The Rei(g)n of ‘Rule’ 386838085X, 9783868380859

Table of contents :
I
. Rules, Norms and Conventions
1. Why norms are not conventions and conventions are not norms
1.1 The tension of normativity
1.2 Two concepts of arbitrariness: Saussure and Lewis
1.3 Can conventions become norms?
1.4 Rules
2. Cavell on normative necessity: The philosopher, the baker, and the pantomime of caution
2.1 “I am less interested now in the “mean” than I am in the “must””
2.2 “Here the pantomime of caution concludes”
2.3 “…the hopelessness of speaking, in a general way, about the “normativeness” of expressions”
II. Rules as conventions vs. rules as norms in the rule-following debates
3. What is a rule and what ought it to be
3.1 The reduction of rules to conventions vs. the reduction of rules to norms
3.2 Kripke: The reduction of rules to conventions1
3.3 Baker and Hacker: The reduction of rules to norms
3.4 Meredith Williams on normative necessity
3.5 Cora Diamond: Rules and their right place
III. Twisted Language
4. Davidson on rules, conventions and norms
4.1. Normativity without conventionality
4.2 Communication without rules or conventions
4.3 “The second person” vs. the community view
4.4 The two kinds of normativity
4.5 The unpacking of ‘ought’18
4.6 Normativity without norms
5. Searle on rules (of rationality, conversation and speech acts)
5.1 The shortcut argument against rule
5.2 Is language a rule governed form of behavior or is it not?
5.3 (No) Rules of conversation
5.4 Background brought to the foreground
Conclusion

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To Jonathan

Dana Riesenfeld The Rei(g)n of ‘Rule’

APORIA Apori/a HRSG. VON / EDITED BY Jesús Padilla Gálvez (University of Castilla-La Mancha) Alejandro Tomasini Bassols (National Autonomous University of Mexico) ADVISORY BOARD Pavo Barišić (University of Split) Michel Le Du (Université de Strasbourg) Guillermo Hurtado (National Autonomous University of Mexico) Lorenzo Peña (Spanish National Research Council) Nuno Venturinha (New University of Lisbon) Nicanor Ursua Lezaun (University of the Basque Country) Pablo Quintanilla (Pontifical Catholic University of Peru)

Aporia is a new series devoted to studies in the field of philosophy. Aporia (Aπορία) means philosophical puzzle and the aim of the series is to present contributions by authors who systematically investigate current problems. Aporia (Aπορία) puts special emphasis on the publication of concise arguments on the topics studied. The publication has to contribute to the explanation of current philosophical problem, using a systematic or a historic approach. Contributions should concern relevant philosophical topics and should reflect the ongoing progress of scientific development.

Band 2 / Volume 2

Dana Riesenfeld

The Rei(g)n of ‘Rule’

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Table of Contents Introduction

1

I. Rules, norms, conventions and necessity 1 Why norms are not conventions and conventions are not norms 1.1 The tension of normativity 1.2 Two concepts of arbitrariness: Saussure and Lewis 1.3 Can conventions become norms? 1.4 Rules 2 Cavell on normative necessity 2.1 “I am less interested now in the ‘mean’ than I am in the ‘must’” 2.2 “Here the pantomime of caution concludes” 2.3 “the hopelessness of speaking, in a general way, about the ‘normativeness’”

11 13 22 25 29 31 33

II. Rules as conventions vs. rules as norms in the rule-following debates 3 What is a rule and what ought it to be 3.1 The reduction of rules to conventions vs. the reduction of rules to norms 3.2 Kripke: The reduction of rules to conventions 3.3 Baker & Hacker: The reduction of rules to norms 3.4 Meredith Williams: On normative necessity 3.5 Cora Diamond: Rules and their right place

39 40 52 63 75

III. Twisted Language 4 Davidson on rules, conventions and norms 4.1. Normativity without conventionality 4.2 Communication without rules or conventions 4.3 “The second person” vs. the community view 4.4 Two kinds of normativity 4.5 The unpacking of ‘ought’ 4.6 Normativity without norms 5 Searle on rules 5.1 The shortcut argument against rule 5.2 Is language a rule governed form of behavior or is it not? 5.3 (No) Rules of conversation 5.4 Background brought to the foreground Conclusion

83 83 90 93 99 102 109 110 111 116 119

The Rei(g)n of ‘Rule’ “We seem to be dealing with an especially messy cluster concept” (Lewis (1969: 105), on ‘rule’)

1. Rules, Norms and Conventions Philosophy in general and the linguistic analytic tradition in particular have been reigned by the concept of ‘rule’. Forefathers of the analytic philosophy of language – Frege and Wittgenstein – considered rules to be fundamental in any attempt to understand our language and thought. Writers such as Carnap and Sellars all agree on the importance and centrality of ‘rules’, but differ on the definition and role assigned to language-related rules. Contemporary philosophers of language such as Searle and Brandom follow the analytic tradition both in assigning rules an essential function and in disagreeing on how this function operates. Philosophy has not only been reigned by rules, it has also been reined by them. While ‘rules’ are central in nearly every theory on or perspective of language, the concept ‘rule’ is not sufficiently defined – being used to mean different things and assigned with different tasks by different philosophers. This situation, though, is not coincidental. It reveals a significant feature of the concept of ‘rule’: it is a concept that (at least as related to language) evades definition. ‘Rule’ cannot be well defined, clearly and sharply delineated, as perhaps those who use it had hoped. This book is first and foremost an attempt to argue this, to present the conceptual impossibility of clearly defining rules and to proclaim ‘rule’ a philosophically ill concept. The aim of this study is to diagnose the illness before offering a remedy. The concept ‘rule’ is situated at the busiest crossroad of the philosophy of language. Every other significant concept in this field is connected to rules and most philosophers assume, explicitly or implicitly, that rules are an essential part of the very definition of language. One of the basic ideas shared by philosophers of language is that the phenomenon called language is essentially a system of rules and that therefore an understanding of language essentially involves an understanding of the rules of language. Both of these claims – the ontological (‘rules exist’) and the epistemic (‘understanding language is the understanding of the rules of lan-

2 guage’) – are closely related via the functional role rules are assigned. Functionality is supposed to answer the question of how rules operate in language and how they achieve their task. Yet in addition to an absence of a clear definition of ‘rule’ in theories of language, there is no clear-cut answer to the functionality of rules. The demands and expectations from rules are multiple and varying; e.g., philosophers tend to think of rules as a key concept in understanding understanding, in shedding light on how we communicate with one another. They appeal to rules in explaining, justifying and guiding our (language-related) actions and in explaining first or second language acquisition. Meaning itself, some contend, is dependent on the assumption of the existence of rules. If language has anything to do with distinguishing between correct vs. incorrect uses of language, it is argued, then we must treat it as essentially rule-bound. I claim not only that the expectations and demands from rules are multifaceted, but more importantly that some of the most fundamental demands contradict each other; in other words, some of the demands of rules cannot be met by one and the same concept. Philosophers not only require too much of rule, they also demand that it perform conflicting tasks. This is the general diagnosis of the philosophical illness of ‘rule’. In this study I attempt to spell out and illustrate the symptoms of this illness, as they appear in a number of varieties of the disease. The basic tension within the concept of rule is that philosophers wish for it to be on the one hand a normative concept, and on the other, a descriptive one. By ‘normativity’ I am alluding to the basic, rudimentary definition of normativity; i.e., that normativity distinguishes between the realm of ought and the domain of is. Unlike within other philosophical terrains, in the philosophy of language, the normative distinction carries with it no moral implications. Rather, it is the duty of linguistic norms to pry apart correct and incorrect uses of language. Rules, it is said, tell us how we ought to talk, how we ought to act linguistically. The normativity of linguistic rules grants meaning to the idea that we are sometimes wrong and that we can be corrected by others or ourselves. The normative dimension of language accounts for our predisposition to appeal to rules as a canon of correctness and to view rules as guiding our actions. Along with the aspiration to provide a normative account of rules, philosophers simultaneously expect rules to be descriptive concepts, i.e., to portray as accurately as possible our actual use. I call this aspect the conventionality of rules. I chose the term “convention” since it captures the arbitrariness of rules, the fact that rules, unlike natural laws, embody a sense

3 of contingency and option. The conventional dimension of rules ties rules to actual uses, regular habits, tradition of use and customs, while maintaining the rule’s descriptive nature. At first, perhaps the tension I’m referring to does not make itself obvious. For why can’t the concept of rule be both normative and descriptive? And indeed, there is no general reason why the two functions cannot coincide. My argument is slightly different. Although it is not impossible that normative rules would also be descriptive and that descriptive rules would also be normative, it is not necessary. In other words if the rules of language are both normative (set a standard of correctness, tell us how we ought to speak or to act linguistically) and descriptive (present a relation, describe, as fully as possible, the way we actually use language) the connection between those two functions is contingent. Philosophers, I have noticed, tend to emphasize either the normative dimension of rules, or their descriptive dimension. Moreover, emphasis typically leads to a reduction. So ‘rules’ are in general reduced to either norms or conventions, depending on the philosopher’s choice of emphasis. Each reduction has its advantages as well as its disadvantages, which are summarized in the following table: + ―

Rules as norms Maintain the rule’s connection to correctness Waive a necessary connection to actual uses

Rules as conventions Maintain the rule’s connection to actual uses Derive ought from is, or waive ‘correctness’ as a concept related to rules

The main advantage of the reduction of rules to norms is the ability of such reduction to preserve one of the rule’s main intuitive tasks, that of serving as a guide of correct (vs. incorrect) uses of language. The main disadvantage of such reduction is that the concept of rule we get loses a necessary connection with the actual way people use their language. The reason is conceptual; nothing guarantees that the way in which we ought to act is the way in which we indeed act. This allows for the possibility that no one follows linguistic rules. On the other hand, the reduction of rules to conventions guarantees that the concept of rule is the one employed, by and large, by the linguistic community. However, the main shortcoming of the reduction to conventions is that since the way people indeed act does not necessarily correspond to the way they ought to, rules seen as conventions either give up on any notion of correctness or perform a type of naturalistic fallacy by as-

4 similating the normative notion of correctness to the actions of the majority. To sum up: rules as norms do not necessarily portray actual uses of language, while rules as conventions relinquish rules’ normative role as standards of correctness. 2. Rules and Necessity What if, however, there were a way to show that linguistic rules are necessary and that we must follow them? If indeed the existence and following of rules are a necessity, then the problems I have pointed out seem to disappear. The concept of necessity seems to supply the common ground needed to solve both reductions’ shortcomings. If norms are necessary, then there is no risk that the normative rules do not prevail. If conventions are necessary, then there is no danger of a naturalistic fallacy. The addition of an element of necessity to either norms or conventions is, I argue, philosophers’ chosen path for overcoming the difficulties posed by the conflicting demands from a rule. However, I claim that this line of problem solving is, in fact, problem creating. The difficulty with ‘injecting’ rules with a dose of necessity is that neither the normative nor the conventional aspect of rules survives. Normativity by definition is devoid of necessity: a norm, unlike a necessity, can essentially tolerate its own lack of implementation. This feature is what defines it as a norm. Appending necessity to normativity brings about the hybrid notion of normative necessity. This, I claim, is a contradiction in terms. It empties the meaning of normativity. Any rule, linguistic or otherwise, can either be normative or necessary but not both. Adding necessity to conventions also results in a contradiction in terms, but for a different reason. A convention is by definition arbitrary and not necessary; a convention, unlike a necessity, is replaceable by another convention. Thus any rule, linguistic or otherwise, can either be conventional or necessary but not both. It can be argued that like the existence of conventions, the existence of rules is a necessity while their content is arbitrary. However, if this is the case, then rules cannot at the same time be considered as normative: we do not follow rules because we ought to but rather because we must. I claim then, that neither the reduction of rules to norms nor the reduction of rules to conventions is able to portray a full picture of the concept of rule and its role in language. The attempt to supplement either con-

5 ventions or norms with necessity places both of these concepts at risk of loosing their meaning. I therefore claim that the philosophical disease of rules is terminal, and I offer it no remedy.1 I do suggest, however, that the philosophy of language cease to depend on the concept of rule as a key concept in attempts to understand how we communicate linguistically with one another and rather treat it with greater care and skepticism. 3. Chapter Synopses The philosophers who partake in rule-related discussions speak in polyphony and this book is structured to reflect, address and analyze this multitude of voices. Since rules are such a fundamental concept, I have selected those rule-related discussions within the philosophy of language which I regard as the most elaborate and interesting attempts to clarify the concept ‘rule’. The first chapter lays down the conceptual foundations for the rest of the book and deals with the three accompanying concepts my analysis of rules makes use of – norms, conventions and necessity. In the literature on rules, more often than not, ‘convention’ and ‘norm’ are used synonymously. The aim of Chapter 1 is thus to distinguish between these two concepts. Normativity is a concept originating in ethics and is typically used to make a very specific distinction – that between is and ought. Generally, linguistic discussions, especially analytic ones about the normative dimension of language, tend to ignore any possible ethical consequences that normativity might have. The normative dimension of language is thought of as one whose duty is to distinguish between correct and incorrect uses of language, a concept which in the context of language is typically devoid of moral implications. Still in the realm of ethics, I open with Peter Railton’s discussion which characterizes normativity as a concept containing a tension between freedom and obligation. Norms are binding on the one hand, since they tell us how we ought to act, but on the other hand they leave room for freedom in the sense that they are not necessities. Norms, unlike necessities, are 1

It could be argued against my argument that the terminal prognosis I give to ‘rule’ follows only if indeed the two reductions I point to are the only possible alternatives. I think, however, that this assumption isn’t necessary for my present purposes. The initial characterization of ‘rule’ entails, essentially, an account of both the normative and the conventional aspects, and I argue that these two do not coincide, even if ‘rule’ is not reduced to them.

6 susceptible to violation. Susceptibility to violation is an essential feature of the norm and what separates it from becoming a necessity. Thus ‘freedom’ here is a freedom of choice, the ability to abide by the norm or not. Unlike normativity, which is often used but rarely defined in relation to language, convention has received a thorough and detailed analysis by David Lewis in his Convention: A Philosophical Study (1969). The most important feature of conventions for my purpose is their arbitrariness. ‘Arbitrariness’, I find, has received its fullest account outside the analytic tradition and is presented by Saussure’s principle of arbitrariness. For Saussure, the arbitrariness (of the linguistic sign) is its aleatory or random nature. The signs that make up our language are arbitrarily connected with that which they signify. For Lewis, convention’s arbitrariness is part and parcel of its definition: “Any convention is arbitrary because there is an alternative regularity that could have been our convention instead” (1969: 70). While Saussure stresses arbitrariness’ contingency, Lewis emphasizes its optionality. These ways of characterizing norms and conventions show that these terms are not synonymous, interchangeable or identical. I therefore claim that: 1. Normativity essentially involves a tension between freedom and force, i.e., the obligation to follow the norm and the possibility of violating it; 2. Convention essentially involves arbitrariness; 3. Arbitrariness cannot involve a normative tension; Therefore: 4. Conventions are not norms, norms are not conventions However, it may be the case that the norms we ought to follow are also the conventions we do in fact follow. The problem, I claim, is that if we accept this, we settle for a contingent relation between norms and conventions. In the realm of ethics, the existence of a gap between moral obligations and conventional ways of conduct poses an ethical dilemma. In the realm of language, I maintain, such a gap between norms and conventions creates a conceptual problem. A theory (or perception) of meaning that views rules as essential cannot afford to dismiss either norms or conventions; the linguistic rule aspires to be both conventional and normative. But, I claim, it cannot. Conventions are not necessarily normative, norms are not necessarily conventional. In other words, there is no essential or necessary connection between the conventional ways of how we in fact act linguistically and normative standards we ought to follow.

7 Some writers have made suggestions contrary to what I argue. Chapter 2 examines such a suggestion and presents the third accompanying concept of this analysis: necessity. Stanley Cavell claims that we must both mean what we say and ought to mean what we say. Cavell argues that meaning something by saying something is a sort of pragmatic necessity. However, a close reading of the examples he gives shows that he fails to make clear how the rules of language can be both normative and necessary. I conclude that the attempt to assign a pragmatic necessity to rule following is conceptually impossible. Having established in Chapters 1 and 2 that norms and conventions are not synonymous, Chapter 3 examines the consequences of this conclusion on the most celebrated and prolific rule-related discussion of the present day – Wittgenstein’s rule following. I read the debate between Kripke and Baker & Hacker as exemplifying the two reductions of rule: Kripke represents the reduction of rules to conventions argument, while Baker & Hacker represent the reduction of rules to conventions. Kripke’s skeptical solution (to his skeptical challenge) is that to follow rules means to act as others in the linguistic community do. I argue that such a position cannot account for the normativity of rules. Kripke’s suggestion explains how we use our language, but not why we ought to use it thus. The (statistical) fact that most people follow a rule is important, as it describes the conventional aspect of rule. However, it falls short of providing a full account of rule following. This theory demands the price of abandoning the notion of correctness, for according to it correctness is reduced to the actions of the majority. Thus Kripke’s view commits a type of naturalistic fallacy, that of deducing a normative injunction from conventional ways of behavior. I then move to Baker & Hacker’s interpretation of Wittgenstein and their criticism of Kripke’s community view. Baker & Hacker, I claim, insist on the normativity of rules at the expense of losing capacity to account for the conventional aspect. Their predicament is especially visible in their insistence on the one hand that rule following is practice, yet that it is not necessarily a social practice. This position forces Baker & Hacker to defend the possibility of what I call ‘public-solitary’ rule following, i.e., the possibility of an isolated individual to follow rules. This position is problematic in two ways. First, it is difficult to clarify how rule following can be both essentially public and contingently social. Second, by rejecting the community view, their prescriptive concept of rule following loses its connection with the actual way in which people act linguistically.

8 Is there a middle way between the two reductions of ‘rule’? I present Meredith Williams’ attempt to reconcile the debate between Kripke and Baker & Hacker by combining the normative as well as the conventional and social aspects of rule following. Williams’ approach is similar to that of Cavell in that she attempts to develop a concept of rule following that is both normative and necessary. This, I claim is a conceptual impossibility. Rules can either be necessary or normative, but not both. Finally, I present a seemingly different approach to Wittgenstein’s rule following. Cora Diamond’s reading of Wittgenstein is critical of both Kripke’s and Baker & Hacker’s. However, I suggest that her interpretation suffers from a similar oversight of the double nature of rules; as norms and as conventions. Discussions about rule following, Diamond claims, have misplaced the role of rules by abstracting rule following from the life these rules are a part of. Asking the wrong questions results in accepting a wrong answer by both parties, even if those answers themselves do not coincide with one other. Diamond’s attempt is to restore rules’ right place, the life they are interwoven in. I argue that there are two problems with Diamond’s suggestion. First, her opponents have not separated rule following from life, as she claims. Second, and more importantly, her method of argumentation relies on the notion of correctness (the ‘right’ place) in characterizing rule, while an essential aspect of rule is to set the standard of correctness. I argue that Diamond’s attempt to describe rule is circular in that it depends on the concept it aims to delineate. Chapter 4 and 5 critically present Donald Davidson’s vigorous attack on the concept of rule and John Searle’s wholehearted acceptance of the concept. One of Davidson’s main ideas is that the following of rules is unnecessary for communication. In fact, he argues, we get along and understand each other without such rules and conventions. Davidson develops a concept of understanding and a theory of meaning which are not based on abiding by rules. However, Davidson is not ready to relinquish normativity. His assignment of normativity to the mental is famous and largely discussed, whereas on the subject of the normativity of language Davidson is quite vague and laconic. Davidson has, nonetheless, approved of Akeel Bilgrami’s interpretation of the normativity of language. Bilgrami follows Davidson’s argument against conventions, and claims that norms do not necessarily partake in communication. The notion of correctness, he claims, is secondary to the intention to communicate. Thus if we make use of norms, we must think of them as pragmatic norms that are quite fallible and weak.

9 I argue that Bilgrami’s explanation of the linguistic norm and its role poses a problem, both for his own theory and vis à vis Davidson’s theory of language. Bilgrami’s definition of the linguistic norm is too weak to carry any compulsory force (this is demonstrated by its being unnecessary) and so it becomes unclear in what sense the pragmatic norm is a norm at all. If Bilgrami’s interpretation is correct, is creates a tension within Davidson’s theory of meaning. If we have been persuaded by Davidson that we can twist our language any way we want as long as we are understood, then we must also accept the conclusion that speaking and communicating carries no normative force. I conclude that in order to retain consistency, Davidson should have rejected not only rules and conventions, but normativity as well, not only in our role as speakers, but in our role as interpreters as well. If Davidson can be considered rule’s most bitter enemy, then Searle (discussed in Chapter 5) is its most devoted advocate. For Searle, language is, first and foremost, a system of rules. Searle defines the rules of language as constitutive of speech acts, i.e., of meaning and communication. Searle, however, rejects the idea that there are rules for conversation. I aim to show that the same arguments used by Searle in rejecting conversation rules can be directed towards the constitutive rules of speech acts as well. I conclude by discussing some of the underling assumptions that have guided me in this research. I consent to what is known as “Hume’s Law”, namely, the claim that deriving ‘ought’ from ‘is’ is an invalid inference. However, I claim that accepting “Hume’s Law” does not entail an uncritical acceptance of the is/ought distinction. This book is not another attempt to define rules. On the contrary; my research has led me to believe that if so many great thinkers have failed to clearly define rules and their function in language, then it is time we give up on the attempt. Instead, I recommend that we cease to uncritically accept the dogma that language is a rule-governed system, and use ‘rules’ more carefully and with less confidence. Finally, I suggest we aspire to explain language with as little reliance on rules as possible.

I. Rules, norms, conventions and necessity 1. Why norms are not conventions and conventions are not norms 1.1

The tension of normativity

In everyday contexts as well as in philosophical ones, “norms” and “conventions” are often used synonymously. In this chapter, I argue that these terms are not synonymous and explain their different function. The purpose of this argument is to set the conceptual stage to the argument presented in the second part, wherein I claim that rules are perceived as either conventions or as norms. In The Sources of Normativity (1996), Christine Korsgaard claims that we seek to find an answer to the question of why we, as human beings, follow moral laws: Ethical standards are normative.1 They do not merely describe a way in which we regulate our conduct. They make claims on us; they command, oblige, recommend or guide. Or at least, when we invoke them, we make claims on one another. When I say that something is good I am recommending it worthy of your choice. The same is true of the other concepts for which we seek philosophical foundations. Concepts like knowledge, beauty, and meaning, as well as virtue and justice, all have a normative dimension, for they tell us what to think, what to like, what to do, and what to be. And it is the force of these normative claims – the right of these concepts to give laws to us – that we want to understand (1996: 8-9).

Most often, normativity is characterized as the common denominator of everything that has to do with the ‘ought’ side of the is/ought distinction. The most fundamental aspect of normativity is its separation from what is. The notion of normativity involves an obligation or commitment to do a certain deed, to act in a certain way or to refrain from action. There are, however, different areas wherein ‘oughts’ enter our lives; morality, rationality, epistemology, semantics, etc. The fact that if I don’t want to get wet I ought to take an umbrella when it is raining seems to carry a different sort of obligation on my part than the one in ‘I ought not to lie’ and in ‘I ought to say such-and-such if I want to be understood in a certain way’. Yet what is shared by all of those ‘oughts’ is that they preserve the distinction between what I ought to do and what in fact I do. I could forget the 1

All italics in citations throughout are in the original unless otherwise noted.

12 umbrella (although I ought to have taken it), I can lie sometimes (although I ought not), and I can express myself in different ways than how I ought to. In other words, the normative ‘ought’ is such that it intrinsically allows for a situation in which the action that ‘ought’ to be done is not done. A normative action is not necessary. Unlike necessity, normativity always leaves room for the normative injunction not to be carried out, intentionally or unintentionally, for justified reasons or for unjustified ones. This is the basic characterization of normativity expressed by the is/ought distinction; the inherent possibility that what ought to be is not what actually takes place. Normativity is characterized by a tension between an obligation to follow the norm on the one hand, and the always-present possibility of withdrawal from that obligation on the other hand. In his article “Normative force and normative freedom: Hume and Kant, but not Hume versus Kant” (2000), Peter Railton defines normativity similarly to what I have suggested, in terms of a tension between freedom and force. Normative authority is such that it forces or binds us. However, since it must apply to us even when it fails to compel us (e.g., I ought to have taken my umbrella even in cases in which I haven’t done so) it must also allow freedom; 2 If “guidance by norms” is to play a nontrivial role in the explanation of an individual’s or group’s behavior, then the normative domain must be a domain of freedom as well as “bindingness” (2000: 3). If a normative must is to have a distinctive place in the world, then, it cannot be the must either of natural law or of conceptual necessity. Natural law and conceptual necessities are “always at work”, even when we’re tired, weak-willed, lazy, disobedient, evil, or ignorant. No worry about anyone violating them. But normative guidance requires some contribution on our part, in a domain where freedom in the “non-normative” sense makes some vigilance or effort necessary (2000: 4).

Railton characterizes the norm as an injunction that is always susceptible to violation, unlike either natural laws or conceptual necessities. The hallmark of normativity is the possibility to fail to uphold it. He illustrates this point through the example of spelling. Is the status of spelling, the correct way to write words, normative? Prima facie, it seems that the answer is affirmative, for do we not think that we ought to spell, say, ‘correspondence’ 2

Kant first characterized normativity as a concept containing a tension, defining normativity in terms of both autonomy and obligation. For a modern representation of this view see Christine Korsgaard, The Sources of Normativity (1996).

13 with an ‘e’ and not ‘correspondance’, with an ‘a’? But what does this ‘ought’ amount to? The answer has to do with the possibility of violation of the spelling norms. How do we account for the behavior of someone who has misspelled? We can, on the one hand, say that that person has violated the spelling norm. However, we can also claim that as the rules of spelling are constitutive of the correctness of writing, so there simply is no way to violate them: either one spells correctly or one is not spelling at all. Railton sums up his discussion of the normative status of spelling by saying: In this sense, it is analytic that spelling is correct, and even losers in spelling bees never spell incorrectly. That’s why, though it may sound odd to say so, when we ask why or how someone spelled correctly we typically are not using the term in this “normative sense” (2000. 4).

Seen this way, spelling rules are essentially like analytic definitions and are not a set of norms, in the same sense that “all bachelors are unmarried men” is not a norm. Railton separates between two senses of normativity: one that is not analytical in the sense that it can be violated, and the other that is analytical and cannot be violated. I wish to claim, however, that the second kind of “normative sense” is not normative at all, and in order show this, another distinction must be introduced. 1.2 Two concepts of arbitrariness: Saussure and Lewis 1.2.1 Saussure on arbitrariness: Socio-temporal approach Railton’s discussion of normativity shows that normativity must always leave room for a violation of the normative decree that he calls ‘freedom’. ‘Norm’, I claim, is separated from a family of related concepts that are necessary in that they do not allow for violation; e.g., constitutive rules, principles, definitions, axioms and natural laws. Necessity does not leave room for freedom: I cannot choose to obey the law of gravity or the principle of bivalence in the same way I can choose whether to take an umbrella or not. Necessity rules out the freedom of choice that is essential in normative rules. However, what has been left out of Railton’s discussion is an account of the intuition that norms should also be separated, at the other end of the scale as it were, from another family of concepts that are not necessary, and yet do not allow freedom of choice. I am referring to concepts that are typically characterized as arbitrary. This section will be de-

14 voted to the concept of arbitrariness and its relation to normativity and necessity. For this purpose, I examine two important discussions that link between arbitrariness and language – those of Ferdinand de Saussure and David Lewis. An ‘Arbitrary’3 choice is one that either need not, or cannot, be justified. One way to characterize arbitrariness is to think of it as necessarily involving the existence of an alternative course of action. The alternative must be an equally good option or choice as the one taken. The existence of such equally good alternative is an essential characteristic of an arbitrary choice. To demonstrate this, let us look at a simple example. Imagine someone who wants to reach a certain destination. This person is told that there are two equally good roads, A and B. The qualities that make the two roads equally good may vary according to the situation, but we may imagine that the two roads are equal in length, in traveling convenience, in safety, in aesthetic features, etc. The person choosing road A over B makes an arbitrary choice if and only if she might have chosen B over A. In other words, her choice is regarded arbitrary if no reason for her choosing one road over the other could be pointed out. “The link between signal and signification is arbitrary” (1983: 100). This is Saussure’s “principle of arbitrariness of the sign”, which he considers fundamentally important in linguistics. ‘Arbitrariness’ in Saussure’s sense means that any linguistic sign could potentially signify anything else. However, arbitrariness does not imply free choice, Saussure claims; it should not be understood as the speaker’s freedom to choose signs for significations randomly. Rather, he points out, arbitrariness should be understood as unmotivated (1983: 101) – that is, as unsupported by reasons. It may seem that the insistence on the arbitrary nature of the sign implies that signs are chosen freely; however, Saussure claims, this is not the case: Once the language has selected a signal, it cannot be freely replaced by any other. There appears to be something contradictory about this. It is a kind of linguistic Hobson’s choice. What can be chosen is already determined in advance (1983: 104). What appears contradictory is that the arbitrariness of the sign embodies on the one hand freedom of choice (unmotivated choice), and on the other, necessity of choice (i.e., having no choice). The principle of arbitrariness specifies that the relation between linguistic sign and whatever it signifies is arbitrary, yet it is not up to the individual, nor up to the community as a whole, to alter it once it has been established. Saussure com3

From the Latin arbiter; judge, overseer, lord, executor.

