to moral rules as
excuses when our moral actions have untoward consequences. We need to
cite moral values when we want to exhort others to act in accordance with
moral laws. Most importantly, we need values to provide the foundation for
the complicated moral-legal-political structure without which human soci-
ety would be impossible; being both gregarious and political animals, we
need human society both to live and to flourish.
Since unaided nature does not provide us with moral values, we must do
for moral values what we do in other cases when unaided nature fails to
provide what we need: we must ‘make’ moral values. We do so whenever we
choose to act and even when we choose not to act; we cannot escape the
responsibility of making values. To be sure, often the ‘making’ is a mere re-
affirming; we do not spend our lives in agonizing moral quandaries. Often
we do the morally right thing almost as habitually as we take the right road
when we drive to work each morning. Often we know that it is weakness of
will rather than moral doubt which causes us to violate the moral norms into
which we were socialized. But if we do the latter often enough and if enough
other people do the same thing, the norms will change, and a new moral
value will have been created. Think, for example, of the widespread accep-
tance of drug use in our culture. Sometimes more and more people, more
and more deliberately, will flout an old norm; perhaps it does not fit an al-
tered world or perhaps we have simply lost all understanding of the reasons
for it. We tolerate now a wide range of ‘life styles’ that would have been
condemned in the past.
Not all moral change increases moral laxity; as a result of deliberate chal-
lenges to old norms, we are less viciously racist and sexist than we used to be.
Beyond that, reflective persons confront both, in their own lives, and, at
second hand, live, forced, and momentous moral choices. Some of these are
due to new technologies (e.g., discoveries in medicine which enable us to
prolong life); some are due to new political situations (e.g., the dissolution
straints on that evaluation. Since moral skeptics reject the first alternative
(and the kind of naturalism I wish to defend does so as well), I must con-
front the second horn of the dilemma. If nature does not certify any lack as
a need, then it seems that the construction of a web of needs and values—a
web within which any particular value is nonarbitrary because it is within
the web—cannot begin without an arbitrary starting point; but then the
whole web, and thus every part of it, is after all arbitrary. And if (as I shall
argue below) we cannot separate facts from values, scientific from moral
theories, that arbitrariness will infect all our beliefs as well as all our values.
We can, I think, avoid this conclusion by distinguishing between our
perception/description/evaluation of the newborn baby’s situation (an eval-
uation which occurs within a framework of constraints) from the baby’s
sensations/reflexes (which occur prior to all constraints). We may say, “The
baby is hungry, needs food, should suck,” but the baby does not reflect; its
body simply is in a certain state and responds. If the baby (as we say) is lucky,
the response provides nourishment and becomes reinforced. Using a differ-
ent terminology and recalling the difference between choppers and knives,
we may say that food and sucking are the baby’s first values and norms; but
they are not yet moral values and moral norms. The baby’s first reflective
response to the world comes sufficiently later that some constraints have al-
ready developed and are so diffuse that not much constraint is needed.
But now some moral skeptics may point out that the baby’s biological needs,
even the baby’s biological and emotional needs, are too slender a basis for the
construction of a complete world view, or even for relatively simple mun-
dane moral choices. For we were all babies, yet some of us choose to help old
ladies carry their groceries while others choose to mug them; some of us
choose to serve science while others choose to serve God. No doubt, the
moral skeptics will continue, some of these choices can be justified by an
appeal to more fundamental values (provided we decided earlier to be coher-
ent or to have integrity), but must we not on pain of circularity, or an im-
possible infinite regress, arrive finally at choices which are woefully underde-
termined, and hence wholly ungrounded, by the baby’s needs? If so, what
has been said so far does not establish more than the most superficial unity
of facts and values; it fails to meet the deeper thrust of the skeptic’s argu-
ment; it will not allay our anguish.
In 1918, Max Weber presented the view just alluded to in a lecture,
“Science as a Vocation,” at the University of Munich.1 The situation which
he presents so movingly to the young Germans of his time is our situation as
well. Weber sees us as confronting a choice between ultimately irreconcilable
fundamental attitudes toward life. He maintains that one cannot give any
justification for choosing a scientific rather than a religious stance toward the
world and, having chosen to be scientific, one cannot give any justification
for choosing one ultimate moral position rather than another.
I believe that Weber is mistaken. He is no doubt correct in holding that
one cannot, without circularity, give a rational justification for being mini-
mally rational. It is, however, far from clear that the minimal rationality
which is shared by scientists, poets, and religious folk is chosen, nor, if it
were chosen, who could ask for a justification of that choice. Every request
for justification presupposes a shared minimal rationality.
Because of the nature of his audience, Weber fails to distinguish be-
tween choosing science as a calling—a way of life and a way of making a
living—and choosing a scientific stance toward the world although one
makes one’s living as something other than a scientist. From a philosophi-
cal point of view, the interesting question is whether one can justify choos-
ing a scientific rather than a religious stance toward the world. One is
tempted to give such a justification by pointing to the great instrumental
value of science: science not only provides us with technology but teaches
us ways of thinking which will lead to new technologies in aid of new
goals, science enables us to calculate the cost of pursuing our goals, and
(Weber grants) as philosophy, science even enables us to see whether and
how our specific goals fit into our general Weltanschauung. But, Weber
maintains, these instrumental values of science are irrelevant to choosing a
scientific rather than a religious stance. Refusing to make the sacrifice of
the intellect which, Weber believes, is involved in any sincere religious
commitment can be justified only if it can be demonstrated that science
has intrinsic value; but that, Weber asserts, cannot be done. It cannot be
1. Max Weber, “Science as a Vocation,” in From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology, ed.
H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974), 129–157.
2. Ibid., 148.
between 1941 and 1945. Although each chose for himself alone, he did so in the
knowledge that there were many like him. In short, the world, their perception
of the world, and the values they had already internalized combined to pose the
question for each of them in a certain way. Such prior facts and values do not
dictate an answer, they do not allay anguish, but they can prevent moral ver-
tigo and moral paralysis because they function among the reasons which these
men gave—to themselves, to their parents, to their relatives and friends, and
perhaps later to their children—for the choices they actually made. No doubt,
in the process of choosing, old values were examined and perhaps changed; but
they were not simply ignored and discarded. Whatever decision was made can
be evaluated later in terms of how it fit into the pattern of the man’s life until
the moment of decision and in terms of whether it provided a basis for con-
tinuing his life, whether he could ‘live with himself’, afterward.
What these men did, what all of us do at crucial moments in our lives
(but we must realize that such crucial moments are rare), is comparable to
the sort of thing Rawls does in his Theory of Justice.3 Rawls constructs a con-
ception of justice which is in reflective equilibrium with our most firmly
held particular judgments. That conception will then enable us to deal with
cases which we had found too difficult before (to deal with the impasse in
which liberal democratic society finds itself when it confronts conflicting
claims for liberty and equality). Similarly, pacifists in the Allied countries
during World War II had to bring some order into the haphazard collection
of values that they had acquired in their lifetimes in order to make the very
difficult decision whether and to what extent they were willing to participate
in the war effort. Just as Rawls’s concept of justice is subject to test—one can
see whether it is found useful in formulating particular policies, and if it is
so used, one can see what happens when these policies are carried out—so
the decision, say, to serve in a noncombatant capacity can be tested by seeing
what happens when it is put into practice. When I speak of what happens
when policies are carried out or decisions are put into practice, I once again
refer to ‘facts’ and to ‘values’. Something will happen which we will both
describe and evaluate, but the description and the evaluation will not be
independent of each other.
moral convictions. That impression is due to the fact that I have concen-
trated on the cases of individuals who face a moral choice in a situation in
which (for them) no prior value or prior norm determines a correct answer.
(Textbooks in moral philosophy standardly consider moral dilemmas where
whatever the agent does he will have done wrong; I deliberately chose a case
where whatever the agent does he may have done right.) Nevertheless, such
questions are posed within an existing moral framework, within a widely
shared morality. It is a morality which one has acquired along with most of
one’s other standing beliefs from one’s parents, one’s teachers, the books one
has read, etc. No doubt, from one’s first “No!” and “Why?” on, one begins
to transform what would otherwise be a purely conventional morality into a
reflective one; but reflection is reflection on the prevailing morality and
leaves most of it intact. Nevertheless, reflection is important and inevitable.
Reflection is important because it makes moral change possible; reflection is
inevitable because even the most detailed moral code fails to prescribe con-
duct for all eventualities. Enormously difficult questions lurk here: moral
autonomy, the moral authority of the community, the limits to freedom of
conscience and the justified demands for a stable society are all at issue; but
these are matters which lead far beyond the confines of this essay.
Consider, again, two members of a pacifist religious community. Going
to jail may be the right thing for Peter, whose deep faith will sustain him and
enable him to be a source of comfort to his fellow prisoners whatever their
faith or the reasons for their incarceration; it would have been wrong for
John. John would have seen his years in prison as wasted; he would have
become embittered and ultimately even have lost his faith. Is this not pure
subjectivism? What has become of the impersonal moral point of view and
of moral principles? In what sense is Peter a model for us?
Some of these questions are clearly misconceived. To say that one’s char-
acter constrains one’s choice of how to follow a moral principle is no more
subjectivist than to insist that the size of one’s feet constrains one’s choice
of a pair of shoes. Peter is a model for us and John is not precisely because
Peter chooses a course of action which he can sustain, which he can reaf-
firm day after day, because (at least as far as this choice is in question) he
knows himself.
But, of course, that is not enough. Integrity is not enough, consistency is
not enough, universality is not enough. “It is impossible to construct a moral
view from these virtues alone; being virtues of form they are in a sense sec-
ondary,” says Rawls.5 What makes Peter a model for us is also the fact that he
chose in the light of the principle “Thou shalt not kill”—a principle which
we too accept even if our interpretation differs from Peter’s.
The American pacifist’s moral dilemma arose partly from a clash of values,
and partly from the interpretation he gave to those values. He had affirmed
both the values of his religious community and the liberal values of his coun-
try; but now the former demanded trust in God (only) while the latter de-
manded trust in arms (as well as God). Members of other religious commu-
nities did not interpret the commandment against killing as prohibiting all
wars and, thus, did not experience the same clash of values nor the same
anguish. Someone might now wish to say that I have drawn attention to a
not negligible difference between science and morality: even if we grant that
both scientific data and moral values are objective in the same sense (what-
ever that sense may be; this is a question which I do not intend to pursue
here), and even if we also grant that both scientific data and moral values are
interpreted by us (and this is to be taken as uncontroversial), clearly our in-
terpretations of the data of science are less various than our interpretations
of values. The difference, someone might say, is great enough to be a differ-
ence in kind. I am inclined to think that this last is a mistake; it is merely
testimony to our tendency to dichotomize continua. That there really is a
continuum is perhaps most clearly seen by taking a second look at the
Rawlsian conception of justice.
What follows is not an attempt to present, interpret, or evaluate Rawls’s
theory of justice. I refer to the theory simply as an example of the sort of
thing one would do if one were to contribute to the “weaving of the seamless
web of facts and values” on the level of political philosophy. Specifically, I
want to draw attention to the fact that Rawls’s construction involves social
theory in two ways. On the one hand, the parties in the original position are
supposed to have general social science facts at their disposal; in other words,
since the parties model us when we reason most fairly about distributive
justice, social science and political morality are inextricably interconnected
in our best reasoning. On the other hand, Rawls himself in developing his
theory uses social science (economics, decision theory, and some psychol-
ogy) as well as his own considered moral judgments and the (partly incom-
8. Morton White, What Is and What Ought to Be Done (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1981).
fascists, and the torturers is much more immediate, much more certain,
than any reason we might give in support of these condemnations. What
prompts the question is also the fear that the Deweyan sort of naturalism
which I have defended, precisely because I have emphasized the centrality in
that position of tolerance as a moral value, will, in the end, leave us in the
absurd position of tolerating the most extreme intolerance, an intolerance
which denies the humanity of some human beings.
One is tempted to respond to this objection by denying full humanity to
slave owners, fascists, and torturers. That, I think, would be a mistake.
Perhaps all torturers are psychopaths, morally dead in the language of
Menkiti, and thus unable to respond to the appeal “Let us reason together”;
but most slave owners and fascists were not psychopaths, yet they shared the
racism and antisemitism which made the horrors of chattel slavery and the
gas chambers possible.9 Our problem, as philosophers, is to confront the ad-
vocates of slavery and fascism (and other ideologies which deny the human-
ity of some human beings or require their adherents to subject some human
beings to inhuman treatment) and to seek some place—not an external
Archimedean point—where their web of facts and values touches ours and
from which we can attempt to unravel theirs and persuade them to weave
ours. As ordinary men and women we confront the question raised by Weber:
how does one deal with very great evil? That is a question on which reason-
able persons may and do differ: here tolerance is not amiss; rather, tolerance
and moral creativity are desperately needed.
Note
Rorty’s Vision
Philosophical Courage and Social Hope
3. It is worth mentioning that since writing these moral/political essays that we find
in Truth and Progress, he has given the Massey Lectures at Harvard (that, together with
two earlier talks, make up Achieving Our Country). Those lectures display more vividly
the moral passion that animates Rorty and spell out more clearly what he means by
substituting hope for knowledge; thus, they throw a retrospective light on the topics I
mean to consider here.
4. Cornel West, The American Evasion of Philosophy: A Genealogy of Pragmatism
(Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989).
5. Rorty, Philosophy and the Mirror, 3.
In fact, in Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature and in the greater part of
his work since, Rorty has produced neither systematic nor edifying philoso-
phy; he has produced metaphilosophy. “I enjoy metaphilosophy,” he con-
fesses and attempts more than once to interpret what others might see as
philosophical disagreements in metaphilosophical terms.6 It is not clear to
me, however, that this strategy constitutes an evasion of systematic philoso-
phy. To be sure Rorty debunks questions rather than knowledge claims, but
it is not unreasonable to think that by debunking the question “What can
we say to the skeptic?” he has debunked all possible answers, thus leaving the
skeptic victorious. It is not unreasonable, but it is not what Rorty intends.
Let us remember that he has also debunked the skeptic’s question “How do
we know . . . ?”—thus leaving no one in the field. That field is then filled, in
so far as it is filled by Rorty, by metaphilosophy, on the one hand, and polit-
ical philosophy, on the other. While replacing epistemology by political phi-
losophy is in the spirit of Dewey’s injunction to replace the problems of the
philosophers by the problems of human beings, I fail to find metaphiloso-
phy less systematic or more edifying than epistemology.7
Rorty’s metaphilosophy is also identified as pragmatism, although it is
often not what James and Dewey said but rather “what Dewey might have
said, and in my view should have said, rather than what he did say.”8 I think
this is true not only of what Rorty writes about Dewey in “Dewey between
Hegel and Darwin” but of many of his remarks elsewhere.9 I share Rorty’s
admiration for Dewey; I would not express my admiration by telling Dewey
what he should have said.
What Rorty has to say about knowledge and truth—and in this respect
he resembles his great predecessors—bears on his moral philosophy, and his
political convictions played a role in his finding pragmatism a congenial
(meta)philosophy. Defending himself against the charge of “light-minded
aestheticism” Rorty claimed a “moral purpose”—namely, “It helps make the
world’s inhabitants more pragmatic, more tolerant, more liberal, more re-
ceptive to the appeal of instrumental rationality.”10
I turn then to a brief attempt to distinguish Rorty’s pragmatism from
postmodernism, to show that while he thinks searching for foundations of
knowledge is a waste of time, he does not deny that we have knowledge.
That knowledge requires foundations is an assumption shared by skeptics
and their realist targets. Rorty rejects that assumption. Consequently his
critique of various attempts to provide such foundations does not under-
mine the possibility of knowledge. Indeed, he wrote, “I think you can have
knowledge—objective knowledge—without representation, realism, or cor-
respondence.”11
But how can Rorty deny, how can anyone deny, that knowledge requires
foundations? Only by developing a conception of knowledge that differs
radically from the familiar Cartesian notion, but not merely a different con-
ception of knowledge. We need to see ourselves and our place in the world
differently. We need to replace the image of ourselves as spectators, or the
image of the mind as a mirror of nature, by an image of ourselves as agents,
as organisms that interact with their environment. We will also need to give
up the image of true beliefs as accurate representations (mirror images) of
the world.
Both James and Dewey point out that “correspondence” in “truth is cor-
respondence to reality” refers to different relations in different contexts, and
when they unpack “correspondence,” they leave one with something that is
definitely not “the correspondence theory of truth.” The crucial element in
that theory, as it is understood both by its adherents and by Rorty, is the
assumption that there is a way the world is independent of how we think (or
say) it is; true beliefs then are said to correspond to that way. So when Rorty
rejects the correspondence theory, when he denies that there is a reality that
is independent in that way, or that the notion of such a reality makes sense,
some of his critics have inferred that he denies the existence of anything
causally independent of human beings. He responds, “To say that the world
is out there, that it is not our creation, is to say, with common sense, that
10. Richard Rorty, Philosophical Papers, vol. 1: Objectivity, Relativism, and Truth
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 193.
11. Herman J. Saatkamp Jr., ed., Rorty and Pragmatism (Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt
University Press, 1995), 50.
most things in space and time are the effects of causes which do not include
human mental events.”12 So when the critic says that “There are mountains
in Jordan” is true “in virtue of the way things are,” Rorty agrees, provided
that “in virtue of the way things are” is understood as “in virtue of the way
our current descriptions of things are used and the causal interaction we
have with these things”; he disagrees if it means “simply in virtue of the way
things are, quite apart from how we describe them.”13 He rejects the latter
because there is no way of describing the way things are independently of
describing them, no way to distinguish the role played by our language and
the role played by the rest of the universe “in accounting for the truth of our
true beliefs.”14 Consequently, Rorty follows Davidson in denying the
scheme-content distinction. This means that we cannot distinguish between
appearance (the for-us) and reality (the in-itself ), but we can (indeed we
must) distinguish between “is” and “seems”; the latter distinction “applies to
objects under a description, whereas ‘in itself ’-‘for us’ is an attempt to distin-
guish between an object under no description and a described object.”15
I hope I have made abundantly clear that in nonphilosophical contexts,
Rorty can speak of truth and falsehood just as the rest of us do. One should
not be misled by the fact that Rorty has referred to “true” as “a compliment
paid to sentences that seem to be paying their way and that fit in with other
sentences which are doing so.”16 “A compliment paid to sentences”—can one
imagine that being said without a condescending sneer? I believe this unfor-
tunate and careless formulation was meant to point to what he calls the
“endorsing” use of “true.” Perhaps endorsements are compliments, but they
are neither cheap nor empty, for they commit one, should the occasion arise,
to a wide range of behavior. Endorsing is only one use of “true” recognized
by Rorty’s “minimalist” view; there are also the cautionary (“although all the
evidence so far confirms this, it may not be true”) and the disquotational
uses. The negative point is that “true” has no explanatory use. But Rorty
admits that he oscillates between this view and wanting to reduce truth to
justification (to ever-larger audiences). He rejects the latter view, when he
does so, because of what he calls “Putnam’s ‘naturalistic fallacy’ argument”:
given any proposition justified to any actual audience, we can always imag-
ine a larger (later?) audience to which it will not be justified.17 There is no
ideal audience, justification to which would be truth. Nevertheless Rorty
speaks often of justification to larger and larger audiences, and that leads to
the complaint that, despite his explicit disavowals, Rorty is a relativist.
Rorty replies that he is not a relativist; he is an ethnocentrist. The relativ-
ist, who, like the realist, imagines that one can have a view from nowhere, “is
an ironic, sneering aesthete who refuses to take the choice between commu-
nities seriously”; in contrast, “To be ethnocentric is to divide the human race
into the people to whom one must justify one’s beliefs and the others.”18
Since fruitful conversation requires a basis of shared beliefs, one can have
such a conversation only with members of the first group. Ethnocentrism is
relatively uninteresting as long as the beliefs in question are scientific beliefs;
for, whatever else they may be in the eyes of realists, scientific beliefs are
beliefs that must be and can be justified to the (relevant section of ) the com-
munity of scientists. Ethnocentrism becomes controversial when one thinks
about politics; so we shall return to this topic below.
Before I turn to Rorty’s writings on political morality, I want to return to
the question of foundations. Rorty thinks that the only form of realism that
survives his critique is “uninteresting because it says only that the produc-
tion of true beliefs is a matter of causal relations between language users and
the rest of the universe, and that if either were different, their relations would
be different.”19 Since “only a belief can justify beliefs . . . this means reinter-
preting ‘experience’ as the ability to acquire belief noninferentially as a result
of neurologically describable causal transactions with the world.”20 Unlike
Rorty, I find this not only a sustainable form of realism but an interesting
one. I find Rorty’s suggestion that “Dewey should have dropped the term
‘experience,’ not redefined it” seriously misguided.21 Experience, that is,
those interactions of an organism with its environment that cause beliefs are
simply what anchors one’s web of beliefs to the rest of the universe (includ-
ing the beliefs of others!), but those beliefs may be challenged and may be
rejected as may any others. In other words, they do not provide a “founda-
tion” of knowledge.
Rorty writes, “One of the benefits of getting rid of the notion of the intrinsic
nature of reality is that you get rid of the notion that quarks and human
rights differ in ‘ontological status.’”22 We can say that human rights are social
constructions, but then we must say the same thing about quarks. This is a
telling rejoinder to those philosophers who maintain that theoretical physics
comes close to describing the world as it “really” is but that nothing in reality
corresponds to human rights or other moral values. Nevertheless, I would
prefer to say that human rights are as little or as much social constructions
as are trees or pains. To be sure, talk of “violations of human rights” may
seem as remote from officially sanctioned rape and torture as are scientific
theories from our everyday experiences, but I want to resist a possible ten-
dency to think of human rights as “theoretical.” In so far as Rorty insists that
human rights do not have and do not need foundations, he too resists “the-
orizing” human rights. And while he has been at times reluctant to use hu-
man rights language, he never wavered in his opposition to torture and hu-
miliation.23
As early as Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature, Rorty noted that both
foundationalists and antifoundationalists in moral philosophy agree that
“human beings have rights worth dying for.”24 They disagree on whether
there is something in us, say, a Kantian Reason, that is the foundation of our
rights and of our having responsibilities. He now thinks that “the question
whether human beings have the rights enumerated in the Helsinki
Declaration is not worth raising” and that “nothing relevant to moral choice
22. Ibid., 7.
23. See Rorty, “The Priority of Democracy to Philosophy,” in Objectivity, 175–196.
24. Rorty, Philosophy and the Mirror, 177.
Since we (Rorty’s readers and our friends) live in a human rights culture,
that is, since we take it for granted that human beings have certain rights,
Rorty concludes in the essay just mentioned that it is no longer necessary to
defend that claim. What then is left for philosophers to do? We need to
convince our nice students, who are already convinced that racial and reli-
gious prejudice is a terrible thing, that certain other characteristics, say, be-
ing gay, are also morally irrelevant. “You do this by manipulating their sen-
timents in such a way that they imagine themselves in the shoes of the
despised and oppressed.”30 If we could produce such people all over the
world, we would achieve an “Enlightenment Utopia.”
But we know very well that there are many people in the world whom our
sentimental stories will fail to convince. How are we to think of those peo-
ple? “Foundationalists think of these people as deprived of truth, of moral
knowledge. But it would be better—more concrete, more suggestive of pos-
sible remedies—to think of them as deprived of two more concrete things:
security and sympathy.”31 Rorty realizes that without physical and economic
security, it is difficult to listen to—that is, learn from—sentimental stories.
Thus, ultimately, we liberal intellectuals in the rich democracies will have to
turn our attention from philosophical conversations to practical politics.
Exactly that is the message of Achieving Our Country. For what needs to be
done is to halt and reverse the steady increase in inequality and insecurity.
Rorty reports the frightening statistics of the immiseration of 75 percent of
the American people and of 95 percent of the world’s population and calls
for a moratorium on theorizing.32 To become effective politically, leftist
members of the academy need to lay a basis for alliances with people outside,
especially with labor unions, by “proposing changes in the laws of a real
country, inhabited by real people who are enduring unnecessary suffering,
much of which can be cured by governmental action.”33
I have presented what I perceive to be Rorty’s argument without interrup-
tion because I agree with and wish to emphasize his conclusion. I also think
that along the way he raises important considerations although I wish to
demur from some of his formulations.
34. To be sure, the rhetoric of human rights seems to have spread all over the world.
Thus, recently, the newspaper showed on the front page heavily veiled Iranian women
demonstrating for the “human right” of Turkish women to be veiled in public! Neither
the women nor my nice liberal newspaper seemed to be aware that these demonstra-
tors did not have a “human right” to appear in public without a veil!
35. The first three examples are Rorty’s; the last is mine. See Rorty, Achieving, 106.
36. Rorty, Truth and Progress, 176.
37. Rorty points out that we dislike depending on appeals to sentiment; we resent
depending on the good will of the rich and the powerful. For reasons that are not clear
to me, he thinks not only that that is all we have but that it is all we need. He forgets
that the victims need to retain their self-esteem; they cannot do that with sentimental
stories but by insisting that they have rights.
38. Rorty, “Rationality and Cultural Difference,” in Truth and Progress, 186–201,
188.
to the culture of the inmates of a prison, to the culture of a people, say, the
Hopi, or to something quite large and varied as, for example, Christian cul-
ture. This sets up a tension. On the one hand, we think that certain cultures
ought not to exist (e.g., that of the Mafia). On the other hand, under the
influence of our own culture’s commitment to pluralism and tolerance, we
tend to think that all cultures are worthy of preservation. Rorty suggests that
we suffer the same tension with respect to species; we happily eradicate the
smallpox bacillus but draw up lists of endangered species in order to take
measures to protect them. There is, however, a disanalogy. The concept of
species is a relatively well-behaved scientific concept; the concept of a “cul-
ture” in the sense under discussion is extremely murky. Not only are the
borders between cultures always permeable, not only do virtually all human
individuals belong to more than one culture, but some cultures are the cul-
tures of communities that have existed for millennia, undergoing change
and yet being recognizably the same, while others are the cultures of short-
term voluntary or involuntary associations. Finally, some cultures flourish
within well-defined, though perhaps contested, geographical borders, while
the members of others are scattered all over the globe. Questions of preser-
vation of culture, especially in the face of competition in the same geograph-
ical region, raise difficult moral and political issues. Rorty is surely right
when he criticizes “contemporary leftist intellectuals” who find value only in
oppressed cultures, only in victims of imperialism, for to identify virtue
(moral or artistic or whatever) with powerlessness and poverty is just as ab-
surd as to identify it with power and wealth.39
If we are not to say that all long-lived cultures are equally good, and we
are not to say that the cultures of the former imperialist powers are, merely
in virtue of that fact, better or worse (we say both!) than the cultures of the
formerly colonized people, what are we to say and, more importantly, what
are we to do? Consider the Aborigines of Australia. On the one hand, it is
racist to deprive them of the sort of education that will enable them to be
successfully assimilated into the highly technological society of the over-
39. Rorty notes that in the United States cultural studies have become ‘victim
studies’, studies designed “to help victims of socially acceptable forms of sadism by
making such sadism no longer acceptable” (Achieving, 80). But, he continues, there are
no studies of the victims of economic selfishness; the homeless and the unemployed
are not the ‘other’ in the sense that interests the cultural left.
unlike nature, human beings have purposes; human beings singly and in
groups make a difference to the course of cultural development. Because,
once again, Rorty can see only two alternatives: either feminists and other
social critics appeal from current (bad) social practices to “something that
transcends social practice” or they are “doing the same sort of thing as the
early Christians, the early socialists, the Albigensians, and the Nazis”; they
are “trying to actualize hitherto-undreamt-of possibilities” by introducing
new practices.47
Of course, one cringes at the very thought that one may have to regard
the Nazis as doing the same thing as various kinds of utopians, for the point
of “early” in “early Christians” and “early socialists” is to remind the reader
of Christians before they had a theology that taught them to burn heretics
and of socialists before they had an ideology that invited them to execute
dissidents. These people were indeed trying to actualize societies that were
good not only from their point of view, practices that could be justified even
to many who were not prepared to share those utopias, ideals that seem good
even to us who know what happened later to those dreams. Rorty knows
that the Nazis do not belong in this list; why does he not ask himself what is
wrong with a philosophical picture that does not allow him to distinguish
between them and, say, the early Christians?
The alternative to Human Nature dictating the course of cultural evolution
is not “chance variation” in memes but deliberately introduced variations.
How we are to see what people do when they do that is the main subject of
“Feminism and Pragmatism.” Its core thesis is that “a pragmatist feminist will
see herself as helping to create women rather than as describing them more
accurately”—that is, as replacing our present social constructs by better ones.48
It has been objected that if feminism “makes” women, then no wrong was
done to human females in prior ages when they were treated as less than fully
human. That is, if there is nothing beyond the standards of a given commu-
nity to which social critics can appeal, then how is progress possible? We can,
to be sure, go a certain way in making the practices of our community more
coherent; we can, perhaps, go further by learning from other communities.
Ultimately only imagination, including imaginative experimentation, will
do. But—this is what motivates Rorty’s attacks on moral realisms from Plato
to Marx—at the end of the twentieth century we should be wary of imagin-
ing large, timeless utopias; we should engage in “small experimental ways of
relieving human misery and overcoming injustice.”49
While I agree that we do not find our values, we make them, I want to
resist saying that feminists have “made” women. It seems to me simply con-
fusing to say both that “there were very few female full persons around be-
fore feminism got started” and to say also that “it was, of course, true in
earlier times that women should not have been oppressed.”50 Rorty explains
in a footnote, “All that pragmatists need is the claim that this sentence is not
made true by something other than the beliefs we would use to support it—
and, in particular, not by something like the Nature of Human Beings.”51
But what can it possibly mean to say that it was always wrong to oppress
women but to deny that women were always the sort of being (fully human)
that it is wrong to oppress? When we say that a purported law of physics, if
true, is always true, we are saying that the laws of physics are causally inde-
pendent of what we believe them to be; we are not saying that the Greeks
should have or could have discovered these laws given the state of their sci-
ence. In contrast, when we say that it was always wrong to treat women as
less than fully mature human beings, we are saying that even five thousand
years ago, it would have been possible to imagine and to live by social rules
that would have recognized women as fully equal to men. But what it was
possible to imagine and do is not causally independent of what people be-
lieve. It is a conceptual truth that a law of physics, if true, is always true; it is
NOT a conceptual truth, hence it must be argued case by case, that a moral
principle, if true, is always true.52 This is why ethnocentrism is interesting
with respect to morality but not with respect to science.
most contemporary human misery. . . . Nor can we use the term ‘working
class’ to mean both ‘those who are given the least money and least security in
market economies’ and ‘the people who embody the true nature of human
beings.’”63 For while Rorty is “terrified” by the prevalence of the thought
that “free markets solve all social problems,” he does not know what the
better arrangements—he often calls them social democratic—will look like.
Meanwhile we can and should speak of the causes of human misery only in
such commonplace terms as “greed” or “hatred.”
Greed and hatred are indeed twin sources of human suffering. Hatred
leading to sadism and greed to (economic) injustice. The old reformist left
concentrated its efforts on alleviating the latter; the postmodern cultural left
concentrates on the former, prompting Rorty to write in anguish and out-
rage that “there is a dark side to the success story I have been telling about
the post-Sixties cultural Left. During the same period in which socially ac-
cepted sadism has steadily diminished, economic inequality and economic
insecurity has steady increased.”64
In his recent writings, Rorty exhorts us to act but he warns that we must
do so without a grand theory to sustain us. Whence then will come our in-
spiration? Rorty replies that we must reject the academic left’s disdain for
America, that we must once again be proud of our country. We can do that
in the face of overwhelming evidence of greed, sloth, and lack of principles
only by giving up the spectator’s point of view and becoming agents in-
volved in realizing Whitman’s and Dewey’s and Rorty’s and, yes, my “dreams
of an ideally decent and civilized society.”65
nists envisage is better than one in which women are subordinate to men, or
when we insist on people’s right to a living wage, or when we demand the
abolition of the death penalty, etc. I do not believe that we have nothing to
back us up, and I believe that Rorty is driven to this unpragmatic conclusion
because of a pattern of argument that occurs repeatedly in his writings. The
pattern is this:
Thus, he concluded from the premise that more widespread respect for hu-
man rights was not due to increased moral knowledge of the sort envisaged
by Plato, that it was not due to any increase in moral knowledge (nor, in-
deed, any other kind of knowledge). Or he argued that since human rights
are not based on a transcendent something in us, they have nothing to back
them up. In each case, and there are others I have not cited, pragmatists
should reject the premise. I want to conclude by spelling out in very broad
outlines what Rorty should have said.
Rorty tells us to substitute hope for knowledge. Of course, he does not
mean empirical knowledge, knowledge of specific human rights violations,
for example, or of the millions of Americans that have no health insurance;
indeed, he himself provides that information. He denies that we have moral
knowledge because he assumes that if there were moral knowledge it would
be of a nonempirical reality, the sort of knowledge that Plato or, in a differ-
ent way, Kant thought we could have. Of course, pragmatists deny that we
have that sort of knowledge. Moreover, it is a good thing that we do not have
that kind of knowledge; it is better for us that we do not take ourselves to
have that sort of knowledge. First, because arguments between people who
claim to have opposing intuitions are fruitless since there is no court of ap-
peal. Second, because if moral knowledge is seen as of eternal verities, it is
seen as incorrigible; so understood, it easily gives rise to dogmatism and fa-
naticism.
But pragmatists have another conception of moral knowledge because, as
discussed above, they have a different conception of knowledge. In fact,
pragmatists believe that the distinction between moral knowledge and the
rest of knowledge is a very superficial distinction, marking end points on a
JAMES SAID that pragmatism is a new name for some old ways of thinking.
Taking pragmatism as a way of thinking, an attitude toward one’s self, to-
ward the physical and social world in which one happens to live, and to-
ward, or at any rate in, philosophy, I maintain that pragmatism has sur-
vived—though often not under that name and perhaps audaciously that it
will survive, though perhaps, again, not under that name. In any case, I am
no more audacious than James himself, who on 2 January 1907, wrote to his
friend Theodore Flournoy:
ophy of the future. Every sane and sound tendency in life can be brought
in under it.1
Pragmatism as Meliorism
When, in his first lecture, James read the anarchist Morrison L. Swift’s
descriptions of the horrors of abject poverty, it must have seemed to his
audience that James was crossing a border, the border between philosophy
and journalism, or perhaps between philosophy and sociology. Of course,
it would be absurd to claim that James in these lectures sought for a solu-
tion to the problem of poverty, or that he developed a philosophy of pov-
erty, or of journalism. He read these excerpts to make his audience vividly
aware of facts that created for him, and he believed for his audience, an
intellectual problem. He characterized the problem as a desire for a philos-
ophy that would “combine both things, the scientific loyalty to facts and
willingness to take account of them, the spirit of adaptation and accom-
modation, in short, but also the old confidence in human values and the
resultant spontaneity whether of the religious or of the romantic type.”
And he responds, “I offer the oddly named thing Pragmatism as a philos-
2. Dewey, “The Need for a Recovery of Philosophy” [1917], in Middle Works, 10:46.
ophy that can satisfy both kinds of demand. It can remain religious like
the rationalisms. But at the same time, like the empiricisms, it can preserve
the richest intimacy with facts.”3 The facts that were particularly relevant
were those concerning human poverty and other evils, and the religion
that James found intolerable was absolute idealism, or indeed any religion
that posited an all-knowing, all-powerful God and tried to deny the reality
of evil. The “solution” James finally offered in the last lecture was, he ad-
mitted, not required by pragmatism, but, he insisted, “My own Pragmatism
offers no objection.”4 He called this solution “meliorism.” It consists of
three propositions:
Pragmatism as an Attitude
Leaving the maxim aside, leaving the very idea of settling metaphysical dis-
putes aside, let us take a look at James’s characterization of the pragmatic
6. Ibid., 29.
7. James, The Will to Believe, in Works, 6:132.
attitude. “The attitude of looking away from first things, principles, ‘catego-
ries,’ supposed necessities; and of looking toward last things, fruits, conse-
quences, facts.”8 Frankly, I find this quite vague. Surely, in every inquiry
some things (principles or supposed necessities) are taken for granted; surely,
we cannot think without thinking about kinds of things (categories); surely,
there is nothing wrong with an inquiry into causes (first things). What James
wants to say is that pragmatists are not dogmatic. What is taken for granted
in one inquiry may well be called into question in another. Pragmatists qua
pragmatists do not seek absolutely first things; they agree with biologists
who study the evolution of the species but do not take what they discover as
evidence for or against an intelligent designer. But, as we saw above, pragma-
tism does not bar religious inquiries; it merely asserts that they are not scien-
tific, a view shared by many scientists, both atheistic and theistic. The cate-
gories James rejects are neither the classifications of common sense nor those
of science; he questions Kantian categories and objects to rote thinking—for
example, racist or xenophobic thinking. The positive aspects of the pragma-
tist attitude mentioned by James are basically aspects of the attitude of any
scientist; I feel quite safe in saying that they are alive and well among scien-
tists and a large majority of the general population. It behooves us to ask
what it means for a philosopher to have the pragmatist attitude, for the
claim James and I make is that the attitude will prevail in philosophy. The
answer to that question is, I believe, found in the remark of Dewey’s quoted
above that philosophy must deal with the problems of human beings.
Philosophy must not be a refuge from our problems; it must help us to see
them clearly. If pragmatism does that, and if at times the problems seem
overwhelming, one may expect that at those times pragmatism might suffer
an eclipse. Others have suggested that the optimism that is an inseparable
part of meliorism, the faith in the possibility of progress, seems too facile at
such times. I am not quite convinced of either of these explanations. For
those of us who were graduate students in the fifties, the excitement that
various types of analytic philosophers brought to our campuses was irresist-
ible. I speak here autobiographically. One studied with Reichenbach and
Carnap and listened to lectures by Austin and by various students of
Wittgenstein. And yet, almost simultaneously, one was awakened (some
more than others, some sooner, some later) from one’s analytic slumbers by
Quine’s “Two Dogmas of Empiricism.” And from some of our teachers we
learned something about pragmatism, seeds that lay dormant for a while and
then began to sprout.
I am not competent, nor would this be the place, to write the history of
the reawakening of pragmatism. My little autobiography is meant to ac-
knowledge the perspective from which I predict the resilience of pragmatism.
I am inclined to think that if one can claim that post-Holocaust depression
caused the eclipse of pragmatism, then one can also claim that the social fer-
ment of the civil rights movement and, a short while later, second-wave fem-
inism caused pragmatism’s revival. Because one hopes, with good reason, that
there will be social ferment for a long time to come; one hopes, with equal
reason, that the pragmatic attitude will stand in fruitful interaction with that
ferment.
Pragmatism as Pluralism
that differs from the experience of an anthropologist who knows what the
rite means to the believers. Thus, in this sense also, knowledge is (largely)
social, and so is morality. Indeed, morality too is social in more than one
sense: it deals with relations between humans; it is objective, according to
James, because humans care for each other; it is handed down to each of us
as customary morality, though we are able, Dewey emphasizes, by reflection,
to modify that morality. Here I merely want to point out that though we are
situated—we cannot help that—we are not condemned to relativism. We
can become conscious of what our situation is and that it colors our percep-
tions just as others’ different situations color theirs. If so, if we recognize the
inevitability of multiple perspectives, we are pluralists in one of the senses in
which James is a pluralist. He writes, in the preface to Talks to Teachers on
Psychology and to Students on Some of Life’s Ideals,
standpoint of both the general welfare and the full development of human
beings as individuals.”10
Recognizing that each human being has something worthwhile and
unique to contribute to the “formation of values” that regulate our living
together seems more important than ever. We can no longer confine our
attention to our compatriots or to our coreligionists. Our compatriots be-
long to many different faith communities or to none. Our coreligionists are
found in many nations. Pluralism, in the sense of respect for diverse views
and values, is desperately needed in the contemporary world. But what ex-
actly is involved in respecting the alien view? Must we succumb to a debili-
tating relativism? The agent point of view both requires a refutation of rela-
tivism and provides, I believe, the means for that refutation.
It must be pointed out, first, that the other’s “take” on things may simply
enrich ours, may increase our understanding and appreciation of the situa-
tion we share. Or the other may flatly contradict what we believe to be the
case, and then further investigation may be called for—this happens fre-
quently in science. At other times it may be clear to most of us that the other
is plainly mistaken—the earth just is not flat. And yet time and again in the
history of science what “only a mad man would believe” became accepted
scientific opinion. What is at stake in these kinds of cases is the pragmatist
commitment to fallibilism, and there is work here for philosophers, for that
notion is far from clear. Nothing much seems to hang on disputes between
those who accept the scientific consensus and those who do not, except
when the latter have the power of religion or of the state on their side. The
present dispute between teachers of biology who teach the theory of evolu-
tion and proponents of “intelligent design” who seek “equal time” raises this
issue once again and calls for a pluralist analysis. My own pragmatist “solu-
tion” is to point out that the theory of evolution is a scientific theory while
the hypothesis of intelligent design is a religious, that is, a philosophical
hypothesis. Hence the former belongs in science but not in philosophy
classes, and the latter in philosophy but not in science classes. I mentioned
earlier that multiple perspectives are available to each of us; students having
attended both classes need not be confused if they have also studied pragma-
tism. They will understand that just as the good Bishop Berkeley did not eat
ideas for breakfast, so no scientific prediction or explanation follows from a
theological premise.
But James spoke not only of the facts but also of the “worths” of things,
and when values clash, matters become considerably more complicated.
While philosophers when they think about ethics tend to exaggerate the ease
with which scientific disagreements can be settled, one can hardly say that
they exaggerate the seriousness of moral disagreements and the difficulty of
resolving them. Pragmatists by emphasizing pluralism seem to be commit-
ted to moral relativism, in so far as morality is social, or to rank subjectivism
in so far as one’s morality is shaped by one’s own reflection. But this is not
so. Here again the agent point of view comes to the fore. We act to realize
our values (in pursuit of our goals, to honor our commitments, etc.), and we
evaluate the results of our actions. In ethics as in science, we learn from ex-
perience and we learn from other people’s experiences. The flourishing of
modern science was in large measure due to the democratization of scientific
inquiry. In ethics the democratization of inquiry presupposes the democra-
tization of the public, the establishment of venues and institutions that in-
clude those whose voices are rarely heard and even less taken account of. The
suggestion that those whose voices are weak should band together to shout
in unison comes easily to mind. Labor unions, the NAACP, the League of
Women Voters, the Sierra Club, and the like are cases in point, yet that list
itself is quite variegated. One must also remember—for James this was of
great importance—that the members of such organizations are individuals
who differ widely and importantly in other respects, and these differences
need also to be respected. There is need here for philosophical inquiry as well
as for political action. Pluralism and fallibilism can, I hope, protect us from
going down too many blind alleys. Here again everything substantial must
remain unsaid. I am suggesting that in a world of ever-increasing diversity in
even its smallest social units there is an ever-increasing need for the respect
and tolerance James advocated under the rubric of pluralism.
There is, then, much work for pluralist philosophers. They may articulate
the concerns of a group that needs to be heard, as feminist philosophers do.
They may address specific issues in political philosophy or the philosophy of
law. They may clarify the basic notions of pluralism: point of view or situa-
tion, respect and tolerance, the idea of putting oneself in another’s shoes,
and so on. Finally, pragmatist philosophers, precisely because they are plu-
There is a way of telling the story of the beginnings of pragmatism that mini-
mizes James’s contribution. James himself tells the story that way in the lec-
tures he delivered in the winter of 1906–1907 and published as Pragmatism: A
New Name for Some Old Ways of Thinking. According to this familiar story,
James and C. S. Peirce belonged to a group of young men calling themselves
“The Metaphysical Club” who met in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in the late
1870s. Lest their philosophical musings be lost, they commissioned Peirce to
write up a summary that he incorporated into his two famous articles, “The
Fixation of Belief” and “How to Make Our Ideas Clear.” The latter contained
what became known as the principle of pragmatism, but the word “pragma-
tism” did not appear in print until twenty years later. In fact, so the story goes,
pragmatism was forgotten until it was revived (both the principle and the
word) by William James in 1898. It then caught on and acquired a multitude
of followers. In his 1906 lectures on the subject, James maintained that prag-
matism was not only a method for analyzing meanings but also a theory of
truth, a theory that, according to James, had been developed by John Dewey
and F. C. S. Schiller. This story suggests that James played a secondary though
no doubt practically important role in the development of pragmatism.
This suggestion is to be rejected. James was in every sense an equal co-
founder of pragmatism. I offer the following evidence for my claim. James
held and advocated what are distinctly pragmatist views as early as 1878.2 In
spite of the emphasis in Peirce’s reminiscences on the pragmatic principle
and in James’s lectures on that principle and on the pragmatic “theory of
truth,” pragmatism is characterized primarily by a certain attitude, a certain
way of philosophizing. While no one formulation can do justice to the dif-
ference between the pragmatic attitude and those to which it is opposed, one
important difference is that for most philosophers since Plato, and particu-
larly since Descartes, knowers are spectators of the reality they seek to know.
For pragmatists, in contrast, knowers are agents; they interact with the real-
ity they come to know. In his “Remarks on Spencer’s Definition of Mind”
James brilliantly contrasts the spectator’s point of view with his own agent
point of view:
I, for my part, cannot escape the consideration, forced upon me at every turn,
that the knower is not simply a mirror floating with no foot-hold anywhere,
and passively reflecting an order that he comes upon and finds simply exist-
ing. The knower is an actor, and co-efficient of the truth on one side, whilst
on the other he registers the truth he helps to create.3
The point here is twofold. On the one hand, all learning from experi-
ence, whether it be that of a child or that of a scientist, involves manipu-
4. Ibid.
5. Peirce, Collected Papers, 5:405.
6. James, Pragmatism, in Works, 1:32.
The ultimate test for us of what a truth means is indeed the conduct it dictates
or inspires. But it inspires that conduct because it first foretells some particu-
lar turn in our experience which shall call for just that conduct from us. And
I should prefer to express Peirce’s principle by saying that the effective mean-
ing of any philosophical proposition can always be brought down to some
particular consequence, in our practical experience, whether active or passive;
the point lying rather in the fact that the experience must be particular, than
in the fact that it must be active.11
adoring his strictly hypothetical God, and to that of desiring above all things
to shape the whole conduct of life and all springs of action in conformity with
that hypothesis. Now to be deliberately and thoroughly prepared to shape
one’s conduct into conformity with a proposition is neither more nor less
than the state of mind called Believing that proposition.”20 Peirce adds, in a
later part of the essay, that scientifically trained persons would wish to test the
hypothesis of God’s reality, and to do that would take their stand on pragmat-
icism, holding that its “ultimate test must lie in its value in the self-controlled
growth of man’s conduct of life.”21 This is as Jamesian an argument as one can
imagine. It is therefore of interest to note that in this very essay Peirce empha-
sizes his disagreements with James’s argument in “The Will to Believe,” an
essay that he seems to misunderstand. I conclude that the differences between
James and Peirce in connection with the uses of the principle of pragmatism
are more apparent than real.
20. Peirce, Collected Papers, 6:467. The “three universes,” in the article in question,
are characterized as that of mere ideas, that of brute actuality, and that of anything
capable of establishing connections between things. He gives as examples of these
thirds: signs, a living consciousness, a living constitution, a great fortune, etc.
21. Ibid., 480.
22. Dewey wrote, “Since Mr. James has referred to me as saying ‘truth is what gives
satisfaction’ (p. 234), I may remark (apart from the fact that I do not think that I ever
said that truth is what gives satisfaction) that I have never identified any satisfaction
with the truth of an idea, save that satisfaction which arises when the idea as working
hypothesis or tentative method is applied to prior existences in such way as to fulfill
what it intends.” Dewey, “Review,” 109.
Precisely because pragmatists take the agent point of view, they under-
score the importance of true beliefs. James writes, “We live in a world of
realities that can be infinitely useful or infinitely harmful. Ideas that tell us
which of them to expect count as the true ideas in all this primary sphere of
verification, and the pursuit of such ideas is a primary human duty.”23
By general agreement an idea or a belief is true if it is in agreement with
reality. But just what does that mean? To be sure, sometimes we have a
mental image that corresponds exactly to a sense perception. But this will
not do even for so simple an idea as that of a clock, a particular clock now
before us. For when we say that it is a clock, we are saying that it has
works, that it tells time more or less accurately, etc. These are not things of
which we have mental “copies.”24 Let us, then, use the pragmatic method
to clarify our idea of truth. When Peirce did that, he began by noting that
scientists are “animated by the cheerful hope that the process of investiga-
tion, if only pushed far enough, will give one certain [he means “unique”]
answer to each question to which they apply it.” He concludes, “This great
hope is embodied in the conception of truth and reality. The opinion
which is fated to be ultimately agreed to by all who investigate, is what we
mean by the truth, and the object represented in this opinion is the real.”25
This is virtually the view James advocated in “Remarks on Spencer’s
Definition of Mind.” Here I want to emphasize that James never rejected
this notion of truth, which I shall call absolute truth. It was also affirmed
by Dewey.26 For both James and Dewey it served as a regulative ideal. Thus
James wrote,
The ‘absolutely’ true, meaning what no further experience will ever alter, is
that ideal vanishing-point towards which we imagine that all our temporary
truths will some day converge. It runs on all fours with the perfectly wise
man, and with the absolutely complete experience; and if these ideas are ever
realized, they will all be realized together.27
that ideas (which themselves are but parts of our experience) become true just so
far as they help us to get into satisfactory relation with other parts of our experience
. . . [and] any idea that will carry us prosperously from any one part of our
experience to any other part, linking things satisfactorily, working securely,
simplifying, saving labor; is true for just so much, true in so far forth, true
instrumentally. This is the ‘instrumental’ view of truth taught so successfully
in Chicago.29
say, rather, that it has become verified or warranted. I am not saying that
James confuses truth and verification; as Hilary Putnam has pointed out,
James explicitly denies doing so.30
Interestingly, James does not say of beliefs that become falsified that they
have “become false”; on the contrary he holds that they have always been
false. Speaking of now-rejected scientific theories—for example, Ptolemaic
astronomy—he writes that “we now call these things only relatively true, or
true within those borders of experience. ‘Absolutely’ they are false, for we
know those limits were casual, and might have been transcended by past
theorists just as they are by present thinkers.”31 Here again, while agreeing
with James’s thoughts, one may prefer different words. Although one would
not call Ptolemaic astronomy “relatively true,” one may well say that it was,
at that time, warranted. But James and we agree that it is false, timelessly
false, while the status of being warranted, or verified, or “relatively true” is
evidently time dependent.
So far so good, but the enemies of pragmatism will demur when James
concludes, “Like the half-truths, the absolute truth will have to be made.”32
Here, I believe, we come close to the root of the disagreement. For what is at
stake here is not simply language that distinguishes carefully between truth
and verification. What is at stake is James’s insistence, already mentioned,
that “the knower is an actor, and co-efficient of the truth on one side, whilst
on the other he registers the truth he helps to create.”33
How, then, does the knower help to create the truth? Consider here the
case of genuinely new experiences—that is, experiences of new facts. How do
these become incorporated into the body of our beliefs? In James’s day the
discovery of radium, of a substance that seemed to violate the familiar law of
the conservation of energy, was such a new fact. It could not be simply added
onto the established body of beliefs on pain of inconsistency. A new theory
was called for, but any such theory had to meet several desiderata. One wants
to hold on to as much of one’s old beliefs as possible, one wants to end up
with a consistent set of beliefs, but one also wants to acknowledge the new
30. See Chapter 11 (“James’s Theory of Truth,” HP) of this volume. He refers to
James, The Meaning of Truth, in Works, 2:108–109.
31. James, Pragmatism, in Works, 1:107.
32. Ibid.
33. See note 3.
fact. James is insistent: “Between the coercions of the sensible order [Humean
matters of fact including causal laws] and those of the ideal order [Humean
relations of ideas], our mind is thus wedged tightly. Our ideas must agree
with realities, be such realities concrete or abstract, be they facts or be they
principles, under penalty of endless inconsistency and frustration.” And im-
mediately thereafter, James insists specifically that our new ideas must take
account of “the whole body of truths already in our possession.”34
It is difficult to see where James leaves room for the subjective factor, or
why his account of truth would meet with such hostility. It will help, I hope,
to distinguish several matters.
First, there is the fact that from time to time, especially during revolution-
ary periods, alternative scientific accounts, using alternative conceptual sys-
tems, will be proposed to assimilate new facts. At such times different scientists
will be attracted to different hypotheses and devote themselves to their verifi-
cations. James has a tendency to overemphasize this subjective element, as
when he says, “When old truth grows, then, by new truth’s addition, it does so
for subjective reasons.”35 For the play of subjectivity is severely limited by the
shared stock of old beliefs, and in the long run, the objective factors, the sense
perceptions, may overwhelm the subjective attractions. In any case, the dom-
inant subjective reason for the growth of new truth is the desire to make sense
of new facts. Surely, no one will object to that.
