Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle: 100 Years After the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus 3031077881, 9783031077883

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Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook

Friedrich Stadler   Editor

Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle 100 Years After the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus

Vienna Circle Society

Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook Institute Vienna Circle, University of Vienna Vienna Circle Society. Society for the Advancement of the Scientific World Conceptions

Volume 28

Series Editors Esther Heinrich-Ramharter, Department of Philosophy and Institute Vienna Circle, University of Vienna, Wien, Austria Martin Kusch, Department of Philosophy and Institute Vienna Circle, University of Vienna, Wien, Austria Georg Schiemer, Department of Philosophy and Institute Vienna Circle, University of Vienna, Wien, Austria Friedrich Stadler, Institute Vienna Circle, University of Vienna and Vienna Circle Society, Wien, Austria Advisory Editorial Board Martin Carrier, University of Bielefeld, Germany Nancy Cartwright, Durham University, UK Richard Creath, Arizona State University, USA Massimo Ferrari, University of Torino, Italy Michael Friedman, Stanford University, USA Maria Carla Galavotti, University of Bologna, Italy Peter Galison, Harvard University, USA Malachi Hacohen, Duke University, USA Rainer Hegselmann, University of Bayreuth, Germany Michael Heidelberger, University of Tübingen, Germany Don Howard, University of Notre Dame, USA Paul Hoyningen-Huene, University of Hanover, Germany Clemens Jabloner, Hans-Kelsen-Institut, Vienna, Austria Anne J. Kox, University of Amsterdam, The Netherlands James G. Lennox, University of Pittsburgh, USA Thomas Mormann, University of Donostia/San Sebastián, Spain Edgar Morscher, University of Salzburg, Austria Kevin Mulligan, Université de Genève, Switzerland Elisabeth Nemeth, University of Vienna, Austria Julian Nida-Rümelin, University of Munich, Germany Ilkka Niiniluoto, University of Helsinki, Finland Otto Pfersmann, Université Paris I Panthéon – Sorbonne, France Miklós Rédei, London School of Economics, UK Alan Richardson, University of British Columbia, CDN Gerhard Schurz, University of Düsseldorf, Germany

Hans Sluga, University of California at Berkeley, USA Elliott Sober, University of Wisconsin, USA Antonia Soulez, Université de Paris 8, France Wolfgang Spohn, University of Konstanz, Germany Michael Stöltzner, University of South Carolina, USA Thomas E. Uebel, University of Manchester, UK Pierre Wagner, Université de Paris 1, Sorbonne, France C. Kenneth Waters, University of Calgary, Canada Gereon Wolters, University of Konstanz, Germany Anton Zeilinger, Austrian Academy of Sciences, Austria Honorary Consulting Editors Wilhelm K. Essler, Frankfurt/M., Germany Gerald Holton, Cambridge, MA, USA Allan S. Janik, Innsbruck, Tirol, Austria Andreas Kamlah, Osnabrück, Germany Eckehart Köhler, Munich, Germany Juha Manninen, Helsinki, Finland Erhard Oeser, Vienna, Austria Peter Schuster, Vienna, Austria Jan Šebestík, Paris, France Karl Sigmund, Vienna, Austria Christian Thiel, Erlangen, Germany Paul Weingartner, Salzburg, Austria Jan Woleński, Krakow, Poland Review Editor Bastian Stoppelkamp Editorial Work/Production Josef Pircher, Zarah Weiss Editorial Address Wiener Kreis Gesellschaft Universitätscampus, Hof 1, Eingang 1.2 Spitalgasse 2-4, A–1090 Wien, Austria Tel.: +431/4277 46504 (international) or 01/4277 46504 (national) Email: [email protected] Homepage: https://vcs.univie.ac.at/ The Institute Vienna Circle is devoted to the critical advancement of science and philosophy in the broad tradition of the Vienna Circle, as well as to the focusing of cross-disciplinary interest on the history and philosophy of science in a social context. The Institute's peer-reviewed Yearbooks will, for the most part, document its activities and provide a forum for the discussion of exact philosophy, logical and empirical investigations, and analysis of language.

Friedrich Stadler Editor

Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle 100 Years After the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus

Editor Friedrich Stadler Institute Vienna Circle, University of Vienna, and Vienna Circle Society Vienna, Austria

ISSN 0929-6328     ISSN 2215-1818 (electronic) Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook ISBN 978-3-031-07788-3    ISBN 978-3-031-07789-0 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

We would like to thank the ERSTE Foundation, the Sekyra Foundation, and the City of Vienna for their support.

Editorial

In 1921, Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Logisch-philosophische Abhandlung was published for the first time in Wilhelm Ostwald’s periodical Annalen der Naturphilosophie. This fact, together with Wittgenstein’s death after 70 years, was commemorated in 2021 after 100 years. One year later, in 1922, the bilingual publication appeared under the title Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (TLP), translated by Frank P. Ramsey (with C.K. Ogden) and introduced by Bertrand Russell. Since then, this small book remained a pathbreaking milestone in philosophy up to the present. On the occasion of this centenary, a lot of conferences took place and many publications dedicated to the TLP and the lifework of its author followed. The Viennese conference “Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle – after 100 Years,” which was organized from June 10 to 12, 2021 (in a digital livestream format because of the pandemic) exclusively addressed Wittgenstein and his TLP in relation to the Vienna Circle between the wars. Its principal aim was the focus on the origin and content of the TLP in context, and to critically deal with the influence and diverse reception of the TLP within the Vienna Circle, besides Moritz Schlick and Friedrich Waismann, but also to draw on mutual impacts. Additional important philosophers for Wittgenstein like Frege, Frank P. Ramsey and Bertrand Russell are taken into regard, too. All these topics will be addressed with reference to Viennese modernity and in the context of general intellectual and cultural history.

Accordingly, the lectures covered the unique interaction and communication between Wittgenstein and members of the Vienna Circle, which ran regularly for a decade (mainly between Wittgenstein, Schlick, and Waismann). This research on the philosophical and personal communication remains a controversial and complex topic with a lot of open questions and research perspectives. Therefore, it was on the agenda explicitly from both sides, based on the most recent research and primary sources. The topical Part I of this volume contains nearly all papers of the invited speakers on Wittgenstein and the TLP, and the relationship between Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle. It is enriched by an economic case study on the Wittgenstein family before WW I, in addition to a contribution on Waismann and his communication with Wittgenstein based on primary sources, and Waismann’s time in Vienna. The general Part II includes a study on Neurath’s economy, by the way a strong vii

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critic of Wittgenstein in the Schlick-Circle, and reviews are provided in Part III – as usual in this series Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook. The conference “Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle  – After 100 Years” was organized at least for two reasons: First, on the occasion of the 30th anniversary of the “Institute Vienna Circle,” which was founded in 1991 as “Society for the Advancement of Scientific World Conception” (alluding to the subtitle of the socalled manifesto of the Vienna Circle published in 1929). Since 2011, this institution continues its activities as “Vienna Circle Society.” Second, in 2021, the 10th anniversary of the Institute Vienna Circle as part of the Faculty of Philosophy and Education of the University of Vienna occurred: https:// wienerkreis.univie.ac.at/. This establishment was possible only with the strong support of the Rectorate of the University of Vienna under the rectors Georg Winckler and Heinz Engl (together with vice-rector Jean-Robert Tyran), who also enabled the first exhibition on the Vienna Circle at the University of Vienna in 2015. All these activities are documented with two brochures as by-products for the conference, both accessible on the website https://vcs.univie.ac.at/. Special thanks for the publication of these brochures go to the redaction team consisting of Sabine Koch, Martin Seiler, and Ella Berger. The scholarly results of our long-term activities became manifest with around 80 volumes in 3 publication series (with Springer), besides the edition projects on Ernst Mach, Moritz Schlick, and Otto Neurath. The teaching side is presenting the running master’s program “History and Philosophy of Science” (since 2013) in an annual summer school (since 2001). All these activities were and are embedded in the international context of analytic philosophy and philosophy of science like the huge ESF research network program “The Philosophy of Science in a European Perspective” and the founding of the European Philosophy of Science Association (EPSA) in Vienna as accompanying results. In the future, the further cooperation between the Institute Vienna Circle and the Vienna Circle Society promises a creative and productive continuity with the aim of both to critically reconstruct the history of the Vienna Circle and Logical Empiricism, and to further investigate and develop the research originating from the principles and themes of this tradition in the field of contemporary philosophy of science. Thanks for enabling and supporting the conference and the proceedings go to: • Co-organizers, the Institute Vienna Circle headed by Martin Kusch, the Austrian Ludwig Wittgenstein Society, and the Austrian National Library (owner of a valuable Wittgenstein archive, awarded as World Document Heritage and hosting the “Wiener Vorlesung” by Marjorie Perloff) • All speakers, who accepted our invitation to deliver a lecture, even though under extraordinary circumstances • The Erste Stiftung represented by Ursula Dechant and the Sekyra Foundation initiated by Ludek Sekyra, for their generous support of the conference and the proceedings • The City of Vienna, Cultural Division, conducted by Daniel Löcker and his team for organizing the “Wiener Vorlesung” as part of the conference – and for supporting the Vienna Circle Society in general

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• The media partner, the newspaper Wiener Zeitung with a running Wittgenstein dossier, organized by Wolfgang Renner: https://www.wienerzeitung.at/dossiers/ ludwig-­wittgenstein/ • The conference team directed by Sabine Koch, together with Josef Pircher, and Ella Berger • Zarah Weiss for her professional redactorial work on behalf of the Institute Vienna Circle and the Vienna Circle Society, and Bastian Stoppelkamp as review editor • Finally, we are grateful to Wilfried Datler, the Dean of the Faculty of Philosophy and Education, University of Vienna, who co-opened the conference and who, together with his predecessor Elisabeth Nemeth, facilitated the establishment of the Institute Vienna Circle as a department (subunit) of the faculty, currently headed by Martin Kusch and Iulian Toader, where it works in close cooperation with the Philosophy Department. Vienna, Austria  Friedrich Stadler February 2022

Contents

Editorial Part I Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle – After 100 Years 1

 ittgenstein and the Vienna Circle – The Vienna Circle and W Wittgenstein. A Critical Reconsideration����������������������������������������������    3 Friedrich Stadler

Wittgenstein and His Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus 2

I n Search of the Redeeming Word: Wittgenstein’s Private Notebooks 1914–16 and the Making of the Tractatus����������������������������������������������   35 Marjorie Perloff

3

 ractatus in Context: Some Highlights��������������������������������������������������   53 T James C. Klagge

4

 acts, Possibilities, and the World. Three Lessons from the Tractatus  67 F Hans Sluga

5

 Meta-Biography of the Wittgensteins: Das Familiengedächtnis������   87 A Nicole L. Immler

Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle 6

 ittgenstein and the Variety of Vienna Circles������������������������������������  109 W Thomas Uebel

7

After the Tractatus: Schlick and Wittgenstein on Ethics����������������������  127 Massimo Ferrari

8

Plagiarism!: Wittgenstein Against Carnap��������������������������������������������  161 Richard Creath

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 ruth in Russell, Early Wittgenstein and Gödel ����������������������������������  179 T Juliet Floyd

10 W  ittgenstein, Ramsey and the Vienna Circle����������������������������������������  209 Cheryl Misak 11 W  ittgenstein and the External World Programme ������������������������������  223 Michael Potter 12 W  ittgenstein und Waismann über Sprachspiele ����������������������������������  235 Joachim Schulte 13 T  he “Diktat für Schlick”: Authorship Research and Computational Stylometry Revisited��������������������������������������������������������������������������������  247 Michael Oakes and Alois Pichler Report and Documentation 14 W  ittgensteins virtuelle Präsenz im Wiener Kreis, 1931–35 ����������������  269 Juha Manninen 15 D  ocuments From the Archives: Friedrich Waismann��������������������������  315 Juha Manninen 15.1 Friedrich Waismann: Kritik der Philosophie durch die Logik (1929/1930)��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  315 15.2 Friedrich Waismann: Vorträge im Wiener Kreis über Wittgensteins Philosophie����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  332 15.3 Friedrich Waismann: Einführung in die moderne Philosophie��������  344 15.4 Friedrich Waismann: Logische Grammatik der Sprache������������������  406 15.5 Friedrich Waismann: Skizze zu den Leitgedanken��������������������������  515 16 W  aismanns Wiener Zeit. Ein historisch-­philosophischer Bericht������  521 Philipp Leon Bauer 17 W  ittgenstein und Rothschild������������������������������������������������������������������  553 Roman Sandgruber Part II General Part 18 B  ringing Happiness: Otto Neurath and the Debates on War Economy, Socialization and Social Economy��������������������������  567 Günther Sandner Part III Reviews 19 R  eview Essay: Jan Tinbergen and the Rise of Technocracy. Erwin Dekker, Jan Tinbergen (1903–1994) and the Rise of Economic Expertise. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2021 ������������������  597 Alexander Linsbichler

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20 R  eview: A. W. Carus, Michael Friedman, Wolfgang Kienzler, Alan Richardson, and Sven Schlotter (Eds.), Rudolf Carnap: Early Writings. The Collected Works of Rudolf Carnap, Volume 1. Oxford University Press 2019 ����������������������������������������������������������������  605 Lois Marie Rendl Index������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  609

Part I

Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle – After 100 Years

Chapter 1

Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle – The Vienna Circle and Wittgenstein. A Critical Reconsideration Friedrich Stadler

Abstract  Research and publications on Wittgenstein and on the Vienna Circle of Logical Empiricism have been steadily increasing in recent decades. Nevertheless, detailed comparisons between the single famous philosopher and the influential circle around Moritz Schlick are less often undertaken. To be sure, the reception and impact of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus (TLP) on the Vienna Circle is a familiar topic as are the conversations Wittgenstein had with Schlick and Waismann. This introductory essay suggests that a broader focus be adopted. The first part provides an overview of the multi-faceted Vienna Circle based on recent historiography and primary sources; the second part offers a new perspective on the complex relations between Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle. To this end, a case study of a central relevant document is provided, namely of Rose Rand’s “Development of the Theses of the ‘Vienna Circle’” (1932/33). A close reading of this unique source sheds new light on the central philosophical triangle of Wittgenstein-Schlick-Waismann and opens up new avenues for future analyses. These considerations are offered to provide a thematic frame for the papers contained in this volume documenting the international conference on “Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle”, held in Vienna, June 2021 to mark the centenary of the publication of Wittgenstein’s Logisch-­ philosophische Abhandlung (1921) / Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (1922). Keywords  Ludwig Wittgenstein · Vienna Circle · Logical Empiricism · Wissenschaftliche Weltauffassung. Der Wiener Kreis · Logisch-philosophische Abhandlung / Tractatus logico-philosophicus · Rudolf Carnap · Otto Neurath · Moritz Schlick · Friedrich Waismann · Rose Rand

F. Stadler (*) Institute Vienna Circle, University of Vienna and Vienna Circle Society, Vienna, Austria e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_1

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1.1 Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle – The Vienna Circle and Wittgenstein The steady increase of research on the life of Ludwig Wittgenstein is a global phenomenon, as. is the growing list of publications about his work. The centenary of the publication of his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (TLP) was marked by many conferences, books and articles dealing with the origin, content and impact of this slender volume on contemporary philosophy. All these publications and other recent research are much aided by the new primary sources hosted at the Wittgenstein Archives in Bergen and in Cambridge and by the long-term Wiener Ausgabe (Wittgenstein 1994 ff.). The Wittgenstein collection at the Brenner-Archives of the University of Innsbruck as well as the partial Nachlass at the Austrian National Library (classified as World Document Heritage) in Vienna are important further resources (see the complete list at the end of this article). Last but not least, there are the two now standard biographies (McGuinness 1988; Monk 1990). Nevertheless, all is not as well as it could be regarding the scholarship on the relationship between Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle. This is so despite the availability of Wittgenstein und der Wiener Kreis, edited in 1984 by Brian McGuinness as volume 3 of the Suhrkamp Werkausgabe (preceded by the English edition in 1967) and its supplementation by the bi-lingual The Voices of Wittgenstein. The Vienna Circle. Ludwig Wittgenstein and Friedrich Waismann, edited by Gordon Baker in 2003. The historiography of the Vienna Circle finds further new resources in the Vienna Circle archives in Haarlem (Neurath, Schlick), the archives in the library of Pittsburgh University (Carnap, Feigl, Hempel, Rand), at Bodleian Library Oxford University (Waismann) and the Institute for Advanced Studies in Princeton, which already have informed some research and publication projects on Carnap, Gödel, Neurath, Schlick, and others. It is surprising then that despite these flourishing scholarly activities the crucial interaction of Wittgenstein with members of the Vienna Circle (mainly with the Schlick and Waismann) in the decade between the two World Wars has still not been investigated in sufficient depth. (Of course, some underrated exceptions confirm this rule: Haller, McGuinness, Janik, Manninen, Stern.) There are two main reasons for this shortcoming. First, there is the exclusive focus on Wittgenstein as the dominant figure in the relationship (which threatens a kind of genius cult) and on the text of TLP without provision of its crucial context. Second, there is the complexity of the phenomenon of the Vienna Circle, a collective around Moritz Schlick which resists short descriptions and compression to the thought of individual philosophers. A more balanced account of relations between Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle has to break through this asymmetry. To propose this is not to deny Wittgenstein’s extraordinary status in the history of twentieth century philosophy, but to ask that awareness be raised of the seminal role that the Vienna Circle played in the interwar years, an awareness lost when all forms of positivism were discredited later in that century.

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1.2 New Light on the Vienna Circle1 The history of the Vienna Circle has been much researched during the last three decades. Since the 1990s we have the publications of the Institute Vienna Circle. HOPOS, the journal of the International Society for the History and Philosophy of Science, and the Journal for the History of Analytic Philosophy, edited by the Society for the Study of the History of Analytic Philosophy, have published many related studies with a focus on logical empiricism. In addition, we see entries on the Vienna Circle and its periphery in handbooks and encyclopedias like the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. As new primary sources we have the ongoing editions of Moritz Schlick, Rudolf Carnap, and Ernst Mach: the Moritz Schlick Gesamtausgabe (https://www.iph.uni-­rostock.de/forschung/moritz-­schlick-­forschungsstelle/), the Collected Works of Rudolf Carnap (Creath 2019 ff.), the edition of Carnap’s diaries (Damböck 2022), a study edition of the main works of Ernst Mach as a predecessor of the Vienna Circle (Stadler 2005 ff.), and the collected writings of Otto Neurath (now reprinted and reaching completion: Haller/Stadler 2021 f.). Then there was the first exhibition about the Vienna Circle which addressed a wider public (first in Vienna in 2015, then moving on to Karlsruhe in 2016, Prague in 2021, Warsaw in 2022, forthcoming in Belgrade and Paris), which was accompanied by books from the curators Karl Sigmund (2015), Limbeck-Lilienau and Stadler (2015). A volume by David Edmonds (2020) provided further exposition as popular intellectual history, like the recent biography of Gödel by Budiansky (2021). Inspired and informed by earlier accounts of the origins and transformation of the Vienna Circle and logical empiricism (Giere and Richardson 1996; Hardcastle and Richardson 2003; Richardson and Uebel 2007), new insights in the philosophical, cultural and political context of the Vienna Circle and Logical Empiricism have been provided. However, the relations of the Schlick Circle to Wittgenstein and vice versa remained a relatively marginal issue, the most recent Handbook of Logical Empiricism containing one contribution by Johannes Friedl (Uebel and Limbeck-Lilienau 2022). New approaches and perspectives on the Vienna Circle emerged. We may mention the influential activity of the so called “first Vienna Circle” (1907–1912) with Philipp Frank, Hans Hahn, Otto Neurath in the context of the “Philosophical Society of the University of Vienna” (1888–1938) (Uebel 2000; Fisette 2014). This research focused on the “proto-circle” before WW I, especially on the function and role of

 For publications and research projects of the Institute Vienna Circle / Vienna Circle Society since the 1990s see: https://vcs.univie.ac.at/ and https://wienerkreis.univie.ac.at/en/. In addition, there appeared numerous books and articles by scholars as Christian Bonnet, Anastasios Brenner, Jordi Cat, A.W.  Carus, Richard Creath, Hans-Joachim Dahms, Massimo Ferrari, Michael Friedman, Rudolf Haller, Rainer Hegselmann, Michael Heidelberger, Don Howard, Elisabeth Nemeth, Alan Richardson, Thomas Ricketts, Thomas Uebel, Pierre Wagner, and many others. A younger generation continued with  contributions by Christian Damböck, Johannes Friedl, Christoph Limbeck-­ Lilienau, Alexander Linsbichler, Matthias Neuber, Flavia Padovani, Esther Ramharter, Donata Romizi, Günther Sandner, Georg Schiemer, Anne Siegetsleitner, Michael Stöltzner, Bastian Stoppelkamp, Adam Tuboly and others. 1

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the Viennese empiricist and naturalist philosophers since Mach, Boltzmann, Jerusalem, and French conventionalism. The Mach Centenary Conference 2016 (Stadler 2019a) provided a comprehensive overview of research related to his work which transcended the boundaries of many disciplines, while Mach’s specific role as a pioneer for logical empiricism was characterized in greater detail also in Interpreting Mach (Preston 2021). The reception of Mach as a “scholar of nature” by individual Vienna Circle members shows great variety (Stadler 2019b). At stake was not only Mach’s empiricism and pragmatism in the context of “Late Enlightenment”, but also his methodological impetus for a monistic world-view covering both the natural and social sciences. Related research addressed the foundation of the Verein Ernst Mach (Ernst Mach Society) in 1928 and its activities as an extra-university manifestation of the Vienna Circle. Not only was it deeply rooted in the socio-cultural movement of “Red Vienna” between socialism and liberalism (Stadler 2022), but it also represented an institutional manifestation of the then flourishing international modernist movement (Schwarz et al. 2019; Stadler 2021b). It must be stressed, moreover, that the foundation of the Mach-Society was the result of several initiatives originating outside the Schlick Circle (mainly the Viennese Monists and Freethinkers) and not of a spontaneous decision of its members to establish a second external discussion group for scientific philosophy. This shows once more the Circle’s embeddedness not only in international science but also local culture. We thus arrive at a new bottom-up perspective on the Vienna Circle which reveals a pre-existing intellectual climate for the philosophers and scientists around Schlick and the Mach Society. What becomes clear – and confirms Philipp Frank’s memoir (1949) – is that the formation of Schlick’s discussion circle in 1924 was preceded by relevant activities already in the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy (Limbeck-Lilienau and Stadler 2018; Uebel 2022). In other studies, the influence of Boltzmann and Mach was addressed again, following up on Wittgenstein’s own reference to Boltzmann, Hertz, Schopenhauer, Frege, Russell, Kraus, Loos, Weininger, Spengler, Sraffa (Wittgenstein 1978, 43). One side effect of these investigations that may be noted is the insight that there existed a specific Central European pragmatism in parallel and in interaction with American pragmatism around Peirce, James, and Dewey; this partial confluence of ideas was continued in the cooperation with North-American pragmatists in the period of exile (Pihlström et al. 2017; Maddalena and Stadler 2019). The convergence of the thought of the later Wittgenstein with pragmatism can be considered to be part of this development as well (Misak 2016, 2020). What also has been brought into the foreground by the new research is the creative interaction of three generations, including women philosophers, as well as the networking with European groups in Prague, Berlin, Warsaw, Paris, and England (Cambridge and Oxford). The forced migration of logical empiricists started already at the beginning of the 1930s and contributed to the modification of some of the core doctrines of the Vienna Circle significantly (for instance, of its verificationism and emotivism). This development ultimately led to the huge International Encyclopedia of Unity of Science project under the direction of Neurath, Carnap and Morris,

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supported by a large international committee, as well as to Carnap’s turn from rational reconstruction to explication (Carus 2007; Stadler 2010). But already in the Vienna period we can diagnose a pluralization and diversification of philosophical positions, partly inspired by Wittgenstein, even by the emergence of Karl Popper, by the other discussion groups then existing, like the Heinrich Gomperz circle and Karl Menger’s “Mathematical Colloquium”. At the latest by 1927, the Schlick Circle attained self-consciousness as a genuine movement. Their participation in the Philosophical Society of the University of Vienna by Circle members like Hahn, Feigl, Kraft, Juhos, and Schlick was not judged to be sufficiently representative anymore, given the marginalization of empiricism there and the dominance of Kant and Neo-Kantianism (Stadler 2018). The efforts undertaken from 1923 onwards to establish their own periodical have to be understood in this context. The first issue of Erkenntnis appeared in 1930 under the editorship of Rudolf Carnap and Hans Reichenbach acting respectively for the Mach Society and the Berlin Society of Empirical/later Scientific Philosophy. (The Mach Society also published under its aegis the manifesto Wissenschaftliche Weltauffassung. Der Wiener Kreis [1929], which introduced the Neurath-inspired name of Schlick’s group to the public [Stadler and Uebel 2012].) In parallel to Erkenntnis, two book series issued from the Vienna Circle: “Schriften zur wissenschaftlichen Weltauffassung,” edited by Philipp Frank and Moritz Schlick from 1928 to 1937 (nine volumes), and “Einheitswissenschaft,” edited by Otto Neurath from 1933 to 1938 (seven slim volumes). The international and interdisciplinary intentions of the Circle found their first expression in their co-organization of the “First International Conference for Epistemology of Exact Sciences” in Prague, September 1929, where the manifesto was presented. It also marked the beginning of the public phase of the Vienna Circle. (Later they organized the International Congresses for the Unity of Science from 1934 to 1941.) Yet the officially ordered closure of the Mach Society in 1934 marked the beginning of the end of the Vienna Circle which was accelerated by the unexpected death of Hans Hahn in 1934 and the assassination of Moritz Schlick in June 22, 1936. By then the Gomperz circle, which some members of Schlick’s group had also attended, had folded as well. Edgar Zilsel continued to lead a small group until the Anschluss, as did Frank in Prague until 1938, albeit with a weaker frequency and intensity given the competing presence of the Brentano Society (Binder 2019; Fisette et al. 2020).

1.3 Wittgenstein in the Manifesto 1929 It is important to note that in the already mentioned manifesto Ludwig Wittgenstein was introduced as one of the “Leading representatives of the Scientific World Conception”, together with Einstein and Russell (Stadler and Uebel 2012, 64–68). In the manifesto’s annotated bibliography we find a short characterization of his Tractatus logico-philosophicus (TLP, 1922), written by Waismann with the

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agreement of Wittgenstein, who later together with Schlick would criticize the programmatic style of the manifesto (Mulder 2012). This book discusses the logical foundations of our language, the foundations of any symbolic system capable of expressing thoughts. There exists a fundamental relation between the state of affairs of the world and the sentence of language. It is this: our statements are logical pictures of states of affairs. All thought, speech and communication is nothing but such a logical picturing. What cannot be pictured cannot be expressed by language and cannot be represented, formulated, communicated in any way whatsoever. This book wants to draw a limit to thinking or rather – not to thinking but to the expression of thought. To be sure, there exists what cannot be expressed, but this ‘shows itself’ in language (in the logical construction of the symbols). The clear separation of what can be spoken of and what cannot constitutes the most important result of this book. This insight is applied to a number of issues in logic and epistemology which are solved in a surprisingly simple way once one has understood the nature of symbolic representation. In this fashion the nature of logic is elucidated and it is proved that there is only one logic, the inner nature of probability is uncovered, etc. This perspective leads to a new conception of the nature of philosophy. There is no philosophical knowledge that could be expressed and formulated. “Philosophy is not a theory but an activity. The result of philosophy is not a number of ‘philosophical propositions’, but to make propositions clear. It should limit the thinkable and thereby the unthinkable” … The correct solutions of philosophical questions consist in correcting the language such that in the corrected language the question can no longer be posed. In this sense this book does not offer a theory but gives the way for a reader to go beyond the stage where philosophical questions are still being asked. Whoever understands these sentences correctly will see that in the end they are nonsensical. They must be overcome, then the world is viewed aright. This essay is difficult to understand. An accessible account is given by Waismann. (Quoted after Stadler/ Uebel 2012, 54)

One can assume that the signatories of the manifesto (Carnap, Neurath, Hahn) accepted this interpretation of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus logico-philosophicus (TLP) as mainly providing what has come to be known as his “picture theory”. Wittgenstein expressed his intention differently in his Foreword and in related letters where he claimed that the most important part for him was the realm of the ineffable demanding silence about ethics, aesthetics and the religious side of life. The last sentence of the description refers to Waismann’s Logik, Sprache, Philosophie. Kritik der Philosophie durch Logik, which was described in the bibliography as follows: This book is for the most part a discussion of the ideas of Wittgenstein … The logical ordering and structuring of these ideas is what is new and important. Contents: I. Logic (sense, meaning, truth; truth functions; nature of logic). II.  Language (analysis of statements; atomic propositions; logical representation; limits of language). III. Philosophy (application of results to problems of philosophy) (Ibid., 164).

Announced as the initial volume of the series “Schriften zur wissenschaftlichen Weltauffassung”, Waismann’s book never was published in his lifetime because Wittgenstein rejected several drafts due to his own changing ideas. It was published only posthumously, first in English entitled Principles of Linguistic Philosophy (1965), in German as Logik, Sprache, Philosophie (1976)  according to this preview (Waismann 1977). Ironically, the Foreword by Schlick, who had tried in vain to mediate between his two colleagues, had been written in advance of the book itself and was only

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published in the German edition of Waismann’s book and later in the Schlick Gesamtausgabe, translated into English in Schlick’s Philosophical Papers (1979). There Schlick recommended Waismann’s book as a representative for the book series it was to start off. The discussions in the work now before us, the first volume of our series, also proceed upon this line. They are essentially an exposition and elucidation of the ideas of Ludwig Wittgenstein, as set forth by him in his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (London 1922). This book, which in my firm conviction is the most significant philosophical work of our day, cannot be assigned to any particular ‘tendency’. But it likewise contends for the fundamental truth on which all empiricism is founded, since it demonstrates the impossibility of synthetic a priori judgements … The claim that such statements are impossible is, indeed, the way to define empiricism … The proposition of logic and pure mathematics are a priori, but not on this account synthetic. … Now the inestimable significance of Wittgenstein’s work lies precisely in this, that in it this nature of the logical is completely elucidated and established for all time to come. This happens in that, for the first time, an entirely clear and rigorous concept of ‘form’ is provided, which banishes at a stroke those difficult problems of logic which have lately given so much trouble to serious investigators. The lapidary presentation in Wittgenstein’s book … makes it so difficult to understand that it has yet been little studied … and an estimate of its significance has not been feasible. The attempt had therefore been made at presenting its ideas in a more easily accessible form. Friedrich Waismann has undertaken this attempt. And with outstanding success, in my opinion, so that we may hope the new discoveries will now begin to produce the effect that every friend to philosophy must wish them (Schlick 1979, 136 ff.).

1.4 Personal Meetings, Informal Conversations, Priority Disputes In retrospect we can see that Schlick did justice to only half of Wittgenstein’s intentions. In 1928 Wittgenstein returned to philosophy, prompted by the Vienna lectures of the Dutch mathematician L.E.J. Brouwer which he had been invited to attend by Menger, Waismann and Feigl (Menger 1994, 129–140). At the same time, he also gradually distanced himself from his TLP philosophy but agreed to have permanent conversations with Schlick and Waismann. (Wittgenstein’s Denkbewegungen [Wittgenstein 1999] characterizes this gradual change well.) After 1934, Wittgenstein preferred to meet with Schlick alone, although Waismann continued to work on his book on Wittgenstein in parallel. Some of Waismann’s manuscripts like his “Thesen” (around 1930) were discussed in the Vienna Circle but never appeared in print before being published with his record of discussions with Wittgenstein (McGuinness 1984, 233–263). Waismann’s sole monograph Einführung in das mathematische Denken (1936) was strongly inspired by Wittgenstein and appreciated by Karl Menger, who wrote the Foreword. The last meeting between Waismann and Wittgenstein took place during Easter time in 1934. After Waismann’s emigration to Cambridge in 1937 and his move to Oxford in 1939 Wittgenstein refused to meet him again for conversations – a tragic end to their relationship after a promising

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start. This split was preceded by Wittgenstein’s accusation that Waismann made unauthorized use of his ideas in his “Über den Begriff der Identität” (On the Concept of Identity, 1936). Another harsh priority dispute took place between Carnap and Wittgenstein in 1932. They had met five times in 1927; in his diaries (Damböck 2022) Carnap noted: 20-06-27: Met for the first time, at Schlick’s; Waismann also. Very interesting, original, sympathetic man. Strongly against Esperanto because not grown (it was probably Schlick who mentioned I was an advocate). Artistic nature. On identity, his objections to Ramsey. 04-07-27: With W. at Schlick’s. Again about Esperanto. Then about intuitionism, finally he reads Wilhelm Busch to us. 06-08-27: Schlick has already left. In the afternoon Waismann at my place; in the evening also W. W. sharply against the popularization of science; Waismann for it on account of his experience at the adult education center. Afterwards both against occultism, W. very heatedly.

Here the personal and philosophical differences become apparent: on the one side, the conservative anti-Enlightenment philosopher affronted by the artificial Esperanto language, on the other the internationalist and social reformer claiming a scientific world-view. Despite these conflicts and differences Carnap wrote in his autobiography (1963) that Wittgenstein, together with Russell and Frege, exerted the strongest influence on his own thinking. And Herbert Feigl remarked that already the first meetings between Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle led to a basic divide in modern analytic philosophy, namely between rational reconstruction and ordinary language philosophy (Feigl 1969, 638 f.). The priority dispute of 1932 can be reconstructed through the correspondence of Carnap, Schlick, and Wittgenstein. The context is marked by Carnap’s transition from his phenomenalistic Aufbau to a physicalist version of a unity of science in order to enable intersubjectivity (carnap 1934a, 1934b), and Wittgenstein’s gradual distancing of himself from his TLP philosophy (as becomes manifest in his Philosophical Remarks and Philosophical Grammar). Wittgenstein took offense at Carnap’s “Die physikalische Sprache als Universalsprache der Wissenschaft” (Carnap 1932), translated as The Unity of Science in 1934) which was part of the as yet unresolved protocol-sentence debate between members of the Vienna Circle (Uebel 2007). It seems puzzling that Wittgenstein felt annoyed due to not being mentioned there in connection with the notion of physicalism which, after all, is not invoked as such in TLP (Stadler 2015, 224–230). He claimed that these topics were already (indirectly) formulated there, something which Carnap consciously obscured. Previously, Neurath had also charged Carnap with insufficient acknowledgement of his part in the inception of physicalism in response to which Carnap had added a footnote (Carnap 1932, 452; cf. 1934/1937, 321) which only annoyed Wittgenstein further. The unhappy Schlick tried to mediate between Carnap and Wittgenstein, who addressed Carnap with letters via Schlick. Apart from physicalism, the issues Wittgenstein raised were ostensive definition, natural law, hypotheses, and the

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formal mode of speech. Carnap wrote to Schlick on July 17 explaining and defending his position while conceding that Wittgenstein’s writing provided the general background. Unlike Schlick, Wittgenstein was not satisfied by Carnap’s reply and sent another letter to Schlick forcefully repeating his concerns and reproaches. Carnaps’s final reply via Schlick was short and cool. In an unpublished portion of his autobiography Carnap later recalled this strange episode as follows: Years later some of Wittgenstein’s students at Cambridge asked him for permission to send transcripts of his lectures to friends and interested philosophers. He asked to see the list of names, and then approved all but my own. In my entire life, I have never experienced something remotely similar to this hatred directed against me. I have no adequate explanation; probably only a psychoanalyst could offer one. … But that in no way alters the fact that he was a spirit with genuine creative genius, to whom philosophy is greatly indebted.

In his letter to Schlick Carnap wondered about Wittgenstein’s oversensitivity and vehemence. Certainly, the reasons for this conflict lay in two different personalities with incompatible commitments to philosophy and science, which became manifest in the two thought styles of a team worker and an individualist. But the triangle Schlick-Wittgenstein-Carnap also represents the different stances taken in the Vienna Circle towards non-academic outsiders. A similarly controversial constellation can be detected with regard to Neurath and Schlick in the case of the latter’s refusal to publish the first draft of the former’s Empirische Soziologie (Empirical Sociology, 1931), this time with Frank as mediator (Stadler 2021c).

1.5 Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle Reconsidered: The Wider Context What then do we know about the relation between Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle from the already published literature?2 Most of the studies focus on the influence of Wittgenstein’s TLP on the Vienna Circle, but this is only one side of the relationship. There is also the complementary perspective from the Vienna Circle members and their views of Wittgenstein’s significance (Stadler 2015, 228–234). According to Menger (1979, 1994) the TLP was first read by several (future) Circle members independently and met with a rather skeptical reception. This changed after a presentation about it by Kurt Reidemeister, a junior colleague of Hahn, which incited great interest. Subsequently Schlick contacted Wittgenstein, who then worked as a primary school teacher in Lower Austria. In a letter of December 12, 1924, he asked him for a personal meeting in Vienna which received a friendly reply. After this first attempt, Schlick travelled to Otterthal in April 1926  A selection of relevant literature: Mulder 1968, McGuinness 1968 ff., 1985, 1991, 2010, Baker 2003, Janik and Toulmin 1973, Hacker 1997, Haller 1979, 1986, 1993, Nedo/Ranchetti 1983, Haller and McGuinness 1989, Gálvez and Baldrich 1998, Stadler 2015, Sluga and Stern 1996, Stern 2018, Reck 2002, Uebel 2015, Engelmann 2021, Friedl 2002. Wittgenstein Initiative 2018. 2

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but did not meet Wittgenstein, who had resigned from his position there. Wittgenstein returned to Vienna and engaged himself as an architect with his friend Paul Engelmann in building the house of his sister Margarethe. In the meantime, his TLP was discussed extensively in the Schlick Circle: according to Carnap, it was “read aloud and discussed sentence by sentence” (Carnap 1963, 24). But only in February 1927 the first personal meetings took place, organized by Wittgenstein’s sister Margarethe Stonborough, to which Wittgenstein had invited also the psychologists Karl and Charlotte Bühler. Carnap’s diary records several encounters with Wittgenstein together with Schlick and Waismann in the summer of that year, in which also Herbert Feigl and his fiancée Maria Kasper participated. After the first meeting Schlick expressed his enthusiasm about Wittgenstein who reciprocated. Their personal and professional relationship of mutual respect lasted until Schlick’s death in 1936. This is remarkable given their differences concerning the status of ethics and aesthetics and Schlick’s commitment to a “consistent empiricism”. (After all, Wittgenstein distanced himself from several former personal friends like Russell and Ramsey on account of philosophical differences alone.) On Schlick’s part, his admiration obscured to himself that in his General Theory of Knowledge (1918/2009) he had adopted positions which he later ascribed to Wittgenstein. Yet the Circle’s relation to Wittgensein was by no means wholly adulatory. While there emerged a faction of followers with Schlick, Waismann, and Josef Schächter  (1935), there also developed a group of critics around Neurath, Menger and Gödel, partly Hahn, Carnap and Feigl. From the beginning of 1929 onward Wittgenstein agreed to meet only with Schlick and/or Waismann; their discussions can be reconstructed as follows (Stadler 2015, 231 ff.). Conversations between Wittgenstein, Schlick, and Waismann: An Overview 1929 18-12-1929 On mathematical proofs What does seeking mean in mathematics? (Example: tripartition of an angle, analogy: unraveling of a knot) Geometry as syntax I Non-contradiction I 22-12-1929 “The whole” I (objects, what does “the whole” signify?) Solipsism (The meaning of a proposition is its verification) Idling wheels (“I cannot feel your pain”) Speech and world 25-12-1929 “The whole” II Time (External-internal) Optical space

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30-12-1929 (Supplement to 25-12) Geometry as syntax II Physics and phenomenology Color-systems (Does every proposition lie within a system? I) (The world is red I) Anti-Husserl 30-12-1929 On Heidegger Dedekindian definition Real numbers I Supplement to 30-12 1930 02-01-1930 (Elementary propositions) (“The present state of mathematical knowledge on Hermann Weyl ‘s article”) 05-01-1930 Positive and negative propositions The color blue in memory “The world is red” II Does every proposition lie within a system? II Conclusion Talk on ethics Probability I 22-03-1930 (Verification and the directly given) (Verification and time) Probability II Hypotheses I (The double meaning of geometry, misc. concerning hypotheses) 19-06-1930 (What might be said in Königsberg) (Formalism, analogy, and tautology I) 25-09-1930 (Misc.) Variable Proof Real numbers II Idealization Interpretation 17-12-1930 On Schlick ’s ethics Value Religion Obligation Noncontradiction III (The discovery of Sheffer )

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(Rules of play and configurations of play) (What does it mean to use a calculation?) (Independence I) 30-12-1930 (Noncontradiction IV. Frege and Wittgenstein I) Hilbert ’s proof 1931 01-01-1931 America. The institution of college Independence II (Noncontradiction V) (Independence II) (Summary) (Hilbert ’s axioms) (Calculation and prose) (Frege and Wittgenstein II) 04-01-1931 (Analogy and replacement-rules I) (Analogy and tautology II) Verification in physics (Hypotheses II) (Geometry as syntax III) Supplements: chess, on Königsberg, definition of a number 21-09-1931 Intention, opinion, signification (Calculation and application) (Examining a calendar) The construction of a boiler Proof of existence (Noncontradiction vs. hidden contradiction) Contradiction (analogy and replacement rules II, indirect proof I) 09-12-1931 On dogmatism On infinity On Ramsey ’s definition of identity Noncontradiction VII Noncontradiction VIII (Analogy: the extension of π) (The concept of calculation) (Proof in geometry and arithmetic) Partition of an angle Generalization in geometry Indirect proof II

F. Stadler

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1932 01-07-1932 (Proposition and reality) Hypotheses III If we compare this incomplete list with the topics of discussions in the Circle meetings we can identify significant overlaps, especially with the presentations by Waismann, whose “Theses” were debated extensively. Consider this period covering 5 years, with the overlaps marked in italics (Stadler 2015, 73f.): The Schlick Circle: Overview of the Discussions 1927–1932 Date, speakers, and topics 1927 7 July 1927 Discussion by Carnap and Hahn about Carnap’s arithmetic and Wittgenstein’s objections against Ramsey’s definition of identity 1928 10 May 1928 Waismann: Foundations of mathematics 24 May 1928 Discussion of Waismann’s view of mathematics 21 June 1928 Carnap: Axiomatics 5 July 1928 Carnap: Axiomatics II 8 Nov 1928 On Reidemeister’s “Exaktes Denken” (Exact Thinking) 13 Dec 1928 Gomperz: Realism 1929 24 Jan 1929 Carnap: Reading of Ramsey 7 Feb 1929 Discussion with Neumann on the reality of other minds 21 Feb 1929 Carnap on real numbers and the foundations of mathematics 7 Mar 1929 Carnap on correspondence with Reidemeister 16 May 1929 Discussion with Kaila on the concept of probability 30 May 1929 Waismann: Probability 6 June 1929 Waismann: Probability II 13 June 1929 Waismann on the nature of language 21 June 1929 Waismann on atomic sentences 27 June 1929 Kaufmann on decidability 9 July 1929 Hahn: Essay on empiricism; Schlick on America 7 Nov 1929 Carnap: Independence of axioms, system of truth functions, letter of Kaila to Carnap and Feigl 14 Nov 1929 Dr. Gut (?) on quantum mechanics 21 Nov 1929 Discussion with Dr. Gut on the indeterminacy relation 2 Dec 1929 Carnap (?) on terminology 1930 23 Jan 1930 “Inofficial Circle”: Neurath on Marxism (with among others Kaufmann and Neumann) 30 Jan 1930 Menger: Intuitionism 3 Feb 1930 “Inofficial Circle”: Neurath on Marxism

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6 Feb 1930 Carnap: Terminology II 13 Feb 1930 Schlick: internal/external relations, meaning in Wittgenstein 21 Feb 1930 Tarski: Metamathematics of the propositional calculus 27 Feb 1930 Carnap on Tarski and the importance of metamathematics 6 Mar 1930 Carnap (?) on “Orange lies between red and yellow” 13 Mar 1930 Carnap (?) on colors 20 Mar 1930 “Inofficial Circle” for Prof. Jacobson (Goeteborg): Carnap on the theory of constitution 8 May 1930 Waismann on Wittgenstein’s philosophy against Russell 15 May 1930 Waismann on numbers (against Russell) 22 May 1930 Waismann: (continuation) 12 June 1930 Waismann on the programme of the Königsberg conference 19 June 1930 (no further entry) 26 June 1930 Waismann (no further entry) 3 June 1930 Waismann (no further entry) 6 Nov 1930 Hahn: Foundations of mathematics (Königsberg lecture) 13 Nov 1930 Kaufmann on his main ideas 4 Dec 1930 Carnap on his visit to Warsaw, discussion of Schlick’s essay “Kausalität” (Causality) 11 Dec 1930 Rand on Kaila’s “Der logische Neu-Positivismus” (The Logical Neo-Positivism) 1931 5 Feb 1931 Schlick on Frank’s Prague lecture; Carnap: Schrödinger’s “Naturwissenschaft und Ethik” (Natural Science and Ethics); discussion of Waismann’s “Theses” 12 Feb 1931 Discussion by Hahn and Waismann on atomic sentences 19 Feb 1931 Discussion by Hahn and Waismann on atomic sentences (continuation), among others with Neumann and Kaufmann 26 Feb 1931 Carnap: Physicalism, construction of a syntax 28. 2. 1931 (no further entry) 5 Mar 1931 Carnap on physicalism (behaviorism) 12 Mar 1931 “Inofficial Circle”: Carnap on the theory of constitution 7 May 1931 Carnap: Preface, on Waismann’s “Theses” 21 May 1931 On Waismann’s “Theses” 3 June 1931 Schlick reads Bavink and Weyl; Waismann’s “Theses” on identity 11 June 1931 Carnap: Metalogic 18 June 1931 Carnap: Metalogic II 25 June 1931 Carnap: Metalogic III 2 July 1931 Discussion of Carnap’s Metalogic IV 1932 14 Jan 1932 Carnap, Frank partly on Carnap’s essay “Metaphysik” (Elimination of Metaphysics)

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1.6 Rose Rand’s “Thesen” Reconsidered New insights regarding the relation between the Vienna Circle and Wittgenstein can be gained with reference to ongoing research projects and unpublished sources. The available resources do not appear to have been taken account of fully with regard to the plurality of opinions held by members of the Schlick Circle, esp. regarding the influence of TLP. This is strongly suggested by what looks like a questionnaire put to members of the Circle between November 1932 and March 1933 by Rose Rand as well as by her minutes of meetings of the Circle from December 1930 to Juli 1931 which Neurath commissioned her in 1937 to provide copies of (Stadler 2015, 143–145). The facsimile of the original document from the Archives in Haarlem (NL) is appended at the end of this article. Here is a translated and transliterated formal version of the former document: Development of the Theses of the Vienna Circle. Ed. by Rose Rand, November 1932 to March 1933 Legend: yes: +; no: −; meaningless: x; missing: o; indeterminate, no comment: (?). b. TLP: before Tractatus; TLP: Tractatus; a. TLP: after Tractatus. S.: Moritz Schlick; W.: Friedrich Waismann; C.: Rudolf Carnap; N.: Otto Neurath; H.: Hans Hahn; K.: Felix Kaufmann. Theses 1. By specifying rules philosophy wants to clarify the concepts b TLP and rules of science. TLP a TLP 2. Philosophy wants to clarify the concepts and sentences of b TLP science and everyday life, not by prescribing the rules for TLP the use of words, but by laying out the rules of the use of a a TLP word and by drawing attention to the logical consequences of a rule. More precisely: philosophy does not demand a certain use of a word but it prohibits the confusion of the consequences of the rules adopted and the disregard of them. 3. Language pictures reality. b TLP TLP a TLP 4. Language is a system of sentences which are compared with b TLP each other. It is impermissible to speak of picturing reality, TLP for this would introduce a metaphysical concept. a TLP 5. A sentence is a configuration of words which is determined b TLP by its syntax. TLP a TLP 6. A sentence pictures a state of affairs. b TLP TLP a TLP

S. ○ + – – – +

W. ○ + – ○ – +

C. ○ + + ○ – –

N. ○ x x ○ x x

H. ○ + + ○ – –

K. ? + + ○ – –

○ + + ○ – – ○ + + ○ + +

○ + + ○ – – ○ + + ○ + +

○ + x ○ – + ○ + + ○ + x

○ x x ○ + + ○ + + ○ x x

○ + ? ○ (?) ? ○ + + ○ + x

? + + – – – ○ ? ? + + +

18 7. The meaning [Sinn] of a sentence is the method of verification.

b TLP TLP a TLP 8. The method of verification consists in the definition of the b TLP words that occur in the sentence. Words in the definiens are TLP to be defined further. a TLP 9. The verification is concluded when one has reached b TLP ostensive definitions, which define a word by ostension to TLP the given. a TLP 10. There is only one kind of definition, namely definition by b TLP means of words. The definition by reference to experiences TLP is impossible since it is impermissible to speak of a TLP experiences. 11. A definition is a convention. b TLP TLP a TLP 12. A definition is a member of a causal nexus and nothing b TLP else. Either of a causal nexus between two word structures TLP or between a word structure and a reaction or between a a TLP stimulus and a word structure. 13. There are sentences which cannot be analyzed and which b TLP contain words that can only be defined by means of TLP ostensive definitions: these are the atomic sentences. a TLP 14. If an observation sentence describes a state of affairs, then b TLP it is true, otherwise false. TLP a TLP 15. Truth is only freedom from contradiction; falsity is b TLP contradiction. TLP a TLP 16. The atomic sentences have the form of a relation, e.g., the b TLP relation of memory between two names, which designate TLP experiences. a TLP 17. The atomic sentences describe states of affairs, i.e., they b TLP represent by their structure the structure of the state of TLP affairs. The state of affairs cannot be described by a name a TLP therefore and one also cannot speak about the relational form of atomic sentences, where the relation obtains between two names which designate states of affairs. 18. The form of atomic sentences is not and cannot be b TLP specified. (Here atomic sentence = simply ultimate TLP sentence, without characterization, e.g., whether it a TLP concerns experiences or not.) 19. The singular sentences of empirical science are truth b TLP functions of the first sentences. TLP a TLP

F. Stadler ○ + + + + + + + + x x x

○ + + ○ + + ○ + + ○ x x

○ + + ○ + + ○ + x ○ x +

○ + + ○ + + ○ x x ○ + +

○ + + ○ + + ○ + ? ○ – +

○ + + ○ + + + + + x x x

+ + + ○ x x

○ + + ○ x x

○ + ? ○ x ?