15 pares this situation to Hobson’s choice: a choice without a relevant alternative.4 How does Saussure resolve this apparent contradiction? It may seems that he is suggesting that in assigning linguistic signs we choose freely up to a certain point in time, and are bound by that choice thereafter: before the determination of the sign, society was free to choose arbitrarily. After the choice has been made, society is obligated to it. I think, however, that this is a mistaken understanding of what Saussure wishes to claim.5 Rather, he claims that in language, two conflicting forces are always operating: variability on the one hand, i.e., a possibility of “a shift in the relationship between signal and signification” (1983: 109), and invariability on the other; i.e., language’s characteristic immunity from alteration (1983: 105). Both variability and invariability are characteristic of the linguistic sign (1983: 108); linguistic signs can always be changed and replaced, but rarely are. However, these forces are not equally balanced: “the principle of change is based upon the principle of continuity” (1983: 109); variability is explained in terms of invariability. This is because “[a]t any given period, however far back in time we go, a language is always an inheritance from the past” (1983: 105). In this sense, “[a] language cannot… be treated simply as a form of contract” (1983: 104), for unlike other human institutions, it is the only one completely arbitrary, wholly free from natural necessity: Other human institutions – customs, laws, etc. – are all based in varying degrees on natural connexions between things. They exhibit a necessary conformity between ends and means… A language, on the contrary, is in no way limited in its choice of means. For there is nothing at all to prevent the association of any idea whatsoever with any sequence of sounds whatsoever (1983: 110). 6

Language for Saussure is not a system of arbitrarily chosen signs, decided by society at a certain point of time. Rather, it is a socio-temporal

4

“Thomas Hobson (1544-1631) kept a livery stable in Cambridge, England, and required every customer to take either the horse nearest the stable door or none at all” (dictionary.com http://dictionary.reference.com/wordoftheday/archive/2000/01/31.html). 5 For a discussion along the lines suggested here see Culler 1976: 35-45. 6 This is incorrect, strictly, since not every sequence of sounds is producible by the human phonic apparatus. However, Saussure does not address this issue here.

16 concept, inherited at any point of time.7 Language was never free from its arbitrary nature, there was not an historical time in which language was not bound by its inherent arbitrariness. Yet it is this arbitrary nature of language that enables change in language: “the fact that its [language’s] signs are arbitrary implies theoretically a freedom to establish any connexion [sic.] whatsoever between sounds and ideas” (1983: 110). Change always takes place against a background of invariability; that is why Saussure claims that permanence is prior to variability: “…what predominates in any change is the survival of earlier material” (1983: 109). Thus, the introduction of the principle of arbitrariness is meant by Saussure to resolve the seemingly contradictory nature of language: arbitrariness by definition allows for free choice but at the same time stabilizes that choice. In case the relation between the linguistic sign and what it signifies were not arbitrary, then it might have been necessary and invariable or ad-hoc and constantly variable: Ultimately there is a connexion [sic.] between these two factors: the arbitrary convention which allows free choice, and the passage of time, which fixes that choice. It is because the linguistic sign is arbitrary that it knows no other law than that of tradition, and because it is founded upon tradition that it can be arbitrary (1983: 108).

Arbitrariness for Saussure is a concept that enables change and restricts it at the same time. Arbitrariness is unmotivated, and in this sense unnecessary and free. However, like Hobson’s choice, it is a choice without an alternative, thus restricting the seemingly free choice it allows. From the perspective of the present discussion, the emphasis should be on the idea that this tension of arbitrariness excludes the possibility of violation of the arbitrary choice: because it is arbitrary it cannot be violated synchronically – it can only be changed diachronically, within a society and over time. Saussure defines a change as a “shift in the relationship between signal and signification” (1983: 109). He gives the example of the Latin necāre (to kill), which in French (noyer) means to drown. No violation of the former agreement is involved in the process; rather, it entails an evolution towards a new one. In language, only evolution is possible, not revolution (1983: 107). In case the relation between sign and signifier were not arbitrary; 7

I regard this point as crucial for Saussure’s position, for its articulation protects it against Quinean style paradoxes of convention; i.e., the need to answer the question in what language were the conventions of language established.

17 “the notion of value8 would lose something. For it would involve a certain element of imposition from the outside world. But in fact values remain entirely a matter of internal relations, and that is why the link between idea and sound is intrinsically arbitrary” (1983: 157). For Saussure, the notion of arbitrariness should be separated from the notion of necessity in that arbitrariness is not imposed ‘from the outside’; rather, it is an intrinsic force of language. For a linguistic sign to be meaningful, it must be socio-temporal involving society as a changing force on the one hand, and tradition as restricting change, on the other. This is what it means for the sign to be arbitrary, unmotivated. Arbitrariness, then, is not merely contingent; it also involves an agreement on the part of the community. In other words, arbitrariness is conventional. But what exactly is the relation between arbitrariness and convention? In reference to Lewis’ theory of convention, Davidson (1984: 265) points out that “…while what is conventional is in some sense arbitrary, what is arbitrary is not necessarily conventional”. We have already established that there is more to arbitrariness than contingency. We must now establish that there is more to conventionality than arbitrariness. 1.2.2 Lewis on the arbitrariness of convention: The timeless approach In David Lewis’ (1969) theory of convention, arbitrariness plays a central role.9 Convention is defined as being arbitrary, in the sense that there must always be an alternative10 convention to the one commonly practiced, and that alternative is such that it meets the same conditions imposed on the chosen condition: Our new condition does serve to make evident one property of conventions that was not emphasized before: there is no such thing as the only possible convention. If R is our actual convention, R must have the alternative R’, and R’ must be such that it could have been our convention instead of R, if only people had started off conforming to R’ and expecting each other to. This is why it is redundant to speak of an arbitrary convention. Any convention is arbitrary be8

For Saussure, ‘value’ is very close to, and a part of ‘meaning’ (1983:158). For a recent discussion of Lewis’ theory see Marmor (2009) Social Conventions: From Language to Law. Marmor expands and clarifies Lewis’ definition of arbitrariness. For a critical evaluation of Marmor’s book, see my “What is a convention?” in Pragmatics & Cognition 18:2. 10 In this important respect Lewis and Saussure differ; Saussure’s definition of arbitrariness is a choice without an alternative. 9

18 cause there is an alternative regularity that could have been our convention instead. A convention that is not arbitrary, so to speak, is a regularity whereby we achieve unique coordination equilibria. Because it is not arbitrary, it does not have to be conventional either. We would conform to it simply because that is the best thing to do. No matter what we had been doing in the past, a failure to conform to the “nonarbitrary convention” could only be a strategic error (1969: 70).

For Lewis, saying that conventions are arbitrary is analytic. The background for the emergence of a convention is the need to solve problems of a special sort that he defines as coordination problems.11 Convention is a matter of having to choose, and conventional choice must always be arbitrary. Making a conventional choice is not selecting “the best thing to do”; it is choosing between (at least) two alternatives that serve the purpose just as well. Contrarily, situations in which participants have a dominant choice i.e., have no equally good alternative, leave no room for an arbitrary choice. A dominant choice is defined as one that does not take into consideration other participants’ actions. Such, for example, is the famous Prisoner’s Dilemma (1969: 17). The Prisoner’s Dilemma cannot provide the right setting for the emergence of a convention since no coordination can be achieved through it. Each person prefers the other to act in a certain way but does not expect her to act in that way. Situations like the Prisoner’s Dilemma are characterized as ones in which there is no correspondence between preferences and expectations. Since such correspondence is necessary for coordination problems that provide the setting for the creation of convention, Prisoner’s Dilemma type situations cannot be conventional. For a decision to be arbitrary the mere existence of an alternative is not enough; the alternative must also serve the purpose as well as the chosen one. This point is made clear by Lewis’ discussion of the difference between a convention and a social contract (1969: 88-96). Conventions are like social contracts in that both are regularities in behavior that people prefer to conform to. However, Lewis argues, not all social contracts are conventions since social contracts “seem to lack the characteristic arbitrariness of convention” (1969: 96) because social contracts “need have no other alternative than the state of nature” (1969: 95) and the alternative of the state of nature is not on a par with the alternative of a social contract. 11

“Coordination problems … are situations of interdependent decisions by two or more agents in which coincidence of interest predominates and in which there are two or more proper coordination equilibria” (1969: 24).

19 Indeed, choosing between them is a matter of rationally selecting the best alternative and not of choosing arbitrarily. The difference between convention’s arbitrariness and social contracts’ lack of arbitrariness is further explained by Lewis’ discussion of preferences. He distinguishes between two senses of preference: preference in a wide and a narrow sense. The preference involved in convention is a preference in the narrow sense, i.e., one that does not include acceptance of moral obligations (1969: 103). Social contracts involve preference in the wide sense and include moral obligation, i.e. the idea that the social contract places agents under a moral obligation. This is why, in the case of social contracts, we can find an agent behaving “against his own preferences because he considers himself to be under a moral obligation” (1969: 93). Social contracts allow for a situation in which preferences are opposed to obligation (1969: 95), while part of the definition of convention is the mandatory correspondence between preferences and obligations. An agent cannot, in the case of convention, be said to be acting against her own preferences, because her preferences depend on the preferences of others: My definition of social contract paralleled that of a convention as far as possible in order to show the location of difference: in the nature of the general preference for general conformity. Preferring something is preferring it to something else, and the second term of preference is not the same. For convention, we require that each agent prefer general conformity to conformity by all but himself, ignoring his preferences regarding states of general nonconformity. For social contract, we require that each agent prefer general conformity to a certain state of nonconformity, ignoring his preferences regarding conformity by all but himself (1969: 90).

In both cases of conventions and social contracts we prefer general conformity. Yet whereas the conventional preference is an indifferent choice of convention (as long as there is an alternative convention), the preference involved in social contract is not arbitrary in that it is not indifferent to the alternative which, in the case of social contract, is a return to the state of nature. I prefer, for example, that everyone will return borrowed money to everyone’s not returning the money. I also prefer that everyone drives on the right side of the road, but had everyone decided to drive at the left side of the road, I would have preferred that. Lewis’ discussion of the difference between convention and social contract enables us to see how the “ought” element in both operates differently: in convention I ought to obey because everyone else does, but had a different con-

20 vention been chosen I would have obeyed it without preference to the chosen one. In the case of social contract, I ought to obey it independently of others’ obedience, for the alternative is less preferable to me. The criterion for differentiating between the kind of preference associated with convention has to do with the incentive one has to obey: in the case of convention, one’s incentive is dependent on others’ obedience or disobedience (I prefer to obey the conventions as long as others do). In cases where my incentive to obey is independent from others’ obedience (I prefer to obey whether or not the rest do), either because I feel I am under moral obligation (as is the case with social contracts) or because I fear punishment (as is the case with certain rules issued by authority (see, e.g., 1969: 102)), the situation is not one of a convention. Lewis’ analysis of preference renders social contracts as not conventional. According to him, social contracts are normative in that they “prescribe behavior for each agent who may go against his own preferences (in the narrow sense)” (1969: 103). Lewis’ discussion gives us a criterion by which we can decide whether a rule or a set of rules is conventional or not. Consider again the rules of spelling. Applying Lewis’ preference criterion, we find that spelling rules are not normative and that they are a paradigmatic example of an arbitrary convention. Spelling rules are arbitrary, and other spelling conventions may have existed and served the purpose just as well as the accepted ones. The reason I prefer spelling “correspondence” with an ‘e’ and not an ‘a’ is because everyone else does. My preference here suits the conventional preference and not the preference of social contracts. At the outset, we have seen one fundamental difference between Saussure’s concept of arbitrariness and Lewis’ concept in the lack of alternative in Saussure’s view and the essentiality of it in Lewis’ view. But there is another fundamental difference: unlike Saussure’s socio-temporal concept of arbitrariness, Lewis’ concept of convention is timeless. The convention’s timelessness is presented in the context of Lewis’ contrast between conventions and agreements; although convention is based on and the product of agreement, Lewis stresses that to “…say that we act as we do because we once agreed to would be badly misleading” (1969: 84). Moreover, “a convention begun by agreement may not become a convention, on my definition, until the direct influence of agreement has had time to fade” (1969: 84). The reason, I claim, Lewis must maintain a difference between the timeless concept of convention and the time-bound concept of agreement, is because he wishes to retain conventions separated from

21 norms. The difference between conventions and agreements will recur in later chapters and its importance will be further clarified. As mentioned earlier, the main task of this chapter is to identify and locate the differences between norms and conventions. Lewis refers to this difference; “The definition I gave of convention did not contain normative terms: ‘ought’, ‘should’, ‘good’, and others. Nor have we reason to expect normative terms to occur essentially in any equivalent definition. So convention itself, on my analysis, is not a normative term” (Lewis 1969: 97). According to Lewis, conventions need not be normative, but, as we shall later see, conventions may be normative. I have tried to show that Lewis defines convention as not normative because of his essential characterization of convention as arbitrary. Lewis’ explanation of the specific role arbitrariness has for convention is formulated in terms of preference: convention is arbitrary in that the agent’s preference to follow the convention is arbitrary. Convention-related preference is a general preference to act as others do, disregarding the specific content of the convention itself. Convention’s arbitrariness involves, then, an indifference to the chosen convention over its possible alternatives, provided the rest of the community follows it as well. One of Lewis’ repeated examples of a convention is taken from Hume and envisages a situation of two (or more) people rowing together in a boat (1969: 3-4). Rowing in the same rhythm ensures a safe and convenient ride. The rowers, however, do not have a preference regarding the velocity of the ride, but only as to its safety and convenience. Such a situation would yield a convention: each rower will make an attempt to adjust his pace to that of the others. Each rower prefers to row in coordination with the other rowers, be the pace of the row as it may. Each rower ought to row in pace with the others because he prefers everyone else to act as he does. The ‘ought’ element in convention operates in a way that what we ought to do is not this particular thing or another; it is that which others do (what Lewis calls: preference in the narrow sense). The pace of rowing may shift, but the convention does not. However, this does not mean that convention is to be conflated with copying or imitating others’ actions. Imitation alone does not suffice for the creation of convention. A coffee drinker among tea drinkers (Lewis’ example, 1969: 119) may ‘convert’ to drinking tea. The mere fact that he is imitating the rest is not sufficient ground to claim that this man’s drinking tea is conventional. The reason, again, has to do with the preferences on the part of the agent. Unlike the case of convention, in imitation the agent may or may not prefer that eve-

22 ryone else would drink tea, or, for that matter, that everyone drink the same beverage. In other words, the preference of convention must always be conditional: the only reason I prefer R to R’ is because everyone else does. In imitation, my preference might be unconditional: I may prefer to persist in drinking tea (even though my liking originated from copying others) even if the rest of the people switch to coffee drinking again. The arbitrariness of convention is the essence of the conditional preference, and what separates it from being a norm. Normative preference is (or at least, may be) unconditional – independent of others’ preferences. As we have seen in the example of a social contract, I prefer following the norm whether others prefer it or not. The ‘ought’ element of normativity is committed to a certain specific content of the norm, not to the actions of others. This is why normative preference cannot be arbitrary, for when I think I ought to do something (in the normative sense), I think I ought to do that certain thing. However, when I think I ought to follow a convention, I think I ought to follow the same convention because everyone else is following it. 1.3

Can conventions become norms?

The considerations so far have led me to argue the following: 1. Normativity essentially involves a tension between freedom and force, i.e., the obligation to follow the norm and the possibility of violating it 2. Convention essentially involves arbitrariness 3. Arbitrariness cannot involve a normative tension Therefore: 4. Conventions are not norms, norms are not conventions There is a fundamental difference, I wish to claim, between conventions and norms. The reason, I have pointed out, is that while normativity contains a tension between an obligation to follow the norm and the freedom not to follow it, convention is by definition arbitrary. Lewis, as we have seen, wishes to retain the difference between conventions and norms. But alongside separation, Lewis moves in the opposite direction as well and blurs the boundaries between norms and conventions. Immediately after stating that his definition of a convention is not normative, Lewis withdraws from his initial delineation: “Nevertheless, conventions may be a species of norms: regularities to which we believe one ought to conform” (1969: 97). In what follows, I wish to argue not only

23 that norms and conventions differ, but also that Lewis’ initial definition of convention makes it impossible for a convention to be (or become) a norm.12 It is important to recall why it is essential for Lewis to stress the difference between norms and conventions. The reason the distinction is important is because unlike rules on the one hand and norms on the other, conventions are not followed because of sanctions inflicted on nonfollowers and are also not followed independently of others’ preferences. In convention, my preferences must coincide both with the preferences of others and with my actions. The deep reason why Lewis must keep conventions and norms separated is to disallow a case where a convention is not followed. Conventions must be followed given the risk of turning into norms that ought to, but may not be followed. However, it also cannot be the case that conventions are necessarily followed given the risk of becoming akin to laws of nature, for example. So the concept of convention retains a middle position; it must beware on the one hand of collapsing into necessity, and on the other, of conflating with a norm. That is where Lewis’ discussion of preferences comes into the picture. Conventions, he claims, may be species of norms, i.e., conventions are those types of norms in which my preferences and my actions coincide. The main burden of the definition of convention is to explain why is it that people conform to them. The concept of conforming to the convention is equivalent to the concept of following a rule and shares with it many of its problems. The main problem a definition of convention has to face is what gives conventions their power of authority; in other words, a definition of convention must answer the question of why we follow conventions. Lewis cannot answer that conforming to the convention is analytic of it, i.e., that by definition a convention does not allow a situation of not following it. Had he done so, following a convention would become necessary, which of course, it isn’t. Rather, he claims that given the right situation, a convention would probably be created. Think again of the rowers. Had they not created (implicitly or explicitly) a convention and followed it, they would be acting against their own preferences; i.e., they would be acting irrationally. By definition, a convention arises in a situation wherein I

12

Not everyone agrees with my reading of Lewis. Edna Ullmann Margalit treats conventions as a type of norm (1977: 76) and claims that her analysis is based on Lewis’ definition of convention (1977: 75). She claims that certain types of convention gain, over time, the status of norms.

24 cannot be said to be acting against my preferences, so the choice of convention is the only rational choice left. However, Lewis does not claim that in all cases, acting against my own preferences is irrational. Sometimes doing so would be just the rational thing to do, as is indeed the case with rules inflicting severe sanctions or when moral obligations are involved in my preference. He merely claims that these are not cases of convention. On the basis of these considerations, I claim that conventions cannot be or become norms, for by definition a convention cannot allow an agent to be acting against his own preferences, while a norm does allow for it. One may argue, against my claim, that Lewis does not say that conventions are norms or become norms but only that they may be species of norms. Conventions, the argument goes, are those norms in which the concept of preference is understood in the narrow sense. Indeed, I think this is what Lewis is arguing. But my point is that conventions cannot be a species of norms because they are inherently of a different species. In his discussion of the difference between conventions and social contracts, Lewis asks whether any regularity is a convention or not: “Consider the regularity R of obeying the sovereign. Let us see how R might be a convention, a social contract, both, or neither” (1969: 90). The difference between the possibilities is explained in terms of our preferences regarding the situation: “If R is a convention, the only preferences rankings that occur among us … are the three in which SQ [the status quo] is ranked above LD [lone disobedience] so that each prefers to conform to R conditionally upon the others’ conformity” (1969: 91). At this point we can ask under which circumstances does a regularity, R, become a convention instead of a norm, or vice versa. Saying merely that conventions are those regularities that we believe we ought to conform to (1969: 97) is misleading, for, as we have seen, the normative ought and the conventional preference carry a different sort of authority. And that difference, as Lewis explains, has to do with the notion of preferences in that the conventional preference is conditional; i.e., dependent on the preferences of the others. In normativity, ‘ought’ marks the separation from what is. Not so in convention. Convention’s collective nature, the fact that the criterion our preference must meet is to coincide with the others’ preference, cancels out the separation between what we ought to do and what we in fact do. Convention, metaphorically speaking, closes the gap left open by normativity; the reason I believe I ought to do something is

25 because everyone else does – so the condition of convention is the actual action of others. 1.4 Rules I have argued in this chapter that norms and conventions are fundamentally different. Frege seems to have very similar intuitions regarding two senses of “law”. In the opening lines of “The Thought: A Logical Inquiry” he says: The word “law” is used in two senses. When we speak of laws of morals or the state we mean regulations which ought to be obeyed but with which actual happenings are not always in conformity. Laws of nature are the generalization of natural occurrences with which the occurrences are always in accordance. It is rather in this sense that I speak of laws of truth (1956: 289).

Frege distinguishes between normative laws – those we ought to obey – and necessary laws, which are generalizations describing regularities that in fact take place. The main criterion for distinguishing the two types of laws are their terms of annulment within the system they apply to. While normative laws can be breached, and in this sense may turn out to be inadequate descriptions of the system or phenomena they apply to, necessary laws have no such conditions of annulment. They are descriptive generalizations of phenomena and therefore cannot be violated. Frege mentions laws of ethics and juridical laws as paradigmatic examples of normative laws, while the primary example of necessary laws are the laws of physics. Frege’s distinction is an illustration, one of many in the history of philosophy, of the distinction between prescriptive and descriptive laws. It is important to notice that Frege’s distinction is exclusive. A law is classified as either normative or as descriptive. However, a prescriptive law can be contingently descriptive. For example, in a perfectly moral society (setting aside the question of the possibility and nature of such a society) the prescriptive ethical laws also correspond to the existing situation. Nonetheless, those moral laws are prescriptive laws since they lack the necessity of a natural law and can potentially be broken. We may say that moral laws are primarily prescriptive and contingently or secondarily descriptive. The laws of truth are for Frege like the laws of nature, i.e., necessary in the sense that they are always in accordance with what actually occurs.

26 The main concept this research deals with is the concept of rule in general, and linguistic rules in particular. I would now like to address the question: what is the status of linguistic rules? Are they normative, conventional, or a combination of both, or neither? I will begin by rearticulating the distinction between norms and conventions, this time in regard to rules. Normativity, by definition, pertains to what “ought” to be (or to be done). It must allow, then, a separation from what is; normativity might be followed, but isn’t necessarily followed. Conventionality, on the other hand, is obligated to what is. It is in this sense a member of a family of related concepts that includes habits, customs, traditions, practices, fashion, trends etc. As a result of its arbitrary nature, it must allow for a situation in which it is separated from what ought to be done. For example, paying taxes could be considered normative (perhaps, derivative of a normative social contract), yet it could be the existing convention in a certain society to avoid paying taxes. On the other hand, I cannot say of a form of behavior in a society that it is conventional unless it is the existing behavior in that society. I cannot, for example, say that it is conventional to dress formally to work in a workplace in which everyone wears jeans. Normativity is committed to what ought to be – a contention that must be understood as saying that it might also be a convention but not necessarily. A convention is committed to what is – a contention that must be understood as saying that it might also be a norm, but not necessarily. In terms of rules, our discussion shifts quickly to the realm of rulefollowing. When thought of as normative, rules cannot without further explanation be assumed to be followed. By definition, normative rules ought to be followed but are not necessarily followed. When thought of as conventional, rules cannot without further explanation be assumed to have a normative power of authority. By definition, conventions encapsulate the existing conduct and not the one that ought to exist. The problem of conventionality resembles (and is indeed an instance of) the naturalist fallacy – the inability to deduce “ought” from “is”. The problem of normativity is an inverted naturalistic fallacy – the fact that what ought to be isn’t necessarily what is. In this respect, linguistic rules are in a graver predicament than just any rule. For, following Saussure, I wish to claim that language is a unique phenomenon; “a language… is something in which everyone participates all the time” (1983: 74). Setting aside the possibility of following a rule in isolation,13 language in general is not a behavior we choose to engage in. Communication by language is imposed on us by the fact that we 13

An option that will be discussed in Chapter 3.

27 are members of a human community. So regarding language and linguistic rules, the conceptual problems I have pointed to gain an unavoidable resonance.

2. Cavell on normative necessity: The philosopher, the baker, and the pantomime of caution 2.1 “I am less interested now in the “mean” than I am in the “must”” (Cavell 1969: 9). In his “Must we mean what we say?” (1969), Stanley Cavell answers the question “must we mean what we say?” affirmatively. The implications of Cavell’s answer depend, however, on his understanding of the word “must” in the question: in what sense must we mean what we say? “Must”, Cavell agrees (1969: 9), has an element of necessity; thus when we say something, it is necessary that we mean something (and not something else). So answering the question, “in what sense must we mean what we say?” involves taking a closer look at what Cavell says about the specific nature of ‘must’ and the element of necessity in meaning. In the following, I present the background that stimulated Cavell’s article, focusing specifically on Cavell’s treatment of normativity and the relation he points to as holding between ‘ought’ and ‘must’. Finally, I claim that if we must mean what we say, and if we understand ‘must’ as in some sense necessary, it becomes unclear how it is possible to account for the normative aspect of meaning, i.e., the idea that we ought to mean what we say, and for the fact that not all speakers of the language do in fact abide by this necessity. I argue that Cavell’s notion of the necessity of meaning what we say is not fully compatible with the actual way language speakers use their language. In other words, the fact that we do not always mean what we say is at odds with Cavell’s claim that we must mean what we say. We cannot, I claim, say of an action (or a speech act) both that it ought to be performed and that it must be performed (when ‘must’ is understood as ‘necessary’). Cavell’s article is a response to Benson Mates’ “On the verification of statements about ordinary language” (1964). Mates’ article comments on a disagreement between J.L. Austin and Gilbert Ryle over the ordinary use of the word “voluntary”. Mates’ aim is to shed light on the type of discussion taking place between the two philosophers, rather than siding with

30 any of the participants. The question Mates raises is in what way could a discussion of this type, i.e., one taking place between two ordinary language philosophers who are interested in the ordinary use of a word, be decided? What sort of evidence do those philosophers consider as relevant in making their claims? Since “meaning is bound up with verification” (1964: 64), Mates’ basic question is a question concerning the means to verify a statement in general, and in particular, the means to verify statements about ordinary language. There are, he claims, two basic approaches to the question of verification (1964: 68-69), which he calls “extensional” and “intentional”. According to Mates, through the extensional approach one elicits meaning by finding a common denominator of a class of cases (e.g., uses of a word), while in the intentional approach meaning is the outcome of a dialogue in a “Socratic fashion” (1964: 69), which involves the asking of a subject for the meaning of a word as the speaker uses it. Ordinary language philosophers, Mates argues, “…tend toward an armchair version of the extensional method” (1964: 69). The problem is that while on the one hand ordinary language philosophers object to “all forms of ‘nose counting’” (1964: 68), they, on the other hand, rely on “seemingly factual statements” (1964: 64) that seem to deserve such nose counting for their verification. Mates accuses ordinary language philosophers that they declare that their use of the expression “ordinary language” is normative, while they actually use it as a descriptive term, one that describes the actual way words are used ordinarily. As a descriptive term it is quite insufficient, as it describes the intuitions of a very small group of speakers – typically including the philosopher alone. Moreover, as evidence, those intuitions are doubtful as they are sometimes inconsistent even with those of another philosopher (1964: 68), e.g., the disagreement between Austin and Ryle that serves as an example here. While Mates thinks that it is crucial to classify statements in general and those concerning ordinary language in particular into descriptive or normative (analytic or synthetic) (1964: 65), Cavell does not agree that classification comes first: “Given our current alternatives, there is no way to classify statements; we do not yet know what they are” (1969: 16). In asking what those statements are, Cavell considers the role of normativity in ordinary language philosophy: The way philosophers have practiced with the word ‘normative’ in recent years seems to me lamentable” (1969: 21). He continues to characterize two “main confusions about the problem of ‘normativeness’… the idea (1) that descriptive

31 utterances are opposed to normative utterances; and (2) that prescriptive utterances are (typical) instances of normative utterances (1969: 22).

The first confusion is the idea that descriptive utterances are opposed to normative utterances. Cavell explains this weighty claim quite briefly. Describing, he argues, is a type of action (like calculating, promising, plotting, warning, asserting, defining, 1969: 22). Actions are characterized by the fact that they can go wrong, i.e., be performed incorrectly. Our success in performing actions depends on our following certain ways or prescriptions that are normative. “Descriptive statements, then, are not opposed to normative ones, but in fact presuppose them: we could not do the thing we call describing if language did not provide (we had not been taught) ways normative for describing” (1969: 22). This ‘layered’ conception, placing normativity at the ground level, sustaining and enabling all other actions ‘on top’, has gone unnoticed by Mates: “The normativeness which Mates felt, and which is certainly present, does not lie in the ordinary language philosopher’s assertions about ordinary use; what is normative is exactly ordinary use itself” (1969: 21). Assertions about use are normative only in a secondary sense, even in case they assume the appearance of descriptive utterances. They are normative since ‘asserting’ is an action, and like any action it has rules separating between correct and incorrect, successful and unsuccessful performance. Cavell is claiming that normative utterances are not opposed to descriptive utterances because normativity constitutes any action as such and presupposes the action of describing. However, stating what ought to be done is one action, and stating what is done is another. Stating what ought to be done necessarily tells us something about the correctness of the action performed, while stating what is done – does not. I agree that ‘describing’ is an action, I am not sure that agreeing to this fully entitles Cavell to conclude that descriptive utterances are not opposed to normative ones. The problems of this position will become clearer as we move on to Cavell’s second confusion about normativity. 2.2 “Here the pantomime of caution concludes” (Cavell 1969: 23) Cavell claims that contrary to what is usually thought, prescriptive utterances are not typical instances of normative utterances (1969: 22). Cavell distinguishes between creating or establishing a norm and between appealing to a pre-existent norm. Establishing a norm does not necessarily involve ‘ought statements’ (“telling us how we ought to perform an action”

32 1969: 23); conversely, ‘ought statements’ do not constitute a norm. Cavell tells us that the ways norms are established are “various…depending on the context” (1969: 24), and the attempt to generalize the ways norms are created is futile. So we are left with the first alternative, that of appealing to a pre-existent norm. Telling us what we ought to do may involve appeal to a pre-existent rule or standard, but it cannot constitute the establishment of that rule or standard. We may expect the retort here that it is just the appeal which is the sensitive normative spot, for what we are really doing when we appeal to a rule or standard is telling someone that they ought to adhere to it. Perhaps this will be followed by the query “And suppose they don’t accept the rule or standard to which you appeal, what then?” the retort is simply false. And to the query one may reply that this will not be the first time we have been tactless; nor can we, to avoid overstepping the bounds of relationship, follow every statement by “…if you accept the facts and the logic I do,” nor every evaluation by “…if you accept the standards I do.” Such cautions will finally suggest appending to everything we say “… if you mean by your words what I mean by mine.” Here the pantomime of caution concludes (1969: 23).