Second, James believes that there is more than one conceptual system—
recall the “stages” mentioned earlier—by means of which we classify, order,
and understand our experiences. We have already seen that for James, and
here he differs from Peirce, there is no privileged conceptual system that
corresponds uniquely to reality. James is not a scholastic realist. He is, how-
ever, a commonsense realist. He distinguishes between facts and what we say
or believe about them. “Truths emerge from facts,” James writes, “but they
dip forward into facts again [because they cause us to act] and add to them;
which facts again create or reveal new truth (the word is indifferent) and so
on indefinitely. The ‘facts’ themselves meanwhile are not true. They simply
are. Truth is the function of the beliefs that start and terminate among
them.”36
‘The true,’ to put it briefly, is only the expedient in the way of our thinking, just as
‘the right’ is only the expedient in the way of our behaving.
To be sure, he continues,
Expedient in almost any fashion; and expedient in the long run and on the
whole of course; for what meets expediently all the experience in sight won’t
necessarily meet all farther experiences equally satisfactorily. Experience, as we
know, has ways of boiling over, and making us correct our present formulas.37
47. Hilary Putnam points out that in his famous essay “Does ‘Consciousness’ Exist?”
James rejects an interface conception of conception as well as of perception, but that in
Pragmatism and in The Meaning of Truth he returned to an interface conception of
conception; that is, successful reference to public objects is taken to stand in need of
analysis. Putnam considers this to be a mistake. Dewey points out in his review of Essays
in Radical Empiricism, James did not live to develop the doctrine into a “system.” For
Putnam, see Chapter 11 (“James’s Theory of Truth”) of this volume; for James, see Essays
in Radical Empiricism, 3–19; for Dewey, see Middle Works, 7:142–149.
48. James, The Meaning of Truth, in Works, 2:6–7.
49. Ibid.
50. Ibid., 146–153.
Hilary Putnam
LET ME BEGIN by asking what will undoubtedly seem to many, if not all of
you, a most peculiar question: How did it happen that the first philosopher to
present a completely worked out version of direct realism in the entire history of
modem philosophy was none other than the American pragmatist, William
James?
The peculiarity of this question is expected because James’s pragmatism is
often thought of (especially by those who have accepted Richard Rorty as
their guide to pragmatist ways of thinking) as a species of antirealism. The
very fact that James ardently defended a direct realist account of perception
will come as a shock to you, assuming that is how you are accustomed to
think of pragmatism. And even those of you who are ultimately convinced
by my reading of William James may still want to challenge my claim that
James was the first to successfully promulgate a direct realist picture. Had
Thomas Reid not already just done that? And wasn’t James’s good friend and
friendly (if occasionally scathing) critic, the great founder of pragmatism
itself, Charles Sanders Peirce, also a direct realist years before James was?
What a bizarre view of the history of modern philosophy the essayist seems
to have!
Additionally, some may find the question peculiar because it is not evi-
dent why one should care. Presumably, the title “Pragmatism and Realism”
suggests that my interests here are not primarily historical ones. What I shall
understand by the term “direct realism” today is not a particular metaphysi-
cal theory; rather, it is our implicit and everyday conviction that in experi-
ence we are immediately aware of such common objects as trees and build-
ings, not to mention other people. I am interested in James’s defense of
direct realism—of what he called “natural realism,” because I see overcoming
the traditional picture of perception—a picture according to which our sen-
sations are as much an impassible barrier between ourselves and the objects
we perceive as a mode of access to them—as absolutely necessary if philoso-
phy is to ever stop “spinning its wheels” in a futile attempt to locate a resting
place in the dispute about metaphysical realism and antirealism.1 Although,
in the end, the version of direct realism that I would defend is not James’s; it
was his defense of direct realism that led me to appreciate the issue’s funda-
mental importance.
Let me return to the initial concern: How can a pragmatist also be a
realist?
Let me begin with the admission that there are antirealist elements in James’s
philosophy (even if he would not have regarded them as such). Although
James’s theory of truth is both subtle and complex (so much so that neither his
critics nor his extravagant admirers have done it justice), I argue elsewhere that,
at the end of the day, it does commit James to a degree of antirealism about the
past (though not exclusively about the past) which is quite unacceptable.2 As
Bertrand Russell aptly recognized, however, it is possible to admire James’s
theory of perception without admiring his theory of truth. This observation,
however, does not really speak to the concern.3 Given that James had a realist
side, how did he reconcile it with a theory of truth that has startlingly antireal-
ist consequences? For two reasons, that too should not really be so great a
puzzle. First, no one seems to have a problem recognizing that Peirce was both
1. For a discussion of the importance of overcoming this picture, see Hilary Putnam,
“Sense, Nonsense and the Senses” (The Dewey Lectures, 1994), The Journal of
Philosophy 91, no. 9 (September 1994): 445–517.
2. See Chapter 11 (“James’s Theory of Truth”) of this volume.
3. For Russell’s view of James, see Hilary Putnam, Pragmatism: An Open Question
(Oxford: Blackwell, 1995).
a realist and a pragmatist (though I would argue that Peirce’s definition of truth
as the opinion to which inquiry would converge if indefinitely pursued has the
same antirealist consequences about the past, etc., as that of James’s theory).4
The second reason is that neither James nor Peirce admitted that their theories
of truth possessed these antirealist consequences. They were wrong.5 If one re-
jects the facile view that Peirce was a complete realist while James thought
anything could be true provided it was satisfying to believe, then pragmatism
can be seen as a rich source of insights that was not free from errors.
My concern, however, is not with the antirealist side of James’s thought—
manifested, to speak much too quickly and inaccurately, in his identification
of what is true with what will ultimately be “verified” in his own special
sense of the word—but with his realism.
James’s efforts to work out a satisfactory form of realism began with what
can be seen as a turn from psychology to philosophy, were it not misleading to
speak of a “turn” in the case of a thinker who had published essays on philo-
sophical topics beginning in the 1870s. Nevertheless, James did not begin to
devise his own systematic metaphysical view until the 1890s.6 Indeed, in his
monumental work The Principles of Psychology (although he voiced philosoph-
ical opinions on a wide range of subjects), his official stance was that he was
11. I am referring again to the epilogue in James, Psychology: The Briefer Course, 395,
and to “Notes for Philosophy 20b: Psychological Seminary—The Feelings,” in James,
Manuscript Lectures, in Works, 16:212–229.
12. James’s denial of a substantial “consciousness” is, of course, not a denial that we
are conscious! Although this charge is occasionally brought against James, it seems to
depend on the idea that one cannot believe that we are conscious unless there is a thing
which is our “consciousness,” or at least a substantial self (or at least a transcendental
ego, such as Kant’s famous “I think”). What James was denying was the need for any
of these metaphysical items, not the fact that Jones is conscious of the purring of the
cat, or whatever. James’s denial that we are aware of any such item is, of course, a denial
that Kant—who did not think we experience the transcendental self—would have
agreed with, as, for quite different reasons, would Hume.
writes.13 Here too James regards the phenomenology as the best guide to
an ontology. Reality in itself does not consist of two radically different
sorts of things—subjects and objects—with a problematic relation. Rather,
it consists of the data—the phenomena—and it is just that these can be
thought about in different ways.
As mentioned previously, James is describing the phenomenology of per-
ception; but he is also doing more than that. By suggesting that we can take
that phenomenology seriously in a way that philosophers have long thought
we could not, he is proposing that we return to a standpoint close to what
he calls the “natural realism” of the common man.
A Historical Digression
13. “Pure experience” is a term James took from Avenarius, by the way, although he
later seems to have quite forgotten this debt, since he spoke in quite scornful tones of
that thinker’s unreadability! This was pointed out to me by David Lamberth. To my
knowledge, Ignas K. Skrupskelis was the first person to suggest this in his introduction
to Manuscript Lectures. Although the sentence “Experience . . . has no such inner du-
plicity” comes from “Does ‘Consciousness’ Exist?” Essays in Radical Empiricism, in
Works, 3:6, the thought is already present in James’s “Notes.” “But nothing postulated
whose whatness is not of some nature given in fields, that is not of field stuff, da-
tum-stuff, experience stuff, ‘content.’ No pure ego, for example, and no material sub-
stance. This is the hypothesis that we are trying to work out” (228, footnote omitted).
14. See Hilary Putnam, “Aristotle after Wittgenstein,” in Words and Life (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 1994), 62.
15. I did not consider the possibility of this reading in “Aristotle after Wittgenstein,”
and if I had I would have been more charitable to the Aristotelian view.
16. This has been challenged by Myles Burnyeat. For Burnyeat’s paper and a reply defend-
ing the interpretation given here, see Martha C. Nussbaum and Amelie O. Rorty, eds., Essays
on Aristotle’s De Anima (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992). Victor Caston has pointed to
passages in Aristotle’s biological writings in which Aristotle speculates that cognition may in-
volve building of a kind of representation in the bloodstream! Such representations are not, of
course, in our psyche and are not identical with the perceptual experience; still, the fact that
Aristotle himself was willing to speculate in this way shows that an “Aristotelian” view need
not be hostile to the idea that subpersonal processes of a model-building kind have a role to
play in the etiology of perception (Aristotle as the father of cognitive science?).
17. Davidson has admitted, under the pressure of criticism from W. V. Quine, that
the criterion he originally offered for what he calls “token identity of events of different
types” was fatally flawed. For a fuller discussion of this issue, see Putnam, “Sense,
Nonsense and the Senses,” 477–483.
18. This paragraph and the four that follow are adapted from Hilary Putnam,
“Realism without Absolutes,” in Words and Life, 279, 285.
Not a sparrow falls to the ground but some of the remote conditions of his fall
are to be found in the milky way, or in our federal constitution, or in the early
history of Europe. That is to say, alter the milky way, alter the [facts of our]
federal constitution, alter the facts of our barbarian ancestry, and the universe
would so far be a different universe from what it now is. One fact involved in
the difference might be that the particular little street-boy who threw the
stone which brought down the sparrow might not find himself opposite the
sparrow at that particular moment; or, finding himself there, he might not be
in that particular serene and disengaged mood of mind which expressed itself
in throwing the stone. But, true as all this is, it would be very foolish for any-
one who was inquiring the cause of the sparrow’s fall to overlook the boy as
too personal, proximate, and so to speak anthropomorphic an agent, and to
say that the true cause [of the sparrow’s fall] is the federal constitution, the
westward migration of the Celtic race, or the structure of the milky way. If we
proceeded on that method, we might say with perfect legitimacy that a friend
of ours, who slipped on the ice upon his door-step and cracked his skull, some
months after dining with thirteen at the table, died because of that ominous
feast.19
Yet to conclude (from the fact that there is a great difference between asking
for the referent of a term and asking for the causes of a particular “tokening”
of that term) that we must abandon the idea that there is a relation of refer-
ence that holds between some of our terms and objects in the world is to
engage in a gesture of repudiation with respect to our conception of our-
selves as thinkers in a world that is so sweeping as, in the end, to invite the
suspicion that it is simply an empty pose. In this suspicion, I am naturally
joined by metaphysical realists. Metaphysical realists, of course, deplore the
rejection by both Rorty and Sellars of the very idea of semantical words-
world relations. If, however (as most of the contemporary ones do), they also
wish to endorse a “bald” version of naturalism, they cannot simply posit a
semantical words-world relation; they must also show that it can be reduced
to nonsemantical relations and facts—to posit irreducible semantic relations
is no better from their point of view than to posit immaterial sense data.20
Attempts to reduce semantic relations to nonsemantic ones have been
utter failures—to the point that we presently have no idea what such a re-
duction could conceivably look like.21
It was in this philosophical climate that I advanced my own attempt at
a “middle way” between antirealism and metaphysical realism (my so-
called internal realism) in the 1970s and 1980s.22 While I still defend some
of the ideas that were involved in those attempts (in particular the denial
that reality dictates one unique description is as central to my thinking as
it ever was), it is now clear that that attempt too was fatally flawed by its
allegiance to the traditional conception of our sensations as an “interface”
between us and the world. Thus, I can understand from my own experi-
ence how, even if we did not very much discuss the philosophy of percep-
Even if you are now convinced (I trust) that it is important to overcome the
representational theory of perception, the picture of our sensations as “be-
tween” us and those “external objects,” there is still the question as to our
historical accuracy in giving James and not Thomas Reid the credit for being
the first modern philosopher to revive direct realism. It is true that Thomas
Reid thoroughly understood the disastrous consequences of the representa-
tional theory and that (both in the Inquiry and in the Intellectual Powers) he
called—indeed, he vigorously polemicized—for a return to a direct real-
ism.24 My reason for not ultimately counting Reid as a successful advocate of
the direct realist cause is that he retains the idea that sensations are noncon-
ceptual and internal “signs” (as opposed to sensings of what is there) as an
essential part of his epistemology and ontology. For example, Reid writes:
[In perception] there is something which may be called the sign, and some-
thing which is signified to us . . . by that sign. . . . Thus when I grasp an ivory
ball in my hand, I have a certain sensation of touch. Although this has no si-
militude to anything material, yet, by the laws of my constitution, it is imme-
23. Bertrand Russell, The Analysis of Mind (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1921).
24. See John J. Haldane, “Reid, Scholasticism and Current Philosophy of Mind,”
in The Philosophy of Thomas Reid, ed. Melvin Delgarno and Eric Matthews (Dordrecht:
Kluwer, 1989), 285. See Thomas Reid, An Inquiry into the Human Mind on the
Principles of Common Sense [1764], ed. Derek R. Brookes (University Park: Pennsylvania
State University Press, 1997), and Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man [1785], ed.
Derek R. Brookes (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2002).
This differs from the standard Cartesian account only in adding that, owing
to “the laws of my constitution,” I am able to form a “conception” of the
object itself from this sensation even though it “has no similitude to any-
thing material.” This power, however, necessarily appears to be something
mysterious in Reid’s account, since the mind has as “input” something dif-
ferent in kind from what it forms conceptions and beliefs about. Similar
remarks apply to Peirce’s defense of direct realism—indeed, Peirce cites Reid
as the one who got it right.26
James’s name for this area of his philosophy is “radical empiricism”; James
does not, however, use the term “direct realism,” but the much better term
“natural realism” appears a number of times in his Essays in Radical
Empiricism, and he repeatedly insists that radical empiricism is close to
natural realism, or revives it, or shows that it can be maintained.27 We have
already provided an answer to the puzzle as to how a pragmatist came to
revive natural realism; it was James’s typically pragmatist insistence that we
take seriously the way in which we think about—and have to think about—
perceptual experience in the course of living our lives that virtually forced
natural realism upon him.28 And James is certainly correct that in the course
of living our lives, we have to think of ourselves as living in what he calls “a
common world,” that each of us must think that she is aware of the other’s
body and not simply a representation of it, and we all have to think that we
are aware of many of the same objects. It is true that in elaborating a phi-
losophy which took this idea as correct, James was led to some elaborate
metaphysical construction which I do not presently have time to discuss.
For that reason, toward the end of this essay I shall address the further ques-
tion “To what extent can we preserve natural realism without accepting all
of James’s metaphysics of radical empiricism?” I shall further suggest that
we can find resources for doing this in the writings of J. L. Austin.29 Even
if, however, James’s way was not the only way, or even the best way to de-
fend natural realism, the fact remains that it was the first way to be pro-
posed after the fateful Cartesian turn in modern philosophy.30
James’s way involved what Russell (not James himself, for whom the term
“monist” was anathema) described as a “neutral monist” ontology. In such
an ontology, the properties and relations we experience are the stuff of the
universe; there is no nonexperiential “substratum” (this is an idea of James’s
with which Russell was sympathetic), and these experienced or experience-
able properties and relations (James is unfortunately a little vague at this
crucial point) make up both minds and material objects.
Moreover, minds and material objects in a sense “overlap”; the very thing
I experience as a sensation of red is, in another context, also what I refer to
as “a patch of color on the wall.” Illusions do not prove that we never “di-
rectly experience” external objects; in James’s radical empiricist metaphysics,
what the phenomena of illusions go to show is that not every bit of pure
experience has the status of being a part of a “real” object, not that none do.
Of course, there is the obvious objection that the skeptical epistemologi-
cal problem has not been “solved.” In James’s account, there is no absolutely
certain way to know when we are subject to an illusion and when we are not.
But James would reply that the problem is even worse for the traditional
theory. As James puts it for the Berkleyan school:
Our lives are a congeries of solipsisms, out of which in strict logic only a God
could compose a universe even of discourse. . . . If the body you actuate be not
the very body that I see there, but some duplicate body of your own with
29. For a fuller account see Putnam, “Sense, Nonsense and the Senses.”
30. Charles Taylor has objected that I am leaving Hegel out of account here. Even
if Hegel can be seen as a kind of direct realist (which is problematic), he seems to have
had no influence on James in this respect.
which that has nothing to do, we belong to different universes, you and I, and
for me to speak of you is folly.31
In short, James argues that several minds, each acquainted only with its own
private objects, could not arrive by any process of inference at knowledge or
even thought of one another.
The advantage of pragmatism over traditional “foundationalist” epistemol-
ogy, in James’s view, is that the way in which pragmatist philosophers answer
skeptical doubts is the way in which doubts are answered in practice, by ap-
pealing to tests that in fact work in our lives. If I think that what I see may be
an illusion, I can try to touch it, or look at it from a different position, or ask
other people to take a look. There are not, in James’s view, two sets of criteria
for being “real”—commonsense criteria and philosophical criteria.
With so much, Russell was able to agree in The Analysis of Mind. In a
chapter of that work dealing with sensations and images (Chapter 8), Russell
heartily endorses James’s view that “the dualism of mind and matter cannot
be allowed as metaphysically valid,” writing that “on this subject we may
again quote William James. He points out that when we say we merely
‘imagine’ things, there are no such effects as would ensue if the things were
what we call ‘real.”’32 It is at this point Russell quotes James at length and
then restates the point in his own terminology: the difference between so-
called ‘mental’ phenomena and ‘physical’ phenomena is a difference in the
causal laws obeyed, not a fundamental dualism.
But there is an important aspect of what James calls “natural realism” with
which Russell was unable to agree (although it is not clear that he realized
that this was a point of disagreement). For immediately after this, Russell
proceeds to give precisely the description of experience that James had pre-
viously rebelled against in The Principles of Psychology: experience consists of
color patches, etc., and we think we see tables and chairs because we make
“inferences” of various kinds!33 Evidently Russell is willing to follow James
about color patches (“the sensation that we have when we see a patch of
colour simply is that patch of colour, an actual constituent of the physical
world”) but not about tables and chairs.34
Here is an example (my own rather than his) of what bothers Russell:
while it is true that we normally see tables and chairs as just that, very often
we do not see the side away from us; yet seeing something as a chair is seeing
it as something which has an unseen side, and one of a certain kind. Because
that knowledge, the knowledge of the unseen side, cannot be perceptual
(this seems evident to Russell) it must be inferred.35 We can only find what
is really given in sensation by stripping away all “mnemic” (i.e., conceptual)
contributions. But James’s view is that if there is an original nonconceptual
element in perception, we are unable to get back to it (or can get to it only
in free reverie—precisely when we are not cognizing!). The question of how
much of what we perceive is “given” and how much is “added” is, he says in
one place, like the question “Does a man walk more essentially on his left leg
or his right?”36 Although James was not willing to go as far as Kant and treat
perception as a passive exercise of the same conceptual powers that are exer-
cised in judgment, the practical effect of this part of his doctrine is the
same.37 What we perceive, in so far as the perception is available to us as a
source of knowledge, is a sort of fusion of sensation and conception. Given
his constant emphasis on the richness and variety of what is given in experi-
ence, he could never accept the view that all we really see are color patches!
The Russell of The Analysis of Mind was strongly influenced by James, but
only so far: his direct realism stopped with the color patches. James’s natural
realism is full bodied.
James’s Excesses
35. In the “Notes” for the seminar on “the Feelings,” James insists that this “point-
ing” to something more is part of what he calls the “content” of the “datum”; this is
the exact opposite of Russell’s view.
36. James, The Meaning of Truth, in Works, 2:120.
37. For a recent discussion of the importance of this insight of Kant’s, see McDowell,
Mind and World.
too restrictive. Although James does at times try to allow not only what is
perceptually experienced but even what is conceived as “pure experience,”
this strain in his thought is never worked out and is, indeed, in conflict with
his own account of conceptual thinking. For James, the world is the experi-
enceable world; since James has an admirable reluctance to rule out any kind
of talk that does real work in our lives, he is forced to reinterpret talk of
unobservables in physics, of counterfactual connections, and of mathemati-
cal talk, etc., in ways that are unconvincing and ultimately unsuccessful.
In another respect, however, James’s ontology is not restrictive enough.
To explain what is meant by this, I shall close by bringing in the great British
philosopher J. L. Austin, a second figure in the history of natural realism’s
revival. I have ventured a hypothesis as to the origin of James’s defense of
natural realism. I do not know, however, the etiology of Austin’s rejection of
the whole idea of sense data as private representations of an external reality,
except that that rejection may have come very early in Austin’s life.38 In any
case, he is very likely to have been acquainted at least with Russell’s account
of James’s views in The Analysis of Mind.
It was, by the way, through reflecting on Austin’s Sense and Sensibilia, as I
did repeatedly starting in the 1970s, that I first began to take direct realism
seriously. Although my views are now closer to Austin’s than to James’s, I
must admit that I was not at first convinced by Austin.39 Only after I began
to teach courses on the philosophy of William James and to focus on his
radical empiricism did I begin to see that the endless pattern of recoil in
modern philosophy (from extravagant versions of realism to equally extrav-
agant versions of antirealism and back again) can never be brought to rest
38. In 1936 (Austin was born in 1911), Austin and Isaiah Berlin held a class on C. I.
Lewis’s book Mind and the World-Order [1929] (New York; Dover, 1956), in which
Austin characterized Lewis’s doctrine of qualia—specific, sensible characteristics—as
“complete nonsense.” See Isaiah Berlin, Personal Impressions, ed. Henry Hardy
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), 107. Unfortunately, Berlin does not
give Austin’s grounds, and so one cannot tell whether this means that Austin already
held the views that he was to defend in Sense and Sensibilia.
39. In Hilary Putnam, “Models and Reality,” reprinted in Putnam, Philosophical
Papers, vol. 3: Realism and Reason (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983). I
explicitly rejected Austin’s views. It now seems to me that this rejection led me directly
into a cul-de-sac with respect to the realism/antirealism issue. For an explanation of
this remark, see Putnam, “Sense, Nonsense and the Senses.”
unless we challenge the picture of the mind, and particularly the picture of
perception, that makes it seem impossible to take our ordinary talk of per-
ceiving and thinking about objects seriously unless one reinterprets it in
terms of a representational theory of the mind. Understanding how that
theory fails to provide the desired “foundation” for our ordinary talk (since
it is just as much a mystery, in the end, how the supposed “mental represen-
tations” can refer to objects as it is how our ordinary talk can do so!) makes
it seem Rortian nihilism must be the only option that remains (although
that too, I would argue, is only the illusion of an option, a fata morgana
which disappears the moment one tries to embrace it).40
The most striking feature of the view put forward in Sense and Sensibilia,
at least on a first reading, is the rejection of something that the tradition
takes as self-evident—namely, that even nonveridical experience must be
analyzed on a perceiver-percipient model. If I dream, or am subject to the
illusion, or even hallucinate that I see a building, I really do perceive some-
thing on the traditional view—it is just that what I perceive is not a physical
something but a “mental” something. James (and Russell when he was fol-
lowing James) retained just this feature of the traditional view. To be sure,
they denied that such mental somethings are made of a different “stuff” from
the physical things (this denial was a consequence of their different versions
of “neutral monist” metaphysics), but they accepted the perceiver-percipient
model. But on Austin’s still more radical approach, when, for example, I
dream that I see a building, I do not perceive anything—I only seem to
perceive something. With one stroke, Austin banishes the last vestige of the
tradition’s “sense data.” (Well, not entirely, you may object—we still feel
pains, for example, and a pain is not a physical object. That is true, but
Austin’s point is that the tradition regards feeling a pain and seeing a table as
essentially similar—in both cases I have “sensations,” and it is the use of the
notion of a “sensation” in connection with perceptual experiences, be they
“veridical” or “nonveridical,” that Austin regards as complete nonsense.)
However, to even sketch Austin’s view would require another essay as long
as this one has been. I will only mention one obvious objection to Austin’s
account (the one that bothered me for a long time): if we give up the idea
40. For a discussion of Rorty’s position, see Putnam, Renewing Philosophy; see also
“Realism without Absolutes” and “The Question of Realism,” in Words and Life, 279–
294, 295–314.
that there is a mental object in the case of nonveridical experience, how are
we to explain the similarity between the nonveridical experience and a cor-
responding perception? To be sure, Austin’s account does not prevent us
from saying that how an experience seems depends on our neural state in
such-and-such ways; these causal dependencies are matters of scientific fact.
But do we not want to say more than that? Do we not want to say that there
is something identical, a “common factor,” present in the two experiences?
Austin’s view, which I have come to share, is that one has here only the illu-
sion of an explanation.41
Austin’s strategy was not available to James; James’s whole metaphysical
outlook is that everything that seems to be present in experience is, in some
sense, there—is, as James sometimes puts it, a “bit” of pure experience. To
go from James’s bold presentation of his metaphysics of radical empiricism
to Austin’s Sense and Sensibilia is to go from a bold metaphysical construc-
tion with deep roots in traditional empiricist metaphysics (roots which
James repeatedly acknowledged, even as he tried to correct what he saw as
the errors of that empiricism) to a bitingly cold attempt to achieve a certain
kind of clarity. To some, this will seem a loss. But at the end of the day, it is,
I believe, a gain; and it even preserves, I believe, the genuine moment of
insight in James’s ambitious metaphysical project, which was James’s realiza-
tion that our ordinary ways of talking and thinking about our perceptual
experiences should be taken seriously in philosophy. In taking so seriously
our commonsense picture of ourselves as having access to a common
world—taking that picture so seriously because it, and the actions that are
interwoven with it and give it content, are essential to our lives together, not
just as knowers but as moral agents—William James was, in the best sense,
both a “pragmatist” and a “realist.”
41. For further discussion see Putnam, “Sense, Nonsense and the Senses,” 473–483.
connections. The great philosophers see connections not only between the
issues and questions raised in different subfields of philosophy, such as meta-
physics and ethics, but between philosophical issues and everyday life. In
1907, late in his life, James wrote to a philosophy critic, Dickinson S. Miller:3
Dear Miller,
I got your letter about “Pragmatism,” etc., some time ago. . . . I sent you a
week ago a “Journal of Philosophy” with a word more about Truth in it, written
at you mainly: But I hardly dare hope that I have cleared up my position. A
letter from Strong, two days ago, written after receiving a proof of that paper,
still thinks that I deny the existence of realities outside the thinker; and Perry
. . . accused Pragmatists (though he doesn’t name me) of ignoring or denying
that the real objects play any part in deciding what ideas are true. I confess that
such misunderstandings seem to me hardly credible. . . .
Apparently it all comes from the word Pragmatism—and a most unlucky
word it may prove to have been. I am a natural realist. The world per se may be
likened to a cast of beans on a table. By themselves they spell nothing. An on-
looker may group them as he likes. He may simply count them all and map
them. He may select groups and name these capriciously, or name them to suit
certain extrinsic purposes of his. Whatever he does, so long as he takes account
of them, his account is neither false nor irrelevant. If neither, why not call it true?
It fits the beans-minus-him, and expresses the total facts of the beans-plus-him.
Truth in this total sense is partially ambiguous, then. If he simply counts or
maps, he obeys a subjective interest as much as if he traces figures. Let that stand
for pure “intellectual” treatment of the beans, while grouping them variously
stands for non-intellectual interests. All that . . . I contend for is that there is no
“truth” without some interest, and that non-intellectual interests play a part as
well as the intellectual ones.4 Whereupon we are accused of denying the beans,
or denying being in any way constrained by them! It’s too silly!
In fewer than 200 words, James expresses a number of key themes in his
thought. He says, for example, that he is a “natural realist,” that his aim (as
stated in his Essays in Radical Empiricism) is to produce a metaphysics and
3. James to Dickerson S. Miller, 5 August 1907, The Letters of William James, ed.
Henry James Jr. (Boston: Atlantic Monthly Press, 1920), 2:295–296.
4. James to Dickerson S. Miller, 5 August 1907, The Letters of William James, ed.
Henry James Jr. (Boston: Atlantic Monthly Press, 1920), 2:295–296.
epistemology close to the natural realism of the common man. The “com-
mon man” takes himself to perceive the ordinary objects of everyday life,
whereas philosophers since Descartes have interposed certain types of pri-
vate entities (“ideas” or “impressions” or “sense data”) between the perceiver
and that world of things and events in a public space and time. They have
then struggled valiantly but unsuccessfully to reconstruct a public world out
of what James calls a “congeries of solipsisms.” James’s response is to take
experiences seriously, to say that whatever is experienced is real, and that
since we unreflectingly experience a public world, it is indeed a public world
in which we live. Reading James will provide one with arguments in favor of
natural realism, with an intellectual justification for believing in our studies
what all of us believe outside in any case.
But the public world we experience is not a “ready-made” world. What
James writes concerning the beans fits very well with a theme that he strikes
repeatedly in Pragmatism, particularly in Lectures 2 and 7: the role of what we
may call our conceptual contribution to determining truth. James agrees with
his older friend C. S. Peirce, the inventor of the name “Pragmatism,” that re-
ality—what Peirce refers to as “external permanencies” or as “nothing hu-
man”—constrains what we call true; but James argues that we are not as com-
pletely constrained as Peirce thought. There is—to use a term from W. V.
Quine—some “underdetermination.” In the space provided by the underde-
termination, we have some conceptual freedom, some freedom to choose one
or another alternative description. No single unique description is imposed
upon us by nonhuman reality. How that space is filled depends on our inter-
ests. “There is,” James points out, “no ‘truth’ without some interest.” In short,
James draws attention to the interpenetration of facts and values, to the fact
that our beliefs concerning facts and values form a seamless web.
From these themes, one could continue in different directions. One could
develop the doctrine of what Hilary Putnam has called “conceptual relativity.”
In some cases, the alternative descriptions that we are free to develop while still
“fitting the beans” correspond to different values, and indeed to incompatible
actions, and in such cases we have to choose between them. But these choices
need not be permanent; on their days off, astronomers can be awed by the
starry heavens as was Kant (who was an outstanding astrophysicist). In other
cases, what look like different descriptions may in fact be the same; that is,
they may contain the same information holistically. James says as much in
5. James, “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life,” in The Will to Believe in
Works; 6.
sists that the existence of objective value does not depend on the ex-
istence of God: “Whether a God exist, or whether no God exist, in
yon blue heaven above us bent, we form at any rate an ethical repub-
lic here below.”6
2. Anti-reductionism. “Our ideals have many sources. They are not all
explicable as signifying corporeal pleasures to be gained, and pains to
be escaped.”7
3. Pluralism. Not only do our ideals have many sources but James also
recognizes with regret that they cannot all be realized. Our aim can
only be to seek those goods “most apt to be member[s] of a more
inclusive whole.”8
4. Experimentalism. What that whole is can be found out only by trial
and error, and requires that we be “open to the voice of complaint.”9
James see these four interrelated points, especially when one stresses plural-
ism, both as an argument for and as embodying the best in democracy.
Speaking particularly to philosophers, James warns against system-building
in ethics. While the desire for system has produced some great books, any
system is bound to leave out important features of the moral life and to gloss
over the important insight that every moral situation is unique. Philosophers’
writings on ethics, he concludes, “must more and more ally themselves with a
literature that is confessedly tentative and suggestive rather than dogmatic . . .
they must more and more abandon the old-fashioned, clear-cut, and would-be
‘scientific’ form.”10
James’s views in metaphysics and epistemology—his natural realism, his
emphasis on our conceptual contribution to all our knowledge, and, conse-
quently, his recognition of the interpenetration of facts and values—connect
with his views in ethics: his pluralistic, antireductionist naturalism and exper-
imentalism. Again, there are at least two approaches to appreciating this. First,
James’s own most detailed explanation of the phrase “radical empiricism”:
6. Ibid., 150.
7. Ibid., 144.
8. Ibid., 158.
9. Ibid., 159.
10. Ibid.
“Empiricism” is, of course, a general term for doctrines which hold that all
knowledge derives from experience. James calls his empiricism radical be-
cause he sees traditional empiricism as denying something that presents itself
in experience—namely, relations. While traditional empiricism—say
Humean empiricism—maintains that all knowledge derives from experi-
ence, it also holds that our experiences are not what, prior to philosophical
reflection, we take them to be. We think we see one thing pushing another,
or affecting another, that we perceive causal connections, and all sorts of
other relations. But, traditional empiricists argued, we do not really perceive
that. We only perceive color-qualia at points in visual space, etc. And then
they proceed to explain—in Hume’s case, by principles of association—how
we come by our erroneous belief that we perceive relations between these
objects of perception.
James rejects this picture, and rejects it on empiricist grounds; that makes
his position a radical empiricism. In our words, not his, he holds that the
presumption should be that if it seems to us that we perceive something as
“bringing about” something or “leading to” something else (these are favor-
ite examples of “conjunctive relations” for James), then, pace Hume, we do
perceive such things as bringing about and leading to. Although James does
not mention values in the account of radical empiricism we have just quoted,
he does, in fact, hold that we experience values: we experience some things
as hideous and others as charming; we feel the obligations that other people’s
claims impose on us, etc. The presumption of the radical empiricist is that
values are real; the burden of proof is on the skeptic to show that it is other-
wise. Given that values are experienced, given the interpenetration of facts
and values, James’s fallibilistic and pluralistic stance toward moral judgments
appears to us inevitable.
But perhaps the best answer to the question of what unifies James’s
thought is a nonphilosophical answer, an answer that James himself suggests
at the end of the first lecture in Pragmatism:
Not only Walt Whitman could write, “Who touches this book touches a
man.” The books of all the great philosophers are like so many men. One’s
sense of the essential personal flavour in each one of them, typical but inde-
scribable, is the finest fruit of our own accomplished philosophical educa-
tion.12
In the end, perhaps, the most important reason to read William James is to
“touch” William James.
Hilary Putnam
critics ignore it), and (2) the un-Peircean idea that truth is partly shaped by
our interests. After that, I examine two more strains which reflect the meta-
physics of radical empiricism, even though in Pragmatism James (unsuccess-
fully) attempted to avoid presupposing it. These are (3) a realist strain,
summed up in the claim that truth involves agreement with reality, although
that agreement is not one single relation, and (4) an empiricist strain,
summed up in the claim that “truth happens to an idea.” I also describe the
way in which these strains reappear in the Meaning of Truth. My purpose
here is almost entirely exegetical; nevertheless, I shall close with a brief com-
ment on James’s theory.
I, for my part, cannot escape the consideration forced upon me at every turn,
that the knower is not simply a mirror floating with no foot-hold anywhere,
and passively reflecting an order that he comes upon and finds simply exist-
ing. The knower is an actor, and coefficient of the truth on one side, whilst on
the other he registers the truth which he helps to create. Mental interests,
hypotheses, postulates, insofar as they are bases for human action—action
which to a great extent transforms the world—help to make the truth which
they declare.4
Here the idea that we help to make the truth is spelled out in an innocuous
way: our actions partially determine what will happen, and hence what will
be true of the world. (In his later writings James will propose a more contro-
versial sense in which we help to make truth.) But James is not primarily
thinking of historical truth even here. For he immediately raises the question
whether “judgments of the should-be” can correspond to reality and responds
by declaring that this possibility should not be ruled out:
In the first place, there is the definition of James, whose definition differs
from mine only in that he does not restrict the “meaning,” that is the ultimate
logical interpretant, as I do, to a habit, but allows percepts, that is, complex
feelings endowed with compulsiveness, to be such. If he is willing to do this,
I do not quite see how he need give any room at all to habit. But practically,
5. Ibid., 21–22.
his view and mine must, I think, coincide, except where he allows consider-
ations not at all pragmatic to have weight.6
Peirce refers to James’s interpretation of the pragmatic maxim and the reser-
vation is occasioned by the fact that James allows “[an idea’s] intensity, its
seriousness—its interest, in a word” to have weight.7 It is true that on Peirce’s
view interests also have a role in determining the truth. For Peirce himself
writes that the ultimate aim of inquiry is a finished knowledge, which we are
to approach in the limit but never actually achieve and which will have an
“aesthetic quality” that will be a “free development of the agent’s own aes-
thetic quality” and will, at the same time, match the “aesthetic quality” of
“the ultimate action of experience upon him.”8 However, Peirce supposes
that all rational inquirers will share this “ultimate aim,” while James believes
that more practical and more immediate aims and sentiments must also play
a role in determining what the “ultimate consensus” will be.
Moreover, the sense in which Peirce and James think of our “interests” or
our “ultimate aim” as determining truth is complex. For both James and
Peirce truth is a property of beliefs or judgments, and without thinkers there
are no beliefs to be true or false. In that sense, both Peirce and James can
agree that being interested in having true beliefs determines whether there
will be truth. Moreover, our various interests determine what inquiries we
shall pursue, what concepts we will find useful, and so on; that is, they de-
termine which truths there will be. But James is willing to draw radical con-
sequences from this last idea, consequences Peirce is not willing to draw
because of his scholastic realism, his belief that ultimately only those con-
cepts survive that correspond to real Thirds.9 The element in James’s thought
6. Peirce, Collected Papers, 5:494. Peirce may also be thinking of “The Pragmatic
Method” in James, Essays in Philosophy, in Works, 5:123–139. There James writes, “I
think myself that [the principle of pragmatism] should be expressed more broadly
than Mr. Peirce expresses it. The ultimate test for us of what truth means is indeed the
conduct it dictates or inspires. But it inspires that conduct because it first foretells
some particular turn to our experience which shall call for just that conduct” (124).
7. James’s statement of the pragmatic maxim is found in Pragmatism, in Works,
1:28–29.
8. Peirce, Collected Papers, 5:136.
9. For a discussion of Thirdness see Chapter 8 of this volume.
of two conceptions equally fit to satisfy the logical demand, that one which
awakens the active impulses, or satisfies other aesthetic demands better than
the other, will be accounted the more rational conception, and will deservedly
prevail. . . .
A thorough-going interpretation of the world in terms of mechanical se-
quence is compatible with its being interpreted teleologically, for the mecha-
nism itself may be designed.
If, then, there were several systems excogitated, equally satisfying to our
purely logical needs, they would still have to be passed in review, and ap-
proved or rejected by our aesthetic and practical nature.10
metaphysical ideas.16 Particularly relevant is the fact that James now distin-
guishes between “half-truths”—the statements we accept at a given time as
our best posits—and “absolute truths.” The passage in which the distinction
is drawn is difficult to interpret—I shall examine it closely in the course of
this essay—but as James later explains it in The Meaning of Truth, the claim
is that we do attain absolute truth, although we can never guarantee that we
do; and James posits that pragmatism itself is absolutely true. In The Meaning
of Truth, absolute truth is characterized by James as membership in an “ideal
set” of “formulations” on which there will be “ultimate consensus”—yet an-
other Peircean formulation.17
16. See Josiah Royce, The Basic Writings of Josiah Royce, 2 vols., ed. John J.
McDermott (Bronx, NY: Fordham University Press, 1969), 321–325; this should be
read in the light of 681–709.
17. James, The Meaning of Truth, in Works, 2:143–144. It is true that the reference
to “fate” is absent. But Peirce himself rather downplays this notion, writing in a foot-
note to the definition cited, “Fate means merely that which is sure to come true. . . .
We are all fated to die.”
18. Josiah Royce, The Philosophy of Josiah Royce, ed. John Roth (New York: Thomas
Crowell, 1971), 511; Jacques Barzun, A Stroll with William James (Chicago: University
of Chicago Press, 1983), 107.
with no context of varying relations that might be further asked about. What
a word means is expressed by its definition, isn’t it? The definition claims to be
exact and adequate, doesn’t it? Then it can be substituted for the word—since
the two are identical—can’t it? Then two words with the same definition can
be substituted for one another, n’est-ce pas? Likewise two definitions of the
same word, nicht wahr, etc., till it will be indeed strange if you can’t convict
someone of self-contradiction and absurdity.19
In answering these questions, the pragmatists are more analytic and painstak-
ing, the intellectualists more offhand and irreflective. The popular notion is
that a true idea must copy its reality. Like other popular views, this one fol-
lows the analogy of the most usual experience. Our true ideas of sensible
things do indeed copy them.21
Shut your eyes, and think of yonder clock on the wall, and you get such a
true picture or copy of its dial. But your idea of its works, unless you are a
clockmaker, is much less of a copy, and yet it passes muster. . . . Even though
it [your idea of the works] should shrink to the mere word “works,” that word
still serves you truly. And when you speak of the “timekeeping function” of
the clock, or of its spring’s “elasticity,” it is hard to see exactly what your ideas
can copy. 22
Here we have the idea of a range of cases of which copying is simply one
extreme. The idea that it is empty to think of reference as one relation is also
In short, mere resemblance never suffices for truth. It is what we do with our
“images” that makes the difference. “If I can lead you to the hall, and tell you
of its history and present uses, if in its presence I feel my idea, however im-
perfect it may have been, to have led hither, and to be now terminated; if the
associates of the image and of the felt hall run parallel, so each term of the
one corresponds serially as I walk with an answering term of the other; why
then my soul was prophetic and my idea must be, and by common consent
would be, called cognizant of reality. The percept was what I meant, for into
it my idea has passed by conjunctive experiences of sameness and fulfilled
intention. Nowhere is there a jar, but every moment continues and corrob-
orates an earlier one.”25
These remarks on the ways ideas correspond to reality presuppose the
notion of “conjunctive experiences.” (James also speaks of “conjunctive rela-
tions,” but, according to radical empiricism, relations too are directly expe-
rienced.) The most striking aspect of James’s radical empiricism is its inten-
tion to be close to “natural realism.”26 In perception I am directly acquainted
with external reality—indeed, to speak of my “sensations” and to speak of
the external realities the sensations are “of “ is to speak of the same bits of
“pure experience,” counted “twice over” (with two different “contexts”). I
have argued that James was the first post-Cartesian philosopher to com-
pletely reject the idea that perception requires intermediaries.27 However,
James subscribed to the slogan esse est percipi. Since one is directly acquainted
with reality, impressions are not simply in the mind, and since esse est percipi,
then all there is are these impressions that are not simply in the mind. No
doubt, that is why James does not call them “impressions” but “pure experi-
ence.” Reality just is the flux of “pure experience.”
In addition, James held that concepts always “build out” the bits of pure
experience they describe. For that reason, direct acquaintance is not infallible.28
25. Ibid.
26. Ibid., 63.
27. See Hilary Putnam, “James’s Theory of Perception,” in Realism with a Human
Face (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), and “Sense, Nonsense, and
the Senses: An Inquiry into the Powers of the Human Mind” (Dewey Lectures, 1994),
The Journal of Philosophy 91, no. 9 (September 1994): 445–517.
28. The mutability of knowledge is a constant theme (see, for example, James,
Pragmatism, in Works, 1:107 and Lecture 5). Pure experience in itself is neither true nor
false, but any conceptualization of it is fallible. James, Essays in Radical Empiricism, in
Works, 3:28–29.
Even if I see something that looks just like a clock’s face, it may turn out that
my belief is mistaken—I may be looking at a trompe l’oeil painting. Nevertheless,
a vital part—if never all—of the “agreement with reality” that James speaks of
is verification by direct acquaintance with external realities; and James lashes
out at his critics for ignoring this.29 Speaking to what he calls the “fourth mis-
understanding” of pragmatism (“No pragmatist can be a realist in his episte-
mology”), he writes, “The pragmatist calls satisfactions indispensible for
truth-building, but I have everywhere called them insufficient unless reality be
also incidentally led to. . . . Ideas are so much flat psychological surface unless
some mirrored matter gives them cognitive lustre. This is why as a pragmatist I
have so carefully postulated ‘reality’ ab intitio, and why, throughout my whole
discussion, I remain an epistemological realist.”30
Ideas which have not yet been verified may also agree with reality. As we
have just seen, James takes the relevant relation(s) to be “conjunctive rela-
tions”; and as we said, such relations are given in experience.31 The relevant
relations are precisely the ones that constitute verifications. The idea that
there are elm trees in a certain forest may, for example, be “directly verified”
in the future by going to the forest and seeing the elm trees. The fact that the
idea “led me” to the elm trees and “terminated in” that direct acquaintance
of the elm trees constitutes its “agreement” with the elm trees.
An idea that was never directly verified may also agree with a reality by
“substituting” for it; for example, the belief that the couch in my office was
there at 3 am last Sunday morning leads to as successful a prediction as if I
had directly verified it.32 Compare this with the statement “Truth lives for
the most part on a credit system. Our thoughts and beliefs ‘pass’, so long as
nothing challenges them, just as bank-notes pass so long as nobody refuses
them. But this all points to direct face-to-face verifications somewhere, with-
out which the fabric of truth collapses like a financial system with no cash
basis whatever.”33 Summing up all these sorts of “agreement,” James writes
that “to ‘agree’ in the widest sense with a reality can only mean to be guided
straight up to it or into its surroundings, or to be put into such working touch
1. James recognizes that not all of our concepts refer to sensible realities.
Unlike the positivists, James was willing to count the objects of “nonpercep-
tual experiences,” if their existence should be confirmed, as on an ontologi-
cal par with the things we can observe by means of the senses.37 For example,
mathematical notions, ethical notions, and religious notions are not subject
to verification either by direct experience or by means of scientific experi-
ments; and James is content to offer separate accounts in each case, without
pretending to a single overarching theory of all possible sorts of “agreement
with reality.” In the case of ethics and religion, James’s account is itself plu-
ralistic.38 In the case of religion, James finds a partial, but very imperfect,
analogy between religious experience and observation—but there are also
purely intellectual factors, and there are ethical requirements, including a
need for a picture of the universe that we find sympathetic.39 The need for
trade-offs, if we are ever to find a satisfactory religious world-picture, is the
subject of James’s A Pluralistic Universe. In the case of ethics, there is a utili-
tarian moment, represented by the idea that we must try to satisfy as many
“demands” as possible; but there is also an anti-utilitarian moment, repre-
sented by the rejection of the idea that there is any single scale on which
demands can be compared. The overriding ideal is to discover “more inclu-
sive ideals.”40 (Here James is at his most “pluralistic.”)
2. Verification is a holistic matter, and many factors are involved, success
in prediction being only one. Among the other factors that James mentions are
conservation of past doctrine, simplicity, and coherence with “what fits every
part of life best and combines with the collectivity of experience’s demands,
nothing being omitted.”41 James describes the fluidity of this holistic verifica-
tion when he writes, “New truth is always a go-between, a smoother-over of
transitions. It marries old opinion to new fact so as to show a minimum of jolt,
a maximum of continuity. We hold a theory true just in proportion to its suc-
cess at solving this problem of ‘maxima and minima.’ But success in solving
42. Ibid., 3, 5.
43. James, The Will to Believe, in Works, 6:66.
44. James, The Meaning of Truth, in Works, 2:108–109.
45. James, Pragmatism, in Works, 1:97.
46. Ibid., 107.
Misreadings of James’s views on truth are almost always based upon four
paragraphs in Pragmatism. Let me quote them in full:
“The true,” to put it very briefly, is only the expedient in the way of our thinking,
just as “the right” is only the expedient in the way of our behaving. Expedient in
almost any fashion; and expedient in the long run and on the whole of course;
for what meets expediently all the experience in sight won’t necessarily meet
all farther experiences equally satisfactorily. Experience, as we know, has ways
of boiling over, and making us correct our present formulas.
The “absolutely” true, meaning what no farther experience will ever alter, is
that ideal vanishing-point towards which we imagine that all our temporary
truths will some day converge. It runs on all fours with the perfectly wise man,
and with the absolutely complete experience; and if these ideals are ever realized,
they will all be realized together. Meanwhile, we have to live today by what truth
we can get today, and be ready tomorrow to call it falsehood. Ptolemaic astron-
omy, euclidean space, aristotelian logic, scholastic metaphysics, were expedient
for centuries, but human experience has now boiled over those limits, and we
call those things only relatively true, or true within those borders of experience.
“Absolutely” they are false; for we know that those limits were casual, and might
have been transcended by past theorists just as they are by present thinkers.
Critics typically cite only the first sentence. Such readers attend only to the
idea that “expedience” is what determines truth, although most of this lec-
ture (i.e., Pragmatism, Lecture 6) is devoted to “agreement” with realities.
Thus, Russell quotes James as follows: “The ‘true’ is only expedient in the
way of our thinking . . . in the long run and on the whole of course.” Russell
omits “to put it very briefly” and “in almost any fashion”—indications that
what we have is a thematic statement, and not an attempt to formulate a
definition of “true”—and also substitutes his own notion of what “expedi-
ency” is for James’s, and ends up saying that James proposed the theory that
“true” means “has good effects.”
In The Meaning of Truth, James complains of an additional misunder-
standing: it consists in accusing “the pragmatists” of denying that we can
speak of any such thing as “absolute” truth.49 Perhaps such readers take the
remark about “the perfectly wise man” to be mocking absolute truth. But
what James is telling us is that, while it is true that we will never reach the
whole ideal set of formulations that constitutes absolute truth, “we imagine
that all of our temporary truths” will converge to that ideal limit. In his reply
to this misinterpretation, James says as much:
I expect that the more fully men discuss and test my account, the more they
will agree that it fits, and the less they will desire a change. I may, of course, be
premature, and the glory of being truth final and absolute may fall upon some
later revision and correction of my scheme, which will then be judged untrue
in just the measure in which it departs from that final satisfactory formula-
tion. To admit, as we pragmatists do, that we are liable to correction (even tho
we may not expect it) involves the use on our part of an ideal standard.50
50. Ibid.
51. Ibid., 143–144.
52. This objection was suggested by David Lamberth.
One can, I believe, learn a great deal from James. He was the first modern
philosopher successfully to reject the idea that our impressions are located in
a private mental theater (and thus constitute an interface between ourselves
and “the external world”), although one does not have to accept James’s
whole metaphysics of “pure experience” to follow him here.54 James empha-
sized the ways in which verification and valuation are interdependent, with-
out drawing relativist or subjectivist conclusions, and we should do the
same. James taught us to see concepts as instruments which serve many
different interests. But James’s theory of truth is seriously flawed. I will men-
tion just one objection—a fatal one—jotted down by Royce on a copy of
James’s leaflet “The Meaning of the Word Truth.”55 The objection is that, on
James’s account, for a statement about the past to be true it is necessary that
the statement be believed in the future and that it become “the total drift of
thought.” In this way, the truth-value of every statement about the past de-
pends on what happens in the future—and that cannot be right.
James was aware of the possibility of some such objection, and Perry gives
us his answer.56 What James says is simply that there is a difference between
past realities, which cannot be changed, and truths about the past, which are
“mutable.” Presumably he meant that it is judgments that are true or false
(James—reasonably, in my view—would never so much as entertain the
Fregean alternative of conceiving of thoughts as entities which exist inde-
pendently of thinkers); truths do not exist until some thinker actually thinks
them. But his claim that the past is immutable (considered as a “reality” and
not as a “judgment”) is still in tension with his theory, as we may see by
considering a contested historical judgment, say, that Lizzie Borden com-
mitted the famous axe murders. Many believe she was guilty; so the judg-
ment that she was exists, and (since she was acquitted) the judgment that she
was innocent was at least entertained as a reasonable possibility. If the im-
mutability of the past means that it is a “reality” that Lizzie Borden commit-
ted the murders or a “reality” that she did not, independently of whether one
or the other of these judgments is ever confirmed, then, if she committed the
murders but the judgment that she did never becomes “coercive over
thought,” on James’s theory of truth it will follow that Lizzie Borden com-
mitted the murders, but the judgment that she did is not true—contradict-
ing the principle that, for any judgment p, p is equivalent to the judgment
that p is true. And similarly if she did not commit the murders, but the
judgment that she did not never becomes “coercive over thought,” we will
have a violation of the same principle.
James might reply that the reality is immutable, but what is true of the
reality is not; but this would totally undercut the reply (the letter to Lane)
that Perry reprints. What led James into this cul-de-sac was his failure to
challenge traditional views of conception. James decisively rejected the inter-
55. Royce’s notes may be found in Perry, Thought and Character, 2:735–736. The
leaflet is reprinted in James, The Meaning of Truth, in Works, 2:117–119.
56. See the letter to Alfred C. Lane, reprinted in Perry, Thought and Character,
2:477–478.
Note
I am very much indebted to Ruth Anna Putnam for close reading and help-
ful criticism of an earlier draft.
Hilary Putnam
I BEGIN WITH a confession. This chapter is hung onto the subject of James’s
Varieties by what may seem as the very thinnest of threads, a single sentence
in the Varieties, but when you hear that sentence, I think that you will agree
that it deserves meditating on. The sentence in question reads as follows:
The word ‘truth’ is taken to mean something additional to bare value for life,
although the natural propensity of man is to believe that whatever has value
for life is thereby certified as true.1
The reason that this footnote invites meditation is twofold. First, it is di-
rectly connected in the text with the following pair of questions that James
introduced a few pages earlier:
First, is there, under all the discrepancies of the creeds, a common nucleus to
which they bear their testimony unanimously? And second, ought we to con-
sider the testimony true?2
So far, however, as this analysis goes [James’s analysis of the “common nu-
cleus” to which the religious experiences that the varieties has examined ‘bear
And precisely here James tells us that the word ‘truth’ is taken to mean
something additional to “bare value for life.”