○ ? – ○ + +

○ + ? ○ ? ?

○ + + ○ – –

○ + ? + + + – – – ○ – – ○ + –

○ + ? ○ + + ○ – – ○ – – ○ + –

○ + x ○ + x ○ – + ○ + x ○ – x

○ x x ○ x x ○ + + ○ x x ○ x x

○ – x (?) + ? ○ – ? ○ ? ? ○ ? ?

○ – – + + + – – – ○ ? ? ○ ? ?

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ – – – – ? ? + + ? – ? ? ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ + + + + + + + + + + + +

1  Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle – The Vienna Circle and Wittgenstein. A Critical… 20. The singular sentences of empirical science are truth b TLP ○ functions of protocol sentences. These are the first TLP – sentences of science. Their verification is not effected by a a TLP – comparison with reality but only by comparisons with each other. 21. Laws are instructions for the formation of sentences. b TLP ○ TLP ? a TLP + 22. Laws are truth functions. b TLP ○ TLP ? a TLP – 23. Thesis of physicalism: all sentences contain spatiotemporal b TLP ○ termini. TLP – a TLP – 24. Only that is real which is described by true sentences. b TLP ○ TLP + a TLP + 25. To speak of “reality” is metaphysics. True sentences are b TLP ○ sentences which agree with other sentences. TLP – a TLP – 26. One cannot speak about language, because language is to b TLP ○ picture states of affairs and the picturing function of TLP + language constitutes a state of affairs. a TLP ? 27. The pure metalogic speaks about language in analytical b TLP ○ sentences, descriptive [metalogic does so] in empirical-­ TLP – synthetic ones. The “superlanguage” [Übersprache] a TLP – belongs to language as well.

19

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ – – + – – – + + + – ○ ? + ○ ? – ○ – – ○ + + ○ – – ○ + ? ○ – –

○ – + ○ + – ○ – + ○ ? x ○ – + ○ + x ○ ? +

○ ? + ○ ? – ○ + + ○ x x ○ + + ○ x x ○ ○ +

○ ? + ○ + – ○ – (?) ○ ? ? ○ – ? ○ – ? ○ ○ ○

○ ? ? ○ ? – ○ – – ○ + + ○ – – ○ + + ○ ○ –

Obviously, important formal and philosophical questions arise. Who formulated the 27 theses? Most likely it was Rand herself who also took it upon herself to produce the aforementioned minutes. What does it mean exactly: “before TLP”, “TLP”, “after TLP”? I think it means a chronological order covering three periods: before the publication of the TLP in 1922, during its interpretation in the Schlick Circle at least until 1929 when Wittgenstein returned to philosophy, and the last period from 1930 on which witnessed increasing criticism, albeit in different ways. But some uncertainties remain concerning this periodization and the categorization of six options (e.g., the difference between “missing” and “undetermined” or “no comment”). Another issue is the choice of respondents: we can recognize six leading members of the Vienna Circle as representatives of different philosophical positions (e.g., the antagonism between Schlick and Neurath) and discern the dualism of the Wittgenstein faction (Schlick, Waismann, Schächter) and anti-Wittgensteinians (Neurath, Hahn, partly Carnap), with Kaufmann as the resident phenomenologist in between. Yet the skeptical mathematicians like Menger and Gödel seem represented only partially by Hahn (Lethen 2021). In any case, a closer analysis of this unique document is revealing. Rand asked Schlick, Waismann, Carnap, Neurath, Hahn and Kaufmann to respond to the 27

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theses with regard to the three time phases and six options for answering. Already at first sight the document indicates the diverse reception of the TLP but also a theoretical change with regard to a variety of doctrines. If we try to characterize these replies with reference to a common position we can see an agreement before TLP, during TLP, after TLP only for the thesis 5: A sentence is a configuration of words which is determined by its syntax (with Kaufmann only undecided for TLP and after TLP), thesis 7: The meaning of a sentence is the method of its verification, thesis 8: The method of verification consists in the definition of words that occur in the sentence. Words in the definiens are to be defined further (undecided by all others before TLP with the exception of Schlick), thesis 19: The singular sentences of the empirical sciences are truth functions of the first sentences, and thesis 21: Laws are instructions for the formation of sentences (for all no comment during TLP, only Carnap rejecting, and Kaufmann no comment after TLP). With this result we can speak of a thematic profile, which can be correlated to the reading of TLP only ambiguously. If we aim at identifying total agreements only with reference to one of the three time phases we see the following result, that for the theses 12 (before TLP), 13 (before TLP), 14 (during TLP), 16 (before TLP), 17 (before TLP), 18 (before TLP), 20 (before TLP), 22 (before missing and after TLP rejecting), 23 (before TLP), 24 (before TLP), 25 (before TLP), 26 (before TLP), and 27 (before TLP) there is an agreement with a common missing reply, whereas for the two other periods we recognize significant individual differences. Even if this core group with 6 members out of some 20 does not fully represent the entire Schlick Circle, we can see at first sight the significant impact of Wittgenstein on Schlick and Waismann and, more widely, a pluralization and polarization as becomes obvious by the dissenters around Neurath. Therefore, it is more adequate to speak of the Vienna Circle’s multifaceted relation to Wittgenstein in place of repeating the still dominant homogeneous picture of Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle. These sources allow for a more differentiated description of the communication between Schlick, Waismann, and Wittgenstein, on the one hand, and the relation of individual Circle members to Wittgenstein, on the other. (In addition, the minutes of the discussions in the Circle confirm this view, as do the papers by Manninen and Bauer in this volume in the documentation section.) If we complement this horizontal reading with a vertical one, we can identify additional clusters: e.g., strong agreements of Schlick and Waismann on the one side (theses 1–7, 12, 13, 16–27, with the exception before TLP 8–11, 14, 15), and a similar agreement between Carnap and Neurath on the other side (theses 1, 5, 7, 8, 10, 19, with slight differences concerning the rest). No consensus appears from the central theses on laws, and physicalism (21, 23), which mirrors the protocol-­sentence debate and related priority disputes at the same time. The positions of Hahn and Kaufmann vary in between these two clusters pro and con Wittgenstein, which indicate the different deviations by non-philosophers. Overall we can draw the conclusion that TLP influenced the development with agreements and rejections but must stressing that this is not offered as a monocausal explanation.

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A thematic analysis with reference to central concepts opens up another view on the changes for the Vienna Circle en bloc. Theses 1 and 2 on the task of philosophy show significant changes and diversity. Theses 3 and 4 on language uncover the differences pro and contra the picture theory. Theses 5 and 6 on the meaning of a sentence show a growing skepticism of the anti-Wittgenstein wing starting from a common syntactical position. Only thesis 7 on the meaning of meaning shows a wholly harmonious constellation. Theses 8 and 9 referring to verification show again the changes on the side of Carnap, Neurath, and Hahn with the rejection of a correspondence view. Theses 10, 11, and 12 suggest significant dissent and change with reference to the contested notion of definition independent of Wittgensteins’s impact. Thesis 13 about atomic sentences confirms the move from unity to diversity. This is continued by the theses 16, 17, and 18 with their focus on the form of atomic sentences: here we see the stability of Schlick and Waismann compared to the other members. Theses 19 and 20 on the status of singular sentences show a remarkable uniformity with the first question but diversification with the second. Theses 21 and 22 on the central concept of law uncover large-scale agreement. Thesis 23 on the disputed thesis of physicalism reveals the well-known agreement between Carnap, Neurath (and Hahn?) after the TLP as a minority position. The two epistemological theses 24 and 25 on (empirical) reality offer a similar result as theses 26 and 27 on meta-languages and meta-logic: the diversity here indicates once again the camp formation in the Circle. Another vertical reading only for each member of these protocols is revealing, too: except for theses 8, 9, 10, 11, 14, 15 we see some changes of Schlick, while Waismann shows changes without any exceptions. Surprisingly, a similar image applies also for Carnap and Neurath. In the case of Hahn there is only thesis 27 which uncovers no change concerning meta-logic and meta-languages. Kaufmann shows strong stability concerning theses 6, 9, 10, 14, 15, similar to Schlick’s positions. The complexity of the Vienna Circle becomes manifest also in the self-description of Schlick at the end of his life, which was published only posthumously. Here he presented his “consistent empiricism” with reference to Wittgenstein, but also a variant of structural realism (Schlick 1950, 462 ff., in translation): Schlick attempts to justify and construct a consistent and entirely pure empiricism, which unlike its early forms, is reached by applying modern mathematics and logic to reality … From there, and with the help of an analysis of the process of knowledge, the ‚General Theory of Knowledge‘ arrives at a clear distinction between the rational and the empirical, the conceptual and the intuitive. Concepts are mere symbols that are attributed to the world in question; they appear in ‚statements‘ ordered in a very particular way, by which these are able to ‚express‘ certain structures of reality. Every statement is the expression of a fact and represents knowledge insofar as it describes a new fact with the help of old signs … The ordering of reality, … is determined solely by experience, for which reason there exists only empirical knowledge. The so-called rational truths, then, purely abstract statements such as the logical-mathematical ones … are nothing more than rules of signs which determine the syntax of the language (L. Wittgenstein) which we use to speak about the world. They are of pure analytic-tautological character and therefore contain no knowledge.; they say nothing about reality, but it is precisely this reason that they can be applied to any given fact in the world. Thus, knowledge is essentially a reproduction of the order, of

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Obviously many of the changes noted in Rand’s document can be attributed to Wittgenstein’s influence. But we are not compelled to take this view. In the Schlick Circle also many independent developments took place, inspired by foreign guests and other influences. The great variety of outside influences on and particularly the internal dynamic within the Circle – especially the gradual separation of the two wings and their different assessment of the fate of Waismann’s projected book on Wittgenstein’s philosophy – is reflected very well in the highly informative correspondence between Neurath and Carnap from the 1920s and 30s and in Carnap’s diaries from the same period, commented editions of both of which are in progress (Friedl forthcoming; Damböck 2022 and forthcoming). (The Carnap-Neurath correspondence, in English, from 1940 until 1945 has already been published in Cat and Tuboly 2019, 512–685.) These letters and Carnap’s diary entries provide readers with a virtual front row seat on numerous developments some of which I touched on above. Unfortunately, I must leave it at this perhaps tantalizing comment, for it would led us too far afield if I were to try to recapture the unique fusion of participant’s perspective and unselfconscious contextualization that these documents offer.

1.7 Concluding Remarks One new insight to be gained from recent scholarship on the Vienna Circle that especially studies of its relation to Wittgenstein may profit from is provided by the change to a perspective on the emergence and development of logical empiricism “from bottom up”. The Viennese social reform and educational movements and extra-university initiatives since around 1900 served as a background for the formation of a broad type of scientific philosophy and philosophy of science, which can be characterized broadly as a “Viennese naturalism” with distinctly pragmatist overtones. (Damböck and Tuboly 2022). A related result, not new but deserving a restatement all the same, is that the Schlick Circle was only one (though perhaps the most central one for our purposes) of the collective enterprises in the intellectual, artistic and cultural spheres (all of them “circles”) that made the Vienna of the first third of the twentieth century into a virtual laboratory of modernism and modernity. Wittgenstein’s resolute singularity may well find some illumination by being placed in this constrasting context. Both Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle were driven from their home country by the catastrophe of National Socialism that was engulfing Europe. Here one may

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compare the increasing internationalization and pluralization of the philosophy of science developed by Schlick’s former colleagues with Wittgenstein’s steadfast attempts to articulate in a highly original fashion the philosophical depth that our inevitable dependence on ordinary language holds. Neither of these paths was easy  – not in their countries of exile nor “back home” after the war. The socio-­ politically sensitive “scientific world-conception” of the Vienna Circle had to suffer a transformation into a decidedly less engaged “received view”. On the other sideWittgenstein’s reasonable demand for outward criteria as relevant for “inner” processes was characterized as behavioristic in spirit. The latter episodes are nowadays regarded as regrettable misunderstandings. Perhaps the point is being reached where the spirit of logical empiricism is also recognized as an offer to postmodernity. In any case, without attention to these contexts and the inclusion of new primary sources indicated above, the complex phenomenon of the Vienna Circle and its mutual relation to Wittgenstein’s far-reaching oeuvre cannot be understood adequately. By contrast, adopting such a historical-cultural perspective on the work of Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle and especially on their multilateral  relation promises to pay rich dividends.

1.8 The Essays in This Volume The studies in this volume fall into two groups: those that deal with Wittgenstein and his TLP, and those that deal with the mutual relations between Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle(s). The first part opens with Marjorie Perloff’s new and complete reading of Wittgensteins’s war diaries, which enables a clearer and better understanding of the origin and aim of TLP.  She provides a summary of her recent book (2022) on Wittgenstein’s coded war notebooks 1914–16, which remained unpublished in their full length both in German and English. Her chapter also gives a pre-history of the Proto-Tractatus in biographical context encompassing the themes of ontology, life, and death. James Klagge’s paper focuses on the philosophical content of TLP by reference to some of its core issues. At the same time it offers glances into insights to be gathered from his Tractatus in Context (2021). His analysis is followed by Hans Sluga with a close reading of TLP focusing on the complexity of its inherent logical notions of modality: that of fact or actuality and that of possibility. Wittgenstein’s early life is investigated on a meta-level by Nicole Immler whose paper considers the individual and collective memories of the Wittgenstein family, the so-called Familiengedächtnis, and challenges convincingly the dominant biographical historiography of Wittgenstein scholars. The second part begins with an overview paper by Thomas Uebel, who illustrates the plurality and diversity of the Vienna Circles (incl. The “first Vienna

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Circle”) vis-­à-­vis Wittgenstein in diverse philosophical contexts. He argues for differentiation and reconsideration of the prevailing narratives on this issue. Next Richard Creath considers the puzzling charge of plagiarism raised against Carnap by Wittgenstein. He surveys the different interpretations that have been given of this episode so far and then reconstructs and contextualizes it from a fresh point of view. The unique personal encounters and conversations between Schlick and Wittgenstein are highlighted by Massimo Ferrari with reference to their different approaches towards ethics, a significant difference which nevertheless did not lead to a break between the two philosophers. The intensive communication of Wittgenstein and Waismann on the central notion of language games is addressed by Joachim Schulte in his comparative study, which also describes the genesis of this central concept. An important research issue is addressed by the case study of the contested authorship of the manuscript “Diktat für Schlick” (Wittgenstein, Schlick, or Waismann?) by Michael Oakes and Alois Pichler, who propose an innovative application of stylometric method. The commonalities and differences regarding the notion of truth in Russell, Wittgenstein, and Gödel in the context of the philosophy of mathematics constitute the topic of Juliet Floyd’s searching paper. Finally, the two most important figures for the publication of the English translation of TLP are the focus of the papers by Michael Potter and Cheryl Misak respectively: Bertrand Russell on the one side, and Frank Ramsey, on the other. Both papers offer illuminating discussions of the controversies surrounding the related topics of logicism, the external world program and pragmatism. (Incidentally, both Russell and Ramsey are listed in the Vienna Circle manifesto as key figures for the scientific world conception, too.) All these contributions go a substantive part of the way, I think, to realizing a new narrative of the relations between Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle that will allow us to guard against a one-directional perspectives and all too homogeneous portrayals of the players involved. This Yearbook of the Institute Vienna Circle, as always, also contains a (third) part called “Report and Documentation”. The lively research on Waismann (McGuinness 2011; Makovec and Shapiro 2019) is continued in this volume as well. First comes an edited documentation by Juha Manninen, whose important “Waismann’s Testimony of Wittgenstein’s Fresh Starts in 1931–35” was published in 2011. His contribution here further elucidates the complex communication between Wittgenstein, Schlick and Waismann in the 1930s. It also offers a rehabilitation of the philosopher Waismann, often regarded instead as a mere follower, interpreter and popularizer of Wittgenstein. It is shown that Waismann conducted many of the university seminars which were announced under the name of Schlick with the full agreement and appreciation of his admired teacher. In addition, a comparison is provided of Wittgenstein’s later philosophy with Waismann’s conceptions of language analysis, open texture and language strata, indicating the latter’s path to his only posthumously published book about the former. The paper by Philipp Bauer documents

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underappreciated aspects of Waismann’s activities in Vienna before his forced migration to England in 1937. His monograph Einführung in das mathematische Denken. Die Begriffsbildung der modernen Mathematik (1936) provides the main focus here. This is followed by a historical case study of the economic historian Roman Sandgruber who compares the Wittgenstein family with the famous Rothschild dynasty before WW I, and highlights the family background of Wittgenstein’s life and challenges myths about the wealth and cultural activity of his influential family. In the Appendix Rose Rand’s document Entwicklung der Thesen des “Wiener Kreises” (Development of the theses of the ‘Vienna Circle’) is reprinted as a facsimile reproduction for the first time. Acknowledgement  Thanks to Thomas Uebel for his valuable stylistic and philosophical inputs.

 ppendix: Rose Rand, Entwicklung der Thesen des A “Wiener Kreises” Source: Vienna Circle Archives, Rijksarchief Noord-Holland / Haarlem (NL), Schlick Collection, 189/WK.38a. With kind permission of the Vienna Circle Foundation, Haarlem. A second copy is located at the Archives of Scientific Philosophy, University of Pittsburgh. A black/white reproduction was published by Iven (2004, 51 ff., 198–221) without interpretation together with Rand’s typoscript “Der Einfluß Wittgensteins auf den Wiener Kreis” (The Influence of Wittgenstein on the Vienna Circle, Version 1972) from the Pittsburgh Archives. This scetchy document deals with the reception without a direct reference to her earlier overview reproduced below. This may be explained by the concrete recommendations of Neurath together with his commission in 1937. 

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Uebel, Thomas, and Christoph Limbeck-Lilienau, eds. 2022. The Routledge Handbook of Logical Empiricism. London-New York: Routledge. Waismann, Friedrich. 1936. Einführung in das mathematische Denken. Die Begriffsbildung der modernen Mathematik. Mit einem Vorwort von Karl Menger. 5. Auflage: Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft 2012. Wien: Gerold & Co. ———. 1965. The Principles of Linguistic Philosophy, ed. Rom Harré. 2nd ed 1997. London-New York: MacMillan and St. Martin’s Press. ———. 1976. Logik, Sprache, Philosophie, Hrsg. von G.  P. Baker und Brian McGuinness. Stuttgart: Reclam. ———. 1977. Philosophical Papers, ed. Brian McGuinness. With an Introduction by Anthony Quinton. Dordrecht-Boston: Reidel. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1978. Vermischte Bemerkungen. Eine Auswahl aus dem Nachlass hrsg. von Georg Henrik von Wright unter Mitarbeit von Heikki Nyman. Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp. Ludwig Wittgenstein (1960 ff.), Werkausgabe in 8 Bänden. Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp:   Band 1: Tractatus Logico-philosophicus (Logisch-philosophische Abhandlung). Tagebücher 1914–1916. Philosophische Untersuchungen. 1960.   Band 2: Philosophische Bemerkungen. Hrsg. von Rush Rhees. 1964.   Band 3: Ludwig Wittgenstein und der Wiener Kreis. 1984. Gespräche, aufgezeichnet von Friedrich Waismann. Aus dem Nachlaß hrsg. von B. F. McGuinness. Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp. English: Oxford: Blackwell 1979.   Band 4: Philosophische Grammatik. Hrsg. von Rush Rhees. 1969.   Band 5: Das blaue Buch. Eine philosophische Betrachtung. Zettel. Hrsg. von Rush Rhees, G. E. M. Anscombe, G. H. von Wright. 1970.   Band 6: Bemerkungen über die Grundlagen der Mathematik. Hrsg. von Rush Rhees, G. E. M. Anscombe, G.H. von Wright. 1973.   Band 7: Bemerkungen über die Philosophie der Psychologie. Herausgegeben von G. E. M. Anscombe, G. H. von Wright und Heikki Nyman. Neu durchgesehen von Joachim Schulte. 1984.   Band 8: Bemerkungen über die Farben. Über Gewißheit. Zettel. Vermischte Bemerkungen. Hrsg. von G. E. M. Anscombe und G. H. von Wright unter Mitarbeit von Heikki Nyman. Neu durchgesehen von Joachim Schulte. 1984. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1999. Denkbewegungen. Tagebücher 1930–1932, 1936–1937. Hrsg. und kommentiert von Ilse Somavilla. Frankfurt/M.: Fischer. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1994  ff. Wiener Ausgabe. Hrsg. von Michael Nedo. Wien-New York: Springer 1994 ff. und Frankfurt/M.: Vittorio Klostermann 2017 ff. Wittgenstein Initiative 2018. Die Tractatus Odyssee. Katalog zur Ausstellung. Wien: Eigenverlag.

Archives Wittgenstein Archives, University of Bergen: http://wab.uib.no/, http://www.wittgensteinsource. org/, http://wittgensteinonline.no, http://wab.uib.no/sfb. Wittgenstein at the Brenner-Archives. Forschungsinstitut Brenner-Archiv, University of Innsbruck: https://www.uibk.ac.at/brenner-­archiv/archiv/wittgenstein.html. Wittgenstein Archives at the Austrian National Library (Memory of the World Register of UNESCO since 2017.): https://www.onb.ac.at/bibliothek/sammlungen/handschriften-­und-­alte-­drucke/ ludwig-­wittgenstein-­ein-­leidenschaftlicher-­denker. Cambridge University, Trinity College: Ludwig Wittgenstein Archives, Wren Library: https:// www.trin.cam.ac.uk/library/wren-­digital-­library/modern-­manuscripts/wittgenstein/.

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University of Oxford, Bodleian Library: Friedrich Waismann archives: Joachim Schulte, “Der Waismann Nachlaß”, in: Zeitschrift für philosophische Forschung 33/1, 1979, 108–140: https:// www.jstor.org/stable/20482945 https://www.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/home University of Iowa Tractatus Map, Ed. by David G. Stern, Brian Rogers, and Gabriel Citron. http:// tractatus.lib.uiowa.edu/map/. Vienna Circle Archives, Reichsarchiv Nord-Holland, Haarlem (NL): https://noord-­hollandsarchief. nl/english/where-­to-­find-­us. Moritz Schlick Forschungsstelle, University of Rostock: https://www.iph.uni-­rostock.de/ forschung/moritz-­schlick-­forschungsstelle/. University of Pittsburgh, Archives of Scientific Philosophy. Collections Carnap, Feigl, Hempel, Rand et al.: https://digital.library.pitt.edu/collection/archives-­scientific-­philosophy. University of Konstanz, Philosophical Archive: https://www.uni-­konstanz.de/FuF/Philo/philarchiv/index2.htm. Institute Vienna Circle., University Vienna: Virtual Archive of Logical Empiricism (VALEP) https://valep.vc.univie.ac.at/virtualarchive/public/Archive/a0.

Chapter 2

In Search of the Redeeming Word: Wittgenstein’s Private Notebooks 1914–16 and the Making of the Tractatus Marjorie Perloff

Abstract I shall discuss my forthcoming edition/translation of Wittgenstein’s Private Coded War Notebooks of 1914–16. My first question will be: Why have these Notebooks never been published? We have Notebooks 1914–16, but this only replicates the right-hand (recto) pages of the Notebooks. The Geheime Tagebücher by Wilhelm Baum is out of print so that there is not even a German text, and there has never been a translation. Why? My speculative answer has to do with issues of nationalism and Wittgenstein’s sexuality. I will then go on to discuss the importance of these Notebooks for our understanding of the Tractatus. What begins as a treatise on logic turns into a very different book as a result of Wittgenstein’s experience at the Eastern Front. By the summer of 1915 Wittgenstein realizes that he can’t find “das erlösende Wort” that he has been looking for and he turns from equations regarding the truth tables to larger questions about ontology, about life and death. The Private Notebook on the left-hand page begins to come together with the right-­ hand one or public one: there are remarks on the verso that one would expect to find on the recto, and so one can follow the process whereby the Ur-Tractatus came into being. The personal struggle and transformation of the young Wittgenstein is central to his philosophy. Keywords  Ludwig Wittgenstein · Private notebooks · Tractatus Logico-­ Philosophicus · Wartime diaries · Young Wittgenstein · Modernism · David Pinsent · Bertrand Russell, Gospel in Brief

It is strange what a relief it is for me to write in secret script of certain things that I would not like to be legible. Wittgenstein, 1929 (Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Nachlass, Bergen Electronic Edition, Ms. 106, 4, my translation.)

M. Perloff (*) Department of English, Stanford University, Stanford, CA, USA © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_2

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2.1 The Question of Publication At the time of Wittgenstein’s death in 1951, only a single work of his had been published: the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (1922). His second major work, the Philosophical Investigations, was almost ready for publication, but Wittgenstein, as was his habit, was still tinkering with it when he died. Reluctant to consider any his texts sufficiently “finished,” he left behind approximately 20,000 pages of manuscript and typescript. In his will, his three literary executors, all of them former students and devoted disciples, were given the following directive: I give to Mr. R[ush] Rhees, Miss [Elizabeth] Anscombe and Professor G. H. von Wright of Trinity College Cambridge all the copyright in all my unpublished writings and also the manuscripts and typescripts thereof to dispose of as they think best but subject to any claim by anybody else to the custody of the manuscripts and typescripts. I intend and desire Mr. Rhees, Miss Anscombe and Professor von Wright shall publish as many of my unpublished writings as they see fit, but I do not wish them to incur expenses in publications which they do not expect to recoup out of royalties or other profits.1

What a directive! The Nachlass, as the collection of Wittgenstein’s notebooks, ledgers, typescripts and collections of clippings was to be called, was further complicated by the fact that although Wittgenstein always wrote in German, his Cambridge and other lectures in England were given—and hence recorded—in English. The Philosophical Investigations, for example, was ready to be published in a bilingual edition—Anscombe had translated the latest version 6 years earlier in 1945—but she and Rhees remembered that Wittgenstein had wanted the book to include his recent work on psychological concepts and so they added the relevant pages which became Part II. Anscombe, as Christian Erbacher tells us in his excellent Heirs and Editors, thought this later typescript “transcends everything [Wittgenstein] ever wrote,” (Erbacher 2020, 4) but later scholars came to question whether it had been Wittgenstein’s intent to include this manuscript in the Investigations, and in the Fourth Edition (2009),2 what was known as Part II has been separated from the body of the text of the Investigations and renamed “Philosophy of Psychology: A Fragment.” From 1951 on, in any case, the three editors began to assemble the various manuscripts and see to their publication. They did not always agree on the sequence or on the importance of this or that manuscript, and, as Erbacher tells it, “Until the mid-­ 1960s, the literary executors’ handling of the material documents of Wittgenstein’s writings might have driven professional historians and librarians to despair” (Erbacher 2020, 26): Rhees and Anscombe kept the manuscripts and typescripts at their homes, working with them, sometimes writing notes in them and exposing them to the dangers of daily life— sometimes with disastrous consequences: the typescripts from which PI 1953 was typeset were lost; Anscombe is said to have burnt a section that referred to a then-living person;

 Cited by Erbacher (2020); see Cambridge Elements online, 2.  See Wittgenstein (2009).

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Rhees’s dog tried to eat one of the manuscripts; and Rhees himself lost the original of the [G.E.] Moore volume in a telephone booth at Paddington Station in London. (Erbacher 2020, 26)

It is in this context that the trajectory of Wittgenstein’s Private Notebooks must be understood. Shortly after Wittgenstein’s death, his sister Margarete Stonborough invited the three literary executors to Austria to show them the manuscripts she possessed and to discuss publication. Among the papers, were three notebooks written between 1914 and 1916, when Wittgenstein was serving in the Austro-Hungarian infantry on the Eastern Front: MS 101. 9 August—30 October 1914. MS 102. 30 October 1914—22 June 1915. MS 103 15 April 1916—10 January 1917. Note the ten-month gap between the second and third notebooks, which indicates a lost notebook. There were, moreover, evidently three or four further notebooks from the war period that were either lost or destroyed.3 In 1954, having edited Wittgenstein’s Remarks on the Foundations of Mathematics, the executors decided to publish the 1914–1916 notebooks next, since they shed so much light on the embryonic Tractatus. But they chose only those sections they regarded as philosophically relevant, and, not wishing to violate the privacy of their mentor, they excluded the entire body of coded entries that filled each left-hand page (the verso) of the notebooks. Wittgenstein’s coding was fairly elementary: he had used it with his siblings when they were young: a reversal of the alphabet so that z = a, y = b, x = c, and so on. But to the editors, code meant “Keep out.” Accordingly, the volume called Notebooks 1914–1916, first published by Blackwell in 1961 and available now from the University of Chicago Press in its 1979 second edition, reproduces the right-hand pages of the notebooks only. Indeed, there is no indication in Notebooks 1914–1916 that there is anything missing. For decades, the decision to leave the coded personal notebooks unpublished held. Anscombe was adamant on the subject. When, in 1958, Wittgenstein’s friend Paul Engelmann consulted her on the possibility of publishing his letters from Wittgenstein and reminiscences of their time together in his native Olmütz in 1915–16, Anscombe responded: If by pressing a button it could have been secured that people would not concern themselves with his personal life, I should have pressed the button. . . . Further, I must confess that I feel deeply suspicious of anyone’s claim to have understood Wittgenstein. That is perhaps because . . I am very sure that I did not understand him.4

Rush Rhees agreed. In the 1960s, when the executors were trying to decide how to handle the coded remarks for the new Cornell microfilm edition of the Nachlass, Rhees remarked:

 See Somavilla (2002, 371).  Engelmann (1967).

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M. Perloff I wished (and do) that W. had not written those passages. I do not know why he wanted to; but I think I do understand in a way, and I understand then also why he chose this ambiguous medium. I fear especially that if they are published, they will be published by themselves—not in the contexts (repeat: contexts) in which they were written; so that what was a minor and occasional undertone to Wittgenstein’s life and thinking, will appear as a dominant obsession.5

The “minor and occasional undertone” to which Rhees here alludes no doubt refers to Wittgenstein’s expression of sexual—specifically, homosexual-- desire—here always oblique, but unmistakable as when, in an entry of December 21, 1914, he writes of kissing the letter he has just received from his adored Cambridge friend David Pinsent. The Notebooks dutifully note every time their author masturbates, and there are telling allusions to gay rendezvous, as when Wittgenstein records his frequent visits to the baths in Kraków or refers to his repeated and unspecified “sins.” Such personal material, Rhees and Anscombe felt, was not appropriate for publication: in the 1960s, a taboo on homosexual acts was still largely operative. The solution, for the Cornell project, was thus to microfilm the Nachlass in a two-step procedure: first, a microfilm of the entire manuscript was produced, and then a copy was made in which the coded remarks were blacked out. Scholars who visited the Cornell archive were allowed access to this expurgated copy only. The third executor, Von Wright, who had returned to his native Finland, took a somewhat different position. More familiar with the history and culture of the Austro-Hungarian empire than either the American Rhees and the English Anscombe, he came to understand that Wittgenstein was intimately bound to the Vienna of his birth—a Vienna that was, in the early twentieth century, one of the great centers for avant-garde literature, music, and art, as well as the social sciences. The seemingly casual aphoristic remarks, scattered throughout Wittgenstein’s manuscripts, von Wright discovered, were often central to his thinking. By the early 1970s, von Wright had assembled some 1500 general remarks from different manuscripts, which were to find their way into the volume called Vermischte Bemerkungen (1977)—Culture And Value in English. This bilingual volume, translated by Peter Winch, has gone through many editions, the most recent in 1998, and is at this writing, one of Wittgenstein’s most popular books even though it is, strictly speaking, not a book “by” Wittgenstein at all. In this context, it was inevitable that Wittgenstein’s coded remarks, scattered throughout the Nachlass, but especially the entries in the private World War I notebooks, would generate a great deal of interest. In the 1980s, Wilhelm Baum, who had transcribed these notebooks from the manuscripts held at the then newly founded Tübingen Archive, brought out a book reproducing the entire corpus of coded remarks in MSS 101–103, under the title Geheime Tagebücher, published in Vienna in 1991. Almost immediately, Italian and Spanish editions followed, and a

 See Erbacher (2000)

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French one called Carnets secrets, was undertaken by the Wittgensteinian philosopher Jean-Pierre Cometti.6 Anscombe was evidently appalled and threatened to file a law suit to the effect that the German edition was unauthorized and should be banned. Baum later got around this stigma by changing his title from Geheime Tagebücher to Wittgenstein im Ersten Weltkrieg (2014) and providing documentation to justify his publication. But it was too late: under either title, Baum’s book received little attention, and it is currently out of print. By the early 1990s, in any case, both Brian McGuinness and Ray Monk had published their seminal biographies: it was Monk’s Ludwig Wittgenstein: The Duty of Genius that brought me to Wittgenstein in the first place. Both biographers refer to and quote extensively from the war notebooks; indeed, McGuinness’s long Chapter 7, “The War 1914-1918,” is based heavily on the day-­ by-­day account in the diary. At the time, I assumed there would soon be an English translation, as was the case with Culture and Value or the box file of typed fragments published in 1967 as Zettel. But no such thing happened. At this writing in 2021, there is no English translation of the Private Notebooks, nor, for that matter, is there an authorized German text.7 One can, of course, read the originals in the Bergen [Norway] Electronic Edition [BEE] of the Nachlass, transcribed by an outstanding team of editors under the direction of Alois Pichler. But those who read no German have no access to these texts, or, for that matter, to the important—and again partially coded—Cambridge Notebooks, 1930–32, 1936–1937, edited by Ilse Somavilla for the Institute of Research at the Brenner-Archive in Innsbruck in 1999. The thirties’ notebooks are available in a French edition called Carnets de Cambridge et de Skjolden, again translated by Jean-Pierre Cometti, but although new volumes of the later writings—say, on psychology or mathematics—continue to be published—the Private Notebooks are still unavailable.8 The question, of course, is why. One can only speculate but I think the answer has to do with both Wittgenstein’s nationality and his sexuality, especially as that sexuality was understood (or misunderstood) in the Cambridge of his day. And here we must remember that if the Tractatus belongs to the Vienna period of Wittgenstein’s life, all the post 1929 writings, even though written in German, were first published in the UK, and the many Cambridge lectures, seminal as they are to the conception of the Philosophical Investigations, were of course delivered in English and transcribed by Wittgenstein’s colleagues and students in English. In the Anglophone world, Wittgenstein tends to be regarded as an English philosopher, to be read against Bertrand Russell, G. E. Moore, A. N. Whitehead, Frank Ramsey, and others. The early influence of Spinoza, Schopenhauer and Frege (and  See Baum (1991); Fabrizio Funto (trans.), Wittgenstein, Diari segreti (Bari: Laterza, 1987); Isidoro Reguera Pérez (trans.), Diarios secretos (Alianza D.L., 1991); Jean-Pierre Cometti (trans.), Wittgenstein: Carnets secrets 1914–1916 (Paris: Farrago, 2001). 7  The author’s translation has been published in April 2022: Wittgenstein (2022). 8  The prominent Wittgenstein scholar David Stern has a scholarly edition underway that will include translation of the full Notebook 1914–16. 6

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later of Kant) is certainly acknowledged, but the British milieu is taken as central. Even the Tractatus, after all, was first known in the C.  K. Ogden translation for Routledge (London), published at the behest of, and with an introduction by, Bertrand Russell, after any number of Viennese publishers had turned down the manuscript. Russell’s Introduction was not uncritical: “The whole subject of ethics,” he complained, “is placed by Mr. Wittgenstein in the mystical, inexpressible region. Nevertheless he is capable of conveying his ethical opinions.”9 This rather sardonic comment infuriated Wittgenstein, but he understood how much he owed his first mentor. And further: he owed the awarding of the PhD for the Tractatus to that other Cambridge philosopher G. E. Moore. Indeed, all the subsequent men in Wittgenstein’s life, from Francis Skinner to Ben Richards, were English-speaking, as were his good friends and disciples like Norman Malcolm and J. O. C. Drury. In the U.S., moreover, Wittgenstein’s philosophy—primarily the later work—has been channeled by the very forceful presence of Stanley Cavell at Harvard. A number of recent books on Wittgenstein openly take their cue from Cavell’s representation of Wittgenstein’s ordinary-language philosophy and ethics. In the Oxbridge of the post-World War II years—and, for that matter, in the leading American universities—the study of philosophy has been regarded as an abstract and conceptual discipline, rigorous in its reasoning and quite unrelated to issues of individual biography. Ironically, toward the end of the century, when the two excellent English biographies of Wittgenstein10 were published, dozens of memoirs, fictions, and even films about the elusive philosopher began to flood the market. But from the perspective of serious philosophy, the productions of a Terry Eagleton (the novel Saints and Sinners, 1987) or a Derek Jarman (the film Wittgenstein, 1993) were considered ancillary, if not frivolous. From January 1929 on, in any case, when John Maynard Keynes wrote to his wife Lydia Lopokova, “Well, God has arrived. I met him on the 5.15 train,” Wittgenstein belonged to Cambridge. (Emblematically, the manuscript of the Private Notebooks belongs to the Wren Library at Trinity College.) And at Cambridge, the original reticence of his executors as to his private life refused to fade. Neither the Oxford Handbook of Wittgenstein (2011) nor the more recent Cambridge Companion to Wittgenstein (2018) devote more than a few pages to their subject’s personal life. In his extraordinarily detailed biography, Brian McGuinness avoids all questions of sexuality, and even Ray Monk remarks, with respect to the diaries: What the coded remarks reveal is that Wittgenstein was uneasy, not about homosexuality, but about sexuality itself. Love, whether of a man or a woman, was something he treasured. He regarded it as a gift, almost a divine gift. But . . .he sharply differentiated love from sex. Sexual arousal, both homo- and heterosexual, troubled him enormously. He seemed to regard it as incompatible with the sort of person he wanted to be.

 Russell (1922, 22).  McGuinness (1988), Monk (1990).

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What the coded remarks also reveal is the extraordinary extent to which Wittgenstein’s love life and his sexual life went on only in his imagination (Monk 1990, 585).