Why does the ‘pantomime of caution’ end here? Why does it not end earlier, before we take for granted that we do mean by our words what others do, or later, after we find out, somehow, that others do not mean the same as us? The pressing question at this point of the discussion is what indeed happens when we come across a situation wherein we do not mean the same as others? In those cases, what role does the dictum “we must mean what we say” have in communication? Cavell deals with this type of situation in the example of the philosopher and the baker (1969: 33-37). The philosopher uses the words “inadvertently” and “automatically” as distinct (i.e., as having a different meaning); the baker uses these words interchangeably. According to Cavell, the philosopher can explain to the baker that he can use the words interchangeably, but that he (the baker) cannot use them as such and mean the same as the philosopher when he is using the same words. Cavell then justly asks whether the baker is not entitled to the same argument: “What we must say is this: ‘I know what my words mean in my language’. Here the argument would have pushed me into madness” (1969: 35). What Cavell is suggesting, it seems, is that the pantomime of caution concludes when arguments over meaning are at risk of becoming insane. The sane answer would be for the philosopher to point out to the baker that:

33 If you cooked the way you talk, you would forgo special implements for different jobs, and peel, core, scrape, slice, carve, and saw, all with the same knife. The distinction is there, in the language (as implements are there to be had), and you just impoverish what you say by neglecting it. And there is something you aren’t noticing about the world” (1969: 35-36).

Contexts of use are normative, Cavell claims (1969: 34), and use itself is normative. However, if the case is, as Cavell assumes, that half the English speakers do not know what these contexts are, and that some may, like the baker, use “inadvertently” and “automatically” interchangeably (1969: 34-35), why is it less madness to argue that all of those native speakers are impoverishing their native tongue and not noticing something about the world than it is to suggest that they are, in some sense, not talking the same language? When Cavell argues that language is impoverished, the question I would like to ask is in what sense is it impoverished? Is language impoverished relative to what it ought to mean or to what it does mean? This is the question of ‘must’. In what sense must we mean what we say? Is it because we ought to mean something (e.g., use “inadvertently” and “automatically” distinctly) or because we (and who are ‘we’?) do in fact mean this and not something else? The example of the philosopher and the baker shows that it cannot be the case that we must mean what we say because everyone else does. On the one hand, Cavell ascribes normativity to the use of language; on the other, he is not claiming that ‘must’ is normative. 2.3 “…the hopelessness of speaking, in a general way, about the “normativeness” of expressions” (Cavell 1969: 30) At the opening, I suggested that there is a difference between ‘must’ and ‘ought’. The fundamentals of this difference are in the fact that ‘must’ points to a necessity that cannot fail to be observed whereas ‘ought’ is unaffected by the actual facts taking place. Cavell accepts this distinction (I guess we must be meaning the same using those words): “‘Ought’ unlike ‘must’ implies that there is an alternative; ‘ought’ implies that you can, if you choose, do otherwise” (1969: 28). Cavell also agrees that “To tell me what I must do is not the same as to tell me what I ought to do” (1969: 2728). Thus when Cavell tells us we must mean what we say, he is not telling us that we ought to mean what we say. Like borrowed money, which must be returned, so is the case with meaning; we have no alternative but to mean what we say. But do we not have an alternative? It seems that the

34 baker took advantage of such alternative. According to Cavell, although the baker meant what he had said, he did not mean what we do, even if it turns out that half the speakers’ intuitions would agree with those of the baker. The difference between ‘must’ and ‘ought’, Cavell tells us, is similar to the difference between rules and principles; “Rules tell you what to do when you do the thing at all; principles tell you how to do the thing well, with skill or understanding” (1969: 28-29). For Cavell (1969: 30), rules tell us what we must do while principles tell us how we ought to do it. Statements of the form “when we say… we imply”; “we don’t say… unless we mean – ”) are what Cavell calls “categorical declaratives” (1969: 31). Declaratives typically take the form of description-rules (1969: 25); they are declarative since they are made known to us authoritatively, and categorical because they tell us what we must mean. Their status is necessary and not analytic (1969: 31): categorical declaratives are necessary since they tell us what we must mean. Cavell compares his categorical declarative to Kant’s Categorical Imperative: “The Categorical Declarative does not tell you what you ought to do if you want to be moral… it tells you (part of) what you in fact do when you are moral. It cannot – nothing a philosopher says can – insure [sic] that you will not act immorally; but it is entirely unaffected by what you do or do not want” (1969: 25). Let us try to apply the categorical declarative, stated in terms of moral conduct, to linguistic conduct. The categorical declarative, Cavell tells us, is not a normative concept in the sense that it does not tell what we ought to do. Yet, it is normative in the sense that it is unaffected by what we in fact do. So we must mean what we say in the sense that we have no alternative, though it is, somehow, unaffected by how we in fact speak. Leaving aside discussions about moral behavior, I would like to claim that in the case of language, we cannot allow ourselves not to be bothered by the facts, by the way speakers use their language. Of course, nothing a philosopher can say ensures not only moral behavior but also linguistic behavior. Unlike the case of moral behavior, in the case of language, the philosopher cannot sustain a concept of meaning detached of application. In case the philosopher and the baker had an argument about borrowing money (say, the philosopher thinks borrowed money must be returned, the baker thinks that this is not true for all cases) the philosopher can still maintain the categorical declarative despite the disagreement (he could think that the baker is acting immorally, but that doesn’t affect the status of the categorical declarative as such). Moreover, moral categorical declara-

35 tives are valid, it could be claimed, even in Sodom and Gomorra. However, in the case of meaning, it cannot be claimed that the categorical declarative still holds even when only some of the speakers – and theoretically even none of them – abide by it. Cavell is attempting to retain language’s normativity and at the same time account for the necessity of meaning. He is not ready to give up on any of the two demands; to maintain either that linguistic behavior is not normative but merely a collection of uses, or that language’s rules are normative and in that sense are not necessary, always susceptible to being breached. What Cavell wishes to say is that we both must mean what we say and ought to mean what we say. It is in this sense that the status of the categorical declarative itself is problematic. It is on the one hand normative (as implied by the fact that it is unaffected by the deeds and desires of the individual) and on the other hand descriptive (as implied by the fact that it describes what is done and not what ought to be done). Cavell does not solve this problem directly: Shall we say that such statements [categorical declaratives] formulate the rules or the principles of grammar…? … But becoming clear about this will require us to see more clearly the difference between not doing a thing well (here, saying something) and not doing the thing; and between doing a thing badly and not doing the thing (1969: 32).

According to what was said earlier about the difference between rules and principles, it seems that categorical declaratives can be thought of as either rules (that tell us what to do) or as principles (that tell us how to do well, correctly, what we do). Both sides are indispensable for Cavell’s argument, however; a statement cannot be both a rule and a principle (according to Cavell’s definitions of ‘rule’ and ‘principle’). Categorical declaratives must be a type of rule because they entail necessity, they tell us what we must mean, but they must also be principles at the same time, expressing the normative ways we convey meaning. In case categorical declaratives were only rules (or rule-descriptions, as mentioned in several places in the article) and not principles, then the philosopher’s argument, that the baker is impoverishing language, would have made no sense. The baker could have insisted that indeed he is following rules of language, for what does it mean to claim that categorical declaratives are not analytic? Does it not mean that they are defeasible by the facts? And here the facts are that half the speakers of English follow the rules of the baker, and not those of the philosopher. The philosopher’s

36 reply could be made sense of only in light of a normative background against which the claim of impoverishment can be made. However, given this normative background, it is not clear in what sense is it necessary for the baker to speak like the professor, it is not clear in what sense must he mean what he says. Cavell does not share these concerns. On the contrary, he claims that his discussion has ‘slightly rehabilitated the notion of normativeness’ (1969: 32). The philosopher of ordinary language, when employing categorical declaratives, is “… certainly not instituting norms, nor is he ascertaining norms; but he may be thought of as confirming or proving the existence of norms when he reports or describes how we (how to) talk” (1969: 32). My point is that by reporting on how people (ordinarily) use language, one cannot prove the existence of norms, simply because the existence of norms cannot be proven by reporting on the evidence. Jerry Fodor and Jerrold Katz say in their response to “Must we mean what we say?”: What these criticisms do show is that one cannot establish that a philosophically significant error has been made simply by showing that someone has failed to draw a distinction coded in English. Moral: showing that one ought to draw a distinction is not something that can be done just by appealing to the way speakers in fact talk. This takes doing philosophy. This mistake of inferring “ought” statements about distinctions from “is” statements about what speakers say deserves the name “the natural language fallacy” (1963: 69).

Matters concerning meaning cannot fully be settled by empirical methods not only because then the philosophy of language is at risk of becoming a branch of linguistics (Fodor and Katz’s main concern), but also because the question of normativity cannot be settled empirically. If indeed it is hopeless to speak of normativeness in a general way, I do not see how we can say anything at all about it. I share Cavell’s unease at the face of the lamentable condition of the concept of normativity, in particular in the realm of the philosophy of language. However, the reply he puts in the mouth of the philosopher in his dialogue with the baker shows that he too is caught in the dichotomies he is attempting to dissolve. I was struck by Cavell’s phrase “the pantomime of caution”. Pantomime is not only performing in wordless gestures, but it is performing wordless gestures that stand for, are a substitute for, words. Pantomime is meaningful yet speechless action. The fact that pantomime is present in communication, e.g., in the dialogue between the baker and the philoso-

37 pher, suggests that underneath the noises we call language there is silence that enables talk. Some of what we would like to know, must know, when we engage in communication remains unsaid. The part that remains unsaid is the answer to the question, ‘to what extent do my interlocutor and I share the same rules, standards, logic, facts?’ (1969: 23). What remains unsaid, in short, is the answer to the question, ‘in what sense can my interlocutor and I be said to be sharing a language?’. But why is it a pantomime of caution? What should we be cautious of? We should be aware and cautious of the always present possibility of discrepancies between speakers of the same language. We cannot, Cavell claims, append to everything we say the caution: “… if you mean by your words what I mean by mine” (1969: 23). The pantomime of caution suggests that we cannot hope to make explicit what we assume we share with those that we interact with. The pantomime of caution must come to an end. However, if this is true, it seems that we have given up hope to make explicit the normative rules we rely upon in linguistic communication.

II. Rules as conventions vs. rules as norms in the rule-following debates 3. What is a rule and what ought it to be 3.1 The reduction of rules to conventions vs. the reduction of rules to norms Rules in general have both a conventional and a normative aspect. If there are rules of language, then they have to be both normative, i.e., capture the difference between correct and incorrect use of language and tell us how we ought to act/speak, and at the same time be conventional, i.e., depict the actual use of language, how we do in fact speak and act. The main purpose of the previous chapter was to argue that ‘norm’ and ‘convention’ are not synonymous terms. The aim of the present chapter is to argue that typically rules are reduced to either norms or to conventions. To exemplify my claim I chose to analyze the most ample and celebrated discussion of rules nowadays: the debate over Wittgenstein’s remarks on rule-following. I chose Kripke’s well-known interpretation of Wittgenstein as representative of the reduction of rules to conventions and Baker and Hacker’s critical response as representative of the reduction of rules to norms (sections 3.2 and 3.3). Both reductions, I will claim, have their merits but are problematic as well. Taking into consideration the argument of the previous chapter, we may anticipate that a normative outlook on rules will inadequately account for their being actually in use by language speakers, while a conventional approach will run into difficulties in explaining their obligatory force. Section 3.4 examines Meredith Williams’ attempt to overcome the difficulties in the Kripke/Baker and Hacker debate, by introducing the idea that the normativity of rules is a necessity. This, I will argue, is a conceptual blunder.

40 3.2 Kripke: The reduction of rules to conventions1 3.2.1 The rule paradox according to Kripke The most prolific philosophical debate regarding rules in the twentieth century is undoubtedly the discussion of Wittgenstein’s criticism of the idea of following a rule. Assuming at times the appearance of a scholastic exchange, discussions center around a few paragraphs of the Philosophical Investigations (1953, in particular, passages §§ 138-242) and of Remarks on the Foundations of Mathematics (part VI) and have been a major concern of some of the prominent philosophers of our time. Wittgenstein’s well-known rule-related paradox calls into question the usual notion of following a rule: “This was our paradox: no course of action could be determined by a rule, because every course of action can be made out to accord with the rule” (1953: §201). The ‘rule paradox’ is generated by the fact that there are infinitely many possibilities to follow a rule, i.e., the continuation of an arithmetical series that accords with one or another rule. In that same passage Wittgenstein presents what seems to be a solution to the paradox: “The answer was: if everything can be made out to accord with the rule, then it can also be made out to conflict with it. And so there would be neither accord nor conflict here”. Wittgenstein offers a solution to the rulefollowing paradox, which considers following a rule as a condition of linguistic behavior and not as an option for it: “When I obey a rule I do not choose. I obey the rule blindly” (1953: § 219). The metaphor of blind obedience in following a rule is at the heart of Wittgenstein’s solution, and indeed, the participants in the discussion all note the solution but interpret it differently. What does it mean to follow a rule blindly? What are we blind to? As we shall see, different answers are given to this question. Until the beginning of the 1980’s, most discussions regarding Wittgenstein’s notion of rule-following dealt primarily with the possibility of a private language. Wittgenstein’s remarks on rules and rule-following2 were

1

Throughout, I refer to Kripke’s views, ignoring the question of whether the view Kripke is assigning to Wittgenstein is really his, whether it is Kripke’s position or whether it is a hybrid view sometimes assigned in the literature to ‘Kripkenstein’. Kripke himself is unclear about this issue, (1982: 5). Kripke’s position led Davidson to call it “no one’s view” (2001: 113). 2 Philosophical Investigations (in particular passages §§ 138-242)

41 mostly interpreted as a prelude to his famous private language argument.3 The publication (in 1982) of Saul Kripke’s Wittgenstein on Rules and Private Language marked a significant change in the philosophical discussion of rules and has created a voluminous corpus of responses ever since. Kripke sees the paragraphs on rule following as presenting a paradox which brings about a skeptical conclusion: “..there is no fact about me that distinguishes my meaning a definite function by ‘+’ …and my meaning nothing at all” (1982: 21). But as this “sceptical4 conclusion is insane and intolerable” (1982: 60), Kripke attempts to solve the skeptical paradox by offering a skeptical conclusion that involves an appeal to community, and which has later been entitled ‘the community view’. The outcome of the paradox is that words do not have pre-existing meanings; however, he argues, they do gain their meaning by the rule’s tendency to match in their usage within the linguistic community. Meanings are not derivative of their conforming to rules but rather derive from their conforming to a social consensus regarding their proper or correct use: “the community must be able to judge whether an individual is indeed following a given rule in particular applications, i.e. whether his responses agree with our own” (1982: 109). 3.2.2 The community view vs. dispositional theory The first chapter of Kripke’s book (“The Wittgensteinian paradox” pp. 2237) consists in the attempts of the interlocutor to oppose the skeptic’s doubts concerning the meaning of ‘+’, the addition sign. The skeptic casts doubt as to whether anything at all (not exclusively a rule) can establish meaning. Thus, the skeptic’s position is characterized as attempting to doubt the notion of meaning: “For the sceptic holds that no fact about my past history – nothing that was ever in my mind, or in my external behavior – establishes that I meant plus rather than quus” (1982: 13, my italics). The discussion and rejection of the dispositional account of rules and meaning consists of a major part of Kripke’s presentation of the skeptical argument. Having been persuaded by the skeptic’s arguments that there is no fact about me which ensures my meaning ‘plus’ rather than ‘quus’, Kripke ex3

A prominent example of this interpretative line is the debate between R. Rhees and A.J. Ayer held at the Joint Symposium of the Aristotelian Society and the Mind Association entitled “Can there be a private language?” (1954). 4 Throughout Kripke’s text ‘sceptic’ and ‘scepticism’ are spelled with a ‘C’. When quoting, I left the spelling as it appears in the original text.

42 amines a few plausible answers to the skeptic, devoting most of his efforts to reject the dispositional account as an inadequate account of rulefollowing. Dispositionalism in this context is the idea that “[t]o mean addition by ‘+’ is to be disposed to, when asked for any sum ‘x+y’, to give the sum of x and y as the answer … to mean quus is to be disposed, when queried about any arguments, to respond with their quum” (1982: 22-23). For Kripke, it is very important to distinguish between his position and the dispositionalist account. Kripke raises a few difficulties for the dispositionalist account, the most important of which is the claim that it aims to shed light on the normative practice of rule following in descriptive terms. Recapitulating his criticism of dispositionalism, he says: … if the dispositionalist attempts to define which function I meant as the function determined by the answer I am disposed to give for arbitrarily large arguments, he ignores the fact that my past dispositions extend to only finitely many cases. If he tries to appeal to my responses under idealized conditions that overcome this finiteness, he will succeed only if the idealization includes a specification that I still respond, under these idealized conditions, according to the infinite table of the function I actually meant. But then the circularity of the procedure is evident. The idealized dispositions are determined only because it is already settled which function I meant (1982: 28).

In this passage, Kripke presents his two main arguments against dispositional accounts: First, dispositions are finite while future applications of the rule are infinite. A disposition is a finite entity in the sense that it has only been executed by a particular individual on finitely particular occasions (1982: 26). Dispositionalism thus attempts to derive the speaker’s answer to infinite cases based on finite cases. This, Kripke claims, cannot be an answer to the skeptic who wants to know what constitutes the speaker’s being correct now. If, for example, I am asked to calculate very large sums, I might not be able to provide any answer whatsoever. Faced with this criticism, the dispositionalist might then try to amend his theory by adding the constraint that dispositions are not dependent on actual cases of performance, but are a competence the speaker has and could exercise, under ideal conditions, when asked to. Dispositionalism is aimed to provide an answer to the skeptic by claiming that my giving the correct answer, i.e., following the rule, is a matter of a disposition to answer correctly. Thus, although the individual may not have executed a particular disposition in the past (e.g., she has never encountered the question, ‘how much is

43 68+57’) the disposition to competently give the correct answer existed – independently of any particular occasion of its performance. However, by saying this, Kripke claims, the dispositionalist is now vulnerable to the charge of circularity: dispositionalism claims that under ideal conditions the speaker will be disposed to give the correct answer – which is the answer that the speaker already gave in finite cases in the past, or would have given if asked. Therefore, dispositionalism presupposes that ‘correctness’ (i.e. what is considered the correct answer) was already settled in the past, whether the speaker has encountered the situation or not. A related problem of circularity has to do with the dispositional account ignoring as irrelevant tendencies or dispositions to make mistakes, which, Kripke claims, most of us have (1982: 28). Appealing to a disposition to give the ‘right’ answer (in the case of addition) is circular: But a disposition to make a mistake is simply a disposition to give an answer other than the one that accords with the function I meant. To presuppose this concept in the present discussion is of course viciously circular. If I meant addition, my ‘erroneous’ actual disposition is to be ignored; if I meant skaddition, it should not be (1982: 30).

The dispositionalist claims on the one hand that our disposition is manifested through our competence to give correct answers, but on the other hand claims that not every particular performance demonstrates this competence. But the problem with such explanation is, as Kripke says, that the notion of competence “is itself not a dispositional notion. It is normative, not descriptive” (1982: 31 fn 22). Dispositions are supposed to predict how one will act, while competence is a criterion to how one should act in certain circumstances. Linguistic competence is a normative notion in that it tells us how we should act (according to our abilities) but does not predict how we will act (our actual performance). Thus, the dispositionalist account of meaning is descriptive in the sense that it specifies the relation between past and future meanings (e.g., the giving of an answer to an addition problem) in terms of how one will answer the addition problem. But various ‘noises’,5 disturbances to my initial disposition to give a correct answer, “lead me not to be disposed to respond as I should (1982: 37); I am disposed to make mistakes much the same as I am disposed to give correct answers. 5

Kripke uses this term in a few places (e.g., 1982: 30, 31) to talk about disturbing factors, computational errors, lack of capacity, etc.

44 The common ground of Kripke’s various criticisms against dispositional accounts of meaning is that they attempt to give the normative practice of rule following a descriptive account. Dispositions tell us how we will answer, not how we ought to answer. This point is stressed by Kripke throughout his attempts to dismiss the dispositional account as an adequate candidate to answer the skeptic: Suppose I do mean addition by ‘+’. What is the relation of this supposition to the question how I will respond to the problem ’68 + 57’? The dispositionalist gives a descriptive account of this relation: if ‘+’ meant addition, then I will answer ‘125’. But this is not the proper account of the relation which is normative, not descriptive. The point is not that, if I meant addition by ‘+’, I will answer ‘125’ but that, if I intend to accord with my past meaning of ‘+’ I should answer ‘125’… The relation of meaning and intention to future action is normative, not descriptive (1982: 37).

The question Kripke addresses in this passage is central to this discussion. What is the relation between meaning something and acting in a certain way? The appeal to the notion of rule is supposed to answer this very question by claiming that meaning something is manifested in following a certain rule. This does not mean that if a speaker means something she will act in a certain way, but rather that if the speaker means something, then she ought to act in a certain way. The relation between meaning something and acting in a certain way, Kripke claims, is normative: if we mean something we ought, but not necessarily will, follow a certain rule. Kripke’s discussion of the dispositionalist account and his critique of it aspires to retain the normative aspect of rules. In what follows, I claim that although Kripke intends his account to give an explanation of rule following in normative terms, it does not succeed in so doing. 3.2.3 Inverted conditional and public checkability The skeptical argument ends with the conclusion that “We act unhesitatingly but blindly” (1982: 87). Prima facie, the Wittgensteinian idea of blind rule following threatens the normativity of rules, i.e., the appeal to the idea that rules distinguish between activities (games) that contain the notions of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ moves and those which are random, possessing no notion of correctness at all. If action is blind (blind to the rule), what distinguishes between my acting within a system of rules and my operating

45 within a system devoid of rules? In Kripke’s terms, the distinction I’m pointing to would be between me following a quus-like rule and me not following any rule at all (1982: 88). If matters were left at this point there would also be no difference between merely thinking one is following a rule and actually following a rule. Kripke claims that this distinction must be preserved: Finally, we can turn to Wittgenstein’s sceptical solution and the consequent argument against ‘private’ rules. We have to see under what circumstances attributions of meaning are made and what role these attributions play in our lives. Following Wittgenstein’s exhortation not to think but to look, we will not reason a priori about the role such statements ought to play; rather we will find out what circumstances actually license such assertions and what role this license actually plays. It is important to realize that we are not looking for necessary and sufficient conditions (truth conditions) for following a rule, or an analysis of what such rule-following ‘consists in’. Indeed such conditions would constitute a ‘straight’ solution to the sceptical problem, and have been rejected (1982: 86-87).

In this passage Kripke declares that at the end of the day, what the skeptical argument teaches us is that to try to think of rules in a normative way is bound for failure and that the correct solution should be given in purely descriptive terms. Having learned the lesson, what we must do now is describe the role rules actually have in our language and our lives. Rules, Kripke argues, cannot be defined in terms of a priori conditions. Rather, they should be characterized by an analysis of how they operate in actuality. The characterization of rules is not undertaken from within (by posing a set of internal, objective, necessary and sufficient features), but rather from without: through “outward criteria” (1982: 105). This is a methodological remark; it would of course be wrong to deduce from it that the description of rules offered by Kripke is itself devoid of normativity, for it is possible to describe a normative system. However, what I wish to claim is that Kripke’s skeptical solution, his description of rules, is one that leaves no room for an account of the normative aspect of rules, and creates problems within the skeptical solution itself. Kripke’s skeptical solution is achieved by a ‘widening of the gaze’, “…from consideration of the rule follower alone and allow ourselves to consider him as interacting with a wider community” (1982: 89). So in answer to the question ‘what are rules?’, Kripke replies that they are in and of themselves, nothing at all. Only when considered against a background of the community of speakers within which they operate, they attain meaning.

46 The concept of rule means nothing when abstracted from the use of rules by a community, and does not have any objective meaning beyond the realm of how rules operate in actual speech. Rules of meaning are thus rules of use, and correct, justified and guided use of rules is something that in principle depends upon the pronouncement of the community of speakers. Kripke calls the type of argument he is suggesting an “inversion of a conditional” (1982: 93). An inverted conditional retains the causal structure of the original conditional but reverses the order of ‘cause’ and ‘effect’. Thus, Wittgenstein’s view of rules is abbreviated to the slogan: “We do not all say that 12+7=19 and the like because we all grasp the concept of addition; we say we all grasp the concept of addition because we all say 12+7=19 and the like” (1982: 93-94 fn 76). In other words, we are not right, correct and justified in our actions because we follow rules, we follow rules because we are right, correct and justified in our actions. The technique of the inverted (or contraposed) conditional allows Kripke to explain anew what rules are and how they are followed, in what he calls “the liberalizing of the private language argument” (1982: 103, fn. 83). How does the view sketched here liberalize the private language argument as developed in the text? In the text we argued that for each particular rule, if conditionals of the form ‘If Jones follows the rule, in this instance he will…” are to have any point, they must be contraposed. If the community finds that in this instance Jones is not doing …, he is not following the rule. Only in this ‘inverted’ way does the notion of my behavior as ‘guided’ by the rule make sense. Thus for each rule there must be an ‘external check’ on whether I am following it in a given instance” (1982: 103, fn 83).

The notion of being guided by the rule is now rephrased in its inverted or ‘contraposed’ reformulation: the rule does not a priori guide us in action. Rather, under certain circumstances, we are judged by others to have been guided by the rule and to be following it. This idea is presented by the emphasis Kripke puts on the procedure he calls “public checkability”: “Wittgenstein’s sceptical solution to his problem depends on agreement, and on checkability – on one person’s ability to test whether another uses a term as he does” (1982: 99). Public checkability, or agreement, now sets the standard of correctness and replaces the appeal to the rule as providing such standard: There is no objective fact – that we all mean addition by ‘+’, or even that a given individual does – that explains our agreement in particular cases. Rather

47 our license to say of each other that we mean addition by ‘+’ is a part of a ‘language game’ that sustains itself only because of the brute fact that we generally agree. (Nothing about ‘grasping concepts’ guarantees that it will not break tomorrow) (1982: 97).

‘Agreement’ for Kripke is not an objective truth; it is a brute fact. It is not objective in a Platonic sense, for agreement can change and shift – what we agree on today may not be what we will agree on tomorrow. It is in this sense that agreement lacks the necessitation of, e.g., a law of nature. But it is a brute fact, a descriptive notion, capturing the conventions the linguistic community abides by at a certain point in time. In fact, Kripke claims, we do generally agree (e.g., on the meaning of the addition sign). But what does it mean to generally agree? Does it mean that most of us agree most of the time? That most of us agree part of the time? Perhaps that some of us agree all of the time? In other words, how do the concepts of agreement and public checkability differentiate between correct and incorrect rule following, and between those and not following any rule at all? These are questions that have to do with the way Kripke presents the concept of convention and are addressed in the next section. According to Kripke’s solution, when asked to justify an action (e.g., giving the answer 125 to the addition problem: 68+57), one should answer: “I gave this answer because everyone else does”. Following a rule is found to be no more (and no less) than acting in conformity to others. The maxim “act like everyone else does” replaces the appeal to rules when one searches for justification. An important merit of this solution is that it maintains one of the most basic intuitions about rules: their fallibility. Rules of meaning lack necessitation, logical or physical (in this respect they are different from logical rules and physical laws) in the sense that we can perfectly well imagine that things might have been otherwise. This is what I have called the conventionality of rules, the fact that rules are arbitrary. Another merit of Kripke’s solution is that by preserving the conventionality of rules, it also preserves the descriptive aspect of rules. The way people speak is all we need to know in order to know whether they are rule followers. However, by putting emphasis on the conventionality of rules, Kripke’s solution neglects the normativity of rules in that it seems to suggest that the way people talk is all we need to know in order to know how they ought to talk.

48 3.2.4 Rules as conventions To recall, the outcome of the skeptical considerations was that “… there is no fact about me that distinguishes between my meaning plus and my meaning quus” (1982: 21). This outcome remains intact in the skeptical solution: Wittgenstein’s sceptical solution concedes to the sceptic that no ‘truth conditions’ or ‘corresponding facts’ in the world exist that make a statement like ‘Jones, like many of us, means addition by +’ true. Rather, we should look at how such assertions are used (1982: 86).

However, the way assertions are used, Kripke claims, is a brute fact. Jones is entitled to say “I mean addition by ‘plus’” whenever he is judged by others to be meaning so and judging others himself. It now turns out that rules, or conventional rules, are not facts about an individual but facts about the community as a whole, statistical-like fact, social facts about how most people would go on, act, or follow the rule in certain situations. What happens, however, when coming upon responses that do not match our own? Sometimes Smith, by substituting some alternative interpretation for Jones’s word ‘plus’, will be able to bring Jones’s response with his own. More often, he will be unable to do so and will be inclined to judge that Jones is not really following any rule at all. In all this, Smith’s inclinations are regarded as just as primitive as Jones’s. In no way does Smith test directly whether Jones may have in his head some rule agreeing with the one in Smith’s head. Rather the point is that if, in enough concrete cases, Jones’s inclinations agree with Smith’s, Smith will judge that Jones is indeed following the rule for addition (1982: 91)

In case we accept skeptical considerations, the fact that Smith does not have direct access to what goes on in Jones’s head is unproblematic, for even if Smith could have direct access to Jones’s head, he would find no fact about him that would account for his use of a certain rule. The problem emerges at the end of the paragraph: if Jones’s answer agrees with our own enough times, we can say that he is following a rule. But what happens when there aren’t enough ‘concrete cases’? Kripke’s response is based on convention (conventional interpretation); if enough concrete cases of agreement occur, we will judge the other as following a rule; if enough bizarre errors occur, we will deem the other either as following a different rule, or following no rule at all, pending on our ability (or inability) to in-

49 terpret the bizarre answers. In our decision of judging whether others are following a different ‘bizzare’ rule or no rule at all, we depend on our own ability to judge whether the speaker is, or is not, displaying a ‘discernable pattern’. However, the case may be that the speaker is displaying a discernable pattern yet not following a rule. Displaying a regular pattern cannot be sufficient grounds for rule following because not all regular behavior constitutes rule-following behavior – to wit, regular behavior in certain animals and insects. So the first problem with Kripke’s solution is that it does not give the speaker a criterion for discerning between bizarre rulefollowing behavior and not following any rule at all. The fact remains that if we ascribe to Jones the conventional concept of addition, we do not expect him to exhibit a pattern we of bizarre, quss-like behavior. By such a conditional we do not mean, on the Wittgensteinian view, that any state of Jones guarantees his correct behavior. Rather by asserting such a conditional we commit ourselves, if in the future Jones behaves bizarrely enough (and on enough occasions), no longer to persist in our assertion that he is following the conventional rule of addition (1982: 95, my italics).