Thus the whole question as to how we are to understand the sense in which
James believes that there might be some objective truth to what he calls the
“common nucleus” to which the various creeds bear testimony depends for its
answer on how we ought to interpret this footnote. And second, as you all
know, James has been almost universally accused of identifying truth with
“value for life.” Of course, careful readers have pointed out that it is not value
for life merely in the case of the individual believer but value for life “in the long
run and on the whole, of course” that James speaks of, but that truth cannot go
beyond value for life on the whole and in the long run is agreed upon, or better,
simply assumed as a given, by the great majority of writers who refer to James’s
views on the subject.4 So how, and at this crucial juncture, can he speak of
“something additional” to “bare” value for life being required for truth?
This is a crucial question. If we think that when James asks whether the
“common nucleus” of the various religious “creeds” is true, all he means by
truth is “value for life,” then we will have taken him to have answered the
question of truth when he pointed out the “enormous biological worth” and
the “spiritual value” of that nucleus. If we go in that direction, then we will
see this footnote as something to be explained away, or (and perhaps this is
the more usual treatment) simply ignored. If, on the other hand, we take the
footnote seriously, and look for an understanding of James’s philosophy on
which he is entitled to say that, in his view, although value for life is necessary
for truth, it is not sufficient for truth, then that will require us to see James’s
view of truth as applied to religious belief as a more ‘realist’ one. And this is,
I want to argue, what we should do and how we should see James’s view.
3. Ibid., 401.
4. James, Pragmatism, in Works, 1:106.
5. Ralph Barton Perry, The Thought and Character of William James, 2 vols.
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1935), 2:591 (emphasis added).
6. James, The Meaning of Truth, in Works, 2:106 (emphasis added).
7. Nor is this a particularly recent or novel interpretation of James. It is often over-
looked that Bertrand Russell, although he attacked James’s theory of truth, was a great
admirer of precisely James’s metaphysics of pure experience. In the preface to The
Analysis of Mind (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1921), Russell writes, “The view
that seems to me to reconcile the materialistic tendency of psychology with the anti-
materialistic tendency of physics is the view of William James and the American new
realists, according to which the ‘stuff’ of the world is neither mental nor physical, but
‘neutral’ stuff, out of which the world is constructed” (6). And he describes his book
as an attempt to “develop the view in some detail.”
ciple public and not private that ideas can refer to a public, intersubjective
reality. Indeed, James insists in “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life”
that “truth supposes a standard outside the thinker to which he must con-
form.”8
Our question, then, in brief, is simply what entitles James to speak of
truth as requiring “something additional to bare value for life,” given that he
has so often been read in such a way that the very idea of a constituent of
truth additional to value for life is supposed to be meaningless to a Jamesian
pragmatist? In answering this question, I shall have to refer at a certain point
to my own published interpretation of James’s theory of truth, which I know
has been contested by David Lamberth, and there may well be other scholars
who have interpretations of James on truth different from my own, but I
shall begin by making some points that I hope will be accepted by all of us
who have written on these issues.9
I already quoted James’s statement in The Meaning of Truth that the “prag-
matist calls satisfactions indispensable for truth-building, but I have every-
where called them insufficient unless reality also be incidentally led to.” In
the same essay he insists that a truth must put us in “fruitful” contact with a
reality. The most charming explanation that James gives of how he can hold
that truth involves not one but two elements—that is, satisfaction of human
interests and contact with reality—occurs in a letter to Dickinson Miller. I
do not claim this letter answers our interpretative questions, but, as James
wished it to do, it gives us the picture that lies behind his thought:
If, with this picture to guide us, we now try to interpret the more techni-
cal accounts that James offers in many books and essays, I think the follow-
ing is a reasonable summary.
First, the ‘beans’ are bits of pure experience. Everything that exists is a
part of pure experience, and outside of pure experience there is nothing.
In particular, the ‘finite god’ (or sometimes ‘gods’) that James speaks of,
and perhaps believes in, is itself (or are themselves), just as we are, consti-
tuted of pure experience. (If this is right, then James’s rejection of a tran-
scendent deity fits well with his theory of reference. There is no possibility
of genuine reference to anything transcendent, on James’s account of ref-
erence in terms of experiences “leading to” and “terminating in” other
experiences.)
Second, the mystery as to what it would take for belief in the finite god
to be verified is at least partially removed: human religious experiences
would have to lead to and put us in fruitful contact with the finite god,
conceived of as something that communicates through and perhaps includes
my ‘subconscious’ but is something MORE than my or your or anyone’s
subconscious (I have found Sprigge’s discussions in his James and Bradley
especially helpful here).11
But might we not be mistaken in thinking that experiences had put us in
touch with (a) god? Of course, for—and this is my third point—we all know
that James is a fallibilist. Belief in God, or the finite god, may be wrong, ei-
ther because there is no reality for the belief to put us in touch with other
than “moods of [our] own fancy” (there are no beans) or because thinking of
the reality the belief puts us in touch with (assuming it does put us in touch
with a reality, a MORE, that goes beyond our own subconsciouses) as ‘god’
(or ‘gods’) does not correspond to our deepest and best interests, is not a way
to relate “fruitfully” to that reality (does not meet the interest that we have
in classifying the beans). But what does this come to in practice? What is the
criterion for either putting us in touch with a reality or for correspondence
to our deepest and best interests?
To essay an answer, I have to go beyond the points on which I said I ex-
pect us to agree. As I interpret James (and this is what David Lamberth dis-
agrees with, a criticism I address briefly in the Afterword).
11. Timothy L. S. Sprigge, James and Bradley: American Truth and British Reality
(Chicago: Open Court Press, 1993).
Before I conclude I want to consider one further question, which I did not
discuss when I wrote “James’s Theory of Truth.” That is, the question of the
status of the pragmatist’s ‘definition’ of absolute truth. We see that James is
What a word means is expressed by its definition, isn’t it? The definition
claims to be exact and adequate, doesn’t it? Then it can be substituted for the
word—since the two are identical—can’t it? Then two words with the same
definition can be substituted one for another, n’est ce pas? Likewise two defini-
tions of the same word, nicht wahr, etc., till it will be indeed strange if you
can’t convict someone of self-contradiction and absurdity.15
Recently I have come to think that a sentence of James which has long
puzzled me suggests not only that he is not claiming that the pragmatist’s
definition of truth is analytic, or conceptually true, or anything of that
sort, but that in fact it has the status of a hypothesis, for ‘the pragmatist’—
that is, for James himself. The sentence in question is the following: “No
pragmatist needs to dogmatize about the consensus of opinions in the fu-
ture being right. He need only postulate that it will probably contain more
of truth than anyone’s opinion now.”16 For a pragmatist a ‘postulate’ that
he is prepared to give up if experience goes against it has the status of a
hypothesis. Thus, James’s twofold requirement on truth: that a truth must
‘fit’ the appropriate realities and must also fit our interests in connection
with the particular idea or ‘formulation’, seems to me now to have a more
fundamental status in his thought than the postulate that the future ‘con-
sensus’ will be true.
To sum up, I suggest that the question of the objective truth of the “com-
mon nucleus” to which he claims the several creeds give “testimony” reduces,
for James, to a pair of questions: whether there is indeed a reality to which
the “common nucleus” refers beyond the “moods of [our] own fancy,” and,
if so, whether it is appropriate to classify that reality as ‘god’. If this isn’t
nearly as surprising or controversial or radical as some of the views that
James gets saddled with, that is, no doubt, because James was not nearly as
nutty as some people like to pretend he was.
Afterword
In “James’s Theory of Truth,” I argued that James did not repudiate the
notion of ‘absolute’ truth, truth not relativized to a particular moment in
time or a particular evidential situation, but actually proposed a complex
theory of it. The foregoing essay assumes that interpretation of James’s no-
tion of truth. However, as I mentioned there, in his (otherwise) fine study of
James, William James and the Metaphysics of Experience, David Lamberth has
taken issue with me and proposes that when James speaks of ‘absolute truth’
he means it not as a ‘substantive’ notion but only as a regulative idea. I dis-
cuss our disagreement here, not only because the essay presupposed the cor-
rectness of my interpretation but because Lamberth’s arguments are really
arguments against the tenseless notion of truth itself and this is an inde-
pendently important philosophical matter.
One of James’s definitions of ‘absolute truth’ is the following:
contend that no pragmatist can frame. I expect, namely, that the more fully
men discuss and test my account, the more they will agree that it fits, and the
less they will desire a change. I may, of course, be premature in this confidence,
and the glory of being truth final and absolute may fall upon some later revision
and correction of my scheme, which will then be judged untrue in just the
measure in which it departs from that final satisfactory formulation.19
Against what seems to me the plain sense of this passage, Lamberth offers
his interpretation of James’s expression ‘absolute truth’ as no more than a “phe-
nomenological” expression of a “mandate” to continue inquiry: “The prag-
matic meaning of absolute truth, then, appears to find its distinction for James
in the habit or mandate of searching for more truth [by which Lamberth
means merely more and better-confirmed successful belief ], a habit that criti-
cally does (and should) animate and pervade our actual processes of knowing
in the present.”20 In short, on Lamberth’s interpretation, ‘absolute truth’ is only
an ideal, and it has meaning only as inspiring the practice of continuing to
search for revisions and improvements of our present opinions. On his inter-
pretation, James does not really believe that his account of absolute truth is
impersonally and absolutely true in the way a rationalist believes that his is, nor
does he really believe there is such a thing as ‘the shape of that truth’.
The reason for Lamberth’s reluctance to concede that James could have meant
it when he insisted that he has “the abstract notion of such a truth” and believes
that his account of what it is to be an absolute truth is itself “truth impersonal
and absolute” as firmly as any rationalist can possibly believe in his appears to be
that he believes that an absolute notion of truth is a notion of truth as unrevis-
able, ‘guaranteed’, and for James to have such a notion would be incompatible
with his fallibilism, indeed with pragmatism itself. Thus he writes:
A crucial question remains from Putnam’s analysis, since Putnam rejects this
pragmatic interpretation of absolute truth [i.e., Lamberth’s analysis of absolute
truth as “ever only a putative object” of the drive to test knowledge and “orga-
nize it into systems of knowing”].21 Does James’s notion of absolute truth do any
epistemological work beyond articulating this (nonetheless crucial) habitual
animation of inquiry? And if so, work of what sort? To put the question another
way, does James’s notion of truth as a ‘regulative ideal’ function metaphysically
25. Lamberth, William James, 222. In fact, the question of violating the disquotation
principle arose only as one horn of a dilemma. The problem that I raised with James’s the-
ory of truth in “James’s Theory of Truth” is that, if p’s being true always depends on the
coming-to-be of a consensus that p, then the truth-value of every statement about the past
depends on what will happen in the future—and that cannot be right. I argued that if the past
is indeed ‘unalterable’, as James says, then either that means that it is a reality that Lizzie
Borden committed the murders or a reality that she did not, independently of whether ei-
ther of those judgments becomes the consensus in the future, in which case the disquota-
tion principle wouldn’t be valid (it could be that Lizzie Borden committed the murders, but
the eventual consensus would be that she did not, and so ‘Lizzie Borden committed the
murders’ would not be true); or, I suggested, James might say that the reality is immutable
but what is true of the reality is not—but taking this horn of the dilemma would contradict
his reply to Lane, in which the unalterability of the past was explained by saying that it is
only those truths about the past that refer to relations between the past things and future
things that are able to ‘grow and alter’. Today I would add that yet another possibility
would be to say that the consensus about things that have already happened became ‘fated’
when the things finished occurring; but this would be implausible since, for one thing, the
consensus does not only depend on what happened in the past but on how we shall try in
the future to determine what happened—and whether we try to investigate this at all—and
this sort of human decision is not ‘fated’, on James’s metaphysics. It is because of this diffi-
culty, I believe, that Peirce shifted from defining truth in terms of what the ultimate con-
sensus will be to defining it in terms of what it would be if intelligent investigators went on
investigating forever. But James is not a Peircean realist with respect to counterfactuals. I
believe that James simply never thought through the issue.
26. “On James’s view, should we be in the position of knowing more definitively
the fact that p (or not p), then revision of the truthfulness of the judgment would follow
dynamically.” Ibid. Lamberth is right that (if we are rational) whenever we revise the
belief ‘p is warrantedly assertible’ we also revise the belief that p, and vice versa, but it
is nevertheless false that warranted assertibility (Lamberth’s ‘truth in the making’)
obeys the disquotation principle.
this does not mean that at that time (or at any time) we shall have a guaran-
tee that we have reached the stable answer, and it does not mean that there is
any time at which all questions will have reached a stable answer. On my
reading, the same is true on James’s account. So when Lamberth attributes
to James the view that “truth absolute is not guaranteed” he is, of course,
right, but that is no argument at all against the idea that individual state-
ments can be absolutely (i.e., tenselessly) true on James’s account.
What, now, of Lamberth’s “crucial question,” the question “Does ‘truth
absolute’ function for James to explain the conditions of the possibility of
absolute truths being made (outside of its representation of our psychologi-
cal drive for truth)?” My answer is that the fact that it is (tenselessly) true
that Franklin Roosevelt was president of the United States in 1940 is not a
different fact from the fact that Franklin Roosevelt was president of the
United States in 1940. And that fact certainly is the best explanation why
our memories (the ones of those of us who were alive then) and our history
books and our newspapers from that year all say that he was. In other words,
the tenseless truth of a true empirical proposition is (usually) the best expla-
nation of its warranted assertibility at the present time.
James’s Philosophical
Friendships, 1902–1905
Hilary Putnam
IN THE LATE WINTER of 1902 William James informed his friend Frances
Rollins Morse that he had “finished the Gifford lectures at 5.45 this after-
noon,” adding “memorable date in literary history, but still more so in that
of W. J.!.”1 James had finished what was to be the published version of The
Varieties of Religious Experience.
He had delivered the first series of ten Gifford Lectures at Edinburgh
during the summer of 1901 and would deliver the concluding ten lectures
during the coming summer. By the end of the period covered by the letters
in the period 1902–1905, he had published not only Varieties but also the
central ideas of the metaphysics that he called “radical empiricism.” In fact,
during the fall of 1904 and the beginning of 1905 James “undertook the
production of a torrent of philosophical articles,” including “Does
‘Consciousness’ Exist?,” “A World of Pure Experience,” “Humanism and
Truth,” “The Pragmatic Method,” “The Thing and Its Relations,” “The
Experience of Activity,” “The Essence of Humanism,” and “How Two Minds
1. William James, The Correspondence of William James, vol. 10: 1902–March 1905,
ed. Ignas K. Skrupskelis and Elizabeth M. Berkeley (Charlottesville: University
Press of Virginia, 2002), 9.
Can Know One Thing.”2 It is amazing that so much of this activity took
place during a period of poor health. In the fall of 1899 James had suffered
severely from the beginnings of a heart condition; in addition, for much of
his life he battled periods of what we would today diagnose as depression.
Much of the actual writing of Varieties had been done in bed at times
when he was able to work at most only two or three hours a day. Illness,
coupled with the fact that the writing went much more slowly than he had
planned, forced James to give up the idea of making the second series of
lectures into an extensive treatment of the philosophy, as opposed to the
psychology, of religion. It is in this period that James emphatically asserted
his identity as a philosopher. No longer would he be considered just a psy-
chologist who dabbled in philosophy. He repeatedly affirmed the unique-
ness of that philosophical identity; or rather—and this certainly compli-
cates the picture—he minimized all differences with three philosophers he
regarded as allies: Ferdinand Canning Scott Schiller, John Dewey, and, after
a certain point, Henri Bergson. At the same time he stressed (and at times
exaggerated) his differences with most other philosophers, especially the
idealists. The letter to Italian philosopher and psychologist Giulio Cesare
Ferrari emphasizes James’s shift from psychology to philosophy and his ab-
sorption with the task of working out this new and original Weltanschauung
of pragmatism–humanism–radical empiricism: “I have got to working alto-
gether outside of psychological lines, as some articles which I have recently
sent you will show. I am interested in a metaphysical system (‘Radical
Empiricism’) which has been forming itself within me, more interested, in
fact, than I have ever been in any thing else; but it is very difficult to get it
into shape for any connected exposition.”3
James’s correspondence in this period is important also in that it allows us
to follow the development of a number of his philosophical friendships, in
particular those with Bergson, Schiller, and Dewey. The letters show James’s
2. The quotation is from David C. Lamberth in his fine study, William James and
the Metaphysics of Experience (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 148. All
of the James papers mentioned here—except “Humanism and Truth,” which is col-
lected in James’s The Meaning of Truth, in Works, vol. 2, and “The Pragmatic Method,”
which is collected in Essays in Philosophy, in Works, vol. 5—are included in James’s
Essays in Radical Empiricism, in Works, vol. 3.
3. James, Correspondence, 554.
continuing efforts to help his old friend Charles Sanders Peirce, who strug-
gled continually with extreme financial problems as well as with difficulties
in publishing his logical and philosophical work. In addition, we can see
how James’s correspondence even with an outright philosophical opponent
like Francis Herbert Bradley could gradually turn into something like a gen-
uine epistolary friendship. In this article I shall examine each of these series
of letters and try to set them against the proper philosophical background.
In 1896 Henri Bergson sent an inscribed copy of Matière et Mémoire to
William James.4 But this and other early contacts did not produce any real
effect. However, by 1902 James can inform Bergson that while he finds
Bergson’s system in need of “building out” in a number of directions, he is
now able to say that he understands its main lines “very well at present”:
I have just completed the reading of the book which you were kind enough to
send to me, The Varieties of Religious Experience, and I am anxious to tell you
4. Henri Bergson, Matter and Memory [Matière et Mémoire (1896)], trans. N. M.
Paul and W. S. Palmer (New York: Cosimo, 2007).
5. 14 December 1902, in James, Correspondence, 167.
In the next two months, James even considered a European trip, partly for
the purpose of seeing Bergson, but the two men did not succeed in meeting
until 28 May 1905.
In spite of the obvious mutual admiration, not to say enthusiasm, there
are real if subtle differences in the evolving metaphysical systems of these
two thinkers. But neither the degree of the affinity of their thought nor the
subtle differences are apparent in the correspondence of the period 1902–
1905. Rather, James expresses his puzzlement at the meaning of various of
Bergson’s formulations: “I have read with great delight your article in the
Rev. de Metaph. for January, agree thoroughly with all its critical part, and
wish that I might see in your intuition metaphysique the full equivalent for a
philosophy of concepts. Neither seems to be a full equivalent for the other,
unless indeed the intuition becomes completely mystical (and that I am
willing to believe) but I don’t think that that is just what you mean.”7 This
remark indicates that James was only beginning to work his way into under-
standing Bergson’s system of thought because Bergson by no means thought
that “intuition metaphysique” was any kind of “full equivalent” for “a phi-
losophy of concepts.” What Bergson thought was that conceptual thinking
in many ways misrepresents the flux of direct experience, which is what reality
6. Ralph Barton Perry, The Thought and Character of William James (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 1935), 2:606–607.
7. 25 February 1903, in James, Correspondence, 204.
is, for both James and Bergson. Moreover, this is just the view that James
comes to defend—with plentiful and generous acknowledgments of
Bergson’s influence—in A Pluralistic Universe (1909).
More than a year later, in a letter to Arthur Lovejoy, James is still express-
ing puzzlement about Bergson’s ideas, writing: “Have you read Bergson? He
is the puzzle for me just now. Such incessant gleams of truth on such an
obscure background.”8 Even in A Pluralistic Universe, James concedes, “I
have to confess that Bergson’s originality is so profuse that many of his ideas
baffle me entirely. I doubt whether any one understands him all over, so to
speak; and I am sure that he would himself be the first to see that this must
be, and to confess that things which he himself has not yet thought out
clearly had yet to be mentioned and have a tentative place assigned them in
his philosophy.”9 The difference is that by the time James wrote these latter
words he understood fully Bergson’s criticism of what James calls “concep-
tual logic or intellectualism,” and the whole of Lecture 6 in A Pluralistic
Universe is an account and an endorsement of that criticism.
It will be worthwhile to digress for a moment from the letters themselves
to give an account of the issues on which Bergson and James were in the
process of coming into agreement. If we focus on James’s metaphysics rather
than his pragmatist epistemology, we find three central claims. In the first
place, using a term borrowed from Avenarius, James holds that “pure expe-
rience” is the “stuff’’ of which reality consists, making his view “formally
monist,” in Lamberth’s phrase. And in the second place, for James pure ex-
perience is neither mental nor physical. Mental events and physical things
are simply aggregates “cut out” by us rather than intrinsically distinguished
within the stream of pure experience.10 The third claim is that the same bit
of pure experience that is a part of my mind is capable of being a part of
someone else’s mind as well, thereby rejecting solipsism from the start.
Experience is not “private” and perception is “direct.” For example, the color
I experience when I look at Harvard’s Memorial Hall really is an aspect of
Memorial Hall, not merely a “sensation” that represents a physical property
with no sensuous content of its own.11 These three features enable James to
believe that he had found, or at least begun to work out, a metaphysics that
simultaneously overcomes the disjunction between subject and object, be-
tween object-in-the-mind and object-in-the-world, and between one’s own
mind and other minds.
Even though “pure experience” is conceived of as “neutral,” the very use of
the term ‘experience’ pushes one to think of James’s world as a world of “expe-
rience” in a more traditional sense; that is, it inclines one to think of James’s
view as either a species of idealism or a species of panpsychism or both, and by
the time he gave the Hibbert Lectures (A Pluralistic Universe), James himself
would write of “the great empirical movement towards a pluralistic panpsychic
view of the universe, into which our own generation has been drawn,” and also
refer to the view he put forward in those lectures as “the panpsychic system.”12
Indeed, as early as his 1881 “Reflex Action and Theism,” James asserted that “all
modern thought converges towards idealistic or panpsychic conclusions.”13
In spite of a number of disagreements over details, for both Bergson and
James reality itself is no more than the stream of experience, even if “experi-
ence” is a much bigger and more many-sided thing than traditional empiri-
cism thought it was.14 There are two further points of agreement, which ac-
count for the powerful and growing sympathy between these two thinkers.
Both hold that reality is at best superficially revealed in conceptual thinking and
that there is such a thing as unconceptualized experience, of which we can
have an unmediated and almost mystical direct knowledge, which Bergson
referred to as “intuition.” And second, that in some way concepts actually
falsify the character of unconceptualized experience, which means that all
our concepts falsify, and must falsify, the ways (note the plural!) that reality
most fundamentally is.
11. See Hilary Putnam, The Threefold Cord: Mind, Body and World (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1999), and also “Pragmatism and Realism,” in The Revival
of Pragmatism: New Essays on Social Thought, Law, and Culture, ed. M. Dickstein
(Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1999), for a defense of the importance of
James’s revival of direct realism with respect to perception.
12. James, A Pluralistic Universe, 141–142.
13. “We are indeed internal parts of God and not external creations, on any possi-
ble reading of the panpsychic system.” Ibid., 143.
14. James, The Will to Believe, in Works, 6:112.
15. For an excellent account of James and Bergson’s eventual disagreements, as well
as their agreements, see Lamberth, William James, 180–183.
16. James presents this argument, attributing it to Bergson but clearly endorsing it,
in A Pluralistic Universe, in Works, 4:102–104.
17. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, trans. C. K. Ogden
(London: Kegan Paul, 1922), 2.15.
that we must reject logic since we know that motion is real by direct experi-
ence, while Zeno’s arguments make motion impossible as a matter of logic.18
The charge of “straightforward mistake” is actually not as easy to make
out as one may at first think. For while it is not inconsistent, mathematically
speaking, to think of a motion from point a to a point b as passing through
an actual infinity of points between a and b in a finite time, where each of
these infinitely many points is itself passed through at a mathematical in-
stant, James also holds that a “present time” is no mathematical instant. Given
that the ontology of radical empiricism excludes mathematical instants, to
simply appeal to the ontology of the differential calculus to convict Bergson
and James of error is begging the question. But the issues are too complex
for me to pursue further here. Instead I shall simply close with a quotation
from A Pluralistic Universe that illustrates how “Bergsonian” James would
later become:
Time itself comes in drops. Our ideal decomposition of the drops, which are
all that we feel into still finer fractions is but an incident in that great trans-
formation of the perceptual order into a conceptual order of which I spoke in
my last lecture. It is made in the interest of our rationalizing faculty solely.
The times directly felt in the experiences of living subjects have originally no
common measure. Let a lump of sugar melt in a glass, to use one of M.
Bergson’s instances. We feel the time to be long while waiting for the process
to end, but who knows how long or how short it feels to the sugar? All felt
times coexist and overlap or compenetrate each other thus vaguely; but the
artifice of plotting them on a common scale helps us to reduce their aborigi-
nal confusion, and it helps us still more to plot, against the same scale, the
successive possible steps into which nature’s various changes may be resolved,
either sensibly or conceivably. We thus straighten out the aboriginal privacy
and vagueness, and can date things publicly, as it were, and by each other.19
18. Note Peirce’s challenge to James on this point: “As for Zeno’s ‘argument,’ what
argument, I should be glad to know? State it definitely to a mathematician.” 23 January
1903, in James, Correspondence, 181.
19. See my argument that this is the right thing to say in Part 2, Lecture 3 of The
Threefold Cord.
later, the great enthusiasm that James expresses for Schiller’s contribution to
creating something like a Humanist Party can easily obscure the difference
between their views, as Perry long ago noted.20 James was out to revolution-
ize philosophy, and he was willing to embrace a variety of allies, including
Ernst Mach, Schiller, Dewey, Bergson, and the Italian irrationalist (and later
Fascist) Giovanni Papini, all of whom certainly did not agree with each
other. James hoped that together they could sweep the existing philosophical
orthodoxy—absolute idealism in all its forms—from the scene and procure
worldwide agreement on at least the methodological aspects of pragmatism.
For James, there would continue healthy disagreements about just what the
“pragmatic method” ought to lead to. Ironically, absolute idealism was in-
deed to be swept from the scene but not by pragmatism, although pragma-
tist polemics may have played a part in its demise. The movement that even-
tually succeeded it, first in England and later in the United States, was the
movement now called “analytic philosophy,” a movement initiated by two
arch-intellectualists, Bertrand Russell and G. E. Moore. However, pragma-
tism is presently undergoing a revival; the story is certainly not yet finished!
If James plays down his intellectual disagreements with Schiller, he does not
always conceal his dismay at Schiller’s flamboyant rhetoric and bellicose tac-
tics, often advising Schiller to soften the tone in his writings and to “buckle
down now to s’thing very solemn and systematic! Write your jokes by all
means, but expunge them in proof, and save them for a posthumous no. of
Mind!”21 Schiller, for his part, always finds reasons why he cannot—or should
not—tone down his rhetoric. Or he simply fails to take James’s advice.
In July 1904 Bradley writes James expressing rage at what he reports are
personal attacks by Schiller: “He not only attributes to me mental dishon-
esty but apparently deliberate dishonesty towards my public in concealing
my real opinions.”22 No doubt for this reason, James writes Schiller that
personally I relish greatly your irony and flights of metaphor, but from the
point of view of party politics, I am sure that they ought not to be allowed full
headway. . . .
It is astonishing how many persons resent in your past writings what seems
20. Schiller disliked the term ‘pragmatism’ and much preferred ‘humanism’.
21. 1 February 1904, in James, Correspondence, 371.
22. 4 July 1904, in ibid., 431.
to them ‘bad taste’ in the way of polemical jeers and general horse-play.
Solemn as an owl and tender as a dove, should be your watchword from now
on. . . . I think your whole mental tone against our critics is overstrained.
They don’t try to misrepresent—they simply have “absoluteness” so ingrained
in them that they can’t conceive of what any alternative can mean.23
But Schiller never does reform and three years later, in a letter written in
1907, James is still scolding:
It was so easy to let Bradley with his approximations and grumblings alone.
So few people would find these last statements of his seductive enough to
build them into their own thought. But you, for the pure pleasure of the op-
eration, chase him up and down his windings, flog him into and out of his
corners, stop him and cross reference him and counter on him, as if required
to do so by your office. . . . Moreover, the reference to Bradley’s relation to me
in this article is too ironical not to seem a little ‘nasty’ to some readers; there-
fore out with it, if it be not too late.24
What James himself believes is that we have a direct contact with reality
itself, however fleeting. This direct contact constrains how we are and are not
able to conceptualize it, even if it does not dictate a unique interest-independent
conceptualization. He goes on to say that reality is in general what truths have
to take account of; and the first part of reality from this point of view is the flux
of our sensations. Sensations are forced upon us, coming we know not whence.
Over their nature, order, and quantity we have as good as no control. They are
neither true nor false; they simply are. It is only what we say about them, only
the names we give them, our theories of their source and nature and remote
relations, that may be true or not.
The second part of reality, as something that our beliefs must also obedi-
ently take account of, is the relations that obtain between our sensations or
between their copies. James holds that “we have a certain freedom” in our
dealings with these elements of reality, and that in particular “which [of our
sensations] we attend to, note, and make emphatic in our conclusions de-
26. He refers to the elements of reality that play this role as “sensations” and “rela-
tions” in Pragmatism (Works, vol. 1) where he cannot use the terminology of “pure ex-
perience” because he has chosen not to presuppose his radical empiricism in those
lectures.
27. Ibid., 117.
pends on our own interests; and, according as we lay the emphasis here or
there, quite different formulations of truth result. We read the same facts
differently. ‘Waterloo,’ with the same fixed details, spells a ‘victory’ for an
englishman; for a frenchman it spells a ‘defeat.”’28 James cautions against
carrying this thought too far because “both the sensational and the relational
parts of reality are dumb; they say absolutely nothing about themselves. We
it is who have to speak for them. This dumbness of sensations has led such
intellectualists as T. H. Green and Edward Caird to shove them almost be-
yond the pale of philosophic recognition, but pragmatists refuse to go so
far.”29
In the same vein James cautions Schiller that “after all, our side is only
half developed. I am sure that not one of us has any clear idea of what the
ultimate pre-human fact—which we encounter and which works, through all
our stratified predicates, upon us—the hyle as you call it—really is or signi-
fies.”30
But the clearest statement of James’s realism is undoubtedly in a letter
written after the period 1902–1905, the letter to Dickinson Miller dated 5
August 1907, in which James uses the following analogy:
Here we see quite clearly that James believes that although different right
descriptions are possible, corresponding to different purposes, still the
“world per se” is not infinitely plastic; there is a relation of “fitting the beans,”
as well as a relation of “expressing the total fact.” I wrote that James “hinted
at” his difference with Schiller, because his expression “butt-end-foremost
He implied that in the end the two views would coincide, since Schiller must
come out with an objective view of reality and he with a subjective view of
truth. But this difference of emphasis does in fact involve a difference of meta-
physics, which might be expressed by saying that while James had a meta-
physics over and above his theory of knowledge, Schiller (like Dewey) took
the cognitive process itself as a sample of reality. His world was a pragmatic
world—a world in the making, after the manner of truthmaking.
But there is another difference. . . . James tells us that whereas both the
scholastics and the panpsychists believe in a real “core” within the man-made
wrappings of knowledge, Schiller and Dewey recognize only a “limit” to the
process of mediation, or a plastic material which has no characters save as
thought confers upon it. Although James was too tolerant to exclude other
alternatives, it is clear that he is on the side of the “core” and that he identifies
that core with sensible experience.32
The letters between John Dewey and William James include one ex-
change whose importance needs some historical background to appreciate,
in particular two letters: that of 3 December 1903, in which James tells
Dewey that “it is a glorious thing for you and for the university to have
created such a genuine school of original thought. I cannot help believing
that you have struck the truth, and that your system has a very great fu-
ture,” and that of 19 December 1903, in which Dewey thanks James for his
“philosophic encouragement” and proceeds to defend the idea of “truth
for its own sake” on “complete pragmatic principles.”33 In fact it is already
evident from an earlier letter to Dewey of 17 October 1903 that James was
becoming enthusiastic about Dewey and the school around Dewey in the
philosophy department of the University of Chicago. But why did the
enthusiasm develop just then?
The short answer is that it was at this time that Dewey made public his
total abandonment of what was left of his attachment to absolute idealism.34
But it is worth expanding on this short answer, especially since some appre-
ciation of what absolute idealism was about is necessary also for understand-
ing the philosophic aspects of the Bradley-James interaction.
The absolute idealism that Dewey espoused, with decreasing enthusi-
asm through the 1890s, began as a distinctively British movement, with
T. H. Green and Bradley as its leaders.35 It is important to emphasize this
because today the movement is often considered to have been merely lat-
ter-day Hegelianism. Although Green and Bradley admired Hegel and
drew inspiration from him, their arguments—and in Bradley’s case, most
of the conclusions—were quite different from his. Only the idea that
human thought and experience are a “realization” and “actualization” of
the thought and experience of God (i.e., the Absolute) links them meta-
physically with Hegel even though it is far from clear that this formula-
tion is one that Hegel himself would have accepted without severe quali-
fications. Although absolute idealism is almost entirely ignored by today’s
philosophers, the leaders of the movement were distinguished and origi-
36. There are exceptions: Anthony Quinton, Timothy Sprigge, and more recently
Peter Hylton, whose marvelous study of the crucial transition from absolute idealism
to realism in Russell and Moore is exemplary for the way it tries to understand the
arguments and motivations of T. H. Green and Bradley from within, and for the way
it makes those arguments and motivations accessible to philosophers with an analytic
training. See Peter Hylton, Russell, Idealism, and the Emergence of Analytic Philosophy
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990).
37. In his review of John Dewey’s Outline of a Critical Theory of Ethics in International
Journal of Ethics 1 (1891): 503, Josiah Royce wrote that Dewey was “one of the most
brilliant, clearly conscious, and enviably confident of all our philosophical writers in
America.”
38. See Hylton, Russell, chaps. 1 and 2.
39. Ibid., 30.
40. John Locke, An Essay concerning Human Understanding, ed. Peter H. Nidditch
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975), 2:xxv, 8.
we have seen, the first and simplest act of knowledge possible is the per-
ception of identity between ideas.”41
James’s way of avoiding this entire problem in his own philosophy was
very different from that of absolute idealism in either Green’s or Bradley’s
version. From the very beginning, James’s “radical empiricism” insisted both
that relations are real and that they are given in experience.42 He rejected the
atomistic account of experience associated with Locke, Berkeley, and Hume.
Early and late, Dewey too would insist on both of these points. But for both
traditional empiricists and traditional rationalists relations are not given in
experience but somehow constituted by thought. Green begins his argumen-
tation by accepting this traditional view.
But if this traditional view is right and relations are constituted by
thought, then, since Green’s argument shows that no knowledge of experi-
ence, even the knowledge that this is an experience, is possible without the
recognition of relations, the empiricist failure to account for relations is also
a failure to account for the possibility of conscious experience. The essential
role of thought or intellectual activity in making conscious experience pos-
sible by “constituting” relations is equated by Green with what Kant de-
scribes as the mind’s activity of “synthesis.”43 That the mind does not merely
passively receive experience but plays a role in constituting it is taken to be
the essential Kantian insight.
Going from here to the Absolute required two controversial assumptions.
First, Green assumed that anything not given in experience would be a
41. T. H. Green, The Works of Thomas Hill Green, 3 vols., 3rd ed. (London: L ong-
mans, Green, 1894), 1:59.
42. “For such a philosophy [radical empiricism],” James writes in 1904, “the rela-
tions that connect experiences must themselves be experienced relations, and any kind of
relation experienced must be accounted as ‘real’ as anything else in the system.” “A World
of Pure Experience,” in Essays in Radical Empiricism in Works, 3:22.
43. Some have seen the “methodological solipsism” of early logical positivism, as
formulated in Carnap’s Aufbau, as taking this tack. Rudolf Carnap, Der logische Aufbau
der Welt (Hamburg: Meiner, 1961); English translation, The Logical Structure of the
World [with Pseudoproblems in Philosophy] (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1967). Others have urged that Husserl’s “transcendental ego” in Ide en is similarly
“solipsistic” (Edmund Husserl, ldeen zu einer reinen Phanomenologie und phanomenol-
ogischen Philosophie (Halle: M. Niemeyer, 1913); English translation, Ideas: General
Introduction to Pure Phenomenology (London: Allen & Unwin, 1931).
Kantian noumenon, and he followed Hegel and the other German idealists
in rejecting the idea of a “noumenal world.” This is a step with which James,
of course, must agree. But if the world is phenomenal, that is, fundamentally
experiential, and experience is constituted by thought—an assumption that
James would never accept—then there are only two possibilities: either it is
constituted by the thought of some human mind or by the thought of hu-
man minds collectively; alternatively, there must be a mind that somehow
transcends all human minds whose activity constitutes reality. This last alter-
native is the one that absolute idealists defended. To quote Peter Hylton:
In the ordinary sense of mind there are at least as many minds as there are
ordinarily competent human beings: you have one mind and I have another.
But in this sense of mind it is implausible to say that the single phenomenal
world which we all inhabit and investigate is constituted by the action of
mind. For in this case, whose mind are we to suppose is responsible for con-
stituting the world? Yours? Mine? The more the phenomenal world takes on
the aspect of full reality and objectivity, rather than simply the appearances of
things-in-themselves to us, the more pressing these questions become. . . . The
intelligence which plays a role in constituting reality is, according to Green,
no human intelligence but that of a single, eternal, self-conscious mind. Part
of the “vital truth” which Green says he accepts is that “there is a single spiri-
tual or self-conscious being of which all that is real is the activity or expres-
sion” (Green, Works, iii, 146).44
For our purposes it is important to notice that this is what philosophers call
a “transcendental argument,” that is, an a priori argument about the presup-
positions of experience or intellectual activity or knowledge. There is no trace
of the empiricist reliance on the testimony of experience, or on scientific in-
quiry in any of its empirical forms, in Green’s or, James would argue, in
Bradley’s procedure. And it is Green’s relatively formal argument for belief in
the Absolute rather than Bradley’s more mystical paths that Dewey followed in
his idealist period—a kind of argument that James naturally deplored.
Secondly, although the transcendental argument is an argument about the
presuppositions of human experience, it ends by postulating a “mind” or “in-
telligence” that is only “analogous” to human experience—and not that anal-
ogous, at that, since being God’s mind it is not even in space and time. This
step from the human mind to the Divine Mind naturally came under attack,
and as Dewey defended it in publications in the 1880s and early 1890s, he too
became subject to this attack. The attack was all the sharper because Dewey,
like James, was a psychologist as well as a philosopher, and because even in his
idealist period he called for giving empirical psychology more pride of place
than his fellow idealists had been willing to do. For example, in “Psychology as
Philosophic Method” (1886), Dewey had claimed that only psychology could
preserve the character of reality as an organic unity “which lives through its
distinctions.”45 As a philosophic method it was superior even to the new
Hegelian logic. “Logic cannot reach, however much it may point to, an actual
individual. The gathering up of the universe into the one self-conscious indi-
viduality it may assert as necessary, it cannot give it as reality.”46
Yet empiricists were quite unable to see how the existence of an Absolute
Mind in any way followed from the empirical data to which Dewey urged one
to pay attention. For example, Shadworth Hodgson (a thinker whom James
much admired) responded in the same year (1886) in an article tellingly enti-
tled “Illusory Psychology” that Dewey’s acceptance of the Absolute was based
entirely on a priori reasoning and not on any fact of experience.47 Dewey’s
textbook, Psychology, published the following year, met with a similar re-
sponse.48 James wrote Croom Robertson, the editor of Mind, that he had
picked up the book with enthusiasm “hoping for something really fresh” but
had abandoned it halfway through. “It’s no use trying to mediate between the
bare miraculous Self and the concrete particulars of individual mental lives,”
he said, “and all that D. effects by so doing is to take all the edge and definite-
ness away from the particulars when it falls to their turn to be treated.”49
In the 1890s (and here I accept Westbrook’s analysis of the development
of Dewey’s thought) Dewey gave up first the transcendental arguments, and
then the Absolute itself.50 This had, perhaps, already taken place by the pub-
51. Dewey, Early Works, 5:96–110. See also Studies in Logical Theory, in Middle
Works, 2:293–375.
52. 20 March 1903, in James, Correspondence, 10:215.
53 .17 October 1903, in ibid., 321. Dewey’s preface reads: “For both inspiration and
the forging of the tools with which the writers have worked there is a pre-eminent ob-
ligation on the part of all of us to William James, of Harvard University, who, we hope,
will accept this acknowledgment and this book as unworthy tokens of a regard and an
admiration that are coequal” (Studies in Logical Theory in Middle Works, 2:296–297).
54. 17 October 1903, in James, Correspondence, 321.
55. 21 October 1903, in ibid., 322.
this work fills me.”56 From this point on Dewey and James are firm philo-
sophical allies, even though Dewey cannot associate himself with James’s
theological-panpsychist cosmological speculations.
The letters that pass between James and Charles Sanders Peirce in this period
are representative of the complex but enduringly warm relations between the
two philosophers. On the one hand we see James’s kindness, his helpfulness, his
very real and persistent attempts to relieve the poverty in which Peirce lived.
And we see Peirce’s repeated praise of James’s generosity, his affection for James,
and the uncharacteristically gentle way in which the often irascible Peirce voiced
his disagreements with James. What we do not see is any real concern on James’s
part with understanding Peirce’s system of thought—a system of thought that
was undergoing crucial development at precisely this time. James unquestion-
ably recognized Peirce’s brilliance and had profited from Peirce’s early version of
pragmatism, particularly the version represented in the two celebrated articles
“The Fixation of Belief” and “How to Make Our Ideas Clear”—articles that
Cornel West refers to as “the birth certificate of Pragmatism.”57 But there is little
evidence that James understood—or even had much interest in trying to un-
derstand—either the profound and immensely original system of thought that
Peirce developed or the investigations that he was required to undertake in the
course of developing that system. These investigations included the develop-
ment of the logic of the quantifiers in the form that directly influenced later
logicians, the foundation of semiotics as an intellectual discipline, the construc-
tion of a philosophy of mathematics and logic, including an account of the
continuum, and the cutting-edge philosophy of physics.58 Indeed, in the letter
to Dickinson Miller of 31 March 1903 in which James’s exasperation at Peirce
bursts out, he expresses the view that Peirce is a sort of self-indulgent failure.
Yet the first sentence of the preface to the best compact overview of
Peirce’s thought as a whole to date tells us quite accurately that today “many
people share the opinion that Charles S. Peirce is a philosophical giant, per-
haps the most important philosopher to have emerged in the United
States.”59 And indeed, in spite of the obscurities of some of his Nachlass, the
relevance of Peirce’s thought to the questions that were central in analytic
philosophy throughout the whole latter part of the twentieth century is ob-
vious, and so is the depth of his investigation of those questions. As Hookway
writes of Peirce, he “can seem one of the most modern or contemporary of
philosophers. If many of his views are controversial or implausible, still, on
reading his work, we are likely to feel that many of his problems are close to
the issues that are philosophically pressing today. Like Frege, he recognizably
inhabits our philosophical world, forging tools and concepts which are still
central to philosophical debate.”60 Without a doubt, William James would
have been astounded to learn that these sentences would be penned in a book
written in the last quarter of the twentieth century.
The ways in which the thought of William James and Charles Sanders
Peirce came to diverge more and more can be seen perhaps in the different
interpretations they gave to Peirce’s famous “Pragmatic Maxim.”
In “How to Make Our Ideas Clear,” after first telling us that “the essence
of belief is the establishment of a habit, and different beliefs are distinguished
by the different modes of action to which they give rise,” and explaining
what he means by this for four paragraphs, Peirce famously states his
“Pragmatic Maxim”: “Consider what effects, that might conceivably have prac-
tical bearings, we conceive the object of our conception to have. Then, our con-
ception of these effects is the whole of our conception of the object.”61 In the pre-
ceding paragraphs Peirce specified, among other things, that by “effects” he
means sensible effects—that is, perceivable effects.
In Lecture 2 of his Pragmatism, James writes:
In an article entitled “How to Make Our Ideas Clear,” Mr. Peirce, after point-
ing out that our beliefs are really rules for action, said that, to develop a
thought’s meaning, we need only determine what conduct it is fitted to pro-
59. Christopher Hookway, Peirce (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1985), ix.
60. Ibid., 62.
61. Peirce, Collected Papers, 5:398, 402 (emphasis added).
duce: that conduct is for us its sole significance. And the tangible fact at the
root of all our thought distinctions, however subtle, is that there is no one of
them so fine as to consist in anything but a possible difference of practice. To
attain perfect clearness in our thoughts of an object, then, we need only con-
sider what conceivable effects of a practical kind the object may involve—
what sensations we are to expect from it, and what reactions we must prepare.
Our conception of these effects, whether immediate or remote, is then for us
the whole of our conception of the object, so far as that conception has posi-
tive significance at all.62
It is true that James inserts the phrase “what reactions we must prepare”
in his paraphrase of Peirce’s explanations, but this is not, in itself, a distor-
tion. Peirce did say that a belief is a “rule of conduct,” or a “habit.” But the
ways in which Peirce and James understood such words as these is another
matter.
First of all, both James and Peirce agree that to describe a habit one must
describe the end, or purpose, the conduct aims at. For James, this is to be
understood quite literally: all the mundane and not-so-mundane purposes
for which we act are relevant to the specification of our habits, and hence to
the meaning of our beliefs. Not so for Peirce.
For Peirce, especially as his thinking matures, the only notion of conduct
relevant to such logical questions as the meaning of concepts and the proper
method of inquiry is conduct that can be made a rule of action in a very
special sense. In this sense, whenever we speak of a rule of conduct, whether
in ethics (which Peirce regards as the science of the admirable in the way of
conduct, and hence as presupposing aesthetics, or the science of the admi-
rable in general) or in logic (which Peirce regards as the science of the ad-
mirable by way of scientific conduct, and hence as presupposing ethics) we
“speak with a universal voice,” as Hookway puts it, deliberately using lan-
guage from Kant’s Third Critique.63 The only ends that Peirce allows us to
consider when we enunciate rules of conduct—and hence when we clarify
64. Peirce employs similar examples in “How to Make Our Ideas Clear.” Unlike the
later logical positivists, however, who used similar patterns of analysis, Peirce thought
such conditionals could neither be exhaustively discovered by reflection nor simply
stipulated. He believed that the full meaning of a scientific concept (“hard,” “dia-
mond”) is itself to be discovered empirically, and that our statements of its meaning are
revisable.
65. The other fundamental form, for Peirce, is thought, which like counterfactuals
exhibits generality, but of a different sort than the generality we see in laws of nature.
insists that relations are real because they are given in experience. But what we
directly experience, according to Peirce, is feelings or Firstness, in the cate-
gorial scheme just mentioned, and reactions, or Secondness. But the reality
of a relation is the reality of a general. If you are not a realist about counter-
factuals—and I believe with Peirce that James was not—then, in Peirce’s
view, you cannot understand the way in which universals are real. The need
to be a realist about counterfactuals is something forced on us by reflection,
a kind of “presupposition of science” in a Kantian sense, rather than some-
thing given in experience in the sense of feeling and reaction.
Thus Peirce proposes a view that is neither the idealist view that relations
are “constituted” by thought nor the Jamesian view that relations are given
in experience (in James’s sense of “experience”).66 Despite the fact that Peirce
comments on some detailed points in James’s philosophy, unfortunately we
do not find any detailed comment on Peirce’s views from James.67
66. Note that Peirce, in his letter of 23 January 1903 distinguishes between his and
James’s conceptions of experience. James, Correspondence, 181.
67. For example, Peirce expresses enthusiastic agreement with James’s “splendid
argumentation on the conterminousness of minds.” 23 January 1903, in James,
Correspondence, 181. “The Conterminousness of Different Minds” is the heading of
Section 6 of James’s “A World of Pure Experience,” in Essays in Radical Empiricism,
21–44.
Hilary Putnam
1. Philo Judaeus, “On the Special Laws,” 2:44–48, quoted in Pierre Hadot,
Philosophy as a Way of Life, trans. Michael Chase (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), 264–265.
clearly to the forefront. During this period, philosophy was a way of life. This
is not only to say that it was a specific type of moral conduct; we can easily see
the role played in the passage from Philo by the contemplation of nature.
Rather, it means that philosophy was a mode of existing-in-the-world, which
had to be practiced at each instant, and the goal of which was to transform the
whole of an individual’s life.
For the ancients, the mere word philosophia—the love of wisdom—was
enough to express that conception of philosophy. In the Symposium, Plato had
shown that Socrates, symbol of the philosopher, could be identified with
Eros, the son of Poros (expedience) and of Penia (poverty). Eros lacked wis-
dom, but he did know how to acquire it. Philosophy thus took on the form
of an exercise of the thought, will, and the totality of one’s being, the goal of
which was to achieve a state practically inaccessible to mankind: wisdom.
Philosophy was a method of spiritual progress which demanded a radical con-
version and transformation of the individual’s way of being.2
William James was certainly not a Stoic, and he did not think that wis-
dom was practically inaccessible to mankind, but his aim, no less than that
of Philo, was to change our way of life as well as our way of thinking. That
is why he can begin his lectures with a tribute to a thinker whose outlook in
all other respects was diametrically opposed to his own: the Roman Catholic
G. K. Chesterton. What Chesterton and James share is the conviction that
philosophy “affects matters”; as Chesterton puts it, “The question is not
whether [philosophy] affects matters, but whether in the long run anything
else affects them.”3
Perhaps here we have one of the reasons why this lecture has received so
little discussion. In James’s own time, “philosopher” was coming to imply
“professor,” and as James says, “Whatever universe a professor believes in
must at any rate be a universe that lends itself to lengthy discourse.”4 Of
course, James does not actually say that the professor is interested in lengthy
discourse and not in how people should live, but very often that is also the
case. For James, the priorities are quite different; he is not afraid of technical
argument, but his audience is decidedly not the professoriat. When he
2. Ibid., 265.
3. G. K. Chesterton, The Collected Works of G. K. Chesterton (San Francisco: Ignatius
Press, 1986), 41.
4. James, Pragmatism, in Works, 1:10.
writes, “Philosophy is at once the most sublime and the most trivial of hu-
man pursuits. It ‘bakes no bread’ as has been said, but it can inspire our souls
with courage; and repugnant as its manners, its doubting and challenging,
its quibbling and dialectics, often are to common people, no one of us can
get along without the far-flashing beams of light it sends over the world’s
perspectives,” he is addressing all of us.5 As William James Earle very well
put it, “James addressed himself to the people, not to other philosophers,
and he listened to the people to find out what life meant to them. He re-
spected not so much their common sense as their common feelings and
hopes and would not allow his philosophy to dismiss cavalierly that which
figured largely in the experiences of men.”6 In part, the professoriat has re-
sponded by discussing every aspect of James’s thought except his conception
of what philosophy is all about!
But there is a second reason for the virtual silence of James’s critics
about Lecture 1. What makes this lecture so provocative is its central the-
sis: that philosophy is, in the end, a matter of temperament. If that thesis
has not had the scorn poured upon it that has been poured upon, say,
James’s theory of truth—a theory that has been badly misrepresented7—
that is, perhaps, because it would be a little embarrassing to reply: “No,
James, philosophy is just a matter of rational arguments. After all, if that
is all philosophy is, it is a little mysterious why philosophical disagreement
should continue for so long! It is, in the end, undeniable that tempera-
ment must play a large role in the acceptance of philosophical views. One
might, of course, say that that is true but irrelevant; but that is a bit dan-
gerous. (A little bit like saying, ‘My views are dictated by reason itself; we
only have to appeal to temperament and similar psychological factors to
explain why others are not able to see that my views are the only reason-
able ones.’) Safer to ignore this whole question!”
But James’s talk of “temperament” must not be misunderstood (which is
probably what has happened). James is not saying that philosophy is just a
5. Ibid., 10–11.
6. William James Earle, “James, William,” in The Encyclopedia of Philosophy (New
York: Macmillan, 1967), 4:240–249, 241.
7. See Hilary Putnam, “Comment on Robert Brandom’s Paper,” in Hilary Putnam:
Pragmatism and Realism, ed. James Conant and Urszula M. Zeglen (London:
Routledge, 2002), 59–65.
matter of subjective choice and that is the end of the matter. James also be-
lieves that there are better and worse temperaments. Temperaments too can
be criticized. But such criticism will not change people at once; to affect a
change in the “temper of a time” is a long slow process. And it is in that sort
of process that James is interested.
What concerns James, as it has concerned many other thinkers in the last
two centuries, is the way in which the growth in our understanding of na-
ture, the increase in the sophistication and power of our natural science, has
led to a loss of confidence in human values. “For a hundred and fifty years
past,” he writes, “the progress of science has seemed to mean the enlarge-
ment of the material universe and the diminution of man’s importance. The
result is what one may call the growth of naturalistic or positivistic feeling.