The difficulty with this account is that, as Monk’s own biography makes clear, women played almost no role in Wittgenstein’s life. His one brief heterosexual “affair”—with a Swiss woman, Marguerite Respinger, whom he had met through his sister Gretl in Vienna in the late 1920s—came to a decisive end when he explained to her that, if they were to wed, “he had a Platonic, childless, marriage in mind.”11 I know of no other woman Wittgenstein can be said to have loved: indeed, he travelled almost exclusively in male circles. Nor do I think that in the case of the men he loved, from David Pinsent to Ben Richards, and especially Francis Skinner (with whom he acknowledged having a physical relationship), Wittgenstein separated sex from love and loved only in his imagination. Somehow, even Monk, who seems to understand Wittgenstein so perfectly, cannot reconcile himself to his subject’s queerness. Meanwhile in Vienna, publication and translation were held up for different reasons. In the late 1920s, before Wittgenstein’s return to Cambridge, the Tractatus served as a kind of Bible to the Vienna Circle of logical empiricists, founded in the late 1920s by Moritz Schlick. Wittgenstein attended some of their meetings but was always suspicious of what he felt was their over-commitment to system. During the Nazi period leading up to World War II, and especially after the murder of Schlick by a deranged student in 1936, the Vienna Circle dispersed, many of its members taking up residence in the United States, and it was not until the 1990s that the so-­ called Vienna Edition of the Collected Works, first undertaken by Michael Nedo, began to appear: that edition is still not complete. Allan Janik and Stephen Toulmin’s Wittgenstein’s Vienna12 has been seminal in reminding readers that Wittgenstein was, after all, a product of a very particular Central European culture—and that this culture was not English. And in the past two decades, at the Brenner Archive at Innsbruck, Wittgenstein’s work has been actively published and studied. In 2019, for example, Ilsa Somavilla and Carl Humphries published an important collection of essays (some in English) on the Notebooks 1930–32/1936–37 called Wittgensteins Denkbewegungen [Modes of Thinking]. Indeed, 70 years after his death, in a process that reminds me of Samuel Beckett’s vexed relationship to his native Ireland, Wittgenstein is finally being reclaimed by the country of his birth.13

 See Monk, 258.  Janik and Toulmin (1973/1996). 13  The Austrian Ludwig Wittgenstein Society, founded in 1974, holds annual international meetings and a summer school in Kirchberg am Wechsel. In this region Wittgenstein taught elementary school in the early 1920s. Meanwhile, in Vienna, recent studies of the Institute Vienna Circle, University of Vienna, have sparked renewed interest in Wittgenstein, and there is now a very active and independent Wittgenstein Initiative, founded by Radmila Schweitzer, which holds lectures, symposia, and exhibitions, and publishes new scholarship on the work. 11 12

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But the Austrian circle has had similar difficulties as the English with Wittgenstein’s sexuality: it is as if his admirers consider him to be some sort of saint—a pure being—and hence above and beyond “normal” sexual needs—much less same-sex relationships. And further they argue that, whatever his sexuality may have been, it can have no relevance to the discussion of logic and representation, to “forms of life,” or to the ethical considerations in the Tractatus and the Notebooks 1914–1916, which was its first sketch. Wittgenstein himself contributed to this state of affairs. Like his contemporary Marcel Proust, who made his narrator both anti-Semitic and homophobic even though he himself was Jewish and homosexual, Wittgenstein wanted to distance himself from issues of sexuality as of the question of national identity. It was part of his youthful training in a Vienna where external form, role playing, and secrecy were so important. He remains to this day an enigmatic figure, challenging us to make sense of his anomalies—anomalies that are especially vivid in the Private Notebooks, presented in this new Liveright edition (Wittgenstein 2022) for the first time in the 100+ years since the pages in question were written.

2.2 Toward the Tractatus “The only way to do philosophy,” Wittgenstein remarked in Lectures 1930, “is to do everything twice.”14 The Private Notebooks track the movement whereby their author, slowly and with no prior intention, came to transform what began as a rigorous treatise on logic—a treatise that would provide answers to some of the most pressing problems as to the status of propositions and their “truth functions”—into a much larger, more profound discussion of ethics and aesthetics, indeed the meaning of life and death. Wittgenstein was only 25 when he enlisted in the Austrian army on August 14, 1914, just a day after the Austro-Hungarian Empire had declared war on Russia and 6 weeks after the assassination of the Archduke Ferdinand at Sarajevo—the event that absurdly triggered the Great War. It was, to say the least, an odd decision. For one thing, Wittgenstein had a medical deferment because of a hernia. More important: he had never exhibited the slightest interest in politics or expressed patriotic sentiments. Indeed, he had been living, for the previous 5 years, in the nation that was to be Austria’s most powerful enemy—England, first in Manchester, where he studied aeronautics, and then in Cambridge, where he went to study logic with Bertrand Russell, whose Principia Mathematica had aroused his interest. In Cambridge, he also made friends with the philosopher G. E. Moore and the economist John Maynard Keynes, and it was at one of Russell’s “squashes” (social evenings) that he met the young math student named David Pinsent, who became the object of his love, although their relationship evidently remained entirely chaste.

14

 Lee (1980, 24–26).

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The two travelled to Iceland together in the summer of 1912, to Norway in 1913, and were planning another holiday (Spain? the Hebrides?) together in early August 1914, when the outbreak of war abruptly cancelled their plans. They were never to see one another again: Pinsent, though not in the military, was killed in an aeronautical accident in 1918. He was 27. As the first of the three extant Notebooks details, when Wittgenstein first arrived in Kraków and joined his regiment, he quickly realized he had made a terrible mistake. As someone who could have used his training and connections to become a junior officer but enlisted impulsively as an ordinary infantryman, he was to find his options severely limited, and his companions struck him as beings from an alien world. In 1914, class divisions in the Empire—and, for that matter, in all of Europe— were still quite rigid and education available only to a small percentage of the population. Wittgenstein’s first assignment—as searchlight orderly on the Goplana, a patrol ship captured from the Russians on the Vistula River was painful. The searchlight had to be looked after at all hours of the night, and his few hours of snatched sleep were on the bare wooden floor of the lower deck with no blankets. But the night watch was much less taxing than the confrontation with his shipmates. Within a day or two, Wittgenstein was writing in his notebook that his companions were a “pack of rogues” and that he could hardly recognize them as human beings. No doubt the boorish and brawny men, most of them recruited from the distant provinces of Serbia or eastern Hungary, made fun of the slightly built, cerebral young man from Vienna, humiliating him at every turn. With no one to love or even converse with, it was a dark time. A ray of hope came on September 1, when the Goplana made a brief stop at the little town of Tarnow, and Wittgenstein, idly exploring a small Polish bookshop on the main square found a book in German translation that he later claimed saved his life—Tolstoy’s Gospel in Brief (1892). This revisionary version of the Gospels begins with the premise that “Man is the son of a infinite source, the son of this father not by the flesh, but by the spirit.” (Tolstoy 2011, 4) And, having paid homage to this universal spirit, Tolstoy proceeds to retell the familiar New Testament stories, stripping them of their supernatural component, so that the Agony in the Garden, the Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes, and so on, become so many moral tales, and Christ no more than an exemplary human being. Wittgenstein, who had been brought up on the Catholic Catechism (despite his Jewish background), but had never given much thought to religion, pronounced the Gospel in Brief “a wonderful book.” “But,” he adds, “I haven’t found what I expected in it.” What he means, I think, is that although the notion of God as the ineffable spirit within us was very appealing, he wasn’t quite satisfied with Tolstoy’s rationalizing of the Bible stories. Take the Gospel’s opening: The birth of Jesus Christ happened like this: His mother, Mary, was engaged to Joseph. But before they began to live as husband and wife, it happened that Mary became pregnant. This Joseph was a good man and did not want to disgrace Mary; he took her as his wife and had no relations with her until she gave birth to her first son and named him Jesus. (Tolstoy 2011, 6)

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Wittgenstein, his later comments suggest, preferred the Four Gospels themselves, admiring their language and the mystery and depth of their often enigmatic parables. But for the moment, the protection of the spirit helped him to tolerate the insults and taunts of his shipmates. At the same time, Wittgenstein was always a pragmatist. “It is difficult,” he writes on September 18, “to serve the spirit on an empty stomach and without sleep.” Boredom, monotony, the constant sound of gunfire, ill-planned movements up and down the tributaries of the Vistula: despite these conditions, Wittgenstein managed to do quite a bit of his own philosophical work, trying to understand exactly how language could represent reality and to what extent any proposition that is not a tautology could provide certainty. He was, in other words, still writing a treatise on Logic. But the events of war intervened. On September 8, Lemberg (Lvov), the capital of Galicia, was occupied by the Russians, and for the next month, as cold weather began to set in, the Goplana was repeatedly docked in riverports close to the battlefront. Then on October 28 the terrible news came that Ludwig’s brother, the pianist Paul Wittgenstein, had been wounded in battle and lost his right arm: Again and again, I have to think of poor Paul who has so suddenly been deprived of his vocation! How terrible! What philosophical outlook would it take to overcome such a thing? Can it even happen except through suicide!!— I couldn’t work much, but work with assurance.——. Thy will be done,——.

But Paul does not commit suicide. And note that, just when circumstances are the worst, Wittgenstein is doing his philosophical work “with assurance.” The nastiness of his shipmates continues to sting. Wittgenstein overhears “the sergeant badmouthing me to the lieutenant, implying that I had been a coward [on the job]. That upset me terribly.” And there is still no letter from David Pinsent. “I fought for a long time against depression,” Wittgenstein records on October 19, “then for the first time in ages masturbated.” But the very next day “my spirit speaks within me countering my depression. May God be with me.— —.” Those dashes, used throughout the Notebooks, represent prayers: for the moment, at least, the Tolstoyan regimen seemed to be working. But not for long. As the winter of 1915 set in, Wittgenstein experienced what can only be called his Dark Night of the Soul. In the opening pages of Notebook 2, he is still “working hard,” using the language of war metaphorically to describe his work: “Lay siege to the problem with desperate urgency. But I would rather spill my blood before this fortress than withdraw empty-handed.” And again, “until the city has fallen, one cannot forever rest in one of its forts.” Tackling the riddles of logic was like the siege of a walled city. The Goplana was scheduled to arrive in Kraków in a few days, and Wittgenstein was looking forward eagerly to visiting the poet Georg Trakl, who was a patient in the garrison hospital there. Before the war, Wittgenstein had made a very generous financial bequest to a group of poets and artists chosen by Ludwig von Ficker, the editor of Der Brenner, from artists in need. These included Trakl as well as Rainer Marie Rilke and the architect Adolf Loos. Wittgenstein had never met Trakl and

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knew very little about contemporary poetry, yet somehow he considered Trakl a kind of soulmate. But when he arrived in Kraków and went to the hospital, he was informed that the poet had died a few days earlier. “This hit me very hard,” Wittgenstein wrote in his notebook, “How sad, how sad!!!” In the weeks that followed, depression set in, prompted by the fear that, in the meaningless daily round, he was losing his very identity, his soul. “Only not to lose oneself!!!,” he prays. And again, “I see myself, the ‘I’ which I used to be able to inhabit securely, as a desirable distant island that has deserted me.” Wittgenstein was reading Nietzsche’s The Antichrist and remarks, “I am deeply moved by his hostility to Christianity. For there is always some truth in his writings.” “Such a life [that of the atheist],” Wittgenstein admonishes himself, “makes no sense.” Yet there is the nagging question, “But why not live a life that makes no sense? Is it unworthy?” And although he reluctantly reminds himself that, unlike Nietzsche, he “must always—be conscious always—of the spirit,” one can see that doubt remains. On December 4, Wittgenstein finally got the transfer he has been waiting for. He was discharged from the Goplana and assigned to the artillery workshop in Kraków, where his desk job consisted largely of making inventories of vehicles in use. He was now given a room of his own and was sometimes invited to the officers’ dining room. These privileges should have improved Wittgenstein’s mood, but the fact is that when things went smoothly, he turned inward and became depressed, whereas when he had to endure cannonfire and possibly death, he rallied. At New Year’s, he was informed that his Commander, Lieutenant Gürth, wanted to take him along on a quick business trip to Vienna. One would think that Wittgenstein would have welcomed such an invitation, but somehow he did not. Once in Vienna, he spent only a single day with his family and two afternoons with their family friend, the pianist Josef Labor. Otherwise, he was always with Gürth but, except for a dinner in Mödling “with a Captain Roth whom I found terribly unappealing,” we don’t know how the two spent their time. On January 2, Wittgenstein writes cryptically, “I want to remind myself here that my moral standing is now much lower than it was at Easter.” The allusion is evidently to something that happened in Vienna—possibly a sexual affair—but characteristically, Wittgenstein never specifies. Once back in Kraków, he is unable to do any serious work and refers frequently to his “unsatisfactory” position at the workshop: “Something will have to happen.—. I have to endure much irritation & insult and am squandering my inner strength. I have strong sexual feelings again and masturbate almost every day: it cannot continue this way—.” Which way is that? There is much of which Wittgenstein will not speak—even to himself. Notebook 2 records frequent trips to the baths and to a café in town, but never confides more than these facts even to his private diary. On Feb. 11, he writes, “My relationship with one of the officers—the cadet Adam—is now very tense. It is possible that it may come to a duel between us.” We never hear of this duel again; subsequent entries merely allude to depression: “Did no work. Dark mood. Strong sexual desire. Feeling lonely.. .. I have lost all hope and confidence in my power to succeed” (27.2.15). And then again comes the admonition, “Only do not lose yourself!!—.—.” A “lovely letter” from David provides some respite but not for long.

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On April 22, Wittgenstein is made supervisor of the whole artillery workshop but the promotion doesn’t cheer him up. “Did no work” becomes a monotonous refrain. For four long months, the philosophy manuscript languishes. On January 13, 1915, Wittgenstein writes that his thoughts were themselves “tired” (müde): “It is as if a flame has been extinguished and I must wait till it rekindles itself of its own accord.” Repeatedly, the Notebook refers to the search for what Wittgenstein calls the redeeming word (das erlösende Wort)—a key principle that would somehow resolve his philosophical quandaries. The redeeming word, in this context, calls to mind the opening lines of the Gospel of St. John--“In the beginning was the Word, / And the Word was with God, / And the Word was God”—the Logos. But in the course of these war months, Wittgenstein discovers that there is no “redeeming word,” no unitary Logos that supplies us with solutions to the basic questions of human life. He comes to learn that there are no answers, only questions. And then suddenly something changes: on April 24, the entries begin to open with the exclamation “Working!” and before long, we find on the recto page of May 23 the axiom that was to be central to Wittgenstein’s later thinking: “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” Now, when he finds his mind opening up, the focus is no longer on the refinement of logic as such, but on the larger questions of life. On June 1, the recto reads: The great problem around which everything I write revolves is: Is there a priori an order in the world, and if so, of what does it consist? You are looking into a fog bank and hence persuade yourself that the goal is near. But the fog lifts, and the goal is not yet in sight.

Not yet in sight, but, as Notebook 2 ends, nearer. The notebook(s) for Autumn-Winter 1915–16 are unfortunately among those that were lost, but the principal events of the 10-month period in question may be deduced from letters and other documents. In the late autumn, Wittgenstein had been transferred to an artillery workshop train, based in the small town of Sokal, near Lemberg, where he performed similar duties to those that had been assigned to him in Kraków. During the lull in fighting at this time, Wittgenstein read and wrote a great deal. As for his state of mind, Wittgenstein’s biographers point us to a long letter by Dr. Max Bieler, who was in charge of a Red Cross hospital train nearby and made friends with Wittgenstein. The two evidently had daily conversations about philosophical and cultural subjects: for example, Dostoievsky’s Brothers Karamazov, which they had both read and now discussed avidly. Wittgenstein identified in many ways with the “pure” brother Alyosha, but he also expressed special sympathy for the oldest “sensual” brother Dmitri, who, like himself, engaged in such struggle to control his powerful emotions.15 And the work on logic was evidently continuing with greater speed and confidence: in a letter to Bertrand Russell of October 22, Wittgenstein announces that he has been working not only very hard but, he feels, with “success”:  On Wittgenstein’s special admiration for The Brothers Karamazov, see Lobo (2019), Chapter 1 passim. 15

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I am now at the point of putting the whole thing together in the form of a treatise. Under no circumstances will I publish anything until you have seen it. That cannot, naturally, be till after the war. But who knows whether I shall survive it? In case I don’t survive, have my family send you all my manuscripts: among them you will find the most recent summary, written in pencil on loose sheets. It may perhaps cause you some trouble to understand it all, but don’t let that put you off.16

Note the new note of confidence. And he wrote in a similar vein to Frege. Both Russell and Frege wrote back encouraging notes. Russell urged his friend to send on the manuscript to England via a mutual friend in the United States, but given the prolongation of the war and then Wittgenstein’s year (1918) as prisoner-of-war in Cassino, Italy, his two mentors were not to see the promised treatise for years. Ray Monk has a telling comment on the irony of the situation: If Wittgenstein had followed Russell’s suggestion, the work that would have been published in 1916 would have been in many ways, similar to the work we now know as the Tractatus. . . . it would have contained almost everything the Tractatus now contains—except the remarks at the end of the book on ethics, aesthetics, the soul, and the meaning of life. In a way, therefore, it would have been a completely different work. (Monk, 134)

As Wittgenstein himself put it in a different contest, “The events of the future cannot be inferred from those of the present” (Tractatus 5.1361). The relative quiet on the Eastern Front that marked the winter of 2016 came to an abrupt end in late spring, when the Russians were preparing to launch what was known as the Brusilov Offensive against the Austrian armies—one of the most lethal battles of World War I, fought in Southern Galicia in what is now the Ukraine. It was at this time that Wittgenstein finally got his wish to be sent to the Front and to face death directly. This was perhaps the major challenge of his life. Once at the front line, Wittgenstein requested to be assigned to the observation post. This delicately constructed open artillery tower, used for sighting the enemy, was as tall as a tree and inevitably exposed those on top to enemy gunfire. Wittgenstein chose this post partly to get away from the “cruel, heartless” members of his unit, men in whom he found it “almost impossible to find a trace of humanity,” and partly to test his courage in the face of fire: “Perhaps the proximity to death will bring me the light of life! May God enlighten me!” And indeed Wittgenstein relished his isolated new post, with its constant threat of being shelled: On the observation post, I’m like the prince of the enchanted castle. Now all is quiet during the day, but at night there must be terrible things going on. Will I be able to stand it???? Tonight will tell. God be with me!!

While such prayers are set down on the verso of Wittgenstein’s notebook—the private side, an interesting change takes place on the recto pages. On April 27, Wittgenstein is still concerning himself with hierarchies and types of simple propositions, the representation, for instance, of three non-interchangeable arguments in logic. But 10 days later, the day after devising the “enchanted castle” metaphor cited above, we read on the recto: 16

 Wittgenstein (1980, 87).

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M. Perloff In essence, the whole modern conception of the world is based on the illusion that the so-­ called laws of nature are the explanations of natural phenomena.17 [6.371]

Wittgenstein was never to waiver from the conviction that there are no “laws of nature” that can explain specific natural phenomena. “Only death,” he insists again and again, “gives life its meaning.” Meanwhile, Wittgenstein’s platoon was under heavy fire. He had been promoted to Vormeister (roughly Lance-Bombardier) and was commended for his behavior on the Observation Post, which evidently had “a very calming effect” on his comrades. The decoration recommended was the Silver Medal for Valour 2d Class, a considerable distinction for one of such humble military rank. That decoration was in fact conferred on him in October. That summer—the summer of 1916, when Wittgenstein came under direct fire and survived— was his turning point. “What do I know,” he writes on July 4, “about God and the purpose of life?” and he answers with the now famous litany that begins, I know that this world exists. That I am placed in it like my eye in its visual field. That something about it is problematic, which we call its meaning. That this meaning does not lie in it but outside it.

This new resignation culminates, the next day, in the response, partly to Schopenhauer, that “The world is independent of my will. / Even if everything that we wish were to happen, this would only be, so to speak, a gift of fate, for there is no logical connection between the will and the world that would guarantee it.” It is an astonishing moment. The Wittgenstein who had long acted on the premise that his will could govern his actions, that reason framed the propositions of logic, now writes, “to fulfill the purpose of being is to have no other purpose in life than to live.” And on July 8, “Only he who lives, not in time, but in the present is happy.” Such privileged moments could not, of course, last. By the 9th, Wittgenstein was once again declaring that “The men are miserable scoundrels,” and that “My fellow-­ soldiers disgust me against my will.” And soon the painful Austrian retreat through the Carpathians Mountains got underway. Wittgenstein later recalled that on that long retreat, “he sat utterly exhausted on a horse in an endless column, with the one thought of keeping his seat, since if he fell off, he would be trampled to death.” But although he continued to be terrified of being fired at, he writes, “I now have such a strong wish to live! And it is hard to renounce life once one is fond of it.” Outwardly, nothing really changes: “After a three-day long train journey, we are crossing the marsh into the firing line. Not in the best of health and sick to my soul as a result of the bigotry and meanness of my compatriots.” And a few days later, “I am living in sin, hence unhappy.” The change that has occurred is an inward one. It is the recognition (on the recto) “that ethics cannot be expressed”: it can only be shown. A new resignation begins to manifest itself with the recognition that “Everything we see could also be

17

 For the earlier publication of the recto entries, see Wittgenstein (1979), § 6.371.

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otherwise.” The Wittgenstein who first arrived in Craców in 1914 would never have acceded to that proposition. The surviving notebooks are remarkable for their candor, their self-criticism, their sexual preoccupations, and their dark humor. Despite the many paradoxes and contradictions that characterize Wittgenstein, he was quite consistent in one respect. It was his aim, throughout his life, to turn into a different person.18 Others might want to change the government, the political order, a particular institution or industry. Wittgenstein had no interest in such external institutions; his sole aim was to change himself. And it was the war with all its challenges and difficulties that allowed him to do so. By the summer of 1916, when the secret diary breaks off, Wittgenstein had come to the conclusion that “The sense of the world must lie outside the world,” that in the world, “everything is as it is and happens as it does happen.”19 Hence, as the Conclusion to the Tractatus famously puts it, “Of what one cannot speak, of that one must be silent.”20 It was in the war notebooks, in which Wittgenstein alludes to his painful relationships with others—like the possible duel with Captain Adam—that these hard questions begin to be asked. Once the “redemptive word” is no longer sought, the doors of perception open and what is remarkable is that Verso and Recto in the notebooks—the private and the public—begin to come together. This edition allows us to see this for the first time. Whereas, in the early notebooks, the Recto is full of mathematical equations used in Symbolic Logic and the Verso details trivial daily events, especially relating to Wittgenstein’s animosity toward his fellow soldiers, by the second week of August 1916, when the Recto begins with the sentence, “To believe in a God means to see that the facts of the world are not the end of the matter,” on the Verso we read, set down on the page as a poetic couplet: But the connection will have been made! What cannot be said, cannot be said! (Aber die Verbindung wird hergestellt werden! Was sich nicht sagen läßt, läßt sich nicht sagen!)

Here is the first version of Tractatus 7: “Of what one cannot speak, of that one must be silent,” cited above. But, as the personal diary entries reveal, Wittgenstein could not remain on this lofty plane. The very last entry we have in Notebook 3--19.8.16 (written shortly after Wittgenstein had proved himself in battle during the dreaded “Brusilov Offensive”) —has him once again complaining about the meanness and nastiness of his fellow soldiers and then blaming himself for being intolerant. It is this remarkable candor that makes Wittgenstein’s Notebooks so different from the typical war diaries or memoirs of the First World War. Most of these,  See Perloff (2016).  See Notebook 1914–16, 73, 84; cf. Tractatus, 6.41. 20  Wittgenstein, Tractatus, §7, my translation. The Ogden translation “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent” is a very stilted rendering of Wittgenstein’s colloquial “Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muss man schweigen.” 18 19

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especially the English ones, follow a particular pattern: Herbert Read’s In Retreat, C. E. Montague’s Disenchantment, and Siegfried Sassoon’s Memoirs of an Infantry Office, for example, detail the horrors of trench warfare in all its misery, placing the blame for the war on the English government—often on specific politicians—that have put innocent young men into this horrible situation. Often, an idyllic pastoral pre-war England is contrasted to the nightmare of gas masks and barbed wire. When there is relief from horror, it comes in the form of the comradeship brought on by the war, one’s new and hitherto unknown fellow soldiers often becoming one’s true friends. Wittgenstein’ war diary is the antithesis. Unlike his English compatriots and unlike such Continental poets as the French Apollinaire, who celebrated les jeunes de la classe 1915—young men who appreciated “electrified wires,” and, on the eve of war, looked forward to it as a form of revolution: Before the war we had only the surface Of the earth and the seas After it, we’ll have the depths The subterranean and aerial space —21

Wittgenstein has nothing to say about the war at all. He neither comments on its politics nor blames Austria-Hungary or Germany for what has happened, nor, except in one brief moment when he speculates that the English will win because they are the “better” people, does he speculate as to which side should or would win. Indeed, the war as a political event holds little interest for him. Rather, he seems to regard war as a larger condition —the existential condition in which one must test oneself. From the first, it is his wish to be sent to the Front, to participate in battle so as to determine whether he is brave enough to face death. Later, when he is wounded and decorated, he is deeply relieved that he has passed the bitter test that confronted him. And so, by the time he is made a prisoner of war in Italy in 1918, he has become more serene, more self-confident. And his newly discovered faith in God, or at least in some sort of spiritual reality, has helped him to survive. By 1919 when he returned to Vienna after five long years, Wittgenstein had indeed “become a different person.” “The war,” he was to remark to a nephew many years later, “saved my life. I don’t know what I would have done without it.”22

References Apollinaire, Guillaume. 1980. Guerre. In Calligrammes. Trans. Anne Hyde Greet. Berkeley: University of California Press. Baum, Wilhelm, ed. 1991. Geheime Tagebücher 1914–1916. Wien: Turia & Kant. Engelmann, Paul. 1967. Letters from Ludwig Wittgenstein—With a Memoir, xiv. Oxford: Blackwell.

21 22

 Apollinaire 1980, “Guerre,” Calligrammes, my translation.  See McGuinness, 204.

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Erbacher, Christian. 2000. ‘Among the Omitted Stuff, There Are Many Good Remarks of a General Nature’—On the Making of von Wright and Wittgenstein’s Culture and Value. SATS: European Journal of Philosophy 18 (2): rpt. https://www.degruyter.com/view/journals/sats/18/2/article­p79.xml/. ———. 2020. Wittgenstein’s Heirs and Editors. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Janik, Allan, and Stephen Toulmin. 1973/1996. Wittgenstein’s Vienna. 2nd ed. Chicago: Elephant. Lee, Desmond, ed. 1980. Wittgenstein’s Lectures Cambridge 1930–32. From the Notes of John King and Desmond Lee. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lobo, Tea. 2019. A Picture Held Us Captive: On Aisthesis and Interiority in Ludwig Wittgenstein, Fyodor M. Dostoevsky and W. G. Sebald. Berlin: De Gruyter. McGuinness, Brian. 1988. Wittgenstein, a Life: Young Ludwig 1889–1921. Berkeley: University of California Press. Monk, Ray. 1990. Ludwig Wittgenstein: The Duty of Genius. New York: Macmillan. Perloff, Marjorie. 2016. Becoming a ‘Different’ Person. In Edge of Irony: Modernism in the Shadow of the Habsburg Empire, 153–169. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Russell, Bertrand. 1922. Introduction. In Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Trans. C. K. Ogden, 22. London: Kegan Paul. Somavilla, Ilse. 2002. Verschlüsselung in Wittgenstein’s Nachlass. In Publications of the Austrian Ludwig Wittgenstein Society, New series, 14, 366–386. Innsbruck: Ontos Verlag. Tolstoy, Leo. 2011. The Gospel in Brief: The Life of Jesus. Trans. Dustin Condren. New York: Harper. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1979. Notebooks 1914–1916. 2nd ed, ed. G.  H. von Wright and G. E. M. Anscombe. Trans. G. E. M. Anscombe. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1980. Briefe. Briefwechsel mit B.  Russell, G.  E. Moore, J.K.  Keynes, F.  P. Ramsey, W. Eccles, P. Engelmann, L. von Ficker, ed. B. F. McGuinness and G. H. von Wright. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. ———. 1987. Diari segreti. Trans. Fabrizio Funtò, with an Introduction by Aldo G. Gargani. Bari: Laterza. ———. 1991a. Geheime Tagebücher 1914–1916, ed. Wilhelm Baum. Wien: Turia & Kant. ———. 1991b. Diarios secretos. Trans. Isidoro Reguera Pérez. Madrid: Alianza. ———. 1992. Tracatatus Logico-Philosophicus. Bilingual ed. Trans. C.  K. Ogden, with an Introduction by Bertrand Russell. London: Routledge. ———. 2001. Carnets secrets 1914–1916. Trans. Jean-Pierre Cometti. Paris: Farrago. ———. 2009. Philosophical Investigations, bilingual ed. and Trans. G.  E. M.  Anscombe, P. M. S. Hacker, and Joachim Schulte. Revised 4th ed. By P. M. S. Hacker and Joachim Schulte. ———. 2022. Private Notebooks 1914–1916, ed. Marjorie Perloff. New York: Liveright.

Chapter 3

Tractatus in Context: Some Highlights James C. Klagge

Abstract Wittgenstein’s Tractatus is one of the most important philosophical works of the Twentieth Century, yet it is brief and offers little orientation for the reader. This causes two problems: The first-time reader is left wondering what it could be about, and often leaves off reading in frustration after a few pages. The scholar is left with little guidance for interpretation. This paper recounts selected material from my book Tractatus in Context. While the book includes familiar material from Wittgenstein’s notebooks and letters, it also includes lesser-known material such as untranslated correspondence and notebook entries, later lectures and dictations, notes from Ramsey, and previously unknown reviews. Some of the topics to be examined are: simple objects, atomic facts and elementary propositions, limits and boundaries, superstition, the shape of the visual field, and the role of the will. Given the occasion, I’ll also focus on some ways in which conversations with the Vienna Circle help illuminate obscure passages in the Tractatus. Keywords  Wittgenstein · Tractatus · Context · Object · Analysis · Limit · Boundary · Cause · Will · Waismann · Ramsey Wittgenstein finished his Logisch-Philosophische Abhandlung while on leave from the army in the summer of 1918. As soon as it was safe to do so, he sent a copy to his mentor Bertrand Russell. But before Russell even got the manuscript, Wittgenstein lamented (Wittgenstein 2008, 93; Letter to Russell, June 12, 1919): “the…hope that my manuscript might mean something to you has completely vanished….no one will understand it even if it does get printed!” Wittgenstein had worked with Russell face-to-face for 2 years. So what hope do we have? It was with this question in mind that I set out to reconstruct the context for Wittgenstein’s great but brief work. By “context” I mean the specific writings that Wittgenstein was responding to in his work, sometimes positively, often negatively; J. C. Klagge (*) Department of Philosophy, Virginia Tech, Blacksburg, VA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_3

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earlier or fuller drafts of his own ideas; comments that he made in lectures, letters and conversations concerning the subjects of the book or the book itself; and early reactions to the work. These help us to understand what was at stake, and what Wittgenstein thought was at stake, in his book. Much of this material is already familiar, including his pre-war Notebooks and his correspondence with Russell. But some of it remains untranslated into English, such as the pre-war Geheime Tagebücher (Wittgenstein 1992), and Hänsel’s diaries (Hänsel 2012); some is out of print, such as the letters to Engelmann and his memoir (Engelmann 1967), Pinsent’s diary (Pinsent 1990), Waismann’s notes for the Vienna Circle (Waismann 1979), and the correspondence with Ogden (Wittgenstein 1973); some is unpublished, such as Ramsey’s notes of conversations with Wittgenstein (Ramsey 1920–1930); and finally, some is only recently available, such as Moore’s full notes from Wittgenstein’s lectures (Wittgenstein 2016), and Skinner’s notes from Wittgenstein’s dictations (Skinner 2020).1 In other cases, the material has been available, though we haven’t always recognized its relevance. In any case, much of the context is obscure or difficult to reconstruct. And most importantly, no one had tried to organize all the contextual material so that we could see what there was that was relevant to each proposition. I hope this will put us in a better position to appreciate Wittgenstein’s book. My book, Tractatus in Context, is organized to follow the Tractatus basically proposition by proposition. But there is also a chapter devoted to the prefatory material; there is a chapter on the initial project, including a long excerpt from one of Russell’s pre-war lectures; near the end there is a chapter on Wittgenstein’s experiences in the war as context for the final two dozen remarks; and there is a closing chapter recounting Wittgenstein’s views of the Tractatus in retrospect. Finally, there is an appendix compiling the letters from Frege and other early reactions to the Tractatus as well as all nine published reviews of the book. In this paper I highlight a half-dozen topics that I address in my book.

 Josef Rothhaupt has proposed that Items 002–29–01, 002–28–01, 002–27–01, and 002–26–01 in the Ramsey archive (Ramsey 1920–1930) form a continuous document in that order of 55 pages of notes by Ramsey pertaining to Wittgenstein’s Tractatus. In my book (Klagge 2022, 24n65) I offer some evidence that they are from Ramsey’s 1923 meetings with Wittgenstein in Puchberg. In Item #002-29-01, p. 2, Ramsey records: “He is not verbally inspired, and parts of his book are of inferior merit.” When Ramsey writes to his mother, on September 20, 1923, he notes: “I think he exaggerates his own verbal inspiration, it is much more careful than I supposed…” (Wittgenstein 1973, 78). Also, in his letter to his mother, he mentions Wittgenstein’s frustration that Russell is doing a 2nd edition of Principia Mathematica, and in these notes (p.  18) Ramsey refers to a possible change in the 2nd edition. This is not much to go on, but suggests the letter and the notes might have been written at the same time. In any case, the notes offer a new and proximate source of information about Wittgenstein’s intentions concerning his work. 1

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3.1 Simple Objects From the first time I read the Tractatus in 1975, I was interested in the notion of simple objects, why Wittgenstein thought there must be simple objects, and what he had in mind when he spoke of them. This was in fact the first topic on which I looked for information outside the book itself. On May 6, 1915, Wittgenstein writes in his wartime notebook (Wittgenstein 1979, 45): “As examples of the simple I always think of points of the visual field (just as parts of the visual field always come before my mind as typical composite objects).” And in his 1918 penultimate draft, the so-called Prototractatus, he imagines a different example: “Let the thing [das Ding] be a point mass surrounded by infinite space…. On this interpretation, a spatial point is an argument-place” (Wittgenstein 1996, 2.0141, 2.01411). In 1930 or 1931, when Wittgenstein was teaching at Cambridge, he replied to some questions about the opening passages of the Tractatus (Wittgenstein 1980, 120): “Objects, etc. is here used for such things as a color, a point in visual space, etc…. Objects also include relations; a proposition is not two things connected by a relation. ‘Thing’ and ‘relation’ are on the same level. The objects hang as it were in a chain.” But other passages in the Notebooks (Wittgenstein 1979, 50, 60 & 68) suggest that ultimately he left it open what the simple objects were. It was not that he knew there were simple objects because he could point to examples. Rather, it was a sort of transcendental deduction that there must be simple objects: “But it also seems certain that we do not infer the existence of simple objects from the existence of particular simple objects, but rather know [kennen] them—by description, as it were—as the end-product of analysis, by means of a process that leads to them” (May 23, 1915), and It seems that the idea of the simple is already to be found contained in that of the complex and in the idea of analysis, and in such a way that we come to this idea quite apart from any examples of simple objects, or of propositions which mention them, and we realize the existence of the simple objects—a priori—as a logical necessity. (June 14, 1915).

Still, he had qualms about this approach at that time: “Our difficulty was that we kept on speaking of simple objects and were unable to mention a single one” (June 21, 1915). But it seems that Wittgenstein meant to be agnostic about any examples of simple objects by the time of the Tractatus. Norman Malcolm reports a conversation from 1949: I asked Wittgenstein whether, when he wrote the Tractatus, he had ever decided on anything as an example of a ‘simple object’. His reply was that at that time his thought had been that he was a logician; and that it was not his business, as a logician, to try to decide whether this thing or that was a simple thing or a complex thing, that being a purely empirical matter! It was clear that he regarded his former opinion as absurd. (Malcolm 1984, 70)

Wittgenstein had also criticized himself in this way many years earlier, in a lecture on February 6, 1933 (Wittgenstein 2016, 250): “If you look at Russell & at Tractatus, you may notice something very queer—i.e. lack of examples. They talk of ‘individuals’ & ‘atomic propositions’, but give no examples. Both of us, in different ways, push questions of examples on one side.”

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In fact, the position Wittgenstein took in the Tractatus coincides with the one Russell articulated in his 1918 lectures on the Philosophy of Logical Atomism (Russell 1918/1985, 60–61; Lecture II.  Particulars, Predicates, and Relations, January 29, 1918): …the definition of a particular is something purely logical. [Russell calls the terms in atomic facts “particulars.”] The question whether this or that is a particular, is a question to be decided in terms of that logical definition. In order to understand the definition it is not necessary to know beforehand ‘This is a particular’ or ‘That is a particular’. It remains to be investigated what particulars you can find in the world, if any. The whole question of what particulars you actually find in the real world is a purely empirical one which does not interest the logician as such.

In the Tractatus, then, Wittgenstein goes on to claim and then argue that there must be simple objects—that analysis cannot be endless and must reach a terminus. Russell had believed that, but didn’t think it could be shown. In the question period after the lecture just cited, Russell was asked by a “Mr. Carr” (Russell 1918/1985, 63): “Are complexes all composed of simples? Are not the simples that go into complexes themselves complex?” Russell replied (64): …that is, of course, a question that might be argued—whether when a thing is complex it is necessary that it should in analysis have constituents that are simple. I think it is perfectly possible to suppose that complex things are capable of analysis ad infinitum, and that you should never reach the simple. I do not think it is true, but it is a thing that one might argue, certainly. I do myself think that complexes…are composed of simples, but I admit that it is a difficult argument, and it might be that analysis could go on forever.

Then Mr. Carr goes on to ask (64): “You do not mean that in calling the thing complex, you have asserted that there really are simples?” And Russell replies (64): “No, I do not think that is necessarily implied.” Carr is alluding to the argument that Leibniz made in the Monadology: The monad of which we shall here speak is merely a simple substance, which enters into composites; simple, that is to say, without parts. And there must be simple substances, since there are composites; for the composite is only a collection or aggregatum of simple substances. (Leibniz 1714/1951, 533)

This is in fact the position that Wittgenstein took in the notebook entry quoted above from June 14, 1915.2 Three days later, in his wartime notebooks, Wittgenstein reflects on the nature of this issue: …it seems to be a legitimate question: Are—e.g.—spatial objects composed of simple parts; in analyzing them, does one arrive at parts that cannot be further analysed, or is this not the case?:

 H. Wildon Carr was the organizer of Russell’s 1918 lectures and the author of a 1922 book on the Monadology. He also published the first review of the Tractatus in December 1922 (reprinted in Klagge 2022, 344–346). 2

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—But what kind of question is this?— Is it, A PRIORI, clear that in analyzing we must arrive at simple components—is this, e.g., involved in the concept of analysis—, or is analysis ad infinitum possible?—Or is there in the end even a third possibility? (Wittgenstein 1979, 62; June 17, 1915)

Wittgenstein goes on to give an argument in the following two propositions (2.0211–2.0212) for the first possibility, which seems to have the form of a reductio ad absurdum. This lamentably brief set of propositions was elaborated in an earlier work. In April 1914, G. E. Moore traveled to Norway to visit Wittgenstein where he was working on logic. While there he took dictations from Wittgenstein on his current thoughts. These included: The question whether a proposition has sense (Sinn) can never depend on the truth of another proposition about a constituent of the first. E.g., the question whether (x) x = x has meaning (Sinn) can’t depend on the question whether (∃x) x = x is true. It doesn’t describe reality at all, and deals therefore solely with symbols; and it says that they must symbolize, but not what they symbolize. (Wittgenstein 1979, Appendix II, 117)

In 1923, after having translated the Tractatus into English and after having written an extensive review of the book for Mind, Frank Ramsey travelled to rural Austria to meet with Wittgenstein where he was teaching elementary school. He stayed for a couple weeks and there are notes by Ramsey that seem to be from these conversations. These notes put the point like this: Presuppositions     atomic prop[ositions]          Simple objects Presupposing these is as he says presupposing the determinateness of the sense, that analysis must have an end. If no simples no picture could be made which might not be nonsensical. (Ramsey 1920–1930, Item #002-27-01, 24)

Much later, in 1930, when Wittgenstein was meeting with members of the Vienna Circle, Waismann proposed to work with Wittgenstein to organize Wittgenstein’s ideas into a book. At this time Wittgenstein was still working from the Tractatus and introducing some innovations which, however, do not pertain to this point. For a while Wittgenstein worked with him on this project, but eventually found it unsatisfactory. Keeping those qualms in mind, here is the relevant passage from Waismann’s draft: Elements are simple. For that reason they cannot be described. What can be described? Whatever is complex. The description of a complex will consist in a specification of the way its components are related to one another. If those components too are complex, they can be described in the same way, etc. Here the question arises whether that process can be continued indefinitely. Suppose that were possible. Then every sign occurring in a proposition p would signify [bezeichnen] a complex, and that complex could in turn be described by means of a further proposition q. Can I then ever be sure that a sign used to describe something has meaning [Bedeutung]? No, for I should have to check every time whether that complex existed, i.e., whether proposition q was true. It would hence depend on experience whether a sign had meaning [Bedeutung]. But then no description at all would be possible. (Waismann 1979, Appendix II, 252–253)

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So here we have what I think is the context for 2.02–2.0212. It brings in the dictations to Moore in 1914, the pre-war notebooks in 1915, the Prototractatus, a 1918 lecture and discussion from Russell along with the contrasting view of Leibniz, notes from Ramsey’s 1923 discussions with Wittgenstein, Waismann’s notes of Wittgenstein’s thoughts in 1930, Lee’s notes of a conversation with Wittgenstein in 1930–1931, Moore’s notes of one of Wittgenstein’s lectures in 1933, and Malcolm’s recollection of a conversation in 1949. These help us better appreciate how Wittgenstein was thinking about simple objects.

3.2 Unique Analysis The idea that there are simple objects is connected with the possibility of analyzing facts into their component parts, and the idea that there are simple names is similarly connected with the possibility of analyzing propositions into their component parts. This raises the question whether such an analysis is unique or not. Wittgenstein addresses this directly at 3.25 by affirming that it is: “A proposition has one and only one complete analysis.” While Mauthner will be mentioned by name by Wittgenstein only later, in 4.0031, he also seems relevant here as a target of Wittgenstein’s disagreement. Fritz Mauthner was an Austro-Hungarian journalist, with interests in philosophy and especially language. He is impressed by the variety of languages, and he sees their underlying logic to be variable in the same way (quoted in translation in Janik and Toulmin 1973, 130): “Sound human understanding would necessarily have to learn that henceforth there are as many logics as there are languages with different structures.” Russell visited China to give lectures in 1920–1921. (This is why Russell passed off the job of getting Wittgenstein’s work published to his assistant Dorothy Wrinch.) The mathematician J. E. Littlewood reported (Littlewood 1986, 130) that, upon returning from China, Russell “said once, after some contact with the Chinese language, that he was horrified to find that the language of Principia Mathematica was an Indo-European one.” In an article written not long after returning from China, Russell therefore reconsidered: The subject-predicate logic, with the substance-attribute metaphysic, are a case in point. It is doubtful whether either would have been invented by people speaking a non-Aryan language; certainly they do not seem to have arisen in China… (Russell 1924/1985, 166)

This rethinking on Russell’s part also occurred to Wittgenstein. In his conversations with the Vienna Circle in 1929, Wittgenstein came to appreciate these kinds of alternate possibilities: When Frege and Russell spoke of objects they always had in mind things that are, in language, represented by nouns, that is, say, bodies like chairs and tables. The whole conception of objects is hence very closely connected with the subject-predicate form of propositions. It is clear that where there is no subject-predicate form it is also impossible to

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speak of objects in this sense. Now I can describe this room in an entirely different way, e.g. by describing the surface of the room analytically by means of an equation and stating the distribution of colours on this surface. In the case of this form of description, single ‘objects’, chairs, books, tables, and their spatial positions are not mentioned any more. Here we have no relation, all that does not exist. (Waismann 1979, 41–2; December 22, 1929)

In fact, Wittgenstein’s proposed analysis in “Some Remarks on Logical Form” (Wittgenstein 1929/1993a, 31–32) follows this “entirely different” approach. Frege rejected unique analyzability, not because of the variety of languages, but because even within a given language, it seems possible to analyze it in different ways (Frege 1892/1997, 188): “…a thought can be split up in many ways, so that now one thing, now another, appears as subject or predicate. The thought itself does not determine what is to be regarded as the subject. If we say ‘the subject of this judgement’, we do not designate anything definite unless at the same time we indicate a definite kind of analysis.” To me, however, Frege’s illustrations seem unsatisfying because they seem incomplete—a fuller analysis could be offered that might be unique. In his course lectures in the early 1930s Wittgenstein occasionally discussed and critiqued the Tractatus. On February 6, 1933, he said (Wittgenstein 2016, 253): “I was wrong in supposing that it had any sense to talk of a final analysis.” In this case, it is not hard to see what Wittgenstein’s view is, but it helps to see how it contrasts with the views of Mauthner and Frege, and how both Russell and Wittgenstein came to rethink the view later on.