Notice that here, ‘convention’ is used as a descriptive term: my expectation is that Jones (and any other member of my linguistic community) answers in the same way I do. If someone does not add in the same way I do, I cannot tell (nor can he, according to the skeptical problem) whether he is following a different rule or following no rule at all. Kripke claims that a member of a community who follows the quus rule instead of the plus rule can be said to be a rule follower in the same sense as a member of our society who abides by the plus rule for addition is said to be following rules (1982: 96). However, there is another, perhaps more serious problem with Kripke’s solution. It has to do with the notion of ascribing to Jones conventional concepts, and judging him to be following conventional rules. As I have argued earlier, norms and conventions are not synonymous. Convention is in principle descriptive in that it captures an existing situation. A conventional rule tell us nothing about how one should act, but give a good prediction how a member of society will act. Kripke’s dismissal of the dispositional account of rules is based on the conviction that an account of rules must maintain the normative aspect of rules. However, by reducing the concept of rule to that of a convention Kripke commits the same fallacy as the dispositional theory, he explains the normative notion of rule in descriptive conventional terms:

50 We say of someone else that he follows a certain rule when his responses agree with our own and deny it when they do not; but what is the utility of this practice? The utility is evident and can be brought out considering again a man who buys something at the grocer’s. The costumer, when he deals with the grocer and asks for five apples, expects the grocer to count as he does, not according to some bizzare non-standard rule (1982: 92).

The ‘trick’ of the inverted conditional, I claim, does not help us here. According to the inverted condition the costumer is supposed to be judging the grocer to be counting to five not because they both grasp the concept of addition, rather, they both grasp the concept of addition because they agree on how to count to five. They are right not because both have been following the same rule: they are following the same rule because they are right. But being right is a normative concept. Kripke’s solution seems to suggest that we read off the correctness in our following a rule from the actions of the majority. The error here is similar to the naturalistic fallacy: the futile attempt to derive ought from is. Kripke’s community view suggests that agreement on what it is to follow a rule constitutes rule following. I claim that this solution, like the dispositional account rejected by Kripke, cannot account for the normativity of rules. 3.2.5 Remaining uneasiness If Wittgenstein had been attempting to give a necessary and sufficient condition to show that ‘125’, not ‘5’, is the ‘right’ response to ‘68=57’, he might be charged with circularity. For he might be taken to say that my response is correct if and only if it agrees with that of others. But even if the sceptic and I both accept this criterion in advance, might not the sceptic maintain that just as I was wrong about what ‘+’ meant in the past, so I was wrong about ‘agree’? Indeed, to attempt to reduce the rule for addition to another rule – “Respond to an addition problem exactly as others do!” – fall foul of Wittgenstein’s strictures on ‘a rule for interpreting a rule’ just as much as any other such attempted reduction. Such a rule, as Wittgenstein would emphasize, also describes what I do wrongly: I do not consult others when I add. (We wouldn’t manage very well, if everyone had to follow a rule in the proposed form – no one would respond without waiting for everyone else.) What Wittgenstein is doing is describing the utility in our lives of a certain practice. Necessarily he must give this description in his own language. As in the case of any such use of our language, a participant in another form of life might apply various terms in the description (such as

51 “agreement”) in a non-standard ‘quus-like’ way. Indeed, we may judge that those in a given community ‘agree’, while someone in another form of life would judge that they do not. This cannot be an objection to Wittgenstein’s solution unless he is to be prohibited from any use of language all. (A well-known objection to Hume’s analysis of causation – that he presupposes necessary connections between mental events in his theory – is in some ways analogous.) Many things that can be said about one individual on the ‘private’ model of language have analogues regarding the whole community in Wittgenstein’s own model. In particular, if the community all agrees on an answer and persists in its view, no one can correct it. There can be no corrector in the community, since by hypothesis, all the community agrees. If the corrector were outside the community, on Wittgenstein’s view he has no “right” to make any correction. Does it make any sense to doubt whether a response we all agree upon is ‘correct’? Clearly in some cases the individual may doubt whether the community may correct, later, a response it had agreed upon at a given time. But may the individual doubt whether the community may not in fact always be wrong, even though it never corrects its error? It is hard to formulate such a doubt within Wittgenstein’s framework, since it looks like a question, whether, as a matter of ‘fact’, we might always be wrong; and there is no such fact. On the other hand, within Wittgenstein’s framework it is still true that, for me, no assertions about community responses for all time need establishing the result of an arithmetical problem; that I can legitimately calculate the result for myself, even given this information, is part of our ‘language game’. I feel some uneasiness may remain regarding these questions. Considerations of time and space, as well as the fact that I might have to abandon the role of advocate and expositor in favor of that of a critic, have led me not to carry out a more extensive discussion. (1982: 146, fn. 87).6

In conclusion, I wish to claim that the source of what Kripke calls his “remaining uneasiness” is in fact his awareness of the shortcomings of his 6

The text indicates that footnote 87 was added in proof. This fact is indicated since footnote 87 does not appear in its ‘natural’ place (between footnote 86 and footnote 88) but rather appears ‘out of order’, in the last page of the book. Undoubtedly haphazard, the displacement of footnote 87 is reminiscent of the text’s main example, the continuation of a mathematical series. The text’s own mathematical series of the numbering of footnotes is disrupted, the rule “add 1” is not followed. Or is it? For on page 112, where the footnote should have appeared, readers are referred to page 146, where it does in fact appear. To my mind these passages, added onto the text at the last minute, encapsulate the fundamental problem it encounters. What for Kripke was belated and marginal becomes central to my claim.

52 representation of rules as conventions. First, Kripke is aware that the solution he is ascribing Wittgenstein is circular; it reduces rule following to the super-rule: “act/respond as everyone else does”. Kripke attempts to resolve this circularity: we assume that generally there is agreement within a society regarding what it is to follow a certain rule. In this case, no one in the society will be likely to correct it, and no one outside it has a right to correct. This is the strength of his position but also its weakness. For it does not allow for a case wherein the community agrees but is, nonetheless, wrong. In the realm of ethics, this situation is quite plausible; the fact that almost everyone thinks a war is justified does not make it so. This is an ethical problem, and of course claiming that justification depends solely on agreement in actions or opinions would be wrong. In the realm of language the problem is not ethical but conceptual. Kripke’s solution assumes that there is a way of explaining the normativity of rules by looking at their conventional application. This is what I’ve called Kripke’s naturalistic fallacy, which causes uneasiness and remains unsolved throughout the text. 3.3 Baker and Hacker: The reduction of rules to norms 3.3.1 Rule skepticism Baker and Hacker’s (1984) Skepticism, Rules and Language, published only two years after Kripke’s book, is devoted to a critical response to Kripke’s community view. Baker and Hacker use three different types of arguments in making their claims. First, interpretative arguments claiming that Kripke’s reading of the rule-following passages as giving rise to a skeptical problem is a wrong interpretation of the anti-skeptical spirit of Wittgenstein’s Investigations. Second, historical arguments based on the chronological development in the writing of the Investigations. Baker and Hacker maintain that, contrary to Kripke’s position that puts much emphasis on passages §§ 201- 203 (the passages introducing the rule paradox), these passages are a later addition and are not as central as Kripke suggests. The third set of arguments contains philosophical arguments directed against the fundamental assumptions of the community view. The question I am concerned with is not whose interpretation of Wittgenstein (Baker and Hacker’s or Kripke’s) is more suitable or convincing, but rather what picture of rules and rule-following their positions aims to depict. In section 3.2, I presented Kripke’s community view as one that reduces rules to conventions. In this section I present Baker and Hacker’s position as one

53 which downplays the conventional aspect of rules, highlighting rather their normativity. I therefore will focus mainly on the third type of arguments, the philosophical arguments. Baker and Hacker claim that not only is Kripke’s reading of Wittgenstein wrong as an interpretation of Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations, but also as a philosophical argument in its own right (1984: viiiix). Assigning Wittgenstein a skeptical position regarding rules is, they claim, misguided, and rule skepticism as a position is absurd (1984: xi). Rule skepticism does not threaten, as claimed by Kripke, the concepts of meaning, understanding and rule; rather, it calls into question those theories of meaning out of which such unacceptable conclusions arise: Theories of meaning are dead branches in the Tree of Knowledge. Ruleskepticism, if cogent, would threaten to prune away this rotten material, and a skeptical solution is a futile attempt to restore it to life by propping up one dead branch with another (1894: xi).

The roots of rule skepticism, like the traditional versions of skepticism, depend on “…ignoring or distorting internal relations” (1984: 75). In their positive account, Baker and Hacker devote a large part of their discussion to explaining what sort of internal relations are involved with the concept of rule, and how ignoring them leads to skepticism. They argue that the concept of rule contains three internal properties (or relations): the first is acting in accordance with a rule, the second is that rule following is intentional: (“…the intention must ‘contain’ the rule itself in the way that the rules of chess are related to the intention to play chess” 1984: 102), the third is understanding the rule (1984: 103-104). Wittgenstein, they claim, characterizes internal relations as those that when taking place between two entities, no other third entity can be said to mediate between the two. Baker and Hacker claim that the rule and its applications are internally related, i.e., that there is no third element mediating between the two. The skeptic argues that interpretation is a mediator between a rule and its applications, an assumption that leads to the mistaken view that one might understand a rule without knowing how to apply it. According to them, the skeptic commits two essential errors: first, by placing too much weight on agreement he is ignoring the fact that acting in accordance with a rule is an internal property (relation) of a rule, while agreement is not. Second, in making agreement an essential feature of following a rule, the ‘community view’ Kripke holds conflates the notion of normativity with a statistical fact about how most people act, thus turning

54 the notion of following a rule into an empirical fact (1984: 71). Rule skepticism is an absurd position, they claim, because it separates between grasping (understanding) a rule and applying it (1984: 100). But understanding a rule is applying it, an internal relation that cannot be separated from the rule itself: “to understand a rule is to know what would count as acting in accord with it” (1984: 101). Rules are thought by Baker and Hacker to be internally connected with their applications, and any attempt to introduce another (third) concept between the two opens the door to misguided skepticism. 3.3.2 Interpretations (hanging in the air) Wittgenstein’s discussion of rules, Baker and Hacker claim, is anything but skeptical. It indeed raises important questions about language as a rulegoverned system, but at the same time, it seeks to provide answers to these questions. The questions arise from prima facie tensions created by the combination of two important ideas of the Investigations: first, that the meaning of an expression is determined by its use, and second, that language is a rule governed system. If meaning is use, then explanation of meaning is involved in giving the rule/s for its use. The first question is how can meaning be constituted by use when the use of an expression is complex and diverse? The second question is related to the fact that rulefollowing is an activity which is performed over time. How can this fact be reconciled with our intuition that we “grasp meaning in a flash”, i.e., instantaneously? The second question is answered by the way Wittgenstein describes understanding: “[Understanding] is not a mental event, state or process”, it is rather “a capacity, a mastery of a technique. Understanding is akin to an ability” (1984: 18; Wittgenstein 1953 §§ 143-184). Thus, to say of a person that she understood an expression is to say that she has mastery of a technique, not that she is in some specific mental state. This gives a straightforward answer to the second question and pulls the rug from underneath the skeptic’s motivations to question the mental state of the speaker. But what, according to Baker and Hacker, is the answer given by Wittgenstein to the first question about the variety of uses of an expression? Here, the idea of understanding as an ability of the speaker is pivotal. Understanding as an ability is connected to rule following through the concept of interpretation. Wittgenstein's pointing out that “… no course of action could be determined by a rule, because every course of action can be

55 made out to accord with the rule” (1953: § 201) does not give rise to a skeptical question, in Baker and Hacker’s opinion, because Wittgenstein does provide an answer: We ought not to say that because whatever we do can be brought into accord with the rule on some interpretation, therefore the rule cannot guide us. That would be absurd. Rather, ‘any interpretation still hangs in the air along with what it interprets, and cannot give it any support. Interpretations by themselves do not determine meaning’7. Only in the context in which there is an established technique of application of a rule, in which the rule is standardly involved in explanation and justification, in teaching and training, can questions of giving interpretations arise. For only then is the expression used, and an internal relation established between act and rule. Only if there are genuine rules, only if something does actually count as following (and everything else as going against) is there room for interpreting a rule correctly or incorrectly. And that is established by the existence of a custom, a regular use of the expression of the rule” (1984: 18-19).

I chose to quote this passage at length because it encapsulates the essential ingredients of Baker and Hacker’s criticism of Kripke’s skeptical argument, their own positive suggestion, and, as I aim to show, the problem Baker and Hacker’s suggestion encounters. First, “a paradox is a paradox only in a defective surrounding. If this is remedied the appearance of paradox will vanish” (1984: 19). Remedying the defective surrounding in this case is achieved by paying attention to the solution offered by Wittgenstein. According to Baker and Hacker, Wittgenstein’s solution to the problem of interpretation of a rule purports that questions about the correct or incorrect interpretation of rules can only be made sense of after assuming the existence of rules. Without such an assumption, any interpretation hangs in the air. This is an essential difference between Kripke’s view and Baker and Hacker’s, since for Kripke, questions about correct interpretation serve as grounds for casting doubt on the existence of rules. The main task of rules, they claim, is a normative one, i.e., the differentiation between correct and incorrect application of a rule. This task can only be met if we first grant that rules exist and play an essential role in communication. Unlike Kripke, who wishes to first ask what rules are – separated from their application – the main emphasis of Baker and Hacker is that this is the wrong move which creates the defective surrounding of paradox. 7

Wittgenstein 1953: § 198.

56 Rules and their applications are (as mentioned) internally related, and the expression of the rule, its particular occasions of use, makes the question of interpretation (correct or incorrect) meaningful. Consequently, by divorcing the rule from its application, Kripke offers a mistaken interpretation of Wittgenstein. Furthermore, and more importantly in the context of the present discussion, he has relinquished the rule’s ability to distinguish between correct and incorrect actions (interpretations of the rule) and has divested the rule from its normative capacity. Understanding is an ability manifested in practice, and this practice in turn, i.e., the application of the rule, can only exist within a context of ‘custom and regular use’. It seems to follow from Baker and Hacker’s position that the idea of custom and regularity would demand a social context for the application of the rule. In the light of this, it is surprising and disconcerting that Baker and Hacker defend a position favoring what I call public solitary rule following. 3.3.3 Public solitary rule-following Kripke’s position is that if “…we think of Crusoe as following rules, we are taking him into our community and applying our criteria for rule following to him” (1982: 110). Kripke differentiates between an individual’s being physically isolated and his being considered in isolation (1982: 110). So Robinson Crusoe, in spite of his physical isolation can be said to be a rule follower as long as he is not considered in isolation. In my opinion, the distinction is an elegant vent for what could have posed a problem for the community view: on the one hand, the community view by definition is incompatible with solitary rule-following; on the other, some of Crusoe’s actions indeed seem fit to be described as rule following activities. The distinction between physical and epistemological isolation explains that the community view bans the later but not the former. Baker and Hacker, on the other hand, consider Kripke’s distinction ‘a muddle’ (1984: 39) that conceals the real question at hand: had Crusoe in fact been following rules, or had he not? The distinction, they argue, blurs out the fact that both the physically isolated person and the person considered in isolation can manifest a rule-following behavior. The fact that this is so, they claim, is shown by Crusoe’s regulative practice; he uses the rule as “a canon or norm of correctness” (1984: 39) and is able to correct his own mistakes when and if they occur. Thus, rule-following for Baker and Hacker is to perform an activity that is regular and can be corrected by the

57 rule follower. The question of whether anyone else observing or considering the isolated individual can or cannot detect the rule-following behavior is a different one from the question of whether the individual has in fact been following a rule: Of course, to understand him we must grasp his rules. Whether we are succeeding in doing so is something we shall see from the extent to which our attempts to follow his rules are in agreement with his behavior. But whether he is actually following a rule is independent of whether anyone else is actually doing so (1984: 40).

As we can see below, Baker and Hacker introduce a distinction of their own; between understanding or grasping the rule and the fact of whether a rule following practice has taken place: To be sure, in order to grasp them [the rules], we must understand what counts, in Crusoe’s practice, as following rules. And that must be evident in Crusoe’s activities. But that is not the same as checking to see whether his responses agree with ours, let alone a matter of ‘taking him into our community’. And our judgment that he is following his rules is quite independent of any judgment about how most members of the English-Speaking People would react. Indeed, given Kripke’s rule-skepticism, how are we supposed to know how our community would react, given that the rule is novel, or is being applied to a novel circumstance? (1984: 40-41).

In order to count as a rule-follower, Crusoe’s activities need not be understood by anyone observing him. Moreover, no process of checking with anyone else is required in order for rule-following to take place. This idea is at the heart of Baker and Hacker’s critique of Kripke and is manifested by their different interpretation of the term ‘private’. While Kripke interprets ‘private’ as the opposite of ‘social’ (hence the distinction between physical solitude and epistemic solitude and the prima facie impossibility of solitary rule following), for Baker and Hacker, ‘private’ means the opposite of ‘public’. Consequently, rule-following is essentially public in nature but not necessarily social (see also 1985: 161-165). That is why questions such as whether the outside observer may or may not detect rulefollowing taking place, or whether she finds it difficult (or even impossible!) or easy to learn the rules she is observing, becomes secondary. What is crucial is that the practice is essentially public. Baker and Hacker, then,

58 defend a position opting for solitary-public rule following.8 This position, I argue, is highly problematic, given their own assumptions. I shall argue this in the section 3.35, but now I would like to return to the issue of public checkabilty, which is at the heart of Baker and Hacker’s disapproval of Kripke’s skeptical solution. 3.3.4 The empty vehicles of normative acts The fundamental dispute between Baker and Hacker and Kripke revolves around the ultimate test of the community view, that of solitary rule following, to which Kripke objects Baker and Hacker defend. As seen earlier, public checkabilty is taken by Kripke to be the community view’s answer to the question of correctness. Mutual monitoring ensures the correct application of the rule. This, Baker and Hacker claim, is mistaken: …it is false that ‘to follow a rule correctly’ means ‘to do as most people do or are disposed to do when they endeavor to follow it’. The community disposition thesis wrongly assimilates the normative notion of following a rule correctly with the statistical notion of acting in the same way as most people are disposed to do in such-and-such conditions. The statistical conception makes the statement that acting thus-and-so is in accord with such-and-such a rule into an empirical statement. Not only is it not empirical (being, instead, a ‘grammatical’ truth), but also it is not statistical (1984: 71-72).

Baker and Hacker accuse Kripke of assimilating the normative question of rule-following to a statistical one. Following rules, they emphasize, “…is not a matter of collective dispositions, but of a normative practice, which may be collective, but need not be” (1984: 74). In the context of my overall discussion I would like to point out that the exchange taking place between Baker and Hacker and Kripke is a typical one in rule related debates. Baker and Hacker’s most fundamental disapproval of Kripke’s suggestion is that a close scrutiny reveals it to be a type of naturalistic fallacy.9 Kripke, they seem to say, is deriving the answer to the normative question, ‘how ought we to follow rules?’ from the empirical question, ‘how do most people follow rules?’. Baker and Hacker do not explicitly use the term ‘reduction’ (they use ‘assimilating’); however, I think that the stronger version of the argument, that which claims that Kripke performs in fact a reduction of the 8

Baker and Hacker claim that this is Wittgenstein’s position in unpublished manuscripts (see, e.g., 1985: 172). 9 We have seen a similar argument directed towards Cavell by Fodor and Katz.

59 normative (according to them) concept of ‘rule’ to the empirical (statistical) question of the action of the majority, could easily be extracted from their text. Thus for example, when discussing “The roots of ruleskepticism” (1984: 88-97), they claim that one of those roots is “the intrusion of anthropologism into the debate” (1984: 91), i.e., the idea that “the anthropologist’s task of coming to understand the normative behavior, including speech … is one of extrapolating a hypothesis from available data” (1984: 91). According to the anthropological approach, normative behavior can be observed and a hypothetical rule can be extrapolated from the observed data. To this they remark: In the ‘anthropological case’ it is a mistake to think that the observer is given an array of normative acts, which he then has to correlate with a rule, conceived as an explanatory hypothesis. In the absence of the rule which is the standard of correctness, which stipulates what normative consequences doing so-and-so has, and by reference to which acting thus-and-so is called ‘accord’, all one has are not normative acts, but their empty vehicles, meaningless movements, noises and inscriptions. Precisely because a rule and any part of its extension are internally related, it is absurd to think that one can determine solely from an array of acts given non-normatively what rule they fall under. The instruction: ‘Observe A’s behavior throughout the day, and infer from that alone which acts were in conformity with orders given in the past!’ is evidently absurd. As absurd, indeed, as ‘Here is a man; now tell me who is his wife!’ (1984: 92).

The main point here is that the following of norms cannot be the object of observation. It is impossible to derive the norms of a given society by looking at the society’s conduct; doing so would qualify as committing a naturalistic fallacy. Without stipulation of a rule, actions are but empty vehicles of what would have been considered a norm, had we a rule. By considering the rule as distinct from its application, Kripke’s analysis not only ignores the internal relation between the rule and its application, but also creates a situation wherein agreement becomes an internal property of the rule. This is nonsense, Baker and Hacker claim, for then the test of the rule’s correct application becomes correspondence with community agreement, the action of the majority. I wish to clarify that I wholly agree with Baker and Hacker’s criticism of Kripke’s views on this point. What I had aimed to show in section 3.2 was indeed that, although pertaining to give a normative account of rules, Kripke’s suggestion, at the end of the day, reduces rules and rule following to conventions i.e., to the way the majority of the linguistic community follows rules. However, I think the alternative position presented

60 by Baker and Hacker only succeeds in solving those problems by creating others, no less resounding. 3.3.5 Rules and normativity Baker and Hacker accuse Kripke of reducing the normative question of rule-following to a statistical one. In this section, I argue that Baker and Hacker perform a reduction, which is no less problematic – namely, that of reducing rules to norms. In Skepticism, Rules and Language as well as in Wittgenstein: Rules, Grammar, and Necessity, they emphasize repeatedly that the concept of rule cannot be reduced to the deeds of the majority. In the long passage quoted earlier (1984: 92) they express the idea that any question regarding the rule, primarily the question of interpretation, i.e., the correct vs. incorrect application of the rule, presupposes normativity. Without such assumption, it is nonsense to question ‘accord’ or ‘discord’ (in relation to what?), and language and linguistic behavior become meaningless noises and movements. Rules, they stress, are a practice (the rule and the application of the rule are internally connected), but ‘practice’ is not to be confused with ‘agreement’ or ‘consensus’: There is no possibility of building consensus in behavior (or shared dispositions) into the explanation of what ‘correct’ means except at the price of abandoning the insight that a rule is internally connected to acts in accord with it (1985: 172).

Later on in this paragraph, Baker and Hacker give an example of the possibility of having agreement within a society yet being wrong about it. Members of the society agree to perform an act that they think follows a rule correctly, but is really an incorrect rule-following (e.g., performing a ritual on the wrong date as a result of miscalculation). A view of rules that derives correctness from agreement or consensus could not explain such a situation. For Baker and Hacker, the main problem of such a position is the overlooking of the rule’s internal relations, but I think their point is valid even without the need to take a stand in regard to internal relations. The point is that a position such as the community view, by reducing ‘rule’ to consensus, looses its normative dimension, i.e., the capacity to differentiate between correct and incorrect application of the rule. Nevertheless, Baker and Hacker’s account presents an alternative of normative explanation of the rule which is at the same time devoid of conventionality, i.e., the capacity to describe how in fact a linguistic commu-

61 nity follows its rules. Although following rules is a practice, it is wrong, they say, to think of it as essentially a social practice (1985:164). Wittgenstein’s conception of practice demands it to be shareable not shared. For a practice to be considered rule-following, “it must be possible to teach a technique of applying rules to others, by grasping the criteria of correctness, to determine whether a given act is a correct application of the rule” (ibid). Baker and Hacker characterize the practice of rule following as essentially possible, not as essentially occurring. A rule-following practice is one which is possibly learnable, teachable, correctable and regular. None of these conditions are sufficient by themselves. But a rule-following practice is one which, when meeting these conditions, could possibly occur. Baker and Hacker characterize a rule-following practice as one that could take place, but does not necessarily take place. Their criticism of the community view alternative compels them not only to defend solitary rule following (that allegedly eliminates the role of society in rule following practice) but also opens the way to the possibility that no one in the society actually follows society’s own rules. Rule-following is essentially a normative practice, one “which may be collective, but need not be” (1984: 74, my italics). This means that it is possible that the normativity of rule-following may not prevail, i.e., that not everyone – or even that no one – will abide by the normative rules. I hope that my previous statements have clarified that I think that whoever is committed to the reduction of rules to norms is also committed to the possibility of the rules not being followed, which is at the heart of the concept of normativity. My criticism of Baker and Hacker’s suggestion is not that they have redefined normativity in a way which is contradictory, but rather that such a view of rules in language neglects the descriptive aspect of rulefollowing, thus making it an inappropriate candidate for a picture of the role of rules in language. This creates a tension within their own position. For on the one hand, Baker and Hacker demand that rule following be a learnable, teachable, correctable practice, but on the other, as it may happen, it is not actually learned, taught, corrected or practiced by anyone. Nothing in their suggestion prevents such a possibility. “…[T]he notion of practice here invoked”, they stress, “is that of normative regularity, not of a social practice” (1985: 151). However, normative regularity, as Baker and Hacker claim, is by definition unobservable. We cannot confirm, by merely detecting regularity in behavior, that this regularity is indeed a normative regularity and not a coincidental one. However, if regularity is both unobservable and insufficient by itself for

62 rule following, what is it? The answer to this question is given in a straightforward way by the community view: the rule is manifested in the behavior of the majority of the population. Of course, this answer is unacceptable for Baker and Hacker. Their answer, I claim, exemplifies the problem their view creates within itself: “The behavior of bees is a natural expression of regularity, or uniformity, but following a rule is manifest in a regularity which presupposes recognition of a uniformity” (1985: 162). It seems that what Baker and Hacker are suggesting is that we, unlike bees, perform regular activities consciously and not naturally. We could, if we wanted to, choose not to perform them. Here I would like to ask in comparison to what does one recognize uniformity in her behavior? Surely Baker and Hacker cannot mean that the speaker recognizes uniformity with the rest of the society, for this is the community view’s alternative. Moreover, they cannot possibly mean that recognition of a uniformity is identical to being in a special mental state, for then it becomes susceptible to the skeptical considerations raised by Kripke. The third alternative is that the speaker, regardless of her past mental states and regardless of the actions of others, knows that she is acting correctly. However, this answer poses a problem: “When justifications run out one hits the bedrock of normative regularity – this is what I do” (1985: 210). “This is what I do”, however, is a descriptive utterance, not a normative one.10 Baker and Hacker’s suggestion allows for a hypothetical situation in which no one follows the rules. I claim that even if we assign to them the weaker position that some of the people, but not necessarily all or most, follow the normative rules, my argument against them remains valid. If indeed Baker and Hacker’s argument amounts ‘merely’ to allowing the possibility of partial rule following, the consequence (like that of the stronger version) is a disregard of the empirical fact of the percentage of the population that do follow the rules, thus rendering it irrelevant for the purposes of this discussion. This consequence, I wish to claim, is intolerable. I agree with Baker and Hacker that a reduction of rule-following to consensus is wrong in that it cannot account for the normative aspect of rules. However, their position ignores the descriptive, empirical, conventional aspect of rules. For where there are normative rules, actual rule following, the actual way people use their language becomes, in Baker and Hacker’s picture, 10

Baker and Hacker here follow Wittgenstein’s § 217 in the Investigations: “If I have exhausted the justifications I have reached bedrock, and my spade is turned. Then I am inclined to say: ‘this is simply what I do’”. Notice Wittgenstein here does not mention normativity.

63 quite immaterial. They accuse Kripke of divorcing the rule from its applications, whereas they are guilty of separating between the normative notion of how we ought to follow rules from the conventional way in which we in fact follow them. Thus, at least potentially and perhaps in actuality, the picture of rules and rule-following presented by Baker and Hacker is at best contingently related to the way people act linguistically – speak their language. 3.4 Meredith Williams on normative necessity 3.4.1 The third way: Reconciling Kripke and Baker and Hacker? The problem formulated throughout this chapter presents a tension within the concept of rule: rules on the one hand are committed to being normative and on the other to reflecting the actual practices taking place in the linguistic community – the aspect I have called the conventionality of rules. Using the examples of Kripke and of Baker and Hacker, I have shown that emphasizing one facet of rules over the other leaves the remaining aspect unaccounted for. Meredith Williams is aware of this tension. Her reading of Wittgenstein (Wittgenstein, Mind and Meaning 1999) attempts to reconstruct the normativity of rules in a way that overcomes previous deficiencies. I argue, however, that her endeavor is only partly successful: it is impressive in its acuteness and attentiveness to Wittgenstein's texts. Yet the concept of normativity it develops and depends on remains problematic. Williams’ expressions ‘normative necessity’ and ‘conventional normativity’ encapsulate the problem I wish to point out: normativity, as I have argued throughout, cannot, by definition, be necessary, and may not be conventional. It is the eternally present room for deviation from the norm that retains its normative status and its separation both from what is necessary and from what is conventional. In combining the normative with the necessary, Williams is not unaware of these considerations, and the main burden of her book is to explain in what sense norms are, or can be, necessary. The task Williams has undertaken is not an easy one. She wishes to defend a version of the community view as opposed to individualistic approaches to rules, while at the same time retaining the importance of the role of society in the account of rule-following. That is the reason why she prefers to dub her version of the community view ‘the social view’ of rule-

64 following (1999: 6). Baker and Hacker, in rejecting the community view, claim that such a view cannot account for the normative aspect of rule following. However, as I have pointed out, the main shortcoming of their position, which focuses on normativity, is that in order to keep the selfconsistency of the position, they must adhere to an account of rulefollowing whose consequences include a defense of the possibility of solitary rule following, an option opposing their own insistence on the importance of practice. Williams, like Baker and Hacker, focuses on the normativity of rule-following but unlike them gives an account of the social aspect as well. She does so, I claim, not by ‘adding’ a conventional aspect of rules onto the normative one, but rather by extending the classical concept of necessity into being normative (1999: 231). 3.4.2 Remnants of the classical view If Wittgenstein is providing an alternative that retains an account of the necessity and normativity of rules (pace skepticism) and yet rejects any form of objectified meaning (pace autonomous grammar), just what is it? (1999: 167).