Man is no law-giver to nature, he is an absorber. She it is who stands firm;
he it is who must accommodate himself. Let him record truth, inhuman
though it be, and submit to it! The romantic spontaneity and courage are
gone, the vision is materialistic and depressing. Ideals appear as inert
by-products of physiology; what is higher is explained by what is lower and
treated forever as a case of ‘nothing but’—nothing but something else of a
quite inferior sort.”8 James admires the natural sciences, and particularly
admires their love of fact, their rejection of all pretensions to a priori or
transcendent sources of knowledge, their fallibilism and experimentalism,
but is dismayed at the materialism and the skepticism which he sees accom-
panying those admirable traits in the case of those whom he calls “the tough-
minded” (and whom we might today call the “scientistic”).
At the same time, James finds no acceptable alternative in the writings of
his idealist contemporaries, who seem to him to “dwell on so high a level of
abstraction that they never even try to come down.”9 And he sees even less
hope in traditional religion, which he describes as “fighting a slow retreat.”10
James employs a remarkable literary device to dramatize the extent to which
Leibnitz’s feeble grasp of reality is too obvious to need comment from me. It
is evident that no realistic image of the torment of a damned soul had ever
approached the portals of his mind. Nor had it occurred to him that the
smaller the number of ‘samples’ of the genus ‘lost soul’ whom God throws as
a sop to the eternal fitness, the more unequitably grounded is the glory of the
blest. What he gives us is a cold literary exercise, whose cheerful substance
even hell-fire does not warm.
And do not tell me that to show the shallowness of rationalist philosophiz-
ing I have had to go back to a shallow wigpated age. The optimism of pres-
ent-day rationalism is just as shallow to the fact-loving mind.11
But the fireworks are not over. To Leibnitz’s cheerful theodicy, “whose
substance even hell-fire does not warm,” James juxtaposes a description of
one of the real evils in our own big cities: John Corcoran, a clerk, loses his
position through illness, and “during the period of idleness his scanty sav-
ings disappeared.” Corcoran is too weak for snow-shoveling—the only em-
ployment available. “Thoroughly discouraged, Corcoran returned to his
home late last night to find his wife and children without food and the no-
tice of dispossession on the door.”12 The next morning he committed suicide
by drinking carbolic acid. (One cannot help remarking that if the present
tendency to limit assistance to the poor continues in the United States, such
stories will again appear in our newspapers—if they print them.) And, as if
to remind us that the spirit of Leibnitz is still with us, James then quotes
Royce and Bradley to the effect that the Absolute (or “the eternal order”) is
richer for every evil in the temporal order.
The relation to our present-day concerns is clear. It is true that we no
longer have around as optimistic a form of rationalism as the absolute ideal-
ism of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries to justify the sorts of
evils James cites (although the celebration of ‘the free market’ as the solution
to all our problems does look suspiciously like a secularized version of
Leibnitz’s and Royce’s and Bradley’s theodicies). But the idea that it is, in
some sense, a ‘result of science’ that objective values do not exist is very pop-
ular in present-day Anglo-Saxon metaphysics.13 James promises us an out-
look that will enable us to hold on to both our love of fact and our confi-
dence in our ‘human values’, and to do so without so transcendentalizing
those values that they become ineffectual. While I do not believe that ‘the
answers’ can be found in any one place, or in the writings of any one philos-
opher or school of philosophy, I have argued elsewhere that the insights of
the great pragmatists are essential to developing such an outlook.14
13. See, for example, Bernard Williams, Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1985); and John Mackie, Ethics: Inventing
Right and Wrong (New York: Penguin, 1977).
14. Hilary Putnam, The Collapse of the Fact/Value Dichotomy and Other Essays
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), and Ethics without Ontology
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004).
In the preface to The Will to Believe James describes the purpose of the title essay
and the three essays that follow as “defending the legitimacy of religious faith.”
They are addressed to young Christian men who have been taught, so he be-
lieves, “that there is something called scientific evidence by waiting upon which
they shall escape all danger of shipwreck in regard to truth.”5 James knew bet-
ter—no method could protect us from all error. Therefore, he “preached the
right of the individual to indulge his personal faith at his personal risk.”6
In his defense of that right James used the expression “religious hypothe-
sis.”7 It is an interesting expression. A hypothesis is for James any proposi-
tion that one might consider believing. A religious hypothesis is, then, a
hypothesis with a certain content. What is that content?
In “The Will to Believe” James wrote,
What then do we now mean by the religious hypothesis? Science says things
are; morality says some things are better than other things; and religion says
essentially two things.
First she says that the best things are the more eternal things, the overlap-
ping things, the things in the universe that throw the last stone, so to speak,
and say the final word. . . .
The second affirmation of religion is that we are better off even now if we
believe her first affirmation to be true.8
James says very little about the first hypothesis other than to point out that
for most of us “the universe is represented in our religions as having a per-
sonal form”; therefore, any person-to-person relation is possible between it
and us. Thus, just as a suspicious nature would keep us from making friends,
so “a snarling logicality” may deprive one of any opportunity to encounter
the divine. On the other hand, we may come to feel that we are “doing the
universe the deepest service we can” by believing that there are gods (yes, he
uses the plural here).9 Pragmatists hold that a belief is what one is prepared to
act on; hence religious persons will act on their religious beliefs, and James
assumes that they will act differently from agnostics or atheists and will, in
5. Ibid., 7.
6. Ibid., 8.
7. Ibid.
8. Ibid., 29–30.
9. Ibid., 31.
fact, act better. In Varieties he will subject this last assumption—that the reli-
gious person acts (morally) better—to empirical examination.
William James called himself a radical empiricist as early as 1896 in the
preface to The Will to Believe. There he defined empiricism as fallibilism, and
he made clear that his empiricism was radical, among other things, because
it extended to metaphysical doctrines. In other words, he would treat meta-
physical claims, and that includes religious claims, as he would treat scien-
tific claims—namely, as hypotheses subject to possible falsification.
Having said that, he immediately launched into an argument for plural-
ism. “Prima facie the world is a pluralism,” though we attempt to impose
unity on our experiences. “But absolute unity in spite of brilliant dashes in its
direction, still remains undiscovered, still remains a Grenzbegriff.” Finally, he
concluded, “He who takes for his hypothesis the notion that it [pluralism] is
the permanent form of the world is what I call a radical empiricist.” Here
pluralism means that there are “real possibilities, real indeterminations, real
beginnings, real ends, real evil, real crises, real catastrophes and escapes, a real
God, and a real moral life, just as common sense conceives these things.”10
Because the world is plural in this sense, there is no single point of view
from which the whole of the world can be apprehended. And, as he wrote so
eloquently in the preface to Talks to Teachers, “The practical consequence of
such a philosophy is the well-known democratic respect for the sacredness of
individuality—is, at any rate, the outward tolerance of whatever is not itself
intolerant.”11
Pluralism, in other words, is itself not a single doctrine; it is in fact three
doctrines. First, there is the metaphysical doctrine concerning real possibili-
ties, etc. Second, there is what one might call the epistemological doctrine,
that there is no single point of view from which the whole plurality can be
apprehended. Finally, there is the moral doctrine of tolerance. The majority
of the essays in The Will to Believe present arguments in favor of a belief in
one item or another of the metaphysical doctrine.
In the preface to The Meaning of Truth, James gave another, though com-
patible, account of radical empiricism as consisting of a postulate, a state-
ment of fact, and a generalized conclusion. Here we are concerned only with
10. Ibid., 6.
11. James, Talks to Teachers on Psychology, in Works, 10:4.
the postulate. “The postulate is that the only things that shall be debatable
among philosophers shall be things definable in terms drawn from experi-
ence.”12 Since James, the philosopher, discusses the religious hypothesis, he
must show that it concerns things definable in terms drawn from experience.
In fact, by the time he wrote the preface to The Meaning of Truth in 1909 he
would have taken himself to have done so in Varieties. Of course, “definable”
is to be understood loosely; the pragmatists were not positivists.
The problem I have set myself is a hard one: first to defend (against all the
prejudices of my ‘class’) ‘experience’ against ‘philosophy’ as being the real
backbone of the world’s religious life—I mean prayer, guidance, and all that
sort of thing immediately and privately felt . . . and second, to make the hearer
or reader believe, what I myself invincibly do believe, that, although all the
special manifestations of religion may have been absurd . . . yet the life of it as
a whole is mankind’s most important function.14
sities?” David Lamberth has pointed out that the distinction before us is not
the familiar fact/value distinction but rather a distinction between a special
science on the one hand and metaphysics on the other.15 James explained the
distinction in the preface to The Principles of Psychology: “Every natural sci-
ence assumes certain data uncritically, and declines to challenge the elements
between which its own ‘laws’ obtain, and from which its own deductions are
carried on. . . . Of course the data themselves are discussible; but the discus-
sion of them (as of other elements) is called metaphysics.”16 What then are
the data, uncritically assumed, for the psychologist of religion?
The evidence for God lies in inner personal experience, but to find that
experience writ large enough for us to study it, we must turn to the writings
of individuals who found it worthwhile to make their inner experiences
public. James thought of such people as religious geniuses. Their religious
experiences, and only theirs, are presented in Varieties. The experiences of
ordinary religious persons are dismissed; James holds that they have their
religion second-hand and that it would profit us little to study their religious
lives. It is as if one were to say that research in the psychology of hearing
should be confined to subjects who have perfect pitch. The person with
perfect pitch can hear what the rest of us fail to hear; the religious genius
senses, at any rate at certain intense moments, the presence of the divine.
Are we acquainted with the varieties of musical experiences if we study only
the experiences of individuals with perfect pitch?
Charles Taylor in his tribute to James’s Varieties raises a related objection.
He points out that James belongs to one dominant strain in modern North
Atlantic Christianity, the strain that emphasizes personal commitment and
feelings. This causes him, according to Taylor, to misrepresent and under-
value the role of community, of ritual, of living according to divine com-
mandments in enabling people to find a relation to the divine. Taylor sum-
marizes this criticism: “What James can’t seem to accommodate is the
phenomenon of collective religious life, which is not just the result of (indi-
vidual) religious connections, but which in some sense constitutes or is that
15. David Lamberth, William James and the Metaphysics of Experience (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1999), 111.
16. James, The Principles of Psychology, 3 vols., in Works, 8:6.
connection.”17 But this is too strong; James does not deny the phenomenon
of collective religious life, but he sees it as a secondary phenomenon. He
underestimates, perhaps, the role that religious institutions, lives lived in
religious communities, play in preparing the ground from which religious
experience springs. Nevertheless, and here I differ from Taylor, a connection
to or vivid awareness of the divine, whether experienced in solitude or during
a communal ritual, is an intensely private, particular, individual experience.
Be that as it may, the data of the psychologist of religion are “the feelings,
acts and experiences of individual men in their solitude, so far as they appre-
hend themselves to stand in relation to whatever they may consider the di-
vine.”18 Here “the divine” is broadly understood. “The divine shall mean for
us only such a primal reality as the individual feels impelled to respond to
solemnly and gravely, and neither by a curse nor a jest.”19 Here James appears
to include among the data not only the intense experiences he cites but also
events in the lives of those of us who have our religion second-hand. That
impression is reinforced when James, late in the Gifford lectures, returns to
characterizing religious life. Here prayer, defined as “every kind of inward
communion or conversation with the power recognized as divine,” is said to
be “the very soul and essence of religion.”20 However, conversation with the
divine, though an essential component of religion, cannot be, by itself, its
“very soul and essence.” The religious life does not consist solely in “feelings,
acts and experiences of individual men in their solitude”; it consists also in
their feelings and acts toward other human beings (and, in some cases, ani-
mals). James counts all of that among the “fruits,” as consequences rather
than as parts of religion. This seems to me too anemic a conception of the
religious life.
Here one might also mention, as Charles Taylor does, that James excludes
theology from the center of religious life. In so far as he takes himself to give
us the “essence” of religion, that complaint is certainly justified. But in the
context of James’s goal in Varieties it is not. Theology concerns what James
calls “over-beliefs,” what one is prepared to say about the nature of the di-
17. Charles Taylor, Varieties of Religion Today: William James Revisited (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), 24 (emphasis in original).
18. James, Varieties, in Works, 13:34.
19. Ibid., 39.
20. Ibid., 365.
vine. James never denies that religious persons have over-beliefs. Perhaps
because his own over-beliefs are quite unconventional, he does not give suf-
ficient weight to the role that sacred writings play in the lives of many, per-
haps a majority of believers. But Varieties is not concerned with questions
concerning the nature of the divine; its subtitle proclaims it to be “A Study
of Human Nature” (my emphasis). Again, James lays claim to expertise only
in psychology. He is interested in the religious propensities of human beings,
and these, though not their overt manifestations, are quite independent of
theology.
While it may appear as if James had prejudged the question of evidence
for God’s existence when he defined religious experiences by reference to
apprehending oneself to stand in a relationship to the divine, this is not so
since all these apprehensions may be hallucinatory. However, while still deal-
ing with the existential—that is, narrowly psychological—investigation of
our religious propensities, James must open a door to the possibility of a
theistic explanation. James’s genius shows itself, in my opinion, in the man-
ner in which he accomplishes this difficult task.
Although James provides accounts of various kinds of religious experi-
ences, two sorts stand out: the conversion experiences of twice-born
Protestant Christians and the mystical experiences of members of various
faith communities. In both cases James, the psychologist, draws attention to
what religious states of consciousness have in common with other, nonreli-
gious states. It is a general thesis of James’s work that religious love is a kind
of love, religious fear a kind of fear, and religious experience a kind of expe-
rience. In other words, religious experiences are to be looked at from an
empiricist, not a theological perspective.
Considering conversion experiences, James appeals to the then recent
discovery that individuals are sometimes responsive in their conscious be-
havior, emotions, and beliefs to matters of which they have not been even
marginally aware. James points out that in the case of posthypnotic sug-
gestion, we create and hence know the subliminal source of the behavior.
In the case of hysteric patients psychoanalytic techniques will bring the
disturbing memories to consciousness and thus effect a cure. James sug-
gests then that the explanation of other pathological phenomena may also
be found in the subconscious but that much research will be required to
While mystical states carry utter conviction for those who experience
them, they have no claims on the rest of us. “But,” James notes, “the higher
ones among them point in directions to which the religious sentiments even
of non-mystical men incline. They tell of the supremacy of the ideal, of vast-
ness, of union, of safety, and of rest. They offer us hypotheses, hypotheses
which we may voluntarily ignore, but which as thinkers we cannot possibly
upset. The supernaturalism and optimism to which they would persuade us
may, interpreted in one way or another, be after all the truest of insights into
the meaning of life.”25 More generally, James compares mystics to travelers
to distant shores. We would be foolish, he thinks, to reject the travelers’ tales
out of hand; we would be equally foolish not to take seriously the mystics’
testimony concerning “the actual existence of a higher world with which our
world is in relation.”26
Here I would like to emphasize (as James himself does) the word “hy-
potheses.” The upshot of the examination of the psychological data is just
this: religious hypotheses are discussible among empiricist philosophers be-
cause they concern, indeed, “things definable in terms drawn from experi-
ence.” They are individuals’ responses to certain experiences, experiences we
call “religious” because their object is the divine, just as we call other experi-
ences “musical” because their object is music. Whether these experiences are
veridical is a separate question, to which we must now turn.
in a merely human world without a God, the appeal to our moral energy falls
short of its maximal stimulating power. Life, to be sure, is even in such a
world a genuinely ethical symphony; but is played in the compass of a couple
of poor octaves. . . . When, however, we believe that a God is there, and that
he is one of the claimants, the infinite perspective opens out. The scale of the
symphony is incalculably prolonged.27
This is an inspiring metaphor, but what exactly does religion add to the
nonreligious moral life? James responds in the concluding Gifford Lecture:
“Taking creeds and faith-state together, as forming ‘religions’ and treating
these as purely subjective phenomena, without regard to the question of
their ‘truth,’ we are obliged, on account of their extraordinary influence on
action and endurance, to class them amongst the most important biological
functions of mankind.”28 The essence of religion lies, for James, in the inter-
dependence of religious emotions and the conduct they inspire. The emo-
tions provoked by religious experiences and to a lesser extent by prayer are
invigorating; they overcome debilitating melancholy, they add a zest to life.
At the very least, then, religion is good for the religious individual. Moreover,
by way of the conduct it inspires, it is also good for humanity at large for,
James concludes in his careful investigation into the fruits of saintliness, “the
saintly qualities are indispensable for the world’s welfare.”29
Today one hesitates to agree with this enthusiastic moral endorsement of
religion—that is, of the conduct religious faith inspires. Religiously inspired
27. James, “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life,” in The Will to Believe, in
Works, 6:141–162, 160.
28. James, Varieties, in Works, 13:399.
29. Ibid., 299.
violence has become part of the daily news if not of our own lives. Do we
have reasons to regard the violence as an aberration and only the deeds of
loving kindness as genuinely religious? Religious strife and religious warfare
are not modern inventions; how could James conclude that on the whole
religion is good for humanity? Did he forget about the Crusades, about the
Thirty Years’ War, etc.? I do not think so. James believed in progress, partic-
ularly in moral progress. He was a tireless advocate of tolerance, and he be-
lieved, with some justification, that human beings were indeed becoming
more and more tolerant, especially concerning theological questions. It was,
therefore, not unreasonable to believe that the practical effects of religion
would become increasingly exclusively moral effects. In some form or other
all the major religions preach compassion or love of one’s neighbor or con-
cern for the poor and downtrodden. In so far as they inspire the correspond-
ing conduct, James’s positive judgment is surely justified. However, the ef-
fects of religious beliefs, good or bad, compassionate or cruel, appear to be
quite independent of their truth.
What then can be said about the truth of religion? What, precisely, is the
hypothesis we are to investigate? What is the common core of all particular
creeds? Here is one fairly brief statement: “Religion, wherever it is an active
thing, involves a belief in ideal presences, and a belief that in our prayerful
communion with them, real work is done, and something real comes to
pass.”30 A few pages later, James formulates the common core of all religions as
“a sense that there is something wrong about us as we naturally stand” and as “a
sense that we are saved from the wrongness by making proper connexion with
the higher powers.”31 Notice that the second quotation speaks of a sense (i.e.,
a rather inchoate awareness) rather than a well-articulated belief, as does the
first. The second speaks of the common core of religious experiences while the
first speaks of the common core of the creeds, the various over-beliefs that al-
most inevitably accompany an individual’s religious feelings.
But let us concentrate on the experience. An experience, James tells us,
consists of a field of consciousness, an object of attention, an attitude toward
that object, and a sense of the self that has the attitude. In ordinary waking
life, we are hardly aware of events at the margins of the fields and entirely
unaware of what goes on beyond the margins, though what goes on there
may exert an influence on our conscious awareness and behavior. In con-
trast, James writes, “In persons deep in the religious life, as we have now
abundantly seen—and this is my conclusion—the door into this region [the
subconscious] seems unusually wide open; at any rate, experiences making
their entrance through that door have had emphatic influence in shaping
religious history.”32
Consider then the experience of being aware of one’s own ‘wrongness’ in
the religious sense. One’s higher self is aware of what’s wrong with one’s lower
self, and one becomes reconciled, or ‘saved’, when one identifies with one’s
higher self. According to James, this happens as follows. “He becomes conscious
that this higher part is conterminous and continuous with a MORE of the same
quality, which is operative in the universe outside of him, and which he can keep
in working touch with, and in a fashion get on board of and save himself when
all his lower being has gone to pieces in the wreck.” 33 The question of the truth
of religion boils down, then, to the question whether the ‘MORE’ really ex-
ists or is a mere fancy, and if it does exist, how we are in contact with it.
At this point it comes as no surprise to learn that James finds the subcon-
scious self made to order. He seeks an explanation of religious experience
that is acceptable to science. Psychologists agree that there is a wider subcon-
scious self, and that what happens in the subconscious can have real effects
on the conscious self. James’s appeal to the subconscious is therefore scientif-
ically respectable. At the same time, it is at least possible that events in the
subconscious can be affected by forces external to it as well as to the con-
scious self. James’s image of the conscious self as surrounded by the subcon-
scious as by a sea enables him to wonder what is on the farther shore, and
thus to introduce his own over-beliefs. Just where the over-beliefs enter is,
however, less clear than one might wish it to be.
Consider James’s own summing up of the findings of psychology.
“Disregarding the over-beliefs, and confining ourselves to what is common
and generic, we have in the fact that the conscious person is continuous with a
wider self through which saving experiences come, a positive content of reli-
gious experience which, it seems to me, is literally and objectively true as far
as it goes.”34
But is it a fact that “the conscious person is continuous with a wider self
through which saving experiences come?” Or is this already an over-belief?
Let us grant that the conscious self is embedded in a wider subconscious self;
let us grant even that our impulses to be morally better arise in that wider
self. Still, we must admit that our impulses to be worse also arise there. That
wider self is simply too limited as well as too fragmented to be “a wider self
through which saving experiences come.” Can the moral energy, the zest for
living the morally strenuous life, not to mention the sense of being ‘saved’
come from being in contact merely with one’s own subconscious? Or if it
can, what is the input into the subconscious that produces these effects? This
question provides James the opportunity to elaborate the image of the sub-
conscious as a sea. He now conceives of the subconscious as the near shore
of a sea on whose far shore is God, or the Higher Powers. That is a daring
hypothesis. James has suggested a way (a mechanism) by which something
other and higher than one’s self could influence the conscious self if there is
such a being.
In his final lecture of Pragmatism, “Pragmatism and Religion,” James said,
“I have written a book on men’s religious experience, which on the whole has
been regarded as making for the reality of God.”35 That suggests that he takes
himself to have done more—and that others take him to have done more—
than merely uncover a possible mechanism for human-divine communica-
tion. Rather, suggesting such a mechanism is taken to support the claim that
such communication takes place. But to claim that such communication
takes place is to accept the reality of the divine. It is to accept the under-
standing of certain quite common experiences as indeed religious experi-
ences, as NOT being hallucinatory. This seems to me to be an over-belief,
but when James speaks of over-beliefs, he seems to mean beliefs concerning
the nature rather than the mere existence of the divine.
4. Conclusion
What then are James’s own over-beliefs? They are, as is well known, quite
unconventional. “The gods we stand by,” he wrote, “are the gods we need
and can use.”36 He needed gods to provide moral energy, a zest for life. For
him that meant not the certainty but the chance of ‘salvation’ for the world.
In the postscript he maintained, “Meanwhile the practical needs and experi-
ence of religion seem to me to be sufficiently met by the belief that beyond
each man and in a fashion continuous with him there exists a larger power
which is friendly to him and to his ideals.”37 His characterizations of that
larger power vary. In the postscript he continues, “Anything larger will do, if
only it be large enough to trust for the next step. It need not be infinite, it
need not be solitary. It might conceivably even be only a larger and more
godlike self, . . . and the universe might conceivably be a collection of such
selves.”38 In Pragmatism he tells us that religious individuals of the pluralistic
type have “always viewed God as but one helper, primus inter pares, in the
midst of all the shapers of the great world’s fate.”39 And in A Pluralistic
Universe he maintains that
all the evidence we have seems to me to sweep us very strongly towards the
belief in some form of superhuman life with which we may, unknown to
ourselves, be co-conscious. . . . The outlines of the superhuman consciousness
thus made probable must remain, however, very vague, and the number of
functionally distinct ‘selves’ it comports and carries has to be left entirely
problematic.
Finally, he holds that the only escape from the problem of evil is to “assume
that the superhuman consciousness, however vast it may be, has itself an
external environment, and consequently is finite.”40
I find James’s conception of a deity quite appealing and inspiring. But we
must recognize that it is just that, a conception. The wealth of evidence pre-
sented in Varieties does not support one over-belief over another. James, the
pluralist, should have been pleased with that.
I began by recalling that The Varieties of Religious Experience is James’s
most widely read work. I added that it is complex. I have tried to place it in
the wider context of James’s work. I wish to conclude by recalling James’s
own aim in the Gifford Lectures—namely, to show that experience, not
philosophy, is “the real backbone of the world’s religious life.” In the wider
context of pragmatism’s struggle against too narrow a conception of experi-
ence, The Varieties of Religious Experience plays an indispensable role.
A Defense of Faith
4. Ibid., 97–98.
5. James, “The Will to Believe,” in The Will to Believe, in Works, vol. 6.
6. Ibid., 29–30.
The Evidence
Writing to his friend Frances Morse, James described his task in Varieties of
Religious Experience as follows:
The problem I have set myself is a hard one: first to defend (against all the
prejudices of my ‘class’) ‘experience’ against ‘philosophy’ as being the real
backbone of the world’s religious life—I mean prayer, guidance, and all that
sort of thing immediately and privately felt . . . and second, to make the
hearer or reader believe, what I myself invincibly do believe, that, although all
the special manifestations of religion may have been absurd . . . yet the life of
it as a whole is mankind’s most important function.7
The first task, then, is a task for a psychologist of religion, and as such
James sets before us numerous accounts of the conversion experiences of
twice-born Protestants and of mystical experiences by members of various
faith communities. James has been criticized for giving a distorted picture of
religious life, leaving out all social and ritual aspects as well as the religious
lives of ordinary believers. But James does not claim to paint a complete
picture; he is interested only in those aspects of the religious life that might
be evidentiary for religious hypotheses. Of course, it remains an open ques-
tion whether those experiences are veridical.
James points to numerous similarities between religious experiences and
certain other experiences, between religious ideas and other ideas, between
religious feelings and other feelings. Thus he points out that in so far as reli-
gious belief is belief in an unseen order, it is just like our belief in any other
abstraction. We find our way in the universe of concrete objects by the help
of such abstract concepts as space, time, causality, thing, etc.; just so we find
our way morally by the help of such concepts as God, freedom, soul, justice,
etc. These similarities serve to show that religious beliefs are, at any rate,
beliefs like other beliefs, and religious concepts are concepts like other con-
cepts serving the same sort of function.
Next, James will show how religious experiences fit into a general psycho-
logical account of our mental lives. We are at any moment bombarded by a
7. William James, The Letters of William James, 2 vols., ed. Henry James Jr. (Boston:
Atlantic Monthly Press, 1920), 2:127.
cerning the farther shore, what James calls over-beliefs, the details of the
various religions.
James has no interest in theologies; he takes himself to have established
only this:
But surely this claims too much. James has indeed suggested a mecha-
nism by which a higher being could influence the self if there is such a being,
but the “wider self “ might indeed be no more than the conscious self plus
its subconscious. However, James took himself to have done more, for, refer-
ring to Varieties, he wrote some years later that the book “on the whole has
been taken to make for the reality of God.”11 Before moving on to James’s
final and carefully worked-out over-beliefs, let us take a brief look at prag-
matism as a philosophy of religion.
Pragmatism as a Meliorism
that while anything that gets known by someone gets known together with
something else, there may be many knowers, and even the greatest knowl-
edge may not be of everything.17
What then is the upshot of Pragmatism? It is a ringing affirmation of plu-
ralism. It is the view, which he also calls moralistic, that the ‘salvation’ of the
universe, the ultimate triumph of good over evil, is not a foregone conclu-
sion; it depends on what each of us contributes to that cause. Against the
monotheistic affirmations of Christianity, and I may add here Judaism and
Islam, James asserts,
Their words may have sounded monistic when they said, “there is no God but
God”; but the original polytheism of mankind has only imperfectly and
vaguely sublimated itself into monotheism, and monotheism itself, so far as it
was religious and not a scheme of classroom instruction for the metaphysi-
cians, has always viewed God as but one helper, primus inter pares, in the
midst of all the shapers of the great worldʼs fate.
We may, I think, take this to be a confession of faith, for a few lines later he
writes, “I firmly disbelieve, myself, that our human experience is the highest
form of experience extant in the universe.”18
Over-Beliefs
thought are fully real. The finite entities we know and our finite thoughts exist
only because they are thought by the Absolute. In James’s language, for abso-
lute idealism reality exists fully only in the “all-form.” In contrast, James rejects
the idea of the Absolute and prefers to think of reality as existing in the “each-
form.” His most important reason, I believe, is this. From an absolutist point
of view, what we experience as evil—for example, human suffering—is in the
larger picture a good. For James, on the other hand, there are real evils, and it
is our task to get rid of them. To put it another way, since the Absolute is per-
fect and what it thinks is alone real, and since the Absolute does not suffer,
suffering is not real for absolute idealists. James takes it that absolute idealism
gives us a permanent moral vacation: since suffering is not real, we are under
no obligation to alleviate it. James, speaking as a psychologist, recognizes the
need for occasional moral holidays, but does not need absolutism to authorize
them, and he has overwhelming reasons to reject it.
Let us then turn to James’s views concerning superhuman forms of con-
sciousness. In one of his unpublished and unfinished manuscripts, James
defends panpsychism and points out its affinity for pantheism:
James is, of course, right in thinking that once one accepts panpsychism,
there is no reason to stop with the human body as the location of conscious-
ness. If molecules can have a rudimentary consciousness, may not the earth
have a larger consciousness? This was in fact the view of James’s contempo-
rary Gustav Theodor Fechner, a view James found attractive. Finally, by in-
Thus does foreignness get banished from the world, and far more so when we
take the system pluralistically than when we take it monistically. We are in-
deed internal parts of God and not external creations, on any reading of the
panpsychic system. Yet because God is not the absolute, but is himself a part
when the system is conceived pluralistically, his functions can be taken as not
James admits that he has done no more than to show that pluralism is “a
fully coordinate hypothesis with monism.” He has returned where he began
in “The Sentiment of Rationality” and in “The Will to Believe.” He is faced
with two live hypotheses; he must choose between them, and his choice will
be determined by which hypothesis will feel more rational and allow for
more intimacy.
James assumes that we too are confronted by the same momentous alter-
native. But are we? For some of us a theism is surely a live hypothesis and for
others the alternative is what he calls “dualistic theism.” In acknowledging
that both monistic and pluralistic pantheism are only hypotheses, he leaves
room for atheism and dualistic theism as rival hypotheses.
JAMES’S WRITINGS are so rich in content that one is not surprised when dif-
ferent readers find different points in one and the same essay by James or even
offer divergent interpretations. Indeed, it is one of the aims of the collection
one of us (RAP) edited, The Cambridge Companion to William James, to intro-
duce readers to more than one perspective on this philosopher’s thought.1 But
pluralism, as James well knew, does not mean that anything goes. In what
follows we will take issue with certain of Robert Meyers’s readings of James as
well as note, with distress, where he has misrepresented our own view.2
Let us begin with our claim that what stands behind James’s philosophizing
is a moral impulse. That is not to say that James was primarily a moral phi-
1. Ruth Anna Putnam, ed., The Cambridge Companion to William James (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1997).
2. Robert Meyers, “Putnam and the Permanence of Pragmatism,” Transactions of
the Charles S. Peirce Society 34, no. 2 (1998): 346–364.
losopher. In fact, his only systematic work in moral philosophy, “The Moral
Philosopher and the Moral Life,” questions the very possibility of moral
philosophy. Its very first sentence asserts, “The main purpose of this paper is
to show that there is no such thing possible as an ethical philosophy made
up dogmatically in advance . . . [and that] there can be no final truth in
ethics any more than in physics, until the last man has had his experience
and said his say.”3 Still, there seems to be an intermediate task for the moral
philosopher—namely, “to find an account of the moral relations that ob-
tain among things, which will weave them into the unity of a stable system,
and make of the world what one may call a genuine universe from the
ethical point of view.”4 But this task proves to be impossible. The ethical
philosopher is not permitted to bring to this task any ideal of her own other
than this idea of coherence, yet what she finds in the world are ideals that
are not all co-realizable; she must choose among them a coherent set, yet
she is not allowed to choose. Nor does James believe in the existence of “a
self-proclaiming set of laws, or an abstract ‘moral reason.”’5
There seems to be, however, an alternative for the moral philosopher.
“Since everything which is demanded is by that fact good, must not the
guiding principle for ethical philosophy (since all demands conjointly can-
not be satisfied in this poor world) be simply to satisfy at all times as many
demands as we can?”6 Our demands, however, cannot be rank-ordered by
some algorithm, James tells us; rather, what we must do is try to realize “ide-
als by whose realization the least possible number of other ideals are de-
stroyed.”7 This principle does not produce “an ethical philosophy made up
dogmatically in advance,” for the result of applying this principle (however
3. James, “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life,” in The Will to Believe, in
Works, 6:141–162, 141. Oddly, Meyers interprets this remark to mean that James
thought there were no moral truths on a par with physical ones; it seems to us that
James has just asserted that both kinds of truths await the judgment of further experi-
ence.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid., 151.
6. Ibid., 155. Also see Chapter 23 (“The Moral Life of a Pragmatist”) of this vol-
ume.
7. James, “The Moral Philosopher,” in Works, 6:155. Consider also this remark: “No
single abstract principle can be so used as to yield to the philosopher anything like a
scientifically accurate and genuinely useful casuistic scale” (153).
a philosophical position. James did think that one should be able to take one’s
philosophy out of the study and into one’s everyday life. A philosophy that did
not jibe with the vital benefits one derives from one’s ordinary beliefs is to be
rejected. Clearly that does NOT mean, as Meyers claims, that “we can believe
as we wish even if we do not have probable evidence.”12 Neither did James hold
that “we are entitled to believe beyond the evidence, that is, to have ‘over-be-
liefs,’ as he called them, so long as we are tolerant of those who disagree 13 The
first of these misunderstandings flows from a too careless reading of the essay
“The Will to Believe.”14 James does not there argue that we are entitled to be-
lieve as we wish. As he points out, to say that would be either silly or vile, de-
pending on how it is understood. He states his thesis thus: “Our passional
nature not only lawfully may, but must, decide an option between proposi-
tions, whenever it is a genuine option that cannot be decided on intellectual
grounds; for to say, under such circumstances, ‘Do not decide, but leave the
question open,’ is itself a passional decision—just like deciding yes or no—and
is attended with the same risk of losing the truth.”15 Now it would be a serious
mistake to think that the sort of choice James has in mind concerns only deep
metaphysical issues. When a scientist decides to investigate a hypothesis, stak-
ing his reputation on its being fruitful to do so, or when one decides to invest
time and emotions in building a friendship, indeed whenever one takes a seri-
ous risk, one lets one’s “passional nature” decide.
Religious beliefs are one class of beliefs that one embraces on passional
grounds, or not at all. They are indeed “over-beliefs,” beliefs that go beyond
anything a science of religion, or a psychology of religious experience, can
warrant. We are entitled to these over-beliefs NOT “as long as we are toler-
ant” but because they are the sorts of beliefs that can be decided only by our
passional nature. To be sure, we are to be tolerant of the over-beliefs of oth-
ers. We are to be tolerant because “the truth is too great for any one actual
mind, even though that mind is dubbed ‘the Absolute,’ to know the whole
of it. The facts and worths of life need many cognizers to take them in. There
is no point of view absolutely public and universal.”16 The practical conse-
quence of such a pluralistic philosophy, James continues, “is at any rate, the
outward tolerance of whatever is not itself intolerant.”17 Perhaps that is what
Meyers meant when he said that we are entitled to our over-beliefs as long as
we are tolerant of the over-beliefs of others: our over-beliefs must leave room
for tolerance.
The pluralistic universe leaves room for acts that are really good or bad, so
it leaves room for making sense of our moral lives. Acts are really good or
bad if they make a really good or bad difference to the lives of others. They
can do that only if we live in, and know that we live in, a common world.
This is the relevance to morality of James’s direct realism to which we shall
turn in a moment. Meanwhile there is a second sense in which James’s
philosophizing is prompted by a moral impulse. Many of James’s essays were
first given as lectures to students or to alumnae. These people often suffered
from a sense of ennui; they failed to see meaning in life, or more specifically
in their own lives. James addressed these concerns of his audiences. Thus he
addressed alumnae of women’s colleges in “The Social Value of the College
Bred,” assuring them that their education was not wasted,18 he addressed
directly the question “What Makes a Life Significant?” and so on.19 Even the
lectures on pragmatism were addressed not to professional philosophers but
to educated, middle-class ladies and gentlemen who tried to find a spiritu-
ally safe haven in a confusing world. Some of these matters are discussed in
greater detail in “Some of Life’s Ideals.”20
James on Truth
Robert Meyers feels that one of us (HP) has been much too charitable to
James on truth. It seems to us, however, that Meyers has not entirely cor-
rectly represented either James’s view of truth or HP’s interpretation of it. In
17. Ibid.
18. James, “The Social Value of the College Bred,” in Essays, Comments and Reviews,
in Works, 15:106–112.
19. James, “What Makes a Life Significant?” in Talks to Teachers on Psychology, in
Works, 10:150–167.
20. See Ruth Anna Putnam, “Some of Life’s Ideals,” in Cambridge Companion to
James, 282–299.
part this is due to the unfortunate circumstance that HP’s most extensive
interpretation of James (“James’s Theory of Truth”) was published after
Meyers’s paper was written.21
Although Meyers is correct to say that in Pragmatism HP defends James’s
theory of truth from two common criticisms, he fails to mention that HP
himself rejects James’s, Dewey’s, and Peirce’s theories of truth on the ground
that all three thinkers believe that a proposition cannot be true unless it is
“fated” to be verified in the long run.22 Thus it was not HP’s purpose merely
to defend James from criticism but to show what the right criticism of James’s
theory of truth really should be. In this section, we shall briefly describe our
interpretation of James’s theory of truth, and then examine Meyers’s criti-
cisms of what he understands to be James’ theory.
“James’s Theory of Truth” cites evidence to show that in papers and books
written at all stages of his philosophical career James repeatedly insisted that
a true belief must be such that we are “fated” to converge to it, such that it
becomes “the whole drift of thought,” such that it becomes “the ultimate
consensus.” This “Peircean strain,” as we call it, is unaccountably neglected
by James’s friends and foes, but it is everywhere present in James’s writing. At
the same time, James insists that truth does involve correspondence to reali-
ties (note the plural!). Thus (again contrary to many interpretations of James)
James does have a “correspondence theory of truth.” However, James is em-
phatic in insisting that merely speaking of “agreement” between beliefs and
realities is empty: We have to say what ‘agreement’ consists in in concrete
terms, terms a pragmatist can understand, if we are to have a theory of truth
at all.23
21. In addition, the following papers by us on pragmatism are not taken account of
by Meyers: “Pragmatism and Moral Objectivity” (HP), “Pragmatism and Relativism”
(HP), and “Education for Democracy” (HP), in Words and Life, ed. James Conant
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994); “Why We Need William James,”
The Times Literary Supplement, no. 4864 (21 June 1996): 14–15; “Pragmatism” (HP),
Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 95 no. 3 (1995): 291–306 [Chapter 2, this vol-
ume]; and “Pragmatism and Realism” (HP), Cardozo Law Review 18, no. 153 (1996):
153–170 [Chapter 9, this volume]; as well as the papers by RAP cited in notes 6 and
20.
22. Of course, pragmatist notions of verification are very different from positivist
ones, something discussed in HP’s article “Pragmatism.”
23. See James, Pragmatism, in Works, 1:96.
24. Hilary Putnam criticizes this view of James in Chapter 11 (James’s Theory of
Truth”) of this volume.
25. James writes, “In a question of this scope [Is this a moral world?], the experi-
ence of the entire human race must make the verification, and all the evidence will not
be ‘in’ till the final integration of things, when the last man has had his say and con-
tributed his share to the still unfinished x.” The Will to Believe, in Works, 6:87.
26. James, Pragmatism, in Works, 1:46.
used in analytic philosophy. For James emphatically insists that relations are
just as real as particulars, and in present-day usage that would make James a
realist about abstract entities. What Meyers means, however, by calling James
a “nominalist” is that according to James there is no one property which is
necessary and sufficient for calling a belief true, one and the same property in
the case of each and every belief, and that is quite right. (We would express
this by saying that James rejects essentialism, not “realism.”) When Meyers
argues, however, that “the state of affairs depicted by p exists” is precisely such
a property (the “essential” property of every p such that p is true), we reply on
James’s behalf (and not only on James’s behalf ) that (1) Meyers has only exhib-
ited a connection between one semantical term (“true”) and another semanti-
cal term (“depicts”). We have been given no reason to believe that “depicting”
is one and the same relation in each and every case; indeed James provides
counterexamples to this claim.27 (2) Moreover (as many philosophers have
pointed out) you can be as “realist” as you like about truth without having to
hypostatize “states of affairs” as Meyers does here.28 We do not need to hypos-
tatize an entity called “the state of affairs that the sun is ninety-three million
miles from the earth” to explain why “The sun is ninety-three million miles
from the earth” is true, nor does hypostatizing such an entity do anything but
generate pseudo-clarifications.29
We want to emphasize that we are not saying that James was right in
holding that the “correspondence” between a true statement and the realities
it depicts can be explained in terms of the notions of verification, conver-
gence, etc., that he employs.30 But to say, as Meyers does, that to hold a theory
27. Referring to a clock on the wall, James points out that an idea of ours may
“copy” its dial but, unless we are clock-makers, not its works, and that it is “hard to see
exactly” what our ideas would copy when we think of its spring’s elasticity. Nevertheless,
we take the object to be a clock, we use it as a clock, and as long as that does not lead
to frustration, we verify thus it’s being a clock. Pragmatism, in Works, 1:96, 99.
28. Davidson recently, but before him Frege and Collingwood, for example.
29. Saying that the statement that the sun is ninety-three million miles from the
earth is true because the state of affairs that the sun is ninety-three million miles from
the earth “exists” is precisely such a pseudo-clarification, as we are sure every pragma-
tist would say.
30. HP’s most recent view is set out in “Sense, Nonsense and the Senses” (Dewey
Lectures, 1994), The Journal of Philosophy 91, no. 9 (September 1994): 445–517. See,
especially, Lecture III, “The Face of Cognition.”
34. “William James’s Ideas,” in Realism with a Human Face (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1990), 217–231, 228.
In the section of his paper that deals with this topic, Robert Meyers raises a
host of complex issues. We shall take up each of his major points very briefly,
knowing that a full treatment would require an essay devoted to each one,
and we shall take them up in an order which is the reverse of the order in
which they occur in Meyers’s essay.
1. The “time-lag” objection. Meyers writes: “How can I be directly aware
of the sun if my view of it is always eight minutes old?” This is an old objec-
tion to direct realism, but we have never been able to see why it is supposed
to be telling. Direct realists, starting with Aristotle, have always been aware
that we do not see until light reaches the eye, hear until the sound reaches
the ear, etc. There are physical processes, terminating in modifications of the
sense organ, which have to take place before what is perceived is perceived.
But that does not show that what we are aware of is modifications of the
sense organ, or events in our own brains, or events in an immaterial “inner
theater,” and not external things, events, and properties. Opponents of di-
rect realism never ask, “How can one be directly aware of the sun if it is
ninety-three million miles away?” for they see that to assume that one can
only be directly aware of what is zero distance away would be to beg the
question against direct realism. And to assume that we can only be directly
aware of events that are zero temporal distance away is equally to beg the
question. For if we can perceive what is spatially distant (and in some cases,
e.g., hearing, and even in some visual cases, without perceiving how distant)
why should we not be able to perceive what is temporally (better, spatiotem-
porally) distant (without perceiving how distant)?
Direct perception is supervenient on physical transactions which take
time; in some cases (e.g., seeing a star which is many light years away) a lot
of time. From what premises is it supposed to follow that when I see a star
what I “directly” perceive is not really the star (which is distant in space-
time) but only a “representation” of the star? We suspect that the premises,
were they made explicit, would be just the tired old premises of the sense-da-
tum theory.
2. “Direct realism tells us nothing about the nature or the validity of the
inference from a pure experience to the judgment that the object is real.”37
It seems to us that Meyers must be reasoning as follows: perception is not
infallible; therefore, before one can be justified in trusting any perception
one has, one must make an “inference” to the conclusion that the percep-
tion is veridical, and direct realism does not tell us how to make this “in-
ference.” The supposed difficulty is this: what her senses tell the subject is
“I have a perception whose content is that there is a chair in front of me,”
so how can she possibly ‘infer’ that there is a chair in front of her? But few
epistemologists would now claim that her knowledge of the “content” of
her perception (of what she “seems” to see, or hear, etc.) is infallible. So
perhaps the real premise is “I think I have a perception whose content is
that there is a chair in front of me.” But that premise is not infallible ei-
ther!
It is true that direct realism, as such, does not offer an answer to this sup-
posed difficulty, but pragmatism does. The view common to all the classical
pragmatists is that doubt requires justification. If one perceives a chair in front
of one, and there is no reason not to trust one’s perception, then one simply
accepts the perception (or putative perception). One accepts “I see a chair,”
not “I seem to see a chair.” One does not make an “inference” to “I see a
chair.”38 And if the perception one trusted is not veridical, then, in general,
future experience will show that. And among the factors that will show that
a perception was not veridical are such factors as its failure to cohere with
other perceptions and beliefs, the failure of predictions based on it, the ex-
tent to which retaining it disturbs funded beliefs—all of which are men-
tioned by James (as well as by the other pragmatists).
Perhaps Meyers’s worry is that James does not offer a justification of our
trust that future experience will, in the long run, add up to some coherent
“ultimate consensus?” But isn’t that just to complain that he hasn’t justified
induction?
3. James is supposedly committed to holding that “the public space contains a
contradictory object.” 39 The example is of a case in which a leaf looks like a frog
from a certain vantage point. Since the leaf looks like a leaf and not a frog
from other vantage points, and both pure experiences occupy the same public
space, the objects in that space must be a “contradictory object,” or so Meyers
argues. This case subdivides into several possible subcases.
(i) Subcase A. To a quick look the leaf looked like a frog, but the subject
could have noticed that it was not a frog if she had looked more carefully. In
38. As Wittgenstein put it, “The chain of reasons has an end.” Ludwig Wittgenstein,
Philosophical Investigations, 2nd ed., trans. G. E. M. Anscombe (Oxford: Basil
Blackwell, 1958), §326.
39. Meyers, “Putnam,” 359.
this case “the froggy look” is only a part of the total look. (Note that for
James, what we perceive is not always a particular: particulars, qualities, and
even relations can all be “bits of pure experience.” A froggy look can be a bit
of pure experience.) However, Meyers asks, is not talk of looks already im-
plicitly talk of appearance to observers? (“If they [looks] have the form ‘X
appears F to S’ where S is an observer, minds would be primary substances.”)
Although we agree with Meyers that James’s suggestion that there is
something wrong with classical logic is hardly the way to deal with this ob-
jection, a better way was suggested by Russell, who adopted James’s direct
realism (with full acknowledgment) in The Analysis of Mind.40 If the “looks”
we are talking about are objective in the sense that the leaf would resemble a
frog (to the extent that it does) when viewed from that particular point un-
der those particular conditions no matter which normal observer looked—
or if a photograph from that point under those conditions would show a
(partly) “froggy” appearance—then the appropriate relativization is not to a
mind but simply to the place from which one is supposed to look and the
conditions of lighting, etc., at the time. “Looks,” in this sense, are objective
phenomena.41
(ii) Subcase B. The same as subcase A except that the leaf looks exactly like
a frog from the point of view in question (a photo taken from that place
would be indistinguishable from a photo of a frog). This case can be handled
exactly like subcase A.
(iii) Subcase C. The look is “in the subject’s mind,” in the sense that a
normal observer looking from that same place under the same conditions
would not experience any such look. In this case the “bit of pure experience”
would be classed as an “unreal object” by James, and there is no problem
because unreal objects can occupy the same public space as real ones.
In HP’s two essays on James’s theory of perception (the one cited by
Meyers, and “Pragmatism and Realism,” which appeared after Meyers wrote
his essay), he makes it clear that we do not accept James’s way of dealing with
nonveridical perceptions. The way we prefer is due to Austin, and it treats
nonveridical experiences as cases in which a subject seems to herself to per-
40. Bertrand Russell, The Analysis of Mind (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1921).
41. This is remarked by John L. Austin, in Sense and Sensibilia (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1962), and also by Hilary Putnam in “Sense, Nonsense and the
Senses.”
Hilary Putnam
1. Note that in Dewey’s extended sense, rationalism is not a movement that began
with Descartes and ended with Leibnitz: Plato was a rationalist, and Kant is still a ra-
tionalist in Dewey’s sense.
Now so deeply engrained are the conclusions of the old tradition of rational-
ism versus (sensationalistic) empiricism, that the question will still be raised:
What other certification could be given or can now be given for the properties
of scientific physical objects save by inferential extension of the universally
found properties of all objects of sense perception? Is there any alternative
unless we are prepared to fall back upon a priori rational conceptions sup-
posed to bring their own sufficient authority with them?
It is at this point that the recent recognition that the conceptions by which
we think scientific objects are derived neither from sense nor from a priori
conceptions has its logical and philosophical force. Sense qualities . . . are
something to be known, they are challenges to knowing, setting problems for
investigation. . . . For experimental inquiry or thinking signifies directed activ-
ity, doing something which varies the conditions under which objects are
observed and directly had and by instituting new arrangements among them.6
The history of the theory of knowledge of epistemology would have been very
different if instead of the word ‘data’ of ‘givens’, it had happened to start with
calling the qualities in question ‘takens’. Not that the data are not existential
and qualities of the ultimately ‘given’—that is, the total subject-matter which
is had in non-cognitive experiences. But as data they are selected from this
total original subject-matter which gives the impetus to knowing; they are
discriminated for a purpose:—that, namely, of affording signs or evidence to
define and locate a problem, and thus give a clew to its resolution.”8
8. Ibid., 142–143.
9. Ibid., 147.
10. Dewey, Ethics (rev. ed.), in Later Works, vol. 7.
The analogy between the status of the theory of values and the theory of ideas
about natural objects before the rise of experimental inquiry may be carried
further. The sensationalistic theory of the origin and the test of thought
evoked, by way of reaction, the transcendental theory of a priori ideas. For it
failed utterly to account for objective connection, order and regularity in ob-
jects observed. Similarly, any doctrine that identifies the mere fact of being
liked with the value of the object liked so fails to give direction to conduct
when direction is needed that it automatically calls forth the assertion that
there are values eternally in Being that are the standards of all judgments and
the obligatory ends of all action. Without the introduction of operational
thinking, we oscillate between a theory that, in order to save the objectivity of
judgments of values, isolates them from experience and nature, and a theory
that, in order to save their concrete and human significance, reduces them to
mere statements about our own feelings.11
Dewey’s own way of making this more precise involves successfully carry-
ing out the task that, in his view, utilitarianism had not been able to carry
out (although Mill made a famous attempt): distinguishing between the
desired and the desirable, or, as Dewey often preferred to say, between the
valued and the valuable. We have already indicated how Dewey drew this
distinction: the fundamental idea was to distinguish between what is valued
in the sense of evoking a mere feeling of liking or enjoyment, and that which
has been critically evaluated and studied. Only when we have acquired
knowledge of the relevant causes and effects and relations does what is val-
ued become valuable or what is satisfying become satisfactory. Or, as Dewey
himself puts it,
The idea of drawing an analogy between the overly simple way in which
utilitarianism conceives of value and the overly simple way in which classical
sensationalistic empiricism conceives of experience is one I find very attrac-
tive. But the way in which Dewey draws the distinction between the valued
and the valuable (and there are many similar passages in his writing, both in
The Quest for Certainty and elsewhere) raises many problems, including
problems of interpretation.
What makes Dewey’s interpretation difficult in general is that in any one
work Dewey tends to stress one or another criticism of traditional views,
leaving other criticisms (and the aspects of his own positive views that he
brings out when he makes those other criticisms of the traditional views) to
other works. The result is that it is hard to get a satisfactory idea of Dewey’s
entire ethical thinking from any one work, unless it be the Ethics—and even
the second (1932) edition of the Ethics fails to fully reflect Dewey’s mature
conception of inquiry, in part just because it is largely a revision of a much
earlier work. Robert Westbrook has remarked that, in an earlier paper set-
ting forth an argument defending democracy that I find in Dewey (I called
it an “epistemological argument for democracy”), I put together pieces that
are genuinely in Dewey in a way Dewey would have agreed with, but that
the argument was never explicitly stated by Dewey himself in the way I gave
it.13 As he put it:
So when Putnam says ‘one can find’ an ‘epistemological argument for democ-
racy’ in Dewey’s work, what he must mean is that one can reconstruct or piece
together such an argument, an argument for which Dewey provided the ele-
ments but which he never put together himself. Putnam is thus not making
an argument like many of Rorty’s, which he knows Dewey would not have
made, but he is making an argument Dewey did not make. Yet Putnam is in
effect saying that Dewey could have made this argument, and I think he is
correct.14
The present essay is yet another part of this continuing effort on my part to
“reconstruct or piece together” Dewey’s arguments from his many different
writings, and I will be content if once again a reader as perceptive and as
versed in the whole of Dewey’s corpus as Westbrook is able to agree that
“Dewey could have made this argument.”
Here is a first effort—one that fits a good deal of “The Construction of
Good”—but one that, I will argue, cannot be adequate to Dewey’s view.