3.3 Limits and Boundaries One of the best-known aphorisms from the Tractatus is 5.6: “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” The idea of such limits is introduced in the third and fourth paragraphs of Wittgenstein’s Preface, and repeated, among other places, at 4.114. In the Preface Wittgenstein warns us against thinking of this limit in a way that implies there is something on the other side, and at 4.114 he offers a clear way to avoid this “by working outwards through what can be thought.” There is an obvious precedent for this in Kant’s Prolegomena. While it is somewhat uncertain whether Wittgenstein had studied or even read the First Critique before writing the Tractatus, there is good evidence he had read the Prolegomena, at least the First Part on “How is Pure Mathematics Possible?”, which he alludes to in the pre-war notebooks and the Tractatus (Wittgenstein 1979, 15; October 19, 1914; and TLP 6.36111). But if we read on to §57 in the Conclusion, we find this relevant passage: Bounds [Grenzen] (in extended beings) always presuppose a space existing outside a certain definite place, and inclosing it; limits [Schranken] do not require this, but are mere negations, which affect a quantity, so far as it is not absolutely complete. But our reason, as it were, sees in its surroundings a space for the cognition of things in themselves, though we

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The distinction that Kant draws is relevant to the claims that Wittgenstein makes, though the terminology Kant uses (in German) to mark the distinction is hardly employed by Wittgenstein. When Wittgenstein writes in paragraph 3 of the Preface: “…in order to be able to draw a limit [Grenze] to thought, we should have to find both sides of the limit thinkable…” he is using Grenze in Kant’s sense above. But when, in 4.114, Wittgenstein proposes that we set those limits [begrenzen] by working outwards through what can be thought, he is employing what Kant called Schranken. It seems worth retaining Kant’s distinction, and it seems worth marking it in English by distinct translations. When we look to the context, however, things only get muddier. Karl Kraus was an aphorist whom Wittgenstein greatly admired, and listed among his influences  (Wittgenstein 1998, 16). One of Kraus’s aphorisms reads (Kraus 1986, 67): “When I don’t make any progress, it is because I have bumped into the wall of language. Then I draw back with a bloody head. And would like to go on.” Kraus doesn’t use either German term here, but he uses a metaphor which is more closely associated with boundary (Grenze) than limit, and it is a metaphor that Wittgenstein takes up. Wittgenstein used this image in the conclusion to his 1929 “Lecture on Ethics” (Wittgenstein 1929/1993b, 44): “My whole tendency and I believe the tendency of all men who have ever tried to write or talk Ethics or Religion was to run against the boundaries of language. This running against the walls of our cage is perfectly absolutely hopeless.” Note that Wittgenstein uses the English word “boundaries” here (and “walls”). Six weeks after the lecture on ethics, on December 30, 1929, Wittgenstein met with Schlick and Waismann in Vienna and explained (Waismann 1979, 68–69, and cf. 93): “Man feels the urge to run up against the limits [Grenzen] of language….This running up against the limits of language is ethics….But the inclination, the running up against something, indicates something.” Here I think we can improve the translation, since Wittgenstein uses Grenze when he speaks German, but only 6 weeks earlier he made the same point using the word “boundaries” in English. When Wittgenstein addresses this issue just a year later, November 10, 1930, in his lectures at Cambridge he again talks, in English, about the “boundary” of language (Wittgenstein 2016, 87; and Wittgenstein 1980, 34). However, in these same lectures, in purely mathematical cases (Wittgenstein 2016, 37, 217 & 245) Wittgenstein uses the word “limit” to describe convergencies. Since it seems that he wishes to use the mathematical case as the model for the limit of language, he has himself contributed to the confusion, and perhaps was confused himself.

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But the confusion is not complete confusion. At 4.463 Wittgenstein uses a geometrical model and when he describes the situation in the notebooks (Wittgenstein 1979, 30; November 14, 1914) and in the parenthetical paragraph in the Tractatus, it is the one place he uses a form of the German Schranken to draw the relevant distinction as Kant does. The solid body beschränkt [restricts, limits] the movement of others “in the negative sense,” while the empty space is begrenzte [bounded] by solid substance “in the positive sense.” The imagery survives into the Philosophical Investigations (Wittgenstein 1953/2009, §119) where Wittgenstein refers to the “bumps that the understanding has got by running up against the limits [Grenze] of language.” So in this case the context helps us sort out potential confusions in Wittgenstein’s book.

3.4 Superstition and the Causal Nexus A line that has created some perplexity is in 5.1361: “Superstition is nothing but belief in the causal nexus.” Ludwig Boltzmann was a philosophically-minded Austrian physicist. Wittgenstein had once hoped to study with him, a hope ended by Boltzmann’s suicide in 1906. In 1931 (Wittgenstein 1998, 16) Wittgenstein specifically listed Boltzmann as one of his early influences. In one of his popular essays, “On the Principles of Mechanics,” Boltzmann wrote: …in man instinct recedes considerably, but its traces are still noticeable everywhere…. Superstition [Aberglaube] likewise is instinctive in character, and often some of the most educated people cannot quite rid themselves of it. It arises from the continued effect of our need for causality in cases where it is unjustified. The habit of looking for causal connections everywhere induces us to establish a causal link between events that seem purely accidental and with some other often disparate ones, so that the law of cause and effect which correctly applied is the basis of all cognition becomes a will o’ the wisp that leads us on to quite erroneous paths. (Boltzmann 1900/1974, 138–139)

This asserts the causal instinct as the basis for superstition generally. In 1922, when Ogden sent a draft of the translation of the Tractatus to Wittgenstein for examination, Wittgenstein commented: “Belief in the causal nexus is superstition” isn’t right. It ought to be: “Superstition is belief in the causal nexus”. I didn’t mean to say that the belief in the causal nexus was one amongst superstitions but rather that superstition is nothing else than the belief in the causal nexus. In German this is expressed by the definite article before “Aberglaube”. (Wittgenstein 1973, 31; Letter to Ogden, April 23, 1922)

When Frank Ramsey had meetings with Wittgenstein in 1923, they discussed the Tractatus. In a letter to G.E. Moore 5 months later, he reported (Rothhaupt 1996, 46; February 6, 1924): “By the way, I remember your asking me about ‘superstition is belief in the causal nexus’, and I told you falsely, by a queer lapse of memory, that W[ittgenstein] said nothing about it, what he said was that he really meant ‘Belief in the causal nexus is the superstition.” (Unfortunately, this issue is not mentioned

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in Ramsey’s surviving notes from what were probably his discussions with Wittgenstein.). Regarding Wittgenstein’s retrospective remarks on the Tractatus, J. N. Findley recalled a meeting he had with Wittgenstein in February of 1930 (Findley 1972–73, 171–172): “I remember that we discussed what he said about the superstitiousness of believing in a causal principle, but then and on other occasions he did not like being questioned unless it was in the course of his own pursuit of a line of talk and thought.” Findley’s recollection gives a point to Ramsey’s remark to G.E. Moore about his meetings with Wittgenstein in 1923 (Wittgenstein 1993, 47–48): “…in reply to [Ramsey’s] questions as to the meaning of certain statements, Wittgenstein answered more than once that he had forgotten what he meant by the statement in question.”

3.5 The Visual Field The diagram in 5.6331 has been the source of considerable discussion. It is the one with an eye at the end of an oval-shaped outline of a visual field. Some discussion has centered on the position of the eye relative to the sketched visual field, other has had to do with the shape of the visual field. Since Wittgenstein is denying the diagram: “the form of the visual field is surely not like this,” one needs to figure out what aspect he is denying. The problem here is reminiscent of the problem Wittgenstein created when he wrote to G.E. Moore (Wittgenstein 2008, 193; letter of August 23, 1931), concerning Weininger’s book Sex and Character: I can quite imagine you don’t admire Weininger very much…. It is true that he is fantastic [i.e., fantastical] but he is great and fantastic. It isn’t necessary or rather not possible to agree with him but the greatness lies in that with which we disagree. It is his enormous mistake which is great. I.e. roughly speaking if you just add a “~” to the whole book it says an important truth.

Okay, but are we thereby rejecting each thing in the book, or only at least one thing in the book, and if so, which one? When Wittgenstein first writes this proposition in his wartime notebooks (Wittgenstein 1979, 80; August 12, 1916), the hand-drawn diagram has the eye at the apex of the field, neither in nor out of it. The hand-drawn diagram in the Prototractatus (5.33541; photo reproduction of handwritten MS, p. 84) has the eye slightly outside the field. The three typescripts of the Abhandlung all have hand-­ drawn diagrams that put the eye simply ambiguously at the end of the field, neither in nor out. The corrected typescript of the English translation has a hand-drawn diagram with the eye lying slightly out of the field, while the published German edition has the eye perhaps slightly in the field (Wittgenstein 1918/2004, 162, 236 and 303; cf. 379 and 450). All of those variations suggest that the precise placement of the eye was not the issue in Wittgenstein’s mind.

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In a letter to Ogden, dated April 23, 1922, Wittgenstein says: The figure should be like this [in which the eye lies outside of a sack-shaped field] and not [in which the eye lies outside a triangular-shaped field]; because that is how people very often imagine the shape of the field of vision to be. This, by the way, has nothing whatever to do with light going in straight lines. (Wittgenstein 1973, 20)

This suggests that the point all along had to do with the shape of the visual field and not the location of the eye. But it is still hard to see what his point is. This becomes clear, however, in a course lecture from 1933, where Wittgenstein considers: “Our visual field is blurred at the edges.” He is then noted as saying the following: Very queer statement; true in one way, false in another. … But has our visual field got blurred edges? (1) Do we ever notice it? (2) Could we say what it would be like if it were otherwise? If you draw your visual field in a sense you are bound to draw edges blurred, but you must also admit that this isn’t quite like what you see. … But the visual field has no outline. What’s at the edge of visual field may be blurred in a sense that can’t be recognized. This experience couldn’t be reproduced in a drawing by a blurred outline. … In one sense what is blurred could be imagined with a sharp outline; but I can’t imagine my visual field with a sharp outline. The visual field has no boundary; it has no sense to say that the visual field has one. “Blurred round the edges” of visual field, is either (1) nonsense or (2) describes a particular experience, which you needn’t always have. (Wittgenstein 2016, 292–293; March 6, 1933)

This suggests that the issue is whether the visual field can be represented as having a boundary. From his letter to Ogden it is clear that the triangular-shaped boundary fails to capture what is wrong—not because light can bend, but presumably because it altogether fails to admit a sense of vagueness about the edges of the visual field. The sack-shaped diagram better captures the notion of vagueness. But it is nevertheless also wrong because it represents this vagueness as a boundary at all. The idea seems to be that there is no a priori shape to the visual field at all. The point seems to be that there is no form that the visual field has, as opposed to its having some form other than what is pictured.

3.6 The World is Independent of My Will My favorite illustration of the relevance of context for appreciating the Tractatus is the importance of Wittgenstein’s wartime experiences for understanding some of the closing propositions. I made this case already in the first chapter of my book

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Wittgenstein in Exile (Klagge 2011). Here I will just focus on proposition, 6.373: The world is independent of my will. Taken in the context of the Tractatus it is very hard to see why Wittgenstein makes this assertion, or why he thinks it is plausible. But taken in the context of his experiences at the front, as recorded in the coded remarks in his diary, it makes a great deal more sense. The antecedents for this proposition in the Tractatus appear in the Notebooks beginning in July, as Wittgenstein is under attack. We know this from the coded diary, where he records that he was first “shot at” April 29, 1916. “In constant danger of my life” (Wittgenstein 1992, May 6, 1916). The Brusilov Offensive began June 4, 1916, he records on July 6th: “Colossal exertions in the last month” (Wittgenstein 1992, 69–74), and this mortal danger continues through the end of July. During this time, he is constantly coaching himself about how to hold up under such difficult conditions—conditions that are quite out of his control. It is only after he is shot at that God and death are first mentioned in the Notebooks (May 6 and July 5, respectively: Wittgenstein 1979, 72–73). He had been calling on God regularly (in the coded diary) since he entered the service, but it is apparently mortal danger that propelled these topics into the Tractatus. Only in the sort of extreme circumstances Wittgenstein was in would someone find it plausible to say that the world was independent of his will. This assertion is made in so many words in the Notebooks on July 5, but is preceded with: “I cannot bend the happenings of the world to my will: I am completely powerless.” Then Wittgenstein goes on stoically to recommend: “I can only make myself independent of the world—and so in a certain sense master it—by renouncing any influence on happenings.” The remark takes life as a form of self-coaching, but then after reflection takes on a metaphysical cast—“the world is independent of my will”. Having renounced the role of the will in changing the facts of the world, he retains a role for the will in changing his view of those facts. He had earlier reflected (Wittgenstein 1992, 70): “In constant danger of my life….From time to time I despair. This is the fault of a wrong view of life.” On July 29 in his coded diary he goes on to equate sin with “a false view of life.” And on the same day in his philosophical Notebooks he twice states what would become proposition 6.43: “The world of the happy man is a different one from the world of the unhappy man.” Wittgenstein encourages himself to be happy rather than unhappy in his circumstances as they are. This is up to him, a matter of the will: “A man who is happy must have no fear. Not even in the face of death” (Wittgenstein 1979, 74).

3.7 The Publication Date of the Abhandlung I will close with a small complaint about the common tendency to celebrate the centennial of Wittgenstein’s great book in 2021. Despite being dated 1921, Wittgenstein’s original German Abhandlung was not published in 1921. In January of 1922 Wittgenstein asked his friend Hänsel to see if he could get a hold of a copy

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of “mein Zeug [my stuff]” in Vienna. After searching diligently, Hänsel was unable to find that journal issue in any bookstores or libraries (Wittgenstein 1994, 59–60). In a letter from Ogden to Wittgenstein (Wittgenstein 2004), dated April 10, 1922, Ogden reports that “the Annalen itself appeared” the same day that he received Wittgenstein’s March 28th letter—so, in early April, 1922!3

References Boltzmann, Ludwig. 1900/1974. On the Principles of Mechanics. In Theoretical Physics and Philosophical Problems: Selected Writings, ed. Brian McGuinness, 129–152. Dordrecht: D. Reidel. Engelmann, Paul. 1967. In Letters from Wittgenstein with a Memoir, ed. B. McGuinness. Oxford: Blackwell. Findley, J.N. 1972–73. My Encounters with Wittgenstein. Philosophical Forum IV: 167–185. Frege, Gottlob. 1892/1997. On Concept and Object. In The Frege Reader, ed. M. Beaney, 181–193. Oxford: Blackwell. Hänsel, Ludwig. 2012. Begegnungen mit Wittgenstein: Ludwig Hänsels Tagebücher 1918/1919 und 1921/1922, ed. I. Somavilla. Innsbruck: Haymon. Janik, Allan, and Stephen Toulmin. 1973. Wittgenstein’s Vienna. New York: Simon and Shuster. Kant, Immanuel. 1783/1975. Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics. Trans. Paul Carus. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill. Klagge, James C. 2011. Wittgenstein in Exile. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. ———. 2022. Tractatus in Context: The Essential Background for Appreciating Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. New York: Routledge. Kraus, Karl. 1986. Half Truths and One-and-a-Half-Truths: Selected Aphorisms, ed. H.  Zohn. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Leibniz, G.W. 1714/1951. Monadology. In Leibniz: Selections, ed. P. Wiener, 533–552. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Littlewood, J.  E. 1986. Littlewood’s Miscellany, ed. Bela Bollobas. New  York: Cambridge University Press. Malcolm, Norman. 1984. Ludwig Wittgenstein: A Memoir. New ed. New  York: Oxford University Press. Pinsent, David. 1990. Portrait of Wittgenstein as a Young Man: From the Diary of David Hume Pinsent, 1912–1914, ed. G. H. von Wright. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Ramsey, Frank P. 1920–1930. “Frank Plumpton Ramsey Papers, 1920–1930,”ASP.1983.01,Archives of Scientific Philosophy, Special Collections Department, University of Pittsburgh (available online: https://digital.library.pitt.edu/islandora/object/pitt%3AUS-­PPiU-­asp198301/ viewer). Rothhaupt, Josef. 1996. Farbthemen in Wittgensteins Gesamtnachlaß. Bad Langensaltza: Belz Athenäum. Russell, Bertrand. 1918/1985. The Philosophy of Logical Atomism. In The Philosophy of Logical Atomism, ed. D. Pears, 35–155. La Salle: Open Court. ———. 1924/1985. Logical Atomism. In The Philosophy of Logical Atomism, ed. D.  Pears, 157–181. La Salle: Open Court. Skinner, Francis. 2020. Ludwig Wittgenstein: Dictating Philosophy to Francis Skinner, The Wittgenstein-Skinner Manuscripts, ed. A. Gibson and N. O’Mahony. New York: Springer.  This paper is largely excerpted from the book Tractatus in Context, Routledge, 2022, with permission from Taylor & Francis. 3

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Waismann, Friedrich. 1979. Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, ed. B. McGuinness. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1918/2004. Ludwig Wittgensteins Logisch-Philosophische Abhandlung: Entstehungsgeschichte und Herausgabe der Typoskripte und Korrekturexemplare, ed. Graßhoff, Gerd, and Timm Lampert. Wien and New York: Springer. ———. 1953/2009. Philosophical Investigations. 4th ed. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 1973. Letters to C. K. Ogden: with Comments on the English Translation of Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, ed. G. H. von Wright. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. ———. 1979. Notebooks: 1914–1916. 2nd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1980. Wittgenstein’s Lectures: Cambridge, 1930–1932. From the Notes of John King and Desmond Lee, ed., Desmond Lee, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. ———. 1992. Geheime Tagebücher: 1914–1916, ed. W. Baum. Wien: Turia & Kant. ———. 1993. Philosophical Occasions: 1912–1951, ed. J. Klagge and A. Nordmann. Indianapolis: Hackett. ———. 1929/1993a. Some remarks on logical form. In Philosophical occasions: 1912–1951, 28–35. Indianapolis: Hackett. ———. 1929/1993b. A lecture on ethics. In Philosophical occasions: 1912–1951, 36–44. Indianapolis: Hackett. ———. 1994. Ludwig Hänsel–Ludwig Wittgenstein: Eine Freundschaft—Briefe, Aufsätze, Kommentare, ed. C. Berger, I. Somavilla, and A. Unterkircher. Innsbruck: Haymon Verlag. ———. 1996. Prototractatus: An Early Version of Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, ed. B. McGuinness, et al. New York: Routledge. ———. 1998. Culture and Value, ed. G. von Wright. Revised edition, Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 2004. Gesamtbriefwechsel: Complete Correspondence, the Innsbruck Electronic Edition. Charlottesville: InteLex (CD-ROM and on-line). ———. 2008. Wittgenstein in Cambridge: Letters and Documents, 1911–1951, ed. B. McGuinness. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 2016. Wittgenstein: Lectures, Cambridge 1930–1933: From the Notes of G. E. Moore, ed. D. Stern, B. Rogers, and G. Citron. New York: Cambridge University Press.

Chapter 4

Facts, Possibilities, and the World. Three Lessons from the Tractatus Hans Sluga

Abstract Wittgenstein’s Tractatus has always been and remains a puzzle and that from its first page onwards. According to its initial assertions, the totality of facts constitutes the world and the totality of states of affairs defines the space of logical possibilities. But what are facts? What are possible states of affairs? And why do we need to consider their totality? Frege and Russell were the first to grapple with these interpretational questions. The ever-growing secondary literature on the Tractatus shows how easy it is to become absorbed in its hermeneutics. More important, however, is the question what substantively philosophical lessons we can extract from Wittgenstein’s words. There are, it turns out, at least, three of them. The first is, that the concept of fact, on which Russell and the Wittgenstein of the Tractatus relied so much, is philosophically brittle and that we must turn our attention, instead, to the broader notion of the factuality of the world. The second lesson is that we can and must think about the world in both factual and modal terms but that in doing so we must treat the idea of possibility, not that of necessity, as primary and we must conceive of possibilities as merely virtual, not as factual. The third is that we must consider the world as a whole, if we are to make sense of logic, science, and ethics. Keywords  Wittgenstein · Frege · Russell · Facts · States of affairs · Possibilities · Logic · The world

The world a totality of facts, facts as the existence of states of affairs; possibilities as the “facts” of logic. Gottlob Frege and Bertrand Russell were rightly puzzled when they encountered those notions on the first page of the Tractatus. What is a fact, Frege wondered. (Frege 1989, 19) What is the difference between a fact and a state of affairs, Russell asked. (Wittgenstein 1995, 125) As for a realm of possibilities, there was no place for it in their logic. And what could they make of Wittgenstein’s talk about the world and its totality? That they had difficulties with H. Sluga (*) Department of Philosophy, University of California, Berkeley, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_4

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the book is not surprising given its indubitable originality and its exceptionally condensed formulations. It has taken several generations of scholars and a rich body of secondary literature to give us a better understanding of the work.1 But in this course of things something has also been lost. Frege and Russell approached the Tractatus naively but they did so also in a genuinely philosophical manner. Today, the book is shrouded in a veil of commentary that is becoming thicker with every year and this makes it almost impossible for us to look at the book in its own terms. Can we still free ourselves from the secondary literature enough to read the Tractatus once more in the way it must have appeared to Frege and Russell? As an occasion for philosophical engagement and not one for practicing the hermeneutic arts. ****** Gottlob Frege was, for all we know, the very first reader of Wittgenstein’s book. Wittgenstein’s sister had sent him the manuscript in December 1918 at the request of her brother who was at the time a prisoner of war in Italy while Russell was to receive his copy only half a year later. (von Wright 1984, 111). Was the delay due merely to the uncertainties of the mail, as Wittgenstein explained to Russell, or was he keener at this point to hear of Frege’s response to his book? He had been closer to Russell during the pre-war years, but he had never felt comfortable with Russell’s careless mixing of logical, epistemological and psychological considerations. In Frege he admired the clarity and succinctness of his formulations and his sharply concentrated focus on logic. When he started work towards his book in 1914, he had done so under the Fregean motto that logic must take care of itself – a decidedly un-Russellian formula. (Wittgenstein 1979, 2) And in the preface to the Tractatus he had distinguished accordingly between “the magnificent [grossartige] works of Frege and the writings of my friend Bertrand Russell.” (Wittgenstein 1960, 29).2 But Frege’s response was to disappoint him. After months of silence, Frege wrote apologetically that “protracted business matters” had prevented him from engaging with Wittgenstein’s treatise. “I can therefore give you no considered judgment… I find it difficult to understand.” (Frege 1989, 19) He was particularly bothered by Wittgenstein’s preface. “After one has read your preface one doesn’t quite know what to do with your first sentences.” (Frege 1989, 23) He picked, in particular, on Wittgenstein’s remark that the Tractatus was not saying anything new. Surely, this was not the case. When Wittgenstein supplied him (in a letter now lost) with an

 Among major secondary writings addressing some of the questions under discussion are Stenius 1960, Black 1964, Zalabardo 2015, and Engelmann 2021. 2  For the German text of the Tractatus I draw on Wittgenstein 1960. For the English translation I make use of both Wittgenstein 1960 and Wittgenstein 1974 but I will also often substitute my own. All references to the Tractatus will be identified as “TLP” followed by the number of the propositions cited. 1

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account of his intentions, Frege did not find that helpful either. “What you write about the purpose of your book is bewildering to me,” he responded. (Frege 1989, 21) When he turned his attention directly to the book, Frege could not manage to get beyond the first page. He was taken aback right at the start by the dogmatic tone of Wittgenstein’s words. “One expects to see a question, a problem posed,” he wrote, thinking possibly of the opening of his own essay “On Sense and Reference”. But the Tractatus started with bare assertions without the kind of justification “that they evidently need so urgently,” How did Wittgenstein come to his propositions about a world of facts and a space of possible states of affairs? With what problems were they connected? “I would like a question to be put at the beginning, a riddle of which one would enjoy to learn the solution.” (Frege 1989, 23–24) If he had read on, Frege might, perhaps, have discovered that the Tractatus begins, indeed, with a riddle, but one that is cast initially in the form of a simple assertion. Instead, he remained stuck with a number of unexplained terms in the first sentences of the book. There was, above all, the question: “what is a fact?” He also wanted to know what Wittgenstein meant by the expression “being the case”? Was there a difference between “being the case” and “being a fact”? Or were the first two sentences saying the same thing? But why then the duplication? And what about “states of affairs”? How did they differ from facts? What did it mean to speak of the Bestehen of states of affairs? Was the Bestehen and Nichtbestehen an existence or nonexistence of states of affairs, as our translations now make it? Were there then nonexistent states of affairs? This touched on one of Frege’s deepest insights – the realization that existence is not a property that things may have or lack. It looked to him, as if Wittgenstein was going back on that important conclusion. Wittgenstein was borrowing his terms, moreover, from ordinary language which was surely an unreliable guide. “We need, so it seems to me, elucidations (Erläuterungen) to make the sense more precise,” Frege complained. (Frege 1989, 19) His words suggest that he had, perhaps, read further into the Tractatus than he admitted. Had he seen TLP 3.263 “The meaning of primitive signs can be explained by elucidations” and perhaps even TLP 4.112 that “a work of philosophy consists essentially of elucidations”? So, where were the sorely needed elucidations? Wittgenstein’s response that question left Frege nonplussed: “I would hardly by myself have come to what you write to me about state of affairs, fact, or situation (Sachverhalt, Tatsache, Sachlage).” (Frege 1989, 21) It was the notion of fact that particularly irked him. He had found no use for it in constructing his own logic. In his Begriffsschrift he had once considered the possibility that the judgment-sign he put before propositions in his formal notation might be read as saying that the proposition was a fact. (Frege 1997, 34) But he had never returned to this idea in his subsequent writings. It was only in his essay “The Thought,” written at about the same time as Wittgenstein’s Tractatus, that he returned to the issue. “Facts, facts, facts, cries the scientist, if he wants to bring home a firm foundation for science,” we read in that essay. Was Frege thinking of Wittgenstein at that moment? (Sluga 2001) His own position was clear and straightforward. “A fact is a thought that is true.” (Frege 1997, 342) The thought in question

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was, of course, not a psychological moment but a supposedly objective content of thinking, the sense of a sentence, as he had previously described it. The thought and its truth were thus fundamental to him. “Fact”, on the other hand, was an uncertain and at best derivative notion. A true proposition did not stand for a fact but referred to truth or the truth-value True  – a basic and undefinable notion. We know that Wittgenstein did not agree much with Frege’s essay. Despite his broad admiration for Frege, he felt no attraction to either objective thoughts or truth-values. The thoughts he wrote about in the Tractatus were psychological in character, not Frege’s senses. To Russell’s question about their constituents, he responded: “It would be a matter of psychology to find out.” (Wittgenstein 1995, 125) He also considered Frege’s account of truth mistaken. The True and the False were not objects for him. (TLP, 4431) A proposition was made true, rather, by picturing a fact. To Wittgenstein, the notion of a fact was clearly more fundamental than that of truth. But Frege was right in being wary of the concept of fact. When is a fact a fact? Are there identity criteria for facts? How many facts are there, for instance, when the black cat is looking at me from the sofa? We might say one single fact or speak of the cat’s being black, of it looking at me, and of it sitting on the sofa as three distinct facts. But is the cat’s being black a single fact or does it, in turn, consist of its head, body, and legs being black? And so on. And how many facts are there when a train is rolling past in the course of the next 3 minutes? Is the entire passing of the train one fact or are there non-denumerably many momentary facts? If we can identify facts only in terms of the descriptions we give of them, it appears that they are what they are only because we speak or think of them in a particular way. Nietzsche acidic comments seems to get close to the matter: “Facts is precisely what there is not, only interpretations. We cannot establish any fact ‘in itself’; perhaps it is folly to do such a thing.” (Nietzsche 1968, 481) Only if there exist elementary facts that are what they are quite independently of how we see, describe, or interpret them and if those elementary facts have clearly specifiable identity conditions and if, moreover, what we ordinarily call facts are just composites of those elementary facts, only then can we be sure that the notion of fact has a sharply defined meaning. It requires, in other words, the resources of logical atomism with its distinction between the elementary and the composite to make sense of the notion. But Frege – and Nietzsche – did, of course, not make such assumptions and we have no reason to make them either. When we talk about facts we mean, in effect, to refer to bits of reality which may be small or large or everything in between. It’s a convenient but not very precise way to speak. Philosophically, facts have not much to go for them. To complete this line of reasoning would, of course, require a critical dissection of logical atomism. That task lies beyond the present essay. One consideration will have to suffice. It is that we should not take for granted that analysis leads inevitably from something more complex to something simpler and that we have therefore reasons to assume that there must be absolute simples at the imagined end of the analytic process, even if we can never find that end. The ancient Greek atomists thought in that way, but contemporary physics which has led us from atoms to particles and from there to quantum fields and strings shows that the process of analysis may actually lead us to ever more complex structures. The same is true in the case

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of logical analysis. If we analyze “Berlin” as “the capital of Germany” and “Germany” as “the country at the center of Europe,” that does not mean that Germany is simpler than Berlin and Europe simpler than Germany. So much for a stab at a critique of logical atomism. A thorough review of it would have to include an examination of the concept of analysis as well as critical attention to the concept of simplicity – a topic Wittgenstein himself took up in Philosophical Investigations. ****** Russell did somewhat better than Frege when he first read the Tractatus. Within 3 weeks of receiving the manuscript he wrote to Wittgenstein that he recognized the importance of the book but this did not mean that he fully understood or agreed with it. “I have now read your book twice carefully. – There are still points I don’t understand – some of them important ones…. But in places it is obscure through brevity.” (Wittgenstein 1995, 121) He then appended a list of queries, beginning with “What is the difference between Tatsache and Sachverhalt?” The letter left Wittgenstein convinced that Russell had not really grasped what he had sought to communicate. “Now I’m afraid you haven’t really got hold of my main contention,” he replied. Frege “wrote to me a week ago and I gather he doesn’t understand a word of it all…. it is VERY hard not to be understood by a single soul.” (Wittgenstein 1995, 124) In contrast to Frege, Russell had no difficulties with Wittgenstein’s facts. After initially agreeing with G. E. Moore’s view that truth was a simple and indefinable property of judgments or propositions (Moore 1900, 180) he had shifted to the view that “belief is true when there is a corresponding fact.” (Russell 1959, 129) In his Theory of Knowledge he had written in 1913: “Our mental life is largely composed of beliefs, and of what we are pleased to call “knowledge” of “facts”. When I speak of a “fact”, I mean the kind of thing that is expressed by the phrase “that so-and-so is the case”.” (Russell 1992, 9) A fact was, he added, “the kind of object towards which we have a belief, expressed in a proposition.”3 He relied thus in essence on a linguistic characterization of facts. But he didn’t mean to say that facts could be identified only via propositions expressing them. He believed, rather, that there were also ‘primitive’ facts “which are known to us by an immediate insight as luminous and indubitable as that of sense.” (Russell 1992, 9) We might even in some cases speak of “perceiving a fact“ and such “perceiving the fact cannot be identified with believing the proposition.” (Russell 1992, 133) By 1918, when he delivered his “Lectures on Logical Atomism,” Russell was still more certain about the reality of facts. “The first truism to which I wish to draw your attention,” he told his audience, “is that the world contains facts, which are what they are whatever we may choose to think about them.” And he added at once that truisms of this sort “are so obvious that it is almost laughable to mention them.” (Russell 1984, 182) The world was not completely described by “particulars”, he said, there are also facts “which are the sort of things

 Where Russell had previously used the term “proposition” to mean something like the conceptual content of a sentence, he was now using it synonymous with “sentence” while denying that there were propositions in the first sense of the word. 3

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that you express by a sentence and … these just as much as particular chairs and tables, are part of the real world.” (Russell 1984, 183) Given that facts were the sort of things that can be expressed by sentences, it seemed natural to Russell to postulate different kinds of facts corresponding to the different kinds of sentences. There were, he said, both positive and negative facts as well as general ones and among the latter, in particular, “the completely general facts of the sort that you have in logic.” (Russell 1984, 184) This was a point of contention for Wittgenstein. He had adopted Russell‘s linguistic characterization of facts. He took it, in fact, more strictly than Russell had done and did not assume that one could also have direct, perceptual acquaintance with facts. He was not, however, ready to go along with Russell’s proliferation of kinds of facts. In order to resist it, he thought it necessary to introduce states of affairs. What Russell had called negative facts, he said, consisted simply in “the non-existence of states of affairs.” (TLP, 2.06). He also needed to distinguish between genuine propositions expressing facts and expressions that only looked like such. In section 6 of the Tractatus he reviewed a whole series of the latter. There were no logical or mathematical facts. The assertions of natural science were not propositions depicting facts. The purported claims of metaphysics and ethics were literally meaningless. Much of the Tractatus was, indeed, designed to prune back the Russellian overgrowth of facts. On Wittgenstein’s view, elementary sentences expressed states of affairs and their combination, if true, depicted positive particular facts. There were no others. The linguistic characterization of facts on which Wittgenstein agreed with Russell, left him however, with a problem that he could not solve. He may, in fact, not even have been aware of it. It concerns the question how one is to find out that a sentence is true. Wittgenstein’s proposed answer is that we must discover a corresponding fact. “The sentence is a picture of reality, for I know the situation presented by it when I understand the sentence… The sentence shows how things stand if it is true. And it says that they do so stand.” (TLP, 4.021 and 4.023) But how do I know that sentence S is made true by fact F? It appears that I must be able to determine that S actually depicts F and that means that I must be able to find out that the proposition and the fact have the same logical structure. But how I do I know the logical structure of F? If the answer is that I do so only through the proposition that represents it, then it turns out that we have no independent means of establishing that S represents F. If, on the other hand, we have an independent means of establishing the logical structure of F, Wittgenstein’s assumption that the structures of facts can be determined only linguistically must be given up. Russell avoided this difficulty by assuming the possibility of direct acquaintance with primitive facts of the form “This is white.” But that solution left him, of course, with the problem that the linguistic characterizations of facts was insufficient and that he had no other way to characterize what a fact was. Wittgenstein did not go along that route and stuck, instead with his linguistic characterization. He was, in other words, unwilling to contaminate logical questions with psychological and epistemological considerations as Russell was prone to do. For Russell it was clear that “what appears to be known without inference involves

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psychology.” Since he assumed that elementary facts could be known by acquaintance, he could thus conclude that “the epistemological order of deduction involves both logical and psychological considerations.” (Russell 1992, 50) The Wittgenstein of the Tractatus was, however, a “logicist” in the Fregean mold who dismissed psychology as merely another natural science and as such irrelevant to philosophy and who took the theory of knowledge to be no more than “the philosophy of psychology.” (TLP, 41121) Having rejected the possibility of an immediate acquaintance with facts, he was left with saying that they could be identified only linguistically through the sentences expressing them. And this meant for him also that they could only be identified logically since language and logic were for him intimately related in a way that was entirely foreign to Russell. Russell was, however, rightly concerned over Wittgenstein’s attempt to solve his problems by introducing the notion of a state of affairs. What were they? How did they differ from facts? Wittgenstein responded to Russell’s query by arguing at first that they were “what corresponds to an Elementarsatz if it is true,” (Wittgenstein 1995, 125) That explanation ultimately motivated Ogden’s translation of the German “Sachverhalt” as atomic fact. But this was not the full story. According to the Tractatus: “What is the case, the fact, is the existence of states of affairs.” (TLP, 2) The shift from the singular to the plural suggests, indeed, that what Wittgenstein calls “facts” without qualification are complex in contrast to states of affairs which are atomic. But the remark also indicated that a fact is what is the case, whereas a state of affairs may or may not exist. What Russell found problematic was in the concept was not the idea of atomic facts but Wittgenstein’s talk of non-existent “possible states of affairs” (TLP 2.0124). He took Wittgenstein’s states of affairs to be the kin of what he and Moore had once called “propositions.” The two had assumed at the time that there were both true and false propositions and that the true ones constituted reality. Truth, on this view, was an intrinsic property of propositions that they possessed as constituents of reality. But Russell had eventually abandoned this way of talking in favor of speaking of reality as made up of facts and of truth as a correspondence of our beliefs or judgments to those facts. In his “Lectures on Logical Atomism” he wrote: Time was when I thought there were propositions, but it does not seem to me very plausible to say that in addition to facts there are also these curiously shadowy things going about such as ‘That todays is Wednesday’ when in fact it is Tuesday. I cannot believe they go about the real world. (Russell 1984, 223)

When Russell read the Tractatus, he must have thought that Wittgenstein was returning to a view he himself had found reasons to reject. Wittgenstein had, in fact, introduced the notion of a state of affairs to explain how a sentence like “Todays is Wednesday” can be meaningful when it is false. While a true sentence is said to stand for fact, there is no such thing in the case of a false sentence. But such a sentence still has meaning as we can see from the circumstance that its negation will be true and will be so by standing for a fact. For Wittgenstein, both the true and the false sentence express states of affairs; the difference is that true sentences express existing states of affairs and false ones states of affairs that do not exist. But was that

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an adequate solution to the problem of falsehood? Were states of affairs not exactly the kind of thing Russell sought to avoid? Russell meant to solve the problem with the help of his multiple relations theory of judgment. In a judgment or belief, he argued, a subject entertains a number of separate items together in their mind. When the belief is true there will correspond to it a fact in the world; when it is false there are only the subject and the separate items in the mind. no need then to postulate some intermediate shadowy entity like a state of affairs. Thus, when Othello falsely believes that Desdemona loves Cassio, there is only Othello’s belief which is about the separate items of Desdemona, Cassio, and love. There is not in addition the proposition that Desdemona loves Cassio. Wittgenstein’s possible states of affairs were, so it must have looked to Russell, exactly what he was seeking to avoid. The problem was, however, that Russell never managed to give a fully satisfactory account of his multiple relations theory. Wittgenstein found it easy to poke holes into its various versions. Would any items held together in a mind at one moment constitute a belief? Would “the desk penholders the ink” be a possible belief? Wittgenstein summarized his objection in the laconic statement: “The correct explanation of the form of the sentence ‘A judges that p’ must show that it is impossible to judge a nonsense. (Russell’s theory does not satisfy this condition.)” (TLP, 5.5422) And if Othello’s belief concerned only the separate items of Desdemona, Cassio, and love, how could there be a distinction between Othello’s belief that Desdemona loves Cassio and the belief that Cassio loves Desdemona? Russell responded by postulating that the subject would also have in their mind a propositional schema – a “logical form” – that indicated how the other items were to be combined. But this still did not explain in what order the other items of the belief were to be assigned to this schema. In the face of these difficulties, Wittgenstein concluded that one could not get around the assumption that the object of a belief, whether true or false, had to be some unified whole. Wittgenstein’s resolution of this problem was to talk of states of affairs expressed by true and false sentences alike. But what exactly were they? And where were they to be found? Not in the real world, but in logical space. But what and where was logical space, if the world is everything that is the case? In TLP, 2.01 Wittgenstein tells us that a state of affairs is a combination of objects, entities (“Sachen”) or things. One is reminded at this point of Frege’s observation that Wittgenstein’s terms call for elucidation. They are, once again, taken from ordinary language and as such suggestive but Wittgenstein evidently uses them in a new and distinctive way. A “Gegenstand,” as the term is commonly understood, may be anything from a material thing to the topic of a conversation. And the word “Sache” has almost the same wide range of meanings. A “Ding,” on the other hand is generally a solid, material object. Wittgenstein’s use of those three terms suggests that he may not have objects in the usual sense in mind. In 1930, he told the members of the Vienna Circle: “When Frege and Russell spoke of objects, they had always before their eyes what is linguistically represented by a substantive, let us say bodies like chairs and tables.” He went on to argue that we can describe the world also in very different terms as for instance through sets of equations. This indicates, he concluded, that, “We speak of objects simply wherever we have equivalent elements of

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representation.” (Waismann 1967, 41–43) Did Wittgenstein have that view already when he was writing the Tractatus? His characterization of objects in the Tractatus is certainly sparse. He says that they are simple and “colorless” when considered by themselves, mere place holders, dummy objects indicating some kind of multiplicity. He means presumably that taken on their own they have no concrete properties, for to assign a property to them is to think of them as constituents of states of affairs. They have nonetheless formal properties that determine how their “Verbindung” in states of affairs. (TLP, 2.0121) To translate the German word as “combination” is, however, misleading since that suggests an arbitrary assemblage. Wittgenstein means, in fact, something different as he makes clear from subsequently speaking of a “Konfiguration,” an appropriately configured joining of objects. (TLP, 2.0231). Later on in the Tractatus, he adds in an echo of Frege’s account of the unity of sentences: “Where there is compositeness, there is argument and function.” (TLP, 5.47) The range of possible states of things, it turns out, is determined by the various ways in which “objects” can be or cannot be joined together. These possibilities are said to be due to “the nature of the object” (TLP, 2.0123) and to its “form” (TLP, 2.0141) which is determined by its “internal properties” (TLP, 2.01231). But what is nature, what is form, what are internal properties? Objects are independent of any particular state of affairs in which they occur, but since we can think of them only in their configuration in some state of affairs or other, this independence is also a form of dependence. (TLP, 2.0122). That raises another problem. Is the occurrence (“Vorkommen”) of an object in a state of affairs a form of existence? Do we have here yet another kind of entity to which are meant to ascribe existence as a property? And what is the relation between the “Vorkommen” of an object in a state of affairs and the “Bestehen” of a state of affairs? As the substance of the world, objects must be, presumably in the world. When they occur in an existing state of affairs, will they be part of the fact which is the existence of that state of affairs? And what does it mean to say that an object occurs in a non-existing state of affairs? How can something real be a component of something merely possible? ****** Such uncertainties do not mean that we should bypass what Wittgenstein seeks to say when he speaks of states of affairs. Our task must be rather to get behind his terms so as to discover the substantive philosophical point he is seeking and sometimes struggling to make. In speaking of the world as the totality of facts, he is using, no doubt, the questionable language of logical atomism. But when we set the atomistic imagery aside, we discover the idea of the factuality of the world which proves genuinely insightful in thinking about logic, natural science, and ethics, as Wittgenstein sets out to show in the course of the Tractatus. We need to look in the same way at his use of the language of states of affairs. It, too, belongs to the vocabulary of logical atomism. We can get beyond that, however, by noting that Wittgenstein talked initially about states of affairs in order to explain the semantics of false sentences. He had then concluded that every false sentence expresses a possible state of affairs. The outcome was that he found himself talking of a space of possibilities complementary to the world as the totality of facts. This space, he

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concluded, was the domain of logic. Possibilities, he wrote, are “the facts” of logic. (TLP, 2.0121) Once we are properly alerted to this view, we will also begin to notice how often he speaks of possibility in the Tractatus. Straightforwardly assertive propositions alternate regularly throughout his text with ones cast in modal language. The first of those modal propositions comes at the end of section 1: “Something can either be the case or not be the case, and everything else remains the same.” (TLP, 1.21) And it is with yet another variation between the assertive and the modal that the Tractatus ends when Wittgenstein writes first assertively in TLP, 6.54: “My propositions are elucidatory in this way…” and then follows this up with the modal proposition “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.” (TLP, 7) In this he differed profoundly from both Frege and Russell who had found no use for modal concepts in their logical theories. But he equally differed from traditional ways of thinking about logic in that he was giving priority to the notion of possibility over that of necessity. Frege had touched on the subject only once, in his Begriffsschrift, where he had declared modalities to be of merely “grammatical” interest.” To speak of a proposition as necessary or as possible, he insisted, was to indicate only one’s grounds for judging it and this did not concern its “conceptual content.” To call a proposition necessary was to indicate only that it followed from a universal law. To call it possible meant that one did not know any laws from which its negation followed or that one could not negate the proposition in its universal form. (Frege 1997, 54–55) But all this was irrelevant to logic. Russell dispensed with topic even more quickly. In his Theory of Knowledge, we wrote: “When analysis is completed, only the actual can be relevant, for the simple reason that there is only the actual, and that the merely possible is nothing.” (Russell 1992, 27).4 Though Wittgenstein departed from Frege’s and Russell’s “amodalism”, he sought at the same time to preserve some of their critical insights. Like Russell, he conceived the world as a sphere of pure factuality and thus as one that has no place for the merely possible. He rejected for that reason a picture in which we see the facts surrounded by possibilities that are already there in a shadowy fashion. There are, as we know, philosophical views which conceive the actual to be pregnant with possibilities. Aristotle’s metaphysics gets close to this and so does Leibniz’s. Even the Tractatus itself has been interpreted in this way. When Friedrich Waismann sought to capture Wittgenstein views in the 1930s he wrote of the relation of the factual to the possible: “Reality is as it were an island within possibility.” (Waismann 1967, 261) That is, however, a misleading metaphor. On Wittgenstein’s view the world is what it is. Given its pure factuality, it has no room for possibilities either in it or surrounding it. It was in his positive view of modality that Wittgenstein got close to Frege’s thought that modal notions are grammatical in nature. Frege had considered this to be a reason for dismissing them from logic. Wittgenstein concluded, instead, that grammar and logic belonged together. The space of possibilities with which logic

 For a detailed and compelling analysis of Frege’s and Russell’s “amodalism” see Shieh 2019.

