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Friday 13 January, 2012
leopard print ghd I do not look at what my memory tells me really happened. And as for the feeling of certainty: I sometimes say to myself "I am sure it's . . . o'clock", and in a more or less confident tone of voice, and so on. If you ask me the reason for this certainty I have none. If I say, I read it off from an inner clock,—that is a picture, and the only thing that corresponds to it is that I said it was such-and-such a time. And the purpose of the picture is to assimilate this case to the other one. I am refusing to acknowledge two different cases here. 608. The idea of the intangibility of that mental state in estimating the time is of the greatest importance. Why is it intangible'* Isn't it PHILOSOPHICAL INVESTIGATIONS I JJ9e because we refuse to count what is tangible about our state as part of the specific state which we are postulating? 609. The description of an atmosphere is a special application of language, for special purposes. ((Interpreting 'understanding' as atmosphere; as a mental act. One can construct an atmosphere to attach to anything. 'An indescribable character.')) 610. Describe the aroma of coffee.—Why can't it be done? Do we lack the words? And for what are words lacking?—But how do we get the idea that such a description must after ail be possible? Have you ever felt the lack of such a description? Have you tried to describe the aroma and not succeeded? ((I should like to say: "These notes say something glorious, but I do not know what." These notes are a powerful gesture, but I cannot put anything side by side with it that will serve as an explanation. A grave nod. James: "Our vocabulary is inadequate." Then why don't we introduce a new one? What would have to be the case for us to be able to?)) 611. "Willing too is merely an experience," one would like to say (the 'will' too only 'idea'). It comes when it comes, and I cannot bring it about. Not bring it about?—Like whafi What can I bring about, then? What am I comparing willing with when I say this? 612. I should not coloured ghds say of the movement of my arm, for example;, it comes when it comes, etc. . A ghd pure nd this is the region in which we say significantly that a thing doesn't simply happen to us, but that we do it. "I don't need to wait for my arm to go up—I can raise it." And here I am making a contrast between the movement of my arm and, say, the fact that the violent thudding of my heart will subside. 613. In the sense in which I can ever bring anything about (such as stomach-ache through over-eating), I can also bring about an act of willing, In this sense I bring about the act of willing to swirn by jumping into the water. Doubtless I was trying to say: I can't will willing; that is, it makes no sense to speak of willing willing. "Willing" is not the name of an action; and so not the name of any voluntary action either. And my use of a wrong expression came from our wanting to think of willing as an immediate non-causal bringingabout. A misleading analogy lies at the root of this idea; the causal i6oe pink hair straighteners PHILOSOPHICAL INVESTIGATIONS I nexus seems to be established by a mechanism connecting two parts of a machine. The connexion may be broken if the mechanism is disturbed. (We think only of theu-disturbances to which a mechanism is normally subject, not, say, of cog-wheels suddenly going soft, or passing through one another, and so on.) 614. When I raise my arm 'voluntarily' I do not use any instrument to bring the movement about. My wish is not such an instrument either. 615. "Willing, if it is not to be a sort of wishing, must be the action itself. It cannot be allowed to stop anywhere short of the action." If it is the action, then it is so in the ordinary sense of the word; so it is speaking, writing, walking, lifting a thing, imagining something. But it is also trying, attempting, making an effort,—to speak, to write, to lift a thing, to imagine something etc. . 616. When I raise my arm, I have not wished it might go up. The voluntary action excludes this wish. It is indeed possible to say: "I hope I shall draw the circle faultlessly". And that is to express a wish that one's hand should move in such-and-such a way. 617. If we cross our fingers in a certain special way we are sometimes unable to move a particular finger when someone tells us to do so, if he only points to the finger—merely shews it to the eye. If on the other hand he touches it, we can move it. One would like to describe this experience as follows: we are unable to will to move the finger. The case is quite different from that in which we are not able to move the finger because someone is, say, holding it. One now feels inclined to describe the former case by saying: one can't find any point of application for the will till the finger is touched. Only when one feels the ringer can the will know where it is to catch hold.