Suppose, to use a language not too far from Dewey’s own, we call an en-
joyment, or the satisfaction of an interest, evaluated if one has adequately
inquired into the ways it was brought about and into its consequences and
into the relation of all of these to the causes and consequences of the other
13. Hilary Putnam, “Pragmatism and Moral Objectivity,” in Words and Life, ed.
James Conant (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994).
14. Robert B. Westbrook, “Pragmatism and Democracy: Reconstructing the Logic
of John Dewey’s Faith,” in The Revival of Pragmatism, ed. Morris Dickstein (Durham,
NC: Duke University Press, 1999).
enjoyments and woes that one knows of. One way of interpreting the criti-
cism of empiricist ethics (i.e., utilitarianism)—that “it takes values which are
casual [i.e., contingent] because unregulated by intelligent operations to be
values in and of themselves”—would be to suppose that Dewey is proposing
to replace the classical utilitarian maxim of seeking to produce “the greatest
happiness of the largest possible number” with a maxim directing one to
seek “the greatest amount of intelligently evaluated enjoyment on the part of
the largest possible number.”15 But this cannot be right.
If there is a central insight in Dewey’s ethics (and all of Dewey’s work is
in one way or another connected with “ethics”), it is that the application of
intelligence to moral problems is itself a moral obligation. Stated so baldly, the
insight may sound uncontroversial. “Who would deny that?” one thinks.
But, as we shall see, Dewey thinks that just about every moral philosophy
known to him in one way or another either denies or misconstrues precisely
this obligation. Think of those who today believe that abortion is always
wrong simply on the authority of the Catholic Church—I do not mean to
suggest that one could not think that abortion is wrong on other grounds,
nor that there are not Catholics who think that abortion is wrong on the
basis of reasoned arguments—but those for whom it is simply an article of
faith that the Church must be right on moral issues have, in the view of
Dewey (as well as all the other pragmatists), “blocked the path of inquiry.”
They have reverted to what Peirce called “The Method of Authority.”16
And such a reversion is a denial of the obligation to use intelligence, in
Dewey’s sense of active, fallibilistic, experimental inquiry in moral ques-
tions.
Obviously, utilitarians would agree with Dewey in rejecting appeals to
revelation and/or authority as the last court of appeal in ethical matters. And
Bentham certainly thought that he was preaching the use of intelligence in
dealing with ethical issues. Indeed, like Dewey, Bentham and those who
followed constantly advise us to use intelligence to figure out how to advance
the common good. Moreover, if Dewey’s proposal were merely to substitute
evaluated enjoyment for enjoyment in the utilitarian injunction to seek the
common good understood as a maximum of enjoyment, then Bentham could
Suppose there were an experience machine that would give you any experi-
ence you desired. Superduper neuropsychologists could stimulate your brain
so that you would think and feel you were writing a great novel, or making a
friend, or reading an interesting book. All the time you would be floating in
a tank, with electrodes attached to your brain. Should you plug into this ma-
17. See Robert Nozick, Anarchy, State and Utopia (New York: Basic Books, 1974),
42–45.
chine for life, pre-programming your life’s experiences? If you are worried
about missing out on desirable experiences, we can suppose that business en-
terprises have researched thoroughly the lives of many others. You can pick
and choose from their large library or smorgasbord of such experiences, se-
lecting your life’s experiences for the next two years. After two years have
passed, you will have ten minutes out of the tank to select the experiences of
your next two years. Of course, while in the tank you won’t know that you’re
there. You’ll think it’s actually happening. Others can also plug in to have the
experiences they want, so there’s no need to stay unplugged to serve them.
(Ignore problems such as who will service the machine if everyone plugs in.)
Would you plug in? What else can matter to us, other than how our lives feel
from the inside? 18
18. Ibid.
19. Ibid.
20. Robert Paul Wolff, In Defense of Anarchy (New York: Harper and Row, 1970).
The net result of our discussion is, then, (1) that happiness consists in the
fulfillment in their appropriate objects (or the anticipation of such fulfill-
ment) of the powers of the self manifested in desires, purposes, efforts; (2)
true happiness consists in the satisfaction of those powers of the self which are
of higher quality; (3) that the man of good character, the one in whom these
high powers are already active, is the judge, in the concrete, of happiness and
misery.21
21. Dewey, Middle Works, 5:256. Dewey arrives at this “net result” by a sympathetic
reading of Mill, whom he interprets as having broken with Bentham and as having
replaced the idea of “quantity of pleasure” by the idea of “quality of pleasure.” Of
course, points 1–3 can all be found in Aristotle! Dewey’s willingness to accept our ev-
eryday beliefs in the existence of such things as qualities of happiness, good character,
and so on—in the existence of what he calls “the goods that are diffused in human
experience” (Later Works, 1:305)—is defended by myself and Ruth Anna Putnam in
our “Dewey’s Logic: Epistemology as Hypothesis” and in my “Pragmatism and Moral
Objectivity,” both collected in Putnam, Words and Life.
22. Dewey, Middle Works, 5:257.
Not only does Dewey anticipate the point made by Wolff and Nozick
that what we want in life is not mere feelings (otherwise we would choose
Nozick s experience machine) but the objective fulfillment of desire, capac-
ities, and efforts, but he also anticipates Nozick’s point that “what we are is
important to us.” As Dewey writes, “Not only the ‘good,’ but the more vig-
orous and hearty of the ‘bad,’ would scorn a life in which character, self-
hood, had no significance, and where the experimental discovery and testing
of destiny had no place.”25
23. Ibid.
24. Ibid., 257–258.
25. Ibid., 275.
Although part of Dewey’s criticism of Kant seems to be both right and im-
portant, I must confess that at other points Dewey’s treatment of Kant seems
to me excessively uncharitable.
The fact is, there are points at which Dewey himself sounds extremely
“Kantian.” Yet even at those points there are also subtle but all-important
differences from Kant. To set the stage for assessing both the similarities and
the differences, I need to consider Dewey’s view of sympathy (which means
returning, for a moment, to his critique of utilitarianism). Another reason
for considering Dewey’s remarks on this topic is that today there is a whole
school of thought (or rather a school of confusion) called “evolutionary psy-
chology” (formerly known as “sociobiology”) that likes to claim that it has
offered an evolutionary explanation of our moral lives when all it has offered
merely associate one of these tendencies with another; still less does it make
one a means to the other’s end. It so intimately permeates them as to trans-
form them both into a single new and moral interest.27
27. Ibid.
28. Ibid., 273.
29. Ibid.
forever to its principle; how we should like to have others committed to it and
to treat us according to it? . . . In short, by generalizing a purpose we make its
general character evident.
But this method does not proceed (as Kant would have it) from a mere
consideration of moral law apart from a concrete end, but from an end in so far
as it persistently approves itself to reflection after an adequate survey of it in all its
bearings.30
Conclusion
Dewey’s Epistemology
The Problem
Today, we speak of a conflict between science and religion when, for ex-
ample, religious people oppose the account of creation in the Bible to the
teachings of modern astrophysics or to the theory of evolution. In contrast,
according to Dewey, philosophers have been troubled by “the gap in kind
which exists between the fundamental principles of the natural world and
the reality of the values according to which mankind is to regulate its life.”5
Dewey opposes here scientific realism—the view that our best physical
theories are our best account of reality—to various types of idealism—the
view that Truth, Beauty, Good have Being beyond the temporal existence of
the commonsense world or the world of science. The gap vanishes, Dewey
maintains, when values are understood not as something to be known but
rather as something that guides conduct and when science is understood to
provide the means to realize (in this temporal world) more efficiently, more
securely the things we value. In other words, when theory and practice are
united.
More recently—say, for the past eighty years or so—the “gap” that some
philosophers find is known as the fact/value dichotomy—that is, that while
facts are objective and knowable, values are subjective or at best relative to a
given culture. Dewey’s argument is as relevant to this conception of the gap
as that prevailing earlier and perhaps recently reemerging.
When Dewey rails against the separation of theory and practice and the
undervaluing of the latter, he describes and criticizes views that were widely
held at the time of his writing. Pure science was valued more highly than
applied science, in spite of the fact that applied science and technology were
rapidly transforming the world. Today technology and applied science are
valued beyond pure science, if comparative value is measured by the size of
the investments governments are willing to make in these fields. In these
circumstances, Dewey, I am sure, would have adjusted his rhetoric to em-
phasize the importance of pure science. Dewey not only understood that
without advances in basic research applied science and technology come to
a standstill; he cherished the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake just as he
cherished the pursuit of beauty. In any case, it is a serious, though alas not
uncommon misreading of Dewey to say that he valued action over thought,
practice over theory. In fact, he held them to be so interdependent that the
question of the value of either in isolation makes no sense.
5. Ibid, 33.
Truth
Let us see then how theory and practice are united in Dewey’s theory of
knowledge. According to Dewey, “thinking would not exist, and hence
knowledge would not be found, in a world which presented no troubles.”6
This relatively early formulation hints at the instrumentalist theory of
knowledge that he developed in the first decade of the last century and never
abandoned thereafter. It makes clear that for Dewey “thinking” refers not to
any kind of consciousness but only to what he calls reflective and inferential
thinking. Such thinking occurs in inquiry, and “the outcome of competent
and controlled inquiry” is knowledge or, as Dewey preferred to say, “war-
ranted assertibility.”7 That expression, he felt, points to the process of inquiry
that provides the warrant for a knowledge claim. It also reminds us that the
upshot of any particular inquiry is always provisional, subject to modifica-
tion as the result of subsequent inquiry. Dewey gave credit to C. S. Peirce for
this insight as well as for generally making inquiry a focal point of his logical
studies.8
Because, for Dewey, knowledge is warranted assertibility, it is sometimes
thought that he defined truth as warranted assertibility. Dewey must bear
some of the blame for this misinterpretation, for in the index to the Logic we
find under “truth” this: “defined 343 n. 6. See Assertibility Warranted.” In
the footnote referred to, Dewey says that the best definition of truth is that
given by C. S. Peirce, namely, “The opinion which is fated to be ultimately
agreed on by all who investigate is what we mean by truth, and the object
represented by this opinion is the real.” He then cites another passage from
Peirce that elaborates the definition just stated. “Truth is that concordance
of an abstract statement with the ideal limits toward which endless investi-
gation would tend to bring scientific belief, which concordance the abstract
points out that the man does not need an idea of the perceived environment;
he needs an idea of the wider environment that contains his home and other
unperceived elements. Concerning this idea Dewey writes, “It is not some
little psychical entity or piece of consciousness-stuff, but is the interpretation
of the locally present environment in reference to its absent portion.”11 This idea
is, as Dewey points out, a plan of action. And if the man carries out the plan
and after some while finds himself at home, he may say that his idea agreed
with reality. This is the only sense Dewey can give to the notion of an agree-
ment between idea and reality. Only by acting upon an idea can we discover
whether it is adequate or not and how we might improve it. Moreover, only
consequences that are deliberately sought are relevant to its truth or falsity.
Thus, though the man might be pleasantly surprised to encounter his wife
by the way, this is irrelevant to the truth of his idea, while encountering a
landmark he had anticipated is relevant. This account of truth, as far as it
goes, is entirely in agreement with ordinary usage, but it is, of course, neither
a theory nor a definition of truth.
Knowledge
Immediate Knowledge
Let us begin with some general considerations. Dewey is well aware that
his denial of immediate knowledge runs counter both to common inter-
pretations of acknowledged facts and to an argument as old as Aristotle’s
writings. The argument holds that inference leads to known conclusions
only if it begins with known premises. Hence, to avoid an infinite regress,
there must be premises that are known immediately. Since known prem-
ises and conclusions are true, Dewey’s first response is to point out that
true conclusions can follow from premises that are false—that is, not
known. But that reply is not adequate, for such conclusions, though true,
are not known, at least not on the basis of such an inference alone. Dewey’s
more adequate response is to point to the history of science. Again and
again quite inaccurate hypotheses have stimulated research that disclosed
more fruitful evidence. Such hypotheses are not known, hence not imme-
diately known, yet the ultimate result of the research they prompt is
knowledge in Dewey’s, though perhaps not in Aristotle’s, sense. In short,
the existence of immediate knowledge cannot be proven by what purports
to be an indispensability argument.
Be that as it may, there are certain facts that seem to make a prima facie
case for immediate knowing. We are not newborns; we bring to every in-
quiry the results of previous inquiries, and these are used without further
reflection. “This immediate use of objects known in consequence of previous
mediation is readily confused with immediate knowledge.”13 An example, to
which I shall return below, is the case of recognizing a previously perceived
object. Thus we say, quite correctly, “I recognized him immediately” and “I
saw at a glance that it was a golden retriever” while ready to agree that the
knowledge is the result of prior experience.
Another example of seemingly immediate but actually mediated knowl-
edge is this. Dewey notes that in the course of inquiry certain estimates,
appraisals, or evaluations occur. Data are judged to be relevant, or reliable;
certain theories are judged to be applicable to the case in question; suggested
hypotheses may be judged to be plausible, etc. Dewey does not emphasize
that these are value judgments, but in fact he points here to what I have
called the entanglement of facts and values.14 That entanglement is itself an
aspect of the unity of theory and practice that Dewey seeks to establish.
However, the relevance of mentioning these appraisals here is this. “As soon
as it is forgotten that they are means, and their value is determined by their
efficiency as operative means, they appear to be objects of immediate knowl-
edge instead of being means of attaining knowledge.”15 I find this last remark
puzzling; such judgments of epistemic value seem to me to be obviously the
result of reflection. What Dewey wants to deny is that these “means of at-
taining knowledge” are knowledge, hence a fortiori not immediate knowl-
edge. Like the particular propositions mentioned above, appraisals are more
or less adequate to the task at hand.
A Priori Knowledge
Perception
In his reply to his critics in The Philosophy of John Dewey, written in 1938,
Dewey remarks that he has spent the last thirty-five years of his life develop-
ing his present philosophical views. Neither his critics in that volume nor he
himself seem to take any interest in his earlier idealism, except as one of a
number of views he opposes. I shall follow in his footsteps and deal only
with his pragmatist views.18
It is useful to begin with Dewey’s 1905 essay “The Postulate of Immediate
Empiricism.”19 In that paper Dewey asserts—this is the postulate of imme-
diate empiricism—that things are what they are experienced as. Different peo-
ple will experience the same thing differently; thus a child finds a more or
less triangular stone with rather sharp edges, an archeologist finds an arrow-
head. Their experiences differ, but the difference is not one between “Reality”
and “Appearance,” and both may experience the object as useful for digging
a hole in the sand.
It follows from the postulate that things are what they are known as. But,
unless all experiencing is knowing, it does not follow that Reality is known
by an All-Knower, or even known piecemeal by various finite knowers. If
knowing is but one sort of experiencing among others, as Dewey holds, then
we can ask what sort of experiencing it is, or how a thing as known differs
from that thing as, say, enjoyed. For example, a noise startles and frightens
me; it is a fear of some thing. I investigate and find that it is made by a win-
dow shade flapping in the wind; it is no longer fearsome.
Dewey emphatically makes two points here: (1) the earlier experience is
not a knowing (or cognizing) experience; it would be incorrect to describe it
as “I know that I am frightened by a noise.” The correct description is just “I
am frightened by a noise.” The later experience is a knowing experience,
correctly described as, “Now I know the flapping window shade makes the
noise.” In short, knowledge results from inquiry. (2) The postulate of imme-
diate empiricism offers a method of philosophical analysis that, like the
method of science, sends one to experience.
18. For an alternative interpretation that takes full account of Dewey’s early ideal-
ism, see J. R. Shook, Dewey’s Empirical Theory of Knowledge and Reality (Nashville,
TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 2000).
19. Dewey, Middle Works, 3:158–167.
istence of anything other than our data of sense can be inferred from their
existence. Russell then offered a complex construction—a correlation of cor-
relations of sense data—as equivalent to a physical object, say, a table. Dewey
pointed out that in the very statement of the problem as well as in the con-
struction of his response Russell repeatedly takes for granted the spatiotem-
poral world that he supposedly called into question.
Moreover, psychology has rejected the assumption that infants experience
discrete objects of sense (color patches, sounds, etc.):
According to Mr. James, for example, the original datum is large but confused
and specific sensible qualities represent the result of discrimination. . . . That
knowledge grows from a confusedly experienced external world to a world
experienced as ordered and specified would then be the teaching of psycho-
logical science, but at no point would the mind be confronted with the prob-
lem of inferring a world.25
Let us recall that for Dewey the central problem of philosophy is to restore
“integration and cooperation” between “beliefs about the nature of things
due to natural science [and] beliefs about values—using that word to desig-
nate whatever is taken to have rightful authority in the direction of con-
duct.”27 He sees another “main problem” as “the problem of the relation of
physical science to the things of ordinary experience.”28 The problems are, of
course, related since the things we desire, enjoy, and value are the things of
29. Ibid. Dewey quotes himself; see Dewey, The Quest for Certainty, in Later Works,
4:201, 204.
30. Dewey, The Quest for Certainty, in Later Works, 4:76.
real things. That is not Dewey’s intention. Only if one assumes that knowing
is the only mode of experiencing, a view Dewey, as we have seen, emphati-
cally rejected, would one be forced to conclude that, since scientific objects
have no qualities, the world is valueless. “A philosophy which holds that we
experience things as they really are apart from knowing, and that knowledge
is a mode of experiencing things which facilitates control of objects for pur-
poses of non-cognitive experiences will come to another conclusion.”31
Namely, it leads to the conclusion that “[physics] substitutes data for ob-
jects.”32 But this must not be understood ontologically as denuding the
world of qualities. What Dewey is saying is, quite simply, that scientists
measure things and that, for the most part, they deal with measured quanti-
ties and with correlations between these.
Thus, if a sick person takes her temperature, she substitutes a datum for the
quality of being hot, a datum that, together with other data, will be used by
the physician to arrive at a diagnosis. That, in turn, enables the physician to
prescribe a course of treatment that leads to the patient’s recovery, or, alas,
sometimes not. When the patient recovers, her recovery verifies (confirms) the
diagnosis and the appropriateness of the treatment. In this case, quite literally,
a problematic situation—a situation of imbalance, as Dewey likes to say—is
transformed into a settled or balanced one. But the upshot of the inquiry, the
healthy patient, is as qualitative as was the earlier feverish, uncomfortable one.
Data are something to be thought about; they are not the upshot of the
inquiry. Measurement of change enables scientists to discover correlations of
changes and thus to develop means to control change. But the point of all
this is ultimately to secure enjoyment and prevent suffering—that is, con-
summatory, not cognitive, experiences.
Although Dewey is a naturalist and a naïve (that is, a commonsense) re-
alist, he is not a scientific realist, though neither is he a scientific antirealist
(see below). We can, and in inquiry we do, abstract from the qualities of
objects. Measurement, chemical analysis, taking X-rays are all ways of re-
placing an ordinary qualitative object by “data,” as subject matter for inquiry.
The concepts we use in science, Dewey believed, following Bridgman, are
“synonymous with the corresponding set of operations.” 33 There is not a dupli-
cate scientific world; these are only different ways of thinking about the
world. “The physical object, as scientifically defined, is not a duplicated real
object, but is a statement, as numerically definite as is possible, of the rela-
tions between sets of changes the qualitative object sustains with changes in
other things—ideally of all things with which interaction might under any
circumstances take place.”34
Dewey rejects the accusation that he is a scientific antirealist. When he
said that the perceived and used table is the only table, he did not deny the
existence of a swarm of molecules in rapid motion, “but [only] the notion
that the swarm somehow constitutes a ghostly kind of table.”35 Relative to
different kinds of problems both the perceived table and the swarm of mol-
ecules may be objects of knowledge.
It would be beside the point to offer here a critique of operationalism. It is,
by now, beyond dispute that it is too simple an account of the meaning of
scientific concepts. Yet scientific inquiry can still be seen as leading from a
problem that arises in the commonsense world to a solution that has applica-
tion in that world and is verified by those applications. Thus, an appreciation
of science, even of scientific research pursued for long periods entirely for its
own sake, does not force one to deny the reality of the commonsense world.
Even if only scientific inquiries lead to knowledge properly so called, we have,
as Dewey tirelessly pointed out, other experiences, other interactions with a
world that is as we experience it—that is, shot through with values.
Judgments of Practice
First, as we have seen again and again, he holds that the things of experi-
ence are as they are experienced; that is, things are frightful, soothing, repul-
sive, attractive, etc., just as they are blue or sweet, large or triangular. These
are “real qualities of natural objects. This view forms the only complete and
unadulterated realism.”37 That a thing is red does not suffice to identify it as
a tulip; just because a thing is attractive does not suffice to identify it as
good. But in both cases the experienced quality may prompt an inquiry that
leads to the conclusion that the red thing is (or is not) a tulip and the attrac-
tive thing is (or is not) good. More will be said below about the second kind
of inquiry.
Second, Dewey reminds us again that nature, or our situation in nature,
is precarious although there are also stable elements. It is precisely the com-
bination of the stable and the precarious that enables us to intervene, to
avert danger or secure safety—in short, to act to bring about a settled situa-
tion. Here, somewhat suddenly, Dewey remarks, “If it be admitted that
knowing is something which occurs within nature, then it follows as a tru-
ism that knowing is an existential overt act.”38 If so, becoming known does
something to or alters the object that becomes known. If so, knowledge is
not—a point often made by Dewey—knowledge of an antecedent reality. In
fact, the object of knowledge is always a hypothesis concerning the future.
Surely, this must be an exaggeration. Donald Piatt, of whose interpreta-
tion Dewey thought highly, remarked that while one must acknowledge that
in an experimental process one alters antecedent existence, one must also
admit that “the purpose of knowledge in using experiment in science and
largely in practical life is to discover what exists and antecedently existed
apart from the experiment.”39 Piatt believed that a careful reading of Dewey’s
texts would support his contention.
Let us return to Dewey’s claim that knowing is an overt existential act. It
would have been clearer had he said that coming to know, inquiring, is an
overt existential act, indeed a series of such acts. The acts performed in the
course of an inquiry are “intelligent”; that is, they aim to realize a purpose—
the transformation of an indeterminate situation into a determinate one—
and they are directed by knowledge of relevant laws of nature and of facts
particular to the situation in question. What has just been said is true pri-
marily of inquiry in physics and other natural sciences. It is, however, the
model for all successful inquiry and for all successful attempts to solve a
problem. Hence, it is a model also for social and political problems. Dewey
bemoans the fact that in these areas we fall far short of the ideal and that
our practice is regulated by “tradition, self-interest and accidental circum-
stances.”40
Human life, we have said, is shot through with intelligent action. Such
action follows upon a “judgment of practice”—for example, “I had better
take the bus,” “He should spend more time on his studies,” “It is wise to
exercise,” etc. Such judgments, Dewey remarks, are judgments about an in-
complete situation in which the agent is simply one feature among many
that are relevant to further developments. Because moral judgments have
been thought to be exclusively about the agent while judgments of practice
are about an agent, a situation, and the agent in that situation, Dewey feels
compelled to say, “If the genuine existence of such propositions [judgments
of practice] be admitted, the only question about moral judgments is
whether or no they are cases of practical judgments as the latter have been
defined—a question of utmost importance for moral theory.”41
In contrast to mere descriptions of a given situation, practical judgments
are a factor in its development. They suppose that there is a better and a
worse outcome (or several) and assert that a certain course of action will
contribute to the better. They also presuppose or contain an account of the
resources for and obstacles to the proposed course of action and its end-in-
view.
Dewey holds that any factual proposition that is made the basis of an
inference becomes thereby a hypothetical proposition—that is, open to ver-
ification or falsification by the occurrence or nonoccurrence of the conse-
quences it predicts. Dewey concludes that, therefore, the truth or falsehood
of a practical judgment is constituted by the outcome of intelligent action in
accordance with it. In other words, for judgments of practice truth is verifi-
cation. In fact, Dewey goes further than this, at least tentatively. “We may
frame at least a hypothesis that all judgments of fact have reference to a de-
What revisions and surrenders of current beliefs about authoritative ends and
values are demanded by the method and conclusions of natural science? What
possibilities of controlled transformation of the content of present belief and
practice in human institutions are indicated by the control of natural energies
which natural science has effected? These questions are as genuine and imper-
ative as the traditional problem is artificial and futile.45
Dewey’s Faith
ONCE HE HAD abandoned both the faith of his childhood and absolute
idealism, Dewey rejected all forms of supernaturalism, a position he main-
tained for the rest of his life. Dewey was a naturalist in two senses. He held
that no appeal to nonnatural or supernatural entities, beings, or powers
could legitimately play a role in dealing with philosophical problems. That,
of course, was and is the position of the overwhelming majority of post–
World War I philosophers, at least in Europe and the English-speaking
world. Philosophers did not and do not feel obliged to defend that position;
it was and is taken for granted.
Dewey was a naturalist also in a second, more profound, and thus more
controversial sense. He held that a belief in a supernatural being had perni-
cious effects on one’s ability to deal with social or personal problems. On the
one hand such beliefs, especially as part of a historical religion, give rise to
theological problems that cause brilliant minds to spend their time trying to
solve these problems instead of dealing with the practical problems of their
times. Thus, in particular, they reflected and disputed about “The Problem
of Evil” instead of seeking ways to deal with the particular evils they actually
faced. On the other hand, it seemed to Dewey that if one believed that the
deity is both omniscient and all powerful and intervenes in the world’s af-
fairs, one would either, from a sense of total helplessness, become despon-
dent, or else become indolent from believing that a good deity would take
care of all problems.1
Of course, not all religions are deterministic, not all conceptions of a
deity are of an omniscient, omnipotent Being who acts in the world, but
Dewey thinks particularly of Christian, and specifically of Calvinist concep-
tions. These are deterministic and, as he points out near the end of A
Common Faith, committed to a separation of the damned and the saved.
Dewey is moved to exclaim, “I cannot understand how any realization of the
democratic ideal as a vital moral and spiritual ideal in human affairs is pos-
sible without surrender of the conception of the basic division to which su-
pernatural Christianity is committed.” And then he adds, a point to which
we shall return later, “Whether or no we are, save in some metaphorical
sense, all brothers, we are at least all in the same boat traversing the same
turbulent ocean. The potential religious significance of this fact is infinite.”2
The final remark comes as a surprise. What does a naturalist mean by
“religious” or why should he care about religious significance? Indeed, why
would Dewey at age seventy-five produce a book that some characterize as
his philosophy of religion? I believe that Dewey would have preferred to
speak of his philosophy of religious experience, for he values religious expe-
rience while opposing religions.
What then is the difference between a religion, any religion, and an aspect of
experience that Dewey called religious? For my purposes here, let us follow
Dewey in defining a religion, say, Christianity, Islam, animism, etc., as an
instantiation of the Oxford Dictionary definition of “religion” quoted by
Dewey—namely, “Recognition on the part of man of some unseen higher
power as having control of his destiny and as being entitled to obedience,
reverence and worship.”3 A religion in this sense is an institution that in-
volves, among other things, a creed, that is, a body of beliefs that are ac-
1. An analogous argument was worked out in great detail by William James in “The
Dilemma of Determinism,” in The Will to Believe, in Works, vol. 6.
2. Dewey, A Common Faith, in Later Works, 9:3–59, 56.
3. Ibid., 4.
a religious aspect of experience” but insists that it is the man’s Christian up-
bringing that causes him to interpret his experience in terms of a personal
God whose existence is then said to be proved by the experience. All that is
proved by the experience, objects Dewey, is the existence of a complex of
(natural) conditions that have brought about a reorientation followed by an
inner peace. Strictly speaking, then, it would seem to be this complex of
natural conditions to which the word “God” refers when the man says that
he began to draw upon God, although, of course, that is not what the man
means. As we shall see later, neither is it what the word “God” means for
Dewey.
Let us return to Dewey’s characterization of religious experience. He
writes, “The actual religious quality in the experience described is the effect
produced, the better adjustment in life and its conditions, not the manner
and cause of its production.”6 It is, of course, this effect that Dewey finds so
valuable. To put it succinctly, Dewey holds that if an experience leads to a
dramatic and lasting positive readjustment in one’s attitude to life, one has
had a religious experience, and such an adjustment is immensely valuable.
Dewey speaks here from his own experience. As mentioned by Rockefeller,
as a young man reading Wordsworth, Dewey had what he later called a
“mystic experience.” Rockefeller describes it as “blissful” and that “his wor-
ries and fears seemed to fall away and he was filled with a sense of deep trust
and oneness with the universe.”7 Dewey said to Eastman, as quoted by
Rockefeller, “Everything that’s here is here and you can just lie back on it.
. . . I’ve never had any doubts since then—nor any beliefs. To me faith means
not worrying. . . . I claim that I’ve got religion and that I got it that night in
Oil City.”8 However, Dewey misrepresents his own views; as we shall see
soon, faith means more than not worrying. Dewey called the experience a
“mystic experience” because it was purely emotional and to some degree in-
effable.
It is now obvious why Dewey held that religious experiences are more
common than we think. They are more common because when persons who
have not internalized the beliefs and concepts of a particular religion or are
6. Ibid., 11.
7. Steven Rockefeller, John Dewey: Religious Faith and Democratic Humanism (New
York: Columbia University Press, 1991), 67.
8. Ibid., 68.
the historic religions other than Christianity and Judaism fail to provide
moral guidance because they fail to ascribe moral qualities to the deity. This
strikes me as doubly misguided. On the one hand, other faiths ascribe moral
qualities to the deity or to the founder of the faith. On the other hand, imi-
tatio dei is not the only way in which theistic religions provide moral guid-
ance. Moreover, Dewey objects to Judaism and Christianity precisely be-
cause, so he claims, they ascribe religious value to certain moral qualities
because they are embodied in the deity. In contrast, Dewey holds that certain
moral qualities have religious value because they are all-encompassing. Once
again Dewey has emphasized the difference between a religion and the reli-
gious quality of experience but not, so it seems to me, elaborated his concep-
tion of religious value.
Dewey makes his point again, but ultimately confusingly, in terms of the
meaning of the word “God.” For Christians—let us confine ourselves to them
because basically the many forms of Christianity, particularly of Protestantism,
are what Dewey has in mind—for Christians the word “God” refers to “a
Being having prior and therefore non-ideal existence.”11 For Dewey the word
stands for “the unity of all ideal ends arousing us to desire and action.” Or “the
ideal ends that at a given time and place one acknowledges as having authority
over one’s volitions and emotions, the values to which one is supremely de-
voted, as far as these ends, through imagination, take on unity.”12 God, so
understood, is not a Being and has no independent existence. According to
Dewey, “Here as far as I can see is the ultimate issue as to the difference be-
tween a religion and the religious as a function of experience.”13
What then are the ideal ends whose authority over us Dewey takes to be so
obvious that he need not argue for them? Here and there Dewey offers lists,
such as, “justice, affection, and that intellectual correspondence of our ideas
with realities that we call truth” or “justice, knowledge, beauty.”14 But such
lists are always incomplete, at once too abstract and too specific. What we
really need to know is where our ideals come from, since a Deweyan God
cannot be understood as a preexisting source. The answer is that we begin
with goods actually enjoyed, “the goods of human association, arts, and
knowledge. The idealizing imagination seizes upon the most precious things
found in the climacteric moments of experience and projects them. We need
no external criterion and guarantee for their goodness. They are had, they
exist as good, and out of them we frame our ideal ends.”15
We begin with experience, with experiences that are experienced as
good. But while we need no external criterion of the goodness of these
consummatory experiences, we may learn that the price we pay to have or
to prolong some of these experiences is too high. We can only begin with
experiences as experienced, but we need not persist in our initial valuation
of them; indeed, we must be prepared to reevaluate them. We know that
Dewey insists on this modification when he writes in a different context—
that is, in the context of a theory of valuation. Here, in A Common Faith,
he is content to give a rough outline of his view. In any case, however good
some consummatory experiences may be, our situation as a whole is not
satisfactory, not ideal. So we use our imagination to develop visions of a
better world, an ideal world, but one that is related to the present world.
Dewey speaks of a rearrangement of existing conditions. We do not fash-
ion our ideals de novo. As is the case with knowledge, so it is with valua-
tion. We stand on the shoulders of past generations, we modify in light of
new experiences, we pass on an improved vision. So, at least Dewey, the
inveterate optimist, would have said.
In his reply to his critics in the volume devoted to him in the Library of
Living Philosophers, Dewey tells us that he wrote A Common Faith in order
to make “explicit the religious values implicit in the spirit of science as un-
dogmatic reverence for truth in whatever form it presents itself, and the re-
ligious values implicit in our common life, especially in the moral signifi-
15. Ibid.
tion of all for which we long.” Of such experiences Dewey says that they set
“the measure of our ideas of possibilities that are to be realized by intelligent
endeavor”—that is, by “actions that are directed by thought, such as are
manifested in the works of fine art and in all human relations perfected by
loving care.”17
I quote this for two reasons. On the one hand to remind you once more
of the crucial role played by consummatory experiences in Dewey’s own
world view. On the other hand because a few paragraphs later Dewey,
having once again objected to the intellectual content of religions that
comes into conflict with science, characterizes “the religious attitude as a
sense of the possibilities of existence and as devotion to the cause of these
possibilities.”18
Science together with imagination discloses the possibilities of existence;
the religious attitude is devotion to the cause of realizing certain of these
possibilities. Why then should there be a conflict between science and reli-
gion? In the last chapter of The Quest for Certainty, Dewey gives an answer
that is more interesting, more thorough than reference to particular propo-
sitions of some religious creed that contradict relevant propositions of sci-
ence. Rather what the liberal religionist will not give up is the philosophical
dogma that “the reality and power of whatever is excellent and worthy of
supreme devotion depends upon proof of its antecedent existence, so that
the ideal of perfection loses its claim on us unless it can be demonstrated to
exist in the sense in which the sun and stars exist.”19
This is Dewey’s answer to my question a few paragraphs ago, asking why
do liberal Christians, liberal Jews, liberal religionists in general not give up
the belief in a divine Being, in Higher Powers, in short, in something super-
natural. The answer, Dewey claims, is that these liberals believe, wrongly
according to Dewey, that they themselves would cease to love justice and
mercy if they did not walk humbly with their God, to use the words of the
prophet Micah.
As the Oxford Dictionary definition makes clear, religious belief is belief
in “higher powers.” I am not convinced that such a belief involves a belief in
the antecedent existence of our highest ideals “as the sun and stars exist.”
moral, and religious matters and will attempt to direct these changes. “It is
not called upon to cherish utopian notions about the imminence of such
intelligent direction of social changes. But it is committed to faith in the
possibility of its slow effectuation in the degree in which men realize the full
import of the revolution that has already been effected in physical and tech-
nical regions.”23
Another popular error Dewey opposes is the idea that there must be one
purpose to everything that happens, one grand meaning. People seek such
meaning in the historic religions, or failing to find such meaning, they sink
into despair. Dewey, the eternal optimist, says that there are many meanings,
interconnected. And then he wrote, “Search for a single, inclusive good is
doomed to failure. Such happiness as life is capable of comes from the full
participation of all our powers in the endeavor to wrest from each changing
situation of experience its own full and unique meaning. Faith in the varied
possibilities of diversified experience is attended with the joy of constant
discovery and of constant growing. Such a joy is possible even in the midst
of trouble and defeat, whenever life-experiences are treated as potential dis-
closures of meanings and values that are to be used as means to a fuller and
more significant future experience.”24 What Dewey here described is, I take
it, what he meant by the religious quality of some experiences.
In conclusion, I want to return to one declaration of Dewey’s and to one
question I asked. The statement is this: “Whether or no we are, save in some
metaphorical sense, all brothers, we are at least all in the same boat traversing
the same turbulent ocean. The potential religious significance of this fact is
infinite.”25 Since the religious is, for Dewey, what is of ultimate and inclusive
moral significance, I conclude that Dewey’s faith, his faith in the sense of
what motivates him to act, is faith in democracy as a way of life, both social
and individual. On the occasion of his eightieth birthday, now seventy years
ago, Dewey characterized democracy in this sense as follows: “Democracy is
a personal way of individual life. . . . It signifies the possession and continual
use of certain attitudes, forming personal character and determining desire
and purpose in all the relations of life.”26 (This is not the place to elaborate
The things in civilization that we most prize are not of ourselves. They exist by
grace of the doings and sufferings of the continuous human community in
which we are a link. Ours is the responsibility of conserving, transmitting,
rectifying and expanding the heritage of values we have received that those
who come after us may receive it more solid and secure, more widely accessi-
ble and more generously shared than we received it. Here are all the elements
of a religious faith that shall not be confined to sect, class or race. Such a faith
has always been implicitly the common faith of mankind. It remains to make
it explicit and militant.28
Philosophy as a Reconstructive
Activity
William James on Moral Philosophy
Hilary Putnam
Both Dewey and his philosophical ally William James shared the concep-
tion of philosophy as a reconstructive activity, an activity that aims at
making a difference to the way we understand and the way we live our
James distinguishes three questions within the general field of moral phi-
losophy, which he calls respectively the psychological question, the meta-
physical question, and the casuistic question.6 By “the casuistic question”
James has in mind the task of working out a specific moral code. As we
shall see, he regards the task as a paradoxical one—and especially so for the
philosopher!
James begins by making the important point that the philosopher already
has a moral ideal of his own simply by virtue of being a philosopher—
namely, the moral ideal of a system. (It is not often remarked that the desire
for a moral system is itself a moral ideal, is it?) Next, James tells us that we
stand ourselves at present in the place of that philosopher, the philosopher
who has the ideal of a comprehensive system of ethics, a system of ethical
truths that we can discover if we take pains. But, he goes on, “We must not
fail to realize all the features that the situation comports. In the first place we
will not be skeptics. We [hold to it] that there is a truth to be ascertained.”
And he continues: “But in the second place we have just gained the insight
that that truth cannot be a self-proclaiming set of laws, or an abstract ‘moral
reason’, but can only exist in act or in the shape of an opinion held by some
thinker really to be found. There is, however, no visible thinker invested
with authority.”7
This is what makes the problem of moral philosophy, or, more specifi-
cally, “the casuistic question,” paradoxical in James’s view: on the one hand,
we are to seek what moral philosophers have always sought, a system of
moral truths, but we must do so without relying on the faith that there is an
abstract moral reason or a self-proclaiming set of moral laws. “Shall we then
simply proclaim our own ideals as the law-giving ones?” James asks. “No!
For if we are true philosophers, we must throw our own spontaneous ideals,
even the dearest, impartially in with that total mass of ideals which are fairly
to be judged.”8
That is, the task assigned to moral philosophers is to seek not an Archimedean
point, but a point of some impartiality. They must begin by looking at all the
ideals that human beings have, or at least at all the ideals that men and women
of good will have. We are to throw all our ideals, even the dearest, impartially
in with the total mass of ideals and then try to judge them impartially.
But how then can we as philosophers ever find a test? How avoid complete
moral skepticism on the one hand, and on the other escape bringing a way-
ward personal standard of our own along with us, on which we simply pin our
faith? The dilemma is a hard one, nor does it grow a bit more easy as we re-
volve it in our minds. The entire undertaking of the philosopher obliges him
to seek an impartial test. That test, however, must be incarnated in the de-
mands of some actually existent person. And how can he pick out the person,
save by an act in which his own sympathies and predilections are implied?9
That was James’s problem, and it is our problem today: to find a route to
objective ethical truths not in a Platonic realm of independently existing
values, nor yet in a faculty of pure practical reason, as in Kant, but starting
with the demands of actually existing persons—and to do this without sim-
ply pinning our faith on “a wayward personal standard of our own.”
Now let us turn to what James calls “the metaphysical question.” James
somewhat misleadingly—that is, misleadingly for us today—describes this
as the question of what we mean by the words “obligation,” “good,” and
“ill.” Speaking of this as the question of what we “mean” suggests conceptual
analysis, and that is not really what James means. What James means is
rather an inquiry into the nature of obligation, good, ill, and so on—a meta-
physical inquiry (which is very often what analytic philosophers also mean,
even when they claim to be only “analyzing concepts”).
First of all, James argues that there cannot be any good or bad in a uni-
verse without sentient life. Perhaps only G. E. Moore at his dottiest would
have disagreed with this. “The moment one sentient being, however, is made
a part of the universe, there’s a chance for goods and evils really to exist.”10
9. Ibid., 151–152.
10. Ibid., 145.
However, James does not say merely, as would most philosophers, that
there would be no goods and evils in a world without sentient beings; he
maintains the metaphysical premise that obligations—all obligations, in-
cluding epistemic ones—and all standards, including epistemic ones, can
only arise from the demands of sentient beings. When something is “re-
quired of us,” it is literally required—“demanded” is James’s word for this—
by some sentient being or other, and it is, so to speak, the will of the other
that we experience as a demand upon us, and nothing more than this.
James makes a remarkable metaphysical move: “The moment one sen-
tient being, however, is made a part of the universe there is a chance for
goods and evils really to exist. Moral relations now have their status in that
being’s consciousness. So far as he feels anything to be good, he makes it
good.”11
If we stopped there, this would fit all the subjectivist and relativist read-
ings of James. If we ignored the context, we might really read this as mean-
ing, “If it satisfies him, it is good.” In a sense James says that—but he inflects
it in a very unexpected way. “It is good, for him; and being good for him is
absolutely good. For he is the sole creator of values in that universe. And
outside of his opinion, things have no moral character at all.”12
Again, if we stopped there, we would have as relativist or subjectivist a
doctrine as one can find. But now listen: “In such a universe as that, it would
of course be absurd to raise the question of whether the solitary thinker’s
judgments of good and ill are true or not. Truth supposes a standard outside
of the thinker to which he must conform. But here the thinker is a sort of
divinity subject to no higher judge. Let us call the supposed universe which
he inhabits a moral solitude.”13
This one sentence—“Truth supposes a standard outside of the thinker to
which he must conform”—constitutes a one-line statement of what has of-
ten been taken to be “Wittgenstein’s private language argument.” I have ar-
gued elsewhere that Wittgenstein did not in fact have a “community stan-
dards” view of truth,14 but James did, provided you are willing to count as
the community the whole of the human race up to what James calls “the last
man.” More precisely, what James had was an “ultimate consensus” view of
truth; while James’s philosophy has many facets, one important facet is his
insistence, early and late, that truth requires what he calls “ultimate consen-
sus,” that what is true is what becomes “coercive” over opinion in the long
run, what becomes “the whole drift of thought.”15 But in the passage I just
quoted, James is adding an important qualification: meaningful consensus
requires something more than convergence in the opinions of one person
(or, as we immediately see, even in the independently arrived at opinions of
persons who do not communicate). Meaningful consensus presupposes
community.
James makes this point explicitly by imagining a world in which there are
two sentient beings who are indifferent to one another. Of such a world he
says,
Not only is there no single point of view within it from which the values of
things can be unequivocally judged, there is not even the demand for such a
point of view, since the two thinkers are supposed to be indifferent to each
other’s thoughts and acts. Multiply the thinkers into a pluralism, and we find
real for us in the ethical sphere something like that world which the antique
skeptics conceived of, in which individual minds are the measures of all
things, and in which no one objective truth, but only a multitude of subjec-
tive opinions can be found. But this is a kind of world with which the philos-
opher, so long as he holds to the hope of a philosophy, will not put up. [I do
not know of any place where James more clearly rejects Rortyian relativism.]
Among the various ideals represented there must be, he thinks, some which
have the more truth or authority, and to these the others ought to yield so that
system and subordination may reign.16
At this point, James begins to develop his own moral views. I do not want
to go into the details of those views. What I want to point out is the import-
ant statement that truth presupposes a standard external to the thinker—a
standard, however, that is not transcendental. James is quite explicit on that.
In the same essay, he writes that even if there is a God, “still the theoretic
15. See Chapter 11 (“James’s Theory of Truth”) of this volume for the evidence for
this claim.
16. James, “The Moral Philosopher,” in Works, 6:146–147.
question would remain, What is the ground of the obligation even here?”17
(Shades of Kant!) And that ground must be a real claim, one which is felt as
real. “The only force that appeals to us, which either a living God or an ab-
stract ideal order can wield, is found in the everlasting ruby vaults of our
own human hearts as they happen to beat responsively or not responsively to
the claim. So far as they do feel it, when made by a living consciousness it is
life answering to life.”18 What we want is an ethical standard external to the
subjective opinions of any one thinker, but not external to all thinkers or all
life.
Needless to say, the two metaphysical assumptions I have isolated are
deeply problematic ones. The idea that obligation can be reduced to demand
is not one that is likely to find adherents today—apart from the utilitarians,
who are, of course, still with us. James’s way of attempting the reduction
turns on the attractive idea that the problem in ethics is ultimately the rec-
onciliation of ideals.19 To the further question of what makes a reconciliation
objectively right, James’s answer would be just what makes the outcome of
any inquiry right, that the particular reconciliation, or the particular out-
come, becomes the “ultimate consensus.” This answer, however, presupposes
that truth can be identified with ultimate consensus, and that view also has
few adherents. (I myself have criticized it more than once, and I shall criti-
cize it again later in this essay.)20 James’s metaphysics of morals stands or falls
(unfortunately) with his metaphysics of truth.
Why then should we who do not think that truth can be defined as “ulti-
mate consensus” be interested in James’s moral philosophy? For at least two
reasons: first, even if truth is not the same thing as what the human commu-
nity will converge to in the long run, nevertheless James was right to see a
connection between the existence of community and the possibility of dis-
tinguishing between subjectivity and objectivity. The connection is not as
simple as James’s metaphysical account would have it, but, in fact, it is only
through the experiences we have of winning others over through argument,
We are in the position that all of us claim general validity for our moral
views, or whatever views, while at the same time we do not all agree. Let me
qualify that. On some things we do agree. In fact, though epistemologists
may disagree on what the standards are for saying that there are enough
chairs for us all to sit on, we do not really disagree about that very often. We
may disagree about what Roderick Chisholm wrote in a philosophy paper,
or what Quine writes in a philosophy paper, but these disagreements literally
play no role in our lives. Nobody checks whether Memorial Hall still exists
one bit differently because of all the thousands of pages that have been writ-
ten using that sort of example. Nobody checks whether there is a book on
this table one bit differently in spite of all the thousands and thousands of
pages, the thousands and thousands of books, that have been written on
how we know there is a book on the table. To be sure, a philosopher might
say, “It is not clear what is meant by pragmatist talk, James’s talk or Quine’s
talk, of the best trade-off between predictive power, preserving founded be-
liefs, and elegance, even in the case of ‘There’s a book on the table’”; but the
fact is that we are in agreement concerning the standards for that, at least
when direct perceptual verification is concerned. In the law court, when it is
a question of indirect verification, we may disagree. But ultimately the truth
he only knows if he makes a bad mistake, the cries of the wounded will soon
inform him of the fact. In all this the philosopher is just like the rest of us
non-philosophers, so far as we are just and sympathetic instinctively, and so
far as we are open to the voice of complaint. His function is in fact indistin-
guishable from that of the best kind of statesman at the present day. His books
on ethics, therefore, so far as they truly touch the moral life, must more and
more ally themselves with a literature which is confessedly tentative and sug-
gestive rather than dogmatic—I mean with novels and dramas of the deeper
sort, with sermons, with books on statecraft and philanthropy and social and
economical reform. Treated in this way ethical treatises may be voluminous
and luminous as well; but they can never be final, except in their abstractest
and vaguest features, and they must more and more abandon old-fashioned,
clearcut, and would-be ‘scientific’ form.23
22. The first paragraph of “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life” runs as fol-
lows: “The main purpose of this essay is to show that there is no such thing possible as
an ethical philosophy dogmatically made up in advance. We all help to determine the
content of moral philosophy so far as we contribute to the race’s moral life. In other
words, there can be no final truth in ethics any more than in physics, until the last man
has had his experience and said his say. In the one case as in the other, however, the hy-
potheses we now make while waiting, and the acts to which they prompt us, are among
the indispensable conditions which determine what that ‘say’ shall be” (141).
23. Ibid., 158–159.
Let us now consider some criticisms that might be made of consensus views
of either truth or rationality. The consensus that Peirce and James had in
mind and that today’s consensus theorists also have in mind was an unforced
consensus, a consensus reached after experimentation and discussion. One
might ask, “Well, why should we identify truth with the outcome of open
and free discussion? Why not identify it with the will of the strongest? If
somebody has the power to impose his view forever, if some super-Hitler can
impose his view forever, that would show the super-Hitler is the strongest.
Why shouldn’t we say truth is just the will of the stronger?” This is the ques-
tion raised by Thrasymachus in Plato’s Republic.
One answer would be that a “truth” that is accepted only out of fear
of the tyrant is the “truth” of a moral solitude. “Truth supposes a stan-
dard outside the thinker to which he must conform,” and the tyrant
acknowledges no such standard. Just as in the universe with only a sin-
24. That there is a strong Peircean strain in James’s views on truth is argued in
Chapter 11 (“James’s Theory of Truth”).
25. Peirce, “The Fixation of Belief ” and “How to Make Our Ideas Clear,” Collected
Papers, 5:358–387, 388–410.
26. Although Peirce also argues that the “Method of Tenacity”—which is common
to both the appeal to Authority and the appeal to What Is Agreeable to Reason—
makes “true” little more than an emotive word for beliefs one likes, and this could,
perhaps, be regarded as a “conceptual” argument.
27. James, Pragmatism, in Works, 1:34.
Sometimes philosophers who are a little surprised that I “work on” James have
asked me what I have learned from James. Of course, I feel that my debts to
James are too long to list in a paragraph. But when I am asked the question, I
think more or less immediately of two things: first, the idea that we must not
be afraid of offering our own philosophic picture, even though we know that
our picture is fallible (and based on “our own ideals”), and that it always needs
to be discussed with and by others seems to me much needed at a time when
the image of philosophy as a sort of final authority still dominates so much
moral philosophy. It is this aspect of James that I have been stressing in this
essay. And second—but not in importance—I have been impressed and
strongly influenced by the stress in James on the agent point of view.28
That stress is complementary to the insights I have been talking about, the
Peircean insights in James. James always has a “we” in mind, his theory of truth
is a theory of truth for “us”; various forms of the first-person plural pronoun
occur again and again in James. But in James, the emphasis on the “we” is al-
ways balanced by an emphasis on the “I.” James simultaneously connects truth
with the ideal of rational consensus and insists on our right, indeed our re-
sponsibility, to take a stand, an individual stand. Not surprisingly, that too is
justified by a pragmatic argument. We will not do as well as we could do in
morality unless we are willing to take a stand in advance of the evidence, to
commit ourselves to ideas that we cannot yet intersubjectively validate.29
Of course, James is not the first or the last philosopher to have such an
idea. Some years ago I discovered a very interesting paper in which Albrecht
Wellmer argues that the emphasis on the agent point of view is actually in-
compatible with the Habermasian (and Jamesian) idea of ultimate consen-
sus as a necessary and sufficient condition for truth.30
28. See, in particular, the closing pages of my The Many Faces of Realism (LaSalle,
IL: Open Court, 1987).
29. See, especially, James, “The Will to Believe” and “The Sentiment of Rationality,”
in The Will to Believe, in Works, vol.6..
30. Albrecht Wellmer, “Intersubjectivity and Reason,” in Perspectives on Human
Conduct, ed. L. Herzburg and J. Pietanen (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1988), 128–163.
What I’ve said comes close to some of the considerations which Habermas has
put forward in support of a consensus theory of truth. Truth, according to
this theory, is the content of a rational consensus; and a consensus can be
called ‘rational’ if it has been achieved under conditions of an ideal speech
situation. As I have already indicated above, however, I do not believe that a
consensus theory of truth and the peculiar account of discursive rationality
which goes with it can be justified. Truth, as I’ve argued elsewhere, cannot be
defined in terms of a rational consensus, even if truth in some sense implies
the possibility of a rational consensus.31 For to put it in a nutshell: although
truth is public, the recognition of truth is always my recognition: i.e. each of
us must be convinced by arguments if a consensus is to be called rational. But
then the consensus cannot be what convinces us of the validity of a truth
claim.32
31. Wellmer is probably referring to his Ethik und Dialog (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp
Verlag, 1986), 69–102.
32. Wellmer, “Intersubjectivity and Reason,” 157.
33. Ibid., 157–158.
But if I myself am one of the sources of the relevant information, one of the
people whose task it is to inquire into the matter, then Wellmer is right.
Wellmer is saying that if one is inquiring into whether something is true
(e.g., whether there is life in another galaxy), one cannot conduct the inquiry
by looking to see if other people are converging on the view that there is life in
the other galaxy; one has to look at the other galaxy, at the astronomical, bio-
logical, etc., evidence, and make up one’s own mind. At first blush the argu-
ment may seem unfair; after all, Habermas, just as much as Peirce and James,
thinks of truth as what we converge on if we use the right method—the scien-
tific method in the ordinary “narrow” sense of “scientific method,” in the case
of the question “Is there life in the other galaxy?”—not as what we converge
on if we use the Method of What Is Agreeable to Reason, for example. But
Wellmer’s point is deeper than it looks. For, even if we all use the scientific
method, still, as scientists, we do not decide if there is life in the other galaxy
by seeing if other scientists are converging on the view that there is; even in an
ideally scientific community—especially in an ideally scientific community—
each scientist has to make up his or her own mind. But if “It is true that there
is life in the other galaxy” means that other people, using the right method,
will converge on the view that there is, then it would be perfectly appropriate
to look at other people to determine the truth of the sentence.