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was concerned existed, in fact, neither in the world nor in some other imaginary domain, but in language or, properly speaking in our system of representation which might be linguistic or pictorial or given only in thought. He grounded his account of modality thus in a particular conception of the nature and function of symbolic representation. (51) According to it, the purpose of the symbolism is to supply us with a correct representation of reality. Wittgenstein takes no notice at this point of the communicative and performative functions that come to matter to him later on. (2) Every symbolic system will allow the construction of both correct and incorrect representations. A picture can depict both a real and an imaginary scene, a sentence can say something true and something false. (3) A correct representation is a “projection” of a bit of reality and thus isomorphic with it. We can thus derive an account of the structure or reality from the structure of its representation. (4) Incorrect representations depict possibilities. We can use the perceptible signs of the sentence, he writes, in this way “as a projection of a possible situation.” (TLP, 3.12) A sentence is in this way like a picture. And “the form of depiction is the possibility that the things relate to each other like the elements of the picture.” (TLP, 2.151). States of affairs exist only as projections of possible situations. Sentences consist of combinations of names which refer to actual objects. Their combination in a sentence may present a picture of the configuration of those objects that exist or that does not exist. What is depicted in the sentence has only a virtual reality as a picture. It exists only in the picture just as an imaginary Tower of Babel exists only virtually on the canvas painted by Bruegel. Logical space is thus something quite different from the world. The totality of facts is actually there; the totality of possibilities exists only in our system of representation. States of affairs exist only virtually. In the Tractatus Wittgenstein speaks of just one logical space that includes all possible states of affairs. But if there are different of systems of representation we may not be justified in that assumption. The Tractatus considers, however, just one language that can represent all facts and thus all possibilities. But that can be only an imagined language; it is certainly not the language of everyday life. Once we abandon the assumption of a single complete and adequate language, we have to recognize that there may be more than one way to speak. If the facts are what we can talk of in our true propositions talks and possibilities are what we can talk of in both true and false propositions, we may then have to speak not of the world but of my world and not of the space of possibilities of my space of possibilities. And if we furthermore realize that our language is not fixed once and for all but changes and expands over time, we may have to talk about the changing space of our possibilities. And if, finally, the notion of necessity is to be defined in terms of the notion of possibility, we may even have to recognize a changing space of necessities. All this far outside the horizon of the Tractatus.

 Later on, and certainly after 1929, Wittgenstein noted that “in philosophy one is in constant danger of producing a myth of symbolism.” (Wittgenstein 1967, 211) He may well have been thinking at the time that some of what he had been saying about symbols in the Tractatus was part of such a mythology. 5

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If the linguistic (or, properly speaking, the representation-theoretical) account of the notion of possibility is one of Wittgenstein’s achievements in the Tractatus – and with it the characterization of states of affairs as merely virtual, the second is his assertion of the priority of the notion of possibility over that of necessity. According to the traditional and classical view of modality, necessity is fundamental and possible derivative. The two concepts are, of course, formally inter-definable. We can define “p is possible” as “it is not necessary that not-p” but also define “p is necessary” as “it is not possible that not-p”. While both ways of proceeding are formally equivalent, there is nonetheless a substantive philosophical difference between them. On the classical view, necessary truths establish the framework for what is possible. In Greek metaphysics that thought is linked to the belief that only the changeless is fully real. The unchanging is, on this view, assumed to be the ground of the changeable. A great deal of Western philosophy and theology have been built on that assumption. Wittgenstein’s assertion of the priority of the possible overturns that way of thinking. On this account, necessity has to be understood as the limit of the possible. The impossible is what is excluded from the logical space of possibilities; the necessary is what holds for everything in that space. The necessary holds whatever possibilities are realized. Necessary truths can therefore say nothing about what distinguishes the actual world form all other possibilities. They are empty tautologies. This account dethrones and demythologizes the classical idea of necessity and thus strips away the basis for much traditional metaphysics. The assertion of the primacy of the possible over the necessary has implications that Wittgenstein did not realize – at least not in the Tractatus – for it gives us reason to rethink the entire enterprise of philosophy. From the pre-Socratics to the present day, philosophers have seen themselves as engaged in the search for necessary truths. Taking the primacy of the possible as given, we may instead want to think of philosophy as the exploration of possible points of views. Philosophy will then come to be seen as an enterprise in imagination whose products may serve a variety of purposes among them that of playing an auxiliary role in the discovery of scientific and other sorts of truths. That is, in fact, what philosophy has always been doing in contrast to what philosophers have often said about it. is often asserted. With this idea of the priority of the possible in hand, we can also set out to look at the Tractatus in a new way. Wittgenstein presents the work in a series of apodictic propositions. In his preface e writes: “The truth of the thoughts communicated here seems to me unassailable and definitive.” (Wittgenstein 1960, 29) We have no reasons to agree with this. Many of Wittgenstein’s statements are neither unassailable nor definitive. We may want to read the Tractatus, instead, not as advancing series of truths but as proposing a possible way of looking at things. I am inclined to conclude that it invites us, in fact, to look at a whole series of possibilities – some of them more plausible than others. This way of thinking may give us also another perspective on Wittgenstein’s judgment on metaphysics. He is certainly convincing in saying that metaphysics can’t be a science and that its propositions are not scientific statements, that metaphysical propositions (or what goes as such) are full of unexplained terms, terms to which we have given no precise meaning. But such is the work of the imagination. Our conception of what is possible is often confused,

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unclear, and not even consistent. But for all that we can’t do without it. For to act and to think is to conceive of possibilities. There is thus no reason to shun metaphysical propositions but we must always ready to overcome them and set them aside in the endeavor to see the world in the right way. A simple, positivistic rejection of all philosophical attempts to say something about the world leads nowhere; holding on to any such attempt as an affirmation of necessary truth is stultifying. ****** The Tractatus deals not with facts and states of affairs, but not with individual facts and states of affairs or even a multitude of them; its concern is, from the first page to the last, with ALL the facts and with ALL possible states of affairs, that is, with their totality (“Gesamtheit”) as they constitute the world and logical space. This concern with totality takes Wittgenstein beyond the atomism of Moore and Russell. But that does not mean that he returns to the sort of monistic view of reality advanced by Schopenhauer and Bradley. The Wittgenstein of the Tractatus is a pluralist and he will remain one for the rest of his life. Where he talks of a plurality of facts and states of affairs in the Tractatus, he will later on speak of the many ways we use language. The world of the Tractatus is a pluralistic totality for him: he does not question that there is a multiplicity of facts, states of affairs, and objects. His holism is, in fact, highly restrictive. The world is a totality but one that falls apart (zerfällt) into facts. (TLP, 1.2)6 We must certainly not think of the world as an organic, essentially interconnected whole. Complexes are for Wittgenstein nothing over and above their parts: “Every assertion about complexes can be decomposed into an assertion about their constituents and those sentences that describe the complexes completely.” (TLP, 2.0201) We commonly conceive the world as a whole in which things have their locations and events follow each other in a regular fashion in the singular frame of space-time. Wittgenstein’s world is, by contrast, a loose assembly of existent states of affairs without any relations between them. Something may be the case or not and everything else remain as it is. (TLP, 121) There are spatial objects (TLP, 2.0131) and there are temporal happenings. But space and time are not characteristics of the world as whole, they are reduced to being “forms of objects” (TLP, 2.021). Wittgenstein’s world remains thus a curiously abstract whole from whose characterization evolution, history, culture, tradition, and the human forms of life are all absent. “The Darwinian theory has no more to do with philosophy than has any other hypothesis of natural science.” (TLP, 4.1122) And not only biological evolution, but also the evolution of the cosmos as a whole is irrelevant to Wittgenstein’s thinking about the world. And so, also, is human history. “What has history to do with me,” he writes in his notebook. “Mine is the first and only world.” (Wittgenstein 1979, 82) The Tractatus notion of world is a severely minimal one. Any arbitrary collection of individual facts, so it seems, will constitute a world as long as they are all the facts. The black cat sitting right now on the sofa, the train rolling by this moment, and Berlin being the capital of Germany will constitute an entire world, as long as those are all that is the case. Can we even coherently  Our translations say weakly that it divides into facts.

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contemplate that possibility? The minimalist account may be sufficient as long as we think about “the world” only in abstractly logical terms, as we do, for instance, in possible worlds semantics. But for all other purposes it will not be enough. It can’t be enough if we seek to think about human life and its place in the world. Such are the questions of ethics, as Wittgenstein understands it. To contemplate those we need a richer notion of world. Common sense and everything else we know from history to cosmology suggest a different view of the world than that of a kaleidoscopic assembly of facts – as neither an undifferentiated whole nor a mere collection of discrete facts, but as an integrally connected system. To give a complete description of the world means for Tractatus to enumerate all the individual facts in it. But how can this be enough? How do we know that we have enumerated all the facts and thus given a description of the world and not just a description of a part of it? The question what constitutes a totality, what is meant by “all” in this encompassing sense occupies Wittgenstein throughout the Tractatus. To see the world as a whole, he concludes, must be to see it from outside. The contemplation of the world “as a bounded whole,” he writes, is its contemplation “sub specie aeterni” and it is as such a “mystical” feeling. (TLP, 6.45) The notion of the world thus turns out to be a limit notion to which we cannot give a scientific meaning. On the one hand, it is clear to him that we must speak of the world, if we are to think in the right and comprehensive way about science and life. On the other, we seem to be unable to make precise sense of the required notion of the world. When we have enumerated all the individual facts that constitute the world there is nothing additional to be said. That these are all the facts is not an additional fact. In order to talk about the world, it appears we have to position ourselves outside it to see it as a whole. “To be able to represent the logical form, we should have to put ourselves with our propositions, outside logic, that is outside the world.” (TLP, 4.12) But that is clearly impossible because there is no such outside. The only thing left for us is to enumerate the facts as we see them. That we have described the world as a whole will show itself then in that we have run out of more facts to enumerate. The unity of the world will manifest only in the limits of our language, in our running out of words. Totality is thus an evanescent notion but it is, nonetheless, also a crucial one in the Tractatus. Wittgenstein bring it up in the first two sentences of the book. Those sentences may strike us as peculiar, just as they did strike Frege, for they appear to be both weighty and bland. Their placement at the beginning of the book and their apodictic tone surely lend them weight. But as to their content, they sound almost trivial. What, if anything, are they meant to communicate? In order to appreciate their importance, it helps to recall what Wittgenstein told his students about philosophy in the 1930s. He said: “(1) It has to be very general. (2) Fundamental both to ordinary life & science whatever answers it gives. (3) Therefore has to be independent of special results of science – e.g. of latest experiments on codfish or guinea-­ pigs.” (Wittgenstein 2016, 103) The first sentences of the Tractatus clearly satisfy two of those requirements They are as general as it can be and they are certainly not propositions of empirical science. But are they fundamental to life and science? We may assume that

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Wittgenstein took them to be so in 1918. As we start reading the Tractatus, we will want to keep Wittgenstein’s dual focus on “life” and “science” in mind and ask heuristically how his first sentences are meant to be fundamental to both. The world as a totality of facts proves to be a decisive theme throughout the book. Wittgenstein mentions the world a remarkable 43 times in it. When we look into his war-time notebooks we find additional numerous references to it and more of them once again in his “Lecture on Ethics” of 1929. The world is evidently a major theme in Wittgenstein early thought. The Tractatus speaks of the world, moreover, in a variety of ways. We can distinguish at least four of them. Some of the propositions speak in an objective tone about “the” world. Then there are others in which he writes in a subjective tone of “my world.” (TLP, 5.62 and 5.63). In a third context, we read of the description of the world (“Weltbeschreibung”) by science: “Mechanics determines a form of description of the world” (TLP, 6.342) And in order to appreciate that remark we must keep in mind that “Weltbeschreibung” is a technical term to whose exact meaning we need to pay attention. Finally, and fourth, there Wittgenstein writes of different ways of viewing the world. In TLP 6.371 he contrasts “the whole modern world view” (“Weltanschauung”) with that of the ancients. And at the end of the book he calls on us to overcome the propositions of the Tractatus, in order “to see the world in the right way.” (TLP, 6.54) In addition to the world as a totality there is, as we have seen, the totality of logical space. This is a space of possibilities and specifically the space of possible states of affairs. It constitutes a totality in that “every thing is, as it were, in a space of possible states of affairs.” (TLP, 2.013) This encompassing space is the space of logic. “Logic treats of every possibility, and all possibilities are its facts.” (TLP, 2.0121) Logic does not deal with any kind of possibility. Etwas Logisches kann nicht nur möglich sein. “(TLP, 2.0121) Literally translated: “Something logical cannot be merely possible.” We need to ask what Wittgenstein means by the peculiar expression “etwas Logisches”. Ogden makes it out to be “a logical entity.” But this is must be wrong, since the Tractatus denies that there are such. (TLP, 4.441) Pears and McGuinness translate the expression more boldly as “the province of logic.” But this is also flawed. It is not the province of logic of which Wittgenstein says that it can’t be “merely possible”. It is rather what we find in it. “Das Logische” is the way objects can be configured in states of things. This possibility is essential to the objects. “If a thing can occur in states of affairs, this possibility must already lie in them,” that is, in both the objects and the states of affairs. (TLP, 2.0121) And as such this possibility is “not merely possible.” To be not merely possible means to be not contingent. It is not contingent that things occur in states of affairs and are joined together in them in particular ways. “P is possible but not merely possible” implies “It is not contingent that p is possible.” Logic is not concerned with contingent possibilities such as the possibility that Russell and Wittgenstein met in Vienna or that Vienna is the capital of Switzerland. Logic is concerned, rather, with the possibility that a state of affairs may exist or not exist. And it is also concerned with the possibility of objects occurring in states of affairs. These possibilities are not contingent, for they are essential to the nature of states of affairs and of objects.

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The world and logical space, the totality of facts and the totality of possible states of affairs. In order to see why we need to speak of both, we must consider their decisive difference. In the world everything is contingent, in logic nothing is so. In order to understand this, we must consider the passage in which Wittgenstein finally elucidates the first sentences of the Tractatus. That is belatedly in TLP 6.41 where he writes that all happening and being so is “zufällig” (TLP, 6.41) The phrase “all happening and being-so” may be taken to refer to and explicate the meaning of “world.” All there is to the world are things being one way or other and things happening this way or that. That is what it means to say that the world is one of pure factuality and nothing else. And as such the world is entirely zufällig. Our English translations have struggled with that term and have made understanding the meaning of Wittgenstein’s words more difficult by translating it as “accidental.” But Wittgenstein does not mean to say that the world is accidental or full of accidents. He means rather that there is nothing necessary in what happens in the world or in anything being so and not otherwise. The world is entirely a domain of contingency. TLP 6.41 is intended to say that all happening and being so is contingent and since that constitutes the world, that the world itself is contingent. This thought is, in fact, already suggested in the first sentence of the Tractatus according to which the world is all that is the case. For to be the case means to be the result of the falling of dice. To be “der Fall” and to be “zufällig” are clearly the same. We find ourselves thus faced with two complementary totalities: the totality of facts which constitutes the world and the totality of possibilities which are the “facts” – metaphorically speaking - of logic. The world is a domain of sheer factuality; logic is a domain of possibility. In the world everything is contingent. By contrast: “in logic nothing is contingent (zufällig).” (TLP, 2.012) In consequence, nothing “in logic” can be part of the world. We have to conclude that “logic is transcendental.” (TLP, 6.13) But how can we be sure that the possibility of states of affairs to exist or not exist is not a merely contingent possibility? The answer is that we need to be able to survey the totality of states of affairs to see that all possible states of affairs have the possibility of existing. And how can we be sure that the occurrence of objects in states of affairs is not a contingent matter? In order to be sure of this, we must be able to conceive of the totality of all objects and of all possible states of affairs. We can then determine that objects never occur on their own. Wittgenstein: “If I know an object, I also know all the possibilities of its occurrence in states of affairs… If all objects are given, then thereby all possible states of things are also given. (TLP, 2.0123 and 2.0124) A new possibility cannot subsequently be found. Logic is thus concerned not just with possibility but with all possibilities, that is, with the totality of possibilities, “with every possibility.” While the world consists of the totality of facts, logic treats in this way of the totality of possibilities. It is this totality that constitutes logical space. ****** We still need to ask why Wittgenstein concerned himself with the world and logical space in their totality. Why did he consider it essential to go beyond the strictly atomistic point of view in the direction (if tentatively) of a holistic perspective? The

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answer is that he thought that only in this way could he make sense of the ideas of logical necessity and natural law and advance a coherent understanding of ethics and aesthetics. It is only by considering the whole of the logical possibilities, he thought, that one can see what is excluded from logical space and thus impossible but also what is true of all possibilities and thus necessary. And something similar holds for natural necessity expressed in our so-called laws of nature. In science we construct frameworks of concepts in which we seek to model our reality. We are looking for a description of the world according to one single plan. (TLP, 6.343) But every such framework or plan will envisage only a certain range of possibilities. Natural necessities are what all those possibilities have in common. Ethics and aesthetics, in particular, require us to think about the world as a whole. If we conceive ethics simply as a system of rules prescribing or forbidding particular actions, this will, of course, not be obvious. But Wittgenstein’s view of ethics follows Schopenhauer in taking it to be concerned with the ultimate question of human salvation and damnation. We can see, perhaps, from a somewhat different perspective how the threat of environmental destruction forces us to consider our place in the world as a whole. In the Tractatus, Wittgenstein lays out yet another line of thought. Values cannot be conceived as contingent and thus cannot be part of an entirely contingent world. But the world is a domain of sheer, naked factuality and as such contingent. Values must then lie outside the world, if they are anything. But there can be no extra-worldly realm of values since the world of facts is all that is the case. We must, instead, abandon the language of value, and speak of ways of seeing the world as a whole. To attach a particular value to the worlds means to see it in a certain way. Following Schopenhauer and through him Spinoza, Wittgenstein speaks of the aesthetic and ethical view of the world as one in which we the world appears to us as a bounded whole “sub specie aeterni.” (TLP, 645) In thinking about logic, about laws of nature, about causality, or the subject, or ethics and aesthetics, and the meaning of life, we find ourselves, according to Wittgenstein, forced to consider again and again the world as a whole. That was where he had begun in the first sentences of the Tractatus. Looking back from the end of the Tractatus we realize how much is already suggested in them. What is also already suggested in them is the realization how impossible it is to speak about the world and its totality. Those first sentences contained thus a whole series of riddles, though that might not be immediately visible to the eye. Frege certainly never caught on to those riddles. He passed over Wittgenstein’s remark in his preface that his book sought draw a limit to thinking but had found this impossible because “in order to draw a limit to thinking we should have to be able think both sides of this limit.” (Wittgenstein 1969, 27) Wittgenstein’s first two sentences illustrated the dilemma. To think of the world as a whole was to think of a boundary beyond which there could be nothing. But to think in that way was to recognize the possibility of something beyond that boundary. To resolve the dilemma, Wittgenstein’s preface concluded, required setting limits to language and this meant that one needed to dismiss certain tempting ways of speaking as “simply nonsense,” The first sentences of the Tractatus would thus have to be dismissed and

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with them all the limit notions that depended on them. This was not something Frege was ready to contemplate. Russell was similarly taken aback by Wittgenstein’s paradoxes. “What causes hesitation,” he wrote in his Introduction to the Tractatus, “is the fact that, after all, Wittgenstein manages to say a good deal about what cannot be said, thus suggesting to the sceptical reader that possibly there may be some loophole through a hierarchy of languages, or by some other exit.” (Wittgenstein 1960, 22) Wittgenstein’s belated response to this was to accuse Russell of a “loss of problems” – a condition in which “everything seems quite simple…, no deep problems seem to exist anymore, the world becomes broad and flat and loses all depth.” (Wittgenstein 1967, 416) But philosophy was, as Wittgenstein said with a bow to Heidegger and Kierkegaard, something more serious - “a running against the limits of language.” (Waismann 1967, 68)

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Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1960. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, with an Introduction by Bertrand Russell. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. ———. 1967. Zettel, ed. By G. E. M. Anscombe and G. H. von Wright. Trans. G. E. M. Anscombe. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 1974. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Trans. D. F. Pears and B. F. McGuinness. London: Routledge. ———. 1979. Notebooks 1914–1916, ed. G.  H. von Wright and G.E.M.  Anscombe. Chicago: Chicago University Press. ———. 1984. Culture and Value, ed. G. H. von Wright. Chicago: Chicago University Press. ———. 1995. Cambridge Letters, ed. Brian McGuiness, Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 2016. Lectures, Cambridge 1930–1933. From the Notes of G.E. Moore, ed. David Stern, Brian Rogers, and Gabriel Citron. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zalabardo, José. 2015. Representation and Reality in Wittgenstein’s Tractatus. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Chapter 5

A Meta-Biography of the Wittgensteins: Das Familiengedächtnis Nicole L. Immler

A picture held us captive. And we could not get outside, for it lay in our language and language seemed to repeat it to us inexorably. (Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations §115)

Abstract  Das Familiengedächtnis der Wittgensteins (2011) could be considered as a metabiography, as literary scholar Caitríona Ní Dhúill has called it (2020); less concerned with authenticating a particular narrative about the biographical subject than with exploring competing biographical accounts and wider questions of “textuality, memorialisation, life-course models, the uses of the past, and the narrative interpretation of its traces” (Ní Dhúill, Metabiography: Reflecting on Biography. Palgrave Macmillan, Cham, 2020, 24). The metabiography of the Wittgensteins is achieved through a two-step-process; first by exploring the making of biography, by assessing previous Wittgenstein biographies, showing the changing fashions of biographical approaches in Wittgenstein studies; and secondly by writing a relational biography about Ludwig Wittgenstein and his oldest sister Hermine Wittgenstein; a sort double biography, contrasting two very different (auto)biographical kinds of writing in an interrelated way. Making use of the concept family memory (Halbwachs, Das kollektive Familiengedächtnis. In: Das Gedächtnis und seine sozialen Bedingungen. Repr. Suhrkamp, Frankfurt, 203–242, 1925/1985), this biography puts relationships instead of exceptionalism and disconnectedness (key feature of well-known biographies such as that by Ray Monk or Alexander Waugh) at the centre. My study is part of a more recent shift in the field of Wittgenstein biography

Note: I added the English translations of quotes by myself, where no official one could be found. N. L. Immler (*) University of Humanistic Studies, Utrecht, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_5

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from the exceptional (topos ‘genius’) to foregrounding the contextual, the relational, the dialogue, and the friendship. Contextualised in more current developments in Wittgenstein biography, this article discusses what we have learnt from this metabiographical approach for a rethinking of Wittgenstein research as well as for a more general discussion of (auto)biography and family memory? It will be argued that the metabiographical approach allows for a better understanding of how some biographical narratives in the Wittgenstein literature became more dominant than others, challenging some of the alluring interpretations of (auto)biographical texts in the Wittgenstein field. Keywords  Hermine Wittgenstein · Ludwig Wittgenstein · Familienerinnerungen · Familiengedächtnis · Biography · Metabiography · Narrative · Relationality · Family memory

5.1 Introduction: A Metabiography Das Familiengedächtnis der Wittgensteins (Immler 2011)  – with the somewhat unwieldy subtitle On alluring readings of (auto)biographical texts – could be considered as a metabiography as literary scholar Caitríona Ní Dhúill has called it in her recent book Metabiography Ní Dhúill (2020). The metabiography is less concerned with authenticating a particular narrative about the biographical subject than with exploring competing biographical accounts and wider questions of “textuality, memorialisation, life-course models, the uses of the past, and the narrative interpretation of its traces” (Ní Dhúill 2020, 24). Without using the term at the time of writing this book (my dissertation), it was nonetheless reviewed as “a kind of meta-biography” (Szeltner 2012, 524) that instead of offering a new biography of Ludwig Wittgenstein and his family, chooses a meta-perspective to investigate the making of biography and a relational perspective to re-read autobiographical sources anew through a form of juxtaposition. The metabiography, one could say, is achieved through a two-step-process; first by assessing previous Wittgenstein biographies, showing the changing fashions of biographical approaches in Wittgenstein studies, and secondly by exploring the various autobiographical sources of Ludwig Wittgenstein and the family in an interrelated way. This part is conceptualised as a relational biography about Ludwig Wittgenstein and his oldest sister Hermine Wittgenstein; a double biography, contrasting two very different (auto)biographical kinds of writing. On the one hand, there are Ludwig Wittgenstein’s autobiographical reflections, which are fragmented and tentative, linked to his philosophical thoughts, mixing genres and reach throughout his philosophical oeuvres (Nachlass). On the other hand, we have the largely conventional account of a family chronicle (Familienerinnerungen) of his oldest sister Hermine Wittgenstein (2015), one of the most quoted sources on the ‘private Ludwig’, at the same time a key text in the formation of a family memory, as these family stories are retold and recycled

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through the collective memories of the family again and again. As such the study is revealing a certain blindness to the various clichés pre-formatting biographical as well as autobiographical texts. The main theme is the unmasking of “alluring readings” of Hermine and Ludwig Wittgenstein’s (auto-)biographical notes and writings, to challenge perceptions of the Wittgensteins that have been perpetuated over the years. While Anne Rüggemeier defined the “relational autobiography” (2014) as a recent genre-formation, the binary other of a traditional “autobiography”, characterized by “a new ethic … integrating the perspective of the other” (2014, 68–69), I follow Julia Watson’s (2016) definition of relationality less as a distinct genre than as a storytelling practice, a mode of address. Making use of the concept family memory (Halbwachs 1925/1985), the self-thematisation of family in the family, this biography puts relationships instead of exceptionalism and disconnectedness – as a key feature of well-known biographies such as that by Ray Monk (1992) or Alexander Waugh (2008) – at the centre. My study is part of a more recent shift in the field of Wittgenstein biography from the exceptional (topos ‘genius’) to foregrounding the contextual, the dialogue, the friendship.

5.2 A Family Memory Approach My dissertation on Das Familiengedächtnis der Wittgensteins (2011) draws on the various sources that help to establish a family memory of the Wittgenstein family. As such the book portrays not only Ludwig’s autobiographical remarks and Hermine’s chronicle, but also the correspondence between the Wittgenstein siblings, Hermine’s and Margarethe’s diaries, as well as memoirs by distant family members and family friends. We also see here the memoirs by the family Nohl-Oser (a German branch of the Wittgensteins), by Paul Kuppelwieser (a business partner of Karl Wittgenstein), by Marguerite Respinger (Ludwig’s friend), and by Joan Ripley (Paul Wittgenstein’s daughter). There are also interviews with the latest generations of the family who are active participants in making the family memory. At the same time the book makes use of Maurice Halbwachs’s concept of collective memory to integrate the idea of a family frame into the analysis. The concept of family memory was coined by the sociologist Halbwachs in the 1920’s (1925/1985, 203–242). He showed that memory is formed in dialogue and interaction with others and where memory is being formulated as a result of social practice. He identifies the family as an essential ‘social framework’ within which memory is formed, and within this framework only certain things can be remembered and only in a certain way. He describes family memory as a specific memory-­ community that above all stabilises the social order, and in which in the place of historically specific facts (‘spezifische Tatsachen’), we find that ideas of facts (‘Vorstellungen von Tatsachen’) are remembered: the memory frame of the family consists more of ideas than of faces and images; ideas of persons and ideas of facts

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(1925/1985, 209).1 The family memory is a very specific memory-community that is shaped by numerous little stories of people and family events that are passed on from one generation to the next by being told and retold. At the same time family memories are also (moral) models, kind of lessons learnt (‘Lehrstück’): they express the general attitude of the group; they do not only reproduce its past, but they define its nature, its characteristics and weaknesses.2 Das Familiengedächtnis is divided in two parts; first we examine the idea of the making of, analysing the biographies on Ludwig Wittgenstein and looking at how the image of Wittgenstein has changed over the last seven decades. Here we are concerned with the writing strategies the biographers have followed, influenced by the Zeitgeist – a spirit of the age – as well as the ideas about Wittgenstein as a philosopher as perceived by biographers. The second part refers to relational biography, which is dedicated to the scrutiny of autobiographical sources by Ludwig Wittgenstein himself and by the Wittgenstein family members. The first part is a chronological overview of Wittgenstein biographies (Immler 2011, 31–63), it reveals the ‘images’ captive in the Wittgenstein arena; it shows how each decade had its own Wittgenstein, each with its own problematized subtext. During the 1970’s, by William Bartley (1973/1983) there are the psychologisation and Freudian arguments with Wittgenstein primarily seen as homosexual maverick. In the 1980’s the localisation of Ludwig, whether as an elementary school teacher at the countryside (Wünsche 1985) or in the modernist context of the Fin de Siècle in Vienna by Allan Janik and Stephen Toulmin (1984/Orig. 1973), turned him into an ethicist, a silent mystic and metaphysician. In the 1990’s with its discourse about coming to terms with the past, the portrayal of a bourgeois family with Jewish roots became central to Brian McGuinness’ (1988) biography, instigating identity and sibling relationships as a core theme. Ray Monk’s (1992) approach, on the other hand, was to frame his work as an intellectual biography: claiming to establish a coherence between his work and life and prompting an ethical reading as well as a holistic view that has been persistent until today. Examining the narrative patterns used by biographers, the changing fashions of biographical approaches in Wittgenstein studies become evident, revealing a certain blindness to the various arguments and clichés inherent in the selected biographical texts. The second part is a relational biography, engaging with the autobiographical sources from within the Wittgenstein family: Ludwig Wittgenstein’s autobiographical reflections (notes, letters, diaries, confessions, and private coded remarks in his philosophical writings), and the family chronicle (Familienerinnerungen) of Hermine Wittgenstein. By systematically compiling the different autobiographical sources, categorized and analyzed by genre (diary, letter, confessions,  “Der Gedächtnisrahmen der Familie besteht mehr aus Vorstellungen denn aus Gesichtern und Bildern; Vorstellungen von Personen und Vorstellungen von Tatsachen” (Halbwachs 1925/1985, 209). 2  “In ihnen drückt sich die allgemeine Haltung der Gruppe aus; sie reproduzieren nicht nur ihre Vergangenheit, sondern sie definieren ihre Wesensart, ihre Eigenschaften und Schwächen” (Halbwachs 1925/1985, 209 f.). 1

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autobiography, confessions, family chronicle), the book showed not only how the genres crucially shape the self-presentation of the authors, but also it showed how biographers, guided (and misguided), might neglect the performative element in autobiographical sources. This article – written for the Wittgenstein anniversary celebrated with this edited Volume  – brings me back to my dissertation on Das Familiengedächtnis der Wittgensteins, published in 2011. Inspired by these novel debates on metabiography and contextualised in more current developments in Wittgenstein biography, this article discusses what we have learnt from this Wittgenstein study – particularly its metabiographical approach – for a rethinking of Wittgenstein research as well as for a more general discussion of (auto)biography and family memory? It will be argued that the metabiographical approach allows for a better understanding of how some biographical narratives in the Wittgenstein literature became more dominant than others, challenging some of the alluring interpretations of (auto)biographical texts in the Wittgenstein field. First, I will introduce various ‘captive images’ that circulate about Ludwig Wittgenstein and the Wittgenstein family, reflecting some of the dominant narratives, before engaging with some of the autobiographical sources. By re-reading them (through the lens of biography theory and contextual analysis), the limitation of certain interpretations becomes clear.

5.3 The Biographical Field: The Images (Imaginings) of Ludwig Wittgenstein One cannot talk about Wittgenstein’s biography without addressing some of the key features that are circulating in the public about Ludwig Wittgenstein. A kind of myth established already during his lifetime, as his pupil Fania Pascal wrote: “I knew a lot about him without ever having met him (…). Everywhere in Cambridge, stories were told about him.” (1987, 35) This interest was motivated by multiple factors: his charisma, his exceptional family background (born in 1889 into one of the wealthiest industrial families of the Habsburg empire – a material inheritance he rejected), and the trajectory of his life, often described as bizarre as it turned from an excellent student in philosophy, writing the Tractatus during World War One, to being an elementary school teacher and then an architect for his sister, before returning to academic philosophy. A great deal has been written about several stays in remote places (such as Norway or Ireland), labelled as ‘seeking absolute solitude’ or ‘exile’, and also about his aura of distance; he taught only selected students and – again a manifestation of his isolation or withdrawal from society – after his debut the Tractatus logico-philosophicus (1922), none of his 20.000 pages manuscripts were ever published. Novelist Ingeborg Bachmann wrote shortly after his death: “the legend has replaced his life yet at the time when he lived, a legend of voluntary deprivation, the attempt to live the life of a saint, trying to obey the last sentence of the Tractatus

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‘Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent’.” (1953, 7). Here Bachmann points to an almost obsessive mingling of work and life, in asceticism as well as in mysteriousness; a reality that still shapes the image of Wittgenstein in the wider public today. Both difference and otherness are emphasised. Generally described as a philosopher “without equal among master thinkers in terms of radicalism and at the same time enigma,” he was surrounded by the aura of “a genius,” an “intellectual saint,” a “tense, puzzled human being” who strove for an unattainable ethical ideal. As Terry Eagleton wrote in the script for Derek Jarman’s film on Wittgenstein: “Wittgenstein suffered all his life from that curious mania known as Protestantism, in which nothing is random or contingent, everything is a potential sign of salvation or damnation” (1993, 8). At the same time Jarman suggests “an intriguing disjunct” between the man and his philosophy: He lived a secret sexual life, yet insisted that nothing was hidden; he appealed to the constitutive role of convention in all that we say and do, and had all the insouciant disdain for the conventions of the aristocracy. There is a split, here as elsewhere, between the man and the work, which the Freudianism he thought no more than a tolerably interesting fiction might do well to examine (1993, 10).3

Looking at the biographical research on Wittgenstein it is striking to see how the biographers (most of them philosophers themselves) at the beginning used the genre biography, foremost as an auxiliary science (Hilfswissenschaft). Knowing more about Wittgenstein’s biography helped them to order his 20,000 unpublished manuscripts that were little by little being discovered. Establishing a chronology was seen as essential to understand the developments of Wittgenstein’s thoughts (for elaboration, see Immler 2011, 38f.) and the biography was only a means to an end. This means that biographical anecdotes might easily become merely decorative descriptions instead of being a more fundamental part of the research question. From this perspective, quotes of primary sources become so-called ‘authentic’ material (Hide 2009), without any discussion about the nature of the source or the historical or social context in which the material was generated, ignoring also the performative or generic nature (philosophers might call it ‘Regelfolgen’) of such autobiographical sources. Ludwig Wittgenstein was seen as a philosopher influencing how he himself was being portrayed as a person and also having an influence on the way his private notes were edited and published. In the first decades after his death (based upon the Tractatus logico-philosophicus, 1921) he was regarded foremost as an analytical philosopher and from this point of view biographical questions were considered as mere anecdotes, irrelevant to the understanding of his philosophical work. In the eyes of editors this also legitimised their decision to edit his philosophical writings excluding the many private remarks written in the manuscripts. Today the opposite is true. Since Wittgenstein was discovered as an ethical thinker – based upon a special focus on his later work and his remarks on ethics, religion and culture, his

 Terry Eagleton and Brian McGuinness refer to those ambivalences, David Stern, Richard Shusterman and Richard Freadman refer in greater detail to a misguided reception. 3

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diaries and letters, as well as insights into his specific style of writing (mixing private and philosophical remarks) – it has become more prominent in the late 1990’s to make the link between private and philosophical remarks in his manuscripts. While the image of Wittgenstein as an analytical philosopher and the author of the Tractatus, was rather disturbed by personal remarks, for the ethicist, the author of the Philosophical Investigations, his autobiographical notes and remarks on ethics, religion, and culture became key, with the connection between work and life, philosophy and biography, becoming almost a prerequisite. Following up on this constructed nature of the supposed radical disjunction between ‘the early’ and ‘the late Wittgenstein’ – the biography by Ray Monk, The Duty of Genius (1992),4 inscribes a new key narrative in Wittgenstein scholarship.5

5.4 Narrative Models Ray Monk frames the question of ‘genius’ firstly as a claim Wittgenstein made about himself, as a question of character, based on a striving for ‘moral greatness’ and a fascination with the ethical ideal; secondly, it draws from the work itself as being original and proposing radically new things; and thirdly, a striving for a Socratic correspondence between work and life, “philosophy as a way of life,” philosophical activity as a “work on oneself.” This is  – as Richard Freadman (2002, 335–338) has shown – also crystallised in the motto of Otto Weininger that precedes the biography: “Logic and ethics, however, are basically one and the same – duty against oneself.” Freadman argues that this ‘Socratic ideal’  – the philosophy of ‘working on oneself’ – has emphasised aspects of ethical and moral rigorism and of authenticity, leading us to the image of Wittgenstein as the ascetic, eccentric, homosexual, and misogynist. But to what extent does Monk’s reading of Wittgenstein – through the lens of Weininger and other Viennese Fin de Siècle literature – overshadow the person of Wittgenstein? Does the strong link made between mystification, sacralisation, pathologisation and misogyny (inherent in Monk’s concept of

 The German title Das Handwerk eines Genies (1992) shows more ambivalence.  This was a reason to discuss The making of (Immler 2009), exploring how this ‘making of genius’ (as other narratives) came into being and their effects on Wittgenstein scholarship. Another example is the narrative of ‘conflict’ as exemplified in Wittgenstein’s Poker: The story of a 10-minute argument between two great philosophers (Edmonds and Eidinow 2001), which recounts the single meeting between Karl Popper and Ludwig Wittgenstein at the Moral Science Club in Cambridge in 1946. Interviewing eyewitnesses, mapping their different memories about the event, they reveal a strong narrative figure: namely, how the proponents of two opposing philosophical traditions (language philosophy versus critical rationalism) battle against each other. The idea of animosity is perpetuated ever since. As James Klagge in his Biography & Philosophy has put it: “Some wish to see Wittgenstein as a companion in misery, as the gay review might suggest. Personal friends might wish to see something redemptive in Wittgenstein’s struggles. Biographers may wish to find unity in a life. Philosophers of various stripes may wish to see Wittgenstein as an ally, or alternately as a purveyor of mistaken views” (Klagge 2001, xii). 4 5

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‘genius’) neglect his embeddedness in various social, cultural and intellectual settings; “kulturelles Gemeinschaftshandeln” as Walter Methlagl (2002, 17) once has called it? Would contextualising him for example in the Wiener Moderne (of a Karl Kraus) or in the Bloomsbury tradition (of a Virginia Woolf), both intellectual contexts Wittgenstein was familiar with, allow for a different reading? Also for Thomas Macho, Wittgenstein embodied the idea of ‘genius’ as the nineteenth century had produced it, but he sees Wittgenstein as being both an idol and a victim of this “religion of genius”. For Macho there are also hints at stylisations: “an aesthete, a mystic, an eccentric intellectual, in short: an abysmally modern spirit who tried to stage his own life as a myth, as an experiment, as a singular, always endangered project” (2001, 12). Here the question is whether or not the “genius religion” (‘Geniereligion’) in Vienna, as described by Edgar Zilsel (1990), is a relevant discourse especially for Wittgenstein’s biographers? Was this genius discourse already a yardstick for Wittgenstein’s self-perception and self-representation, the internalised social (‘Habitus’), as Pierre Bourdieu called it? The difficulties of approaching a so-called ‘biographical truth’ already begin with the autobiographical material and with the question of the extent to which the biographed subjects themselves have already experienced and shaped their lives according to certain narrative patterns adopted by biographers. In the end the question is how do we see Wittgenstein’s notion of ‘genius’ when looking at autobiographical sources? In Wittgenstein’s complete works, the term ‘genius’ is mentioned about 15 times. He grappled with the concept and with the turn-of-the-century distinction between talent and genius, or between originality and Jewish talent (meaning himself).6 He expresses the fear that he had, of not living up to the claim of thinking radically new things but rather being “merely reproductive.” His idea of the congenial reader is also indebted to Romanticism and its aesthetics of genius; just as his feeling of being permanently misunderstood resonates with the idea of being a ‘misunderstood genius.’ Wittgenstein’s preoccupation with genius can be seen within several contexts. For instance in the stylisation of Otto Weininger as a modern genius; in musical life, the veneration of Brahms or Mahler; in the religious ideas of Augustine, Tolstoy or Kierkegaard; and in the “aesthetics of decadence,” which propagated the proximity of creativity and madness and thus also idealised suffering – whether as a path to the purification of the soul (Augustine) or to salvation (Schopenhauer). Moreover, Wittgenstein’s social practice – hardly publishing, teaching only selected students, or meeting only selected members of the Vienna Circle – is consistent with

 Wittgenstein writes: “The saint is the only Jewish ‘genius’. Even the greatest Jewish thinker is no more than talented. (Myself for instance.) I think there is some truth in my idea that I am really only reproductive in my thinking. I think I have never invented a line of thinking but that it was always provided for me by someone else & I have done no more than passionately take it up for my work of clarification. […] What I invent are new comparisons.” (1.4.1932, CV). And somewhere else in the manuscripts: “The measure of genius is character,—even if character on its own does not amount to genius Genius is not ‘talent and character’, but character manifesting itself in the form of a special talent.” (CV) 6

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ideas about what it is to be a ‘genius,’ increasing curiosity, making criticism almost impossible and creating an aura of being distant from others. This dominant narrative of the ‘Socratic ideal,’ considering philosophy to be ‘work on oneself,’ calls for ethical and moral rigorism as well as bringing various discourses of authenticity to the forefront, whilst at the same time silencing ambivalent, contradictory and playful aspects of Wittgenstein’s personality. If we look at Wittgenstein’s notions on ‘genius’ contextualised in his own autobiographical remarks more broadly and if we acknowledge his scepticism towards autobiographical genres, we allow for a more ambivalent, contradictory and playful aspect of Wittgenstein’s personality, thus foregrounding his puzzling thoughts about the constitution of the self.