—But this kind of expression is misleading. One would like to say: "How am I to know where I am to catch hold with the will, if feeling does not shew the place?" But then how is it known to what point I am to direct the will when the feeling is there? That in this case the cheap ghd straighteners uk finger is as it were paralysed until we feel a touch on it is shewn by experience; it could not have been seen a priori. 618. One i ghd hair straightener south africa magines the willing subject here as something without any mass (without any inertia); as a motor which has no inertia in itself to overcome. And so it is only mover, not moved. That is: PHILOSOPHICAL INVESTIGATIONS I i6ie One can say "I will, but my body does not obey me"—but not: "My will does not obey me." (Augustine.) But in the sense in which I cannot ghd sale fail to will, I cannot try to will either. 619. And one might say: "I can always will only inasmuch as I can never try to w ghd mk4 ill." 620. Doing itself seems not to have any volume of experience. It seems like an extensionless point, the point of a needle. This point seems to be the real agent. And the phenomenal happenings only to be consequences of this acting. "I do . . ." seems to have a definite sense, separate from all experience. 621. Let us not forget this: when 'I raise my arm', my arm goes up. And the p ghd iv straighteners roblem arises: what is left over if I subtract the fact that my arm goes up from the fact that I raise my arm? ((Are the kinaesthetic sensations my willing?)) 622. When I raise my arm I do not usually try to raise it. 623. "At all costs I will get to that house."—But if there is no difficulty about it—can I try at all costs to get to the house? 624. In the laboratory, when subjected to an electric current, for example, someone says with his eyes shut "I am moving my arm up and down"—though his arm is not moving. "So," we say, "he has the special feeling of making that movement."—Move your arm to and fro with your eyes shut. And now try, while you do so, to tell yourself that your arm is staying still and that you are only having certain queer feelings in your muscles and joints! 625. "How do you know that you have raised your arm?"—"I feel it." So what you recognize is the feeling? And are you certain that you recognize it right?—You are certain that you have raised your arm; isn't this the criterion, the- measure, of the recognition? 626. "When I touch this object with a stick I have the sensation of touching in the tip of the stick, not in the hand that holds it." When someone says "The pain isn't here in my hand, but in my wrist", this has the consequence that the doctor examines the wrist. But what difference does it make if I say that I feel the hardness of the i6ze PHILOSOPHICAL INVESTIGATIONS object in the tip of the stick or in my hand? Does what I say mean "It is as if I had nerve-endings in the tip of the stick?" In what sense is it like that?—Well, I am at any rate inclined to say "I feel the hardness etc. in the tip of the stick." What goes with this is tha coloured ghds uk t when I touch the object I look not at my hand but at the tip of the stick; that I describe what I feel by saying "I feel something hard and round there"—not "I feel a pressure against the tips of my thumb, middle finger, and index finger . . . ." If, for example, someone asks me "What are you now feeling in the fingers that hold the probe?" I might reply: "I don't know——I feel something hard and rough over there." 627. Examine the following description of a voluntary action: "I form the decision to pull the bell at 5 o'clock, and when it strikes 5, my arm makes this movement."—Is that the correct description, and not this one: ".... . and when it strikes 5, I raise my arm"?——One would like to supplement the first description: "and seel my arm goes up when it strikes 5." And this "and seel" is precisely what doesn't belong here. I do not say "See, my arm is going upl" when I raise it. 628. So one might say: voluntary movement is marked by the absence of surprise. And now I do not mean you to ask "But why isn't one surprised here?" 629. When people talk about the possibility of foreknowledge of the future they always forget the fact of the prediction of one's own voluntary movements. 