But is this argument effective against James? Although, in The Meaning of
Truth, absolute truth is characterized by James as membership in an “ideal set”
of “formulations” on which there will be “ultimate consensus”—a very Peircean
formulation—James never claims that “ultimate consensus” is what “true”
means.34 Metaphysics, in James’s view, consists of hypotheses; metaphysical
truths are not analytic. On the other hand, even if we take truth to be only
contingently identical with “ultimate consensus, provided inquiry is con-
ducted in the right way,” it may seem that the problem Wellmer raises does not
wholly go away. For if I ever come to believe, to accept, this “theory of truth,”
why should I then not determine if there is life in the other galaxy by investi-
gating the conclusions the others are coming to, rather than by investigating
that galaxy? But this is a question to which James has an answer.
The answer is that whether an inquiry is conducted in the right way—
which, for James, means with attention to concrete fact, and particularly
when the inquiry is a moral one, with attention to “the cries of the
wounded,” fallibilistically, etc.—is itself a question that cannot be an-
swered from a nonengaged point of view. “I myself ” have to say whether
the inquiry is properly conducted or not, and I cannot do this without
participating in the inquiry myself. (This would also be Habermas’s answer
to Wellmer.)35
While this may meet Wellmer’s objection, there remain serious objec-
tions to the theory that being true is the same thing as being part of the
“ultimate consensus,” not the least being the possibility that there will be
no ultimate consensus, not even on the question whether there ever was a
conference on “Philosophy, Education and Culture” in Edinburgh. (And
Peirce’s counterfactual version of the ultimate consensus theory is even
more problematic.)
We should not, then, accept the Peirce-James view—that truth is to be
identified with the tremendously utopian idea of “the ultimate consensus”—
of the theory to be reached (and to become coercive) at the end of indefi-
nitely continued investigation. Nevertheless, a great deal that James wants to
deny should be denied. James is right to tell us that we do not have to think
of truth as presupposing a single (and therefore mysterious) “relation of
agreement with reality,” one and the same relation in all cases, or as presup-
posing some mysterious Absolute—an infinite mind able to overcome the
limitations of all limited and finite points of view (as in absolute idealism)—
or some other piece of transcendental machinery beneath our practice of
making and criticizing truth claims that makes that practice possible. In so
far as a general account of truth is possible at all, it seems to me that it was
given by Frege: to call any content (any Fregean “thought”) true is to make
the very same claim that one makes by asserting that content. (But substitute
“sentence” for “content” (Gedanke) in that formula, as today’s “disquotation-
alists” do, and one loses the entire point Frege was trying to make!) Frege’s
point was not that “true” is just a word that we attach to marks and noises
that we assert but that what connects descriptive judgments to the world is
35. See, for example, Jurgen Habermas, Theory of Communicative Action (Boston:
Beacon Press, 1984) 1:113–114. Habermas is discussing the stance that an ideal social
scientist must take, but, in his view, this is just the stance that anyone interested in
understanding for its own sake must take.
36. “Marks and noises” is Rorty’s expression for our assertions, but all “disquota-
tionalists” from Ayer and Carnap on have supposed that “true” is a predicate of such
syntactic objects. Tarski’s view, to which they often appeal, is more nuanced: on the
one hand, he agrees with them in viewing sentences as syntactic objects, characteriz-
able apart from their meaning—which is a mistake; on the other hand, he presupposes
that the terms in our sentences have what he calls “concrete meanings,” and he does
not attempt to reduce our grasp of these meanings to the mastery of assertibility con-
ditions, as today’s disquotationalists all do. For a detailed discussion of the difference
between Frege’s view and the disquotationalist views with which it is so often con-
fused, see my “Sense, Nonsense and the Senses—An Inquiry into the Powers of the
Human Mind” (Dewey Lectures, 1994), The Journal of Philosophy 91, no. 9 (September
1994): Lecture III.
37. I discuss the error in reductionist readings of Wittgenstein in my Pragmatism:
An Open Question (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), as well as in the paper cited in the previ-
ous note.
Note
As so often in the past, once again I owe a debt of gratitude to Ruth Anna
Putnam for her criticism of an earlier draft and for her valuable suggestions.
38. In these closing sentences I have borrowed from the close of my “Are Moral and
Legal Values Made or Discovered?” Legal Theory 1, no. 1 (March 1995): 19.
EARLY AND LATE in his philosophical life, William James was concerned to
articulate criteria of acceptability for philosophical, in particular metaphysi-
cal, positions. The point he made, as a young man and again as an old one,
was that we choose our philosophical visions—his terminology in A
Pluralistic Universe—on passional grounds. We demand that our image of
the world be hospitable to our most urgent interests, and James proposed
pragmatism as a philosophy that would satisfy this demand.1 For many phi-
losophers, but by no means for all, this means that an adequate philosophi-
cal view must allow room for our moral lives. Kant springs immediately to
mind as a philosopher whose life work was dominated by this quest. Of
course, I do not intend to suggest that philosophers whose philosophical
views do not make sense of their moral lives are immoral. I have known such
philosophers; they have been among the most morally admirable human
beings I have ever known. I want to suggest merely that such philosophers
lead a double life. In everyday life, I contend, all of us act as if we believed
that there are other people who share our world, that there are objective
moral values, that while much of our behavior is habitual, virtually all our
day it is even less clear than it was at the end of the nineteenth century.5 Nor
do I think that, in the limited space at my disposal, I could do justice to the
enormously complex ways in which James and Dewey seek to make sense of
our moral lives (their ways are not identical). Rather I shall mention certain
beliefs that are required if one is to make sense of one’s moral life. And I shall
gesture at the forms these beliefs and their defense took for James and
Dewey. There will emerge a profound difference between them, but it may
well be that to other scholars that difference will appear to be superficial. If
so, the term “pragmatism” will prove to be less multivocal than it seems to
me at present.
The core experiences of our moral lives are these: there are times when life
does not proceed smoothly along habitual grooves, yet we do not permit an
impulse simply to throw us off course; instead, we deliberate. Again, there
are times when we look at what we have wrought and sometimes are glad
and sometimes regret that we chose this path rather than another. It seems
to me, but nothing hangs on my being right about this, that moral reflection
tends to be prompted by failures more often than by successes. In any case,
as James pointed out, regret does not make sense unless the world could have
been otherwise, and remorse—a special kind of regret—does not make any
sense unless one could have chosen to cause the world to be otherwise.6 But
do we have free will? How is one to deal with this question? Here James and
Dewey diverge. For James, the determinism or indeterminism alternative is
what he called a genuine option—that is, both alternatives attract us (they
are “live” for us, he would say). Nevertheless, we must choose one or the
other (we cannot suspend belief ), and accepting one of the alternatives or
the other will have serious consequences in our lives. Only if one believes in
indeterminism, James thought, will one be willing to act morally even at
great cost to oneself. Yet James also believed that the question of whether we
7. See the title essay in The Will to Believe for James’s argument that when a genuine
option cannot be settled on intellectual grounds we have a right to believe either alter-
native on passional grounds.
8. Dewey, in the introduction to Human Nature and Conduct, in Middle Works, vol.
14, and in The Quest for Certainty, in Later Works, vol. 4.
9. See James, “The Dilemma of Determinism.”
was the insight of intuitionists, just as the connection with bodily pains and
pleasures is an insight of utilitarians. But in a world with only one thinker,
to use his language, values would nevertheless be entirely subjective. Truth
requires a standard outside the thinker, a standard provided by the existence
of other human beings and the fact that they take an interest in each other.
In James’s memorable image, two loving people doomed to extinction on a
rock would still, as long as they lived, have a full moral life with real goods
and real evils.10 Dewey expressed a similar thought, and a good deal else be-
sides, by saying that morality is social.11 But morality might be social and yet
wholly relative. This is not the place to examine that alternative; neither
James nor Dewey was a relativist. War is bad, not bad according to this or
that set of mores, just bad. How do we know that? Here I can hear someone
ask, “What about just wars?” Well, perhaps there are situations in which war
is the lesser evil; if so, how do we know that? This question, too, if it is asked
as a skeptical question, presupposes a false world view. In fact, the false world
view presupposed here is intimately related to the false view that, according
to Dewey, is presupposed by asking whether we have free will. How we can
know that some kind of conduct is right or wrong, some state of affairs good
or bad, is mysterious only if we have already accepted the idea that questions
of value are radically different from questions of fact, that facts are in and of
this world while values, at least moral values, are not.
Traditionally, moral values were held to be transcendent, but in the twen-
tieth century they came to be thought of as nonexistent. When values were
thought of as transcendent, it was held that they were known in a unique
way: they were intuited. But when positivistic philosophers rejected the very
idea of the transcendent, value judgments were thought to be, in the last
analysis, not judgments at all but expressions of one or another noncognitive
(emotional or volitional) state of mind.12 Dewey rejected this false world
view; he rejected the so-called fact/value distinction. Dewey pointed out
that what we call factual knowledge is shaped by our values: we inquire into
10. James, “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life,” in The Will to Believe, in
Works, 6:141–162.
11. See, e.g., Dewey, the concluding chapter of Human Nature and Conduct.
12. The former view is found in A. J. Ayer, Language, Truth and Logic (London: V.
Golancz, 1951). The volitional alternative is presented in Hans Reichenbach, The Rise
of Scientific Philosophy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1951).
matters that matter to us. Dewey noted that factual claims and value claims
are so intimately interwoven in our reasoning that one cannot challenge or
support a claim of one kind without implicating claims of the other: we
evaluate data as relevant or not, as reliable or not, inferences as valid or not,
experiments as well designed or not, and so on.
The web of beliefs includes beliefs concerning facts and beliefs concerning
values. It is anchored in experiences that are sense perceptions, those that are
enjoyments and sufferings, and those that are doings. Even this formulation
suggests too much of a multiplicity. The web of beliefs is anchored in experi-
ences that may be taken as sense perceptions or as enjoyments/sufferings or as
doings, and often are taken as any two or all of them.13 All of this is enor-
mously important, yet all of this might be accepted by a latter-day expression-
ist. All of this might be accepted, and yet one might hold that there are ends
or ideals that are not subject to critique and evaluation because they are the
ultimate standards.14 Dewey challenges the very idea of ends that are ultimate
in this sense and replaces it by the idea of ends-in-view. Ends-in-view are hu-
man responses to problems that human beings face, and they are evaluated as
human beings let their conduct be guided by them. Of course, there are values
that seem to us beyond challenge—respect for human dignity, for example—
and they may indeed survive any possible challenge; I sincerely hope so. But
we would be blind to the facts of the real world if we failed to acknowledge
that this precious value is challenged again and again wherever prisoners are
tortured or women raped. Or, to put this another way, we must steadfastly
hold respect for human dignity as an end-in-view precisely because prisoners
continue to be tortured and women continue to be raped.
To make sense of our moral lives, our choosings, our praisings and self-con-
gratulations, as well as our blamings and regrettings, 1 have argued we must
believe that we are, indeed, choosing, that our choices make a difference, and
that there are standards by which we judge and are judged, standards that are
themselves of human making and subject to human critique. Implicit in these
beliefs is another, the belief, held by each of us, that one is not alone in the
13. Of Dewey’s numerous writings on this subject I shall mention only Theory of
Valuation, in Later Works, 13:191–252. The subject is also discussed in Dewey’s Human
Nature and Conduct and Quest for Certainty.
14. For contemporary expressionism, see, e.g., Allan Gibbard, Wise Choice, Apt
Feelings (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990).
world, that one lives in a peopled world. Just as the fact/value dichotomy,
though useful in practical contexts, does not bear any epistemological or on-
tological weight, so the distinction between ethics and metaphysics or ethics
and epistemology bears no philosophical weight, though it is useful in drawing
up curricula and assigning responsibilities for teaching and learning. We can-
not make sense of our moral lives unless we believe that there are other people
and we live in a common world. It makes no sense for me to be careful not to
step on your big toe, if the toe I would step on is not identical with the one in
which you would feel pain, nor would it make sense for me to be careful not
to cause you pain if what I take to be your body is not a minded body, and
does not experience pain. To make philosophical sense of our moral lives, our
philosophy must underwrite our commonsense beliefs in the commonsense
world. James thought that the commonsense world is one that “our ancestors
and we, by slow cumulative strokes of choice, have extracted” out of some-
thing James in The Principles of Psychology called indifferently “the primordial
chaos of sensations” and “that black and jointless continuity of space and mov-
ing clouds of swarming atoms which science calls the only real world.”15
Beginning in 1904, in the series of papers later published under the title
Essays in Radical Empiricism, James returned to the urgent question of how
philosophy can escape from the “congeries of solipsisms” into which
Descartes had led her and “out of which in strict logic only a God could
compose a universe even of discourse.” He proposed “pure experience” as
the “one primal stuff or material . . . out of which everything is com-
posed.”16 Pure experience as such has no essential properties; it is not a
kind of substance; it is as varied as our experiences are varied. However,
unless we are just born or are just emerging from total anesthesia, we do
not have pure experiences. Our experiences are always already conceptual-
ized, already taken to be, say, of a pen, or as being ours, as part of the
stream of thought that one calls oneself. So both you and I can take the
same pure experience to be your big toe, and yet take it also severally to be
my seeing your big toe and your seeing it. This is not the occasion to dis-
cuss the merits and difficulties of James’s theory of pure experience, I
merely want to mention that it purports to show “how two minds can
know one thing.” And, James pointed out, “the decisive reason in favor of
our minds meeting in some common objects at least is that, unless I knew
that supposition, I have no motive for assuming that your mind exists at
all . . . and for me to speak of you is folly.”17
In his very sympathetic review of Essays in Radical Empiricism, Dewey
pointed out that what is truly “radical” in James’s empiricism is his insistence
that “every kind of thing experienced must somewhere be real.” Unlike his
sensationalist and associationist predecessors, James took it that relations
between things are experienced and thus real. Thus, according to Dewey, he
“compelled philosophers to rethink their conclusions upon fundamental
matters.” Yet for all his enthusiasm, Dewey pointed out that James’s prema-
ture death “left the new philosophy in too undeveloped a state to win disci-
ples wholesale.”18
Using for the moment dualistic language, Jamesian pure experiences may
be characterized as intersections of a stream of thought and (an interaction
between the human organism animated by that stream and) some object.
For example, at this moment you are reading these words. That description
is itself an illustration of what James means when he says that a pure experi-
ence may be taken as part of a physical object or as part of a mind, that a
reading is an event that is at once physical and psychical. Whatever the pure
experience may be (if we were to describe it, we would already have gone
beyond the pure experience), when we call it “reading,” we may be under-
stood to refer to a physical or physiological process that ends with your un-
derstanding what the words mean.
As mentioned, the normal adult in normal circumstances does not have
(is not conscious of having) “pure” experiences; one’s conscious interactions
with one’s environment are always already conceptualized. To be sure, an
experience, Dewey held, need not be cognitive; it may be an enjoyment or a
suffering or, again, a doing—it is quite often all of these things. It is precisely
because we are not mere spectators of but actors in the world that I need to
worry about stepping on your big toe, and it is precisely because I can step
on your toe (because we do not merely see but handle objects in the world)
17. James, Essays in Radical Empiricism, in Works, vol. 3, quotes on 37–38, 4, 46,
and 38, respectively.
18. Dewey, Review of Essays in Radical Empiricism, in Middle Works, 7:148.
that you and I can mean the same thing. The philosopher’s problem is not
the insoluble problem of inferring or constructing a common and relatively
stable world out of private and fleeting sense data; the very notion of a sense
datum is the result of a sophisticated analysis of ordinary sense perception
guided by knowledge of the very world that is supposed to be called into
question.19 Jamesian pure experiences are, of course, not sense data, not an
interface interposed between a questing mind and the world that is its quest;
nevertheless, because the normal adult in normal circumstances does not
have pure experiences, one cannot help but think that a world of pure expe-
rience is too much of a concession to idealism.20
Dewey begins with events. Like Jamesian pure experiences, Deweyan
events are essentially neither mental nor physical. They are taken as one or
the other (or both) after the fact. Experiencing is a taking, an interaction of
the organism with its environment, an environment that includes others like
it. Of course, one can ask how you and I can succeed to mean the same
thing, but we ask it in concrete situations. When you say, “Let’s divide this
responsibility fairly,” do you mean what I mean? How can we find out; how
can we avoid a quarrel? When I say, “Let’s meet in front of the post office,”
is that unambiguous? Will we actually meet? But experience also tells us that
we often, more often than not, succeed in our efforts to communicate. We
do indeed inhabit a common world and share a vast body of beliefs. Only
against this background of success do we experience failures to communicate
and disagreements in our beliefs concerning how the world is and ought to
19. That point was made forcefully by Dewey in “The Existence of the World as a
Logical Problem,” in Middle Works, 8:83–97.
20. James’s colleague at Harvard, Josiah Royce, and F. H. Bradley in England,
among others, offered absolute idealism as a solution to the problem of how language
or thought hooks on to the world, how it is that for me to speak of you is not folly.
James found this philosophy profoundly unsatisfactory and offered his radical empir-
icism as an alternative solution. But I am suggesting that his life-long struggle against
absolute idealism left its mark on his philosophy. James’s relationship to Bradley is the
subject of T. L. S. Sprigge, James and Bradley: American Truth and British Reality
(Chicago: Open Court Press, 1993). His relation to Royce is examined by James
Conant in “The James/Royce Dispute and the Development of James’s ‘Solution,’” in
The Cambridge Companion to William James, ed Ruth Anna Putnam (Cambridge:
University of Cambridge Press, 1997).
be, and what is important and what does not matter, etc., etc., and only
within this common world can we find answers to these problems.21
To summarize: to make sense of our moral lives we need to believe that
there are other people with whom we share a common world and that our
actions can make a difference to what that world will become. Moral action
(good or bad, right or wrong) is action that is chosen for reasons, among
which are moral judgments, judgments that are as objective, and as fallible,
as anything else that human beings believe. Both James and Dewey would
have agreed with this. What then is the difference between them? It seems to
me that in each case James accepts the received problematique.
No amount of humanly accessible evidence will decide whether we have
free will and whether there are real possibilities—in other words, whether we
can initiate causal chains. So James decides the question on passional grounds.
Now, I think that having done that, James has pulled the rug from under the
original question, but he does not pursue that point. Dewey, in contrast, sees
the original question as a diversion, an attempt to distract us from facing a
multitude of concrete and vitally important infractions of the liberty of real
human beings. Given James’s radical empiricism, the view that anything real is
experienced and vice versa, values are real if and only if they are experienced.
James believes both that our valuings begin with immediate feelings, that
is, experiences, and that values are real—there are objective standards.
Moreover, when we consider the complex values called ideals, it is clear that
these are to be tested by seeing how attempts to realize them will work out.
Once again, Dewey would agree with all this, but it is Dewey and not James
to whom we owe the trenchant critique of the fact/value dichotomy. James
rejects skepticism out of hand: if we are skeptics, there is no job left for the
philosopher; he argues against subjectivism. In a curious sense, although in
the end his method for settling moral disputes is empirical, James’s prob-
lematique assumes a fact/value distinction that is never formally repudiated.
Once again, James accepts a traditional philosophical challenge while Dewey
denies the very ground upon which that challenge is mounted.
21. See Dewey, Human Nature and Conduct and The Quest for Certainty, as well as
Essays in Experimental Logic (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1916), the essays of
which are reprinted across several volumes of the Middle Works. Although this essay
deals only with James and Dewey, I want to mention in passing that Peirce’s philoso-
phy of perception also escapes the “congeries of solipsisms.”
22. James, Talks to Teachers on Psychology [1899], in Works, vol. 10. In the preface,
James describes his philosophy as leading to “the well-known democratic respect for
the sacredness of individuality” and uses the occasion to express his opposition to the
U.S. imperialist adventure in the Philippines.
In an early talk James asked, “What makes a Life Significant?” and concluded,
Culture and refinement alone are not enough to do so. Ideal aspirations are
not enough when uncombined with pluck and will. But neither are pluck and
will, dogged endurance and insensibility to danger enough, when taken all
alone. There must be some fusion, some chemical combination among these
principles, for a life objectively and thoroughly significant to result.2
James mentioned that “culture and refinement” do not suffice for a significant
life. Here I want to emphasize that they are also not necessary. That the lives of
people living precariously and simply may be rich in significance was brought
home to James when he encountered poor farmers creating clearings for them-
selves in the mountains of North Carolina. These farmers and their families,
though they worked hard from sunup to sundown and lacked anything that
might be called “culture and refinement,” told James that “we ain’t happy here
unless we are getting one of these coves under cultivation.”3 What they had in
addition to what James would call an “ideal,” namely the goal to get a cove
under cultivation, and in addition to “pluck and will” was just enough to eat
to keep them healthy enough to pursue their ideal with “dogged endurance.”
Thus, culture and refinement are not required for a significant life, but human
beings so deprived of the necessities of life that they are unable to formulate,
however inarticulately, some goal or aim or purpose that makes sense of the
daily routine beyond that routine itself, or so deprived that they are unable to
pursue their goals with some chance of success, cannot be said to lead signifi-
cant lives. Here one should also mention the need for positive relationships
with other human beings. Social isolation can be, and for most persons is, as
debilitating as lack of the material necessities of life.
James emphasizes not only that the moral life requires “pluck and will,
dogged endurance and insensibility to danger,” but also that this “strenuous
mood” can be sustained only if one believes “that acts are really good and
bad,” and that involves, for him, both a belief in indeterminism and in the
objectivity of moral values.4 Morality, objective values, and with them obli-
gations exist whenever there are persons who care for one another. “One
rock with two loving souls upon it . . . would have as thoroughly moral a
constitution as any possible world. . . . There would be real good things and
real bad things . . . obligations, claims and expectations; obediences, refusals,
and disappointments . . . a moral life, whose active energy would have no
limit but the intensity of interest in each other.”5 Objectivity in ethics de-
pends, then, on the possibility of resolving conflicts, of arriving at shared
values, of jointly espousing more inclusive ideals. That possibility rests on
the fact that we have sympathetic as well as egoistic instincts, which “arise,
so far as we can tell, on the same psychological level.”6 However, for James,
objectivity is more than mere intersubjectivity. His insistence on the imper-
fections of the world and on the possibility of moral progress suggests that
there is a standard outside not only this or that thinker but outside any
particular collection of them, just as scientific truth is not determined by the
opinions of any particular collection of scientists. “There can be no final
truth in ethics any more than in physics until the last man has had his expe-
rience and said his say.”7 In ethics, though not in physics, this notion of a
final truth seems to be clearly distinguishable from belief in a divine thinker.
For, though James says that “ethics have as genuine and real a foothold in a
universe where the highest consciousness is human, as in a universe where
there is a God as well,” he also asserts that “in a merely human world with-
out a God, the appeal to our moral energy falls short of its maximal stimu-
lating power. Life, to be sure, is even in such a world a genuinely ethical
symphony; but it is played in the compass of a couple of poor octaves, and
the infinite scale of values fails to open up.”8 I want to put this aside.9 The
5. Ibid., 150.
6. James, The Principles of Psychology, 3 vols., in Works, 8:309.
7. James, The Will to Believe, in Works, 6:141.
8. Ibid., 150, 160.
9. James clearly believed in a God who cared about his creation. James believed both
that God needed our help in making the world a better place for his creatures and that
he, in a sense, guaranteed our success in that endeavor. James believed not only, as we all
do, that our efforts can make a difference to how the world will be—that there are causal
lines that run through our persons—but also that we have free will—that we can and do
initiate causal chains. While these beliefs may well serve as motivating factors, they can-
not in any sense help us to know what ideals to embrace, what persons to be, for we
cannot read God’s mind. I shall set this question aside for another occasion.
important point to retain is the idea that we do not have the final truth, that
we can and must continue to learn in ways that will alter not only our beliefs
but also our behavior. For this caring and other altruistic virtues are as indis-
pensable as courage, determination, and endurance. We may take it, there-
fore, that a fuller account of the virtues would for James include the altruis-
tic virtues as well as the executive virtues mentioned in the passage
concerning life’s significance.
Finally, what about “ideal aspirations?” In order to lead significant lives, hu-
man beings need enough of the necessities of life to be able to formulate some
goal or have some purpose that will make sense of the routine of their lives.
Routine alone does not give meaning to one’s life, although it may carry one
across some meaningless stretches, keep one going while one sorts things out or
simply waits for things to sort themselves out. Habits work in the same way.
Indeed, a well-established routine becomes a habit, and a firm habit will, in
novel circumstances, establish a new routine. What routines and habits do for
us is to obviate the necessity to decide at every moment what to do next; they
provide an easy explanation of a host of actions. Without thinking, one gets up
at a certain hour because one always gets up at that hour. The luxury and the
difficulty of vacations consists in part in being able to stay in bed, hence in
having to decide to get up. One gets up at the right hour because one has to go
to work. Retirement removes that reason. Hence the danger of not getting up,
of feeling that life has lost its purpose because it has lost its rhythm. Children
who have looked forward to school vacation with great eagerness become bored
and cranky after a few days’ vacation. Because their activities are not structured,
they say, “There is nothing to do,” although much could be done.
However, structure is not enough. There can be too much structure, as in
a slave-labor camp, or a structure of despair, as is a famine relief camp, where
the days consist in waiting for the next doling out of food and there is no
energy to fill periods of waiting with anything other than waiting. These
people do not flourish, not merely because they are hungry, exhausted, ill,
and, in the former case, mistreated, but because life does not derive its pur-
pose from routine. Rather, most people have purposes that impose a routine,
or if the routine varies frequently, or leaves much to be decided from day to
day, one’s purpose gives one’s life a shape, guides one’s choices, and explains
one’s activities. Or again one’s purpose may be only indirectly related to
one’s routine; one may spend one’s days doing a job that is just a job—any
other would do as well—in order to support one’s family. Or one may work
at a routine job for the sake of having free time and a free mind to do what
one really wants to do after hours. Think of a musician who makes her living
as a waitress and composes in her “free” time. We must then look at pur-
poses, projects, ideals, or plans.
Purposes, projects, ideals give shape or coherence to a life or at any rate lon-
ger or shorter periods thereof. They loom large in forming what John Rawls
calls, perhaps too grandly, a rational life plan (most people’s plans are neither as
long-range nor as passionless as that term suggests). But our students do decide
that they want to be philosophers or lawyers or whatever and so they put their
energy, their time, and a good deal of their emotions into learning to be a phi-
losopher or a lawyer or whatever. Many of their daily and even longer-range
priorities are ordered by these aims. A few may also plan when to fall in love,
and when to get married, when to have children, etc., though we “adults” sus-
pect that these are the kinds of plans that go often awry. In other walks of life,
in other times or places, these matters seem to be determined to a large extent
by the society and/or the circumstances of one’s birth. Generations of coal min-
ers grew up expecting to work in the mines and did so; generations of civil
servants raised their children to be civil servants, etc. In those circumstances it
takes courage and imagination to pursue another path. Some projects (e.g.,
becoming a world-class concert pianist) require more planning—more years as
well as more hours of each day are covered by the plan—than others (e.g., read-
ing all of George Eliot’s novels). I am interested here in projects and ideals and
their bearing on moral life; I am not interested in plans as such.
Projects explain, and within limits justify, what one does by showing how
that action fits into the life dominated by that project. Gauguin’s leaving his
family in order to paint fits into his life in this justifying way. Character plays
a similar role; it too shapes a life and determines what is fittingly done in
that life. When at the end of Portrait of a Lady Isabel Archer refuses the love
of Caspar Goodwin and returns to her unlovely husband, she does what fits
into her life, what befits the person she has chosen to be.
I do not mean to suggest that every action needs moral justification.
Dewey, who agrees with James in emphasizing the centrality of the moral
life, points out that it would be morbid to subject each act to moral scrutiny;
a well-formed moral character knows when to raise moral issues.10 But
choices that affect one’s own life over a considerable period of time and
choices that affect the lives of others (the choices just mentioned fall into
both categories) do raise moral issues, issues that cannot be settled ade-
quately unless one inquires how the contemplated alternatives would fit into
the agent’s life as well as how they would affect the lives of others. It is the
great merit of James, as of Dewey, to have suggested that the moral life
should be the center of attention in our moral philosophizing. How, then,
do projects and characters shape a moral life?
In “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life” James distinguishes three
questions “which must be kept apart”:
The psychological question asks after the historical origin of our moral ideas
and judgments; the metaphysical question asks what the very meaning of the
words “good,” “ill,” and “obligation” are; the casuistic question asks what is
the measure of the various goods and ills which men recognize, so that the
philosopher may settle the true order of human obligations.11
From the perspective of living a moral life, the casuistic question is cen-
tral. In our private lives, though not for the philosopher qua philosopher,
that question comes itself in two forms—it may focus on choosing goals and
the means thereto or it may focus on choosing who one is to be—as James
makes clear in the following crucial paragraph from The Principles of
Psychology:
11. James, “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life,” in The Will to Believe, in
Works, 6:141–162, 142.
ests already felt by the man to be supreme. The ethical energy par excellence
has to go farther and choose which interest out of several, equally coercive,
shall become supreme. . . . When he debates, Shall I commit this crime?
choose that profession? accept that office or marry this fortune? his choice
really lies between one of several equally possible future Characters. What he
shall become is fixed by the conduct of this moment. Schopenhauer, who
enforces his determinism by the argument that with a given character only
one reaction is possible under given circumstances, forgets that, in these crit-
ical ethical moments, what consciously seems to be in question is the com-
plexion of character itself. The problem with the man is less what act he shall
now choose to do, than what being he shall now resolve to become.12
James contrasts in this paragraph what I shall call “normal moral life”
with “critical ethical moments.” That is not, nor do I mean to suggest that
he thought it was, a hard and fast distinction, but making it enables us to
begin to chart the moral life. The choices of normal moral life are made
against a background of (relatively) stable values by a (relatively) stable char-
acter in more of less stable conditions and not very surprising situations.
Even in normal moral life there are two types of choice situation, which
seem to be related to ends and character, respectively: sometimes one decides
what to do; sometimes one has to resist the temptation not to do what one
has chosen. In normal moral life an agent has goals, principles, values, not
all of which can be realized. Thus she must choose among alternative courses
of action. Presumably, she wants to maximize what she values, which may
include others’ welfare as well as her own, doing her duty as well as not suc-
cumbing to temptation. The course of action she chooses and pursues may,
of course, prove to be less felicitous than she had hoped. That will be a rea-
son for reexamination, reevaluation, a change of course. Be that as it may,
after she has chosen “the good course,” an agent needs to be ever vigilant lest
she succumb to temptation. Resisting temptation is rather different from
choosing how best to accomplish one’s aims. It is, for example, one thing to
decide to follow a strict diet rather than to use medication to control one’s
cholesterol level; it is another thing to resist the temptation to violate the
diet. Nevertheless, to stick with the diet is after all to decide yet again that
one prefers diet to medication, on the assumption all along that one prefers
a lower cholesterol level. That is why James speaks of “sustaining the argu-
ment.” Being resolute and having a certain goal in any serious sense turn out
to be intimately connected. For pragmatists it makes no sense to say that
someone has a certain purpose but does nothing to further it. With common
sense they will say, “If she doesn’t diet, then she doesn’t really want to lower
her cholesterol level.” James goes beyond making this point and finds such a
person contemptible. “The more ideals a man has, the more contemptible”
we deem him if he lacks the virtues required “to get them realized.”13
A critical moment is a situation in which, according to James, one chooses
which of several equally coercive interests shall become supreme, which of
several equally possible characters one shall become. Here too it may be well
to begin by distinguishing between choosing a supreme, life-shaping interest
and choosing what kind of person one is to be, though it will become appar-
ent that these are, as James’s words suggest, two aspects of the one problem.
Consider this rather simple case—one is almost tempted to say it belongs to
normal moral life. A young woman about to graduate from college finds that
she has interest and considerable ability in two fields; she could become, let
us say, a philosopher or a biologist. Here we want to say that she chooses
between two interests, she cannot pursue both, and whichever she chooses
will be supreme in her life from then on. At first blush this does not seem to
be much of a choice of character. In either case, she chooses to develop the
virtues of a scholar; in either case, she may or may not become viciously
competitive, she may or may not subordinate friendships and family life to
her career, etc. These later choices, on the other hand, do appear to be
choices of character. Someone might choose not to become an academic of
any kind because she does not want to be tempted (or, as it might appear to
her, forced) to subordinate her personal relationships to her professional life.
But what then determines our young woman’s choice? Presumably, if her
interests and abilities are indeed equally balanced, it is that one of the alter-
natives promises a life in which she can satisfy more of her other longings.
Perhaps she believes that she can be more useful as a biologist, so that be-
13. James, Talks to Teachers, in Works, 10:164. I have discussed choices in normal
moral life. It is worth pointing out, however, that the choices of normal moral life tend
to be relatively rare, or at least are hardly noticed. Our priorities are set and almost
dictate our course of action. Our habits, virtuous and otherwise, enable us to act in
familiar situations almost without thinking.
14. For a different account of moral choice in critical moments, see Owen Flanagan,
“Identity and Strong and Weak Evaluation,” in Identity, Character and Morality, ed. O.
Flanagan and A. Rorty (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1993).
to make the distinction between normal moral life and what might be called
“existential” choices (James’s critical moments), choices that cannot be justi-
fied at the time of choosing by their reasonably anticipated consequences
because success, in these cases, cannot be foreseen.15 With some modifica-
tion and elaboration, that same case can be used to explore the interdepen-
dence of character and ends. The Gauguin here envisaged is a family man
who is keenly aware of his family responsibilities; he is also a man who
(unlike Williams, in least in his discussion of the case) recognizes and deeply
feels a moral obligation to realize his talents as a painter. After agonized re-
flection he decides that he must abandon his family in order to realize his
talents as a painter. One might say, then, that he knows that he will shirk
some duty whatever he does, but he can be sure of doing something right
only if he stays with his family. But can he? If he chose to stay, he might
come to see his family as nothing but a burden, a source of perpetual irrita-
tion. We may imagine that as the years go by, he becomes more and more
morose, perhaps even abusive; perhaps in the end he takes to drink. That, of
course, represents a failure of character, and one might say at that point that
he should have known himself well enough to know that he would not be
able to bring it off. Just so, if he goes to Tahiti but succumbs to Polynesian
life and fails to paint at all, or paints only rarely and fitfully, one would say
that he should have known himself better. There is, then, a connection be-
tween the person one is and the kind of interest one can justifiably make
supreme. Just as a person who needs to be physically active should not
choose a desk job, or someone excessively shy should not choose to be a re-
ceptionist, so too one’s moral strengths and weaknesses are relevant to one’s
critical moral choices. Just as Gauguin, according to Williams, was unable to
know whether he had a genuine talent, so one is unable to know one’s char-
acter, how one will react and behave in unfamiliar situations. Still, both with
respect to one’s talents and with respect to one’s character and personality,
one is not entirely in the dark, one can often know of weaknesses that should
preclude certain alternatives.
However, Gauguin might have turned out to be a merely mediocre
painter, someone who painted steadily and conscientiously but never pro-
duced a work of museum quality. Would Williams regard that as a justifying
success? I assume not, since one would hardly say of such a man that he “is
a genuinely gifted painter who can succeed in doing genuinely valuable
work.”16 Nevertheless, I would say of such a man that his decision and sub-
sequent actions fit into his life and were justified, if one is ever justified to
abandon one’s family in pursuit of the realization of one’s talents. Consider
a parallel case. One could say of Martin Luther King Jr. that he abandoned
his family when he devoted himself to a cause that would almost certainly
lead to periods of imprisonment and perhaps to an early, violent death.
What justified King’s choice was his profound commitment to social justice
and his conviction that he could best further that cause by becoming a
highly visible, highly exposed leader in that struggle. What King could not
know, as Gauguin could not have known the extent of his talents, was how
competent and inspiring a leader he would prove to be, how visible he would
become, how much he would contribute to the success of the civil rights
movement. Others whose talents were more limited or merely different, who
played lesser roles and contributed in a more limited way or less visible ways,
made the same choice out of the same deep commitment. We do not doubt
that they were as justified as was King himself. I am suggesting that if one is
justified in putting one ideal above another, in slighting one obligation for
the sake of another, then one’s success in realizing that ideal is not nearly as
morally important as Williams suggests. Only failure due to one’s moral
failings, which may include self-deception, is morally relevant.
Paul Seabright has suggested yet another way in which character and
projects may be related. According to Seabright’s reading of Portrait of a
Lady, Isabel Archer is a woman who makes it her project to have a certain
character. Seabright raises questions concerning the possibility of such a
project. In particular, he argues that “character may be subverted by the de-
sire to have or to form character” because one would concentrate one’s atten-
tion inward, on one’s being generous, rather than outward to discern situa-
tions that call for generosity and then to act accordingly.17 In her comment
on that paper Martha Nussbaum points out that if Seabright’s concerns were
to remain unanswered, they would undermine a character-based ethics.18
She then argues that in the Aristotelian sense of the word, the aim to have a
good character is not self-subverting in the manner suggested by Seabright.
“So the motivation to be a just person is supposed to be a motive that is what
we might call morally transparent: it is focused not upon the agent as the
author of the act, but directly upon the act itself, and its valuable character-
istics.”19 That seems to be right. Nussbaum is also right to point out that
Henry James understands how one might become a just person through a
process of education that would focus the attention of the learner away from
her own future role and to the problems that are to be solved. Lord Warburton
is the result of just such an education. But that reflection gives rise to a re-
lated problem.
Every action is an interaction; it changes both the world and the agent.
This appears to lead to paradox. It is easy enough to understand that charac-
ter limits the choices that are actually open to the agent, that are what James
calls “live options,” but then it appears that the adult agent willy-nilly rein-
forces her virtues as well as her vices. The child, on the other hand, has her
virtues reinforced and her vices discouraged by others. That does not quite
say that one could never have chosen other than as one did choose, but it
does seem to say that our choices only reinforce our character—pharaoh’s
heart can only become more hardened, criminals are beyond redemption,
but the good may be trusted implicitly. What then would be the point of
17. Paul Seabright, “The Pursuit of Unhappiness: Paradoxical Motivation and the
Subversion of Character in Henry James’s Portrait of a Lady,” Ethics 98 (1988): 313–
331, 314.
18. Martha Nussbaum, “Comment on Paul Seabright,” Ethics 98 (1988): 332–340.
19. Ibid., 333–334.
moral philosophy that emphasizes the critical role of character; how could
we ever be said to choose who we want to be?
The problem just raised seems to be the hoary problem of free will. James,
as is well known, believed in free will, but an ethics that emphasizes charac-
ter development can be shown to be empirically grounded and thus practi-
cally relevant without an appeal to free will. James points out that new hab-
its can be and are formed as the result of new experiences. “Now life abounds
in these, and sometimes they are such critical and revolutionary experiences
that they change a man’s whole scale of values and system of ideas. In such
cases, the old order of his habits will be ruptured: and if the new motives are
lasting, new habits will be formed, and build up in him a new or regenerate
‘nature.’”20 There are examples of sudden conversions, but for the most part,
the dynamics of character formation or character change in the adult must
be understood as a slow process. All of us know regretfully of virtues lost
through neglect, and perhaps some of us know of virtues gained through
determined vigilance. As one’s children grow up, one is apt to lose that spe-
cial vigilance without which they would not have survived their early years;
in its place one learns to develop a certain toughness, and ability to let them
get into trouble and to let them extricate themselves by themselves. Luck,
good or ill, may prompt other changes. A man who has always been de-
manding and impatient may learn to be helpful and patient when his wife
becomes seriously ill. It is not the case, then, that as adults we are reduced to
reinforcing our already settled characters. Life presents us again and again
with the opportunity to change, to grow. We must grasp these opportunities
lest we diminish. This point is made most emphatically by John Dewey.
“Everywhere,” he says, “there is an opportunity and a need to go beyond
what one has been, beyond . . . the body of desires, affections, and habits
which has been potent in the past. . . . The good person is precisely the one
who is . . . the most concerned to find openings for the newly forming or
growing self.”21
Because James believes that we can form our own character, he offers
advice on how to form habits. This advice is directed not merely at teachers
attempting to aid their students in developing good habits but at anyone
22. James, Talk to Teachers, in Works, 10:52, and Principles, in Works, 8:126.
23. James, The Will to Believe, in Works, 6:159.
24. James, Principles, in Works, 8:293.
25. Ibid., 315.
a different person. Both the self one is and the self one seeks to become are
what one’s intelligence and temperament make of one’s experiences and of
the fortunately somewhat incoherent influences of one’s society.
A life is not a string of actions chosen one by one. A life has a shape, a co-
herence due to the character and aims of the person whose life it is. So far this
essay has paid more attention to character than to ideals, although these were
seen to be closely connected, especially in critical moments. Still, knowing a
person’s character does not suffice to tell one her ideals. Moreover, when James
concentrates on the casuistic question as it confronts the philosopher qua phi-
losopher, he speaks of ideals. The moral philosopher is to bring the ideals she
finds into a coherent system. We therefore must turn now to ideals.
learned from the Greeks that the moral life is an examined life; it requires the
opportunity to reflect. What one reflects upon may be the sort of person one
is or wishes to be; or it may be the ends, the projects, and ideals that make one’s
life a life. One examines and reaffirms actions, habits, and customs that lead to
or maintain desired ends; one criticizes and changes actions, habits, and cus-
toms that fail to accomplish one’s projects or to realize one’s ideals. Ends, in
turn, may be reconsidered, reshaped, even replaced by other ends because
(changed) circumstances make their attainment impossible or because we find
that they can be realized only at a cost we are unwilling to pay. Thus, “separate
but equal” was rejected by our society because separate was found to be inher-
ently unequal, but we still seek that elusive balance of freedom and equality
called justice. Or painting in Tahiti enables (the real) Gauguin to provide for
his family and to give full play to his creativity and talent.
The claim, central to pragmatist ethics, that there can be no moral life
without reflection and no reflection without ideals, projects, aims, ends in
view needs defending. One objection against it is that reflection is a rather
cerebral activity, so that demanding reflection seems to relegate a lot of sim-
ple people, people who are kind, who “see” what is amiss and how it is to be
helped, who do the right thing habitually, etc., to a lower moral rank than
they deserve. Insistence on reflection appears to be intellectual snobbery.
The answer to that is, I think, twofold. First, it is the objector rather than the
pragmatist who thinks that “simple people” (Tolstoyan peasants?) are inca-
pable of moral growth through reflection. We know that some of those who
courageously saved Jews from the Nazis—men and women who rejected
both the conventional wisdom of timidity and the dominant antisemi-
tism—were simple people with only an elementary education. To be sure,
the first move toward saving a Jew was often done “without thinking,” as
something one just had to do, but in the days, the weeks, and sometimes the
months to come, reflection was inevitable, not only reflection on how best
to achieve the aim of saving this Jew but on whether to continue with the
dangerous endeavor. Second, in fortunate circumstances the results of reflec-
tion may not be any startling deviation from the norm; it may show itself
only in doing better what everyone says ought to be done. Seeing better, in
the sense emphasized by Murdoch, is itself a result of reflection.28 Finally, a
sense of doing the right thing, or having done the right thing, without
28. Iris Murdoch, The Sovereignty of Good (New York: Schocken, 1971).
29. For a more sustained discussion of the role of reflection in our moral lives, and
in particular of Tolstoyan peasants, see Owen Flanagan, “Identity.”
30. James, The Will to Believe, in Works, 6:141–142, 158.
31. Ibid., 156.
32. James, Essays in Philosophy, in Works, 5:32. My colleague Ken Winkler correctly
pointed out that John Stuart Mill was also not a hedonist. It would lead too far afield
to examine the differences between James and Mill, or the question whether Mill was
strictly speaking utilitarian. Here it suffices to defend the claim that James was not a
utilitarian.
33. See, e.g., Dewey, Ethics, in Middle Works, 5:122–123.
calls the psychological question is an inquiry into the origins of our valuing,
while the casuistic question deals with evaluation. Although James grants that
many of our valuings have arisen in direct association with bodily pleasures
and reliefs from bodily pains and that others result from the influence of pub-
lic opinion, he insists both in “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life” and
more emphatically in the last chapter of the Principles that we have what he
calls there a “higher moral sensibility.” This makes us feel immediately how
hideous it would be to achieve the felicity of millions at the expense of the
unending torture of one lost soul; it explains the feelings that cause many of to
eschew the eating of meat, etc. James’s consequentialism thus includes already
among the consequences to be counted any moral goods that one might fear
would be endangered by consequentialism. Whether James can defend him-
self against the objection by Philippa Foot is less clear.
Concerning utilitarianism Foot says, “There will in fact be nothing that it
will not be right to do to a perfectly innocent individual if that is the only
way of preventing another agent from doing more things of the same kind.”34
Presumably, compassion would prevent many from committing such ac-
tions, and James regards compassion as one of the basic emotions without
which morality cannot gain a foothold. (In his notes for lectures on ethics he
asks himself repeatedly whether one could persuade a person who lacks the
altruistic impulse to act morally.)35 However, even if justice is, as James
maintains, a value of which we are immediately sensible, it is not clear that
the Jamesian agent must refuse to do an injustice to one even when that
means letting others do an injustice to many. Saying that one would feel
immediately how hideous it would be deliberately to purchase the happiness
of millions at the cost of one soul’s eternal suffering does not commit James
to rejecting that bargain after reflection or, needless to say, to accepting it.
There are perhaps more moral dilemmas in James’s moral world than in
Foot’s, and that may be all to the good. A theory that claims to resolve all
moral dilemmas may fail to do justice to the complexity of our moral lives.
However, opening the doors so widely to our moral intuitions will compli-
cate the casuistic question, the question of evaluation, of establishing “the
measure of the various goods and ills which men recognize.”36
34. Philippa Foot, “Utilitarianism and the Virtues,” Mind 94 (1985): 196–209, 198.
35. For example, James, Manuscripts, Essays and Notes, in Works, 17: 303.
36. James, The Will to Believe, in Works, 6:142.
The moral philosopher is to weave the ideals she finds in the world into
the unity of a stable system without giving any special weight to any ideals
of her own except for this ideal of coherence. This turns out to be an impos-
sible task. Since the “elementary forces in ethics are probably as plural as
those of physics are,” which rules out any form of reductionism, and since
all ideals cannot be satisfied simultaneously, the moral philosopher must
ultimately appeal to her own moral sensibilities. That idea fills James with
horror. “Better chaos forever than an order based on any closet-philosopher’s
rule, even though he were the most enlightened member of the tribe.”37 But
James is not prepared to fall back on moral skepticism. Rather, what this
attempt at an a priori ethics has taught him is that “so far as the casuistic
question goes, ethical science is just like physical science, and instead of be-
ing deducible all at once from abstract principles, must simply bide its time,
and be ready to revise its conclusions from day to day.” What James is pre-
pared to offer his readers is not a system but rather a criterion.
Since everything which is demanded is by that fact a good, must not the
guiding principle for ethical philosophy (since all the demands conjointly
cannot be satisfied in this poor world) be simply to satisfy at all times as many
demands as we can? That act must be the best, accordingly, which makes for
the best whole, in the sense of awakening the least sum of dissatisfactions. In
the casuistic scale, therefore, those ideals must be written highest which pre-
vail at the least cost or by whose realization the least possible number of other
ideals are destroyed.38
Unfortunately, this passage raises the suspicion that James is simply in-
consistent. I shall argue that he is not. The suspicion arises as follows. If the
guiding principle for ethical philosophy is
1. That act is best that awakens the least sum of dissatisfactions, then
James appears after all to be an act-utilitarian, though not a hedonis-
tic one, since, as mentioned above, he denies that all demands are
reducible to desires for physical pleasure and aversion to physical
pain. But this “guiding principle” is glossed as follows:
Though (2) is vague—how would one count ideals?—it coheres far better
than (1) with the account I have given of James’s views. This results in the
following reading of the troubling passage.
James does not intend us to take all existing desires as they happen to be
and to seek what will satisfy the greatest number of them. Rather, we are to
pursue those ideals that can be realized at the least cost to other ideals. If not
every object of desire is an ideal but only those that shape desires, or at any
rate significant parts thereof, then large numbers of more or less temporary
desires may well be sacrificed for the realization of an ideal. That, it seems to
me, is an accurate description of how we actually manage to lead reasonably
contented, reasonably coherent lives. Again and again we sacrifice small de-
sires to long-range projects. Why should we not apply to the public domain
what stands us in good stead in our private lives? If this is right, “the best act”
is the act that fits into the most inclusive ideal and that, of all acts that so fit,
awakens the least sum of dissatisfactions.
However, we are not yet home free. What is inclusiveness when it comes
to ideals? There are several possibilities. An ideal may be more inclusive than
another because it is espoused by a greater number of persons, because it
benefits more people, or because it encompasses a greater number of lesser
ideals, perhaps as the result of a process of compromise and accommodation.
Thus we might say that the ideal of freedom of conscience is more inclusive
than the ideal of toleration for Christian sects only, since it benefits more
people; we might also say that the ideal of respect is more inclusive than the
ideal of mere tolerance, since it includes the latter. However, though realiza-
tion of freedom of conscience would have benefited the greater number of
persons at all times, this ideal was espoused for most of human history only
by a small number. Moreover, the question of benefit depends, at least some-
times, on what people demand. Religious fundamentalists believe that free-
dom of conscience threatens the very values that it leaves them free to pursue
in a pluralist society. Were they the majority, they would attempt to impose
their faith on everyone and consider themselves and us the beneficiaries.
Nevertheless, religious freedom is the more inclusive ideal, since it permits
the greater part of the fundamentalists’ ideals as well as the realization of the
greater part of the ideals of those of other persuasions.
ening, noncoercive setting would include those ideals that were modified or
even abandoned during the discussion. That such consensus can be reached
on issues of vital importance—avoiding nuclear war, preserving the bio-
sphere, raising the standard of living in the have-not nations—is indeed our
last, best hope, but the rules governing this type of discussion reflect once
again respect for the dignity of the participants.
Respect for the dignity of the individual and the freedoms and equalities
that such respect implies cannot be grounded in a deeper foundation. We
can only exhibit their glory. That is why James is right to tell us that “books
upon ethics, therefore, so far as they truly touch the moral life, must more
and more ally themselves with a literature that is confessedly tentative and
suggestive rather than dogmatic—I mean with novels and dramas of the
deeper sort, with sermons, with books on statecraft and social and economic
reform.”43 To be sure, James was moved to this declaration not by appre-
hending that the ideal of an inclusive ideal is itself not morally neutral but
rather by a lively appreciation of the fallibility of all philosophers. “Like the
rest of us non-philosophers,” the philosopher “cannot know for certain in
advance” which is the most inclusive ideal.
For James, moral progress occurs when more and more human beings in
their demands and in their actions realize ideals that encompass greater and
greater numbers of lesser ideals. That presupposes that one knows what
those ideals are. That is why one must begin with the ideals one finds exist-
ing in one’s society, but it is also why that can only be a starting point. One’s
problem is set precisely because one is confronted with a clash of values, a
conflict of demands, incompatible standards. The task of finding more in-
clusive ideals is, therefore, truly formidable. One is tempted to fall back on
the wisdom of mankind, which in practice means endorsing the scale of the
narrower society to which one happens to belong. This temptation is further
encouraged by the fact James believed, as we perhaps do not, that mankind
has made, was making, and would continue to make moral progress. He was
“confident that the line of least resistance will always be towards the richer
and the more inclusive arrangement, and that by one tack after another
some approach to the kingdom of heaven is incessantly made.”44 To the ex-
tent that the present ideals clash with earlier ones, it would then appear that
the earlier ones gave way to the later ones because they could not be accom-
modated in a coherent comprehensive scheme. Nevertheless, may there not
be ideals espoused by our predecessors that might offer solutions to some of
our pressing contemporary ills? Should we not, in the interests of both ob-
jectivity and further moral progress, reconsider all past ideals? That would
appear to be a waste of effort. Surely, the result of humanity’s experiments
with slavery are sufficiently clear that we need no longer ask what is wrong
with it. Nevertheless, as philosophers we must resist the temptation to be
blind partisans of the present. On the one hand, any past ideal that has con-
temporary champions (e.g., the communitarian ideal) must be reconsidered,
even if the reconsideration serves only to remind us why we rejected it be-
fore. On the other hand, though the presumption both in science and in
morality is in favor of the accepted opinion, progress in both is due to those
courageous individuals who “may replace old ‘laws of nature’ by better ones
[or,] by breaking old moral rules in a certain place, bring in a total condition
of things more ideal than could have been followed had the rules been
kept.”45 James mentions Tolstoy’s ideal of nonviolent resistance; we may
think of Martin Luther King Jr. as an American who broke the old rules to
bring about more ideal conditions. Here it is worth recalling that the revo-
lutionary must choose “with fear and trembling” and be prepared “to stake
his life and character upon the throw.” James does not encourage utopia-
nism. Indeed, he regards it as contemptible.