5.5 Images of the Wittgenstein Family The same sort of ‘captive images’ can be seen in the way the Wittgenstein family is portrayed. Consider, for instance the work of the novelist Thomas Bernhard in his play Ritter, Dene, Voss (1988). Here Ludwig Wittgenstein is sitting together with his two sisters, Hermine and Margarethe, at the dining table in the family’s salon, surrounded by the ancestral portrait gallery. The atmosphere is oppressive. Ludwig Wittgenstein starts to speak: The dining room the source of every calamity father mother children nothing but players in hell everything of any value was always drowned in soups and sauces whenever I had a real thought whenever I had a valuable thought mother drowned it in her soup whenever I had a real feeling whenever I had a valuable feeling she smoothed it in her sauce And father unscrupulously tolerated what mother killed in me that’s why I hate it this dining room always hated it nothing but death sentences were pronounced from this place from father’s place your fate was no different but I wasn’t as crafty as you two I always fell into the trap with a more or less cool head Our parents weren’t ashamed not even mother although shame should have been her duty I really had to hate them and hate the mall my life

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And then we see Ludwig stuffing himself with Hermine’s hand-made dumplings until he is almost suffocated. There is hardly air to breathe, until Hermine leaves the room and he gets up to flip the portraits of the ancestors. These images – Hermine as mother-substitute for ‘little Ludwig,’ almost strangling her brother with care and affection, Ludwig Wittgenstein as a tormented thinker, and the Wittgenstein family as a tight but destructive community – are hegemonic narratives in the Wittgenstein literature. These are found not just in numerous memoirs, but already in the chronicle of his sister, when describing her brother Ludwig7 as an isolated person from early childhood onwards, feeling permanently misunderstood and socially estranged. Or when describing the suicides of three of her brothers as ‘death judgments by the father,’ portraying the Wittgenstein family as a kind of pathological community; re-­narrated in later biographies such as that of Alexander Waugh (2008) which is a psychological portrait of the Wittgenstein family, describing a ‘family at war,’ focused on conflicts and secrets, investigating family dynamics from a psychoanalytic setting, favouring parent-child to sibling constellations and leaving little space to narrate ‘normal’ or ‘extended’ (family) life. Here one has to ask, to what extent did the biographers follow not too “slavish(ly) in the footsteps of their hero” as Virginia Woolf has called it (in her essay The New Biography (1927, 475), characterizing it as the biography style of the nineteenth century) and simply portraying Hermine through her own presentation of herself and the family. Similarly as critics (Eagleton, Freadman, and others) have argued, the biographers had followed primarily an (ideal) image Wittgenstein had of himself, the striving towards an ideal of a better self. In the discussion that follows, I show how a metabiographical approach grants more insight into what autobiographical texts do for their respective authors.  Hermine Wittgenstein died 1 year after having finished the chronicle, in 1949, then her brother Ludwig noted in his manuscript 138: “Mining im Sterben. Großer Verlust für mich und Alle. Größer als ich geglaubt hätte.”/“Mining dying. Great loss for me and for everyone. Bigger than I would have believed.” (10.2.1949, transl. NI) And 2 weeks later: “Ringsherum werden die Wurzeln abgeschnitten, an denen mein eigenes Leben hängt. Meine Seele ist voller Schmerzen. Sie hatte vielseitiges Talent und Verstand. Aber nicht nackt zu Tage liegend, sondern verhüllt; wie die menschlichen Eigenschaften liegen sollen.”/“All around, the roots on which my own life hangs are cut off. My soul is full of pain. It had many-sided talent and intellect. But not lying naked to the light, but veiled; as human qualities should lie.” (25.2.1949, BEE, transl. NI) Wittgenstein died himself 2 years later in Cambridge, in 1951. Hermine had typed many of his manuscripts, familiarizing herself with many of his philosophical thoughts, visible in her diary as in the chronicle. 7

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5.6 The Autobiographical Sources: Hermine’s Family Chronicle A chronicle differs from other sources. For a long time, the chronicle was only accessible to Wittgenstein scholars close to the family (apart from published excerpts such as the chapter on Ludwig; see Rhees 1987, 21–35). Edited by Ilse Somavilla and published in 2015, the chronicle became available to the broader public, which made it more possible to scrutinize some of its major narratives that have heavily influenced the way the family and the ‘private’ Wittgenstein were seen. The chronicle has also shaped the perception of him as philosopher. The family chronicle, written by Hermine Wittgenstein, has been read foremost to gather information about her youngest brother Ludwig Wittgenstein and his family, but it has not been read very much with a focus on Hermine Wittgenstein herself. Her diary was published with the title: Ludwig sagt... (2006); which is indebted to the same discourse of appropriation (‘aneignen’). My attempt to ‘free’ the chronicle and its author from her brother Ludwig’s shadow, encourages us to see how the family chronicle is written at a particular moment in time which is in the midst of World War Two. The chronicle starts off: In this serious time [1944], when people and things seem equally threatened by ruin, I quickly begin to record some family memories, partly to enjoy them myself, partly to bring the younger members of the family closer to their ancestors. It might be only an unpretentious stringing together of single moves and single facts, straws which, as the English proverb says, will show which way the wind blows. [...]. Straw will show which way the wind blows! (Wittgenstein 2015, 1; transl. NI)8

The chronicle covers the family story of the Wittgensteins from the mid nineteenth century until 1948 and is written during and after World War Two (1944–48). It describes how the Wittgensteins became an important part of the Habsburg monarchy, of Vienna’s economic and cultural life and how they suffered the fate of their Jewishness during the Nazi regime and its aftermath. The typescript has 250 pages and is divided into seven chapters. It begins in the 1830’s with the story of their grandparents and their move from Germany to Vienna. It then describes the father’s path to success as a major industrialist and patron of the arts, then it goes onto the story of the mother and the upbringing of Hermine’s older brothers, followed by the chapter on Ludwig, Margarethe (Stonborough) and Hermine herself. We are taken through a description of events in 1938/1939. This includes a characterisation of Hermine’s siblings Paul and Helene and a retrospective of her father’s siblings. Hermine then presents two obituaries as well as an account of the housemaid Rosalie  “In dieser ernsten Zeit [1944], in der Menschen und Dinge gleichermaßen vom Untergang bedroht erscheinen, beginne ich noch rasch einige Familienerinnerungen festzuhalten, zum Teil um mich selbst daran zu erfreuen, zum Teil um den jüngeren Mitgliedern der Familie ihre Vorfahren näher zu bringen. Es kann sich dabei nur um eine anspruchslose Aneinanderreihung von Einzelzügen und Einzeltatsachen handeln, um Strohhalme, die, wie das englische Sprichwort sagt, zeigen von welcher Seite der Wind weht. […]. Straw will show which way the wind blows!’” (Wittgenstein 2015 (s.o.), 1) 8

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Herrmann and of Hermine’s niece Marie Stockert. The fact that the family members integrated their friends into the notion of ‘extended family’ becomes more evident in other sources (such as the letters or postcards). The chronicle was written at a specific historical moment. After a futile attempt to be Aryanised, the family had to decide whether to leave for exile due to their Jewish roots, or to stay, which would entail making a financial deal with Hitler’s Germany. Hermine’s decision was to stay and to pay for her Aryanization status by transferring a huge amount of their wealth in Swiss currency to Berlin. Most of the other family members left the country – splitting up the family for decades to come (see Immler 2011, 244f.). The dramatic rupture caused by the war is quite hidden in the chronicle, which focuses on family history, cultural traditions, daily rituals and ongoing routines of everyday life. However, as one reads the chronicle more closely, taking note of the change in the chronicle’s texture and the author’s writing style – where every step of this morally challenging decision in 1938 is recorded in the finest detail – it becomes evident that there is a change, from a narrative to a documentary account and from a chronological to an a-chronological account. Hermine turns back to pre-war social networks and stability instead of portraying the post-1945 years. There is also, at an earlier moment in the chronicle, a turn from a diachronical (building lineage) towards a horizontal aspect (building solidarity), which, perhaps signals the same need for stability, namely a tighter bond between the siblings. When Hermine claims that the alleged suicides of three of her brothers (Hans, Kurt, and Rudolf) are primarily related to the tensions between the patriarchal father and the fact that these sons might have been ‘too sensitive,’ she ignores any other individual motives that these sons might have had as well as contextual (such as war-­ related) reasons. Hermine interprets this as a generational conflict, which consequently creates a sense of coherence and bonding between the younger siblings at a moment when this is most needed, as the family was about to fall apart. Writing the chronicle and rooting herself and the family deeply in Austria and Austrian culture, was a way to legitimize her choice to stay while at the same time keeping up family ties and her notions of a lost world. As such, the chronicle is less about witnessing but more about imagining family. The various shifts in Hermine’s writing style are particularly telling. To do justice to the events of 1938 she saw the need for a documentary style. That each content requires an appropriate form is an attitude crucial in the thinking of Ludwig Wittgenstein, who was always aware that certain things might be expressed in contexts of one sort, but not in contexts of another. As he wrote in a letter to his friend Ludwig Hänsel 10th of March 1937: When you know something, tell him; when you had a thought, convey it to him as a thought; when you have doubts, convey them as doubts, etc. The instruction can only consist in this, after all. For when the cleverer one conveys something unclear to him, but does so as if it were clear already, & when he conveys what he believes as if it were proven etc., he imparts to him none of his wisdom, after all. Only through inner truth, and I mean through your inner truth can you help the other to greater truth. There is no other means. (Klagge and Nordmann 2003, 301)

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This coincidence of saying and showing is characteristic of Wittgenstein’s so-called “style of thinking” (‘Denkstil’). In this way, questions of style are always philosophical questions as well: “The how of representation is just as essential to the what.” (Abel et al. 2007, 12)9 Or as Cora Diamond formulated it: “There is a guiding principle in Wittgenstein’s philosophical work, all of it: what you are talking about is given in how you talk about it. Change the logical features of how you talk about it and you change the subject, you are talking about something else.” (Diamond 1991, 88) Understanding these relationships between the how (the form) and the what (the content) in the autobiographical sources (Immler 2016), offers a new interpretation of the alleged silences in the Wittgensteinian family memory. From this perspective one could say that Hermine Wittgenstein, by performing a rupture in the text, is gesturing towards what cannot be talked about – for instance the somewhat traumatic reality of such a disconnect between siblings. The rupture is dealt with in a way that Angela Keppler has described in regard to family taboos, where in family conversation often taboos are indeed mentioned, but not discussed in any depth. Rather, as Keppler claims, they are reported simply as fact, with little real significance. In this way the family taboo is not denied, but is rather seen to be “a non-issue” and, as such, does not allow for any moral judgment (1994, 181f.). It is precisely in this area of ​​ethics, morals, aesthetics and values that language has its limits. As Wittgenstein wrote in the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, “whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent”, making it quite clear that there are issues one cannot talk about, only show. Hermine Wittgenstein, one might say, has internalized these ideas and put them into practice. Silencing the rupture within the family is not so much through the repression of unpleasant facts, but rather through a lack of moral judgment. She shows the rupture, but she silences the ethical dimension. This speaks very much to Ludwig Wittgenstein’s dictum “whereof you cannot speak you need to be silent.” And indeed, these silenced ruptures were an issue that has bewildered family members for decades. Subsequently, family descendants (who often name the chronicle the ‘legends’ of Aunt Hermine), read those gaps as intentional silencing. Textual and genre analysis offer alternative readings by identifying different forms of silence (Immler 2013). There is family-memory specific silence as the Halbwachs (1925/1985, 203–242) pointed out, where family memory is focused on rituals and continuity, not on rupture; on creating symbols, not evidence. We see genre-specific silence where a family chronicle is a genre that communicates family, it is a ‘mental model’ (Feldman 1994) shaping the production of the text as its response. In these instances, the author’s personal intentions are overlooked and the focus on family overshadows any focus on the individual. Then there is the context-specific silence where, for instance, the World War Two context supports narratives of healing, not of reflexivity. The silence due to narrative patterns provides a portrayal of everyday rituals and social networks to create narratives of stability in times of rupture. The  “Das Wie der Darstellung ist dem Was wesentlich. Der sich im Stil manifestierende diskursive Gehalt des Gedachten verweist nicht auf eine außerdiskursive Struktur der verhandelten Sachen, sondern auf das Darstellungsbedürfnis des Autors.” (Abel et al. 2007, 12) 9

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chronicle ends on a rather ironic note signalling continuity. While the split-up of the family is absent from the story line, the grievance about the rupture is visible in the text-structure. The chronicle was also influential in creating a perception of Ludwig Wittgenstein. A (con)textual analysis of the chronicle shows Hermine Wittgenstein co-initiated the reading of her brother as an isolated thinker or social freak – when describing him as someone who demanded congeniality not just from readers, but also from friends and family. Hermine shows Ludwig’s life changes, being motivated by inner needs and necessities, describing them as conversions, giving little attention to contextual reasons, such as experiences in World War I and World War II. As such she characterized the house he built for his sister Margarethe Stonborough in stone as materialized logic (“Hausgewordene Logik”, 122), focussing on his obsession with details. Others interpreted it as Wittgenstein’s first step towards a more practice-­ oriented philosophy in the late 1920’s. It was World War I that pushed both Ludwig and Hermine into a practical profession. Hermine, after having served as a nurse, opened a day care for underprivileged children. Having shifting roles between painter, landowner, clublady (“Malerin, Gutsbesitzerin, Vereinsdame”), she described herself in a letter to Ludwig (28.12.1914), when she became in 1921 the Director of an institute for unprivileged children. Being unmarried and childless she started her own quasi family, until in 1938 the Nazis dissolved it. This was at the same time that the Wittgenstein family became threatened. This part of her personality goes almost unnoticed; instead, she is portrayed by biographers as the chronicler, as Ludwig’s eldest sister and ‘mother substitute,’ the sister as stand-in for any sexual relationship, a classic bourgeois model.

5.7 Ludwig’s Autobiographical Remarks Understanding oneself properly is difficult because an action to which one might be prompted by good and generous motives is something one may also be doing out of cowardice or indifference. (1980, 48e)

Ludwig Wittgenstein’s autobiographical remarks have hitherto been read foremost in regard to his philosophical writing (Klagge 2001), while little attention has been paid so far to the theatricality and performativity of autobiographical texts or their intentions, functions, and contexts (Szabados 1995). To draw more attention to the way Wittgenstein presented his autobiographical thoughts and to his skepticism of the autobiographical genres and the authenticity they promise, I suggest reading his autobiographical writings in a different and less literal way. “Those who do not want to know themselves are guilty of a kind of fraud. The one who does not want to descend right into oneself, because this might be too

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painful, remains then naturally also with writing that is simply on the surface.”10 (17.2.1938, BEE, transl. NI) His form of doubt and restlessness prompts Bela Szabados (1995) to reclaim Wittgenstein as the representative of modern autobiography. Ludwig Wittgenstein’s own reflections on his life are fragmented and are spread throughout his philosophical oeuvre. We have two pages of an autobiographical sketch from the 1920s, several remarks indicating that he intended to write an autobiography,11 numerous observations on the nature of the autobiography and diary and his practice of keeping two diaries (in World War I and in the 1930s; the latter as a separate notebook). We also have his confessions towards family members and friends, and his use of a code to separate more private notes in the manuscript – private in the sense of being directed to a specific familiar reader or to be read in the context of autobiography. All this shows the extent to which he valued the autobiographical project. While early sketches suggest that he had planned an autobiography in the 1920’s, later remarks reflect just the autobiographical genre as such. Wittgenstein’s remarks on the vain nature of autobiography, his scepticism towards the artificial linearity of autobiographical (and philosophical) writing, his deconstruction of authenticity and playfulness with the rhetoric of autobiographical notions – all suggest a different reading, treatment and editing of his autobiographical remarks. To refer to a well-known example: several times in his life Wittgenstein had so-­ called confessions. In the 1930’s in the presence of friends and family members, these are crucial to the interpretation of Wittgenstein ‘working hard on himself,’ striving for a better self and sincerity as an ethical thinker (Somavilla 2019). In the literature the confessions are associated foremost with his Jewish roots that Wittgenstein perceived as problematic, with feelings of guilt and self-blame as well as a certain masochism towards himself (McGuinness 1988, 98f.). Wittgenstein writes in his manuscripts in a different tone when it is about confessions, calling this the ‘language game:’ “If it were not possible to build on my confession of my motive the consequences that one can generally build on it, then the whole language game would not exist.” (1.1.1949, Briefwechsel, Electronic Edition 2004)12 And 6 weeks later:

 “Wer sich selbst nicht kennen will, der schreibt eine Art Betrug. Wer in sich selbst nicht hinuntersteigen will, weil es zu schmerzhaft ist, bleibt natürlich auch mit dem Schreiben an der Oberfläche.” (17.2.1938, BEE) 11  In a letter to Ludwig Hänsel in 1924, Wittgenstein considered writing a biography. It was not until 28 December 1929 that he referred to this project again, when he wrote in the Philosophische Betrachtungen: “Etwas in mir spricht dafür meine Biographie zu schreiben und zwar möchte ich mein Leben einmal klar ausbreiten um es klar vor mir zu haben und auch für andere. Nicht so sehr, um darüber Gericht zu halten als um jedenfalls Klarheit und Wahrheit zu schaffen.” / “Something in me speaks in favour of writing my biography, and that is that I would like to clearly lay out my life once in order to have it clearly in front of me and also for others. Not so much to judge it as to create clarity and truth.” (28.12.1929, BEE, transl. NI) Those references remain fragmentary. 12  “Wenn sich auf mein Geständnis meines Motivs nicht die Konsequenzen bauen ließen, die man im allgemeinen drauf bauen kann, dann gäbe es das ganze Sprachspiel nicht.” (1.1.1949) 10

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And the importance of the true confession does not lie in the fact that it correctly represents any process with certainty. It lies rather in the special consequences that can be drawn from a confession whose truthfulness is guaranteed by the special criteria of truthfulness.13 (14.2.1949, Briefwechsel, Electronic Edition 2004)

Here the confession can also be interpreted as a formalized form of communication. From the point of view of autobiographical theory (Voisine 1998, 44), the confession can be read as a specific form of communication, constituting and strengthening existing relationships and confirming the order one is part of. This could suggest that Wittgenstein’s confessions are less a search for honesty, catharsis and transformation, but rather for acceptance and affirmation. Instead of signalling exposure (‘Entblössungssituation’ as Helmuth Plessner has called it), it rather signals an intensive dialogue with those around him and a submission to a social order. For the ethicist Wittgenstein, confession is an expression of a guilty existence (‘schuldbewusste Existenz’); for the philosopher of language games, it marks a performative act (creating closeness). Wittgenstein’s habit to encode certain (more or less private) remarks in the philosophical manuscripts, led to them being labelled as secretive; consequently published as so-called Secret Diaries. The fact that the Wittgensteins as a family used this code in family letters, suggests a different reading. The code seems to be less about ‘concealment,’ as much of the literature suggests, but rather about dialogue or conversations with a reader who is already familiar with the code, or, as I believe, autobiographical remarks in a wider sense. As Ilse Somavilla (2019) noted: the code is used as a critical voice for questions that concern the personal and refer to the unspeakable. It is a way of highlighting, not hiding. In this way, Wittgenstein wants to achieve something for himself in writing that cannot be clarified through philosophical discussion. These observations suggest that it would be important to engage more with how Wittgenstein himself reflected on the autobiographical genre. Wittgenstein is highly sceptical of the genre of autobiography and he regularly thematises the limits of truth and sincerity, accusing autobiographical writing of dishonest motives such as vain self-reflection or/and deceptive manoeuvres. In his private notes, the diary, or in the so-called confessions, a certain scepticism towards this ‘work on oneself’ is very clearly evident. It is precisely this scepticism that also gives a somewhat different picture of Wittgenstein. Moreover, the study of Wittgenstein’s unpublished oeuvre has shown that he did not authorise any texts as ‘autobiographical texts’, but rather implicitly declared them to be such through coding or labelling. Here another Wittgenstein reveals himself; the reference to methodology and form, which is always a signal that Wittgenstein’s reflection on himself implies some sort of distancing. Today scholars agree that there was some misguided editing of Wittgenstein’s philosophical manuscripts and the same can be said of his autobiographical notes  “Und die Wichtigkeit des wahrhaften Geständnisses liegt nicht darin, daß es irgendeinen Vorgang mit Sicherheit richtig wiedergibt. Sie liegt vielmehr in den besondern Konsequenzen, die sich aus einem Geständnis ziehen lassen, dessen Wahrhaftigkeit durch die besondern Kriterien der Wahrhaftigkeit verbürgt ist.” (17.2.1949). 13

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where the editing reinforced the ‘exotisising’ and ‘othering’ image of ‘the exiled,’ neglecting relational aspects in multiple ways.14 Those typifications of Wittgenstein are not just attributes made by biographers but are also consequences of their selective reading of the autobiographical sources. Central to the image of Wittgenstein as an ethicist are his so-called ‘confessions’ or the ‘secret diaries’ and central to the image of Wittgenstein as a dialogical thinker are his letters and postcards (Seekircher 2001). Based on these more dialogical sources, new forms of biographies have emerged in the Wittgenstein field; I call them relational biographies.

5.8 A Relational Biography A conference of the Hungarian Wittgenstein Society, entitled Wittgenstein nach der Arbeit (2011), contrasted the strict entanglement of Wittgenstein’s work and life with a focus on the private Wittgenstein. Similarly, an exhibition in Berlin – commemorating the 60th anniversary of his death and ironically titled: Ludwig Wittgenstein: Verortung eines Genies Drehmel et al. (2011), did not portray the aura of difference and singularity, but rather the dialogue with his friends, family and colleagues at centre stage. After presenting the intellectual, familial, geographical, intellectual and cultural-historical, the visitor was seated in an empty ‘thinking room’ (Denkraum) to listen to Wittgenstein’s thoughts on the question of subjectego-­identity (Subjekt-Ich-Identität). The exhibition follows Wittgenstein’s principle of ‘showing’ – sources, where contemporaries are primarily allowed to speak.15 A similar principle is followed by Michael Nedo (known as editor of the Wiener Edition of Wittgenstein’s philosophical work), who re-edited the ‘Biographical Album’ (Nedo and Ranchetti 1983/2012), a collage of photographs and quotations from primary sources, claiming to be a biography without an author. Structured associatively, it follows Wittgenstein’s idea of an album, a term he had used in 1943 when he called his Philosophical Investigations an “album of landscape sketches” which was a way of saying ‘good bye’ to the linear book form and illustrating the principle that understanding is not based on explanation but rather on seeing connections. The guiding principle here is also the belief in primary sources. In the introduction we read: for the understanding of Wittgenstein’s philosophy it is most important “to demonstrate the link between his life and his work.” Then the authors encourage the reader to explore for themselves these relationships between the philosophical and the personal through a photo and text album with more than 500  Wittgenstein was established in Cambridge, in contact with central circles and thinkers of his time (the Apostels, the Vienna Circle, the literates of Viennese modernism, the London Bloomsbury Group), so that Walter Methlagl spoke of a “kulturellen Gemeinschaftshandeln” (Immler 2011, 98f. and 152f). 15  A small gender critical note: Marguerite Respinger, Wittgenstein’s confidante in the early 1930’s, is an exception; she remains colourless because she does not speak herself but is only talked about. 14

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illustrations and numerous text sources: philosophical remarks, familial letters, diaries, postcards, memoirs and historical documents. The album – rather an edition of biographical sources than a biography – follows Wittgenstein’s principle ‘to point at’ (zeigen) things but not to be explaining them. Understanding is thus based upon seeing connections. The authors remain in the background, letting the sources speak for themselves, enhancing the idea that there is something like a Wittgenstein-­ inherent ‘authentic’ or ‘generic’ way to write biography, namely by creating a ‘übersichtliche Darstellung’ with sources reflecting on each other when placed side by side.16 Returning to the more general debate whether “relationality” is a recent genre-­ formation, sparked by cultural and literary shifts (Rüggemeier 2014) or rather a form of storytelling (Watson 2016), the Wittgenstein examples show a form of relationality generated via dialogical settings that address and include the other. At the same time one can observe: While these new biographies have a more relational approach I would argue that they do once again recirculate, de-contextualise and glorify (‘auratisieren’) the most popular quotations by and about Wittgenstein. The guiding principle is again the belief in primary sources. Does this not reveal a similar phenomenon that Terry Eagleton (1993) has formulated with regard to Wittgenstein’s work? The power of Wittgenstein’s philosophical texts is based on the negation of their production process. Eagleton is convinced that this has contributed significantly to the iconisation of Wittgenstein. I believe the same can be said for the autobiographical texts, which is why Das Familiengedächtnis is committed to make this production process – the making of – more visible as well.

5.9 Conclusion: Das ‘Familiengedächtnis’ as a Metabiography What did a metabiography such as Das Familiengedächtnis der Wittgensteins make visible that previously remained invisible? If one considers meta-biography as a storytelling practice, what is the value of this relational approach (Watson 2016); what does it add to Wittgenstein research? As shown above, the Familienerinnerungen were heavily influenced by the historical context as the rhetoric of the genre. The family chronicle fulfilled strategic functions at the end of the 1940’s. This was a family that had lost a lot in the war and that was deeply divided. The chronicle is less about witnessing than about symbolising. For example, the pathos of exceptionalism enshrined in the chronicle also had  One such example are the letters from Wittgenstein’s friends to Friedrich Hayek (Wittgenstein’s cousin); they are often cited without mentioning for what purpose they were actually written, which would be crucial for placing its content: in 1953 Hayek collected material for a first biography of Wittgenstein, which eventually failed due to the resistance of the family. Thus once again, it is a matter of studying Wittgenstein’s personal surrounding with Wittgenstein in mind, rather than giving the persons themselves more profile. 16

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a function: the Ludwig chapter ascribes a special status to ‘the brother’ at a time when the family had lost its own exceptional status as Austria’s leading industrial family. Hermine now focuses on the ‘extraordinary’ brother in circumstances that have become ‘ordinary,’ thus perpetuating a family myth. At the same time, the chronicle shows Wittgenstein as an outsider and social neurotic – fitting in all too well with the genius model. But what the chronicle actually reveals is much more a sister’s own lack of understanding of her brother than a brother who felt misunderstood. As long as Hermine Wittgenstein’s chronicle is seen foremost as the history of the Wittgenstein family – and she as the one keeping the family together (‘the caring oldest sister’) – it remains obscure as to what extent the chronicle, by recording just one official form of the family history, silences all other (hi)stories. In this way the chronicle becomes an instrument of interpretative power. In a period of turmoil the family memories give legitimacy and self-assurance, compensating for the loss of control over their lives after 1938. But, more importantly, by putting the family on centre stage, the author herself retreats to the background. The study of Wittgenstein’s autobiographical legacy has shown that texts were not ostensibly presented as ‘autobiographical texts’, but it was rather only through coding or labelling that they were then assumed to be so. When Wittgenstein reflects on the rules of autobiographical writing, he references a methodology or a certain form, which signals reflection and distance: “One thinks that one is tracing the outline of the thing’s nature over and over again, and one is merely tracing round the frame through which we look at it.” (1953/2009, § 114) Wittgenstein’s reflection on himself also has something distanced about it. Here, another Wittgenstein reveals himself. As long as Wittgenstein’s confessions were seen as a central element for constant soul-searching and self-improvement, the playfulness in his autobiographical texts remains veiled, hiding the philosopher of language while foregrounding the rigorist ethicist. The relational reading of the sources reveals a more dialogical, gender-­friendly, family and friendship-committed Ludwig Wittgenstein. The concept Familiengedächtnis, the self-thematisation of family within the family, gave me the opportunity to systematically compile the different autobiographical text types used by Ludwig Wittgenstein and in the Wittgenstein family – categorized and analyzed by genre (whether diaries, letters, family chronicle, confessions or private remarks encoded in philosophical manuscripts). This kind of method  – one could call, as Wittgenstein himself did, a übersichtliche Darstellung – shows how these genres have their own rules, rhetoric and stylisations, but also reveals how they shape the authors’ self-perception and self-presentation. As a result, the biographer is often misled, neglecting performative, stylistic but also contextual elements. The relational set-up provides new insights about how autobiographical and biographical representations interact and therewith creates distance from certain essentialisation and labels. It also allowed me to reinterpret the sibling relationship between Hermine and Ludwig; acknowledging that the chronicle includes the common rhetoric of Ludwig’s family contemporaries as well as their offspring and his “own distinctive dicta” (Herbert Hrachovec 2012, 194). Nonetheless, establishing a better understanding of the narrative power of this source and identifying and contextualising Hermine’s style of thinking and

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writing17 also allows a re-reading and a rehabilitating of the family source, which within the family by some also has been considered as ‘legend.’ Calling it Familiengedächtnis implies that there are multiple voices that establish a family memory and family biography, including also the transformations of narratives across generations. This becomes evident when interviewing later generations to explore how stories are echoed by contemporaries and what impact they had on conceptualizing the various family subjects. In this sense Das Familiengedächtnis der Wittgenstein is an exemplary meta-biography. It addresses “the fraught relationships between genre and gender, private and public, image and text, life and narrative” and therewith “the wider questions of textuality, memorialisation, life-course models, the uses of the past, and the narrative interpretation of its traces” (Ní Dhúill 2020, 24). Which voices do authors themselves echo and which do biographers chose to make their dominant narrative voice? Metabiography alerts us as to how this process is shaped; thereby visualising multiple voices. By studying the Wittgenstein case and by scrutinizing the interaction between autobiographical and biographical texts, the relational storytelling of Das Familiengedächtnis and the reflection on how the process itself unfolds, exemplifies this very process.

Literature Abel, Günther, Matthias Kroß, and Michael Nedo. 2007. Vorwort. In Ludwig Wittgenstein. Ingenieur-Philosoph-Künstler, ed. Kroß Abel and Nedo, 7–13. Berlin: Parerga. Bachmann, Ingeborg. 1953. Ludwig Wittgenstein  – Zu einem Kapitel der jüngsten Philosophiegeschichte. Frankfurter Hefte 7. Repr. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Schriften, Beiheft 1. Frankfurt/M. 1972. Bartley, William W. 1973/1983. Wittgenstein, ein Leben. Repr. Berlin: Matthes & Seitz. Bernhard, Thomas. 1991. Ritter, Dene, Voss. In Histrionics: Three Plays, 75–178. London: Quartet. Diamond, Cora. 1991. Ethics, Imagination and the Method of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus. In Bilder der Philosophie. Reflexionen über das Bildliche und die Phantasie, ed. Richard Heinrich and Helmuth Vetter, 55–90. Wien/München: R. Oldenbourg. Drehmel, Jan et al. 2011. Ludwig Wittgenstein: Verortung eines Genies. Exhibition catalogue. Hamburg: Junius Verlag Eagleton, Terry. 1993. Einleitung. In Wittgenstein, The Terry Eagleton Script, The Derek Jarman Film, 5–13. London: British Film Institute. Edmonds, David, and John Eidinow. 2001. Wittgenstein’s Poker: The Story of a 10-minute Argument Between Two Great Philosophers. New York: Ecco, Harper Collins.

 This ‘style’ is described by Margarethe as a ‘descriptive nature:’ “To come back once more to Min’s (Hermine’s) letters I want to say that people who are used to writing descriptive letters like she, have a much harder time anyway nowadays than you have.” In a letter to Ludwig she associates Hermine with having a firm belief in narrative, providing identity and support, referencing Ludwig’s dictum that “der Stil is das Bild eines Menschen”. This contrasts with Ludwig Wittgenstein’s consistent doubt about the autobiographical genre, using language as a means to locate preconceptions and destabilize familiarities (Immler 2016). 17

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Feldman, Carol. 1994. Genres as Mental Models. In Psychonalysis and Development. Representations and Narratives, ed. Massimo Ammaniti and Daniel N.  Stern, 111–121. New York: New York University Press. Freadman, Richard. 2002. Genius and the Dutiful Life: Ray Monk’s Wittgenstein and the Biography of the Philosopher as Sub-Genre. Biography: An Interdisciplinary Quarterly 25 (2): 301–342. Halbwachs, Maurice. 1925/1985. Das kollektive Familiengedächtnis. In Das Gedächtnis und seine sozialen Bedingungen, 203–242. Repr. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Hide, Øystein. 2009. Biographie, Philosophie and the Only Thing that Really Matters: Life. Interview with Ray Monk. Samtiden 3/2003; auf dt. In Nicole L.  Immler (Hg.) “The making of …” Genie: Wittgenstein & Mozart. Biographien, ihre Mythen und wem sie nützen. Innsbruck-Wien-Bozen: Studienverlag. Hrachovec, Herbert. 2012. At the Crossroads of the Wittgenstein and Autobiography Highways. Review of Das Familiengedächtnis der Wittgensteins by N.  Immler. Nordic Wittgenstein Review 1: 193–196. Immler, Nicole L. 2009. The making of…’ Genie: Mozart und Wittgenstein. Biographien, ihre Mythen und wem sie nützen. Innsbruck-Wien-Bozen: Studienverlag. ———. 2011. Das Familiengedächtnis der Wittgensteins: Zu verführerischen Lesarten von autobiographischen Texten. Bielefeld: Transcript. ———. 2013. Schweigen im Familiengedächtnis: Zur nicht-motivischen Tradierung familiärer Codes in Hermine Wittgensteins Familienerinnerungen. In Jenseits des beredten Schweigens. Perspektiven auf den sprachlosen Augenblick, ed. Sandra Markewitz, 73–99. Bielefeld: Aisthesis Verlag. ———. 2016. The How Is Key for the What. The Family Chronicle: Ludwig Wittgenstein from a Relational Perspective. In Ästhetik Heute, ed. Stefan Majetschak and Anja Weiberg, vol. 24, 109–112. Austrian Ludwig Wittgenstein Society, Contributions. Janik, Allan, and Stephen Toulmin. 1984 (Orig. 1973). Wittgensteins Wien. München-Wien: Carl Hanser. Keppler, Angela. 1994. Tischgespräche: Über Formen kommunikativer Vergemeinschaftung am Beispiel der Konversation in Familien. Frankfurt/M: Suhrkamp. Klagge, James C., ed. 2001. Wittgenstein, Biography & Philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Klagge, James, and Alfred Nordmann, eds. 2003. Ludwig Wittgenstein. Public and Private Occasions. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield. Macho, Thomas. 2001. Ludwig Wittgenstein (Philosophie Jetzt!). München: DTV. McGuinness, Brian. 1988. Wittgensteins frühe Jahre. Frankfurt/M: Suhrkamp Verlag. Methlagl, Walter. 2002. Bodenproben. Kulturgeschichtliche Reflexionen. Innsbruck: Haymon. Monika S. et al. (Ed.) (2004). ‘Briefwechsel’: Wittgenstein, Briefwechsel, Electronic Edition. Monk, Ray. 1992. Ludwig Wittgenstein: The Duty of Genius. London: Penguin Books. Nedo, Michael, and Michele Ranchetti, eds. 1983/2012. Ludwig Wittgenstein. Sein Leben in Bildern und Texten. Repr. Frankfurt/M: Suhrkamp Verlag. Ní Dhúill, Caitríona. 2020. Metabiography: Reflecting on Biography. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Pascal, Fania. 1987. Meine Erinnerungen an Wittgenstein. In Ludwig Wittgenstein, Porträts und Gespräche, ed. Rush Rhees, 35–83. Frankfurt/M: Suhrkamp Verlag. Rhees, Rush, ed. 1987. Ludwig Wittgenstein, Porträts und Gespräche. Frankfurt/M: Suhrkamp Verlag. Rüggemeier, Anne. 2014. Die relationale Autobiographie: Ein Beitrag zur Theorie, Poetik und Gattungsgeschichte eines neuen Genres in der englischsprachigen Erzählliteratur. Trier: WVT Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier. Seekircher, Monika. 2001. Wittgensteins „praktische Ethik“ in seinen Briefen. In Der Denker als Seiltänzer. Ludwig Wittgenstein über Religion, Mystik und Ethik, ed. Ulrich Arnswald and Anja Weiberg, 213–230. Berlin: Parerga.

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Somavilla, Ilse. 2019. Wittgensteins Tagebuchschreiben als Weg der Vervollkommnung und Suche nach Klarheit. Schwerpunkt: Philosophische Selbstzeugnisse im Wiener Kreis. Deutsche Zeitschrift für Philosophie 67 (2): 265–279. Szabados, Béla. 1995. Autobiography and Philosophy: Variations on a Theme of Wittgenstein. Metaphilosophy 26: 63–80. Szeltner, Sarah Anna. 2012. Review of Das Familiengedächtnis der Wittgensteins Zu verführerischen Lesarten von (auto-)biographischen Texten, by Nicole L.  Immler. Biography: An Interdisciplinary Quarterly 35 (3): 524–528. Voisine, Jacques. 1998. Vom religiösen Bekenntnis zur Autobiographie und zum intimen Tagebuch zwischen 1760 und 1820. In Die Autobiographie. Zu Form und Geschichte einer literarischen Gattung, ed. Günter Niggl, 392–414. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Watson, Julia. 2016. Is Relationality a Genre? Review of Relational Autobiography: A Contribution to the Theory, Poetics, and Genre History of a New Genre in English-language Narrative Literature, by Anne Rüggemeier. European Journal of Life Writing 5. https://ejlw.eu/article/ view/31480/28827. Waugh, Alexander. 2008. The House of Wittgenstein: A Family at War. London: ANCHOR. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1953/2009. Philosophical Investigations (PI), Trans. by G.E.M. Anscombe, 4th ed. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 1980. Culture and Value (CV), ed. G.H. v. Wright. Oxford: Blackwell. Wittgenstein, Hermine. 2006. Ludwig sagt … Die Aufzeichnungen der Hermine Wittgenstein., ed. Mathias Iven. Innsbruck: Haymon. ———. 2015. Familienerinnerungen, ed. Ilse Somavilla. Innsbruck: Haymon. Woolf, Virginia. 1927. The New Biography (1927). In The Essays of Virginia Woolf IV, 1925–1928, ed. Andrew McNeillie, 473–480. London: Hogart Press. Wünsche, Konrad. 1985. Der Volksschullehrer Ludwig Wittgenstein. Mit neuen Dokumenten und Briefen aus den Jahren 1919 bis 1926. Frankfurt/M: Suhrkamp. Zilsel, Edgar. 1990. Die Geniereligion. Ein kritischer Versuch über das moderne Persönlichkeitsideal, mit einer historischen Begründung, ed. Johann Dvorak. Frankfurt/M: Suhrkamp.

Chapter 6

Wittgenstein and the Variety of Vienna Circles Thomas Uebel

Abstract  The Vienna Circle was, as the research of recent decades made abundantly clear, far from a homogeneous group of philosophers (nor an always harmonious one). This can be shown with regard to the way different general philosophical and cultural influences affected the views of different members, but also with regard to the way in which the doctrines of specific philosophers closely associated with the origin of logical empiricism were received. Wittgenstein is a case in point. This paper sets out, with the help of a few indicative examples, how the critical reception of the Tractatus by Hans Hahn, Philipp Frank and Otto Neurath—former members of an informal pre-World War 1 discussion group, the so-called first Vienna Circle— and by Rudolf Carnap reflected their pre-existent theoretical interests. Wittgenstein’s Tractatus contributed to their developing philosophy but was far from its foundation, contrary to what has often been presumed about the relation of Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle. Keywords  Wittgenstein · Vienna Circle · Moritz Schlick · Friedrich Waismann · Rudolf Carnap · Hans Hahn · Otto Neurath

6.1 Introduction Let’s begin with the indisputable fact that Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-­ Philosophicus exercised a very great influence on the philosophy of the Vienna Circle. Add to this that its detailed study was the dominant topic, on and off, for roughly the first 3 years of their meetings, and one may well be tempted to think of their philosophy as a mere footnote to the Tractatus (perhaps even a confused one). I’d like to caution against this by considering an opposing view. Important members T. Uebel (*) Department of Philosophy, School of Social Sciences, University of Manchester, Manchester, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_6

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of the Vienna Circle were not interested in the Tractatus for its own sake, but only for its contribution to their own pre-existing agendas. I will argue for this here by highlighting relevant differences in the reactions to Wittgenstein’s Tractatus (and some amendments to it ca. 1929) by Circle members. My focus will lie on the systematic disagreements voiced by the so-called left wing of the Vienna Circle (or left Vienna Circle, for short). My reason for choosing this focus is that it seems to me that without recognition of these factional differences within the Vienna Circle (and their historical background) it is pretty impossible to understand the conflicted nature of the Circle’s reception of the Tractatus—i.e., that admiration for it was far from wholesale and unanimous—or, indeed, the dynamic of the Circle’s development as a whole. In other words, the Circle’s varied reception of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus is but a reflection of its own variety of standpoints and agendas. I begin with a brief round-up of the dramatis personae and a specification of the one line of influence of the Tractatus that everyone in the Circle agreed on, before turning to the dissent distinctive of the left Vienna Circle. I will close with an hypothesis explanatory of the left wing’s dissent.

6.2 The Two Wings of the Vienna Circle First, who is the left Vienna Circle? Importantly, the left Vienna Circle consists of the combination of members of the so-called first Vienna Circle and Carnap. I take it everybody heard of Carnap, but a word or two may be in order about the first Vienna Circle. The term, invented by Rudolf Haller, designates the group of Philipp Frank, Hahn and Otto Neurath, founding members of the Vienna Circle around Moritz Schlick, who had formed an interactive core of a wider informal philosophical discussion group that met more or less regularly in Vienna from about 1907 until about 1909 until Hahn’s and Frank’s first professorial appointments and Neurath’s research travels in the Balkans had dispersed them.1 As young physicists, mathematicians, and economist-sociologists who worked on the frontiers of their specialities in their chosen disciplines (the special theory of relativity, the calculus of variations, and economic history and war economics, respectively), they were acutely aware of the crises that were shaking the foundations of their disciplines and they were actively engaged, using opportunities afforded by the Philosophical Society of the University of Vienna, to formulate a new, more up-to-date form of Machian positivism. Such updating meant defining and defending the lasting essence of Mach’s doctrines while amending those of its shortcomings of which they were aware. It meant holding on to Mach’s empiricism and pragmatism while recognizing, far more than

 See Frank (1949), Haller (1985) and Uebel (2003). For a review of the evidence for and defense of the first Vienna Circle thesis against some recent criticisms, see Uebel (2022). 1

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he did, the important role played by logic and mathematics in the development of empirical theories, and the fruitfulness of the atomic hypothesis; it also meant adopting a critical attitude towards the phenomenalist tendencies in his theory of elements. Their attempts at renewal were sparked by reading early Russell’s logicism and the reflections about scientific method by the so-called French conventionalists, the physicists Henri Poincaré, Pierre Duhem and Abel Rey. And just as Hahn and Frank came to mistrust both bare intuitions and traditional truths of reason in mathematics and physics, so Neurath rejected them for the social sciences: while the neoclassical paradigm was still being formed in economics, he urged its wholesale reconceptualization. In short, the theorists of the first Vienna Circle were aiming for a philosophy of science able to integrate constructive, even speculative thought without compromising empiricism or capitulating to transcendentalism. Call this “pragmatist instrumentalism.”2 What distinguished it from what Carnap called its “more conservative right wing” (1963, 57) around the titular head of the Vienna Circle, Schlick, and his amanuensis Friedrich Waismann? Unlike Schlick and Waismann, they were not prepared to countenance characteristic Wittgensteinian theses after they proved themselves highly problematical. One instance was the strict verificationism that Wittgenstein championed in 1929–30 (more on this below). But the left wing’s search for “a more liberal criterion of significance” (ibid., 58) was but part of a distinctive wider philosophical orientation. It was also members of the left wing who, via Hahn and Carnap, seconded by Frank, forcefully argued for the rejection of Wittgenstein’s strictures against metalinguistic discourse and, in epistemology via Neurath, already had rejected all foundationalist ploys in philosophy, or soon came to do so, like Carnap. Most importantly, perhaps, the left wing also gave a distinctive interpretation to the doctrine of unified science. All in the Vienna Circle objected to the separation of the human sciences from the natural sciences. Yet for the left wing, unified science also had implications for philosophy itself. For them philosophy formed part of unified science because it was assimilated to science as its metatheory, as a second-order inquiry of itself a scientific nature employing only formal-logical or empirical resources. Very much by contrast with their fully-fledged naturalism, however, Schlick retained philosophy as a sui generis inquiry. Needless to say, perhaps, with their comprehensive naturalism above all else, the members of the Circle’s left wing stood in sharp opposition to the view of Wittgenstein. Before going further into the specifics of the disagreements at issue, we must introduce the by no means unspectacular “more conservative” side of the Circle. There is, first of all, its primus inter pares Schlick who in the course of the 1920s much reduced his earlier interest in philosophy of science—he had been the first academic philosopher to have made sense of Einstein’s general theory of relativity (1919–22)—in favor of Wittgensteinian themes concerning language and mind.  Adherents of the thesis of a distinct tradition of Austrian philosophy may note that with the members of the former first Vienna Circle some typically “Austrian” influences came to the fore in Schlick’s Circle. 2

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And there’s Waismann, who dedicated more than 10 years to writing a book explaining Wittgenstein’s philosophy: at first it was to be about the Tractatus, then about Wittgenstein’s new post-Tractarian philosophy in collaboration with Wittgenstein himself, and then again, still about the same topic, by Waismann alone. Two versions of the book were completed—one in German and one in English—but neither of them was published in Waismann’s (or Wittgenstein’s) lifetime. So it is Schlick and Waismann that it might be thought that people could cite who like to think of logical positivism as a footnote to Wittgenstein. But even for Schlick and Waismann this would not hold up. Rejected by Wittgenstein when they were both refugees in Cambridge, Waismann came to consider him, by the time he himself found another refuge in Oxford, “the greatest disappointment of his life.”3 Nowadays, scholars argue over how complete his rejection of Wittgenstein’s philosophy in his own later work was.4 But Schlick also, despite his appreciation and unstinting admiration of Wittgenstein, took elements of his ever-changing philosophy and put them to uses that were at least in tension with other elements of it. Thus he effectively employed the perspective on knowledge and understanding the middle Wittgenstein was developing in order to arrive at a response that sought to disarm—not refute!—the challenge of external world skepticism. This issue, of course, was something his Circle colleagues were bound to consider a pseudo-problem, but it very much had exercised Schlick in the decade-and-a-half before he came to Vienna and convened his Circle.5 Interestingly enough, Wittgenstein at that point in time (the mid-30s) was not interested in this problem either and, as it happens, was beginning to question the very epistemological individualism that Schlick still was beholden to. Indeed, when he turned to the problem some ten  years later in On Certainty, Wittgenstein had shed that very individualism—but he approached skepticism with the same deflationary strategy as Schlick. So even the philosopher who appears to be the most notable exception to my claim that the Vienna Circle’s philosophies, folklore notwithstanding, were no mere footnotes to TLP, even Schlick was no mere devotee. His theory of affirmations provides a good example that illustrates the intellectual independence he kept.