In chapter 6, “Rules, community and the individual”, Williams responds to the debate between Baker and Hacker and Kripke, offering her own alternative, which partly synthesizes and partly criticizes their views. According to Williams, both Kripke and Baker and Hacker agree that Wittgenstein’s discussion of rules aims to reject the classical view of rule governed practice, which is individualistic and takes meaning to be objectified (1999: 157-158). Both Kripke and Baker and Hacker think that the skeptical problem (posed by Kripke) determines the validity of the community view (1999: 162): however, while Kripke indorses both the skeptical problem and the community view, Baker and Hacker reject skepticism and its solution in the form of the community view. It is at this point that Williams’ suggestion parts from both Kripke and Baker and Hacker: her aim is to defend a version of the community view that does not stem from skeptical considerations. Only this alternative, she argues, can on the one hand account for the social aspect of rule following (missing in Baker and Hacker’s account) and on the other leave room for a normative account of rules (missing in Kripke’s position). The classical view typically sees the concept of rule as accounting for two dimensions of rule governed practices (which Williams calls the practical and the justificatory): “… a rule serves both as a guide to the individual in determining what he does or says, and as a basis for justifying

65 or asserting what he does or says” (1999: 157). The concern of Wittgenstein in §§ 139-242 is to defy the classical view. The main difficulty of the classical view is that … we need a more than accidental or coincidental connection between our actions and how we justify them. Unless there is a convergence of our justification and our guide to action, we are left with an unsettling gulf between why we ought to act as we do and why in fact we do so (1999: 158).

I agree fully with Williams’ presentation of the weakness of the classical view. However, I think the classical view and Williams’ suggestion share the normative gulf she pointed out. The problem of the normative gulf, I claim, remains unsettled at the end of her discussion. Before turning to Williams’ suggestion, I would like to briefly review her criticism of Kripke and Baker and Hacker. Both Kripke and Baker and Hacker, Williams claims, in spite of their overt intentions, have not fully freed themselves from the classical view of rules. Williams analyzes Kripke’s and Baker and Hacker’s views of rules as preserving, in different ways, elements of the classical picture: “Kripke has retained the idea found so clearly in the Classical View that applications of a rule must be guided and justified by something” (1999: 164). As skeptical considerations led Kripke to the conclusion that that ‘something’ is not to be found, i.e., that there cannot be a rational justification to follow a rule. Thus, he concludes that the source of rule-following is “to be found in how the matter strikes me and everyone else in my community. We stand in a mutual policing relation to each other” (1999: 164). However, for Kripke, public checkability becomes a ‘brute fact’ about the community (1999: 163), the standard against which correctness and incorrectness are judged. Williams calls his position ‘hybrid skepticism’ (1999: 162), inhomogeneous as opposed to ‘thoroughbred’ skepticism. The reason that Kripke’s skepticism is hybrid is that the idea of public checkabilty replaces facts about the individual with a collective fact about the community. Judgments of correctness are thus the outcome of the power of the members of the community over one another. Williams’ version of the community view, she claims (1999: 162), differs from that of Kripke in that her view hinges on authority, particularly focusing on the process of language acquisition, instead of on the policing power of the community in Kripke’s suggestion. Baker and Hacker’s suggestion, according to Williams, focuses on the notion of autonomous grammar. Grammar is autonomous in that it is

66 independent both from “actual community and actual uses of language” (1999: 166; Baker and Hacker 1984: 99) as well as from any mental apparatus (1999: 167). However, this concept, Williams claims, is a “mystification of grammar” (1999: 166). Williams agrees that acting in accordance with the rule is a matter of action rather than thought (Baker and Hacker 1984: 20, Wittgenstein 1953: § 202, Williams 1999: 165), but whereas Baker and Hacker describe acting in accordance with a rule as the outcome of the internal relation between the rule and its applications, Williams insists that it cannot be independent of society’s norms and conventions. Because Baker and Hacker see grammar as autonomous they, like Kripke, preserve the element of meaning’s being objective, however, “… a Platonized or Kantian version of objectified meaning is no better than the mentalistic candidates already rejected” (1999: 173). 3.4.3 Blind obedience A crucial point in Williams’ reading of Wittgenstein is her focus on his use of the metaphor of blind obedience. She relies on passages such as § 211, § 217, § 289 and especially on § 219: “when I obey a rule, I do not choose. I obey the rule blindly”. The importance of blind obedience for Wittgenstein, she claims, is that it “is his way of emphasizing that bedrock rulefollowing is normative without being justificatory and necessary, or constraining, without being independent of human practice” (1999: 168). The concept of rule-following that Williams is extracting from Wittgenstein’s text is first and foremost a practice that is both normative and necessary, without being justificatory. This complex concept is manifested in the metaphor of blind obedience to the rule. I would like to explain Williams’ account of the three basic concepts that are involved in blind obedience in turn: rule-following as a practice, as a normative practice, and as a necessary practice. “The crux of the matter turns on whether an isolated individual can engage in behavior that is normatively guided, that goes against a rule or not” (1999: 172). Deciding on whether Robinson Crusoe is or is not following rules on his island is the crux of the matter, since the aim of this thought experiment is to isolate the factor of society in the discussion about rule-following and to determine whether being a part of a linguistic community is necessary or contingent for one to be considered a rule-follower. The case of Robinson Crusoe thus becomes a test-case for the validity of

67 the community view. Baker and Hacker demanded that rule-following be essentially public but not necessarily social (1984: 38- 42; 1985: 161-165); to the question of whether Robinson Crusoe is following rules, they answered affirmatively. Williams does not agree (1999: 172-177). The key element that enables Baker and Hacker to claim that rule-following can be performed in solitude is that the isolated individual manifests corrective behavior. The problem, however, with this claim is that corrective behavior itself is a normative concept and normativity cannot be explained without appeal to society as Baker and Hacker would have it. In other words, Baker and Hacker, Williams claims, on the one hand define rule following as expressing regularities in practice (1999: 172; Baker and Hacker 1984: 42) and corrective behavior, but on the other hand ignore the role of society as the factor endowing meaning to the notion of correctness itself – which is a normative term. Thinking of rule-following as a practice that manifests corrective behavior is thinking of it in normative terms – which entails thinking of it in social terms: “The central point is that the very idea of normativity, and so the structure within which the distinction between correct and incorrect can be drawn, cannot get a foothold unless the practice is a social one” (1999: 175). It is this last step that Baker and Hacker refuse to take. Though Baker and Hacker aim to explain the normative aspect of rule following, their refusal to consider society as crucial in rule following practices does not allow them to do so. Regularity alone, Williams correctly points out, is not enough to establish normativity. Certain animals and insects display regularity in behavior, though we do not attribute normativity to their behavior (1999: 173). This idea is important not only for understanding Williams’ critique of Baker and Hacker’s concept of normativity but also for understanding her positive account. She distinguishes between normative behavior that is guided by a standard and the displaying of regularities in behavior that are not guided by a standard – a case she calls ‘naturalistic’: “The rat that nibbles poisoned cheese has gone badly wrong, but not in the way that someone playing chess badly goes wrong” (1999: 295 fn. 16).11 Clearly, the difference between the two types of behavior is the fact that one is not normative while the other is. But what does this difference amount to? For Williams, the main characterization of normative practices is not their defeasibility (i.e., the fact that one can go wrong), but rather their being agreed upon by members of the community (1999: 175). This 11

A similar distinction is introduced by Baker and Hacker, as we have seen in section 3.5.

68 brings us to the final idea associated with the metaphor of blind obedience: rule following as a necessary practice. Certain human practices, actions and judgments, Williams claims, have the status of bedrock practices. Bedrock practices, as quoted earlier, are those practices that are both normative and necessary (1999: 168). Williams leans on Wittgenstein’s § 21112 and characterizes bedrock practices as those practices we perform “with right but without justification” (1999: 169). These are the two basic elements that compose normative necessity: bedrock practices are those that on the one hand distinguish between right and wrong actions and so are normative, but on the other hand are without justification and so are necessary. For the purposes of the present discussion, this point is crucial; through the idea of bedrock practices, Williams is attempting to develop a concept of rule following which is both normative and necessary. In what sense is a practice both necessary and normative? Williams answers this question through the special role she assigns to agreement: … Community agreement does not constitute a justification for particular judgments. What is indispensable for correct, or appropriate, judgment and action is that there is concord, not that each individual justifies his (or anyone else’s) judgment and action by appeal to its harmony with the judgments of others. Baker and Hacker’s criticism of the community view, that it makes the internal relation between actions and rules external, fails to recognize the importance of this point. What we mean is not explained by an appeal to generalizations about what most people say. But that we mean what we do is because of what most people say and do (1999: 176).

And a little later on: It is important to see that whatever we mean by “following a rule”, it cannot be captured by a description of actual practice. The community view does not provide a schema for analyzing normative expressions in terms of what most people do or are disposed to do. The meaning of statements like “S understands addition” is given by an explanation of the sentence. Though it would be wrong to say that what we mean by “S adds” is that most people do such-and-such, nevertheless that S is adding holds only in virtue of most people performing and having performed certain manipulations with the sign “+”. In short, the community view is not a reductionist theory; it is not a theory about the analysis of certain expressions (1999: 177). 12

“[i]f I have exhausted the justifications I have reached bedrock, and my spade is turned. Then I am inclined to say: ‘This is simply what I do’” (PI § 211).

69 What Baker and Hacker missed in their criticism of the community view is what they earlier referred to as the ‘inverted conditional’. Williams insists that her version of the community view is not a reductionist theory that derives meaning from statistical generalizations about what most people mean. For her, meaning is such in virtue of what most people mean. I agree that “what most people do or are disposed to do” can only have the status of a description and cannot serve as sufficient grounds for deducing normativity. I also agree with Williams’ motivations – the preservation of the normative aspect of rule-following without submitting to a version of a naturalistic fallacy, i.e., without deducing linguistic norms from facts about how people actually use their language. However, I do not see how Williams’ suggestion is able to overcome these conceptual problems. If meaning indeed is not equated with the actions and judgments of most people, in what sense is it in virtue of these same facts? What does acting “with right but without justification” amount to? Saying of an action that it is without justification might mean many things; it is perhaps whimsical, irrational, arbitrary, or necessary. Contrary to the diverse interpretations of an action done without justification, saying of an action that it is ‘right’ can only mean that there is a standard or rule against which correctness is measured. So although an action may be both normative and necessary, the rule the action is following cannot be. If a rule is necessary, it cannot be at the same time normative, as explained in the first chapter. However, this is the concept that Williams claims is at the heart of understanding Wittgenstein’s concept of rule following. 3.4.4 Learning of the ‘must’: Alternative blindness Understanding Williams’ positive suggestion involves taking a closer look at the relation she points out to as holding between the two basic concepts in her account: normativity and necessity. Previous accounts, she claims, have held an “oversimplified conception of normativity” (1999: 222): “We cannot understand the normativity of our practices without understanding how necessity, broadly considered, is an integral part of all normative practices” (1999: 222). Our practices (such as judging something to be similar to something else, performing arithmetic procedures, etc.) are embedded in a social setting that is normative but at the same time necessary. “The ‘must’ expresses a normative necessity that is not captured by the classical characterization of necessity in terms of metaphysical reality or the law of

70 non-contradiction (1999: 231). It is important to be precise about Williams’ argument: she is not claiming that (all or some) necessities are normative, but rather that norms typically employ an element of necessity that has gone unnoticed by previous writers and can be extracted from the later writings of Wittgenstein. The necessary aspect of normativity manifests itself in what Williams takes to be the paradigmatic example of rulefollowing: the process of learning, i.e., language acquisition, the acquiring of concepts and of linguistic behavior. “The search for a rule”, she claims, “…is replaced by looking to the process of training whereby the individual comes to master a technique for using signs” (1999: 179). “Learning”, Williams says, “for Wittgenstein is pivotal” (1999: 178). It is pivotal since “how we are trained, how we learn, is constitutive of what we mean” (1999: 179). Involved in learning are two ‘domains’: the master and the novice (1999: 178- 187). The master or teacher’s role is to initiate the novice or student into the practice of following rules. The novice’s role is to learn. Learning, Williams claims, like rule-following in general, is a ‘bedrock practice’. As such, two essential features of bedrock practices are manifested in the role carried out by the master and novice: First, both are part of society, and the action of both requires a proper and specific social setting. Williams points out that “the background of … historical and social setting” (1999: 180) is crucial not only in the obvious cases of institutional events (she quotes Wittgenstein’s example of a coronation) but also in non-institutional actions and events such as “counting, reading, going for a walk” (1999: 179) as well. Second, the process of learning as a bedrock practice “does not constitute a justification for particular judgments” (1999: 176). This means that neither master nor novice need (or indeed, can) justify their actions. Williams emphasizes that “the point of learning bedrock practices is to come to share the same sense of the obvious” (1999: 180), and “it is through the acquisition of such bedrock practices that we grasp the obvious and necessary” (1999: 233). Thus, for Williams, learning is primarily learning of the ‘must’, what she calls ‘lived mustness’: Blind obedience to a rule expresses seeing how matters must be. It is this lived mustness that constitutes the form of life against which error and mistake, truth and falsity can be discerned. These communal regularities thus have the status and rigidity of what is necessary (1999: 178).

In learning how to follow a rule, the master teaches the novice a normative and necessary practice. That the practice is normative is shown

71 by the fact that mistakes can occur, and its necessary status is shown by the fact that both teacher and student, in different ways, are alternative blind, i.e., their rule following practice does not carry with it any ‘live alternatives” (1999: 183). The difference between live alternatives and ‘dead’ ones is that: [t]he fact that action can be correct or incorrect shows that people can, as a matter of fact, act differently, but their blindness to these alternative ways of acting shows, in their action, what they take to be obvious and that no different action could count as correct (1999: 184).

So thinking of one course of action that it is obviously correct – although there are, logically, other options – constitutes alternative blindness. Unlike Kripke’s suggestion, the competent rule-follower (the master) does not depend on public checkability in his actions. Quite on the contrary, the master is blind to the community (1999: 183) and is in this sense autonomous, although his rule-following practice only has meaning in virtue of others’ actions and a history of preexisting conventions in society. As novices, Williams claims, we are also blind in another way: we are presented by the master with only one course of action for which we do “not have the resources for constructing or entertaining alternatives” (1999: 183). The rule, Wittgenstein teaches us, is always open to diverse – even contradicting – interpretations regarding its application. Yet for Williams, the alternatives suggested by the rule cease to exist (are not live alternatives) in the face of action.13 3.4.5 Conclusion: We must be blind in order to see As I was reading Williams’ metaphor of blind obedience, I was reminded of two (perhaps unequally) famous literary examples of blind obedience. The first is the biblical verse: "‫ "נעשה ונשמע‬which literally means “we shall do and hear”,14 said by the People of Israel referring to the word of the Lord. Many Midrashim have pointed out the significance of the priority of “do” to “hear” as an example of blind obedience: the People of Israel first 13

Williams calls this principle “the primacy of action” (1999: 183). The entire verse from Exodus reads: .(‫ ז‬,‫ כל אשר ִדּבֶּר ה' נעשה ונשמע" )שמות כד‬:‫ וַיאמרו‬,‫ ויקרא באזני העם‬,‫ויקח ֵספֶר הברית‬ “And he took the book of the covenant, and read in the audience of the people: and they said, All that the LORD hath said will we do, and be obedient” (Exodus 24, 7). The literal meaning of “we shall do and hear” has been lost in translation. 14

72 do as the Lord commands and only after pause to hear and interpret the decree. The second example are the lines from Lord Alfred Tennyson’s The Charge of the Light Brigade: “Their’s [sic] not to reason why/ Their’s [sic] but to do and die”. Both examples of blind obedience share the idea that what is involved in obeying blindly is the primacy of action to reason, understanding, judgment or interpretation. In this respect the two examples fit Williams’ notion of blind obedience. Yet the analogy breaks down when we think of the role agreement plays in language in contrast to these examples. Obeying religious laws or the laws of the state (that sends its soldiers to war) are paradigmatic examples of a normative constraint. We could think of a situation wherein one chooses to obey even when others choose not to (as did Noah), or contrarily, choose to oppose war and to refuse to partake in it even when all (or most) others choose otherwise. In other words, consensus or agreement regarding the rule might affect the individual’s choice, but agreement is secondary in that the mere fact that everyone (or most everyone) abides by the rule does not alone constitute the individual’s preference. This is not the case of linguistic rules. In language, as Williams argues, agreement does constitutes meaning; checking with others, which was central for Kripke, becomes inessential in Williams’ account of rule following, and is replaced by the process of learning. The main example Williams presents when talking about normative necessity is same-judging (chap. 8, “The etiology of the obvious”), i.e., judging objects or ways of conduct to be the same. In learning techniques for using words, one is acquiring concepts and so learning how things must be. The normativity of our practices involves non-causal necessity, that is, logical or grammatical necessity (1999: 216, my italics).

This idea is a key element in Williams’ analysis of normative necessity. She is aware of the fact that …explaining necessity in terms of the normative role that rules and concepts play after appropriate training looks like a revival of psychologism, the thesis that norms describe our de facto psychology (1999: 234-235).

However, Wittgenstein, she argues, is not opting for a Hume-style explanation of necessity, one that reduces logical necessity to physiological tendencies. On the contrary, the necessity of grammatical propositions resides in their normativity. Mathematical and grammatical propositions alike are

73 not conceptually true (“there is no such thing as conceptual truths” (1999: 230) but rather gain their status by a recognition of the obvious, which makes the truth of mathematics and other propositions that ‘hold fast’, “not truth at all, but norms” (1999: 230). But since “… no object is inherently normative” (ibid.), “the notion of what is obvious is normative” (1999: 233) itself. For Williams, “a mark of that blind obedience within a practice is the harmonious agreement and certainty among practitioners concerning what is the same” (1999: 222). This is her version of Kripke’s inverted conditional. It tells us that agreement is not a condition of meaning but that having any meaning at all is a condition for agreement. The fact that we agree enables any talk about meaning and rule following. What happens, however, when harmony is incomplete? To this Williams responds that disagreement can only be judged against the background of harmony: Wittgenstein’s response to the Paradox of Interpretation is that there are certain ways of going on that are not a matter of interpretation but of acting as a matter of course or blindly … Such matter-of-course behavior acquires its normative dimension in being shared with others to constitute an obvious way of judging and acting. Such a shared background of bedrock practices is logically necessary for the possibility of genuine disagreement, hypothesis formation and justification, or idiosyncratic belief (1999: 7).

On the one hand, agreement does not constitute rule-following (1999: 176), but on the other, it is an indispensable feature of rule-following in the sense that it is constitutive of practices (ibid.) that in turn constitute the condition for rule-following. This argument seems circular. Williams cannot afford to take agreement as constitutive of meaning, for then her social view would become a version of the reductionist thesis she rejects. At the same time, however, Williams cannot suppress the importance of agreement for then her position becomes susceptible to those criticisms she addressed to Baker and Hacker. Therefore, her concept of ‘agreement’ serves to mediate between meaning (and rule-following) and practice, a standard against which deviations from the rule are measured (1999: 51).15 If the agreement Williams is demanding were only a normative one, the idea of deviations from it could have been conceivable. But for Williams, necessities have no alternatives (1999: 236). It seems that we have no option but to agree (the inverted conditional, again). Williams then sug15

This is reminiscent of Davidson’s Principle of Charity and is addressed in the next chapter.

74 gests that we must be blind to alternatives in order to see, to follow the rule. Following a rule, she argues, “… is not a matter of a privileged interpretation nor of mystical insight nor of arbitrary decision, but of our ‘peaceful agreement’ in how to go on” (1999: 202). Like the concept of normative necessity, Williams’ concept of agreement is a blunder. Unlike the classical concept of agreement (which can be found in Lewis’ theory), it is not arbitrary but necessary. In being necessary, it does not leave room for alternative interpretations and so it cannot be normative, and the idea that ‘peaceful agreement’ might set a standard for correctness and for judging deviation (from the alleged norm) looses its capacity. The problem I’m pointing out is most apparent in Williams’ example of learning: The teacher is the final authority on what is correct in that how she judges, how she goes on as a matter of course is the determinant or “standard” of what is correct and incorrect. This use of “standard” needs to be put in scare-quotes because what she is inclined to say is not a justificatory standard, that is, it does not provide a justification or reason for why 3 follows 2. But it shares certain features with justification, namely, it is the arbiter of what is correct. That it can serve this role is due to the fact that the teacher’s own inclinations are in harmony with the inclinations and judgments of the community of which she is a part. Her judgments have authority because they are representative of the judgments of the community. They carry weight for the pupil however independently of whether they are properly authoritative. Her judgments determine a normative practice for the pupil just in virtue of the learning relation that obtains. (1999: 205).

The teacher, Williams argues, is the arbiter, but her judgments are not arbitrary for they are not optional. The teacher must be in harmony with the community, and the pupil must accept her judgments as setting the standard of correctness. “Standard” should not only be put in quotation marks because it lacks justificatory power, but mainly, I argue, because it lacks a normative power. In what sense ought either the teacher or the pupil follow the rule? Agreement, or harmony – much the same as in Kripke’s community view – is thought of as being a brute fact. The teacher, then, is an arbiter in a second sense as well. She mediates between the pupil and the rest of the community in teaching him not how he ought to follow the rule but how he must follow it. At the end of the day, the process of learning and training is an elaborated version of Kripke’s community view, and does not succeed in eliminating its deficiencies. The difference, however, between Kripke’s argument and Williams’ is that while Kripke reduces rules to

75 conventions, Williams performs a double reduction: first reducing rules to norms and then reducing normativity to necessity. The tendency to assimilate normativity with necessity is not surprising, since both concepts are commanding, obligating. Yet there is a difference in type between normative obligation and necessary compulsion. There is no opposing a necessity, since it is a rule in the utmost austere sense, synonymous to a principle or an axiom that leaves no room for divergence. The norm, contrarily, can be disregarded or not followed. The difference, I claim, is not in degree but in type. It is a mistake to think that norms can come closer to becoming necessary in correlation to their degree of preservation, i.e., the more the norm is followed the closer it gets to being a necessity. Norms and necessities are not a continuum. Though both concepts are, in some sense, binding, they are mutually exclusive. There is a difference in their power to obligate that becomes apparent when we think of the possibility of their violation. Williams, however, is opting for an alternative that is both normative and necessary. This, I have claimed, cannot be achieved. 3.5 Cora Diamond: Rules and their right place Like Baker and Hacker, Cora Diamond considers Wittgenstein to hold a pro-rule position. Her main argument in “Rules: Looking in the right place” is that there is a common feature to philosophical discussions about rules: they all look in the wrong place. This results from not asking the right questions about rules and rule-following and misplacing rules in the wrong places. Diamond observes that “the life in which we use and depend on all kinds of rules has disappeared from our view” (1989: 28). The ‘wrong place’ for Diamond is the place where rules are thought of as independent of life, as divorced from their application. Discussions about rules tend to view rules as abstracted from their position in life, from their connection to life. What Wittgenstein wishes to teach us, she claims, is to ask the right questions about rules and at the same time to avoid asking the wrong ones. Only when rules are considered as participating in life, could we have opinions about how this participation takes place (1989: 18). The first point I wish to make is that although Diamond claims that the right way of looking at rules (and at meanings of language) is as “interwoven with the rest of the lives of the people who use the word” (1989: 15), she at the same time assumes that ‘life’ could be abstracted from ‘word’. This point can be seen by looking at Diamond’s discussion of ‘as-

76 sertion conditions’. One of Diamond’s centers of attention is what she regards as a mistaken interpretation that sees Wittgenstein as shifting from a truth-conditional account of meaning (in the Tractatus) in favor of an account in terms of assertion conditions. The problem is that explication of meaning in terms of assertion conditions separates between the rule and the life it enters, thus rendering unattended to the ‘place in life’ rules have (1989: 14-15). “To give an account of meaning in terms of assertion conditions is to remain with our eyes fixed in the wrong direction” (1989: 15). Diamond seems to think about assertion conditions primarily as having to do with the idea of entitlement, i.e., the ability of the speaker to use language in a certain way.16 However, specifying the circumstances of entitlement is not a sufficient way of characterizing meaning in general and rules in particular. Instead, she suggests, when asking about the concept of rule we should ask ourselves how that rule enters our lives: “The kind of public-ness that characterizes a concept or rule can be seen in the place of the concept or rule in the life people share” (1989: 22). The emphasis on rules as shared by people has significance to Diamond’s reading of the private language argument. Unlike Kripke, who claims that rules cannot be followed privately (Kripke 1982: 68-69), and Baker and Hacker, who claim that rules can be followed privately as long as they serve as canons of correctness (Baker and Hacker 1984: 39), Diamond claims that this, again, is the wrong question to be asked. Indeed, where no comparison between our life and the life of the isolated person can be made, questions (and answers, concluding what they may) should come to a stop. There are two problems with Diamond’s position. The first is that it is not clear why an account in terms of assertion conditions is less connected to life (in Diamond’s sense, to be explained) than an explanation that accounts for meaning in terms of truth conditions. There is a contrast, Diamond suggests, “between two kinds of philosophical approach to questions about meaning” (1989: 15): the assertion condition approach (attributed to Dummett, Wright and Kripke17) and the “place-in-life” approach 16

Diamond’s concept of ‘entitlement’ is very different from Brandom’s (1994) The source of the view that Wittgenstein has shifted from a truth conditional approach to an assertion conditions approach is Dummett (Dummett 1978: 176), as well as of the claim that Kripke and Wright have accepted this view. I’m not sure that the claim tying between an account of meaning in terms of assertion conditions and a separation between rule and life is a correct description of any of the three writers’ positions. Kripke, for example, when specifying the outline of the assertion conditions approach, says that the second fundamental question about assertions is: “what is the role, and the utility, in our lives of our practices of asserting (or denying) the forms of 17

77 (Diamond’s position). “[I]f meaning is explicable in terms of assertion conditions, it is explicable independently of what the life is like within which the assertion goes on” (1989: 14). What does it mean to give an account in terms of assertion conditions? Take ‘fear’. To give its ‘assertion conditions’ would be to specify the kind of behavior which entitles someone to say of another person that he is afraid, and to give some kind of story about the conditions in which we are entitled to come out with assertions about our own fear (1989: 15).

It is not clear, I argue, why this way of giving the meaning of ‘fear’ is less connected to life than Diamond’s alternative. Is this not thinking (or at least a way of thinking) about “the human commerce with the word, how it enters people’s lives” (1989: 14)? Diamond asserts that it is not: A sound that people came out with when certain conditions were fulfilled would not be a word meaning fear; it is also most unclear why it might be thought that this was a word at all, or that what these people were doing was asserting (1989: 15).

Indeed, a sound made under specified conditions might not be an assertion, but what the assertion conditions (in Diamond’s presentation) aim at is to specify why certain sounds that do mean ‘fear’ are considered an assertion under certain conditions. This type of account aims to be at least a partial answer to how ‘fear’ enters our lives and use. Diamond criticizes Kripke’s assertion conditions approach for being contrived or stilted: “You can plug the assertion conditions into any case in which sequences of sounds come out of someone’s mouth, and that will be telling what rule, if any, he is following” (1989: 29). But if there really is a contrast between the two approaches, there must be a way in which they can be told apart. Diamond does not provide such a way. She assumes that ‘life’ could indeed be separated from ‘meaning’ (or rule, or language, or grammar). She must assume this because it accounts for the contrast between the two approaches to meaning: the first considers meaning as abstracted from life; the second sees meaning as interwoven within life. The

words under these conditions?” (1982: 73, my italics). He also stresses the close connection of rules as interwoven in life in many other places (e.g., 1982: 92, 96, 108).

78 consequence of asking the wrong questions yields the separation of meaning and life; overcoming the temptation to do so is the cure: …something that other people do may, despite certain resemblances, have a very different position in their life and different connections. And if we are able to note that fact and give it its weight, we do not have an alternative to Baker’s18 question, but will be able to stop asking it (1989: 19).

Diamond’s place-in-life approach suggests that in order to give the meaning of a word we should look at the way the word enters our lives. Use of the same word by others does not indicate sameness in meaning, while observance of the same practices does. The human commerce with description is different for these people from what it is for us; the grammar of description, the grammatical character of descriptive terms, is different. And you see the difference in grammar in the different place description is given in their lives (1989: 25).

So in order to say something about the difference in grammar, we should start out by looking at the life the grammar exists within. The other way around is considered wrong: we cannot assume a difference in practices and infer sameness in grammar (1989: 18). Diamond, however, does not explain why looking at language and inferring meaning is considered ‘the wrong place’ while looking at life and inferring meaning is looking in the right place. She can, perhaps, answer that this is the wrong question to ask. But it is only the wrong question if the question “why should we start off by looking at the place-in-life” is also a wrong question, for the same reason. In this sense, the assertion conditions approach and the place-in-life approach stand or fall together. The reason for this, I suggest, is because the notions of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ (questions, places to look for) have themselves to do with the concept of rule. The second problem is that giving an account of meaning in terms of truth conditions does not guarantee the approach to rules that Diamond advocates. In other words, one can assign Wittgenstein a truth conditional approach and still misconceive the role of rules. Diamond argues that Baker (1981: 64), when referring to Investigations §142, “… takes himself to be giving Wittgenstein’s opinions on an issue about which there can be 18

Throughout her article, Diamond refers to Baker’s article “Following Wittgenstein: Some signposts for Philosophical Investigations §§ 143-242” (1981).

79 various philosophical opinions” (1989: 18). Baker, Diamond claims, should not have asked the question in the first place: Something that other people do may, despite certain resemblances, have a very different position in their life and different connections. And if we are able to note that fact and give it its weight, we do not have an alternative answer to Baker’s question, but we will be able to stop asking it (1989: 19).

In the concluding paragraphs of Skepticism, Rules and Language, Baker and Hacker say: Speaking is acting; and uttering words and sentences is interwoven with human activities taking place within a world of which we are part. A language in use is part of a form of life. These are platitudes; no one in his right mind would deny them. The difficulty is not in recognizing their truth, but in viewing them from the right perspective… (1984: 133, italic added).

And also: Nothing is a symbol in isolation from practices that endow it with potentialities of use in human affairs. (And nothing is a rule-formulation in abstraction from its recognized use as an expression of a standard of correctness in conduct). Abstracting a language from this background of activities and events removes all justification for speaking of symbols at all. There is no such thing as a language in isolation from those worldly transactions. The metaphysical gulf between language and reality is a philosophical illusion (1984: 134).