We have come full circle. Moral life consists of normal stretches punctuated
by critical moments. During the normal stretches our conduct is shaped by
our virtues and vices and directed by our ideals. Our problems consist on the
one hand in resisting temptation and on the other in finding the best means
to our ends. During the critical moments we choose new ideals or reaffirm
or modify old ones guided by nothing but ourselves. Our character limits
our choices and will be modified by the choices we make. The right act is the
act that fits into a certain life, fits the character one is and wants to become.
The right act is also the act that fits into the most inclusive ideal. These are
not incompatible characterizations, for the character and the ideal are not
independent. Together they constitute the agent, the person, who she is. To
be sure, another person may judge that a certain action, though it fits into
the agent’s most inclusive ideal, fails to fit into the most inclusive ideal of the
relevant community. A theory of the moral life that denied the possibility of
conflict between an individual and her society would not be true to the facts.
It would also fail to do justice to James, who was fully aware of the need for
social criticism and reform. But with this acknowledgment I must drop this
matter here.
These criteria of fitting (into a life, with a character, into an ideal) sound
less consequentialist than James’s concern with the most inclusive ideal
would suggest. In practice, however, they are often the only criteria available
at a moment of critical choice, for often the consequences cannot be known.
That makes the choice one to be undertaken with fear and trembling.
However, having chosen, having acted, we must listen for the cries of the
wounded, who would inform us if we have made a bad mistake and would
motivate us to begin anew.
Having dealt at length with the casuistic question as well as, though more
briefly, with the psychological one, I want to return in conclusion to the is-
sue of objectivity, James’s metaphysical question. For James, values exist only
in so far as they are so experienced. That, however, does not yet provide for
objectivity. For “truth,” he writes, “supposes a standard outside the thinker
to which he must conform.”46 That standard is provided by a community of
thinkers who make demands upon one another and acknowledge these de-
mands. In practice we learn that our moral judgments have been mistaken
when those we have wounded respond to our actions with cries of pain and
indignation. Our capacity to care for one another lies at the very foundation
of the objectivity of moral judgments. But it is entirely compatible with this
approach that different cultures, different traditions, should forever believe
in and attempt to realize different ideals. James’s account is, to say the least,
too sketchy to provide a clear response to the charge of cultural relativism.
Such a response would begin by saying that James’s fallibilism with respect
to ideals means simply that the final inclusive ideal will leave room for many
ways of life that will share a commitment to pluralism. James’s moral philos-
ophy calls for a sympathetic reader to interpret, interpolate, and smooth
over what appear to be contradictions. I have only begun to do that here.
Nevertheless, I hope to have shown that a pragmatic ethics has more to offer
than has been acknowledged by most contemporary moral philosophers.
Note
An earlier draft of this essay was presented to the Philosophy Club at the
University of Virginia. I benefited from the discussion that followed, espe-
cially from remarks by Cora Diamond and a student whose name I do not
know. I was also helped by conversation with Owen Flanagan and Amélie
Rorty. The penultimate draft of this essay was read with great care by Ken
Winkler, whose comments prevented me from making at least one serious
blunder and enabled me to be clearer than I otherwise would have been. To
all these people I am most grateful.
MORAL SKEPTICS maintain that there are no objective moral values, or that
there is no moral knowledge, or no moral facts, or that what looks like a
statement which makes a moral judgment is not really a statement and does
not have a truth-value. All of this is rather unclear because all of it is nega-
tive. It will be necessary to remove some of this unclarity because my aim in
this essay is to establish a proposition which may be summarized by saying
even if there are no objective moral values in one sense, there are objective
moral values in another sense, and the latter values are good enough to do
some of the jobs that objective values in the first sense would have done. A
useful analogy might be that of a person who has lost her hand and has been
given a prosthesis. In one sense the prosthesis is not as real (because man-
made) as the hand; in another sense it is just as real (both are physical ob-
jects); most importantly, the person can do with the prosthesis enough of
what she could do with the hand to make do.
moral facts, or, to put this another way, they want to say that there are scien-
tific facts but there are no moral facts.
Ordinary men and women who are not moral skeptics are prepared to
contrast the goodness of, say, honesty with the goodness of vanilla ice-cream.
Honesty, they believe, is good whether or not we find it easy or prudent to
be honest and even if the duty to be honest conflicts at times with other
moral duties. In contrast, the goodness of vanilla ice-cream is simply a mat-
ter of people’s liking for vanilla ice-cream. The utter subjectivity of the good-
ness of vanilla ice-cream is to be contrasted with the objectivity of the but-
terfat content of a certain brand of vanilla ice-cream (which may be a
measure of ‘goodness’ relative to officially adopted standards), and with the
question whether vanilla ice-cream is ‘good for’ a certain person (does it
satisfy her nutritional needs or does it provoke an allergic reaction?), which
is also objective. Finally, it may be worthwhile to point to one more way in
which ordinary people show that they take the goodness of vanilla ice-cream
to be subjective: they are not the least bit disturbed if other people do not
share their liking for vanilla ice-cream.
Moral skeptics deny the contrast just described between the objective
moral goodness of honesty and the subjective goodness of vanilla ice-
cream. They hold that all moral goodness is ultimately subjective. Although
some goodness, perhaps even some moral goodness, may be objective rel-
ative to standards, functions, purposes, such relative objectivity, they say,
simply postpones our confronting the ultimate subjectivity of all moral
values. There are considerable differences in what are cited as reasons for
moral skepticism: the arguments from cultural relativism, from ‘queer-
ness’, from moral disagreements, etc. There are even disagreements on how
to formulate the position: old-fashioned emotivists say that ‘there are
moral values’ is metaphysical nonsense as is any expression which asserts
the intrinsic goodness of anything; metaphysical moral skeptics say, in-
stead, that all such expressions are false. These differences do not interest
me; for all versions of moral skepticism based on whatever grounds cause
anguish if taken seriously. It is, however, important to emphasize that
when moral skeptics say that there are no objective moral values (or that
all moral judgments are meaningless) they deny in the first instance that
there are any absolute moral values. Nothing simply ought to exist (whether
any human being has an interest in its existence or not) so that any action
which brings it about or preserves it would be justified in so far as it does
just that. No action is simply obligatory apart from any human institution
or practice of which it is a part.
The view that there are no objective moral values, that it is all a ‘matter of
opinion’ has found its way into the popular culture. Our children bring it
home from their secondary schools, our students challenge us with it in
moral philosophy classes. In its popular version it is, I believe, a genuine
skepticism: what is taken to be the certainty of scientific knowledge (a cer-
tainty which nonscientists tend to exaggerate) is contrasted with the uncer-
tainty of moral beliefs (as evidenced by the prevalence of seemingly unre-
solvable moral disagreements).
In common with some other contemporary philosophers, primarily phi-
losophers in the United States, I believe that the popular view to which I just
alluded, and the view of the philosophers from which it derives, is mistaken;
but I shall not attempt to criticize the view in this essay. Instead I want to
suggest why the view is found troubling. If there were objective moral val-
ues, they would provide us with justifications for action; we could say, “I did
that because it was my duty.” But if there are no objective moral values, or if
moral values cannot be known, then there are ultimately no justifications for
actions; the responsibility is all ours. A governor might, to be sure, justify his
refusal to commute a death sentence by claiming that he merely upheld the
constitution of his state and thus obeyed his oath of office; but that will not
satisfy any firm opponent of the death penalty, and one wonders how much
comfort the governor derives from that reflection when he contemplates the
possibility that the condemned man may have been innocent.
Needless to say, I am not suggesting that in the absence of absolute moral
values we do not act; for there are sufficient causes for action ranging from
mere whims to dire needs. Indeed, I shall argue presently that out of some
needs justifications for action may be fashioned; but whether that is so or not,
we long for moral values. I suspect that this longing itself has multiple causes.
Sometimes we want to give others reasons for acting in a certain way, but we
do not want to coerce them. Sometimes we want to justify an action of our
own but do not want to claim that we were simply helpless cogs in a causal
machine. Sometimes we want to explain a persistent moral disagreement by
cause they were created in response to a human need, that human need
constrains what they are, they are better or worse precisely to the extent that
they satisfy that human need and do not as a ‘side effect’ thwart other im-
portant human needs.
But when it is said that since there is no God and there are no preexisting
values, we create values, the result is anguish. I know of no philosopher who
has emphasized more clearly than Sartre both that we cannot escape creating
values (we do so whenever we choose to act, and even when we choose not
to act) and that this fact causes anguish. We experience anguish because
self-created values do not provide a firm basis for a common morality; we
experience anguish because values which exist only after the fact of choosing
make choosing arbitrary. Here I am interested in Sartre’s response to that last
complaint.
Having pointed out that choosing takes place in a situation in which the
chooser is involved, and that one’s choice involves all mankind, Sartre con-
tinues, “Doubtless he chooses without reference to pre-established values,
but it is unfair to accuse him of caprice. Instead, let us say that moral choice
is to be compared to the making of a work of art.”2
I shall wish to return to this suggestion of Sartre’s below; it seems to me
to be extraordinarily helpful to compare the creation of moral values with
the creation of the artist and even more so the artisan.
But first I wish to look at another case for human creativity, namely the
creation of facts as described by Nelson Goodman in Ways of Worldmaking.3
My intention in drawing your attention to fact-making is not to cause you
to become skeptics about facts as well as about values; on the contrary, the
point is to say that since we get along well enough with facts although they
are made-by-us, we should entertain the suggestion that we can get along
well enough with made-by-us moral values. We must, of course, ask what
prevents facts made by us from being arbitrary and whether similar con-
straints are present in the case of value-making. This is where the analogy
with the work of artists and of artisans will prove helpful.
Goodman points out that “we must distinguish falsehood and fiction from
truth and facts, but we cannot, I am sure, do it on the ground that fiction is
fabricated and fact found.”4 What then are facts? Facts are, in the first in-
stance, facts about objects, about trees and leaves and monkeys and even
those complicated objects, human beings. I do not wish to raise any doubts
concerning the existence of the ‘external world’ or ‘other minds’, nor do I
wish to worry about ‘mind-body interactions’; but with Goodman, and in a
tradition which goes back at least to Kant, I wish to cast doubt on the notion
of facts independent of us.
There is a familiar distinction between facts and theories. I do not know
whether any one still holds that there is a hard and fast dichotomy; perhaps
everyone will agree that the boundaries are fuzzy. The main point is that,
according to the common view, facts can be verified here and now, or with
very little effort. Facts are the way things are, the way things (or events) hap-
pen; theories explain why things are the way they are, why events happen the
way they happen; in short, theories explain facts. Even if Goodman were
wrong and facts were to be found, theories do not lie about, theories are not
found. Theories are inferred by what Peirce called abduction. Abduction
involves the inventing of a theory which, if it were true, would make it a
matter of course that the facts to be explained are what they are, happen as
they happen. Thus the human element in the ‘discovery’ of theories is obvi-
ous; theories are indeed invented or created. Theories are not mere summa-
ries of old facts nor mere projections of such summaries on the future.
Theories are at the very least new ways of looking at old facts.
In his discussion of creativity among scientists, Arieti emphasizes the im-
portance of seeing both similarities that others had not seen and seeing dif-
ferences among the things that are so newly identified.5 Because theories are
new ways of looking at old facts (and that may be very much more complex
than noticing similarities and differences that others had not noticed), theo-
ries could never be wholly verified nor wholly falsified by the facts even if
facts were entirely stolid. If I ask a child to sort pieces of cardboard in various
4. Ibid., 91.
5. Silvano Arieti, Creativity (New York: Basic Books, 1976), chap. 11.
primary colors and various simple shapes by color, then there is a clear answer
to the question whether the child has done it ‘right’. But if I ask the child
merely to ‘sort’ the pieces, then there are many right ways of accomplishing
the task, and we can perhaps never be quite sure that the child has done it
‘wrong’ or misunderstood the instructions. Still, some ways of sorting will be
accepted by us immediately; they fit our notion of ‘sorts’ (color, shape, size,
texture), and others we may accept if the child can give a reason (red and
yellow pieces go together because these are warm colors, blue pieces are sep-
arate because they are cold). Some sortings will be so bizarre from our point
of view and so inexplicable by the child that we are going to regard them as
‘wrong’. And if the colored cardboard pieces come in various shades rather
than just the primary colors, there may even be sortings by color, of which we
are at a loss to say whether they are ‘right’ or ‘wrong’.
Although I presented the child’s sorting as analogous to theory
construction because in its open-endedness it is indeed an example of allow-
ing for new ways of looking at old facts, it is perhaps better to consider it as
an example of fact-making. For theories are supposed to explain facts, but
here there appear to be no facts to be explained. Instead, by its sorting, the
child ‘creates’ facts of sameness.
I am tempted to spend more time on theory-construction, for this is one
of the exciting ways in which human beings are creative. Theory-creation is
appreciated as being crucial to human progress; scientifically creative indi-
viduals are seen as assets to modern society, and considerable research has
been devoted to finding out the conditions for creative flourishing of the
scientific kind. But what is relevant now is only that once again the specter
of arbitrariness and subjectivity threatens to haunt us. Theories, because they
are human creations, need warrant; only theories which can be warranted by
facts are scientific theories. However, we just received our first hint that facts
too might be created by us.
It is helpful to think of scientific theories as analogous to moral-legal-
political systems. The latter enable us to find our way in the confusing
tangle of human relationships; the former enable us to find our way in, to
explain and predict, the confusing tangle that is nature (including human
nature). We noted that moral-legalpolitical systems stand in need of war-
rant (moral justification); we said that they would be warranted if there
were moral values. We observed that if there are no ready-made values, we
shall have to create them; and we ended by noting that people do not find
How then can we draw a line between fact and fiction, between right
versions and wrong ones? What troubles us in the suggestion that facts are
not found but fabricated is this: Goodman reminds us of the experiments
by Kolers in which subjects see flashes of light at such short intervals and
in such close spatial proximity that they report seeing one moving light.
Now, given what we have learned from the physicists, we describe this by
saying that the psychologist performs experiments concerning apparent
motion. Clearly, to speak this way is to express a preference for the physi-
cists’ version. It would be better to say with Goodman that there is a phys-
icists’ version and a perceptual version of what happens. But apparently
some subjects have internalized the physicists’ version to such an extent
that they are unable to ‘see’ the moving dot of light; they always see dis-
tinct flashes. There is a drawing in N. R. Hanson’s Patterns of Discovery
which can be seen as either an old woman or a young one.8 I have never
been able to see the young one. What troubles us about the subjects who
fail to report that they see a moving spot of light, and what troubles me
about myself when I fail to see the young woman, is that our reports fail
to fit into a certain larger story. We do not (the subjects and I) lie, of
course, but our inability to see what is in some sense ‘there’ calls for an
explanation just as much as the blind man’s inability to see any spot of
light at all. He is blind, the subjects who fail to respond as expected either
misunderstand the instructions or . . . And I? What makes a certain report
right or wrong in these cases is that it fits, or does not fit, into a suitable
larger story. Every experimenter when he turns to construct a theory to fit
his data discards some of the latter as erroneous; often he can identify a
cause (or a likely cause) of the error, but there are times when data are re-
jected simply because they do not fit. And this is the point at which we
become uneasy. At which point does this sort of thing turn into ‘the theory
justifies the data’, thereby undermining the very integrity of science? At
what point do the facts which are to be the foundation of science turn into
fictions?
There is a persistent nagging conviction that after all anything we make is,
just because we make it, arbitrary. Knowledge and morality without foundation
give us a sense of vertigo. It does not help, rather it increases the sense of vertigo,
when Goodman says that “the arts must be taken no less seriously than the
sciences as modes of discovery, creation, and enlargement of knowledge in the
broad sense of advancement of the understanding,” for that seems to say that
there are even more possible versions (or worlds) than we had thought.9
provides most of the limits. The shape, etc., of a spoon is not arbitrary precisely
because spoons are created to answer a need. Why then should facts or values
be suspect because they are created in response to a need? (2) Additional limits
are provided by tradition on the one hand, by what has been done, and by some
sense of style on the other, by what is done. In Asia spoons are often made of
china; in the United States they are almost always made of metal. These tradi-
tions themselves have their roots in what materials were available and what
techniques were known. Finally, although styles vary, styles set limits to sport-
ing, and hence to what is acceptable by way of originality.
When we turn to art in the ‘high’ sense, we discover that here too there
are constraints which artists learn as they go through what is essentially an
apprenticeship. Roy Harris, in speaking of the creative musician, mentions
that he must learn a musical language which consists of traditional symbols,
“yet in each generation the composer is driven from within by his own ideas
and from without by the dictates of his inarticulate social environment to
formulate new idioms of expression which modify tradition and add to it.”10
Harris sees the musician as intensifying, reaffirming, releasing, and translat-
ing universal human emotions into the “idioms of culture.” In 1942 Rhys
Carpenter traced the development of technique in painting as a develop-
ment spurred on by the need to represent nature. Yet he stressed the impor-
tance of style; “style must be a living thing . . . [so that] no style has any
strength or any hold unless it seems to the artist his own attainment, suscep-
tible to growth and change through his own use of it.”11 Both Harris and
Carpenter emphasize the importance of autonomous creation within limits;
works of art are neither readymade nor arbitrary sporting. Here I am inter-
ested in the latter aspect. What keeps the work of art—any art—from being
arbitrary, it seems, is just what keeps the work of the artisan from being ar-
bitrary: the boundaries set by the needs to which the work responds, the
techniques and materials which are available, what may broadly be called
style, and some sort of fitting into the larger culture. How then does it stand
with facts and with values?
10. Roy Harris, “The Basis of Artistic Creation in Music,” in The Bases of Artistic
Creation, ed. Maxwell Anderson, Rhys Carpenter, and Roy Harris (New Brunswick,
NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1942), 27.
11. Rhys Carpenter, “The Basis of Artistic Creation in Painting,” in The Bases of
Artistic Creation, 58.
Let us begin with facts. Facts, we said, are created because we need warrant
for our theories. Theories are created because we need to explain facts. Facts
and theories are created because we need to find our way about in nature.
William James reminds us that “we live in a world of realities that can be
infinitely useful or infinitely harmful. Ideas that tell us which of them to
expect count as true ideas.”12 James’s true ideas are my facts, and like the
works of artists, these facts are constrained by the materials out of which
they are fashioned, by the techniques of fact-making already available, and
by the needs that give rise to them. I do not wish to force the analogy. Let
me say simply that (1) we are constrained by the actual sensory inputs we
receive; (2) we are constrained by what we have made of our sensory inputs
in the past, the conceptual framework embodied in our prior beliefs, what
we have taken to be facts so far; and (3) we are constrained by the insistent
demand for coherence and consistency. In speaking of sensory inputs I have,
of course, already engaged in worldmaking; the facts of worldmaking are
themselves made. Goodman says that “things and worlds and even the stuff
they are made of—matter, antimatter, mind, energy, or whatnot—are fash-
ioned along with the things and worlds themselves,” and concerning the
second constraint he reminds us, “Some of the felt stubbornness of fact is
the grip of habit: our firm foundation is indeed stolid.”13 The third con-
straint has to do with the limits to our creativity, limits which point in op-
posite directions. On the one hand, we must be selective. We must impose
an order that eliminates from consideration much of what is there and ar-
ranges what is left so that it clearly answers to the need or interest that sent
us off making new facts in the first place. On the other hand, as Erich
Fromm points out, creativity consists in “seeing and responding” as opposed
to cognizing and verbalizing.14 The kind of seeing Fromm has in mind con-
sists in becoming aware of what has been excluded from notice by the cur-
rent version, of what, in a sense, does not exist in the current world. I heard
a social worker say once that alcoholism does not exist in a community until
it is seen to be a problem; children see beautiful flowers where adults see only
weeds. Fromm points out that children and creative scientists share “the ca-
pacity to be puzzled” which is “the premise of all creation, be it in art or in
science.”15
Noting limits on the creation of facts points in opposite directions be-
cause the need that prompts us to create directs our attention to certain
features of the world and away from others. Faced with a problem, the first
‘sorting’ is a sorting into aids, obstacles, and irrelevancies, and what is irrel-
evant is thereafter ignored. But often what has been thus discarded turns out
to be precisely the needed resource. Children are more observant, more of-
ten puzzled, and to that extent more creative than adults in part because they
do not look at the world in terms of a finished and familiar version and
partly because often they do not look at the world through the spectacles of
a problem. The worlds of children have not yet been sorted into resource,
obstacle, and irrelevancy.
I have not, in what I have said, argued for the view that we create facts;
still less have I defended the view against realist objections. I do not take that
to be my task in this essay. Rather, I want to suggest that looking at facts as
made by us in the sense here briefly elucidated may enable us to escape the
moral vertigo which moral skepticism tends to induce when it causes us to
look at values as made by us. For ordinary men and women as well as most
moral skeptics find the facts of ordinary life quite stable (‘objective’) enough
to make do, and they tend to exaggerate the dependability of science. I have
suggested that the facts are stable enough because our liberty in fact-making
is limited by our various needs to know and a number of constraints related
to those needs. If it turns out that our liberty in creating moral values is
similarly limited by the needs in response to which we create moral values
and by additional constraints related to those needs, then that, one hopes,
will allay some of the anguish produced by the realization that there are no
moral values in the old (intuitionist or transcendental or ‘nonnatural’) sense.
Why then do we need values? The question can be understood in two
senses: (a) when do we, you and I, experience a lack of values? and (b) why
do human beings need any values at all? The answer to the first question is
that we experience a lack of values when there is a lacuna in the structure of
values which generally guides our actions or when we are confronted with a
seemingly irresolvable clash of values. The answer to the second question is
that we need values in order to have reasons (of the kind that may serve as
justifications) for our actions, and more generally in order to choose. That
second need humankind has largely met by constructing complex systems of
morality, law, political arrangements, customs and etiquette, religious prac-
tice, and a host of ‘imperatives of skill’ ranging from cookbook recipes and
instructions for do-it-yourselfers to mathematical algorithms and architects’
blueprints. Only a small part of this system consists of moral values as we
ordinarily understand that phrase, but for my purposes here it does not
matter where (or whether) a clear (or fuzzy) line between moral and non-
moral values might be drawn. Again, some of this complex system has be-
come so thoroughly internalized that it seems now as immune from critique
as is instinctual behavior. One might again raise the question of linedrawing;
but again the question is of no concern in this essay. It is, however, worth
pointing out that any line-drawing in either case is itself a case of fact-mak-
ing and, in so far as it has any bearing on our evaluating of values, of val-
ue-making. Think, for example, of the questions whether prudence and mo-
rality are in conflict or the same in the long run, or whether we have a
Humean sentiment of humanity or moral reason stands over against all in-
clinations.
We may combine these two answers and say that ordinary men and
women, you and I, need values when we are confronted with choices—that
is, when neither instinct, nor deeply ingrained habit, nor internalized values,
nor a set of explicit instructions has set us on a road with no exits. Often,
however, even when we are choosing we do not experience anguish, and this
may be so for various reasons. The choice may be, for us, merely practical
(although it may involve moral considerations for someone else); or some
reflection may cause us to realize that one alternative is clearly ruled out by
moral obligations which we do not intend to shun, and so on. In short, the
part of the complex of morality, law, etc., which we have accepted but need
actively to think about in order to be guided by it will often provide an an-
swer to the question “What shall I do?” Often that answer is of a kind which
will serve as a justification even if things should turn out badly later or if
someone whose moral authority we acknowledge or whose moral judgment
we respect should voice disapproval. In those situations we say, “Yes, I con-
sidered the alternatives carefully, and, yes, I am saddened by what happened;
but all things considered I could not have done otherwise and still respect
myself, and I would do the same thing again.” Or one might say, “Yes, I
knew that you would disapprove or at any rate that you would act differ-
ently; but still on reflection, and having considered what you would say on
the other side, I am quite sure that I did the right thing.” In these cases we
appeal to the existing structure, the structure provides the values we need,
and we are not forced to examine the basis of that structure.
That much of the structure is made by us is admitted by everyone; the
question whether any of it is not made by us is one of the questions which I
do not intend to address in this essay. My aim is to say merely that even if all
of the structure is made by us, the structure neither in its parts nor as a whole
is arbitrary—it is no more arbitrary than the structure of facts, no more ar-
bitrary than a work of art, no more arbitrary than the work of an artisan; it
will do. The structure will do in the first instance because in building it, in
filling in lacunae, we encounter constraints similar to the constraints en-
countered in the other cases. Let us now see how this happens.
Consider Brutus before the Ides of March. Brutus must choose between
his friendship for Caesar and his hatred of tyranny, between loyalty to a
person and patriotism. Note that the problem is a problem for Brutus as it
might not be a problem for someone else. An enemy of Caesar, a victim of
his tyranny, would not be confronted with the same choice. There are solu-
tions to the problem which are not solutions for Brutus. William Penn, or
any latter-day Friend (i.e., Quaker), would say that it is always wrong to take
a life, and that would settle this problem—there would be a more ultimate
value that these people would have available to justify not participating in
the conspiracy. But that norm is not part of the moral structure in which
Brutus has his being, Brutus must choose as a pagan Roman. The world (as
Brutus sees it) poses the question, gives rise to the need for a value which will
enable Brutus to choose, but in his moral code no such value is available. By
choosing as he chooses and for the reasons for which he chooses Brutus cre-
ates a value.
Now someone might say that there were patriots before Brutus and
there were lovers of liberty before Brutus; has not Brutus simply reaffirmed
that value rather than created it? Just so, our artisan in making a spoon did
not make the first spoon. Human beings do invent, but being human none
of us creates ex nihilo. Human valuemaking is constrained by the values
which are already there (that is why Brutus could not choose to reaffirm
Brutus may or may not believe that there are objective values in the sense in
which that is denied by moral skeptics; he will in either case have to decide
what to do. At best he will suffer less anguish if he believes that his problem
is merely one of finding out, of coming to know, what he (already, eternally,
transcendentally) ought to do; his responsibility may appear to be less.
The point, the moral skeptics will say, is that the whole structure within
which Brutus chooses is one among many. The values from which Brutus
fashions a new value, the values relative to which Brutus’s stabbing of Caesar
was a noble act, the very concept of nobility as a value, all this is wholly ar-
bitrary unless there are some nonrelative absolute values which are indepen-
dent of any human choosing and willing.
Someone may attempt to come to my rescue and suggest that the objection
has already been answered when I said that the complex moral-legal-political
structures within the confines of which we live and choose and act exist so that
we may live, cooperate, be reasonably secure, and flourish. But that will not
do. I have either prejudged the issue which the moral skeptics are attempting
to raise (who is to say that these are the ultimate basic values?), or else these
categories were chosen deliberately to be so broad that they admit of different
interpretations and elaborations, and it is these interpretations and elabora-
tions which are the basic and ultimate values. I did, in fact, intend the latter
alternative. But that means that these interpretations and elaborations pose
irreconcilable alternatives among which choice is inescapable and where none-
theless no further reasons (justifications) for choosing can be given because
‘until you make this choice, there aren’t any values at all’.
Since I am committed to defend only the view that even if all our values
are made by us, they are not arbitrary (i.e., no more arbitrary than facts);
there are two possible answers to this skeptical challenge available. I might
point out that when we come to deep moral commitments (whether of a
social/political or of an individual sort) we are already adults, we are already
deeply involved in an ongoing moral structure. We may indeed confront the
question of deep commitments because we are seriously dissatisfied with
that structure and want to make extensive changes. Still, we are rebuilding
Neurath’s boat while clinging to it, we are attempting to reach something
like a Rawlsian reflective equilibrium; in short the same sort of constraints
which I described earlier will be at work. Just as fact-making and theo-
ry-making turn out to be intimately interwoven, but facts are nevertheless
solid enough to allow us to navigate a perilous world, so basic values and
detailed moral structures are intimately interwoven and solid enough to en-
able us to navigate the perils of human relationships.
Although that answer is true as far as it goes, someone might point out
that facts rest in some sense on some ‘stuff’. To be sure, when we call that
stuff sensory inputs, or matter, or energy, or . . . we are already fact-making;
but something is there. And no comparable constraint appears to exist for
the value-making case. This, it seems to me, is the force of the sharp fact/
value distinction on which both the moral skeptics and their moral realist
opponents agree. The moral realist says that values are not part of the natural
world, that no scientific evidence can be adduced in support of ultimate
moral judgments, and the moral skeptic replies that in that case there are no
moral values at all, that ultimate moral judgments are false (or, in another
variant, meaningless). In this essay, I did not present any direct arguments
against the fact/value distinction; however, by regarding facts as well as val-
ues as fabricated, and by looking at values as well as facts as subject to further
evaluation, I have surely cast some doubts on it. If we are able to abandon
that distinction, or bridge that gap, then the same stuff which lends solidity
to facts will also lend solidity to values. Moreover, if a common ground for
talking with people belonging to other cultures, committed to other elabo-
rations of ‘life, cooperation, security, and human flourishing’ is to be found
at all, it will have to be within such a larger structure.
Nevertheless, even the possibility of a seamless web of facts and values
anchored in experience fails to be wholly satisfying. Again and again one is
tempted to raise hard cases. But hard cases are just the case of Brutus all over
again, and we saw both how to deal with that case and that it will arise for
Brutus whatever his ‘meta-ethical’ position may be. The problem is rather
this: if we can say no more than what I have said so far, then “when the secret
police come, when the torturers violate the innocent, there is nothing to be
said to them of the form ‘There is something within you which you are be-
traying. Though you embody the practices of a totalitarian society which
will endure forever, there is something beyond those practices which con-
demns you.’ This thought is hard to live with,” says Rorty.16 I am not yet
convinced that we have to live with it; but let us be clear on the problem.
Richard Boyd has suggested to me that tolerance for other styles in the
arts is possible because museums have many galleries. That the style in which
one has chosen to work may preclude a particular solution to a given prob-
lem does not prevent one from appreciating other styles although one can-
not change styles in mid-work. Even in the sciences, Hilary Putnam re-
minded me, there are times when more than one paradigm is on the scene.
In the absence of one unified paradigm scientists learn to use whichever
paradigm is most appropriate for the problem at hand. Neither artistic styles
nor scientific paradigms are irreconcilable in the sense in which there are
irreconcilable moral positions. There are within a given moral perspective
matters on which reasonable persons differ; there are seen from a given
moral perspective others with which one can sympathize, which one can
even in a sense appreciate. All that was illustrated by the case of Brutus, and
I mentioned just now that one hopes to find a common ground for conver-
sation with adherents of such different moral perspectives. But there is no
possibility of this sort of reconciliation between us and the fascists. That
there is no possibility of this sort of conversation is a vital part of our posi-
tion (as it is of theirs). When I said just now that I am not yet prepared to
live with Rorty’s claim that there is nothing we can say to them, I did not
intend to suggest that we could or would want to engage in a conversation
with them. I do want to suggest that one may be able to find grounds for
saying that fascism is not a moral position at all—just as Rawls found
grounds for saying that egoism is incompatible with the moral point of view.
Such grounds will have to be found, I suspect, in the very notion of what it
is to be a person; but that too is another story.
Note
This work was supported in part by a grant from the National Endowment
for the Humanities.
1. James, “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life,” in The Will to Believe, in
Works, 6:141–162, 144.
2. Ibid., 158.
brutal people. Worse, institutions that are on the whole beneficial will have
innocent victims; James mentions monogamous marriage as an example of
such an institution. In a functioning democracy, these are frustrations that
everyone must take in stride sometimes. So should we then not grasp that
utopia, that world without unemployment, without homelessness, where
everyone has access to medical care, where racism and other forms of preju-
dice and oppression are known only from the history books, etc., etc.? Those
commentators who read James as a kind of utilitarian must surely believe
that James would advocate our grasping that ideal, that he would speak not
merely of an impulse to clutch that happiness but of an obligation. But
James is not a utilitarian, and the passage under discussion occurs when
James wants to distance himself from the utilitarians.
We have, he says, a capacity for quite specific emotions, capacities that
cannot be explained in any simple way as the result of evolutionary selection
for the survival of either the individual or the species. He does not mean the
capacity for sympathy, though that too would come into play here. Sympathy
enables us to vividly imagine the suffering of the lost tortured soul, to feel
for it and, indeed, with it. But James means something else; he means a re-
vulsion, an apprehension that to do a certain thing would be ‘hideous’. To
do what? To opt for the utopia? That is not what he says. To enjoy the uto-
pia? Again, that is not what he says. There is nothing wrong with opting for
or enjoying utopia if it can be had at no cost, or at a cost clearly bearable by
those who are obliged to bear it, or if one is nonculpably ignorant of the
price. What is hideous is “enjoyment when deliberately accepted as the fruit
of such a bargain.”
James claims that certain moral facts are immediately felt by a specific
emotion—“a specifical and independent sort of emotion . . . would make us
immediately feel . . . how hideous” it would be. Something is hideous, or
exquisite, or cruel, or generous, and to perceive it as such is to respond with
a specific emotion. I have substituted “perceive” for James’s “feel,” but James
used “feel” in a much wider sense than we do today. In The Principles of
Psychology he announced that he would use “feeling” to refer to “all states of
consciousness merely as such,” that it would cover both sensation and
thought.3 Feelings, in other words, can be cognitive; in fact, James suggested
that the word “thought” would be preferable because “it immediately sug-
gests the omnipresence of cognition (or reference to an object other than the
mental state itself ).”4 In fact, James uses both “feeling” and “thought” and
sometimes “psychosis” as general terms for states of consciousness. So when
James says that a specific emotion makes us feel the hideousness of a certain
state of affairs, he is saying something entirely analogous to saying, for exam-
ple, that a specific sensation makes us feel the blueness of the sky. In both
cases there is a “reference to an object other than the mental state [the emo-
tion, the sensation] itself.” For both cases, I shall use the term “perceive.”
I do not, however, want to say quite what James says. I find the claim that
a specifical emotion makes us immediately feel how hideous it would be to
do (or experience) a certain thing unclear. What sort of making is this? Is
there a causal process that leads from having a certain emotion to the percep-
tion of the moral features of the situation, as having light reflected from the
sky impinge on the retina might be said to cause us to see a blue sky? That
suggestion has a certain initial plausibility. One can easily enough imagine
James providing a physiology of moral perception, investigating how the
bodily changes that, according to the James-Lange theory, occur when we
have a particular emotion are connected to the corresponding moral percep-
tion. And one might then ask what, if anything, corresponds in that case to,
say, a cut optic nerve in the case of visual perception. But as soon as one asks
that question, one sees that the relation between the emotion and the moral
perception is not like that between the light impinging on the retina and
seeing the sky; it is rather like the relation between having the visual sensa-
tion and the perception of the blue sky. But just as it is infelicitous to say that
having the visual sensation makes one perceive the blue sky, so it is infelici-
tous to say that having the emotion makes one perceive the hideousness of
the imagined situation. Having the visual sensation amounts to perceiving
the blue sky; having the emotion amounts to perceiving the hideousness of
the situation.
I shall say more about this in a moment, for I am not interested here in
quarrelling with James. I am not even interested in what James thought
about perception, moral or otherwise. I am interested in perception. Some
years ago I wrote a paper about the role of the imagination in moral percep-
4. Ibid., 186.
tion, and when I discussed that paper with my colleagues, I discovered that
at a certain point our conversation came to a standstill because we had quite
different conceptions of perception, of plain ordinary sense perception.5 In
this essay, I want to sketch my conception of perception.
There is a second reason for my interest in perception—namely, my ob-
jection to the fact/value distinction. I have elsewhere argued that facts and
values emerge at the end of inquiry on an equal footing: the facts are val-
ue-laden, and the values are fact-laden.6 Others, beginning with Dewey, to
whose writings I am indebted beyond anything to which footnotes might
testify, have argued in a similar fashion. But since perceptions are the start-
ing points of inquiry, the claim that there is no epistemologically interesting
difference between facts and values rests on shaky grounds unless values en-
ter into the beginning of inquiry on an equal footing with facts.
Dewey distinguished between valuing and evaluating, between prizing
and appraising; I shall use that distinction without, however, claiming that
I am following exactly in his footsteps. A value judgment, a judgment that
something is or has a certain value, is the outcome of an evaluation, a pro-
cess of inquiry; a value we might say is an object-of-evaluation. In contrast,
valuing is immediate, it is an enjoying or suffering, a being angry or grate-
ful, feeling afraid or safe, having a Jamesian “specifical emotion,” etc. It has,
as James said, a reference beyond itself; some thing, event, state of affairs is
being enjoyed or suffered, one is angry at someone, some action, some
happening, etc. That thing or event, that person or action is valued, is per-
ceived to be good or bad, dangerous or trustworthy, hideous or appealing.
We have no word that refers to these objects-of-valuation as distinct from
the objects-of-evaluation. We have in ordinary English no word by which
we distinguish the objects which we see, hear, taste, etc., from the objects
that are known at the end of inquiry, but some philosophers, Dewey among
them, have called the former “percepts,” and Dewey refers to the latter by
the term “object-of-knowledge.” In ordinary English we lack words to mark
these differences because the differences one wants to mark are not differ-
ences between distinct things or distinct qualities; the same object is a per-
9. Ibid., 93.
10. Ibid., 95.
happens to a peach when I enjoy eating it and what happens to the sun and
clouds when I enjoy watching a sunset seems to me as profound as any dif-
ference can be. The peach is certainly changed; the sunset is certainly not
changed; I recognize, however, that these are just end points of a continuum
of more or less mutually invasive interactions.11
I seem to have wandered far afield. I have not. Consider this very mun-
dane happening. Susan comes home loaded with grocery bags, drops them
on the kitchen table, fills a glass with water, drinks thirstily, and begins to
unpack the bags. She takes out a melon, wonders whether it is ripe, tests
whether it is soft at the stem end, smells it, hefts it, concludes that it is not
ripe, that she had better leave it out of the refrigerator so that it will continue
to ripen. Throughout all this, Susan perceives. Her arms ache from the
weight of the bags, she sees the fortunately uncluttered table top, she sees the
glass, feels it smooth in her hand, hears the water running, feels the cool
liquid running down her parched throat. She suffers and enjoys. Her arms
ache, and cease aching when the bags are dropped; her throat is parched, and
the water feels good. We could represent what happened as cases of problem
solving, and if we did that, we would represent them as cases of knowing.
Thus, for example, we could tell this story. Susan’s arms ache; she asks herself
what is to be done. She realizes that her arms would stop aching if she would
put down the bags. She seeks a place to put them. She sees the empty table.
She formulates the hypothesis that the table would be good place for the
bags. She drops the bags on the table. Her arms stop aching. The problem
has been solved; the two hypotheses—that her arms would stop aching and
that the table would be a good place for the bags—have been confirmed.
Susan knows that the table is a good place for bags. The table has become an
object-of-knowledge. If the table, being very old and rickety, had collapsed
under the weight of the bags, Susan’s second hypothesis would have been
disconfirmed; she would now know that the table is not a good place for
11. One might think that these end points correspond to Dewey’s distinction be-
tween experimental and empirical experience, between changes in the environment
deliberately produced to provide us with knowledge versus experiences taken just as
they happen to come along. But I doubt that things line up quite so neatly. Again, one
might think that the experiences that do not change the experienced object are con-
summatory experiences, but enjoying a peach is also consummatory, while an astron-
omer’s carefully planned observations leave the stars as untouched as does my awe.
tually has. Actually, all this while Susan is thinking about the dinner party she
will give on Friday, the party for which the melon must be ripe. Peirce, giving
credit to Bain, defined a belief as what one is prepared to act on.12 Clearly,
Susan acts as if she believed that there is a table, that putting the bags on it will
bring relief to her aching arms, etc. We have returned to the point we reached
a while ago. Then I agreed with Dewey’s claim that perceiving is not always
accompanied by perceptual judgments; I have now added that action may
follow upon perception ‘without thinking’ (i.e., without the intervention of a
perceptual judgment). Let us describe what happens in this way. Susan notices
certain features of her environment, features that are noteworthy because of
their relationship to her interests (her interest in getting rid of that load, her
interest in assuaging her thirst). Susan has certain percepts and reacts to them.
What are these percepts? I have answered that question already. A table, a glass,
a faucet: familiar objects of everyday life. But, someone might say, there is
more to these things than meets the eye or the hand. Of course, Susan acts as
if she had entertained and accepted the proposition that there is a table, and if
subsequent experience reveals additional features of these things, especially if
these features are surprising, then Susan will come to entertain and accept a
proposition that revises that never actually entertained perceptual judgment.
The ‘table’ may turn out to be a countertop, the ‘glass’ to be made of plastic,
and the faucet a trompe l’oeil, though none of this will happen to Susan in her
own familiar kitchen.
I have introduced the idea of a perceptual judgment. The ultimate evi-
dence for any knowledge claim is a perception. But only a judgment can
play the role of premise in an inference. Thus we need perceptual judgments.
Although in daily life perceptions may fail to prompt perceptual judgments
and inquiry, that is, percepts may fail to become objects-of-knowledge,
Dewey notes that, because of their evidentiary status, in science perceptions
“become objects of minute, accurate, and experimental scrutiny”—that is,
they become objects-of-knowledge.13 Even in everyday life, perceptions of-
ten function as evidence of some other perception to come; they are used as
signs. “Thus, for practical purposes, many perceptual events are cases of
knowledge; that is they have been used as such so often that the habit of so
using them is established and automatic.”14 Let us say, then, that to every
percept there corresponds a possible perceptual judgment, but that judg-
ment may never have been articulated or entertained.
I need to abandon Susan. Tables, glasses, faucets are artifacts; of course,
with respect to them, “the trail of the human serpent is over everything.”15 If
we did not have certain needs and interests, human beings would not have
invented tables, glasses, water systems with their faucets, etc., etc. Of course,
having invented them, we have invented names for them, we value them, we
pass these names and values on to our children, who have the same needs
and interests as we do. What James and Dewey point out is that all our per-
ceivings of natural objects and events as well as of things and situations that
we deliberately bring about are what they are because they are our percep-
tions, where ‘we’ refers variously to the individual perceiver, to the society to
which he or she belongs, or to humanity at large. Let us take these points in
reverse order. James writes that “our fundamental ways of thinking about
things are discoveries of exceedingly remote ancestors, which have been able to
preserve themselves throughout the experience of all subsequent time. They form
. . . the stage of common sense.”16 That is, we see the world in terms of things
and events, causes and effects, places and times, etc. But today’s common
sense is not that of a thousand years ago. We do not see witches, for example.
Finally, percepts are also a function of the individual perceiver’s idiosyncratic
beliefs, needs, interests, and values. Susan sees the empty tabletop but fails
to notice the blinking light of the answering machine. Emerson teaches us
in “Nature” to “distinguish the stick of timber of the woodcutter from the
tree of the poet.”17
But, some philosophers will object, the woodcutter’s stick of timber is the
tree of the poet; there is a physical object there and a description, provided
by science, that is not shaped by anyone’s interest. There is the absolute con-
ception of the object that occupies that space-time region. This physical
object, these philosophers insist, is what it is quite independently of us. It
would be what it is even if there were no human beings at all.18 To this I reply
that it is, of course, generally in our interest to pay attention to those features
of the world that we can change only by making a physical effort. Dangers
do not go away because we refuse to face them. Again, it is often in our in-
terest to describe the world in terms that are nonperspectival. Physics and
her sister sciences represent triumphs of human knowledge. For many pur-
poses, the physical description is the only description we want, but there are
other purposes, just as legitimate, just as pressing, for which the physicists’
description is quite useless. I reject both the claim that the so-called absolute
conception is better, from the standpoint of knowledge, than other descrip-
tions, and that it is a description that is not interest-relative. It is precisely
because we have an interest in the kind of knowledge that physical science
provides that we have the physical sciences. It turns out that in order to
satisfy many of our interests, we need the sort of knowledge that the sciences
provide; it turns out also that some people are passionately interested in that
sort of knowledge quite regardless of what other purposes it might serve.
And that is a good thing. But whether one agrees with Peirce that scientists
should pursue the truth single-mindedly, should not even think about its
possible applications, or whether one thinks, as many bioethicists now do,
that it is irresponsible not to consider the consequences of one’s discoveries
in choosing to devote one’s life to science, and in choosing what particular
subjects to pursue, one makes a moral judgment.
Moreover, one would have to have a very narrow conception of value if
one wanted to say that physicists, when they actually do physics, do not
make value judgments. They judge that certain observations are relevant or
irrelevant, that a certain question is interesting while another is not, that a
hypothesis is plausible enough to spend time investigating it, that a certain
procedure is reliable, etc. Into the discovery/invention of a physical theory
value judgments enter again and again. Even aesthetic values play a role.
One theory may be preferred to another because of its elegance, or because
of its appeal to some intuitive sense of how a theory, or the universe, ought
to be. I conclude that there are no objects-of-knowledge, there are no con-
18. I am thinking here of Bernard Williams. And there are philosophers, philoso-
phers as different otherwise as Plato and G. E. Moore, who would say that there are
values that are what they are independent of what any human being actually values. I
am rejecting all these forms of realism.
ceptions of the world and of the objects in it that are not value-laden. In this
sense, every object-of-knowledge is an object-of-evaluation.
How, then, does a percept differ from, say, a physical object? Here we
must guard against saying that it does not last as long. For if we said that, we
would confuse the event of perception with the object perceived, and we
would have taken a step on the slippery road to sense data. The percept, I
want to say—and here I am not sure whether Dewey would adopt the same
terminology—is the commonsense object. I say deliberately ‘commonsense
object’ rather than with many philosophers ‘material object’ for two reasons.
The first is that I know that rainbows and shadows and mirror images are
commonsense objects just as are sticks and stones, tables and water; I do not
know whether they are material objects. My second reason is that the term
‘material object’ belongs, as Austin has pointed out, to a particular philoso-
phy of perception, precisely the kind of philosophy of perception that I am
rejecting.19 So the percept is the commonsense object; there is, as I said
above, only a difference in epistemological status. That difference is the dif-
ference between perceptual judgments and the judgments to which we are
entitled at the end of inquiry. To be sure, these various judgments form a
continuum; the perceptual judgment lies at one end, it is the most limited
of judgments. I do not mean to say that perceptual judgments are so limited
that they cannot be false, hence that they have no truth-values. “This is here
now” is not a perceptual judgment, and it is useless as a premise. Perceptual
judgments can be false, and they can be found out to be false; they give
some hostages to the future. The perceptual judgment may be “There is a
melon (here, now),” and there may be other perceptual judgments—“It is
very hard, even around the stem” and “It doesn’t feel heavy”—and on the
basis of these perceptual judgments, the latter two the result of deliberate
observations, Susan concluded that the melon was not ripe. “The melon is
not ripe” is for Susan in these circumstances not a perceptual judgment,
though if Susan had thoughtlessly cut into the melon and found its flesh
hard and tasteless, she would have perceived an unripe melon; in the case as
described, she perceives a melon, period. But that melon is the unripe melon
she would have perceived had she cut into it. In short, the percept is the
commonsense object. But perceptual judgments are least judgments, giving
19. J. L. Austin, Sense and Sensibilia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1962), 4.
may seem entirely obvious that one must sacrifice the lonely soul for the sake
of millions of starving children and homeless men and women. Or, again, it
may seem obvious that one cannot use even one soul as a mere means to an
otherwise general happiness. The last two possibilities show how accepting a
normative theory may shape one’s valuings, just as accepting an optical the-
ory may shape what one sees. Conversely, that a moral theory blinds one to
morally significant features of a situation may be a reason for rejecting the
theory, just as physical theories are rejected if they cannot be reconciled with
well-known phenomena.
And just as valuings and values can and do shape one’s percepts, so beliefs
shape one’s valuings and values. People did not simply see a witch; they
feared and hated her. They saw an evil old woman; today we see an ugly old
woman. We may pity her or may be repelled by her ugliness, but our revul-
sion is aesthetic, not moral.
I said earlier that perceiving is the sine qua non of inquiry. I want to point
out now that, in particular, inquiry is prompted by valuing, though not all
valuings prompt inquiry, and even when a valuing prompts inquiry that in-
quiry may not be an evaluation—that is, its aim may not be to arrive at a
value judgment. What prompts inquiry, according to Peirce, is doubt, an
uncomfortable state, a state that we wish to get out of, a state that is valued
negatively. Dewey says that inquiry begins when one finds oneself in a prob-
lematic situation—when the outcome of the situation is not clear. Dewey
emphasized, as he always does, the objectivity of a problematic situation. It
is not the perceiver’s state of mind; it is the actual situation that is problem-
atic. Nevertheless, it is not the situation that institutes an inquiry; it is we
who do that. We do that because we find that we cannot, in this situation,
continue without thinking. Of course, the experience may be on the whole
pleasant. Scientists do not find what they do unpleasant; they find it inter-
esting, exciting, sometimes even exhilarating. They deliberately put them-
selves into a situation in which they are driven to inquire. Thus, although I
mentioned Peirce, I do not want to say that what prompts inquiry is always
an unpleasant feeling. Still, in ordinary life, it is most often the case that
inquiry begins when things go wrong, when our habitual ways of acting and
reacting are unsuccessful or blocked. Dewey reminds us that we should more
often than we do evaluate our valuings. For example, we should wonder how
an enjoyed situation came about, how it can be prolonged, or whether part
of its charm is precisely that it is short-lived. We should wonder how it, or
something like it, can be reproduced. We are far more likely to ask the anal-
ogous questions about an unpleasant situation. Dewey’s advice is worth lis-
tening to. We do all too often fail to consider the price someone else is pay-
ing for our joys. Yet I also think that philosophers, including Dewey, tend to
overintellectualize our lives, tend to concentrate on events and situations
that can be thought about fruitfully. But it is also, especially for us who dwell
in cities, important to remember that there are joys that we may and must
just take and enjoy. Once again, I remind you of watching a sunset.
Determining what we might call for short the price of an enjoyment is, of
course, only one example of an evaluation. Deciding what to do in a dirty
hands situation is another. The variety of moral situations is staggering, and
they form only a subclass of the class of situations in which a value judgment
is conspicuously sought as the outcome of inquiry. This is not the place to
rehearse the sort of reasoning one goes through in such cases. While it comes
to some as a surprise that value judgments are inextricably enmeshed in
theoretical reasoning, everyone acknowledges that one’s command of the
facts plays an important part in one’s practical reasoning. What I want to
stress here are two things. First, that value judgments are shaped and tested
by valuings, just as scientific and commonsense judgments are shaped and
tested by percepts; second, that one’s valuings are shaped by the values one
already has, in particular by the values shared in one’s society, or by human
beings in general, just as we saw in greater detail that percepts are shaped by
beliefs one already has. Thus, I might add to my earlier pronouncement the
following: our valuings and our values make up our valuings and our values.
Although I am coming to the end of this essay, I want to emphasize this
last point. I believe that the view I am defending differs quite radically from
that of so-called moral realists, but I cannot defend this here. What I can do
is to tie up the bits and pieces of this essay.
My title speaks of perceiving facts and values. Whenever one wants to
undermine the fact/value distinction one is forced to use the fact/value vo-
cabulary. But the very vocabulary is misleading. Of course there is a differ-
ence between what one says when one says how the world is and what one
says when one says how the world ought to be, but it will not do to say that
the former is a statement of facts and the latter of values. For descriptions of
the actual world that contrast with prescriptions for a better world have to
speak of cruelty and of kindness, of ingratitude and compassion, of just and
unjust institutions, etc., etc. Descriptions and prescriptions will have to use
the same vocabulary, and only experience can tell whether our prescriptions
were wise or not. Moreover, I have tried to argue that valuings and evalua-
tions are implicated in knowledge claims that do not purport to be value
judgments, and conversely that perceptual and other purportedly value-free
knowledge claims are implicated in value judgments.
Have I, then, defended the thesis that we perceive facts and values?
Actually, I have defended the view that perceiving/valuing is only the begin-
ning of a process of inquiry/evaluation at the end of which we are entitled to
claim knowledge of facts and of values. Let me return one more time to
William James’s example. Ignore that James imagined the example; ignore
also that his point was to draw our attention to the fact that we have moral
perceptions. Recall simply that we began with a fact: either countless people
will lead brief and miserable lives or one human soul will suffer eternal tor-
ture. Accepting that fact, we found ourselves in moral agony: how can one
possibly choose? Were this a real situation, we should by now be suspicious
of the fact. We should wonder what hidden valuations lead to that under-
standing of the situation. The U.S. Congress has sacrificed the health and
welfare of hundreds of thousands of children because the men and women
who voted for so-called welfare reform accepted without question certain
economic and political facts—for example, that the defense budget cannot
be cut or that certain taxes must not be raised. They accepted as a fact that
they had only a limited number of alternatives. Their values (their commit-
ment to a balanced budget, their contempt for welfare ‘queens’) blinded
them to other alternatives and to the long-run consequences of the alterna-
tives that they did see. Being thus ill-informed, they decided neither wisely
nor well.
PRAGMATISTS ARE EMPIRICISTS , only more so. Pragmatists hold not only,
as do all empiricists, that our knowledge of the world rests on experience;
they also demand that our philosophical claims should rest on experience
and thus be liable to empirical refutation. When philosophers appeal to ac-
tual human experience, pragmatists believe, they will see that what is expe-
rienced is not limited to what is apprehended by the five senses, that it in-
cludes enjoying and suffering in multiple ways, and that these are indeed the
origins of many of our values. Again, taking experience as it is actually expe-
rienced, pragmatists note that experiencing is doing as well as cognizing.