6.3 What All Agreed About: The Tautological Nature of Logic Amidst all this pluralism, it is perhaps reassuring that there was something that all the members of the Vienna Circle—including Neurath!—could agree on concerning Wittgenstein. To begin with, they agreed on what the Tractatus is about, at least in outline. (After 100  years of discussion about it we can say that such agreement,  Reported by Heinrich Neider in Haller and Rutte (1977, 35).  See, e.g., Morris (2019) on a disagreement between Gordon Baker and Peter Hacker. 5  See Uebel (2022). 3 4

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right or wrong, is not a matter of course.) Here’s part of the summary that Waismann produced in 1929. This book discusses the logical foundations of our language, the foundations of any symbolic system capable of expressing thoughts. There exists a fundamental relation between the states of affairs of the world and the sentences of language. It is this: our statements are logical pictures of states of affairs. All thought, speech and communication is nothing but such a logical picturing. What cannot be pictured cannot be expressed by language and cannot be represented, formulated, communicated in any way whatsoever. …. To be sure, there exists what cannot be expressed, but this “shows itself “ in language (in the logical construction of the symbols). The clear separation of what can be spoken of and what cannot constitutes the most important result of this book. This insight is applied to a number of issues in logic and epistemology which are solved in a surprisingly simple way once one has understood the nature of symbolic representation. In this fashion the nature of logic is elucidated and it is proved that there is only one logic …. This perspective leads to a new conception of the nature of philosophy. (Verein Ernst Mach 1929/2012, 111)6

Needless to say, not all members thought all these claims correct—as we shall see below. But that these claims were made in the book was agreed among them. Schlick put the point of agreement center-stage in his opening essay for Erkenntnis. I am convinced that we now find ourselves at an altogether decisive turning point in philosophy, and that we are objectively justified in considering that an end has come to the fruitless conflict of systems. We are already at the present time, in my opinion, in possession of methods which make every such conflict in principle unnecessary …. That the situation is unique and that the turning embarked upon is really decisive can be understood only by becoming acquainted with the new paths …. The[se] paths have their origin in logic. Leibniz dimly saw their beginning. Bertrand Russell and Gottlob Frege have opened up important stretches in the last decades, but Ludwig Wittgenstein (in his Tractatus Logico-­ Philosophicus 1922) is the first to have pushed forward to the decisive turning point. (Schlick 1930/1979, 154)

Hahn was less effusive but made the same point to his former student Menger when he invited him to join the Circle, after he returned from two years with L.E.J. Brouwer in Amsterdam in 1927. “To me,” Hahn told him, “the Tractatus has explained the role of logic” (Hahn 1980, xii). In this respect Schlick and Hahn were obviously of one mind and glad to have initiated the study of the Tractatus, albeit indirectly at first. Menger, who was briefed by Hahn on the activities of the Circle before he joined it, reported that in 1924 “the geometer Kurt Reidemeister, a member of the early Circle, studied the book at Schlick’s and Hahn’s request and presented an extensive report about it in a meeting.” It was Reidemeister’s report that allowed Hahn to look beyond the portentous ontological remarks at its beginning (which he found perplexing) and discern its logical doctrines (Menger 1994, 89 and 105). Later that academic year the Circle’s joint readings of the Tractatus began.  This is the description of the content of the Tractatus that Waismann furnished for the inofficial manifesto Wissenschaftliche Weltauffassung. Der Wiener Kreis which was composed in the spring and summer of 1929 mainly by Carnap and Neurath to mark Schlick’s decision to stay in Vienna and resist a call to Bonn. 6

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For Wittgenstein, “the propositions of logic are tautologies” (TLP 6.1). Now, already Schlick had asserted something similar about syllogistic logic in his General Theory of Knowledge (1918/1985, 115)—namely that all strict deductive inference is of an analytic nature—but only Wittgenstein established this conclusion for the new logic of Frege and Russell. Wittgenstein illustrated the truths of logic by his examples of the truth tables and he used “tautologous” to indicate the purely formal nature of their truth. Tautologies “lack sense” and “do not represent any possible situations” for they “admit all possible situations” (TLP 4.461, 4.462, original emphasis). Logical truths are necessary truths because they are propositions that hold in every possible case and are true in virtue of their logical form alone (TLP 6.113), irrespective of their content. Wittgenstein’s conception of the tautologous nature of logic constituted a highly significant break with the logicist tradition. For Frege and Russell, logic still spoke of reality, albeit at the greatest level of generality. Against this universalist conception Wittgenstein held that “all theories that make a proposition of logic appear to have content are false” (TLP 6.111). This tenet became central to logical empiricism. Hahn explained: If logic were to be conceived—as it has actually been conceived—as a theory of the most general propositions of objects, as a theory of objects as such, then empiricism would in fact be confronted with an insuperable difficulty. But in reality, logic does not say anything at all about objects; logic is not something to be found in the world; rather, logic first comes into being when – using symbolism – people talk about the world. (1929/1980, 40, orig. emphasis)

Given Wittgenstein’s insight, empiricists no longer needed to cast about for experimental grounds on which to build our knowledge of logic. For a related epistemological reason, however, the Circle did not follow Wittgenstein’s second break with the logicist tradition. Unlike Frege and Russell, Wittgenstein did not hold that arithmetic was analytic or tautologous because three of the axioms of Principia Mathematica used to derive arithmetic without incurring Frege’s paradox (the axioms of choice, infinity, and reducibility) “are not logical propositions,” i.e., are not true in virtue of their form alone (TLP 6.1232). Yet given the relief that logicism offered their empiricism, some in the Circle sided with Frank Ramsey instead, who simplified the theory of types (rendering the axiom of reducibility otiose) and upheld the analyticity of arithmetic (see his 1925). For them, it became a research program to find out how to deal with the problems that the axioms of choice and infinity presented. Thus Hahn noted at the First Conference on the Epistemology of the Exact Sciences in Prague in September 1929 that “the task of developing mathematics as a pure logic has not yet been completed—if only because the task of giving a satisfactory account of logic itself still awaits completion” (1930a/1980, 25). Since Hahn was happy to stick with Wittgenstein’s characterization of logic, this remark suggests that the task at hand was that of determining in what sense precisely the concept of tautology might be amended so as to cover not only predicate logic but also arithmetic. This clearly suggests that, however advanced, Wittgenstein’s Tractatus conception was not deemed by Hahn—or Carnap—to be the final word on the matter. Note that no such reservations have ever been recorded by Schlick or Waismann.

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6.4 The Left Wing’s Disagreements So let’s move on to the aspects of their reception of Wittgenstein that differentiate the two wings of the Circle. Three of them are particularly prominent: the rejection of strict verificationism, the rejection of the prohibition against metalanguages, and logical pluralism. But before going on I should also note that the members of the left wing were not always able to be clear to what precise degree they disagreed with Wittgenstein’s current new thinking since his return to philosophy, given that Wittgenstein barred Carnap from his meetings with Schlick in 1929 and placed an embargo on news of his latest moves to non-attendants from 1932. Moreover, the degrees of disagreement cannot be ascertained even now in all instances, given that Wittgenstein’s new ideas in the late 20s and early 30s were not always stable.7 To complicate matters still further, Wittgenstein tended to pre-date embraces of new ideas on his part when he saw similar moves being undertaken by other thinkers. (This happened, for instance, when Schlick protested on Wittgenstein’s behalf against certain characterisations of his views in drafts of Carnap’s Logical Syntax.) So, to be safe, consider what follows the fallible view from the left wing.

6.4.1 Strict Verificationism To illustrate their supposed misunderstanding of the Tractatus, it is sometimes said that while the Vienna Circle espoused a verificationist theory of meaning, ruthlessly wielded in its campaign to eradicate metaphysics, such a theory is not to be found in the Tractatus, which reads instead: “To understand a proposition means to know what is the case if it is true” (TLP 4.024; cf. 4.431). Yet the Circle’s verificationism was at least partly indebted to Wittgenstein: Waismann recorded him on 22 December 1929 coining the slogan “the sense of a proposition is its verification.” Wittgenstein’s verificationism was strict, demanding conclusive verification (albeit only in principle, not on every occasion of use): “If I can never verify the sense of a proposition completely, then I cannot have meant anything by the proposition either. Then the proposition signifies nothing whatsoever” (McGuinness 1967/1979, 47). Whatever prompted Wittgenstein’s embrace of strict verificationism, for the Circle it amounted to an attempt to operationalize the claim that “a proposition is a truth-function of elementary propositions” (TLP 5). This conception demanded simples and elementary propositions the nature of which, however, the Tractatus never specified. Yet if ultimate simples were needed for there to be determinate sense at all, then they better be involved in understanding. In the Circle’s take on the matter these simples were psychologized and Wittgenstein’s contemporaneous  Compare, for example, McGuinness, (1967/1979, 45) on Wittgenstein’s fluctuating view on the “primary language” in Philosophical Remarks; see also Hacker (1972/1986, 141–2) and Pears (1992, 34). 7

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concern with the description of immediate experience (“phenomenology”) seemed to confirm their interpretation. What Carnap called “Wittgenstein’s principle of verifiability” (1963, 57) was quickly and widely accepted in the Circle—at least for a short while. One consequence that flows from both the demand that all meaningful propositions are truth functions of elementary propositions and strict verificationism was readily embraced by Wittgenstein and, subsequently, Waismann and Schlick: universal statements were not to be regarded as meaningful propositions in their own right. Instead, as “hypotheses” they were understood as directions  – i.e., rules  – for constructing propositions (see McGuinness 1967/1979, 99, 159 and 255; and Schlick 1931/1979, 188). Yet as such, their own status was left utterly unclear—much like that of the “elucidations” that the statements of the Tractatus themselves were reduced to on account of another of its controversial doctrines. In consequence, Carnap wrote, “some of us, especially Neurath, Hahn and I, came to the conclusion that we had to look for a more liberal criterion of significance than verifiability” (1963, 57). Elsewhere he dated the beginning of this liberalization to “about 1931,” which agrees with his characterization of meaningfulness in “The Elimination of Metaphysics” and its date of composition. There he stated that only those statements were meaningful that were syntactically well formed and whose nonlogical terms were reducible to terms occurring in the basic observational evidence statements of science (1932/1959, §2). Whatever its shortcomings, this characterization allowed universally quantified statements to be meaningful, provided they were syntactically and terminologically correct. Hahn took a similar position in his lectures from 1932 when he endorsed the hypothetico-deductive method (1933/1987, §§4–5), while Neurath simply hand-waved in a similar direction.8 For his part, by contrast, Schlick did not explicitly renounce strict verificationism until his “Meaning and Verification” (1936). There are two aspects of the left wing’s dissenting move that are of interest for us. First, we may speculate about what prompted the left wing to reject strict verificationism. One reason was surely that ruling out all laws of nature as strictly speaking meaningless sits very badly with science—which to understand better was their prime concern. Another reason is that strict verificationism presupposes its application to what Wittgenstein called the “primary language”, the language of phenomena, in Carnapian terms, to the methodologically solipsist protocol language. Precisely methodological solipsism, however, was under heavy attack from Neurath since at least 1929 (even though he went along with Carnap’s espousal of it in a spirit of compromise to allow the collaborative manifesto to be written that was presented that year at their Prague conference). Now even in 1931 Carnap’s physicalism had not yet reached the stage where he himself rejected the methodologically  This disagreement on the part of Carnap, Hahn and Neurath stands in some tension with the answers recorded for them in response to question/thesis 21 (“Laws are instructions for the formation of sentences”) in Rose Rand’s “Development of the Theses of the Vienna Circle” (reproduced in Stadler, this volume). That their disagreement is documented (as noted above) suggests that some of the recorded answers in Rand’s document require interpretations that are far from obvious. 8

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solipsist protocol language, but that made strict verificationism no less of an embarrassment. After all, his Aufbau only offered “rational reconstructions”, not characterizations of cognitive life in the wild, and it was by no means clear whether Wittgenstein’s conception allowed this way out. Yet another cause for concern was that it was very much the nature of the meaning of propositions that Wittgenstein’s principle of verifiability sought to elucidate, whereas at just that time Carnap was looking at the very notion of meaning with great misgiving, and only sought to derive a criterion of empirical meaningfulness. Strict verificationism, in short, sat very badly not only with Neurath’s long-standing fallibilism but with Carnap’s concerns as well. Note also that Carnap’s, Hahn’s, and Neurath’s liberalization of the criterion of empirical significance did not amount to a capitulation in the face of overwhelming difficulties, but constituted a return to a position already held before their acceptance of Wittgenstein’s principle. Carnap’s “Pseudoproblems in Philosophy” of 1928, for instance, had required empirically significant statements to be such that they possessed “factual content,” which in turn meant that experiential support for them or their negation was at least conceivable (1928, §7), where the support via deductive or inductive reasoning was not required to be conclusive. This criterion stood in the tradition of Mach’s proto-pragmatist dictum that “where neither confirmation nor refutation is possible, science is not concerned” (1883/1960, 587). It is important to note, therefore, that the Circle’s concern with criteria of empirical significance not only predates the enunciation of Wittgenstein’s strict verificationism, but that the reaffirmation of its non-strict and fallibilist version bears the pragmatist hallmarks of its Machian provenance as much as its forward-looking application to contemporary and future scientific discourse. In sum, the left wing’s dissent from Wittgenstein’s strict verificationism by 1931/32 was overdetermined by their prior philosophical commitments.

6.4.2 Metalanguages Another significant disagreement between Wittgenstein and his Viennese followers and the left wing of the Vienna Circle is even more significant. It is well known that in discussions of Tarski’s lecture to the Circle in 1930 and on a later occasion Schlick and Waismann rejected the idea of discourse about language by means of metalanguages (see Carnap 1963, 30; Menger 1980, xii–xiii, 1982, 94–5). In doing so they followed Wittgenstein’s lead. What McGuinness designated the “Grundgedanke” of the Tractatus was “that the ‘logical constants’ are not representatives; that there can be no representatives of the logic of facts” (TLP 4.0312). This Grundgedanke—also expressed as “there are no ‘logical objects’ or ‘logical constants’ (in Frege’s and Russell’s sense)” (TLP 5.4)—is closely related to Wittgenstein’s distinction between what can be said and what can only be shown. If all “saying” is affirming facts and this involves representing them (as it does in the picture theory), then “saying” requires objects; if there are no logical objects of

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which logical constants are representatives, then no words of our language can name logical objects and logical facts and “the logic of facts” can only be shown. Propositions can represent the whole of reality, but they cannot represent what they must have in common with reality in order to be able to represent it—logical form. In order to represent logical form we should have to be able to station ourselves with propositions somewhere outside of logic, that is to say outside the world. (TLP 4.12)

Since we cannot do so and since “what can be shown, cannot be said” (TLP 4.1212, orig. emphasis), it follows that the idea of speaking about the logical form of an object language in a metalanguage that contains the object language as its proper part is deeply flawed. As you know, the ineffability doctrine made big trouble for the Tractatus itself. But quite apart from that, Carnap, Hahn, and Neurath sided with Tarski (as did Menger and Gödel). This disagreement followed not only from their emerging difference with the Tractatus conception of the transcendental nature of logic, but it also reflects differences about the nature of philosophy. For Carnap, Hahn and Neurath, metalinguistic discourse was not only legitimate but essential to philosophy as they understood it.

6.4.3 Towards Logical Pluralism Yet before I address their deepest differences with Wittgenstein, I must note yet another difference over logic that, like the difference over metalanguages, leads directly to the metaphilosophical concerns. We saw in Waismann’s summary of the Tractatus that the Circle correctly discerned in it a quite traditional idea: the universality of logic—moreover, the ambition “to prove that there is only one logic”. By contrast, we saw that Hahn and the left wing did not accept the sense of finality that seemed to imbue Wittgenstein’s pronouncements. There was more to be found out about logic. To bring this out this attitude, consider Hahn’s early steps in this direction. (Carnap’s own well-known remarks about this have more a more retrospective character.)9 Hahn’s hopes to retain some form of logicism prompted him to further look into the nature of tautologies. In lectures of 1932, Hahn characterized tautologous propositions as “merely express[ing] a dependence in the assignment of designations to objects” (1933/1987, 32). A footnote signals that he meant this to be a wider sense of “tautological” than Wittgenstein’s “narrower sense” (ibid., 280–1). Having repeatedly stressed that logic arises from how people talk about the world, Hahn brought epistemic considerations to bear by contrasting the class of logical propositions with propositions that are “in principle accessible to verification by

 Carnap’s own conventionalist disagreements with Wittgenstein on the matter are well documented in his own Logical Syntax of Language; see Carnap (1934/2002, §§18, 43, 52, especially 73 and 82). 9

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experience” (1930a/1980, 25). While Wittgenstein’s invocation of the distinction between factual and logical propositions turned on his conception of logical form, Hahn’s turned on “the way in which the symbolism used is supposed to designate” (1929/1980, 41, original emphasis). Hahn did not simply revert to the conception of analytic truths as truths in virtue of meaning, however: rather, he disagreed with what he took to be Wittgenstein’s view of what made meaning possible. Wittgenstein’s transcendentalism about logic—“Logic is not a body of doctrine, but a mirror-image of the world. Logic is transcendental” (TLP 2.18)—showed that his universalist conception was compromised (at least for Hahn and the left wing): Wittgenstein’s logic still reflected the “formal—logical—properties of [...] the world” (TLP 6.12). It was this transcendentalism that needed to be replaced with a form of conventionalism. For Hahn, logic concerned “the way we want to talk about objects, or how we want to assign designations to them” (1933/1987, 31, emphasis added). Moreover, if we regard logical truths as “flowing from agreements about the use of words” and logical inference as “flow[ing] from the way we talk about objects” (ibid., 34 and 33), who is to say that we are bound to use words and talk about objects in just one way? With his move toward conventionalism, Hahn also signalled the other disagreement, the challenge to the Tractatus conception of the one universal logic that Wittgenstein still shared with Frege and Russell. This challenge was realized fully only in Carnap’s Logical Syntax of Language (1934). But Hahn can be counted as an early supporter of Carnap’s logical pluralist opposition to Wittgenstein’s conception of logic, preferring the development of a calculus conception of logic to the latter’s adherence to the conception of logic as a universal language.10 In sum, the left wing’s dissent from Tractarian dogma began in 1930 with doubts about the impossibility of metalinguistic discourse, deepened in 1931 with the rejection of the admittedly newly espoused strict verificationism and culminated in 1933–34 with logical tolerance and pluralism.

6.5 Metaphilosophical Differences It is well-known that the philosophical temperaments of the author of the Tractatus and of some of his readers were quite different. Once they met him, Wittgenstein revealed one that stood in sharp contrast to what Carnap expected: Our attitude toward philosophical problems was not very different from that which scientists have towards their problems. [...] I sometimes had the impression that the deliberately rational and unemotional attitude of the scientists and likewise any ideas which had the flavor of “enlightenment” were repugnant to Wittgenstein. (Carnap 1963, 26)

 For a comprehensive account of Carnap’s road from the Tractarian conception of logic to the logical tolerance of Logical Syntax, see Awodey and Carus (2007); for a discussion of Hahn’s role, see Uebel (2005); for the universal language/universal calculus distinction see van Heijenoort (1967). 10

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Feigl also spoke of “diametrically opposed personalities” and reported Wittgenstein’s “exasperation” with Carnap’s probing for further explanations: “If he can’t smell it, I can’t help him. He just has got no nose!” (Feigl 1969/1981, 64). Schlick, by contrast, had no such difficulties with Wittgenstein and with them a true meeting of minds appears to have taken place. Their correspondence reveals deep mutual respect and their friendship was only severed by Schlick’s murder in June 1936. More than philosophy was involved. It is helpful here to remember Waismann’s account of “two personalities” in Schlick—an “analytical talent” and “acute thinker” known to most of his colleagues and a “poet” for whom on “listening to a concert or gazing at a landscape it could happen, in his own words, that the doors to the infinite suddenly opened to him” (Waismann 1938/1979, xv–xvi). Schlick felt attuned to Wittgenstein’s personality in a way Carnap or Feigl were incapable of. It is likely therefore, that the very roundabout references to the mystical in the Tractatus, even its evident paradoxicality, appealed to Schlick in their unspecific suggestiveness whereas they at best puzzled Carnap and simply appalled Neurath. But attitudes and their differences over logic apart, there were also major metaphilosophical differences between Wittgenstein and the left Vienna Circle. The Tractatus did not, on the face of it, confess a metaphysics and even, by its very austerity of composition and doctrine, gave the appearance of being anti-­ metaphysical. But that, as we know now, was not the full story. Neurath, for one, was suspicious from the start. There was the ineffability thesis to begin with. He responded: The end of the Tractatus—“What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence”—is at least misleading in its wording. We should say: if one really wants to abstain fully from metaphysics, “we must pass over in silence” but not “about something.” (1932/1983, 60)

There also were the other metaphysical doctrines that Neurath sensed in Wittgenstein’s book. But what precisely was metaphysics for Neurath and why did he think the book metaphysical? For Neurath, “metaphysics” was a term reserved for individual knowledge claims and general conceptions of knowledge that placed them beyond even potential testability. Thus his opposition to correspondence theories of truth—and, it follows, to the picture theory of the Tractatus. In fact, Neurath’s opposition to the correspondence conception as metaphysics was often vehement and sometimes so unguarded that he was mistaken for a coherence theorist of truth when he was but a coherence theorist of justification. With his early opposition to Wittgenstein, he even annoyed a long-time fellow fighter. As he admitted in a letter to Carnap (in his “fluent broken English”): I behaved sometimes noisy and intensely, when speaking of Wittgenstein. I regarded him from the start as a mystic and metaphysician of the refined type, as an antiscientific person through and through and I dared to say so as the admiration of Wittgenstein was the fashion in the Vienna Circle. I remember in the discussion meetings I made again and again the remark “metaphysics” [and] Hahn suggested I should reduce my remarks to “M” for shortening the interruptions, then finally he suggested I should only tell, when I thought something “Non-M” to waste less time …. I cannot deny that I did not give way to suggestions, I should look at Wittgenstein from a different angle etc. (16 June 1945, in Cat and Tuboly 2019, 640)

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But irrespective of his initial irritation with his brother-in-law’s dismissive attitude, Hahn also became aware of the Tractarian metaphysics. Consider, for instance, Hahn’s claim in 1930 that “it is a big mistake to infer the structure of the world from the structure of language” (1930b/1980, 8). It clearly expressed his opposition—shared with Carnap, Frank, and Neurath—to the correspondence conception they perceived to be inherent in Wittgenstein’s picture theory of meaning. Likewise, early in the following year, in the Circle meetings of February 5 and 12, 1931, Hahn challenged Waismann’s and Schlick’s Wittgensteinian beliefs that every language, in order to be meaningful at all, must possess atomic sentences and that such a language and the given can be brought into any congruence at all (in Stadler 1997/2015, 80–82). In addition, in the continuation of the discussion on February 19 and 26, Hahn denied the legitimacy of speaking of the structure of reality as if it were independent of that of the language we speak (ibid., 86–88). Clearly, Wittgenstein’s picture theory was under pressure. By contrast, Schlick had no such worries. His conception of truth as the unique coordination of statement and fact, already advertised in his General Theory of Knowledge, was readily adapted to Wittgenstein’s picture theory (see Schlick 1918/1985, §10, and 1926). Here again a gulf was opening between the two wings of the Circle that was not even bridged by Carnap’s acceptance of Tarski’s semantic conception of truth in 1935, given that Carnap elected to develop a minimalist deflationary version of it. Alongside these metaphysical issues lay deep differences in methodology and at the center of them lay the disagreements about the possibility of metalinguistic discourse and the universality of logic which we have surveyed already. It is difficult not to discern a certain clash of philosophical “ideologies” here. The Tractatus conception of a universal logic that forbids being spoken about echoes the idea of a universal language that we cannot escape. Now there is clearly something quite right about the insight that we cannot leave fully behind past concepts and conceptualisations, just as we can never step outside of our thinking selves to see whether our ideas correspond to what they pretend to be about. (Precisely this was a point which Neurath always insisted upon.) Yet there is something decidedly anti-­ modernist, even counter-enlightenment, about the idea of the ineffability of the one inescapable logic. By contrast, the logical constructivism and pluralism of Hahn and Carnap rings with the modernist promise of reconstruction, of enlightenment reform, even Neurathian revolution. That Wittgenstein felt alienated from the cultural modernity around him is well documented, just as it is well documented that precisely such affinities obtained on the part of the left wing of the Circle. It is, of course, highly problematic to assert any determinative relationship between cultural attitudes and abstract philosophical theorems, but as we here have to do very much with attitudes towards philosophy and ideas about what we do philosophy for, drawing a connection between attitude and doctrine is not an arbitrary exercise. “The scientific world-conception serve life and life receives it” proclaimed the left wing’s manifesto somewhat over-­ optimistically. That philosophy should “leave everything as it was” was the view of Wittgenstein. The contrast is as obvious as it is consequential.

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6.6 Two Pragmatisms Notwithstanding the fundamental role that Wittgenstein’s conception of logic as tautologous played, the philosophers of the Vienna Circle tended to read the Tractatus with their own purposes in mind. To be sure, some did so more than others, but the so-called left wing did so most decidedly. Their conventionalist trend in metalogic and their overall naturalist proclivities evidently pulled into an altogether different philosophical direction than Wittgenstein. To cast this further into relief I return to an instance already noted. Consider a remark Neurath made in a letter to Hempel pertaining to a later episode in the Circle’s long-running protocol-sentence debate: I am much looking forward to your paper. I hope I will not appear in it as someone in apostasy from Wittgenstein. In a certain sense, I am glad that you now will have to read my older works in an, as it were, professional capacity. From these you will see that everything which I stand for nowadays dates back to before the common period [Schlick’s Circle, TU], the tremendous importance of which I certainly do not wish to discount. I just do not like it when you Germans from the Reich […] think of Austria as some kind of appendage and fail to take account of the original French-English-Austrian development and only take cognizance of what happened since Wittgenstein. Thus people always underestimate Philipp Frank. I mean this in a historical sense, not to assert priorities [nicht prioritätlich (sic!)]. (February 2, 1935, WKA, trans. TU)

Like Frank in his later histories of the logical empiricist movement (1941, 1949), Neurath here pointed to a long-term development of which Schlick’s Circle was a part and which particularly involved those members of it who had been part of the pre-World War I discussion group: the development of Austrian philosophy. The first Vienna Circle, of course, constituted the core of the left Vienna Circle and it is the distinctive role of the latter in the reception of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus that I have reviewed so far. What about the former? If it is correct, as I think it is, that the left wing stood for a form of naturalism which retained the analytic/synthetic distinction as conventionalist and constructivist elements, then what its old Viennese contingent contributed specifically was the empiricist-pragmatist orientation.11 While Carnap’s pragmatism came to the fore only with his embrace of logical tolerance—few would follow Frank (1949, 32) in discerning it already in Carnap’s Aufbau (but it is also not insignificant that he did so)—the first Circle was exposed to pragmatism from the start. On the one hand, theirs was a deep appreciation of Mach’s critical positivism which was a pretty clearly articulated form of indigenous pragmatism; on the other hand, there was their early exposure to and selective reception of William James’s Pragmatism.12 That, as Frank once put it, “it was not realized” by them at the time “that American pragmatism was a related movement” (1941, 7) no doubt was due to James’s ­extravagances which stopped the full recognition of their affinity (they also disturbed Mach).  For the comprehensive naturalism unifying the metaphilosophy of the left wing see Uebel (2007, 432–6, 2015a). 12  For the pragmatism of the first Vienna Circle see Uebel (2015b), for discussions of Mach’s pragmatism and its indigenous context see Uebel (2019, 2021). 11

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Yet whether it was derived from home-grown or imported sources, the spirit of the first Circle’s pragmatism found a very clear expression in Neurath’s famous simile, later popularized by Quine, of the sailors who have to repair their boat at sea. Notably, that simile was first employed in the year after the first Circle had become physically fully dispersed with Frank’s appointment as Einstein’s successor in Prague.13 But the first Circle’s pragmatism found expression not only there: behind the extreme conventionalism of Frank’s first philosophical paper (later moderated), which declared the principle of causality a mere definitional convention, also stood a clearly pragmatic impetus to get on with empirical work above all, as the ensuing controversy made clear. Frank rejected his opponent Gerhard Hessenberg’s insistence on Kantian Denknotwendigkeit as inapplicable to definitions and, in retrospect, compared his own early effort to Reichenbach’s relative a priori.14 Now recall that Wittgenstein too was subject to pragmatist influences, albeit via the critical influence of Frank Ramsey.15 The focus was Ramsey’s account of universal generalizations which, he claimed, were not to be analyzed as potentially infinite sets of conjunctions of singular statements but rather express, when affirmed, the adoption of mental habits, of expectations of how objects that fall under the subject term will behave on future occasions. “This is a kind of pragmatism: we judge mental habits by whether they work” (1931/1990, 93). Ramsey’s pragmatism, like Peirce’s, focused on beliefs as tools for action, as opposed to vehicles of ideal representation as in the Tractatus. While Wittgenstein hardly ever mentioned the pragmatist provenance of Ramsey’s idea, its discussion soon left its mark in his notebooks from 1929 to 1930 when the truth-functional analysis of molecular propositions in terms of their atomic constituents was under attack. Universal propositions turned out to be not propositions at all but “hypotheses”: their being strictly unverifiable demanded an altogether different conception of what makes for meaningfulness in language. What was required was an account that explicated the openness of our linguistic understanding of universal statements by the idea that they induce expectations for the future. Readers will note, of course, that here we have a spectacular case of sharply conflicting versions of pragmatism. It was, as we saw, precisely Wittgenstein’s conception of universal statements as non-propositions in their own right and instead as rules for the forming of propositions—“a hypothesis is a law for constructing propositions”16—that prompted the left wing to break away. Now Ramsey’s pragmatist criticism can be seen as starting off Wittgenstein on his path to think of meaning as use and away from the language as calculus conception that Carnap continued to develop. Yet it was their no less pragmatist concern to comprehend the

 See Neurath (1913a/1998, 215–6) for the “first boat” in its context of a treatise in political economy, his (1913b) for the corresponding philosophical critique of Cartesianism and Uebel (1996) for further discussion. 14  See Frank (1907, 1908a, 1908b). 15  See Misak (2016), for discussion Uebel (2016). See also her contribution in the present volume. 16  Wittgenstein, MS 107, 283, dated 4th February 1930  in (1999, 193); the passage can also be found in (1964/1974, 285). See also Wittgenstein’s remark on 22nd March 1930 in McGuinness (1967/1979, 97). 13

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epistemology of science that made stripping statements of natural laws of their status as bona fide propositions so intolerable for the left wing of the Circle and led them to adopt their liberal version of verificationism, contrary to Wittgenstein at the time.

6.7 Conclusion If we were to continue to think of the Vienna Circle as a more or less homogeneous group in the image of its titular leader, we would not only fail to understand the development of the Circle’s philosophies, but also the dynamics of its Wittgenstein reception. This would be our loss. The critical reactions of the left wing no less than the creative deference shown by Schlick are surely striking examples of the productive ways in which the Tractatus has stimulated and provoked philosophers ever since its publication.

References Awodey, S., and A. Carus. 2007. The Turning Point and the Revolution: Philosophy of Mathematics in Logical Empiricism from Tractatus to Logical Syntax. In The Cambridge Companion to Logical Empiricism, ed. A. Richardson and T. Uebel, 165–192. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press. Carnap, R. 1928. Scheinprobleme in der Philosophie, Berlin: Weltkreis-Verlag. Trans. Pseudoproblems in Philosophy. In The Logical Structure of the World, ed. R. Carnap, 301–43. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967. Repr. Chicago: Open Court, 2003. ———. 1932/1959. Überwindung der Metaphysik durch logische Analyse der Sprache. Erkenntnis 2: 219–241. Trans. The Elimination of Metaphysics through Logical Analysis of Language. In Logical Positivism, ed. A. J. Ayer, 60–81. New York: Free Press. ———. 1934/2002. Logische Syntax der Sprache. Vienna: Springer. Rev. ed. transl. The Logical Syntax of Language. London: Kegan, Paul, Trench Teubner & Cie, 1937. Repr. Chicago: Open Court, 2002. ———. 1963. Intellectual Autobiography. In The Philosophy of Rudolf Carnap, ed. P.A. Schilpp, 3–84. La Salle: Open Court. Cat, J., and A. Tuboly. 2019. Neurath Reconsidered. Cham: Springer. Feigl, H. 1969/1981. The Wiener Kreis in America. In The Intellectual Migration, ed. D. Fleming and B. Baylin 630-673. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Repr. in Feigl, Inquiries and Provocations, ed. R.S. Cohen, 57–93. Dordrecht: Reidel. Frank, P. 1907. Kausalgesetz und Erfahrung. Annalen der Naturphilosophie 6: 443–450. Trans. Experience and the Law of Causality, in Frank, Modern Science and its Philosophy, 53–60, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1949. ———. 1908a. Willkürliche Schöpfungen des Verstandes? Bemerkungen zu dem Aufsatz von G. Hessenberg. Jahresbericht der Deutschen Mathematiker-Vereinigung 17: 227–230. ———. 1908b. Erwiderung auf die Erwiderung von G. Hessenberg. Jahresbericht der Deutschen Mathematiker-Vereinigung 17: 232–234. ———. 1941. Introduction: Historical Background. In Between Physics and Philosophy, 3–16. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ———. 1949. Historical Introduction. In Modern Science and its Philosophy, 1–51. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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Hacker, P.M.S. 1972/1986. Insight and Illusion: Themes in the Philosophy of Wittgenstein. Oxford: Clarendon Press, Rev. ed. Hahn, H. 1929/1980. Empirismus, Mathematik, Logik. Forschungen und Fortschritte 5. Trans. Empiricism, Mathematics and Logic. In Hahn 1980, 39–42. ———. 1930a/1980. Die Bedeutung der wissenschaftlichen Weltauffassung, insbesondere für Mathematik und Physik. Erkenntnis 1: 96–105. Trans. The Significance of the Scientific World View, Especially for Mathematics and Physics. In Hahn 1980, 20–30. ———. 1930b/1980. Überflüssige Wesenheiten (Occams Rasiermesser). Vienna: Wolf. Trans. Superfluous Entities (Occam’s Razor). In Hahn 1980, 31–39. ———. 1933/1987. Logik, Mathematik und Naturerkennen, Vienna: Gerold. Trans. Logic, Mathematics, and Knowledge of Nature. In Unified Science, ed. B. McGuinness, 24–45 and 280–283. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1987. ———. 1980. In Empiricism, Logic, and Mathematics, ed. B. McGuinness. Dordrecht: Reidel. Haller, R. 1985. Der erste Wiener Kreis. Erkenntnis 22: 341-358. Trans. The First Vienna Circle. In Rediscovering the Forgotten Vienna Circle, ed. T. Uebel, 95–108. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 1991. Haller, R., and H. Rutte. 1977. Gespräch mit Heinrich Neider. Conceptus 28: 21–42. Mach, E. 1883/1960. Die Mechanik in ihrer Entwicklung. Leipzig: Brockhaus. Trans. The Science of Mechanics. Chicago: Open Court. McGuinness, B. (Ed.). 1967/1979. Wittgenstein und der Wiener Kreis. Gespräche aufgezeichnet von Friedrich Waismann. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp. Trans. Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle. Conversations Recorded by Friedrich Waismann. Oxford: Blackwell. Menger, K. 1980. Foreword. In Hahn 1980, ix-xviii. ———. 1982. Memories of Moritz Schlick. In Rationality and Science, ed. E.  Gadol, 83–103. Vienna: Springer. ———. 1994. Reminiscences of the Vienna Circle and the Mathematical Colloquium. Dordrecht: Kluwer. Misak, Cheryl. 2016. The Subterranean Influence of Pragmatism on the Vienna Circle: Peirce, Ramsey, Wittgenstein. Journal for the History of Analytical Philosophy 4 (4): 1–15. Morris, K. 2019. ‘How I See Philosophy’: An Apple of Discord Among Wittgenstein Scholars. In Friedrich Waismann. The Open Texture of Analytic Philosophy, ed. D. Makovec and S. Shapiro, 107–127. London: Palgrave-Macmillan. Neurath, O. 1913a. Probleme der Kriegswirtschaftslehre. Zeitschrift für die gesammte Staatswissenschaft 69: 438–501. Repr. in Neurath, Gesammelte ökonomische, soziologische und sozialpolitische Schriften, vol. 2, 201–50, ed. R.  Haller and U.  Höfer. Vienna: Hölder-­ Pichler-­Tempsky, 1998. ———. 1913b. Die Verirrten des Cartesius und das Auxiliarmotiv (Zur Psychologie des Entschlusses). Jahrbuch der Philosophischen Gesellschaft an der Universität zu Wien 1913: 45–59. Trans. The Lost Wanderers and the Auxiliary Motive (On the Psychology of Decision). In Neurath 1983, 1–12. ———. 1932/1983. Soziologie im Physikalismus. Erkenntnis 2: 393–431. Trans. Sociology in the Framework of Physicalism. In Neurath 1983, 58–90. ———. 1983. In Philosophical Papers 1913–1946, ed. R.S.  Cohen and M.  Neurath. Dordrecht: Reidel. Pears, D. 1992. Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle. Acta Philosophica Fennica 52: 33–42. Ramsey, F. P. 1925. The Foundations of Mathematics. Proceedings of the London Mathematical Society 25: 338–384. Repr. in Ramsey, The Foundations of Mathematics and Other Logical Essays, ed. by R. B. Braithwaite, 1–61. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner, & Co., 1931. ———. 1931/1990. Truth and Probability. In The Foundations of Mathematics and Other Logical Essays, ed. by R.B.  Braithwaite, 156-198, Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 1931. Repr. in Ramsey, Philosophical Papers, ed. by D. H. Mellor, 52–104. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press. Schlick, M. 1918/1985. Allgemeine Erkenntnislehre. Berlin: Springer. 2nd rev. ed. 1925. Transl. General Theory of Knowledge, Vienna: Springer, 1974. Repr. Lasalle: Open Court.

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———. 1930/1979. Die Wende in der Philosophie. Erkenntnis 1: 4-11. Trans. The Turning Point in Philosophy. In Schlick 1979, 154–60. ———. 1931/1979. Die Kausalität in der gegenwärtigen Physik. Die Naturwissenschaften 19: 145-162. Trans. Causality in Contemporary Physics. In Schlick 1979, 176–209. ———. 1936. Meaning and Verification. Philosophical Review 45: 339-369. Repr. in Schlick 1979, 456–81. ———. 1979. In Philosophical Papers Vol. 2 (1925–1936), ed. H.L. Mulder and B. van de Velde-­ Schlick. Dordrecht: Reidel. Stadler, F. 1997/2015. Studien zum Wiener Kreis. Ursprung, Entwicklung und Wirkung des Logischen Empirismus im Kontext. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp. 2nd ed. trans. The Vienna Circle. Studies in the Origins, Development and Influence of Logical Empiricism. Cham: Springer. Uebel, T. 1996. On Neurath’s Boat. In Otto Neurath: Philosophy between Science and Politics, ed. N.  Cartwright, J.  Cat, L.  Fleck, and T.  Uebel, 89–166. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2003. On the Austrian Roots of Logical Empiricism: The Case of the First Vienna Circle. In Logical Empiricism. Historical and Contemporary Perspectives, eds. P. Parrini, W. Salmon and M.H. Salmon, 67–93, Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. ———. 2005. Learning Logical Tolerance: Hans Hahn on the Foundations of Mathematics. History and Philosophy of Logic 26: 175–209. ———. 2007. Empiricism at the Crossroads. The Vienna Circle’s Protocol Sentence Debate. Chicago: Open Court. ———. 2015a. Three Challenges to the Complementarity of the Logic and the Pragmatics of Science. Studies in History and Philosophy of Science 53: 23–32. ———. 2015b. American Pragmatism and the Vienna Circle: The Early Years. Journal for the History of Analytical Philosophy 3 (3): 1–35. ———. 2016. Pragmatisms and Logical Empiricisms: Response to Misak and Klein. Journal for the History of Analytical Philosophy 4 (5): 1–15. ———. 2019. Mach, Jerusalem and Pragmatism. In Ernst Mach: Life, Work and Influence, ed. F. Stadler, 501–523. Cham: Springer. ———. 2021. Ernst Mach’s Enlightenment Pragmatism: Economy and History in Cognition. In New Essays on Ernst Mach, ed. J.  Preston, 84–102. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2022. The First Vienna Circle: What Kind of Formation Was it—and Why Does it Matter? In Edgar Zilsel: Philosopher, Historian, Sociologist, ed. D. Romizi, M. Wulz, and E. Nemeth. Cham: Springer. Van Heijenoort, J. 1967. Logic as Language and Logic as Calculus. Synthese 17: 324–330. Verein Ernst Mach. 1929/2012. Wissenschaftliche Weltauffassung. Der Wiener Kreis. Vienna: Wolf. Repr. and trans. The Scientific World-Conception. The Vienna Circle. In Wissenschaftliche Weltauffassung. Der Wiener Kreis. Hrsg. vom Verein Ernst Mach (1929), ed. F.  Stadler and T. Uebel, 75–115, Vienna: Springer. Waismann, F. 1938/1979. Vorwort. In Gesammelte Aufsätze 1926–1936, ed. M. Schlick, vi-xxxi. Vienna: Gerold. Trans. Preface. In Schlick 1979, xiii-xx. Wittgenstein, L. 1922. Logisch-Philosophische Abhandlung. Annalen der Naturphilosophie 14: 185-262. Trans. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. London: Routledge, Kegan, Paul, 1922, rev. ed. 1933. ———. 1964/1974. Philosophische Bemerkungen, ed. R. Rhees. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Trans. Philosophical Remarks. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 1999. Philosophische Betrachtungen. Philosophische Bemerkungen, Wiener Ausgabe, Band 2, ed. M. Nedo. Vienna: Springer. WKA = Otto Neurath Nachlass, Vienna Circle Archive, Rijksarchief in Noord-Holland, Haarlem, The Netherlands

Chapter 7

After the Tractatus: Schlick and Wittgenstein on Ethics Massimo Ferrari

Philosophy is not a theory but an activity (Tractatus, 4.112)

Abstract  Schlick’s relationship with the Tractatus has been mainly investigated in what concerns the conception both of language and world, the insight of logic, the criteria of verifiability, the proper role of philosophy as mental activity. However, some other features of Schlick’s reading of the Tractatus require a closer consideration. In the 1920s, Schlick was dealing with the questions of ethics (and, to some extent, of religion), that represent from the early days the core issue of his philosophy of culture. Schlick’s intellectual relationship with Wittgenstein ought to be explored also in this broader context, namely after his first encounter with the Tractatus. As it emerges from their private conversations in 1929, Schlick did not agree with Wittgenstein’s account of ethics as a domain going beyond the limits of language. Whereas Wittgenstein maintains that “that ethics cannot be put into words. Ethics is transcendental. (Ethics and aesthetics are one and the same [Tractatus 6.421]”, Schlick considers ethics as a factual science. As he says in the Problems of ethics (1930), “if there are ethical questions that have meaning, and are therefore able to be answered, then ethics is a science”. Wittgenstein’s position is patently in contrast with Schlick’s. According to Wittgenstein, ethics, no differently

Quotations from Tractatus (according to the number of aphorism) are drawn from L. Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, translated by D.F.  Pears and B.F.  McGuinness, London: Routledge, 1988. As Notebooks we refer to L.  Wittgenstein, Notebooks 1914–1916, edited by G.H. von Wright and G.E.M.  Anscombe, with an English translation by G.E.M.  Anscombe, Oxford: Blackwell, 1979. Letters and manuscripts of Schlick (preserved at the Wiener-Kreis-­ Archiv, Amsterdam/Haarlem) are quoted according to the catalogue numbers. M. Ferrari (*) Department of Philosophy and Educational Sciences, University of Turin, Torino, Italy e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_7

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from religion, cannot be tested as is usual for meaningful propositions, namely by recurring to hypotheses, high probability or knowing. My paper aims at highlighting this contrast, that is rooted both in the Tractatus and in Schlick’s conception of ethics as science already endorsed in his work before the arriving in Vienna. How Schlick would have appreciated Wittgenstein’s late thoughts on ethics remains, at any rate, an open question. Keywords  Ethics · Wisdom · Monism language · Philosophical activity · Verification · Schopenhauer · Kierkegaard

7.1 Introduction In his late recollections Rudolf Carnap stated that at the time of his first stay in Vienna he was convinced, no differently from Moritz Schlick, that Wittgenstein had “no love for metaphysics”. However, Carnap significantly added: Earlier, when we were reading Wittgenstein’s book [i.e. the Tractatus] in the Circle, I had erroneously believed that his attitude toward metaphysics was similar to ours. I had not paid sufficient attention to the statements in his book about the mystical, because his feelings and thoughts in this area were too divergent from mine (Carnap 1963, 27).

In order to better clarify what Carnap was writing almost forty years after his first encounter with the Viennese milieu, it is useful to refer to some final passages of The Logical Structure of the World, where Wittgenstein is briefly invoked with regard to the question of the “riddles of life” (Lebensrätsel). Carnap argued here that such questions are not really “questions”, but “practical situations” (Carnap 2003, 297). Thus, for instance, the “riddle of death” cannot be resolved in rational terms, although it is a genuine problem for man; it is rather a problem that can in principle be addressed by biology, leaving to life situations the task of “overcoming” the anguish of death (Carnap 2003, 297). There are surely unsolvable problems, Carnap suggested, but they are not veritable ones, being rather “situations of practical life”. That recently metaphysical and religious trends have again gained an influential position within contemporary culture is undeniable, according to Carnap. The strategy which scientific philosophy must employ against this reactionary movement consists of recognizing that “we too have ‘needs in our soul’ (Bedürfnisse des Gemütes) in philosophy”,1 but similar needs, usually lying at the basis both of metaphysics and religion, must be converted into the scientific maxim of “clarity of concepts, precision of methods, responsible theses” (Carnap 2003, XVII). In this context Carnap refers, in the very last page of his work, to Wittgenstein’s Tractatus, quoting the aphorism 6.5, where Wittgenstein says that “the riddle does not exist”. But no less significant is the subsequent quotation from aphorism 6.52, where it is stated that “even if all possible scientific have been answered, the

 The expression “Bedürfnisse des Gemütes” is drawn from Lotze’s Mikrosmos, a standard work in German philosophy around the 1860s. 1

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problems of life remain completely untouched”. Carnap’s commentary on these statements by Wittgenstein deserves to be quoted at length: Unfortunately, this treatise [the Tractatus] has remained almost unknown. In part, it is difficult to understand and has not been sufficiently clarified, but it is very valuable, both in its logical derivations and in the ethical attitude which it shows. Wittgenstein summarizes the import of his treatise in the following words: “What can be said at all, can be said clearly, and whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent” (Carnap 2003, 298, see Tractatus, Preface, 3).