Baker and Hacker, it seems, agree with Diamond that rules should be looked for in the right place and even agree that the right place is the interface between language and life. So what do they disagree about? To answer this question, I point to another distinction Diamond makes: If one were to accept the kind of view I ascribe to Wittgenstein, one would no longer ask whether a totally isolated individual, who had never spoken with anyone else, might have signs, words, with the grammar as ours. One would note the differences between his life as we imagine it and ours, and no longer be tempted to think that there might be some ‘essentially sharable’ rules that he was following…If the grammar of our words can be seen in their place in our lives, his words no longer have that place; how, then, on my account, are they supposed to retain their grammar? A bad question, again. It rests on the idea that we have or should have a philosophical theory of how using words with such-and-such grammar depends on some set of conceptually necessary conditions (1989: 30).

80 Three important distinctions underlie this paragraph, emblematic of the whole article: the first two I have already mentioned – ‘life’ vs. ‘language’ and ‘good questions’ vs. ‘bad questions’. The first and second distinctions are made explicit in the text; they are the backbone of Diamond’s argument in regard to rules. The third distinction is interwoven throughout the text, as in this quotation, and has to be unveiled. It is the distinction between ‘essentially sharable rules’ and the place-in-life approach Diamond advocates. It is important to notice that as opposed to the notion of essentially sharable rules, Diamond does not suggest a sort of ‘contingently sharable rules’; rather, she claims, the dispute between the communal agreement supported by Kripke and the opposite approach of Baker and Hacker is a confused question which “is fed by the abstracting of ‘agreement’ from the life into which it is woven” (1989: 33). Coming back to the question of specifying the disagreement between Diamond’s approach and the ones she is criticizing, it seems now that it does not have to do with assigning rules a place in life (as this is agreed upon by the participants) but rather lies in the right place in life, or the right connections. But here, like in the case of the assertion conditions approach, it is unclear why Diamond’s answer is more closely connected to life than that of her opponents. As opposed to the wrong places to seek rules, towards the end of the article Diamond considers the case of rule-following by an isolated individual. She gives the example of Alexander Selkirk playing Monopoly by himself while on the island. What is “[t]he right story” (1989: 30) about the rules he followed or didn’t follow? The activity has the sense it has for him, not in virtue of the rules by which he plays, considered as it were on their own (thought of, that is, as the rules of a complex game for one player), but in its being a particular kind of continuation of the life of playing games, games like Monopoly, in which he took part as one of us. You can see the kind of continuation it is (1989: 31).

So, we can only think of rules if we think about them as they are apparent (as they enter, in Diamond’s terms) in our lives. But this position is extremely close to Kripke’s, when he says “…if we think of Crusoe as following rules, we are taking him into our community and applying our criteria for rule following to him” (1982: 110). The point of disagreement, then, between Diamond and Baker and Hacker is not whether rules should be considered as a part of life but rather whether an isolated individual can be considered to be following rules at all. Diamond appeals to the notion of life in which rules interact as if there

81 really is an alternative, i.e., consideration of rules as abstracted from life. But in fact there is no such alternative, and the concept of rule remains unaccounted for. Neither Kripke’s assertion conditions approach nor Baker and Hacker’s view of the rules followed in isolation stand against the place-in-life position. The dispute over the ‘right’ interpretation of Wittgenstein has left not only rule, but also other related concepts such as correctness obscure: Consider once more the business of there being correctness and incorrectness in the applying of a rule. What do the prejudices do to us here? We ask what makes it possible for there to be a difference between correct and incorrect; what we will not ask is what is the use of this word ‘correct’ looks like in our lives, or in imaginably different ones (1989: 33).

For me, Diamond’s reading of the rule-following debates is important because she has highlighted the fact that these debates, whatever opinion they express, all suffer from a common illness, a common blindness. I agree with this observation but differ on the diagnosis of the malady. Whereas Diamond argues that what these debates have neglected is awareness to the life wherein rules interact, I think it is the concept of rule that has been cast aside. I have attempted to show on the one hand that the need to pay attention to the place rules have in life is agreed upon by the participants, and on the other that Diamond herself suffers from the same blindness to rules that is characteristic of the debates she criticizes. The main problem with Diamond’s position is that her reliance on the notion of ‘right’ as opposed to ‘wrong’ (places to look for rules) renders the concept of rule vague, as correctness itself is (supposedly) measured against the standard set by the rule. The reason for this is that the idea of ‘right’ as opposed to ‘wrong’ (like the notions of ‘correct’ and ‘incorrect’) is closely related – interwoven rather – with the concept of rule itself. Speaking about rules in terms of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ is circular; we appeal to the concept of rule when we want to clarify correctness. Diamond’s argument is not straightforwardly circular, but is very close to being circular; for how can we decide where the right place is to look for anything if we do not know according to what rule this standard of correctness was set?

III. Twisted Language 4. Davidson on rules, conventions and norms “It is wrong, normally, to act counter to a convention; there is nothing inherently wrong in twisting language in any way we want” (Davidson 2005: 326). 4.1. Normativity without conventionality In the previous chapters I have tried to expose the conceptual problems of philosophers of language’s use, as well as analyses, of the concept of rule. Typically, I have argued, they reduce rules either to norms or to conventions. Both reductions have their merits as well as shortcomings, but ultimately, both are unable to offer a full answer to the question of what role rules have in linguistic communication. One plausible result of the discussion would be to conclude that ‘rule’ is an inherently problematic philosophical concept and to recommend abandoning it within the attempts to present a coherent picture of linguistic communication. This, in a nutshell, is Davidson’s position, which will be presented and analyzed in the present chapter. Davidson provides the most profound and rigorous attack on the centrality of linguistic rules. I will argue, however, that Davidson’s rejection of rules is partial in that he rejects the reduction of rules to conventions on the one hand, but wishes to maintain the aspect of normativity in language. Davidson’s theory of language presents a picture of communication without rules (as reduced to conventions) but with normativity. The picture we get at the end of the day is a demand for normativity without norms, a picture, I claim, which is problematic. 4.2 Communication without rules or conventions The rejection of the reliance on rules as a necessary component in a theory of meaning has developed throughout Davidson’s writings and has culminated in “A nice derangement of epitaphs” (19861), which is devoted to the 1

Henceforth abbreviated: “A nice derangement”

84 attack on the concept of linguistic rules. In an earlier article, “Communication and convention” (1982a), Davidson focuses on the concept of convention. His critique of both ‘rules’ and ‘conventions’ shares fundamental features. This is not coincidental since, I wish to claim, for Davidson these concepts are used synonymously.2 Davidson’s conclusion in both articles is similar too. In “Communication and convention” he concludes by saying: In conclusion, then, I want to argue that linguistic communication does not require, though it very often makes use of, rule-governed repetition; and in that case, convention does not help explain what is basic to linguistic communication, though it may describe a usual, though contingent feature (1982a: 279280; 1985: 24).3

And in “A nice derangement”: I conclude that there is no such thing as a language, not if a language is anything like what many philosophers and linguists have supposed. There is therefore no such thing to be learned, mastered, or born with. We must give up the idea of a clearly defined shared structure which language-users acquire and then apply to cases. And we should try again to say how convention in any important sense is involved in language; or, as I think, we should give up the attempt to illuminate how we communicate by appeal to conventions (1986: 446).

In both cases, under both conclusions, conventions and rules are bound together and used interchangeably – what is right for one concept is also right for the other. Davidson’s account of both rules and conventions is not aimed at dismissing their existence; his criticism is aimed rather against the idea that rules and/or conventions must play a central role in accounting for language, i.e., that they are a necessary feature in a theory of meaning. Rules and conventions do exist, he claims, but are a marginal and contingent feature in a theory of language.

2

‘Convention’ and ‘norm’ are used synonymously by interpreters of Davidson, e.g., Glüer 2001: 57. 3 “Communication and convention” was originally a paper presented at the “First International Encounter on the Philosophy of Language” (Campinas, Brazil, August 1981, published in Dascal (ed) 1985). The early version is slightly different.

85 The main idea of “Communication and convention” and “A nice derangement” is that there could be communication without rules and conventions. Davidson’s metaphor of crutches conveys this idea: Knowledge of the conventions of language is thus a practical crutch to interpretation, a crutch we cannot in practice do without – but a crutch which, under optimum conditions for communication, we can in the end throw away, and could have done without from the start (1982a: 297). The ‘crutches metaphor’ is central for the understanding of Davidson’s rejection of rules and conventions; they are not rejected per se, but only when regarded as essential. That, he claims, is how philosophers and linguists tend to think of rules and conventions. They perceive rules and conventions as necessary elements in a theory of meaning. In the first half of the article, Davidson paints a picture of meaning – what he calls “standard descriptions” (1986: 437) – held by many philosophers, including, he proclaims, himself (1986: 437). Defining meaning4 the standard way involves the insistence on three principles (1986: 436): meaning is seen as systematic, shared and conventional. Here again, Davidson uses the concept of convention in order to draw a conclusion regarding rules. The problematic principle of the three, in the light of malapropisms, the central linguistic phenomenon discussed in “A nice derangement”, is the principle of conventionality. The reason, he claims, is that “the widespread existence of malapropisms and their kin threatens the distinction [between correct and incorrect use], since here the intended meaning seems to take over from the standard meaning” (1986: 434). I would like now to explain this statement, focusing first on the role of malapropisms and on the concept of intention, or intended meaning. A malapropism is “an act or habit of misusing words ridiculously, especially by the confusion of words that are similar in sound”.5 Davidson throughout the article does not define malapropism. He first characterizes malapropisms via what they are not:

4

More precisely, Davidson defines what he prefers to call ‘first meaning’, a term he coined in order to replace ‘literal meaning’, which is “…too incrusted with philosophical and other extras to do much work” (1986: 434). 5 Definition taken from Dictionary.com (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/malapropism).

86 A malapropism does not have to be amusing or surprising. It does not have to be based on a cliché, and of course it does not have to be intentional. There need be no play on words, no hint of deliberate pun (1986: 433-434).

Later on, Davidson places malapropism in a family of kindred linguistic capacities: Malapropisms introduce expressions not covered by prior learning, of familiar expressions which cannot be interpreted by any by any of the abilities so far discussed. Malapropisms fall into a different category, one that may include such things as our ability to perceive a well-formed sentence when the actual utterance was incomplete or grammatically garbled, our ability to interpret words that we have never heard before, to correct slips of the tongue, or to cope with new idiolects. These phenomena threaten standard descriptions of linguistic competence (1986: 437).

The common denominator of malapropisms and their kin is that they are all linguistic phenomena that cannot be accounted for by an appeal to rule or convention. It is important to notice that the list cited by Davidson, of which malapropism is a family member, is not a list of linguistic phenomena but, more accurately, a list of linguistic abilities or capacities. Thus, Davidson does not highlight malapropisms as such, but rather in relation to linguist actions of usage and understanding. He argues that the capacity to understand malapropisms resembles the capacity to understand other types of mal-appropriate uses (such as slips of the tongue, incomplete utterances etc.). The focus on the ability to understand is pivotal for Davidson, for he argues that, although there is no rule or convention which guides our understanding of malapropisms and their family members, we nonetheless understand them and communication, more often than not, is not hindered by their use. Thus when defining meaning, Davidson does not define the abstract concept of ‘meaning’ but rather shifts the focus to a definition of the linguistic competence of understanding meaning. The slogan, so to speak, of both “Communication and convention” and “A nice derangement” is ‘communication without rules or conventions’. Both articles aim to first argue for the reasons why communication and understanding are not marred by the use of malapropisms and their relatives, and second, to offer an alternative theory of communication and understanding, and obviously, a new definition of meaning, that does not depend on the assumption that rules or conventions are a necessary component of it. The difference, however, between the two articles is that in “A

87 nice derangement” Davidson has found what he regards as his ‘nice knockdown argument’: malapropism. Malapropisms, for Davidson, are the paradigmatic example of language users’ ability to understand and communicate without relying on a rule or convention. The allegedly ‘special’ sort of understanding needed to interpret a malapropism is not peripheral, not exceptional, nor is it special. Davidson argues the contrary: communication depends on such skills (1986: 440). The basic feature of such understanding is our ability as competent language users to “get away with it” (1986: 440). What are we getting away with, and how do we manage it? Here is what I mean by ‘getting away with it’: the interpreter comes to the occasion of utterance armed with a theory that tells him (or so he believes) what an arbitrary utterance of the speaker means. The speaker then says something with the intention that it will be interpreted in a certain way, and the expectation that it will be so interpreted. In fact this way is not provided for by the interpreter’s theory. But the speaker is nevertheless understood; the interpreter adjusts his theory so that it yields the speaker’s intended interpretation. The speaker has ‘gotten away with it’... What is common to the cases [in which the speaker gets away with it] is that the speaker expects to be, and is, interpreted as the speaker intended although the interpreter did not have a correct theory in advance (1986: 440).

The explanation of the centrality of ‘getting away with it’ brings us to the centrality of intentions in Davidson’s theory of language. The ultimate goal of communication is understanding, and understanding is achieved by grasping the interlocutor’s intention. A convergence of the speaker’s intentions and addressee’s interpretation brings about successful communication. However, nothing in this description, Davidson stresses (1986: 443), assumes that sharing a language – i.e., sharing a theory of interpretation – is needed prior to the communicative encounter. In other words, what we know in advance may or may not help us to grasp the speaker’s intention (and consequently understanding what he says). If we do succeed in so doing, it is because we exercise our ability to match our interpretation to the speaker’s intention during the conversation. Davidson’s theory of communication distinguishes between two dimensions: the knowledge we enter with to the communicative situation on the one hand, and the abilities we apply during the linguistic interaction on the other. He calls these two dimensions the prior theory and the passing theory. Our preparedness as hearers to interpret the speaker in a certain way and our belief as speakers that we will be interpreted in a certain way, constitute the prior theory. The actual way (method of interpretation) we do interpret, as

88 hearers, and our intention to be interpreted as speakers, partake in the passing theory (1986: 442). However, in light of the standard descriptions of language and linguistic competence summed up in the three principles mentioned earlier, “neither the prior theory nor the passing theory describes what we would call the language a person knows” (1986: 444). Prior theories, Davidson claims, are not shared most of the time, and the sharing of prior theories is a matter of degree, not a dichotomy. Malapropisms and other family members exemplify this idea. We can assume that for an English speaker ‘A nice derangement of epitaphs’ means ‘A nice derangement of epitaphs’. For Mrs. Malaprop, the same utterance means “A nice arrangement of epithets”. Yet as competent speakers, we understand her, i.e., recognize her intention. Passing theories also do not describe what we would typically call a language. Passing theories are in constant flux, they change according to “clues and cues”,6 linguistic and otherwise, the speaker picks up during conversation. Mastery of just the passing theory entails the ability to interpret an utterance on a particular occasion, but does not amount to a mastery of language (1986: 443): [T]he passing theory cannot in general correspond to an interpreter’s linguistic competence...Every deviation from ordinary usage, as long as it is agreed on for the moment...is in the passing theory as a feature of what the words mean on that occasion (1986: 442).

In this case, would it be correct to say that knowledge included in the prior theory is semantic (lexical knowledge of meanings of words) and syntactic (knowledge of the grammatical rules), and that the knowledge included in the passing theory is pragmatic in nature (knowledge of the use of words and utterances)? No, I think this is too skeletal and inaccurate for interpreting Davidson. Passing theories depend on prior theories in the sense that we could not have arrived at the passing theory without the background knowledge of the prior theory. The knowledge included in the prior theory is learned in advance, it includes syntactic and semantic knowledge, but it also includes pragmatic knowledge that has infiltrated to it from previous linguistic encounters. Davidson’s account endows ‘meaning’ with a new meaning. Having the same language and understanding each other does not depend on the prior sharing of rules and conventions but rather on “the ability to converge on passing theories from utterance to 6

I borrowed this expression from Dascal (2003: 169-193).

89 utterance” (1986: 445). Understanding is reduced to the ability to converge on passing theories, i.e., to the ability to seize the speaker’s intention in spite of language’s not being shared. Instead of the standard prêt a porter theories of meaning, Davidson offers a custom-made theory of meaning, ever changing from conversation to conversation, from person to person. One of Davidson’s key ideas7 is that when we come across a discrepancy between our use of language and our interlocutor’s use, there is in principle no way of telling whether this discrepancy expresses a deep difference in our conceptual scheme or a surface difference in our use of words. Typically in those cases we decide “in favour (of reinterpretation of words in order to preserve a reasonable theory of belief” (1974: 196). This idea that we choose to place discrepancies and potential misunderstandings within the realm of language is one of the fundamental aspects of Davidson’s Principle of Charity:8 the idea that we interpret “anomalous details against a background of common beliefs and a going method of interpretation” (1974: 196). Dasenbrook summarizes the way the Principle of Charity is related to our interpretative strategies as follows: “Our prior theories have to give way in the face of the unconventional: where conventions are violated, intentions are decisive” (1999: 366). “Do we know what we mean by our words?” Davidson asks,9 and answers: “Of course, we often do not know what others will take us to mean; what we are authoritative about is our intentions” (1999: 460). Davidson mentions Grice in “A nice derangement” as a philosopher that “…has done more than anyone else to bring these problems to our attention and to help sort them out” (1986: 437). The problems Davidson is referring to are the ones created by the contrast between what is said and what is implied. Like Grice, Davidson thinks that the key for sorting out this contrast involves putting emphasis on speaker’s intentions. However, while Grice thinks that the skills which enable us to comprehend those intentions are a part of our linguistic skills, Davidson rejects this proposal (1986: 437). 7

Expressed in many articles, most famously in “On the very idea of a conceptual scheme” (1974). 8 The Principle of Charity was first introduced by N.L. Wilson as a rule specifying the designation of proper names: “We select as designatum [of a name] that individual which will make the largest possible number of [the speaker’s] statements true” (1959: 532). Charity, extended beyond proper names, was accepted by both Quine and Davidson. For a comparison between Wilson’s principle and Davidson’s version of Charity, see: Jackman 2003; 2004. 9 In “Reply to Pascal Engel” (1999: 460).

90 If the ability to understand the speaker’s intentions is not a part of our linguistic competence, how then, according to Davidson, do we understand? We may say that linguistic ability is the ability to converge on a passing theory from time to time- this is what I have suggested and I have no better proposal. But if we do say this, we should realize that we have abandoned not only the ordinary notion of a language, but we have erased the boundary knowing a language and knowing our way around in the world generally. For there are no rules for arriving at passing theories, no rules in any strict sense, as opposed to rough maxims and methodological generalities. A passing theory really is like a theory at least in this, that it is derived by wit, luck, and wisdom from a private vocabulary and grammar, knowledge of the way people get their point across, and rules of thumb for figuring out what deviations from the dictionary are most likely (1986: 446).

Davidson’s answer is that the ability to understand one another is not strictly linguistic in character. The boundaries between ‘knowing a language’ and ‘knowing’ in general no longer exist, and knowing a language is like knowing in general. Sharing a language is no longer a prerequisite for understanding, because prior theories are not necessarily shared and the passing theories which we share are not a language. Since it is the passing theories that we share, what we share is not governed by rule or convention. 4.3 “The second person” vs. the community view In his 1992 article “The second person”, Davidson opens with a question: “How many competent speakers of a language must there be if anyone can be said to speak or understand a language?” (1992: 107). Davidson’s answer towards the end of the article is: “…before anyone can speak a language, there must be another creature interacting with the speaker” (1992: 120). We have already seen (chapter 3) that the question of the number of people considered as essential for there to be a language is not immaterial since it draws attention to the social aspect of language. We have also seen that Kripke’s answer to this question is that it takes the community as a whole for there to be a language. How is Davidson’s answer different, and how is it similar to Kripke’s skeptical solution? Moreover, what can this comparison teach us about the role of rules in language?

91 In the previous chapter I have presented Kripke’s position as one that focuses on the conventional aspect of rules. Davidson, on the other hand, denies assigning conventions a necessary role in communication. However, both philosophers agree that there is an important social aspect to language use; for Kripke the role of society is manifested through the idea of public checkability, whereas Davidson rejects this idea (though on very different grounds than those of Baker and Hacker). Davidson’s position attempts on the one hand to preserve the role of society in using a language, but on the other to reject the idea that this relation entails the use of conventions and rules (1992: 114). Thus, he claims to present a different criterion for what it is to speak a language. Kripke’s criterion, according to Davidson, is that we judge someone as meaning what we do if she utters the words we would have uttered on the same occasion, i.e., if she goes on as we would (1992: 113). This cannot be correct, Davidson claims: “Kripke’s criterion for speaking a language cannot be right; speaking a language cannot depend on speaking as someone else does (or as many others do)” (1992: 115). The reason that Kripke’s account of having a language is mistaken lies in Kripke’s interpretation of the idea of ‘going on in the same way’. For Kripke, going on in the same way entails following the same conventions and rules. For Davidson, the ultimate test of successful communication is successfully interpreting the speaker’s intentions (1992: 117). For understanding to take place, we need not share knowledge of rules nor do we need a practice of following them. Moreover, Davidson’s radical conclusion is that we need not share a language: “So, while it may be true that speaking a language requires that there be an interpreter, it does not follow that more than one person must speak the language” (1992: 114). What we do share is a method of interpretation that aims at interpreting utterances, which in turn amounts to understanding the speaker’s intentions. Via interpretation of intentions, “language is necessarily a social affair” (1992: 117) since, as Grice has pointed out, interpretation of intention requires at least two people: the speaker and the interpreter (1992: 112). In this sense, the centrality of intention presupposes a social setting (1992: 112) for it presumes the existence of the second person. Unlike Kripke who emphasizes the monitoring role of society as the final and only judge of meaning and correctness, Davidson maintains that the role of society is inbuilt in the intentions. However, if speaking like others is no longer a requirement for communication and understanding,

92 how can this proposal preserve the notion of correctness, i.e., explain cases of error? Davidson answers: If the speech behavior of others doesn’t provide the norm for the speaker, what can? The answer is that the intention of the speaker to be interpreted in a certain way provides the ‘norm’; the speaker falls short of his intention if he fails to speak in such a way as to be understood as he intended. Under usual circumstances a speaker knows he is most likely to be understood if he speaks as his listeners would, and so he will intend to speak as they would. He will then fail in one of his intentions if he does not speak as others do. This simple fact helps explain, I think, why many philosophers have tied the meaning of a speaker’s utterances to what others mean by the same words… On my account, this tie is neither essential nor direct; it comes into play only when the speaker intends to be interpreted as (certain) others would be. When his intention is absent, the correct understanding of the speaker is unaffected by usage beyond the intended reach of his voice. (A failed intention to speak ‘correctly’, unless it foils the intention to be interpreted in a certain way, does not matter to what the speaker means) (1992: 116).10 10

In this work I have treated linguistic normativity as a concept without ethical affinities since, as I have mentioned, normativity is more often addressed in moral discussions than in linguistic ones. However, some writers have pointed out the ethical implications of a theory of meaning. Dummett’s (1986; 1994) critique of Davidson’s “A nice derangement” culminates with an ethical, rather than a linguistic, argument: “Davidson is unwittingly allying himself with a great body of English speakers who hold observance of linguistic norms in contempt” (1994: 266). A little later Dummett goes on: Perhaps, strictly speaking, we have no obligation to our language as such: but we have an obligation to others who use it to avoid damaging its effectiveness as an instrument of communication. Each generation of speakers has an obligation to future ones to leave the language with as great an expressive power as when they inherited it. This is not to say that all linguistic change should be resisted. Some changes add to the expressive power of a language, while others diminish it: we should resist the latter and encourage the former (1994: 266). Dummett treats the preservation of the expressive power of language as a normative imperative that ought to be kept, and one that is not kept in Davidson’s theory. Dascal, when writing on the topic of misunderstandings, argues that a theory of misunderstandings should include an ethical aspect: Communication rests on mutual trust between responsible individuals, treated by each other as capable of using responsibly well linguistic and non-linguistic means to convey and recognize communicative intentions. We are, of course, speaking of presumptions, which are fallible – which is why misunderstanding actually does occur (sometimes caused by an excess of “charity”). Nevertheless, such presumptions are robust enough not only to ensure reasonably trouble-free communication, but also to view those uses of language that deliberately violate

93 This passage, I suggest, reveals a tension in Davidson’s theory having to do with the role he assigns to norms and normativity. In “A nice derangement”, Davidson holds that language can be, and is, twisted, and that successful communication is not harmed by this fact. On the other hand, Davidson of “The second person” emphasizes the role of intentions, and intentions, he claims, are normative. The ‘intentional norm’ is violated if the speaker is not understood correctly (i.e., as she intended). Although Davidson stresses at the end of paragraph quoted above that for him, tying the same meanings with the same utterances is inessential, the question is in this case in what sense does the intention to be understood set a normative standard? 4.4 The two kinds of normativity Up until now I have attempted to show that what Davidson rejects when rejecting the necessity of rules in language is the conventional aspect of rules. Language is not conventional in the sense that it can be twisted, and often is. Twisted language is the rule, not the exception; breaking the rule is the conventional way to talk: If the purpose of using language is to communicate, there is no need of a convention to make you talk in a way you think will be interpreted as you intend. To put this the other way around: if you are pretty sure that somebody is going to interpret you in a “non-standard” way, then you are foolish if you don’t speak in a non standard way (1993: 119).

them as morally – not just technically – wrong, since they involve a breach of trust. The analysis of misunderstandings induces through such misuses (i.e., “bad” uses) of language – as in double-talk, demagoguery, some types of advertising, and other forms of deception – cannot, therefore, focus on the mechanisms involved, but must take into account the moral implications of manipulative practice that evade communicative responsibility, debase the addressee, and jeopardize the communicative mutual respect upon which much of the social fabric depends (2003: 298). According to Dascal, Bilgrami’s pragmatic norm should be understood as an ethical norm. I do not doubt the fact that theories of meaning in general and Davidson’s theory in particular have moral implications. It is not coincidental that ‘normativity’ as well as other concepts such as obligation, trust, and responsibility surface both in ethics and in language. However, I have not dealt with these affinities here.

94 Davidson’s use of “convention” and “rule” interchangeably is not surprising. In rejecting rules, Davidson actually rejects the assumption that language is conventional, i.e., that it is shared in advance, prior to the communicative encounter. But if indeed our language is twisted, in opposition to our belief and intentional system which is not, what does this position say about the normative aspect of rules? One might have expected that Davidson would also reject the idea that language should have a normative aspect. For if we are able to understand each other without the aid of conventions, in what sense ought we apply them? According to the long passage quoted above, Davidson’s answer seems to be that indeed we ought not talk like others, but that we do so “under usual circumstances”. There seems to be a complication here, for when circumstances are unusual (e.g., when we have reason to believe we won’t be interpreted in a standard way, that our intentions will not be understood) we ought to speak in a nonstandard way, to twist our language to be understood correctly. The main issue I would like to address now is the role of normativity in Davidson’s philosophy of language. According to him, both the mental and language have a normative aspect; the mental realm is said to be normative and so is language, via the idea of radical interpretation and the principle of charity. Nevertheless, both in respect to the mental realm and regarding language, Davidson rejects the idea of the constitutive role of rules, conventions and norms. In the realm of the mental, the rejection of norms is expressed by the heteronomic nature of the description of mental events; in the theory of meaning we find in Davidson a thorough attack on the concept of rule. At first blush, there seems to be a tension involved in the insistence on normativity on the one hand, and the rejection of norms on the other. I would like to suggest a reading (Bilgrami’s) that dissolves this tension first and then reinstall it, claiming that the alleged solution to the endorsement/rejection of normativity is problematic regarding other aspects of Davidson’s theory of language. Famously, Davidson ascribes normativity to the mental:11 “Normativity is constitutive of the mental because the mental is built on a framework of attitudes which have a propositional content, and propositions have logical relations to one another” (2005: 318). In this passage he later explains that the norms he is assigning the mental are neither moral, nor related to truthfulness or responsibility: “These norms include the norms of 11

Davidson makes this claim in various places, most famously in “Mental events” (1970) and in “Three varieties of knowledge” (1991).

95 logical consistency, of action in reasonable accord with essential or basic interests, and the acceptance of views that are sensible in the light of evidence” (2005: 319). For Davidson, the normativity of the mental is expressed by the assumption that the mental realm is constrained by rules of logic and rationality, subjected to considerations of overall coherence and consistency. One possible way to overcome the difficulty posed by the insistence on normativity of the mental on the one hand and its rejection on the other is to question whether normativity might be an ambiguous term consisting of more than one sense. In case two (or more) senses of normativity can be detected, it might be suggested that one kind (sense) of normativity is rejected by Davidson, while another is endorsed. Perhaps not arbitrarily, such a discussion of normativity – a clear differentiation or definition between kinds of normativity – is not to be found in Davidson’s own writings on the subject. Engel calls attention to a ‘striking feature’ of Davidson’s account of normativity, according to which norms are “…elusive, and cannot be completely and precisely spelled out” (1999: 447).12 He claims that the reason for this is that for Davidson, norms cannot be reduced to a rule or a prescription, but rather they are “general principles of the interpretation of speech and thought” (1999: 448). Norms are un-codified (in McDowell’s terminology) in the sense that they always allow for a “slack between the formulas and their application” (1999: 450). Engel states that “we should not expect any definition, nor any sort of specification of these norms” (1999: 452); Davidson insists on the one hand that norms are compulsory since they pose a priori requirements on interpretation and their applicability is not a matter of choice (1999: 448), yet claims on the other hand that norms do not tell us “what we ought to believe or do in a particular case, or whether it is rational or not to do something in a given situation” (1999: 450). The emphasis on ‘what’ implies that norms do tell us we ought to do or believe something, but not what that something is.13 We have thus, according to Engel, a conception of the norm that attempts to preserve the compulsory power of the norm

12

Like Engel, Glüer also considers Davidson’s writing on the subject of norms and normativity vague (2001: 70). 13 This feature of the norm can also be called “the underdetermination of the norm”, meaning that a normative decree does not specifically determine an action that would consist of following of the norm.