Moreover, in so far as doing involves foresight doing involves having ends-
in-view, that is to say, values. On this rich notion of experience pragmatists
develop a theory of valuation that explains how our value judgments can be
objective without being reduced to some limited “value-free” vocabulary. I
shall develop such a theory of valuation in the next section.
Pragmatists are democrats, only more so. Pragmatists endorse not only
political democracy, as do all democrats, but they also insist on social, lib-
eral, and pluralistic democracy. William James and John Dewey engaged
actively in constructive criticisms of our democratic institutions as they ex-
isted in their times, and that tradition has been carried forward by Hilary
Putnam and Richard Rorty, to name just two contemporaries. That commit-
ment to democracy in a wide sense follows, I believe, from the conception of
value inquiry as empirical inquiry, although one might share the commit-
ment to democracy without accepting the account of values I shall present.
John Rawls, surely the foremost political philosopher of the twentieth cen-
tury, was not a pragmatist, yet his conception of justice as fairness is a con-
ception of democracy in a wide sense.1 Moreover, although Rorty does not
agree with my account of value inquiry, his commitment to democracy in a
wide sense is beyond dispute.2 In the final section of this essay I shall sketch
a conception of democracy as it relates to my account of value inquiry.
One additional preliminary remark is called for. The account of value
inquiry that I shall present here is opposed to major trends in ethical theory.
Throughout most of the twentieth century and to this day, noncognitivism,
either in the form of expressivism (emotivism) or in the form of relativism,
has been the favored philosophical account of moral judgments or of value
judgments in general.3 However, noncognitivism fails to account, is unable
to account, for the importance of moral and other values in our lives. Of
course, I am not suggesting that noncognitivists cannot or do not lead exem-
plary moral lives; some of the most admirable human beings I have known
were noncognitivists. I am suggesting that such people hold one set of beliefs
in the study and another outside. The pragmatist account of value inquiry is
also opposed to aprioristic ethics; such theories flourished in the late nine-
teenth and early twentieth centuries and have appeared again here and there
at the present time. Those theories fail to account for the moral anguish one
experiences when one’s ethical values conflict, and in so far as such theories
support fanaticism, they stifle moral growth. Again, I cast no aspersions on
the moral character of particular proponents of such positions.
In contrast, James and Dewey developed their philosophies precisely in
response to the passionate desire to make sense of our moral lives, of the
importance of moral values as well as the anguish caused by value conflict. I
believe that this desire, this moral impulse, as I have called it elsewhere, ex-
plains their metaphysical and epistemological positions as well as their ac-
count of value inquiry. I shall, however, leave these epistemological and on-
Values
One is tempted to ask, “Where do our values come from?” That temptation
ought to be resisted. The question suggests that values are some sort of enti-
ties that come from somewhere, as pineapples come from Hawaii. In a world
without sentient beings there might be pineapples, but neither pineapples
nor anything else would be valued. Sentient beings value things, states of
affairs, other sentient beings and themselves, character traits, actions, etc. I
say, “sentient beings,” because clearly the animals we know best—our vari-
ous pets—value food (and some foods more than others), warmth, attention
from their human companions, etc. Some values are shared by all animals
including us humans; others are unique to a single individual; most fall
somewhere in between. To say that animals “value” certain things is not a
misplaced anthropomorphism; it is meant to draw attention to the fact that
to value something is sometimes simply to react to it in certain characteristic
ways. To seek it, to protect it from others, or to shun it or attack it.
Things have value because someone values them, but that is not to say
that value judgments are subjective, or mere expressions of feelings (emo-
tions, attitudes). On the contrary, in this section I shall, following James and
Dewey, argue that value judgments, in particular moral judgments, can be
and often are objective, just as perceptual judgments can be and often are
objective. Of course, some value judgments and some perceptual judgments
are subjective, and some of these are even acknowledged to be so. But I am
here concerned with objectivity.
Some things that we value (positively or negatively) simply befall us and
we react with delight or with disgust, with interest or with boredom, with
love or hate, with fear or with feeling safe, etc. And these reactions in turn
shape how we experience the world; an insecure person mistakes many inno-
cent comments as negative criticisms. But we are not condemned passively
to accept our reactions; they are themselves subject to criticism and revision.
Thus one may be disgusted with one’s own unreasonable fear and “talk one-
self out of it.” Others will also criticize one’s likes and dislikes, one’s enthusi-
asms, one’s behavior. In short, one’s valuations will be evaluated. I follow
here Dewey’s Theory of Valuation.4 This is how we differ from animals; we do
not merely suffer or enjoy. Though there are times when we react instinc-
tively, often we think before we act. We inquire into the causes and conse-
quences of our sufferings and enjoyments, into how to prevent or lessen the
former and bring about or extend the latter. In short, we are intelligent
agents.
We value many kinds of things—we admire or despise some people and
are indifferent to most, we praise or condemn some conduct, we take delight
in some works of art, we work hard to earn an advanced degree. There are
many kinds of values: moral values, aesthetic values, economic values, etc.
Just as we trust our perceptions unless we have specific reasons to doubt
them, so we trust our unreflective valuations unless we have specific reasons
to doubt them. But our interests extend far beyond sense perception, the
satisfaction of urgent bodily needs, and immediate emotional reactions. So
we have sciences (physical, social, historical); we have arts and literature; we
have religion; we have philosophy. We have morality and politics.
William James wrote: “I cannot understand the willingness to act, no
matter how we feel, without the belief that acts are really good or bad.”5 He
meant that one must believe that the world will be, in however small a way,
really better if one chooses one way and really worse if one chooses another.
Although the remark just quoted introduced James’s argument for free will,
I shall use it, as he might as well have done, to defend the objectivity of
(some) moral judgments. So used, the force of “really” is that it is not just in
one’s own estimation that the world will be better or worse. For if one be-
lieves that the difference matters only in one’s own estimation, one suc-
cumbs more easily to the temptation not to do what one believes to be one’s
duty. For when one succumbs to the temptation not to do what one believes
to be one’s duty, one tends to tell oneself in some way or other that what one
is not doing is really not one’s duty. But those thoughts are second thoughts;
the first thought, in the sort of case I have in mind, is, simply, “This is what
I ought to do.” In these cases, taking those first thoughts to be as reliable as
the evidence of our senses, that is, reliable unless there are specific reasons for
doubt, is an important defense against temptation. Thus, for example, one
knows that one ought to finish grading those student papers rather than go
to the movies.
I do not, of course, claim that the thought that one ought to finish grad-
ing those papers is as unmediated as the baby’s rejection of a bitter-tasting
medicine, or even as unlearned as one’s own pity on seeing a person in pain.
Morality, as Dewey said more than once, is social. Convictions and commit-
ments are often the result of deliberation, reflection, inquiry; yet some of our
deepest convictions may be rooted in lessons learned in childhood. The same
is true of the principles that guide our conduct and the norms that have
become habits, virtuous or otherwise. Dewey’s distinction between custom-
ary and reflective morality is useful here.6 When one begins to engage in
moral inquiry, one stands already within a customary morality consisting
partly of one’s society’s mores and partly of the principles and values mod-
eled and taught by one’s parents. Though we may criticize, modify, or even
to some extent reject outright the morality we are taught as children, we
would not have become the moral beings we are were it not for those moral
starting points.
Some remarks concerning the role of moral principles or norms may be
in order here. First, it is worth noting that one is often far clearer concerning
a particular case than one is concerning the “principle” that seems to justify
one’s judgment. Indeed, the principle may on examination prove to be
flawed, while one’s judgment concerning the particular case remains un-
changed. Thus I continue to admire the young Americans who joined the
Canadian Air Force in order to fight against Nazi Germany while the United
States was still neutral. Yet I fail to formulate an acceptable principle that
would justify their actions and, thus, my admiration. Nevertheless, failure to
find a principle that would justify one’s action should give one pause, should
7. Hilary Putnam, The Collapse of the Fact/Value Dichotomy and Other Essays
(Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 2002).
of the work they propose to do, and research involving human subjects must
pass certain requirements designed to protect the subjects. In short, unless
these moral judgments are objective, the objectivity of science is called into
question.
Inquiries into values of various kinds are relevant to one’s conduct; the
upshot of such inquiries are what Dewey called “Judgments of Practice.”8
They are judgments that advise, suggest, demand, warn against, prohibit,
etc., certain conduct. Writ large, they are recommendations, decisions, or-
ders, legislation, policies. As mentioned above, such judgments are made
when one finds oneself in a situation of uncertain outcome, where one’s ac-
tion (or some relevant person’s action) will make a difference to the future,
at least in some limited respect. A major accident blocks my usual way to
work; I must choose one of several alternative routes. If time is limited, I will
take what I hope will be the fastest route. If time is not an issue, I may
choose a longer but more scenic route that I normally do not allow myself to
take. The upshot of my deliberations is a judgment of practice. Note, by the
way, that, were I less conscientious, I might have been tempted to abandon
my attempt to go to work.
In my example, and in numerous others that spring to mind, the goal to
be reached appears not to be in question—to cure the patient, to make a
profit, to earn a higher degree; the question appears to be only how best to
reach that goal. But that appearance is misleading. One discovers, as one
considers what measures to take to reach one’s goal, that these means have a
price. If I take the faster route, I give up the rare pleasure of driving along
the ocean. If I take the scenic route, I give up some time during which I
could have read an article by a colleague, as I had planned before I discov-
ered my usual route was blocked. My goal turns out to be not simply to
reach my office but to improve my mood or my mind. Dewey used the term
“ends-in-view” in place of “goal” or “end” in order to draw our attention to
the fact that our goals do not enter into our deliberations as unalterable fixed
points to be unflinchingly pursued. Rather, our ends-in-view are themselves
provisional, subject to change as we consider the means by which to attain
them and the costs of those means. In fact, our ends-in-view are themselves
“means,” for they give direction to our inquiry and limit its scope.
My example was trivial. But the point, one that Dewey made again and
again, is far from trivial. Noncognitivist philosophers tend to say that while
judgments concerning the goodness of ends are neither true nor false, are
mere expressions of one’s feelings, judgments concerning means—that is,
judgments of the form “A is a means to B” or even “A is an efficient (or el-
egant, or inexpensive, or . . .) means to B”—have truth-values, for they as-
sert a causal connection between A and B, and assertions concerning causal
relations can be confirmed or disconfirmed. I want to reject both conten-
tions. First, as already stated, our ends do not simply befall us; we are not
the helpless victims of our own feelings of attraction or repulsion, desire or
aversion, etc. Even when we are passive as, for instance, in listening to mu-
sic, our tastes can and will be formed; we may become more discerning,
more critical, or more appreciative of a certain type of music or of a partic-
ular performance of a particular piece. When we are agents, when what will
happen depends (in part) on us, we reevaluate the state of affairs we wish to
(help) bring about as we consider the means we should have to employ.
That process of reevaluation will continue not only as long as one is work-
ing toward the end-in-view, but also after it has been attained. William
James considered becoming a painter, studied painting for a year, and de-
cided to turn to a career in science. He became a physician but did not
practice medicine. He became instead a distinguished psychologist and
philosopher. The point of this example is not to denigrate those who pursue
their goals with single-minded effort—my mention earlier of the young
American flyers should prevent that misunderstanding—the point is sim-
ply to draw attention to the fact that the process of evaluation need not,
and sometimes does not, come to an end when the end-in-view has been
attained. Of course, the fact that goals can be reevaluated after they have
been attained does not mean that they should be so reevaluated in all or
even in most cases. Most individuals who earn a medical degree go on to
practice medicine or engage in medical research; their goals, once achieved,
become part of the situation in which their lives go on.
Just as it is false to say judgments concerning ends cannot be warranted,
it is false to say that judgments concerning means are mere descriptions of
causal relationships. A woman has suffered an incapacitating stroke; her hus-
band has to decide how to provide for her care. Should she be moved into a
nursing home, or should he arrange for a practical nurse to come for several
hours a day while he plays an active role in her care during the other hours?
Of course, there are financial issues. Let us suppose those issues are not de-
cisive. Is the man willing to take on responsibilities that he has never had to
face? Is he capable, temperamentally and physically, of undertaking the task?
How would the woman respond to being moved out of her home? Or, were
she to stay at home, would she see herself as a “burden” on her husband?
These considerations and others have to be weighed against each other. And
what is the end-in-view? Physical comfort of the patient? Emotional support
for her? Peace of mind of the husband? All of these?
Dewey spoke of a means-ends continuum. Hilary Putnam speaks of the
entanglement of facts and values. What is at issue is the objectivity of value
judgments. William James pointed out that truth requires a standard outside
the thinker. The point is perfectly general, although he made it in his discus-
sion of moral philosophy.9 Consider the general point first. We take as our
paradigm of objectivity the physical sciences. That objectivity is often said to
be due to their content; scientific truths are not relative to the perspective of
the observer or theoretician. That claim presupposes a narrow notion of
perspective. We have an interest in knowledge that is nonperspectival in this
narrow sense. But that interest itself provides a perspective that excludes
from view much that makes life worth living. Thus, it is not the content of
the sciences that should be taken as a model for objectivity; it is their meth-
ods. Specifically, what makes for objectivity is the willingness to revise one’s
judgments in the face of discordant experience—that is, fallibilism. By em-
phasizing the entanglement of facts and value, or of means and ends, one
makes it possible to be fallibilist about value judgments, including moral
judgments.
A second characteristic often associated with objectivity is intersubjectiv-
ity. Thus it is often said that in the sciences we can reach agreement, but in
morals, and even more so in politics, we cannot. This objection to the sort
of view I am defending is too facile. At most one can say that in the sciences
competent investigators tend to come to an agreement within a relatively
short while, though in the case of major scientific revolutions that while may
well be a human generation. Once a theory has been generally accepted,
acceptance becomes itself a criterion of competence. In everyday life, as psy-
9. James, “The Moral Philosopher and the Moral Life,” in The Will to Believe, in
Works, 6:141–162.
chologists have pointed out repeatedly, descriptions of, say, accident scenes
differ widely between equally unbiased observers. Indeed, whenever one has
to rely on memory, and especially when emotions are involved, agreement
concerning “what really happened” is harder to attain than noncognitivist
philosophers acknowledge.
On the other hand, while spectacular and apparently intractable moral
and political disagreements do, alas, occur with tragic consequences, there
are wide-reaching agreements not only within but also across cultures.
Moreover, the boundaries between cultures are by no means as impervious
as relativists imagine them to be.10 In any case, while in the sciences we can,
and indeed we must, be satisfied with agreement between competent inves-
tigators, on moral and political questions we seek agreement at least among
all those affected. We take for granted that all human beings beyond a cer-
tain age and capable of speech and action are competent participants in the
moral life.
Of course, this last statement is itself subject to dispute. Slave-owners
deny that their slaves are competent moral agents; dictators deny that their
subjects are competent political agents; women are often regarded as not, or
not fully, competent agents by their governments or by their husbands, fa-
thers, or brothers. But the slaves, the women, and the subjects of the dicta-
tors (and anyone else whose moral competency has been denied) will cry
out. As William James points out, we must, as moral inquirers, listen for and
hear “the cries of the wounded.” Those cries, he held, will inform us if we
have made a great mistake.11
What has just been said makes it clear that one cannot engage in
meta-ethical reflections without making ethical commitments. I cannot de-
fend my claim that moral judgments can be as warranted as perceptual judg-
ments without saying what counts as “evidence” that a mistake has been
made. Following James, I suggest that the cries of those who have been hurt
by the mistake demand at least a reconsideration, and often a revaluation. I
speak with caution because it is often impossible to avoid hurting someone.
To repair an injustice or other wrong one must sometimes “wound” unin-
volved bystanders. A program that sends children from low-income families
to summer camp will exclude children whose family income is just barely
above the cutoff line. That exclusion may well cause pain but is no reason to
abandon the program. It may, of course, encourage efforts to expand the
program.
Introducing his “Theory of the Moral Life,” Dewey characterized a
moral situation as a situation that involves a voluntary action, though not
all voluntary actions are morally judged.12 It involves, a point made by
both James and Dewey, an action that expresses character. More impor-
tantly, a moral or immoral action shapes character. Thus, according to
James, the question one faces when confronted by a difficult moral choice
is the question “What sort of person shall I be if I do this?” Of course, it is
not, it cannot be, the only question one faces. The man who chooses to
take care of his wife chooses not only to be a caring, patient, etc., man; he
also chooses a certain kind of life for himself and, as far as it depends on
him, a certain kind of life for his wife. He will have tried to imagine in
some detail what those lives will be like.
He will have determined that he has, or can learn, the practical skills he
will require. He will have, as far as possible, consulted the wishes of his wife.
He will have found out what medical professionals consider most beneficial,
etc. In short, he has engaged in an inquiry concerning ends and the means
to them. As I imagine this situation, one cannot say that one course of action
is morally required and the other forbidden, yet the husband experiences the
situation as a moral quandary and his ultimate choice as morally required.
Now let us suppose that after some months he finds that he needs to hire
more and more help, that he finds the task of caring for his wife’s physical
well-being increasingly burdensome. He may finally conclude that he un-
derestimated the difficulties or overestimated his strength, that with all the
best will—one might say from too abundant love—he made the wrong de-
cision. Both he and his wife were “wounded” by that decision, and his ability
to hear her cry, as well his own discomfort, will enable him to change course.
Here a classical utilitarian might wonder why pragmatists tell such a com-
plicated story. Why can one not just determine which course of action will
maximize “the good” of all those affected? If one were then to follow that
course, would one not be doing the right thing? And if one adopted that
To put ourselves in the place of others, to see things from the standpoint of
their purposes and values, to humble, contrariwise, our own pretensions and
claims till they reach the level they would assume in the eye of an impartial
sympathetic observer, is the surest way to attain objectivity of moral knowl-
edge. Sympathy is the animating mold of moral judgment not because its
dictates take precedence in action over those of other impulses (which they do
not do) but because it furnishes the most efficacious intellectual standpoint.
. . . Through sympathy the cold calculations of utilitarianism and the formal
law of Kant are transported into vital and moving realities.14
Democracy
Fallibilism in any social arena demands that all relevant voices be heard. The
sciences flourish where the free exchange of ideas and results is encouraged;
13. Amartya Sen, The Standard of Living (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1987).
14. Dewey, Later Works, 7:270–271.
scientists are troubled when reasons of state (or commercial profit) demand
secrecy. The arts languish when they are censured, when some government
authority proscribes what it regards as “decadent” or otherwise politically
suspect. Yet we cannot do without any government. Law and its enforce-
ment make social living possible. We are social animals; we need to live with,
cooperate with, others of our kind. We need rules that prevent us from col-
liding with one another either literally or figuratively. So we need legislators
authorized to enact the rules and we need executives to enforce the rules; we
need, finally, a judiciary to adjudicate disputes. In other words, we need
government. This is not meant to be a fictitious history of the origins of
government, or a philosophical myth to establish legitimacy. It simply points
out that, in a fairly densely populated and technologically complex world,
we could not manage without the institutions of government. Of course,
this is not news; it has been true for millennia. Over time, the need for gov-
ernments over larger and larger territories and ever greater numbers of indi-
viduals has become ever more urgent. Advocates of world government are
simply carrying that reasoning to its ultimate conclusion. However, I do not
intend to argue for that ideal; rather, I wish to give reasons in favor of the
sort of wide democracy that James and Dewey championed in their day, and
that seems to me to be the most important social ideal.
So far, however, I have only claimed that we human beings need govern-
ment of some sort in order to function. To say that is like saying that we
need food in order to live. It is sufficiently vague to elicit virtually universal
agreement. Yet even a brief survey of history shows that governments or, as
would be more precise, rulers have often been a major source of suffering for
their subjects. We want, then, a government that will not be a major source
of suffering but rather will enable citizens to flourish. What kind of society,
that is, what kind of social organization, is called for? By analogy with the
case of the sciences and the arts, we may say that societies will flourish and
permit their members to flourish if they permit the free exchange of ideas,
including in particular ideas about the organization of society itself. For only
in that case will it be possible to apply what Dewey called intelligence to
social problems.
Free speech, then, free media of all kinds. However, the free exchange of
ideas is not enough; it must, and it does, lead to action. If that action is to
be peaceful, there must be freedom to form associations dedicated to chang-
ing some feature of society, small and large (societies for the protection of
the right whale, Amnesty International, political parties, etc.). There must
also be mechanisms that enable individuals to replace their governors in
some peaceful and orderly way: fair elections; or a comparable procedure.
Where all mentally competent adults are able to participate in such a process
after being fully informed of the alternatives, we have a political democracy.
Fallibilism applied to social problems calls for political democracy as the
most suitable form of political organization. By political democracy I mean
at least universal suffrage, fair elections, a free press, and freedom of associa-
tion.
I want to make quite clear that this argument for political democracy is
not based on any metaphysical assumptions about the nature of individuals
or the goals they must have. I do not argue against dictatorships on the
grounds that they violate human autonomy or stifle the full development of
human capacities. Of course they do that, and, of course, I find that deplor-
able. Beyond that, dictatorships cause their victims unbearable physical and
emotional pain, and they do not hear the cries of their victims. In fact, they
make it nearly impossible for their victims to cry out. One does not need to
be a fallibilist, one does not need to believe in moral objectivity, to be op-
posed to institutionalized cruelty. But because they insist that all voices be
heard (that all the evidence must be considered), fallibilists oppose not only
malicious, oppressive, exploitative arrangements, but also any benevolent
system, if such there be, that is not democratic. Simply because such a sys-
tem would deprive itself of a means of selfcorrection. I do not, of course,
reject the moral arguments just alluded to; indeed I endorse them com-
pletely. I am, however, suggesting that they do not go far enough, that they
leave room for benevolent autocracies.
I also do not claim that my argument for democracy is value-free. The
argument takes it for granted that human beings prefer getting along with
each other to civil strife, and that they value some states of affairs that can be
achieved only by cooperation, thus that they value social arrangements that
foster cooperation. It also assumes (because otherwise the ideal of political
democracy could not be realized) that human beings want to have some say
in how matters are arranged in their societies. I am deliberately vague. Some
of us must want, or at least be willing, to be legislators, or judges, or execu-
tives on some level of government. Many of us must want, or at least be
willing, to be involved in some way in choosing these public agents. Some of
us, the more the better, must be willing to form informed opinions on mat-
ters of public concern and to share these opinions with our representatives
on various levels of government. The machinery must allow for peaceful but
effective pressures to be applied.
In 1908 Dewey wrote, “Externally viewed, democracy is a piece of ma-
chinery, to be maintained or thrown away, like any other piece of machinery,
on the basis of its economy and efficiency of working. Morally, it is the ef-
fective embodiment of the moral ideal of a good which consists in the devel-
opment of all the social capacities of every individual member of society.”15
Externally viewed democracy is political democracy. But that machinery, as
does all machinery, serves some good. Included in that good is that the ma-
chinery must protect and maintain itself. John Rawls has taught us to think
about the stability of a social arrangement. A society that is just in the sense
of “justice as fairness,” he argued, would be stable. Living under such ar-
rangements would make one want to sustain them. But a Rawlsian just so-
ciety is more than a political democracy. It is a just society, and that means
that its basic principles rule out certain forms of oppression or exploitation
of one group of citizens by another. Rawls’s great contributions to political
philosophy are, in my opinion, his principles of justice. The first principle
spells out in greater depth what makes a political democracy a liberal democ-
racy. The second asserts, roughly, that a just policy would create inequalities,
or permit inequalities to continue, only if they are in the interest of the least
advantaged.16 I am, of course, aware of Rawls’s brilliant reconception of the
social contract; however, that kind of thought experiment does not fit into a
pragmatist argument. Of course, one should try to imagine, in as much de-
tail as possible, how various courses of action under consideration would
unfold, but that is a quite different kind of thought experiment from that
required by Rawls’s constructivism.
Let us, then, return to Dewey’s remark that, morally speaking, democracy
embodies the ideal of the development of all the social capacities of every
individual member of society. “All the social capacities” require a guaranteed
economic minimum. People who need to worry daily where their next meal
comes from, or where they will find shelter that night, or how to obtain
medical care without sinking into abject poverty—such people have neither
the time nor the strength to develop all their talents, or to participate in the
democratic process. Of course, much more could be and needs to be said
about social democracy, but space does not permit me to do so. Suffice it to
say that where there are very large differences in wealth and income and/or
where many are deprived of adequate schooling, the outcome of the political
process will be severely distorted in favor of the interests of the wealthy.
Social democracy is not an all or nothing affair. Some of the industrial
democracies are more egalitarian than others. Maintaining what social de-
mocracy we have and trying to expand it is an everlasting struggle. Richard
Rorty’s term “social hope” is useful here.17 We must begin with the hope that
we can achieve a social democracy and let that hope spur us to ever greater
effort.
There are, I said earlier, no intrinsic goods, no ends that are not subject to
revaluation. Yet one finds in the writings of James, and even more so of
Dewey, again and again an emphasis on individual growth, individual flour-
ishing. These expressions are so vague that fallibilism and reconsideration
will inevitably enter as we try to give them specific content. In any case, in-
dividual flourishing seems to be one of those transcultural goals that we can
all agree on, though, of course, what we mean by it will differ widely. It may
range from acceptance of a strict monastic rule to the pursuit of artistic ex-
cellence, from a modest life caring for one’s family to seeking the highest
political office, from a life devoted single-mindedly to an arcane research
project to a life of varied interests pursued with varied intensity. It may mean
faithful adherence to the lifestyle of one’s ancestors or an enthusiastic em-
brace of modernity. To provide genuine opportunity for all this flourishing,
society must make it possible for people to pursue varied lifestyles and mem-
bers of society must respect each other’s notion of flourishing. This is the
pluralism that William James argued for passionately in “On a Certain
Blindness in Human Beings.”18 He wrote of this essay that he wished he
could have made it “more impressive” and that it is connected to his “plural-
istic philosophy” according to which “the truth is too great for any one ac-
tual mind . . . to know the whole of it. . . . There is no point of view abso-
17. Richard Rorty, Philosophy and Social Hope (London: Penguin, 1999).
18. James, “On a Certain Blindness in Human Beings,” in Talks to Teachers on
Psychology, in Works, 10:132–149.
lutely public and universal.”19 Pluralism, then, in the sense of respect for a
variety of lifestyles, as long as they are respectful of others, is the final ingre-
dient in the pragmatist wide conception of democracy. James spoke of toler-
ance, but I believe that tolerance is not enough, since tolerance is compatible
with disdain. One needs to be respected by those whom one respects in or-
der to have self-respect, and one needs self-respect in order to flourish.
Thus he wrote in The Public and Its Problems, “An individual cannot be
opposed to the association of which he is an integral part nor can the associ-
ation be set against its integrated members. But groups may be opposed to
one another; and an individual as member of different groups may be di-
vided within himself, and in a true sense have a conflicting self. . . . In these
facts we have the grounds of the common antithesis set up between society
and the individual.”5
Nevertheless, one must emphasize sometimes collectivity and sometimes
individuality. For democracy is challenged from two sides: excessive individ-
ualism in the form of laissez-faire capitalism, on the one hand, and collectiv-
ism on the other. Laissez-faire capitalism, Dewey observed, tends in practice
to protect the freedom of the rich and the powerful at the expense of that of
the poor and the weak. Collectivism tends to block individual initiatives,
but these are necessary to social progress. For, he pointed out, “Minorities
are not always right; but every advance in right begins with a minority of
one, when some individual conceives a project which is at variance with the
social good as it has been established.”6 Social progress rests on the ability of
individuals to criticize the prevailing conception of the good. That ability
involves, again, both an individual and a social component. The individual
must have developed the capacity for intelligent judgment and the moral
courage and persistence to translate that judgment into intelligent action;
the society must provide the conditions in which these developments can
take place. Ultimately the individual must be able to challenge the prevailing
morality, must advance, in Dewey’s terminology, from customary to reflec-
tive morality. A brief excursion into Dewey’s moral philosophy is, therefore,
in order.
Dewey takes it that moral theories serve as aids to moral reflection, not as
algorithms that guide conduct. In the introduction to Essays in Experimental
Logic, Dewey wrote that “thinking would not exist, and hence knowledge
would not be found, in a world which presented no troubles.”7 As he was to
explain several decades later in Logic: The Theory of Inquiry, inquiry begins in
a problematic situation, a situation in which it is not clear what is to be
5. Dewey, “The Public and Its Problems,” in Later Works, 2:236–373, 355.
6. John Dewey and James H. Tufts, Ethics (New York: Henry Holt & Co, 1908). I
quote from Dewey, Middle Works, 5:433.
7. John Dewey, Essays in Experimental Logic [1916] (New York: Dover, 1954), 19.
done, but in which what we will do will affect the outcome.8 This is as true
in politics as it is in any other sphere of life. One of the outstanding charac-
teristics of Dewey’s pragmatism is his insistence that the same methods of
inquiry that have proved so successful in science and technology are to be
applied to moral and political problems. One’s first task in a problematic
situation is, however, not to wonder what is to be done but to formulate the
problem. If we are concerned, for example, about voter apathy, we begin by
asking why so many citizens fail to exercise their right to vote. Then we may
think that it is too difficult to register or that it is too difficult to actually get
to the voting places. If so, we will pass legislation that will make it easier to
register, and we will open more voting places, so that people can reach them
more easily, etc. Or we may think that many citizens believe that it will make
no difference to their lives which candidate wins. If so, and if we think that
these people are mistaken, we will seek ways of publicizing the differences
between the candidates. If, on the other hand, we believe the apathetic vot-
ers are correct in their belief that there is no significant difference between
the candidates, we realize that our democracy is in deep trouble; I shall
forebear pursuing this line of thought. The example shows, I trust, that for-
mulating the problem is, in fact, the first step toward saying what is to be
done.
Having formulated the problem, one envisages a solution, an end-in-
view. I suggested with my example above that while the end-in-view might
be described as seeing a higher percentage of eligible voters casting their
ballots, after the problem has been formulated, a more concrete formulation
of the end-in-view is possible; for example, in the second case it would be
better informed citizens. There are for Dewey no ready-made ends, no a
priori goods, though there are, of course, things one wants for their own
sakes. It may also be worth noting that there are things one wants not as
solutions to problems, but just so—to listen to a Brandenburg Concerto, to
walk at the seashore and watch the sunset. Without such consummatory
experiences, as Dewey calls them, one’s life would be deeply impoverished.
But moral reflection, whether it concerns private or public matters, begins
in a problematic situation, and when an end-in-view has been formulated, is
wanted as a solution to the problem and will actually function as a guide to
8. Dewey, Logic: The Theory of Inquiry [1938], in Later Works, vol. 12.
further reflection. For when one begins to ask oneself how that end-in-view
may be realized, one begins to identify resources and obstacles. In the course
of such thinking one may well come to modify or even replace the end-in-
view with which one began. Thus the familiar means-ends distinction col-
lapses, but as with other dualisms that Dewey rejects, one should understand
that the dualism is replaced by a continuum, and continua have end points.
Just as it is difficult to think of watching a sunset as a means, so it was for
Dewey impossible to think of the machinery of political democracy as an
end. He saw it as merely the best means yet thought of toward realizing the
social ideal. Finally, and simply for the sake of completeness, I mention that
the settled situation that constitutes the successful solution to the problem,
the end-in-view that has been realized and thus constitutes an ending, will
itself prove to be the setting, sooner or later, for new troubles. In this sense,
too, there is a means-ends continuum.
Although Dewey was keenly interested in what he called the construction
of the good, and in the theory of valuation, he did not think of the moral life
as a string of disconnected episodes in which a problematic situation is trans-
formed into a settled one, which settled situation will sooner or later, generally
sooner, turn out to be itself problematic. He emphasized again and again that
our actions are continuous, that what might appear as meaningless routine or
as morally neutral derives its significance from the fact that it is a link in a
chain of actions that make up what he called conduct and William James
called a significant life. Our actions do not merely form a causal chain leading
to some end or other; that could be said of a sequence of operations performed
by robots on an assembly line. What links a chain of actions together is that
they are the actions of one person, and both James and Dewey emphasized
that every one of one’s actions leaves its mark on one’s character, strengthens
one’s virtues or one’s vices, or in rare cases enables one to become, as we say, a
“new person.” Thus Dewey wrote, “Sometimes a juncture is so critical that a
person, in deciding upon what course he will take, feels that his future, his very
being, is at stake. . . . What is conscious in these momentous cases is found in
every voluntary decision.”9
When we apply Dewey’s account of moral reasoning to reflection con-
cerning political and social issues, we see that he described matters well
10. John Dewey, Lectures in China, 1919–1920, ed. Robert W. Clopton and Tsuin
Chen Ou (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1973), 53.
11. Dewey, “The Ethics of Democracy,” in Early Works, 1:227–249.
12. Ibid., 240.
13. Dewey, The Public and Its Problems, in Later Works, 2:191.
But what is that common good? Our earlier discussion should warn us
against seeking a general characterization. The common good, we should
perhaps say, consists of all the particular solutions to particular problems as
these arise. But one cannot help concluding, when one reads Dewey, that for
him “conditions that make the flourishing of all possible” is a preferred de-
scription of the common good. However, Dewey would respond that that
characterization is so abstract it can at best serve to formulate a problem.
It should thus come as no surprise that the particular form in which
Dewey contributed to the creation of these conditions consisted in his work
on education. Hilary Putnam and I have discussed Dewey’s philosophy of
education in “Education for Democracy.”20 We called attention there to
Dewey’s aim, one of the characteristic aims of pragmatism, to overcome
dualisms—the dualisms between mind and body, between theory and prac-
tice, between fact and value. These dualisms, in Dewey’s view, all reflect the
social dualisms of master and slave, of bosses and workers, of rich and poor.
Education, as Dewey understands it, would overcome these dualisms by
eradicating the barriers between socioeconomic classes, between rulers and
ruled. To be sure education is the method by which society reproduces itself,
but for Dewey that reproduction is at the same time a reconstruction, a re-
construction both of the individual’s experience and of society. The child
should not simply learn facts, nor should values or virtuous habits be simply
instilled in the learner. In the Deweyan scheme
Taking Dewey seriously means taking the context in which he wrote seri-
ously. It is worth noting that for most of Dewey’s life the opposition to de-
20. Hilary Putnam and Ruth Anna Putnam, “Education for Democracy,” in Words
and Life (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994), 221–244.
21. Dewey, Democracy and Education, in Middle Works, 9:370.
22. Robert W. Westbrook, John Dewey and American Democracy (Ithaca, NY:
Cornell University Press, 1991), 282.
23. Dewey, The Public and Its Problems, in Later Works, 2:364–365.
24. Ibid.
interaction between the organism and its environment, and, especially when
deliberately produced (as in a scientific experiment), it reveals rather than
conceals nature. In the context of his reflections concerning democracy as a
way of life, Dewey offers the following account:
We recognize in the last three words the title of Dewey’s last book in the
philosophy of education, published just one year before. And in this context,
the context of stating his democratic faith in philosophical terms, Dewey
defines experience as “that free interaction of individual human beings with
surrounding conditions, especially human surroundings, which develops
and satisfies need and desire by increasing knowledge of things as they are.”28
Throughout his life, Dewey had an abiding faith in science—not so much
in particular discoveries, but in the methods of science and in its habit of
taking its discoveries as hypotheses. Indeed Dewey urged policy makers, and
that means ultimately every citizen, to view political and social programs
and policies in that same hypothetical light. Quite late in his life—one
stands in awe at the sheer wealth of philosophy that Dewey produced be-
tween age seventy-five and age eighty—Dewey published his Logic: The
Theory of Inquiry, which Westbrook characterizes, rightly, as “a magisterial
summing up and refinement of some forty years of his work in the theory of
knowledge.”29 Since Dewey rejected what usually goes by that name—the
endless and endlessly futile dance of skeptics with realists—and replaced it
deliberately by a theory of inquiry, his reference to experience as “increasing
knowledge of things as they are” is particularly noteworthy. It was prompted
by reflection on the pernicious influence of misinformation in modern dic-
of America could make sure that we do not suffer a similar collapse. And the
answer is clear: democratic political institutions are not enough—they had
those in Germany. Finding particular solutions to particular problems as
Roosevelt’s New Deal did was not enough—too many Americans continued
to be excluded from the American dream and their potential contributions
to the common good went unused and unappreciated. What was needed
was a fundamental change in attitudes. Because what was most horrifying
about the Nazis was their intolerance, Dewey emphasized tolerance. Yet he
might equally well have emphasized experimentalism in social affairs as op-
posed to all forms of dogmatism or, finally, the courage to be a minority of
one.
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———. “Dewey’s New Logic.” In Schilpp, The Philosophy of John Dewey. 137–156,
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Schilpp, Paul A., ed. The Philosophy of John Dewey. New York: Tudor Publishing
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Seabright, P. “The Pursuit of Unhappiness: Paradoxical Motivation and the Subversion
of Character in Henry James’s Portrait of a Lady.” Ethics 98 (1988): 313–331.
Sen, A. The Standard of Living. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987.
Shook, J. R. Dewey’s Empirical Theory of Knowledge and Reality. Nashville, TN:
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Jaap van Brakel, “Interdiscourse or Supervenience Relations: The Primacy of the
Manifest Image,” Synthese 106, no. 2 (Feb., 1996): 253–297
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Walsh, V. “Smith after Sen.” Review of Political Economy 12, no. 1 (2000): 5–25.
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Chapter 6, “Rorty’s Vision: Philosophical Courage and Social Hope”: originally ti-
tled: “Democracy without Foundations,” Ethics 110, no. 2 (2000): 388–404.
Chapter 7, “Reflections on the Future of Pragmatism”: John J. Stuhr, ed., 100 years of
Pragmatism: William James’s Revolutionary Philosophy (Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 2010), 185–193.
Chapter 8, “Was James a Pragmatist?” appears for the first time in this volume.
Chapter 9, “Pragmatism and Realism”: Cardozo Law Review 18, no. 153 (1996): 153–170.
Chapter 10, “What the Spilled Beans Can Spell: The Difficult and Deep Realism of
William James”: The Times Literary Supplement, no. 4864 (21 June 1996): 14–15.
Chapter 11, “James’s Theory of Truth”: Ruth Anna Putnam, ed., The Cambridge
Companion to William James (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 166–
185. © 1997 Cambridge University Press.
Chapter 12, “James on Truth (Again)”: Jeremy R. Carrette, ed., William James and
the Varieties of Religious Experience: A Centenary Celebration (London: Routledge,
2005), 172–182.
Chapter 14, “What James’s Pragmatism Offers Us: A Reading of the First Chapter of
Pragmatism”: Scopus: Casopis za filozofiju stendenata Hravarkih studija [Zagreb,
Croatia] 11, no. 24 (2007): 7–12.
Chapter 16, “William James on Religion”: Chad Meister and Paul Copan, eds., The
Routledge Companion to Philosophy of Religion (London: Routledge, 2007), 181–190.
Chapter 17, “The Real William James”: Transactions of the Charles S. Peirce Society 34,
no. 2 (Spring 1998): 366–381.
Chapter 18, “Dewey’s Central Insight”: first published as “Intelligence and Ethics” in
John R. Shook and Joseph Margolis, eds., A Companion to Pragmatism (Oxford:
Blackwell Publishing Ltd., 2006), 267–277. © 2006 Blackwell Publishing Ltd.
Chapter 20, “Dewey’s Faith”: John R. Shook and Paul Kurtz, eds., Dewey’s Enduring
Impact (Amherst, NY: Prometheus, 2011), 181–192.
Chapter 22, “The Moral Impulse”: Morris Dickstein, ed., The Revival of Pragmatism:
New Essays in Social Thought, Law, and Culture (Durham, NC: Duke University
Press, 1998), 62–71. Copyright © 1998 by Morris Dickstein. All rights reserved.
Republished by permission of the publisher, Duke University Press.
www.dukeupress.edu
Chapter 23, “The Moral Life of a Pragmatist”: Owen Flanagan and Amélie Rorty,
eds., Identity, Character and Morality (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990), 67–89.
Chapter 26, “Democracy and Value Inquiry”: Shook and Margolis, eds., A
Companion to Pragmatism, 278-289.
Note
David Macarthur would like to thank Philippa Byers and Benard Owuondo for their
help in formatting the original papers for the present volume.
Fallibilism: commitment to, 25, 118–119; 216–217; pragmatism and, 2–3, 216–217
James and, 132, 136, 165, 192–193, 196, Intersubjectivity, 343, 362, 429–430
229, 235, 381, 383–384, 429; Peirce and,
25, 64; skepticism and, 132, 136; social James, Henry, 371
problems and, 433–437; understanding, James, William: on alternative medicine,
5, 51, 64 14–15; antirealism and, 4–5, 140–142;
Fanaticism, 106, 422, 433 “cast of beans,” 48, 161–163, 191, 212;
Fascism, 79, 85–86, 404 as cofounder of pragmatism, 124, 296;
Fechner, Gustav Theodor, 257–259 on democracy, 421–438; “Dilemma of
Feminism, 87, 100–102, 105–106, 115–119 Determinism, The,” 129, 263; “Doctrine
Flournoy, Theodore, 108 of Necessity Examined, The,” 129; falli-
Fodor, Jerry, 29–30, 69 bilism and, 132, 136, 165, 192–193, 196,
Foot, Philippa, 377 229, 235, 381, 383–384, 429; “Feelings,
Frege, Gottlob, 27, 207, 221, 346 The,” 143–145; friendships of, 201–224;
Freud, Sigmund, 20 introduction to, 1–9, 13–20; Meaning
Fromm, Erich, 397–398 of Truth, The, 128, 135, 137, 168, 172,
182–183, 235–236, 345; moral impulse
Gallison, Peter, 61 of, 261–265, 349–359; on moral life,
Gauguin, Paul, 7, 364, 368–370, 375 360–384, 430–431; “Moral Philosopher
Genocide, 94, 96 and the Moral Life,” 162–163, 191, 242,
Gifford Lectures, 201, 238, 242, 246–248, 262, 333, 341, 365, 377–378, 405; on
276 morality, 52–53, 116, 162–163, 191–193,
Global supervenience, 42–45 242, 262, 331–358, 360–384; on per-
God: pantheism, 255–257, 260; reality of, ception, 408–420; on philosophy, 14–16,
129–130 52–53, 109–110, 162–163, 191–193,
Goldman, Alvin, 59 225–231, 261–265, 331–358; on plural-
Goodman, Nelson, 210, 390–395, 397; Ways ism, 116–119, 136–137, 164–165, 179,
of Worldmaking, 210, 390, 393 337, 437–439; Pluralistic Universe, A,
Green, T. H., 212, 215–217, 444 205–208, 233–234, 248–249, 253–255,
349; Portrait of a Lady, 364, 371; Pragma-
Habermas, Jurgen, 344–346 tism, 160, 162, 163, 165; on pragmatism,
Habits of action, 35, 97–98, 197 2–4, 8, 14–15, 21–23, 35, 89, 108–114,
Hadot, Pierre, 226 123–140, 225–260; 167, 182–183;
Hanson, N. R.: Patterns of Discovery, 394 “Pragmatism and Humanism,” 163; Prag-
Harris, Roy, 396 matism: A New Name for Some Old Ways of
Hegel, G. W. F., 3, 276 Thinking, 123, 211, 225–231, 233–234,
Heidegger, Martin, 51–52, 120 245, 248, 254–255, 324, 342, 376;
Herman, Barbara, 291 “Pragmatism and Religion,” 163, 245;
Hibbert Lectures, 206, 253 “Pragmatism’s Conception of Truth,” 175;
Hickman, Larry, 110 “Present Situation in Philosophy, The,”
Hitler, Adolf, 341, 451 253; Principles of Psychology, The, 142–143,
Holocaust, 96, 115 154, 237, 258, 355, 365, 377, 406, 412;
Hookway, Christopher, 128–129, 221–223 Psychology: The Briefer Course, 143, 160;
Hope, 87–107 on radical empiricism, 44, 128, 136–143,
Human nature, 63, 101–102, 239, 392–393 152–176, 201–202, 216, 235, 248, 253,
Human rights culture, 94–96 297, 355–359; on realism, 140–166;
Hume, David, 15, 165, 216, 277 “Reflex Action and Theism,” 206, 249; on
Husserl, Edmund, 49, 51, 143 religion, 232–260, 316, 324; “Remarks on
Idealism: absolute idealism, 111, 187, Spencer’s Definition of Mind,” 124, 130;
209–219, 231, 248, 254–263, 299, 314, response to Meyers, 261–275; “Sentiment
346, 445–446; German idealism, 2–3, of Rationality, The,” 172, 249, 270; on
skepticism, 358–360; Talks to Teachers on Maine, Sir Henry, 444, 448, 451
Psychology and to Students on Some of Life’s Marx, Karl, 20, 102
Ideals, 116–117, 235, 359; on truth, 128, Marxism, 84, 104, 117
134–137, 167–200, 265–266, 341–347; Materialism, 36–40, 50–51, 229, 254–256
Varieties of Religious Experience, 14, 160, Mathematical theories, 301–302
188, 201–202, 232–259, 316; on “war- Mayr, Ernst, 47
ranted assertibility,” 193, 199–200; “What McDermott, John J., 137
Makes a Life Significant,” 117, 265, 361, McDowell, John, 20
374; Will To Believe, The, 14, 126, 130, Means–ends continuum, 17, 429, 443
135–136, 160, 163, 172, 193, 233–235, Medicine, alternative, 14–15
250, 264, 270 Meliorism, 110–114, 248, 253–255
Judaeus, Philo, 226–227 Menand, Louis: Metaphysical Club, The, 35,
Justice: conception of, 80–84, 401, 422; 123–125
theory of, 80, 83 Menkiti, Ifeanyi, 86
Metaphilosophy, 88–89. See also Philosophy
Kant, Immanuel, 3, 17, 46, 106, 160, 203, Metaphysics: metaphysical disputes, 112–114,
216, 222, 277, 288–290, 349, 433 129, 141; metaphysical question,
Kantian Reason, 74, 93, 290 335–339; metaphysical realism, 5, 15,
Kierkegaard, Søren, 20, 51–52 62–64, 141, 150, 270–271; metaphysical
King, Martin Luther, Jr., 324, 370, 382 tradition, 36
Kloppenberg, James T., 439 Meyers, Robert, 261–275
Knowledge: foundations of, 17, 90–93; moral Mill, John Stuart, 280, 376
knowledge, 94–95, 106–107, 385, 433; Miller, Dickinson S., 47, 161, 191
nonscientific knowledge, 55–70; scientific Moody-Adams, Michele, 85, 332–333
knowledge, 55–56, 68, 388, 426; theory of, Moore, G. E., 335
213, 278–279, 293–305, 312, 450 Moral philosophy: creating, 385–404; Dewey
Korsgaard, Christine, 291 on, 331–358, 360–365, 425–427,
441; James on, 52–53, 116, 162–163,
Lamberth, David, 190, 192, 195–200; 191–193, 242, 262, 331–358, 360–384;
William James and the Metaphysics of moral agents, 158, 352, 376–377, 430,
Experience, 195 445; moral inquiry, 17, 333, 342, 425–
Leibniz, Gottfried W., 230–231, 271; Theod- 426, 432–433; moral laws, 72, 291, 334,
icy, 230 386; moral realism, 6, 101, 104; moral
Lepore, Ernest, 30 relativism, 6, 119; moral skepticism, 6,
Lewis, C. I., 30 71–79, 85, 263, 333–335, 385–389,
Liberalism, 84, 88, 103–104 402–403; perceiving, 405–420; problem
Libertarianism, 84, 284 of, 334–342; question of, 334–341. See
Life: critical moments in, 366–369, 373–374, also Philosophy
382–383; democracy and, 8, 439–452; Morality: customary morality, 116, 425, 445;
meaning of, 241; moral life, 360–384, Dewey on, 116, 331–358, 360–365,
430–433; necessities of, 361–365; normal 372, 376–377, 425–427, 441; James on,
moral life, 366–369, 373, 376; percep- 52–53, 116, 162–163, 191–193, 242,
tions of, 159–160, 335–336, 413–414; 262, 331–358, 360–384; knowledge and,
significant life, 361–364, 374, 443 394–395; moral choices, 72–77, 81–83,
Locke, John, 216, 277 93–94, 113, 368–369, 390; moral
Logic: inductive logic, 56; laws of, 207–208; impulse, 261–265, 349–359; moral life,
principle of, 198–199 360–384, 430–433; moral problems, 5,
Lovejoy, Arthur, 205, 269 17, 73–79, 98, 283, 364–365, 430–433;
Macarthur, David, 9 politics and, 424; “normal moral life,”
Mach, Ernst, 209, 277 366–369, 373, 376; prudence and, 399;
Macintyre, Alasdair, 389 reflective morality, 425, 441; rules of,
72–73, 382; science and, 72, 83–86 education, 447, 450; evasion of, 15;
Morgenbesser, Sidney, 19 James on, 14–16, 52–53, 109–110,
Morse, Frances Rollins, 201, 251 162–163, 191–193, 225–231, 261–265,
Mother Teresa, 324 331–358; metaphilosophy, 88–89;
Mounce, Howard, 3 Peirce on, 15–16, 221–224; philosoph-
Murdoch, Iris, 20, 375 ical courage, 87–107; pragmatism as,
109–110, 253–255, 349; reconstruction
Natural realism, 141, 145, 150–156, 161–164, of, 331–348. See also Moral philosophy
176. See also Realism Piatt, Donald, 20
Naturalism, 6, 36–37, 81, 86; antireductive Pillon, François, 137
naturalism, 163–164; antisupernatural- Plato, 94, 101, 106, 124, 159–160, 227,
ism, 324–325 293–294, 341; Republic, 341; Symposium,
Nazism, 7, 101, 375, 425, 449–452 227
Neo-pragmatism, 1–3, 11. See also Pragmatism Pluralism: commitment to, 98, 384, 439;
Neurath, Otto, 22, 402 empiricism and, 136–137; feminism and,
Newton, Isaac, 159, 277 115–119; James on, 116–119, 136–137,
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 51 164–165, 179, 337, 437–439; pragma-
Nihilism, 37, 157 tism as, 115–120; religion and, 233–235,
Nozick, Robert, 84, 284–287; Anarchy, State 248–249, 255–260; understanding, 5
and Utopia, 284–285 Political issues, 17, 98, 103, 311, 424, 442
Nussbaum, Martha, 45, 371 Popper, Karl, 56, 57
Practice, judgments of, 293, 309–313,
Objectivity, 60–70, 172, 338–339, 361–362, 427–428
385–388 Pragmatism: classical pragmatism, 1–11,
21, 273–274; cofounder of, 124, 296;
Pacifists, 79–83 comparisons of, 36–54; contemporary
Panpsychism, 206, 213, 220, 256–260 pragmatism, 2–3; courage and, 87–107;
Pantheism, 255–257, 260. See also God description of, 1–2; Dewey on, 2–4, 8,
Papini, Giovanni, 167, 209 13–14, 89, 124–127, 130–131; differences
Peirce, Charles S.: fallibilism and, 25, 64; in, 36–54; founder of, 67, 124, 140, 350;
“Fixation of Belief, The,” 16, 49, 67, future of, 108–120; history of, 123–126;
123–124; as founder of pragmatism, hope and, 87–107; idealism and, 2–3,
67, 124, 140, 350; friendships of, 203, 216–217; James on, 2–4, 8, 14–15,
221–224; “How to Make Our Ideas 21–23, 35, 89, 108–114, 123–140,
Clear,” 124, 223; “Neglected Argument 225–260; as meliorism, 110–114, 248,
for the Reality of God, A,” 129–130; 253–255; neo-pragmatism, 1–3, 11; non-
on philosophy, 15–16, 221–224; on scientific knowledge and, 55–70; Peirce
pragmatism, 2–3, 13–16, 21–26, 35, on, 2–3, 13–16, 21–26, 35, 67, 124–134,
67, 124–134, 221–224, 350–351; on 221–224, 350–351; as philosophy,
realism, 142, 152; on truth, 168–173, 109–110, 253–255, 349; as pluralism,
193, 198–200, 341–346; on “warranted 115–120; principle of, 127–130; as public
assertibility,” 296–297 philosophy, 109–110; radical empiricism
Penn, William, 400 and, 108, 123, 136–139; realism and,
Perception, conception of, 186, 302–306, 140–158; Rorty on, 2–3, 13–14, 87–92;
408–420; theory of, 141, 147–148, 151, seamless webs and, 71–86; seriousness
274–275 of, 13–20; theory of truth and, 130–136;
Perry, Ralph, 172, 186, 190, 209, 213, 236; verificationism and, 21–35; views on, 1–9,
Thought and Character of William James, 236 18–20; vindication of, 29, 35
Phenomenology, 51, 143–145 Prediction, 23, 69–70, 119, 177–179, 273,
Philosophy: Dewey on, 14–15, 65–67, 281, 444
109–116, 302–313, 331–358; of Psychology: contents, 39; explanations, 45;
Validation, 175
Valuation, 185–186, 321, 408–409, 421–424