630. Examine these two language-games: (a) Someone gives someone, else the order to make particular movements with his arm, or to assume particular bodily positions (gymnastics instructor and pupil). And here is a variation of this language-game: the pupil gives himself orders and then carries them out. (b) Someone observes certain regular processes—for example, the reactions of different metals to acids—and thereupon makes predictions about the reactions that will occur in certain particular cases. There is an evident kinship between these two language-games, and also a fundamental difference. In both one might call the spoken words "predictions". But compare the training which leads to the first technique with the training for the second one. PHILOSOPHICAL INVESTIGATIONS I 163* 631. "I am going to take two powders now, and in half-an-hour I shall be sick."—It explains noth ghd sale ing to say that in the first case I am the agent, in the second merely the observer. Or that in the first case I see the causal connexion from inside, in the second from outside. And much else to the same effect. Nor is it to the point to say that a prediction of the first kind is no more infallible than one of the second kind. It was not on the ground of observations of my behaviour that I said I was going to take two powders. The antecedents of this proposition were different. I mean the thoughts, actions and so on which led up to it. And it can only mislead you to say: "The only essential presupposition of your utterance was just your decision." 632. I do not want to say that in the case of the expression of intention "I am going to take two powders" the prediction is a cause— and its fulfilment the effect. (Perhaps a physiological investigation could determine this.) So much, however, is true: we can often predict a man's actions from his expression of a decision. An important language-game. 633. "You were interrupted a while ago; do you still know what you were going to say?"—If I do know now, and say it—does that mean that I had already thought it before, only not said it? No. Unless you take the certainty with which I continue the interrupted sentence as a criterion of the thought's already having been completed at that time.—But, of course, the situation and the thoughts which I had contained all sorts of things to help the continuation of the sentence. 634. When I continue the interrupted sentence and say that this was how I had been going to continue it, this is like following out a line of thought from brief notes. Then don't I interpret the notes? Was only one continuation possible in these circumstances? Of course not. But I did not choose between interpretations. I remembered that I was going to say this. 635. "I was going to say ..... "—You remember various details. But not even all of them together shew your intention. It is as if a snapshot of a scene had been taken, but only a few scattered details of it were to be seen: here a hand, there a bit of a face, or a hat—the rest is dark. And now it is as if we knew quite certainly what the whole picture represented. As if I could read the darkness. X64e PHILOSOPHICAL INVESTIGATIONS I 636. These 'details' are not irrelevant in the sense in which other circumstances which I can remember equally well are irrelevant. But if I tell someone "For a moment I was going to say . . . ." he does not learn those details from this, nor need he guess them. He need not know, for instance, that I had already opened my mouth to speak. But he can 'fill out the picture' in this way. (And this capacity is part of understanding what I tell him.) 637. "I know exactly what I was going to say!" And yet I did not say it.—And yet I don't read it off from some other process which took place then and which I remember. Nor am I interpreting that situation and its antecedents. For I don't consider them and don't judge them. 638. How does it come about that in spite of this I am inclined to see an interpretation in saying "For a moment I was going to deceive him"? "How can you be certain that for the space of a moment you were going to deceive him? Weren't your actions and thoughts much too rudimentary?" For can't the evidence be too scanty? Yes, when one follows it up it seems extraordinarily scanty; but isn't this because one is taking no account of the history of this evidence? Certain antecedents were necessary for me to have had a momentary intention of pretending to someone else that I was unwell. If someone says "For a moment ..... " is he really only describing a momentary process? But not e ghd flat iron ven the whole story was my evidence for saying "For a moment ....." 639. One would like to say that an opinion develops. But there is a mistake in this too. 640. "This thought ties on to thoughts which I have had before."— How does it do so? Through a feeling of such a tie? But how can a feeling really tie thoughts together?—The word "feeling" is very misleading here. But it is sometimes possible to say with certainty: "This thought is connected with those earlier thoughts", and yet be unable to shew the connexion. Perhaps that comes later. 641. "My intention was no less certain as it was than it would have been if I had said 'Now I'll deceive him'."