96 without attributing to it a specific content. I agree with Engel that characterizing norm thus is problematic in several respects (1999: 452). An attempt to propose a solution to the problem of normativity in Davidson’s theory by differentiating between kinds of norms is, however, suggested by Akeel Bilgrami’s reading of Davidson (1992; 1993). In an argument wittingly following Davidson’s argument against the essentiality of conventions in linguistic communication (1993: 138), Bilgrami sets out to criticize the demand for normativity, in particular as it appears in what Bilgrami considers as Kripke’s normative answer to the skeptic.14 Bilgrami’s central claim is that “one should… treat the question of normativity with contempt. Normativity is irrelevant to the meaning of words” (1993: 126). In the course of trying to establish its irrelevancy, Bilgrami both characterizes normativity and distinguishes between two kinds of normativity.15 The first he views as unproblematic, the second as the source of many problems and as a kind of normativity that should be deemed irrelevant for the explanation of meaning. Though admitting that his discussion of normativity does not provide a ‘strict argument’ or ‘strict criterion’ (1993: 132) for differentiating between the two kinds of normativity, Bilgrami nonetheless attempts to “convey a rough sense of the difference” (1993: 132) by presenting a series of characterizations typical of the two kinds. He distinguishes between what he calls ‘intrinsic norms’ and ‘extrinsic norms’. The principal example of intrinsic norms are lexical norms, those that Bilgrami wishes to declare nonexistent (1993: 129-134). Generally, lexical norms are those norms that (allegedly) govern our use of words, i.e., determine correct vs. incorrect applications of words or concepts (1993: 122). Extrinsic or autonomous norms, sometimes also called ‘genuine norms’ (1993: 132), are norms of deductive rationality and logical inference. Bilgrami claims that genuine, extrinsic norms exist and are unproblematic, while intrinsic, lexical norms do not exist. The first and 14

“And in any case this paper is not intended primarily as a commentary on Kripke’s book, so much as an exploration of how Davidson’s conception of meaning may be exploited to undermine the normativity that Kripke demands in the study of meaning and intentionality” (1993: 139). 15 In his reply to Bilgrami’s paper Davidson writes: “I have nothing but praise for this paper. It expresses views that I have long held, and expresses them better than I have sometimes expressed them myself”. (1993: 145). I will therefore present Bilgrami’s distinction as a much needed supplementation of Davidson’s own views on the subject.

97 fundamental characterization of the difference between intrinsic and autonomous norms has to do with the norm’s relation to regularities: … if something which appears to be a norm is attributed merely on the basis of regularities in an individual’s behaviour, then it is not a norm in any interesting sense. If it is not derived from or attributed on the basis of such regularities, if it is autonomous from such regularities, then it has more a right to be called an norm (1993: 129-130).

Thus, the initial test of the norm’s genuine status is its dependence on – or independence from – regularity: autonomous norms make sense of regularities, intrinsic norms depend on them (1993: 130). Davidson suggests the autonomy of the norms of logical inference and of deductive reasoning through the fact that those norms are not derivative of the agents’ behavior; rather, they enable the very possibility of interpretation: [Autonomy] is a constraint on the assignability of propositional contents to agents based on the observation of their behavioural regularities. In order even to make sense of the regularities we have to impose these norms… They form an a priori constraint on the very possibility of interpretation (1993: 130).

The a priori nature of the autonomous norm is apparent in that unlike intrinsic norms, autonomous norms are compulsory; i.e., they must be imposed on the agent. Whereas regarding the norms of the lexicon we may choose between alternative norms to account for the agent’s behavior.16 One might argue against Bilgrami (1993: 131-133) that Davidson’s radical interpretation is itself a commitment to normativity since the radical interpreter relies on a shared background of conceptual overlap between himself and the person he is interpreting. Conceptual overlap is an assumption of the theory. It is not derivative of the agent’s behavior or regularities and is autonomous in the sense defined by Bilgrami. If indeed charity is forced on us and is not a matter of choice, as Davidson emphasizes extensively, why not assume that not only logical norms but also concepts are imposed in interpretation, in which case concepts themselves, i.e., the basic 16

This is exemplified by Bilgrami in his presenting the example of KWert, who when saying ‘arthritis’ could be interpreted either as meaning ‘a disease of the joints’ or as meaning ‘a disease afflicting joints and ligaments’ (quarthritis). “Nothing about KWert, then, decides the issue” (1993: 124) of what he means, i.e., of which concept he has.

98 elements of the lexicon, are normative? Bilgrami answers this protest by examining the norm’s relation to a violation of the norm. In the case of the autonomous norms of deductive rationality we are in a position to say that: “There is a norm, such that for any violation of deductive rationality, it is a violation of that norm” (1993: 132). Not so in the case of norms of the lexicon. In this case, there is no clear sense that could be assigned to the idea of a violation, for we could always assume instead that the speaker is using words differently, or has different concepts then our own. The formula of a violation in the realm of concepts (the lexicon) is: “For any failure of conceptual overlap (or material inference), there is a norm, such that the failure is a violation of that norm” (1993: 133). The shift from the existential quantifier in the case of the autonomous norm to the universal quantifier in the case of the intrinsic norm captures the difference in Bilgrami’s analysis. The formula for violating an intrinsic norm does not entail its existence. So radical interpretation, Bilgrami argues, not only does not profess to normativity; on the contrary, a clear understanding of it exposes the rejection of normativity in radical interpretation, for the norms that are involved in it are highly context-dependent, what he calls ‘high profile’ norms. However, Bilgrami does not deny the existence of any lexiconrelated norm whatsoever.17 There is a sort of norm that emerges from pragmatic considerations, i.e., from the intention on the part of the speaker to be easily understood. It is thus legitimate to talk of the norm as determining correctness; because speakers intend to be understood, they speak in ways that they and others describe as correct. The pragmatic norm is perhaps lexical but clearly autonomous; it is hypothetically formulated: “I ought to use words as others do, if I want to be easily understood” (1993: 135, italics in the original) and “I ought to use words as I have used them in the past, if I want to be easily understood” (1993: 135). Following Davidson, Bilgrami establishes the standard of correctness as measured not against a set of shared rules or conventions but against the fulfillment of the desire to be understood. The emphasis of the facility of understanding is central both for Davidson and for Bilgrami; “The notion of correctness is entirely secondary to the desire and intention to communicate without causing strain, which underlies the notion of meaning” (1993: 136). Always aiming to be understood provides the rationale for why usually we choose to communicate in least strenuous way, but this 17

Calling the norms he is endorsing ‘norms of the lexicon’ is “a matter of nomenclature” (1993:.134) he says.

99 disposition is by no means constitutive of meaning and understanding; quite the contrary, understanding is constitutive of it: “[a]s Davidson makes clear it is a plain fact that for any given term, I can be understood even when I do not use it in a regular way. It’s just that I will probably cause strain and not be understood easily” (1993: 136). It is important to see that the use of imperative or prescriptive terminology in the general formula of the norm does not make the norm constitutive in the account for meaning. The norm is extrinsic in the sense that it is only a means to achieve the goal of being easily understood. Because the speaker wishes to be easily understood, most likely she will follow the norm and speak as others in her community and as she has done in the past. However, the norm is extrinsic in the sense that it does not attribute to the speaker any particular intention to speak as others do or as she herself has in the past. The ‘ought’ Bilgrami is talking about is a pragmatic ‘ought’; it is not a necessary condition for successful communication nor even a sufficient one, just perhaps an ad hoc criterion for meaning and communication. 4.5 The unpacking of ‘ought’18 The question that interests me most in the context of the present discussion is what can be learned from Bilgrami’s reading of Davidson’s approach to normativity regarding primarily the concept of rule as well as to its related concept of convention. Throughout Bilgrami’s article there is a tendency on his part to view the question of normativity as closely related to both rules and conventions. Bilgrami notes that the problem he sees in the concept of normativity and his grounds for rejecting it echoes Davidson’s argument against the centrality of conventions (1993: 138). To recall, Davidson sees conventions as crutches; helpful but unnecessary resources in communication. Because in practice we can do without them, there is no reason to regard the notion of convention as an essential component of a theory of meaning. The resemblance to Bilgrami’s structure of argument is overt; like conventions, norms too are no more (and no less!) than shortcuts in communication, frequently used but theoretically – and in many cases actually – dispensable. That the norm is indispensable is apparent in the discussion of the weak, pragmatic sense, wherein Bilgrami claims that it is compulsory. However, the dispensability of the norm is at the same time essential to the 18

The phrase “the unpacking of ought” is taken from Bilgrami 1992: 112.

100 norm’s definition. For if norms were essential, then accounts of communication would have been able to be reduced to norms, and that is not possible according to Bilgami. This idea – the status of essential dispensability – is problematic. The main criterion suggested by Bilgarami for separating between the pragmatic norm and the genuine norm is its relation to violations. According to him, cases of violation of the genuine norm are clearcut in two senses: it is clear that a norm has been violated, and it is clear which norm was violated. In the case of the lexical norms, both questions remain uncertain; it is not clear which norm has been violated or that any norm has been violated at all. So, I wish to claim, there is a tension in Bilgrami’s position. On the one hand, Bilgrami insists that the genuine norm must carry with it a compulsory force, one that is not a part of the intrinsic norm (1993: 130); that is why the pragmatic norm (or lexicon related norm) includes a degree of compulsion (the pragmatic ‘ought’, explained earlier). However, on the other hand, it turns out that there is no way of violating this norm. The fact that lexical norms cannot be violated can be seen by considering some of the examples Bilgrami gives of what he calls “idiosyncratic uses” (1993: 138), such as the use of ‘gavagai’ in the utterance “The gavagai is too loud” and of ‘loud’ in the utterance “The loud is too messy”. The point about these examples is that not only was the speaker understood when uttering them, but that no norm was violated by their utterance: And if it is not a violation of a norm, there is no sense in claiming that I got away with my use of ‘gavagai’ instead of ‘radio’ there because at least the norm for ‘loud’ was operative. The fact that the next moment I used ‘loud’ in an utterance to mean ‘table’ without violating the so-called norm for ‘loud’ suggests that the norm for ‘loud’ is merely so-called. It is not a norm in any sense because such idiosyncratic uses of that word are not violations of it (1993. 138).

But what, then, is a violation of a pragmatic norm? ‘Nothing’ seems to be the answer given by Bilgrami. However, when pointing out that lexical norms are not norms at all, he uses the example of ‘snow’ and the various violations it might endure: “by my lights, some interpreter may violate the norm for ‘snow’ by thinking that snow was warm, another by thinking that it was green, yet another by thinking that it grew underground, and so on and on” (1992: 104). One may argue that Bilgrami’s talk as if in the case of ‘snow’ a norm has been violated (though it is unclear which norm that is) and in the case of ‘gavagai’ no norm has been violated is only superficially in conflict, for the very point he is making is that in case one

101 cannot be clear about which norm has been violated, than this alleged norm is not at all a norm. But I think the problem runs deeper that this explanation supposes. As I have mentioned, Bilgrami calls this kind of norm ‘pragmatic’ because it stems from the intention not to cause the interpreter difficulty in interpretation. One ‘ought’ to use it for this reason only. It now seems that the question which is at the heart of the idea of normativity lies in the idea of the ‘ought’, the element of compulsion it carries. If one can be understood otherwise, I can understand why one might want to use the norm, but not why one ought to. In other words, if we accept Bilgrami’s line of reasoning and conclude that the lexical norm cannot be violated (not in the strict sense that the autonomous norm can be violated), is anything at all left of its normative, compulsory force? Bilgrami seems to be aware of the problem the use of ‘ought’ may cause19 and explains what unpacking the ‘ought’ in his conception of normativity entails: For me, in the end, all hypothetical imperatives of the kind “If you want to use the term x in a regular way you ought to use it under circumstances c” are imperatives which are necessarily grounded in another imperative: “And you ought to use the term x in a regular way if you want to be easily understood”. This pragmatic element introduced by such expressions as “easily understood” or “understood without strain” is a very important part of my way of thinking of the norms. If I had left this element out and instead said “You ought to use x in a regular way, if you want to be understood”, that would still be an appeal to an intrinsic consideration because it would be too much like resting with unpacking of the ought in the notion of meaning. Why do I insist on the extrinsic, pragmatic qualifications to the idea of understanding in these imperatives? Because it is a plain fact that for any given term, I can be understood even when I do not use it in a regular way. It is just that I will probably cause strain and not be understood easily. I may make a listener sit up, but its use can, with effort, be understood (1992: 112).

It now seems that we have not two, but three types of norms; the extrinsic, the intrinsic and the pragmatic norm. The pragmatic norm is like the extrinsic norm in that it is autonomous and independent from regularities. However, it is like the intrinsic norm in that its conditions of violation are either vague (it is not clear which norm has been violated) or non existent (there is a possibility that no pragmatic norm has been violated at all). Bilgrami insists that norms in the genuine sense carry with them a compul19

“Actually it is more than a little misleading to talk of these imperatives as being hypothetical imperatives in the way that I have been” (1993: 136)

102 sory force, yet emphasizes (along Davidson’s lines) that there is no compulsion to follow the pragmatic norm. It is not clear, then, what sort of compulsion this pragmatic norm has, once we realize, with Davidson, that there is no obligation to follow it at all. Why ought the speaker obey the pragmatic norm in the first place, when no consequences are connected with her not obeying the norm? In other words, what compels the speaker (for she must be compelled, if this pragmatic norm is indeed a norm) to wish to be easily understood, when she can be understood anyway? Moreover, if the pragmatic norm can be (and is) violated, then it loses any compulsory force and so it is not clear what, if anything at all, is left of its normativeness. 4.6 Normativity without norms “Truth is not, in my opinion, a norm” (Davidson 1999: 461). Bilgrami’s reading of Davidson suggests that normativity is derived from the ultimate intention of communication: to be understood. If we want to be understood, we ought to speak in such-and-such a way. However, the content of that way remains deliberately unspecified, for it depends not on pre-learned conventions and rules, but on the ad hoc ability to read off clues and signs given (intentionally or unintentionally) by the speaker or available in the context. I agree with Davidson that this practice cannot be called conventional (in Lewis’ sense, which I have used throughout), because conventional behavior entails a preference to conform my actions to the actions of other people, whereas in the case of language our preference is to be understood in whichever way, either conventional or unconventional. However, the question I wish to raise now is in what sense should our linguistic practices be called “normative” according to Davidson? In other words, why and in what sense does the fact that we want to be understood necessarily mean that our linguistic actions are normative? This calls attention to the difference between ‘want’ and ‘ought’. It is trivial that not everything that we want we also ought to do, and not everything we ought to do we want. An argument must be put forth in order to show that there is a correspondence between the fact that we want (to be understood) and that we ought to do certain things (in order to fulfill our desire). Such argument, I wish to claim, is absent in Davidson’s theory (and in Bilgrami’s

103 reading of his theory). Moreover, I wish to claim that arguments to the contrary (that we ought not speak in any way) are a reasonable outcome of this argument. The normativity assigned by Davidson to linguistic utterances is not specific, nor could it be. In the light of the arguments of “A nice derangement”, there is no possibility prior to conversation to spell out the norms that will eventually govern it. The reason is that once the norms are spelled out they become rules: that I ought to be understood is a normative dictum, but that I consequently need take certain steps, specific actions to reach this goal, is norm, a guide for action, a rule I ought to follow. Davidson cannot afford to uphold such a position since the main point of “A nice derangement” is that we can achieve the (normative) goal of being understood, of getting our intentions across without the necessary aid of rules (or norms, in this sense). So the normative ‘ought’ entailed by our wish to be understood cannot amount to any specific use of language (or refraining from use of language). Contrary to Bilgrami’s dictum: “you ought to use the term x in a regular way if you want to be easily understood”, what Davidson’s considerations have shown us is that there is no ‘regular way’ or ‘regular circumstances’; there are only the circumstances of use. The only way to revise this dictum is to say that “you ought to use the term x in a regular way if you think the regular way would be more easily understood than the irregular way, and you ought to use the term x in an irregular way if you think the irregular way would be more easily understood than the regular way”. This borders on tautology: if you want to be understood, make yourself understood20 (regardless of conventions and regardless of regular ways). This is normativity without norms. One might argue against my claim that it is not always the case that normativity must necessitate specific norms or ways of actions as outcomes. I agree to this. Let us think of an ethical example. Saying that we ought to be nice to our neighbors does not necessarily entail any specific actions. And indeed, like the case of language, a nice and neighborly behavior depends on the specific occasion, culture etc. However, this analogy could not be further stretched to apply to language, according to Davidson. For in language the ‘regular’ way is ‘irregular’. If we point to Mrs. Mala20

Davidson agrees with this claim: “This characterization of linguistic ability is so nearly circular that it cannot be wrong: it comes to saying that the ability to communicate by speech consists in the ability to make oneself understood, and to understand” (1986: 445).

104 prop and say that, when saying “A nice derangement of epitaphs”, she intended to mean “A nice arrangement of epithets”, she is likely to agree. In case she does not, the error in understanding her was ours, as interpreters. In case we have understood her, and communication succeeded, she must agree on the interpretation which is mutual and agreed upon, even if only momentarily. Returning to the ethical example, this would be like saying that our neighbor would agree that we have been nice in case we have acted not nicely (whatever that means in context). Normativity without norms means that there is an element of normativity involved in understanding but one that does not entail any particular rule or norm for meeting this normative end. I agree with Engel when he says that “‘norm’, in his [Davidson’s] sense, is not to be understood as involving the existence of particular rules attached either to words or to concepts which would determine the correct use of these words and concepts” (1999: 447-448). Yet Davidson insists that language has an element of normativity. According to him, normativity enters the linguistic scene not in how we talk but rather in how we interpret others: Ultimately the interpreter’s norms come into play in deciding which interpretation is the most reasonable. But reasonable in what respect? There is on the one hand the question whether it is more likely that that the speaker is using a word in a slightly unusual way… But on the other hand there may (perhaps also) be a question about the reasoning of the speaker; we may find it difficult to avoid an interpretation which convict the speaker of an offence against (our) norms of good reasoning. Should we now revise our interpretation? Our norms as interpreters are unavoidably involved in the decision. But though our norms guide our judgments of the reasoning ability of the speaker and these judgments in turn affect our understanding of what the speaker means, none of these normative considerations should tempt us to say that the speaker has failed to follow the norms of language, for as Bilgrami insists, there are no such norms (1993: 146-147).

What Davidson suggests here is that speaking a language does not involve norms but that interpreting and understanding do. There are no norms of language, but norms play a role in the (charitable) process of interpretation. Although Davidson claims that language is not dependant on either norms or conventions, he still ascribes normativity to the interpretative process. That is what I meant by the slogan ‘normativity without norms’. Does this mean that according to Davidson we can twist our lan-

105 guage in any way we want but that we cannot twist our interpretation? If so, this position is difficult to defend in the overall Davidsonian scheme. I concluded from Bilgrami’s discussion that in order to be consistent with Davidson’s theory of language he should not only have declared that we should “treat the question of normativity with contempt (1993: 126) but also that he should have concluded that speaking a language, for Davidson, has no normative aspect. Davidson’s interpretation of Bilgrami in the passage quoted above is very charitable. For Bilgrami has not, like Davidson, rejected norms altogether. He persisted in holding a type of norm, the pragmatic norm. As I have mentioned, the aspect of Davidson’s theory where the demand for normativity is most apparent is the Principle of Charity. The Principle of Charity does not eliminate indeterminacy, but in case of a multiplicity of interpretations, the Principle of Charity “…counsels us quite generally to prefer theories of interpretation that minimize disagreement” (1984: xvii). But why is ‘maximizing agreement’ a normative injunction? I would like to argue that it is not and that Davidson’s assumption that the theory of interpretation is characteristically normative is unnecessary for his theory of interpretation. Specifically, I argue that Davidson’s method of interpretation is forced on us. If the method of interpretation is necessary, it cannot be normative. Charity, for Davidson, is “…not an option but a condition of having a workable theory….Charity is forced on us; whether we like it or not, if we want to understand others we must count them right in most matters” (1984: 197). Charity is unavoidable in the sense that “…just as we must maximize agreement, or risk not making sense of what the alien is talking about, so we must maximize the self-consistency we attribute to him, on pain of not understanding him” (1984: 27, my italics). Typically,21 Davidson speaks of the Principle of Charity as constitutive of interpretation in that the Principle of Charity is the embodiment of normativity in any attempt of interpretation. Because Charity is not optional but rather obligatory for any interpretation to take place, Davidson claims that communication itself is constituted by norms of rationality that are expressed in the actual method of interpretation. So the so-called normative constraints emitted on us by the Principle of charity are not normative at all; they are necessary. It is not the case that we ought to interpret charitably; we must in21

See also 2001: 211; 2001: 148-149; 1984: 137: 1984: 153.

106 terpret charitably on risk of not understanding and not communicating at all. Saying this, however, is not enough, for, as we have seen in the quotations above, Davidson stresses that norms come into play in cases of having to decide between two alternative interpretations. In such cases, he claims, we ought to choose the interpretation that best fits the goal of maximizing agreement. But in what sense ought we do so? In “Replies”, Davidson writes the following passage that defines the correlation between the Principle of Charity, the principle of indeterminacy and the role of norms, but at the same time reveals the problematic function of normativity in Davidson’s philosophy: Charity is a matter of finding enough rationality in those we would understand to make sense of what they say and do, for unless we succeed in this, we cannot identify the contents of their words and thoughts. Seeing rationality in others is a matter of recognizing our own norms of logical consistency, of action in reasonable accord with essential or basic interests, and the acceptance of views that are sensible in the light of evidence. These various norms can suggest conflicting ways of interpreting an agent (for example, there are different things an agent may mean by what she says), and there may be no clear ground for preferring one of these ways to others. Balancing the claims of competing norms in interpretation thus introduces a form of indeterminacy not found in the indeterminacy that abounds in physical measurement. This is the connection between indeterminacy and the irreducibility of the mental I had in mind in “Mental events”…It is a special twist the norms of rationality impart to interpretation (2005: 319).

Charity is a matter of rationality and not of normativity. If we agree with Davidson then we conclude that we ought to be rational in interpretation. But again, like in our role as speakers, in our role as interpreters we ought not to choose a particular interpretation over the other. This is apparent in that the principle of charity does not eliminate indeterminacy, but rather enables and explains it. This, again, is normativity without norms. Taking the Davidsonian considerations seriously, we must conclude that the process of interpretation, like speech itself, is not normative. In maximizing agreement, what are we in agreement about? As we have seen earlier, according to Davidson we do not necessarily agree on meanings or on interpretations of words (to recall, we interpret “A nice derangement of epitaphs” as “A nice derangement of epitaphs”, and Mrs. Malaprop interprets the same utterance as “A nice arrangement of epithets”). Could it be that we agree on what sentences we hold true?

107 …the principle directs the interpreter to translate or interpret so as to read some of his own standards of truth into the pattern of sentences held true by the speaker. The point of the principle is to make the speaker intelligible, since too great deviations from consistency and correctness leave no common ground on which to judge either conformity or difference (2001 (1986b): 148, italics mine).

But truth, for Davidson, is not a norm. In what sense should the practice of ‘reading’ the norms of the speaker be considered normative, unless normativity here is synonymous with rational behavior (which it is not)? Regarding Tarski’s Convention T Davidson says the following: I do not think of T-sentences as normative in themselves: they don’t, for example, tell us what truth conditions we ought to assign to a sentence, not do they tell us when we would be “correct” to assert it, unless, “correct” here just means “true”. T-sentences are descriptive: I think of them as describing a practice. Using a T-sentence to interpret a speaker whose practice at the moment it correctly describes will yield a correct interpretation, or at least so I have long held, and still do (2005: 326).

In the same vein, and in consistency with Davidson’s theory of language, we should conclude that the Principle of Charity is a conventional description of a method of interpretation, devoid of norms and of normativity. Finally, I wish to claim that my reading of Davidson and of Bilgrami (reading Davidson) has revealed what I call ‘the paradox of rule’. When thought of as constitutive, rules gain a necessity that prevents their being violated. However, lacking necessitation, rules loose their obligatory or compulsory force. Bilgrami’s suggestion of maintaining the pragmatic norm in speech falls into the latter category; it is too weak to be obligating. Davidson’s Principle of Charity falls into the first category: indeed, it is a constitutive principle of interpretation (and not a rule or a norm of interpretation), necessary, unavoidable and thus non-normative. Davidson, more than any other philosopher, has revealed the problems having to do with the idea that language is rule-governed. Yet his rejection of rules is incomplete. He has argued convincingly that the reduction of rules to conventions is unnecessary for a theory of language. He should have completed the rejection of rules by rejecting not only linguistic norms but also normativity in interpretation.22 22

My argument here addressed the inessentiality of normativity in Davidson’s theory of language. Some writers have questioned the normativity of Davidson’s theory of mind: Engel 1999; Schroeder 2003; Glüer 2001.

5. Searle on rules (of rationality, conversation and speech acts) 5.1 The shortcut argument against rule In the first chapter of his Rationality in Action (2001), Searle argues against the Classical Model of rationality, which claims that “Rationality is a matter of obeying rules, the special rules that make the distinction between rational and irrational thought and behavior” (2001: 8). Instead, he claims: “Rationality is not entirely or even largely a matter of following rules of rationality” (2001: 17). Searle presents an argument against the possibility of the existence of rules of rationality. The argument is taken from Lewis Carroll’s “What Achilles Said to the Tortoise”: if you are willing to agree that the inference (p & (p→ q)) → q is sound only in case it is justified itself by yet another rule (say, the rule of modus ponens) then you are bound to be making “…a fatal mistake…you are in the grip of the Lewis Carroll paradox” (2001: 18). Carroll’s paradox derives from the idea that any logical rule must itself be justified by another rule, leading to infinite regress. “The way to avoid an infinite regress is to refuse to make the first fatal move of supposing that the rule of modus ponens plays any role whatever in the validity of the inference…Remember: if you think that you need a rule to infer q from p and (if p then q), then you would also need a rule to infer p from p” (2001: 19). The first question I would like to pose is, what is there to learn from Carroll’s paradox in general, and specifically, what does it show us about the nature of rules? As a first step, we might want to wonder whether this is a paradox at all. Perhaps, always being ‘rule dependant’ itself is an intrinsic feature of any rule. For if we appeal to a rule for justification, why not appeal to a rule for to justify a rule? Grammar rules are thought of as recursive1 with no paradox attached. Infinite regress is paradoxical only in case we are after a final answer; in the case where finality is not considered an option, infinite regress is at best problematic, not paradoxical. Perhaps Caroll’s paradox merely reveals some feature of rule in general; addressing a rule in order to justify an inference might always be reconstructed as being itself rule dependant. 1

The joke about ‘recursive’ is its dictionary definition: recursive: see recursive.

110 However, Searle does not consider this interpretation of Carroll’s story; he thinks that the paradoxical nature of rules is an argument against the existence of the rules of rationality: Thus we are blinded to the fact that in real-life reasoning, the rule of modus ponens plays no justificatory role at all… We need to distinguish between entailment and validity as logical relations on the one hand, and inferring as a voluntary human activity on the other…there is nothing that forces any actual human being to make that inference” (2001: 21).

Searle points out a gap between logical validity and the human activity of inferring. While in logic the conclusion necessary, human activity is free of such constraints. Unless we admit this, Searle contends, we are in the grip of paradox. As Searle pointed out in numerous places, he views the use of language as a human activity. But he also stresses that “My knowledge of how to speak a language involves a mastery of a system of rules which renders my use of the elements of that language regular and systematic” (1969: 13). In light of the present discussion, two questions arise: first, if human behavior is free of rule constraints, in what sense can language (seen as a part of human behavior) be said to be rule-governed? And second (actually, the same question from a different angle): if Carroll’s tale is an argument against the existence of rule, why is it not applicable to rules of language as well as to rules of rationality? In other words, why can we not conclude in regard to language what Searle concludes in regard to rationality – that language is not a matter of obeying rules and that there are no special rules that make the distinction between meaningful and nonmeaningful speech, namely that language is not entirely, or even largely, a matter of following rules of language? I understand Lewis Carroll’s fable to be an argument against the very concept of rule. I call it ‘the shortcut argument against rule’, as it seems to sum up the discussion regarding the possibility of linguistic rules, or for that matter, of any rule whatsoever. But it is not the end of the discussion it merely marks its beginning. 5.2 Is language a rule governed form of behavior or is it not? Why is it that Searle so persistently argues for the necessity of rules in language and no less passionately against them in rationality? An obvious answer is that rationality and language, though related, are differently structured. Indeed, Searle endorses this assumption, as he concludes his argu-

111 ment in Rationality in Action: “What I am saying is that rationality in thought as well as in action is not defined by any set of rules. The structure of intentional states and the constitutive rules of speech act already contain constraints of rationality” (2001: 22). Thus, philosophers who think that rational behavior is rule-governed put the carriage in front of the horse. Rationality is not rule structured, rather the rules of speech acts and intentionality are rational. In order to appreciate the interest of this remark, it might be read alongside another quotation from a different text (“Conversation” in On Searle On Conversation 1992). The main argument of this article is that conversation is different from speech acts in that unlike speech acts that are structured by a set of (constitutive) rules, we cannot in principle find such parallel set of rules for conversation. Searle argues that whereas speech acts are rule governed, conversation isn’t: Could we get an account of conversations parallel to our account of speech acts? Could we, for example get an account that gave us constitutive rules for conversations in a way that we have constitutive rules for speech acts? My answer to that question is going to be ‘No.’ (1992: 7).

My claim is that if there are convincing arguments against the existence of rules in conversation, they should be applicable across the board and pertain to speech acts as well. However, if the argument against rules of conversation cannot be applied to speech acts, a good argument should be given to account for this. Searle, I would like to claim, has no such argument. He maintains that a certain part of language must be regarded as rule-governed (speech acts), while another realm cannot in principle be so regarded (conversation).2 Searle’s answer is to the question “is language a rule governed form of behavior?” is thus left unclear; the difficulty lies with the concept of rule. The next section deals with the grounds on which Searle rejects the possibility of rules for conversation. 5.3 (No) Rules of conversation Traditional speech act theory is thus largely confined to single speech acts. But, as we all know, in real life speech acts are often not like that at all. In real life, 2

There might be an analogy to be drawn between Searle’s insistence on rule in speech acts and his denial of rules in conversation, and his similar insistence on rule in intentionality and his denial of rule in rationality. I suspect there is a connection here, one which I shall not explore as I am confining my discussion to language.