—But if you had said the words, would you necessarily have meant them quite seriously? (Thus PHILOSOPHICAL INVESTIGATIONS I 165* the most explicit expression of intention is by itself insufficient evidence of intention.) 642. "At that moment I hated him."—What happened here? Didn't it consist in thoughts, feelings, and actions? And if I were to rehearse that moment to myself I should assume a particular expression, think of certain happenings, breathe in a particular way, arouse certain feelings in myself. I might think up a conversation, a whole scene in which that hatred flared up. And I might play this scene through with feelings approximating to those of a real occasion. That I have actually experienced something of the sort will naturally help me to do so. 643. If I now become ashamed of this incident, I am ashamed of the whole thing: of the words, of the poisonous tone, etc. . 644. "I am not ashamed of what I did then, but of the intention which I had."—And didn't the intention lie also in what I did? What justifies the shame? The whole history of the incident. 645. "For a moment I meant to .. . ." That is, I had a particular feeling, an inner experience; and I remember it.——And now remember quite precisely Then the 'inner experience' of intending seems to vanish again. Instead one remembers thoughts, feelings, movements, and also connexions with earlier situations. It is as if one had altered the adjustment of a microscope. One did not see before what is now in focus. 646. "Well, that only shews that you have adjusted your microscope wrong. You were supposed to look at a particular section of the culture, and you are seeing a different one." There is something right about that. But suppose that (with a particular adjustment of the lenses) I did remember a single sensation; how have I the right to say that it is what I call the "intention"? It might be that (for example) a particular tickle accompanied every one of my intentions. 647. What is the natural expression of an intention?—Look at a cat when it stalks a bird; or a beast when it wants to escape. ((Connexion with propositions about sensations.)) ghd sale 648. "I no longer remember the words I used, but I remember my intention precisely; I meant my words to quiet him." What does my memory shew me; what does it bring before my mind? Suppose it did l66e PHILOSOPHICAL INVESTIGATIONS I nothing but suggest those words to me!—and perhaps others which fill out the picture still more exactly.—("I don't remember my words any more, but I certainly remember their spirit.") 649. "So if a man has not learned a language, is he unable to have certain memories?" Of course—he cannot have verbal memories, verbal wishes or fears, and so on. And
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I do not look at what my memory tells me really happened. And as for the feeling of certainty: I sometimes say to myself "I am sure it's . . . o'clock", and in a more or less confident tone of voice, and so on. If you ask me the reason for this certainty I have none. If I say, I read it off from an inner clock,—that is a picture, and the only thing that corresponds to it is that I said it was such-and-such a time. And the purpose of the picture is to assimilate this case to the other one. I am refusing to acknowledge two different cases here. 608. The idea of the intangibility of that mental state in estimating the time is of the greatest importance. Why is it intangible'* Isn't it PHILOSOPHICAL INVESTIGATIONS I JJ9e because we refuse to count what is tangible about our state as part of the specific state which we are postulating? 609. The description of an atmosphere is a special application of language, for special purposes. ((Interpreting 'understanding' as atmosphere; as a mental act. One can construct an atmosphere to attach to anything. 'An indescribable character.')) 610. Describe the aroma of coffee.—Why can't it be done? Do we lack the words? And for what are words lacking?—But how do we get the idea that such a description must after ail be possible? Have you ever felt the lack of such a description? Have you tried to describe the aroma and not succeeded? ((I should like to say: "These notes say something glorious, but I do not know what." These notes are a powerful gesture, but I cannot put anything side by side with it that will serve as an explanation. A grave nod. James: "Our vocabulary is inadequate." Then why don't we introduce a new one? What would have to be the case for us to be able to?)) 611. "Willing too is merely an experience," one would like to say (the 'will' too only 'idea'). It comes when it comes, and I cannot bring it about. Not bring it about?—Like whafi What can I bring about, then? What am I comparing willing with when I say this? 612. I should not