112 speech characteristically consists of longer sequences of speech acts (Searle 1992: 7).

Clearly, the difference between speech acts and conversation is not only in quantity but in quality also. One of the qualitative differences between speech acts and conversation, Searle maintains, is that speech acts are rulegoverned while conversation is not. The first point Searle makes about the concept of rule is its separation from the notion of regularity: “So, before we conclude that we can’t get an analysis of conversation parallel to our analysis of speech acts, let us first see what regularities and systematic principles we can find in the structure of conversation” (1992: 8). Regularities and systematic principles are not sufficient for the existence of a rule. Later on, when criticizing the ‘turn taking’ theory that does regard conversation as rule-governed, Searle returns to this point: The Sacks-Schegloff-Jefferson “rule” is like the “law” of clustering in that it finds regularities in phenomena that are explainable by other forms of intentionality. A statement of an observed regularity, even when predictive, is not necessarily a statement of a rule (1992: 19).

So, if detection of regularities is not necessary (clearly it is not sufficient either) for determining a rule, what is? One of the more general claims I wish to make is that although ‘rule’ is one of the key concepts in Searle’s theory of language in general and in the theory of speech acts in particular, it remains vague and unaccounted for in important respects. What he regards as the necessary and sufficient conditions for a ‘rule’ remain obscure throughout Searle’s writings, but scattered remarks can be helpful in reconstructing Searle’s concept of rule. In “Conversation”, Searle remarks that: “The notion of a rule is, after all, rather closely connected with the notion of following a rule. And I want to argue that nobody does or could follow the turn-taking rule” (1992: 16). Therefore, a rule that is not followed (because it can’t be followed or for other reasons) is not a ‘real rule’ (1992: 16). We may then conclude that a necessary condition for a rule is that it can be followed and that it is followed. This point will gain importance later on in my discussion. Another (related) necessary feature of a rule is that the content of the rule must be taken as causing the production of behavior: “The notion of a rule is logically connected to the notion of following a rule, and the notion of following a rule is connected to the notion of making one’s behavior conform to the content of a rule because it is a rule” (1992: 16). In order to say

113 of some form of behavior that it accords with a rule, this behavior must be regarded as a result of the rule it conforms to. Searle presents a few reasons why no such rules can be found for conversation. Conversations, it seems, unlike single speech acts, tend to evade conformity to a rule. Even the simplest conversations, “the most promising cases”, are found to be “special and unusual” (1992: 8). These “most promising” cases are what Searle calls “adjacency pairs”3 such as question/answer, greeting/greeting etc. “I said in Speech Acts that questions were requests for information, and that suggests every question is a request for an assertion. But that seems obviously wrong if you think about it” (1992: 8-9). This constraint does not hold for questions because questions can be used not only for inquiring (their assumed central role), and consequently the appropriate response to them might not be an assertion but, “oddly enough” (1992: 9), an imperative. So the appropriate answer to “Shall I marry Sally?”, Searle claims, would not be “Yes” (an assertion) but rather “Yes do” (an imperative). What is most interesting from my point of view is to ask why Searle finds this odd at all. Regardless of any theory about questions, it is trivially safe to say that questions are used for various (countless, perhaps) purposes. They can be used as a rhetorical device, as threats (Have you any idea what I’ll do to you?), promises (Have you any idea what I’ll do to you?) and even as assertions (Have you noticed the time?). I think this might be regarded as ‘odd’ only when thought of in terms of the ‘appropriate response’. What is puzzling for Searle is that not all questions “invite” an assertion as a response: “There are cases where the structure of interrogative does not match the appropriate response” (1992: 9). But the case is that there is no “appropriate response” for interrogatives just as there is no “appropriate” response to threats of commands. Adjacency pairs might be regarded as “special and unusual” only if there are other types (of conversation? of single speech acts?) that are ‘regular and usual’. Searle is ready to admit that he was wrong when thinking that questions were requests for information. This is quite crucial for our present discussion as this constraint is included among the constitutive rules for questions (1969: 66). The assumption that questions are requests for information underlies Searle’s analysis of questions: it is a part of what he calls the Preparatory, Sincerity and Essential type of rule. My short-term conclusion is that questions cannot be analyzed (in terms of speech act theory) as single speech acts. The more general conclusion I would like to 3

A term borrowed from Schegloff et al. 1992: 8.

114 draw is that there is no speech act that can be analyzed (in terms of speech act theory) as a single speech act. There is no such thing as a single speech act to be analyzed; but more importantly, I find grounds for this conclusion in what Searle says about conversation. Another type of single speech act is the statement. Here, unlike in the case of question, Searle does not admit that his former analysis had been wrong: ...the requirement of truthfulness is indeed an internal constitutive rule of the notion of a statement. It is a constitutive rule of statement-making that the statement commits the speaker to the truth of the proposition expressed. There is no way to explain what a statement is without explaining what a true statement is, and without explaining that anybody who makes a statement is committed, other things being equal, to the truth of the proposition that he expressed in making the statement. It is the condition of satisfaction of a statement that it should be true, and it is an internal defect of a statement if it is false (1992: 12).

The same type of considerations that led Searle to withdraw his above analysis of question should lead us here to abandon the present analysis for statements. The so-called (internal, constitutive) rule for statement-making is not a rule in Searle’s terms: it is not followed and cannot be followed. Like questions, statements are used for many purposes. Like questions, there is no appropriate response to indicative statements. Statements are used to express untruthful propositions in the same way that they are used to express truthful propositions. Had there been a difference, lying could not have existed as it would patently be detected (nor could irony, or metaphor, or storytelling). The main flaw in Searle’s argument is that from the (true) premise: “There is no way to explain what a statement is without explaining what a true statement is”, he infers that being true is constitutive of statements. Indeed, in order to understand what a statement is, one has to understand what a true statement is (and of course at the same time, what an untrue statement is), but this does not mean that statements are used (not even mainly, in any sense of the word) to express true propositions. Notice that Searle adds a constraint on the constitutive rule for statement-making. Such is the analysis for statement-making when “other things being equal”. My point is that ‘other things’ are never equal at least in the sense that it is always possible for them to be unequal in that every (contingent) true statement can be used to express a true proposition as well as a false proposition. The condition of satisfaction of a statement is

115 not that it should be true but that it might be true. And being false is not an ‘internal defect’ but an internal characteristic in the same sense being true is. My conclusion is thus two fold: first, the constitutive rule for statementmaking is no rule (by Searle’s demands) in that it is not followed and cannot be followed. And second, having no such constitutive rule does not allow statements to be analyzed as single speech acts within the theory, for they, like conversation, have no constitutive rule. The same kind of analysis might be applied for each kind of what Searle wishes to consider ‘single speech act’, but I think that the idea is clear enough. Yet, Searle defends the idea that different types of analysis are appropriately applicable to speech acts and to conversations. While speech acts must be understood in terms of their constitutive rules, conversations cannot possibly be understood as having rules. It is very clear that Searle assumes that there is an inherent gap between a single speech act and conversation, and that this gap must be essential and not only a matter of degree. But it is not at all clear what this gap means or how it makes itself apparent in the analysis. What I have tried to show up until now is that what Searle says is true for conversation is also true for the so-called ‘single speech act’. To recapitulate: there are no single speech acts (not as basic units for analysis in terms of speech act theory) and there are not even ‘adjacency pairs’ (in the same sense, but with this Searle agrees). But this is not because every utterance is already a conversation, but because a line cannot be drawn between a single speech act and a (part of a) conversation. Concluding the critical part of his essay, Searle says: The reason that conversations do not have an inner structure in the sense that speech acts do is not (as sometimes claimed) because conversations are between two or more people, but because conversations as such lack a particular purpose or point (1992: 20).

Searle follows this by saying (I’ve taken the liberty to insert my comments in square parenthesis in between Searle’s paragraph): Each illocutionary act has an illocutionary point [correct assumption], and it is in virtue of that point that it is an act of that type [incorrect conclusion]. Thus, the point of a promise is to undertake an obligation [or to make a threat, express an assertion, make a wish]; the point of a statement is to represent how things are in the world [or how things are not in the world]; the point of an order is to try to get somebody to do something [or to get somebody not to do anything], etc. It is the existence of illocutionary points that enable us to get a well defined taxonomy of the different types of illocutionary acts [true in a nearly tautologi-

116 cal sense, but the question is does this taxonomy provide an insight of how meaning is created and communicated?] (1992: 20).

When I claim that what Searle says about conversation is true also for speech acts, I do not mean that speech acts do not have a particular purpose or point, only that they do not have a particular purpose or point in the same sense that conversations do not have a particular purpose or point. This is not to say that an utterance on a particular occasion does not have a particular point. Of course it does, and that’s exactly what makes it an utterance. As Searle puts it: “each illocutionary act has an illocutionary point”; only this point cannot be known beforehand just by looking at the taxonomy of speech acts. Conversations also have a point (or points, stable or shifting) on a particular occasion. But as with speech acts, the point cannot be deduced prior to the conversation’s taking place. 5.4 Background brought to the foreground In the third, concluding part of the article, Searle goes on to present his positive picture of the analysis of conversation. Although he insists that there are no (constitutive) rules for conversation as there are for single speech acts, he does agree that there are two characteristics of conversations that regulate conversations (remember, regularities are not rules). The first is shared intentionality and the second is shared background. I chose to focus on the latter notion although what I say might (with some changes) be applicable to the first. Searle defines shared background as follows: [A]ll semantic interpretation, and indeed all intentionality, functions not only against a network of beliefs and other intentional states but also against a background that does not consist in a set of propositional contents, but rather, consists in presuppositions that are, so to speak, preintentional or prepropositional (1992: 24).

The most important feature of the background is that, though it regulates and explicates verbal activity (and intentional states), it is itself not representational in essence, thus containing capacities which are not (by definition) semantic and could not be rule-governed. The background “forms the boundary conditions on meaning and understanding, whether in conversation or in isolated utterances” (1992: 29). The background is, so to speak, the stitch that holds together the linguistic and the extra-linguistic,

117 the verbal behavior and the non-verbal behavior. The final claim I would like to make is that the notion of background is both an essential and an impossible component in Searle’s theory of speech act and conversation. The assumption of background (Searle calls it ‘the thesis of the background’ (1992: 23) accounts for various capacities brought into action in a conversational situation. It explains, for example, how we choose a metaphorical rather than literal interpretation when the two are possible (1992: 26). It is crucial in understanding that despite the fact that certain verbs function radically differently within sentences, we are still able to understand the meaning in each case (1992: 24). We can do all this as competent speakers, Searle explains, because we have a background of knowledge that (and this is the crucial point) is itself not semantic and not representational: It is obvious that the conversation construed simply as a set of utterances carrying literal semantic content is unintelligible. The natural temptation is to assume that it is made intelligible by the fact that these additional semantic contents are present in the mind of the speaker, the hearer, and the audience. What I am suggesting here is that they are still not enough. Or rather, that they are only enough because they themselves rest on a set of capacities that are not themselves semantic contents. Our ability to represent rests on a set of capacities which do not themselves consist in representation (1992: 27).

Does what Searle claim amount to saying that linguistic abilities depend on non-linguistic abilities? Yes, but not only. Searle assumes more. He assumes that a line can be drawn between semantic, representational content, and contents that are not. We are tempted to assume that semantics is explained by yet more semantics only if we think we can separate semantics from the rest. But can we? Searle’s discussion of conversation has revealed that we cannot. For there is no detectible difference between single speech acts (semantic, purposeful, rule governed sort of entities) and conversation (more than semantic, untargeted, not rule governed sort of entities). This is not because speech acts are not what Searle says they are, but because they, like conversation, need to be supplemented with much more. If there is a background, it is apparent already in speech acts in the same way it functions in conversation. What the notion of background accounts for is first and foremost our ability to understand prima facie unintelligible conversations. Searle gives an example of such conversation, which he calls: “mysterious” “unintelligible” and “doesn’t say much of anything” (1992: 27). What accounts for

118 our understanding is the assumption of shared knowledge (part of the background) on part of the participants. But the assumption of background is only made sense of when opposed to some other foreground. For Searle, the background consists in non-semantic non-representational capacities. In the foreground are the constitutive rules of single speech acts. Searle assumes that indeed the background can be told apart from the foreground. He must assume this or he is in the grip of infinite semantic representational regress: The prior collateral information is no more self interpreting than the original conversation. So it looks as though we are on the start of regress, possibly infinite. The solution to our puzzle is this. Both the original utterance and the prior collateral information only function, that is, they only determine their conditions of satisfaction, against the background of capacities, stances, attitudes, presuppositions, ways of behaving, modes of sensibility, and so on, that are not themselves representational (1992: 29).

Indeed, the only way to keep from falling into infinite regress is, as Searle maintains in Rationality in Action, to avoid taking the first fatal step. In this sense, the background thesis is essential for Searle’s picture of meaning, communication and intentionality. But it is also impossible. The problem, as Searle’s own examples show, is that it is impossible to separate the background from the foreground. Single speech acts cannot be told apart from conversations, and conversations cannot be told apart from background knowledge. Collateral information cannot be separated from semantic content. Searle says of his example of conversation: “The original conversation was intelligible only because the participants and the viewers had a lot of information that wasn’t explicit in the conversation” (1992: 28). This is true, but what I have attempted to show is that an utterance is intelligible only because of the information that isn’t explicit in it. Interestingly, the opposite is also true: an utterance is unintelligible because of inexplicit information. Searle’s theory of conversation and speech acts can’t correspond with the background thesis, but it can’t do without it either. A way out of this paradox, I have suggested here, is to give up the idea that there is a difference between single speech acts and conversations, between conversation and background, between language and world. A crucial step in this direction is to change the way in which we think about how rules function in language and communication.

Conclusion This work portrays a journey I have taken with the concept of rule. Throughout it, I have focused on the way philosophers of language (primarily analytic philosophers of language) have thought of rules and the role they are supposed to have in linguistic communication. The concept of rule is problematic, I have claimed, because it stretches out two hands, the one grasping the actual way people use language while the other holds on to the way they ought to use it. Holding on to both factual contingencies and normative injunctions is impossible in the case of language. However, giving up one or the other of these tasks of ‘rule’ results in discarding the idea that rules play an essential role in communication by means of language. By relinquishing normativity, we settle for a theory of language either shorn of correctness, or one that reduces correctness to the actions of the majority. By renouncing conventionality, we assent to a theory of language that is not necessarily connected with actual speech behavior. David Bloor has written what can be regarded as a summary of the reductive view of rules: In following a rule we move automatically from case to case, guided by our instinctive (but socially educated) sense of ‘sameness’. Such a sense does not itself suffice to create a standard of right and wrong. It is necessary to introduce a sociological element into the account to explain normativity. Normative standards come from the consensus generated by a number of interacting rule followers, and it is maintained by collectively monitoring, controlling and sanctioning their individual tendencies. Consensus makes norms objective, that is, a source of external and impersonal constraint on the individual (1997: 17, my italics).

Agreement may amount to consensus, but, as I have argued, consensus cannot amount or build up to norms. Consensus tells us something of great importance about how most people act linguistically – in this case, how most or all follow rules. But consensus does not tell us how language users ought to follow rules. Bloor wishes to develop a concept of rule that takes into account biological tendencies and instinctive responses (1997:

120 13), but one that also transcends them and retains the normative task of being a standard of correctness. He is well aware of the fact that mere conventions are not apt for this vocation: “It may be a matter of convention which rules we adopt, but surely once we have adopted them, what counts as correctly following the rule is fixed by the rule itself” (1997: 5). However, although aware of the shortcomings of conventions, customs and habits, he insists that there is a way in which conventions become norms. I have also claimed that some writers have attempted to remedy the predicament of rule by buttressing it with an element of necessity. Their idea is that if we find that language is constituted by rules, then the difficulty of how these rules are connected with actual linguistic behavior would evaporate for then we simply must, by definition, follow them. I have analyzed the claims of the writers in which this supplementation emerges in different ways: Cavell’s claim that we must mean what we say, Williams’ concept of normative necessity, Davidson’s constitutive Principle of Charity and finally, Searle’s definition of constitutive rules. My response to all these attempts was similar. Supplementing rules with the added ingredient of necessity depletes normativity of its meaning. I have argued repeatedly that any rule following action or speech action can either be normative or necessary. Moreover, the supplementation of rules with necessities gives rise to a paradox of rule;1 if rules are considered constitutive (of speech acts, as Searle claims, or of interpretation, as Davidson argues) then there is no meaning to the idea of their being violated. On the other hand, if rules can be violated, they are reduced to suggestions or recommendations, lacking obligatory power. Interestingly, Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature is the source of both the is/ought distinction, known as ‘Hume’s Law’ and for Lewis’ theory of convention. I will say a few words on both subjects. Hume addresses the concept of convention in the second part of Book III (“Of justice and injustice”) in relation to the notion of moral obligation. Hume raises the question of what compels or obligates us to act honestly: “I suppose a person to have lent me a sum of money, on condition that it be restor’d in a few days; and I also suppose, that after the expiration of the term agreed on, he demands the sum: I ask, What reason or motive have I 1

A second paradox; the first one is Wittgenstein’s.

121 to restore the money?” (1951: 479). Hume then goes on to examine, and eventually reject, three potential candidates that may serve as reasons for restoring the money: first, a regard to justice or sense of duty (1951: 479); second, a concern for our private interests or reputation (1951: 480); and third, a love of mankind (1951: 481). None of these, claims Hume, can be said to serve as a sufficient reason for restoring the money. He concludes: From all this it follows, that we have no real or universal motive for observing the laws of equity, but the very equity and merit of that observance; and as no action can be equitable or meritorious, where it cannot arise from some separate motive, there is here an evident sophistry and reasoning in a circle. Unless, therefore, we will allow, that nature has established a sophistry, and rendered it necessary and unavoidable, we must allow, that the sense of justice and injustice is not derived from nature, but arises artificially, though necessarily from education, and human conventions (1951: 483).

For Hume, the concept of convention is used as opposed to nature:2 Being analyzed thus, the entering into convention marks the threshold between savage state and social state (1951: 503). While Hume speaks of convention in ethics and political philosophy, Lewis’ modern analysis extends convention to philosophy of language, setting it as a central concept for the understanding of how we communicate. My criticisms in this work are directed against the concept of convention in its extended sense. I argue that a theory of language based on conventions cannot simultaneously account for rules’ normativity. Such a theory is in breach of Hume’s Law. I would like to point out, however, that accepting Hume’s Law does not necessarily entail accepting the is/ought distinction. It is plausible, I suggest, to agree that deriving ‘ought’ from ‘is’ is a wrong inference, without being committed to the is/ought distinction. Finally, a few words on my position regarding this distinction: Disregarding the interpretative debate over the meaning and magnitude of Hume’s Law in his own writings,3 some contemporary philosophers question the validity and importance of this distinction in general. Putnam argues that the fact/value distinction rests on “untenable arguments and on over-inflated dichotomies” 2

The opposition convention/nature has a long philosophical tradition, beginning with Plato’s Cratylus. 3 See e.g., Snare 1991: 34-40.

122 (2002: 2). Dascal agrees with Putnam, and suggests that the way to ‘disinflate’ dichotomies is to de-dichotomize them. Dascal argues that dedichotomization is an important strategic element in philosophical debates: ‘Disinflation’ is thus needed when a distinction is inflated to the point of becoming an absolute dichotomy, uncritically applied. Distinctions require, Putnam suggests, sensitivity to the context where they are applied, whereas dichotomies’ charm lies precisely in the fact that they are applicable without such a relativization (2006).

In relation to the concept of rule in particular, some authors agree with the need for a de-dichotomization of the is/ought distinction. Schauer argues for the merits of emphasizing the similarities, rather than the differences, between prescriptive and descriptive rules: There are differences between descriptive and prescriptive rules, just as there are differences between the laws of physics and those of Nebraska, and between principles of economics and morality. Nevertheless, the distinction obscures a revealing similarity between descriptive and prescriptive rules (1991: 17).

The revealing similarity, Schauer claims, is that both descriptive and prescriptive rules have the same inherent logic; both are necessary for generalizations (1991: 16-34). This feature, he suggests, allows us to treat descriptive and prescriptive rules under a unified theory. Putnam’s argument is more radical: “‘Valuation’ and ‘description’ are interdependent” (2002: 62) and “entangled” (2002: 74), he claims. Davidson’s attitude towards the utility and significance of the descriptive/prescriptive distinction is quite complex. Engel states that on the subject of making a rational choice, Davidson expresses the position that “making the distinction between the normative and the descriptive is largely illusory” (1999: 449).4 However, in other places, Davidson seems to be in favor of a subtler approach:

4

Engel quotes Davidson (1985: 89): “Until a detailed empirical interpretation is given to a theory, it is impossible to tell whether or not an agent satisfies its norms; indeed without a clear interpretation, it is hard to say what content the theory, whether normative or descriptive, has”.

123 But what about explicitly evaluative sentences, sentences about what is good, desirable, useful, obligatory, or our duty? The simplest view would be, as mentioned before, to identify desiring a sentence to be true with judging that it would be desirable if it were true – in other words, to identify desiring that ‘Poverty is eradicated’ be true with embracing the sentence ‘It is desirable that poverty be eradicated’. And it is in fact hard to see how these attitudes can be allowed to take independent directions. On the other hand, there is a point to having a rich supply of evaluative words to distinguish the various evaluative attitudes clearly from one another: judging an act good is not the same as judging that it ought to be performed, and certainly judging that there is an obligation to make some sentence true is not the same as judging that it is desirable to make it true. For these and further reasons, there is no simple detailed connection between our basic preferences for the truth of various sentences and our judgments about the moral or other values that would be realized if they were true (2004: 37).

The is/ought distinction has a few related labels: fact/value, description/ prescription, objective/subjective. These distinctions are not fully identical and surely are related to different philosophical traditions. I agree that the relation between what is and what ought to be is highly multifaceted and is associated with central philosophical concepts such as rationality, preferences, obligations, decision making and others. Not only do I sympathize with those arguments quoted above that endorse critically thinking about this dichotomy, but I also suggest that my discussion of rules may contribute to this line of thinking. The concept of rule resists its classification as belonging to one or the other side of the dichotomy: as my discussion has shown, rule cannot be defined in purely normative terms, nor can it be defined in purely descriptive terms, since both reductions miss a facet of this intricate concept. In this sense, ‘rule’ sets an example of the need to reformulate the relation between prescriptions and descriptions. Rule, then, serves as a particularly interesting example of a concept that typically is demanded, uncritically, to perform both tasks of being normative and descriptive. ‘Rule’ has rei(g)ned over the linguistic-philosophical scene for many years. ‘Rule’ has reigned by way of the dogma that language is, essentially, a system of rules. Being a dogma, ‘rule’ has also reined our philosophical thinking about what is essential for having and using a language, and restrained our ways of philosophizing about language. It is time to be freed

124 of the dogmatic reins of ‘rule’, or at least, it is time we use it more carefully and critically, with an increased awareness of its internal tensions and inherent conceptual complexity. I hope that my work will bring about a rethinking of the centrality and necessity of rules. It is perhaps time to overrule the ruling over of ‘rule’.

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Index agreement 16, 17, 20-21, 46-52, 59-60, 68, 72-75, 80, 105-106, 119 See also consensus alternative / lack of alternative/ alternative blindness 6, 14-21, 33, 34, 69, 71-72, 74 See also necessity arbitrariness and convention 2, 4, 6, 17-22, 26, 47,74 socio-temporal 13-17 timeless 17-22 See also principle of arbitrariness Austin J.L. 29-30 Ayer, A.J. 41n Baker, G.P. 78-79 Baker, G.P. and Hacker, P.M.S. 7-8, 39, 52-69, 73, 75-76, 79-81, 91 Bilgrami, A. 8-9, 93, 94, 96-107 Bloor, D. 119 Brandom, R. 1, 76 Carnap, R. 1 Carroll, L. 109-110 Cavell, S. 7-8, 29-37, 58n, 120 choice arbitrary 14-16, 18, 19 freedom of 6, 13, 16 communication 8-9, 26, 32, 36-37, 55, 83-93, 96, 99-100, 102,104-105, 118, 119 consensus 41, 60-62, 72, 119 See also agreement contingent / contingency 3, 6-7, 17, 25, 63, 66, 80, 84, 114, 119 convention(s) 1-9, 39, 47-53, 59-60, 62, 63, 64, 75, 83-90, 91, 93, 94, 96, 98, 102, 103, 104, 107, 119-121 and norm 11-25, 66, 71, 99 Convention T 107 correctness 2, 3, 4, 7, 8, 13, 31, 43, 44, 46, 50, 56, 58-61, 65, 67, 69, 74, 76, 79, 81, 91, 92, 98, 107, 119, 120 Culler, J. 15n Dascal M. 84n, 88n, 92n, 122 Davidson, D. 8-9, 17, 40n, 73n, 83-107, 120 disposition/dispositionalism 2, 41-44, 49-50, 58, 60 Dummett, M. 76, 92n

130 Engel, P. 89n, 95-96, 104, 107n, 122 epitaph(s) 83, 88, 104, 106 Fodor, J.A. 36, 58n Frege, G. 1, 25 Glüer, K. 84n, 95n, 107n Hume, D. 12, 21, 51, 72, 120, 121 Hume’s Law 9, 120-121 inference 9, 96-98, 109-111, 121 Jackman, H. 89n Kant, I. 12, 12n, 34, 66 Katz, J.J. 36, 58n Korsgaard, C. 11, 12n Kripke, S.A. 7-8, 39, 40-66, 71-74, 76-81, 90-93, 96 Law(s) 15, 16, 25, 72, 112, 122 moral 11, 25, 121 natural 2, 12, 13, 23, 25, 47 of logic 25, 47, 69-70 of physics 25, 47, 122 Lewis, D.K. 1, 6, 13-14, 17-24, 74, 102, 120, 121 malapropism 85-88 Marmor, A. 17n Mates, B. 29-31 McDowell, J. 85 Mrs. Malaprop 88, 103, 106 meaning 2, 6-9, 17n, 29-47, 53, 64, 66, 69, 72-74, 76-81, 83-89, 91, 94, 96, 96n, 98-99, 101, 106, 110, 116 must 4, 7, 12, 29, 32-34 learning of the 69-71 See also necessity naturalistic fallacy 3, 4, 7, 49, 52, 58-59, 69 inverted naturalistic fallacy 26 necessity 4-7, 29, 33, 107, 110, 120 and arbitrariness 13-15, 17 and convention 4, 23, 93 and normativity 4, 12, 25, 35, 39, 63-64, 68, 69-70 72, 74-75, 120, 124 conceptual 12, 72 grammatical 60, 72

131 pragmatic 7 norm(s) 1-9, 25, 26, 42-45, 47, 49, 50, 52-53, 55-56, 58-63, 83, 84n, 92- 107, 119-121, 122, 123 establishing of a 31-33, 67 normative necessity 4, 29- 37, 63-75, 120 of rationality 11, 95-98, 105 pragmatic 8-9, 92n, 98-102, 105, 107 violation of a 6, 12-13, 16, 75, 98, 100-101 See also convention and norm obligation 5-6, 11-12, 19, 22, 75, 102, 115, 123 moral 19, 20, 24, 92n, 120, 122n practice see rule following as a practice principle(s) 34, 35, 71n, 73n, 75, 85, 88, 95, 112, 122 principle of arbitrariness 6, 14, 16, 20 Principle of Charity 73n, 89-90, 92, 94, 97, 105-107, 120 Putnam, H. 121-122 Quine, W.V.O 16n, 89n, Railton, P. 5-6, 12-13 reduction / reductionism 68-69, 73, 75 of rules to conventions 3-4, 5n, 7, 39, 40-52, 83, 107, 123 of rules to norms 3-4, 5n, 7, 39, 52-63, 75, 83, 123 regularity 6, 18, 24, 56, 61-62, 67, 97, 112 Robinson Crusoe 56-57, 66-67, 80 rule(s) and necessity see normative necessity and regularities 6, 18, 22, 24, 25, 56, 61-62, 67, 70, 97, 101, 112, 118 application of a 34, 41, 42, 52, 53-63, 65, 66, 71, 75, 95, 96 as standard(s) 3, 4, 6, 8, 11, 32, 37, 46, 50-51, 55, 59, 65, 69, 73-74, 79, 81, 93-94, 98, 119-120 constitutive 9, 13, 70, 73, 94, 99, 105, 107, 111, 113-115, 116, 118 descriptive 2-3, 25, 35, 42, 45, 47, 49, 61-62, 122-123 See also prescriptive dispositional account of see disposition/dispositionalism guided by 2, 3, 11, 12, 46, 55, 64, 65-66, 86, 103, 104, 119 obedience to the 13, 19-20, 24, 25, 40, 66-73, 102, 109, 110 of conversation 9, 87-89, 103, 109, 111-118 of logic 32, 47, 72-73, 94-97, 106, 109, 110 of rationality 11, 23-24, 95-96, 98, 105-107, 109-111 of speech acts 9, 29, 111-118, 120 paradox of 16n, 40-41, 52, 55, 73, 107, 109-110, 118, 120 pragmatic 7, 8-9, 88, 93n, 98-102, 105, 107

132 prescriptive 7, 20, 25, 31, 95, 99, 122-123 See also descriptive reign 1, 123 rein 1, 123-124 skepticism (scepticism) 5, 7, 41, 44-46, 48-49, 52-55, 58, 57, 59, 62, 64-65, 90 spelling 12-13, 20 rule-following 7-8, 39, 41-42, 45, 47, 49, 50, 52-56, 59-74, 81, 120 as a practice 44, 66-67 blind 40, 44, 66-69, 71-74 See also alternative blindness community view of 7, 41-44, 50, 52-53, 56, 58, 60-65, 67, 68, 74, 90-93 private 26, 45, 51, 57, 76, 80 public solitary 56-58, 64, 67 social view of 63, 67, 73 Ryle, G. 29-30 Saussure, F. de. 6, 13-17, 20, 26 skepticism see rule skepticism Schauer, F. 122 Schegloff, E.A. 112, 113n Schroeder, T. 107n Searle, J.R. 1, 8, 9, 109-118, 120 Sellars, W. 1 Snare, F. 121n standard see rule as standard Tarski, A. 107 Ullmann, M.E. 23n Williams, M. 8, 39, 63-75, 120 Wilson, N.L. 89n Wittgenstein, L. 1, 7-8, 39-81, 120n