Hence, in 1928 Carnap acknowledged not only the neglected importance of the Tractatus, but recognized at the same time that there was, in Wittgenstein’s work, a kind of ‘dark side’ regarding his “ethical attitude” (see also Iven 2015, 157). Nevertheless, the fact remains that through a substantially ‘anti-metaphysical’ reading of the Tractatus Carnap contributed, in his Vienna years, to strengthening the interpretation of Wittgenstein’s masterpiece as “the foundation stone – according to Allan Janik’s and Stephen Toulmin’s remark – of a new positivism or empiricism; and this developed into a profound anti-metaphysical movement, which upheld scientific knowledge as the model of what rational men should believe” (Janik and Toulmin 1973, 208; see also Stern 2003, 128–132). In 1963, as we have seen, Carnap would be much more cautious in presenting Wittgenstein as a philosopher who “had no love for metaphysics”; but it was belated recognition, when the history of the Vienna Circle was over. In any case, Carnap’s position toward Wittgenstein in the 1920s could serve as a starting point for a careful assessment of Schlick’s intellectual exchange with Wittgenstein. To begin with, Schlick was, as Carnap put it, “very strongly influenced by Wittgenstein both philosophically and personally” (Carnap 1963, 27); moreover, as we shall see, Schlick was firmly in agreement with the “linguistic turn” Wittgenstein had inaugurated in the Tractatus, as well as with his conception of philosophy as mental “activity” aiming at “the logical clarification of thoughts” (Tractatus, 4.112).2 Nonetheless, a more detailed account of Schlick’s relationship with Wittgenstein is needed and requires examination, at least, of three important questions that can be summarized as follows. First, what happened in Schlick’s thinking when he read the intriguing aphorisms in Wittgenstein’s Tractatus? Second, is Schlick’s commitment to Wittgenstein limited to the linguistic turn in philosophy? And finally, is it possible to place some aspects of Schlick’s late philosophy against the background of Wittgenstein’s return to philosophy after 1929? In this article, the answer will be specifically about Schlick’s attitude toward ethics in comparison with Wittgenstein’s scattered and puzzling remarks on this subject. We should get thereby a more nuanced picture of the history of the Vienna Circle, and in particular of the so called “right wing”, beyond the received view dominating until recent times.

 Schlick quotes with great assent this aphorism in the Preface to Waismann’s book (see note 5 below) (Schlick 1979, 137). 2

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7.2 Schlick’s Encounter with Wittgenstein Schlick had been an enthusiastic admirer of Wittgenstein since his first encounter with the Tractatus around 1924. Although already investigated by scholarship on many occasions, the story of this magnetic attraction is worth being told briefly, at least regarding both the occasions and the consequences of Schlick’s early reading of a few mysterious treatise, first published in 1921 in Wilhelm Ostwald’s Annalen der Naturphilosophie.3 It was mainly thanks to Kurt Redemeister that the Tractatus began to be read in the seminars organized by Schlick starting in the autumn of 1924, which would eventually turn into the famous Thursday evening meetings at the Mathematics Seminar in Boltzmanngasse 5. Schlick spoke of the “great impression” he had experienced at the very beginning of his approach to the Tractatus in his first letter to Wittgenstein, written on Christmas Day 1924, in which he expressed the hope of meeting him in person soon (123/Wittg-20).4 It was the beginning of a story that would deeply mark the events of the Vienna Circle involving all its major members, despite that it would be “not correct”, as Carnap suggests, “to say that the philosophy of the Vienna Circle was just Wittgenstein’s philosophy” (Carnap 1963, 24). In November 1925 Schlick wrote to Carnap that the Tractatus was read “line by line” in Thursday evening meetings; but the reading was not finished, and this joint work would continue into the next semester (Archives for Scientific Philosophy, RC 029-32-34; see also Carnap 1963, 24). The impression Schlick drew from those evening readings was enormous.5 Writing to Cassirer on March 30, 1927, Schlick confessed that he considered the Tractatus “the most genius and most important work of contemporary philosophy”; but Schlick also complained that it was written “in such a baroque manner that in my philosophical circle [...] it took us three semesters of common reading to be able to understand it” (Cassirer 2009, 96). An even more eloquent testimony can be read in the letter to Einstein of a few months later (July 14, 1927), in which Schlick emphasized that the Tractatus is “the deepest and truest book of all modern philosophy” despite the fact that its reading is “extremely difficult” (098/Ein-47, Iven 2015, 97)). Wittgenstein – Schlick added – is “an artistic nature of stupendous genius and the discussion with him is one of the most formidable experiences of my life”. And he concluded: It seems to me that his basic idea easily solves the difficulties of Russell’s system and in principle also the whole crisis of the foundations of contemporary mathematics. I think I

 On Schlick and Wittgenstein one has to take in account (Carnap 1963, 24–28; McGuinness 1979, 1991; Stadler 2001, 196–198, 422–425). Some unpublished documents are available in (Limbeck-­ Lilienau and Stadler 2015, 138–143, 154–159). To my knowledge the most insightful analysis is offered by (Engler 2015). 4  It is worth remembering that already in a letter to Hans Reichenbach of August 1924 (Archives for Scientific Philosophy, HR 106-42-16) Schlick mentioned his first encounter with the Tractatus, whose reading had made on him a great impression. 5  The Preface (written in 1930) to Friedrich Waismann’s still in the making book Logik, Sprache, Philosophie testifies again how Schlick was deeply fascinated by the Tractatus, “the most significant work of our day” (Schlick 1979, 136). 3

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have learned a great deal, and I would almost say that my theory of knowledge now appears to me crude and immature (098/Ein-47, Iven 2015, 97–98).6

The reference to the even “crude” character of the General Theory of Knowledge cannot go unmentioned.7 Introducing the second edition of 1925, Schlick reminded the reader that the preparation of a new revised version compared to that of 1918 had been slowed down, among other things, by awareness of having to make many changes so as to remedy the “deficiencies” present in the first edition.8 However, Schlick recognized that “[t]o overcome these deficiencies fully would have required a major development and expansion with regard to the logic of knowledge, and this would have meant reconstructing the entire work”. For this reason, Schlick was convinced that “the important task of rounding out logically the epistemological ideas developed in the book had to be put over to a later comprehensive exposition of the principles of logic” (Schlick 1974, XII).9 What were the “deficiencies” in the treatment of the “logic of knowledge” that not even the second edition of the General Theory of Knowledge was able to remedy? The answer is not difficult. The part most in need of revision concerned both the nature and the function of logic, which was still in the 1925 edition limited to traditional syllogistic logic (in the classical form of the mood “Barbara”), already considered in 1918 as the only form of inference valid for the exact sciences. For Schlick, the Aristotelian doctrine does not need to be modified or expanded; if anything, it is the theory of the concept that needs to be deepened by going beyond the Aristotelian tradition (Schlick 1918, 88). In the second edition of the General Theory of Knowledge, Schlick takes up these considerations with some minor changes, but inserts a significant addition immediately after the passage on syllogistics we are referred to: “Modern logic, in the form developed by Bertrand Russell, for example, no doubt offers a much more useful set of inference procedures than the syllogistic” (Schlick 1974, 107). Nevertheless, this recognition does not imply for Schlick to reduce the predominant role assigned to syllogistic reasoning: a truly

 It should be emphasized that later on, in a letter to Hans Reichenbach dated 8 July, 1928, Schlick would claim that his disciple Friedrich Waismann had to be acknowledged for having clarified to him the essential aspects of Wittgenstein’s philosophy of mathematics: “[…] I’m now able to understand basically (im Prinzip) the foundations of mathematics and I don’t have any doubt that both the formalists (Hilbert) and the intuitionists (Brouwer), and the logisticians too (Russell), are on the wrong track (auf dem Holzwege), whereas Wittgenstein has found the right solution” (115/ Reich-44). 7  We refer henceforth to (Schlick 1974), namely to the English translation of the second edition (1925) of the Allgemeine Erkenntnislehre. The first German edition is quoted as (Schlick 1918). 8  The highly interesting comparison between the first and the second edition of the General Theory of Knowledge is easier to carry out by using the recent critical edition of the German text (Schlick 2009). According to Heinrich Neider, Schlick once confessed that in the General Theory of Knowledge he had said “terrible nonsense (schrecklichen Unsinn)” (Rudolf 1999, 299–300). 9  In the letter to Cassirer quoted above, Schlick pointed out that he was unsatisfied with the second edition of the General Theory of Knowledge as well, for it seemed to him still not “enough radical” in many respects. Schlick stressed, in particular, that Russell’s and Wittgensteins’s logic had considerably changed his philosophical hinsights (Cassirer 2009, 96). 6

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surprising statement by someone who had already begun to admire Wittgenstein (whose name, incidentally, never occurs in the second edition of the General Theory of Knowledge). The modern symbolic logic, at most, offers a “useful set of inference procedures” and the reference to Russell, whom Schlick, however, complains of for belonging to the group of “Platonizing philosopher[s]” (Schlick 1918, 118), is not enough to modify the conception of logic that Schlick professes at least until 1925 (Schlick 1974, 136).10 Still in the second edition of the General Theory of Knowledge, Schlick faces quite loosely Russell’s new logic and its further developments occurred more recently with Wittgenstein. Nonetheless, this transitional period should also be reconstructed on the basis of the contacts Schlick had started to have with Russell in 1923, taking thus into account the broader picture of the relations between Russell and the Vienna Circle (Ferrari 2022c). It was especially during the second half of the 1920s that Russell became a point of reference for Schlick, as is documented both by the reviews that Schlick wrote of the German edition of Problems of Philosophy and Analysis of Matter (Schlick 2008, 81–82, 227–228), and by the four seminars on Russell held by Schlick between 1928 and 1932.11 But even after his encounter with Russell and the Tractatus, Schlick sparingly used the “technical assistance of the new logic” in his writings, although  – according to the testimony of Herbert Feigl – he made extensive use of it in his lectures (Feigl 1982, 61). Actually, Schlick never made systematic use of the logical “technique” as a privileged instrument of philosophical analysis, and it is only in a very general sense that he shares Russell’s maxim that logic is the “essence of philosophy”.12 An extremely interesting document in this regard is Schlick’s letter to Heinrich Scholz of November 30, 1931, in which Schlick dwells on the “logistic method” and observes: The philosophical importance of modern formalisms consists solely in the fact that through the full understanding of the logistic method we clarify the essence of ‘expression’ as such, that is, of what is common to all possible languages (sign systems). (117/Scho-33)

If logistic is only “a technical method”, the properly philosophical aspect consists rather of understanding the essence of expression, namely as expression through a

10  This statement occurs already in the first edition (Schlick 1918, 118). In the second edition Schlick would add to § 38 a long remark about the epistemological character (der erkenntnistheoretische Character) of arithmetic, taking in account its axiomatization first inaugurated by Frege and Peano, and developed later by Hilbert and Russell. It is surprising that Schlick refers here to Hilbert’s and Russell’s concept of number maintaining that “the formal and the contentual concepts of number – the Hilbertian and the Russellian – will turn out to be identical” (Schlick 1974, 357 [my italics]). 11  Protocols of these seminars are preserved in Schlick’s estate (055/B.35; 056/B.36-1; 056/B. 36-2;058/B.38-3). 12  In his review of Russell’s Problems of philosophy (whose German translation was appeared in 1927), Schlick emphasizes rather that the method of Russell’s philosophizing represents “the method of future”, who has realized the Leibnizian ideal and is able to introduce the rigor of mathematics in the “treatment of philosophical problems” (Schlick 2008, 81–82).

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system of signs; and starting just from here we can also highlight how metaphysics is impossible, because only what can be said can be expressed, while metaphysics is the attempt to say what cannot be expressed. Schlick still specifies that it is not enough to clarify the nature of the expression “with the means of Russellian symbolism”, since the impossibility of metaphysics is not a metaphysical problem, but essentially a logical one; and by “logical” Schlick means exactly the logical form in the sense of Wittgenstein. “This,” Schlick concludes, “is the great discovery prepared by Russell and completed by Wittgenstein. Those who oppose it and want to dissolve logistic from empiricism should employ a cannon of greater caliber than that of these thinkers” (117/Scho-33). The letter to Scholz makes clear Schlick’s position at a time when the problem of expression becomes for him, and in the footsteps of Wittgenstein’s logical form, the problem of the relationship between form and content of knowledge. Schlick had already sketched this idea in 1926, in the article on Experience, Cognition and Metaphysics, where, quoting Carnap and recalling (rather generically, to say the truth) Wittgenstein’s stance, knowledge is identified with the pure logical form, while intuition, the content, is to be understood as the lived experience (Erleben), i.e. as what is intuitable privatim (Schlick 1979, 111 note 2).13 For Schlick, therefore, “all knowing is invariably an ordering and calculating, never an intuiting and experiencing of things” (Schlick 1979, 103). At the same time, the indissoluble link between logic and empiricism proclaimed in the letter to Scholz codifies the position of the Vienna Circle, shared by both Carnap and Neurath and destined to become canonical in the subsequent developments of the philosophy of the twentieth century. The Tractatus will thus become, far beyond the original intentions of Wittgenstein and thanks to the mediation of Schlick as well, one of the fundamental roots of analytic philosophy (Hacker 1996, 39–66). But what had Schlick found in reading the Tractatus? Karl Menger (1982, 84) suggested that Schlick was so dazzled by Wittgenstein that he ascribed “to Wittgenstein ideas that he himself had uttered before he had seen the Tractatus.”14 There are essentially three “ideas” that Schlick believed he found in the Tractatus. Firstly, concepts are considered as “signs” (Zeichen) or symbols “for all those

 The English translation of Erleben as “experience” is not correct, since the German word signifies properly lived experience, intuitive acquaintance with reality, or, in a broader sense, feeling. We may emphasize that Schlick’s reference to Wittgenstein is not in agreement with the Tractatus, where the aphorism 2.025 states that the substance of the world is “form and content” (see also Tractatus, 3.31). At any rate, Schlick means here logical form, unlike the previous concept of form endorsed in the General Theory of Knowledge (see also Engler 2015, 183). To stress is that in in the General Theory of Knowledge Schlick had already contended the essential difference between Kennen (intuition or lived experience) and Erkennen (knowledge by concepts). 14  Quite similar is Herbert Feigl’s opinion, who believes that “Schlick ascribed to Wittgenstein profound philosophical insights that in my opinion were in fact formulated much more clearly in Schlick’s own early work” (Feigl 1982, 64). For his part, Waismann maintains that after the reading of the Tractatus Schlick was motivated in following a route he had already taken earlier (Waismann 1938, XXI). A “certain affinity” between Schlick and Wittgenstein is stressed also by (Haller 1993, 114). 13

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objects whose properties include the various defining characteristic of that concept” (Schlick 1974, 20). Hence, “the task of a sign is to be a representative of that which is designated, to act in its place in some respect or other” (Schlick 1974, 59).15 Secondly, for Schlick, the relationship between concepts and reality (Schlick does not speak so much of language as of the network of concepts and judgments of knowledge) seems in general agreement with the isomorphism between language and the world of the Tractatus.16 This relationship is understood as the “unique coordination” (eindeutige Zuordung), and, accordingly, truth consists “in the uniqueness of the designation for which the judgment is to be used” (Schlick 1974, 62). Finally, in the General Theory of Knowledge Schlick tackles both Kant’s theory of knowledge and Neo-Kantianism, questioning the “existence” of the synthetic a priori so as to argue that there are actually only two types of judgments: analytical (as in the case of geometry and arithmetic) and empirical (as in all the natural sciences).17 It is this very epistemological core of Schlick’s work that constitutes the trait d’union with what will happen in Vienna in the 1920s, when it will seem plausible to find in Wittgenstein an ally against the synthetic a priori.18 That the conceptual instrumentation of the General Theory of Knowledge is a sort of anticipation of the Tractatus, and that precisely for this reason Schlick would attribute to Wittgenstein (as Menger believes) “ideas that he himself had uttered before”, is a statement to be taken with caution. Brian McGuinness (2010, 14–15) has rightly pointed out that Schlick’s opus magnum still differs “radically” from Wittgenstein for at least two good reasons. In Schlick, on the one hand – and precisely because of the very limited role assigned to logic – the theory of tautologies is completely absent; on the other hand, Schlick attributes an essential function to judgment, moving moreover from a psychological account of the activity of mind  Schlick seems, at least prima facie, to share with Wittgenstein the reference to Heinrich Hertz’s theory of signs and symbols. This common reference would require, however, a closer investigation. Note anyway that Schlick has allegedly read with approval Wittgenstein’s remark in the Blue Book, as Wittgenstein says: “It is misleading then to talk of thinking as of a “mental activity”. We may say that thinking is essentially the activity of operating with signs. This activity is performed by the hand, when we think by writing; by the mouth and larynx, when we think by speaking; and if we think by imagining signs or pictures, I can give you no agent that thinks. If then you say that in such cases the mind thinks, I would only draw your attention to the fact that you are using a metaphor, that here the mind is an agent in a different sense from that in which the hand can be said to be the agent in writing” (Wittgenstein 1969a, 6–7). According to his daughter Barbara, Schlick was in possession of a copy of the Blue Book (McGuinness 1979, 27). 16  Significantly enough, in an unpublished and undated note regarding some aphorisms from the Tractatus (Inv. Nr. 184/D. 10) Schlick also refers to 4.014, i.e. the aphorism in which Wittgenstein says: “A gramophone record, the musical thought, the waves of sound, all stand to one other in the same pictorial internal relation (abbildende interne Beziehung) that holds between language and the world. To all them the logical structure is common” (we quote in this case from Ogden’s translation). However, in any of these notes Schlick makes some reference to Wittgenstein’s ‘mystical’ inspiration. 17  See in particular §§ 39–41, and the conclusion of § 40: “there are no synthetic judgements a priori” (Schlick 1974, 384). 18  The canonical statement in this regard can be found in (Carnap et al. 2012, 83). 15

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which makes it possible human knowledge. But in addition to this there are also two other circumstances to be highlighted. The General Theory of Knowledge is precisely a theory of knowledge, i.e. a certain way of conceiving the task of philosophy that Schlick himself would have then questioned in the footsteps of Wittgenstein’s very idea of philosophy as activity.19 Moreover, and especially, Schlick has completely ignored (as we will see again) the “mystical” face of the Tractatus, so that Schlick could pronounce the same words of Carnap mentioned above: “I had not paid sufficient attention to the statements in his book about the mystical, because his feelings and thoughts in this area were too divergent from mine” (Carnap 1963, 27). The fact is that Schlick came into contact with Wittgenstein not only through the Tractatus, but also in the course of a dialogue with the new phase of Wittgenstein’s thought posterior to the Tractatus. This dialogue is largely documented by both the talks transcribed by Friedrich Waismann and Wittgenstein’s own Dictation for Schlick.20 It is a complicated interweaving that has yet to be investigated in detail, in the context of the internal discussion within the Vienna Circle in the late 1920s and early 1930s on the one hand and of the transformations of Wittgenstein’s thinking on the other. At any rate, it is precisely against this backdrop that we can shed light on the new conception of philosophy Schlick announced in his famous paper on the turn of philosophy that appeared in 1930. Here the role of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus as «the decisive turning-point» in building a new method of philosophy based on logic is clearly stated by Schlick, who fully accepts the idea of philosophy as activity aiming at establishing or discovering the meaning of propositions.21 Philosophy is not a system of knowledge, but a system of acts: it is that kind of activity “by which the meaning of statements is established or discovered. Philosophy clarifies propositions, science verifies them. In the latter we are concerned with the truth of statements, but in the former with what they actually mean (Schlick 1979, 157).22 At first glance in the spirit of Wittgenstein, Schlick thus states: The methods [of philosophical enquiry] proceed from logic. Their beginnings were obscurely perceived by Leibniz; in recent decades important stretches have been opened up

 For his part, Wittgenstein had clearly expressed his criticism towards any insight of philosophy as theory of knowledge: “The theory of knowledge (Erkenntnistheorie) is the philosophy of psychology” (Tractatus, 4.1121). 20  See (Waismann 1979) and (Waismann and Wittgenstein 2003, 2–83). An overview of the relationship between Schlick and Waismann can be found in (McGuinness 2010, 41–53). 21  To be exact, this is not the first time that Schlick speaks of philosophy as activity aiming at conceptual clarification in Wittgenstein’s sense (see his essay Epistemology and Modern Physics, published in 1929, but achieved in 1925 and revised in 1928/1929 [Schlick 1979, 91]). Worth mentioning is, anyway, the very last page of the General Theory of Knowledge, where Schlick stresses that the scientific task of Erkenntnistheorie consists of “correctly interpreting (deuten) the achievements of the sciences, [of] discovering their deepest significance (tiefsten Sinn)” (Schlick 1974, 400). This passage can be already found in the first edition (Schlick 1918, 344). 22  Wittgenstein, for his part, did not share Schlick’s enthusiasm and refused, in a letter to Schlick dated September 18, 1930, this “blare of trumpets” inviting him to mitigate the tone (Iven 2015, 119). However, in his answer to Wittgenstein, Schlick remarked that his programmatic article was written “with the heart” (Iven 2015, 121; see also Engler 2015, 199–200). 19

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by Gottlob Frege and Bertrand Russell; but the decisive turning-point was first reached by Ludwig Wittgenstein (in his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922). It is well-known that in recent decades the mathematicians have developed new methods in logic, primarily to solve their own problems, which could not be mastered by means of the traditional forms of logic. But elsewhere, too, the logic so evolved has long since proved its superiority to the old forms, and will soon, no doubt, have entirely superseded them. Now is this logic the great instrument of which I said before that it could in principle deliver us from all philosophical controversies? Does it provide us with general precepts whereby all traditional problems of philosophy can at least in principle be solved? (Schlick 1979, 155)

Schlick therefore adheres to Wittgenstein’s metaphilosophy and recognizes, unlike in his claims in the second edition of the General Theory of Knowledge, that traditional logic has been definitively overcome thanks to Frege, Russell and, in a decisive way, Wittgenstein. At the same time, however, Schlick emphasizes that “the great instrument” of logic is not sufficient in itself to clarify the nature of knowledge. For Schlick, as we have already seen above, the “turning-point in philosophy” depends rather on the clarification of the logical form of knowledge. Every form of knowledge is expression, i.e. representation through a “contingent material” that can be a set of signs chosen arbitrarily or written on a sheet of paper in ink; but it is only the logical form of expression, whatever this means, that distinguishes knowledge (Schlick 1979, 156).23 Here, however, the point to be particularly emphasized is the first one, namely Schlick’s full agreement with Wittgenstein’s idea of philosophy as activity. We are really – Schlick will write shortly after discussing the Future of Philosophy – facing a “new era of philosophy” (Schlick 2008, 298; see also Schlick 1979, 136), thanks to which philosophy deals with the task of ascertaining the meaning of propositions whose truth is established by science (Schlick 2008, 300). In the early 1930s Schlick on several occasions insists on a similar conception of philosophical analysis; and it is significant that he also does so with regard to ethics, a field of inquiry to which he returns in 1930 with the publication of Problems of Ethics (Fragen der Ethik). In the Preface to his (last) book Schlick endorses anew the idea of philosophy as activity, stressing that “this activity constitutes the essence of philosophy; there are not philosophical propositions, but only philosophical acts” (Schlick 1939, XIII). Ethics has been considered by a secular tradition as a part of philosophy; but if philosophy has ceased to be a science, i.e. to be a system of propositions that claim to be true, and has learnt to be only the clarification of propositions, then the status of ethics as a claimed ‘philosophical science’ can only change. As Schlick points out: in so far as this treatise is “philosophical” (and it would like actually to make such a claim), its sentences function not as actual propositions which communicate definite facts or laws, but as stimuli for the reader to carry out those acts by virtue of which certain propositions obtain a clear meaning. (Schlick 1939, XIV)

 Schlick sketches through these statements the issue constituting the core of his lectures delivered in London in 1932 on Form and Content (Schlick 1979, 285–369). The concept of “logical form”, of which Schlick makes use here, is directly connected to Wittgenstein’s brief paper on the same subject just published in 1929 (Wittgenstein 1993, 29–35). 23

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Consequently, it seems that for Schlick even philosophical ethics must be oriented in accordance with Wittgenstein’s view of philosophy as activity, its task being just to highlight the meaning of ethical statements. Yet, beyond these programmatic declarations, Schlick’s attempt to put together the naturalistic ethics for which he had been advocated since his philosophical beginnings with the “new era of philosophy” is anything but a foregone conclusion. On the contrary, it is, if anything, a point of discrimination between Schlick and Wittgenstein allowing us to grasp another side of the coin, beyond the received view regarding Schlick’s definitive conversion to the turning-point in philosophy announced in the Tractatus. And it is for this reason that we need to go back to the origins of Schlick’s ethics, placing them in the original context of the German philosophy of the early twentieth century and of the intellectual orientation of the young Schlick, who was not exclusively influenced by the scientific worldview he was acquainted with since his apprenticeship with Max Planck in Berlin (Hoffmann 2008). Only after a similar retrospective look, unfortunately mainly neglected by scholarship, will it be possible to understand if, and how much, Schlick’s position in Problems of Ethics can really be considered as a full adhesion to Wittgenstein’s insights.

7.3 Schlick’s Ethics and the Meaning of Life We also have to go back to the young Schlick, whose philosophical debut did not concern epistemology and philosophy of science, but rather ethics. The major point of reference to be taken into account here is Schlick’s book on the wisdom of life (Lebensweisheit), which was published in 1908 (Schlick 2006, 43–332). It was undoubtedly a very juvenile book, whose flaws would later be stressed by Schlick himself (he would define it as a “popular book” [Schlick 1974, 97 n. 43; transl. lightly modified]) and which had, actually, a rather lukewarm reception despite a positive review by Wilhelm Ostwald in the Annalen der Naturphilosophie (Iven 2008, 184–185). But even with all its naivety, Lebensweisheit is an important document, both in the authors that inspired the young Schlick (certainly Schopenhauer, but above all Nietzsche), and in the central theses underlying an ethics of happiness that would never be abandoned even in the years of the Vienna Circle.24 Last but not least, the 1908 book also testifies to the cultural climate of Germany in the early 20th century, as the critique of modernity, the complain of the inner conflicts of Zivilisation (of the “mechanics of the spirit”, according to Walter Rathenau’s diagnosis), and the need to bridge the gap between nature and culture were combined with the very heterogeneous ferments expressed by the philosophy of life in its connection with both the ethical implications of a monistic worldview and the  Schlick devoted to Schopenhauer and Nietzsche several lectures, from winter semester 1912/1913 (in Rostock) to winter semester 1922, as he was just arrived in Vienna. The manuscripts of these courses are now available in (Schlick 2012). On Schlick, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche see (Vrahimis 2020; Ferrari 2022a). 24

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a­ nnouncements of a new incoming era spread by the Jugendbewegung (Mormann 2010). In other words, Schlick was engaged in outlining a veritable “philosophy of life (Lebensphilosophie)”, which would remain a central topic throughout his life (Waismann 1938, XIV; Feigl 1982, 57) For Schlick, “the cause of everything, of all action, is the will to please”; moreover, “the whole world (die ganze Welt)” is dominated by the “will to pleasure” (Schlick 2006, 71, 83). This is a form of monism, not far removed from Schopenhauer’s suggestions and – albeit rejecting the metaphysics of pessimism – from his view of a ‘will of nature’ as well. As Schlick puts it, everything that happens, happens by necessity (aus einem Zwange): the rotation of the stars, the growth of plants, the life of men. This necessity is the law of nature. It is not an imperative above nature, it is not a command concerning what must happen in the world, it is only the expression that man has found for what happens in the world. (Schlick 2006, 84)

The very “will to happiness” that dominates human life is, therefore, only “a small revelation” of the more general will that pervades nature and the entire universe. Precisely against the background of this conception of the world dominated by the will to pleasure, and in the framework of an approach marked by evolutionism interwoven with Nietzsche’s critique of morality, Schlick essentially outlines a fully eudemonistic ethics (it is no accident that in those same years he was working on an unfinished book on Epicurus).25 The basis of the search for the wise conduct of life (an aspect clearly influenced by Schopenhauer’s Aphorismen zur Lebensweisheit) is a psychological one. Human action too is a causally linked “natural process”, so that understanding the purpose of an action means discovering its genesis starting from the instinctual domain, which Schlick briefly explores drawing on heterogeneous sources (from Schopenhauer to Wilhelm Wundt and Herbert Spencer).26 Pleasure always means the satisfaction of an instinct (Trieb) and it is for this reason that from the very first pages Schlick opposes an ethics of values and duty, which hypostatizes a dimension completely detached from pleasure itself. As Schlick says, “to hypostatize the concept of value as loose and independent from the concept of pleasure is – as in the case of the theory of ‘absolute duty’ – a philosophical construction that contradicts experience” (Schlick 2006, 87). If man’s life is dominated by Willen zur Lust and the search for happiness as a state of satisfaction that follows the achievement of pleasure, the critique of traditional morality can only move, first of all, from the rediscovery of bodily pleasure that Zivilisation sacrificed in the name of work, fatigue, the rhythm of life marked by the constraints of economic and social organization. The young Schlick had no hesitation in conducting a harsh critique of modernity and the industrial society, in agreement with a critical attitude that was widespread in Germany at the turn of the century. For his part, Schlick believed that  Drafts and notes referring to a work on Der neue Epikur. Was er vom Spiel des Daseins lehrte are preserved in Schlick’s estate (011, A. 27 a/28b). 26  See (Schlick 2006, 49–57). Schlick’s commitment both to evolutionism and evolutionary method in philosophical enquiry is also detectable in his article of 1909 “The Fundamental Problem of Aesthetics seen in an Evolutionary Light” (Schlick 1978, 1–24). For a carefully analysis see (Vrahimis 2021). 25

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the tragedy of modern life could be faced taking inspiration from Schiller’s utopia of a human society, in which the relationship between men is transformed into play (Schlick 2006, 148–149, 329–331). At stake here is a theme destined to remain an ongoing point in Schlick’s whole intellectual biography, as attested by his later attempts at a philosophy of culture based on ethics and on overcoming the gulf between nature and culture. In Schlick’s view, “the problem of culture is a moral problem”, the center of which is constituted (here, too, in contrast with Kant) by the conciliation between the natural and moral planes, only a “part” of the former (Schlick 1952, 17–18). Accordingly, both instincts and feelings, but in no way the rigorous law of duty in the Kantian sense, are the roots of Schlick’s account of moral experience as a mundane form of life. Restoring to man the pleasure of bodily life immersed in the immediacy of nature is, however, only the initial stage of that pursuit of happiness which must be at the heart of wise conduct of life. To the “happiness of the soul” Schlick therefore dedicates several pages, in which the echo of Nietzsche, Schlick’s true “author” since his passionate youthful readings, is particularly vivid. More than in the considerations on art and its ability to make man happy, Nietzsche is above all present in the remarks devoted to science, which anticipate by a decade some theses later developed in the General Theory of Knowledge regarding the pleasure provided by reaching knowledge (Schlick 1974, 98). Schlick’s acquaintance with Nietzsche’s works – from the Gay Science to Human, All too Human, from Genealogy of Moral to Zarathustra – leads him to speak of the “will to truth” as the impulse that drives man to scientific knowledge: an impulse that nevertheless has a practical origin, that is namely rooted in the practical function of the intellect (seen here in a fundamentally evolutionary perspective). It is precisely from this vital dimension that knowledge can be considered as play, spontaneity and attainment of the pleasure that derives from the satisfaction of an instinct. Science is, and must be in Nietzsche’s terms, a “gay science”; and as such, it serves life and is the prerogative of the wise, who seek happiness in life and achieve it by following the Willen zur Wahrheit (Schlick 2006, 270–281). The criticism of every form of intellectualism, understood as the typical product of modern civilization, is what guides the young Schlick in rejecting both moral intellectualism and Kant’s ethics, towards which Schlick would always nurture substantial aversion. Intellectualism and ethical rigorism, i.e. the ethics of duty and imperative law, reduce the instinctual sphere to a merely ‘impure’ side of man and therefore turn its back on life; but without contact with life, no happiness is possible. Virtue, Schlick argues, cannot arise from the conflict between reason and instinct, but from the life of a man who does not pose as a hero, but acts joyfully and lightly, following his instinct. In the contrast between virtue as renunciation and virtue as instinct, Schlick thus underscores how apt Nietzsche’s critique of morality is, which he – not by accident – would many years later still describe as “the richest and most ardent spirit of the nineteenth century” (Schlick 1952, 78). It is not possible here to follow the 25-year-old Schlick further into the reflections dedicated to the instinctive nature of man and the analyses (grounded on Schopenhauerian suggestions) dedicated to hatred, compassion and love, the latter

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discussed at length as “the most noble and effective cause of all ethical action” (Schlick 2006, 327). However, it is worth recalling the hymn to the pursuit of happiness with which Schlick closes his early book: a pursuit that on the one hand links up with Schiller’s theme of life harmoniously lived as a game, and on the other evokes Nietzsche’s figure of the Übermensch, outlining the horizon of a still unknown evolution of the human species that will lead to the “happiness of future Übermenschen”. Nothing better can happen to man  – Schlick further observed  – than an increase in his capacity to love. Everything that in some way contributes to it is good, and everything that hinders it and does not cultivate it is bad, because it hinders and does not cultivate the best part of human happiness. (Schlick 2006, 331–332)

For the former student of Max Planck, who had only shortly before, in 1904, graduated in physics in Berlin, in one of the great strongholds of science between the 19th and 20th centuries, this was not a statement that could be taken for granted; nor was it only due to his early apprenticeship as a self-educated and not a professional philosopher. In the coexistence of the two planes – the pleasure of reaching scientific knowledge and the art of living wisely – an enduring feature of Schlick’s philosophy of culture emerged, one that was destined to reappear well beyond his “popular book”. It is not by chance that several years later, in February 1921, Schlick would deliver a lecture at the Werner-Siemens-Realgymasium in Berlin devoted to the Meaning of life (Vom Sinn des Lebens).27 The invitation to lecturing came from the Berlin Section of the German Monists’ Association (Deutscher Monistenbund), founded in 1906 under the guidance of Ernst Haeckel and Wilhelm Ostwald. Monism today appears to historians of science as a mostly forgotten player on the scene of German philosophy in the first two decades of 20th century, but its influence on scientific philosophy at that time was actually quite relevant, not least due to its role in popularizing science. Furthermore, in 1913 the Austrian Academic Monists’ Association was founded in Vienna, and its importance as a backdrop for the Vienna Circle should be emphasized because of the “family resemblances between (natural-scientific) monism and the scientific world conception” (Stadler 2001, 187). It was typical of the followers of monism to regard ethics too as a substantive component of scientific worldview. In his The Riddle of the Universe (Die Welträtsel), first published in 1899, Ernst Haeckel had repeatedly spoken of the ethical implications of monism. A new ethics would arise, Haeckel suggests, only when certain widely diffused prejudices were overcome. On the one hand, it should be said that the pretension of free will has to be replaced by a wholly deterministic stance (Haeckel 1919, 138). On the other hand, modern scientific thought must fight against the “strange idol” of Kant’s categorical imperative (Haeckel 1919, 358). As

 The lecture would be published only later, in 1927. We refer to the text reprinted in (Schlick 2008, 98–125). 27

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a consequence, the rejection of Kantian ethics puts into question his “dogmatic” view of two reigns in opposition with each other: the reign of the empirical reality and that of the intelligible domain of ideas relegated into an intelligible world (Haeckel 1919, 402). In modern terms: no gulf can subsist between the factual and the normative. It is precisely into this wide context that one has to place Schlick’s lecture in Berlin. At first sight, it may be a wonder that Schlick was so close to the monistic movement; but it is enough to read the § 35 of the General Theory of Knowledge for a better understanding of the reasons why Schlick was committed to the German Monists’ Association. In a passage Schlick claims indeed that: There is only one kind of reality, that is, we need in principle only one system of concepts to know all the things of the universe. And there do not exist in addition classes of things that this system does not fit […] Such a monism seems to me to be as comprehensive and far-reaching as reason’s need for unity might desire. At the same time, it is the only kind of monism that can be arrived at by epistemologically refined thinking. (Schlick 1974, 326)

In the context of these considerations Schlick briefly recalls the question of Ignorabimus posed by Émile du Bois-Reymond in a famous speech delivered in 1872. Because of his bitter polemics against contemporary materialism, Du Bois-­ Reymond gained a central role in the wide discussion developing in Germany from the 1870s about both the limits of scientific knowledge and the domain of the Absolute that natural sciences can never explain. Schlick was well aware of the questions connected to the disputation about the Ignorabimus (Du Bois-Reymond 1974, 76–77). In the General Theory of Knowledge, he offers a brief comment on this question, taking a polemical position towards Du Bois-Reymond’s motto. By using quantitative concepts – Schlick says – science can proceed in knowing reality until an error arises compelling us to dismiss the method we are using. But science has not yet renounced such a method, whose failure would as a consequence open the door to the idea of something that is in principle unknowable. “Nothing harms inquiry – Schlick argues – so much as the pronouncing of an ignorabimus, and we must be on our guard against uttering one prematurely” (Schlick 1974, 326). From this point of view Schlick was quite close to the monistic attack against Du BoisReymond, as was, after all, the case of some of the members of the Vienna Circle.28 The crucial problem Schlick addressed starting from his “critical monism” was, roughly speaking, the following: if there is a very substitute of both the absolute and religion, this is surely ethics, or, in other terms, the attempt to answer the question about “the sense of life” beyond any kind of riddle. It is, then, no surprise that in his lecture in Berlin Schlick appears as a genuine supporter of monism, albeit, as it were, in a moderate version. Significantly, he goes back to his early views, when he  See in particular the Manifesto of Vienna Circle, affirming that “the scientific world-conception knows no unsolvable riddles”, because they are partly pseudoproblems and partly empirical problems to be verified through empirical science (Carnap et  al. 2012, 82). We refer also to (Bayertz 2007). 28

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stresses in particular that the “sense of life” in no way consists of the sacrifice of human inclinations imposed by moral duty, but rather of the search for happiness strictly connected to vital impulses belonging typically to youth. Schlick claims accordingly that his own “naturalistic ethics” is conceived in total opposition to Kant (Schlick 2008, 120). And not accidentally, the major point of reference for Schlick is here again a great German poet as Schiller, who contemplated “play” as the very revelation of human nature. As a consequence, youth is not only a stage of life destined to be overtaken through the wisdom characterizing the mature man; rather, it constitutes the sense itself of the whole life, a kind of perennial status (Schlick 2008, 116). A world-minded vision of life clearly pervades Schlick’s speech in Berlin. Life needs no transcendent realm of values in providing its authentic sense: both the pursuit of happiness and the view to the future are sufficient to highlight the human quest for certainty in this world. This is the only way to give a sense to life, bridging thereby the separation between nature and culture, between “is” and “ought”. This is surely a crucial point, which Schlick again and again emphasizes, stressing how the separation between normative and factual sciences is simply “fundamentally false” (Schlick 1939, 17). But this is, at once, pivotal for understanding the main differences subsisting between Schlick and Wittgenstein regarding the proper status of both ethics and ethical sentences. As we shall see, their disagreement represents indeed a neglected, though highlighting aspect, of the history of Vienna Circle around 1930.

7.4 Wittgenstein on Ethics On December 30, 1929 Schlick and Wittgenstein meet at Schlick’s home. Amid other intriguing issues, Wittgenstein refers to Heidegger admitting that he “can imagine what Heidegger means by being and anxiety” (Waismann 1979, 68). This statement rests on Wittgenstein’s persuasion that there are questions destined a priori to be unanswerable, being mere nonsense. Of similar kind is, for instance, the “astonishment that anything at all exists”; and yet, Wittgenstein argues, when we try to express such an emotional status through meaningful language “we do run up against the limits of language”. Kierkegaard  – the other figure evoked here by Wittgenstein, along with Heidegger – baptized this state of affairs as a “paradox”. But a similar paradox characterizes ethics too, because ethics again consists of “running up against the limits of language” (Waismann 1979, 68). That Heidegger’s name circulated in Vienna in 1929 cannot be any wonder. In the spring of that year, Carnap had been in Davos on the occasion of the famous debate between Heidegger and Cassirer (Friedman 2000, 63–85); and Carnap himself had, in July, given a lecture at the Verein Ernst Mach, in which he attacked (without mentioning Heidegger) the pseudoproblems of metaphysics and theology

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(Carnap 2004, 49–62). Finally, in 1932, Carnap’s famous attack on Heidegger was published in Erkenntnis, in which he claimed to overcome metaphysics through the analysis of language (Carnap 2004, 81–109). In all likelihood Wittgenstein did not appreciate Carnap’s radical position towards Heidegger, but the reference to the latter in the conversation with Schlick in December 1929 can also be framed in this context. In any case, Wittgenstein’s affirmation that “[I] can imagine what Heidegger means by being and anxiety” certainly cannot be considered in agreement with the anti-metaphysical crusade of his Viennese interlocutors, who, moreover, considered Wittgenstein a “positivist” who was also engaged in this battle (Engelmann 1967, 97).29 Something similar can be said concerning Wittgenstein’s reference to Kierkegaard. Wittgenstein not only knew Kierkegaard, as has long been pointed out, but even regarded him with great respect (Malcolm 1984, 60).30 His scattered annotations are brief, but very eloquent. One in particular should be remembered, significant because Wittgenstein here opposes Kierkegaard to the Lebensweisheit that was actually, as we have seen, the starting point of Schlick’s ethics. “Wisdom (Weisheit) – Wittgenstein claims – is passionless. But faith by contrast is what Kierkegaard calls a passion” (Wittgenstein 1998, 60). This distancing from wisdom recurs in other annotations of Wittgenstein, what is not only an obviously different aspect from Schlick, but also involves Wittgenstein’s conviction that faith is paradox, “passion” in the sense of Kierkegaard. If “Wisdom is cold (Weisheit ist etwas Kaltes)”, faith is passion (Wittgenstein 1998, 64); if Wisdom is “grey [...] life on the other hand and religion are full of color” (Wittgenstein 1998, 71). Within this context it is to add, furthermore, that Wittgenstein shows a dramatic way (à la Kierkegaard) of understanding religion as purely arising from the heart, from the soul, but in no way from “speculative intellect” (Wittgenstein 1998, 38). Christian faith is only for one human being “who needs infinite help” and “suffers infinite distress” (Wittgenstein 1998, 52). Religion and faith therefore belong to another “world”: as Wittgenstein had said in the Tractatus referring to the propositions of ethics (6.41), “the meaning (der Sinn) of the world must lie outside of the world [...] If there is any value that does have value, it must lie outside of the whole sphere of what happens and is the case (ausserhalb alles Geschehens und So-Seins)”. This statement could be compared with a passage from Kiekegaard’s Journals (Wittgenstein probably knew them, at least in a small part), where we read that “Faith is ‘the point outside the world’ [...]

 The hidden convergences between Wittgenstein and Heidegger have been several times taken in account, in particular with regard to their visions both of language and metaphysics (see for instance Dastur 2010). However, it seems to me desirable some more caution in dealing with similar comparisons. 30  On Wittgenstein and Kierkegaard are especially worth mentioning (Schönbaumsfeld 2009; Marini 1986; Gargani 2015). Very highlighting is (Miles 2016). 29

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What emerges, through the negation of all the points of the world, is ‘the point outside the world’”.31 Without going further into this question, which also concerns the impossibility, for Wittgenstein, of conceiving any demonstration of the existence of God, or of having some evidence of it (Schönbaumsfeld 2009, 140–142; Schroeder 2007, 448–449), Kierkegaard clearly represents a dividing line between Wittgenstein and Schlick (who, as far as we know, never mentions Kierkegaard’s name). Not so, at least at first glance, for Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, two inspiring muses for Schlick still in his mature years and reference figures (especially as far as Schopenhauer is concerned) in the case of Wittgenstein too.32 Wittgenstein had been fascinated by Schopenhauer in his youth and would later (in 1931) praise him as a favorite author among a few others, such as Boltzmann, Hertz, Frege, Russell, Kraus, Loos, Weininger, Spengler and Sraffa (Wittgenstein 1998, 16). According to an influential interpretation, Wittgenstein’s main goal until his last years was to complete “the logical-ethical work begun by Schopenhauer and Kant” (Janik and Toulmin 1973, 224). Consequently, it is also pointed out that Wittgenstein places himself within the Kantian tradition and that especially the difference between sign and symbol (Tractatus, 3.32) shows to what extent Wittgenstein’s difference between the conception of reality and will as unimaginable reality is indebted to Schopenhauer and, more generally, to the pervasiveness of a kind of Kantian transcendentalism (Jacquette 2017). Moreover, Wittgenstein would remain close to Schopenhauer’s ethical and aesthetic conceptions until the end of his intellectual adventure, while clear traces of Schopenhauer could be found once again in the problem of the “unspeakable” (Halais 2005; Glock 2006). However, Wittgenstein’s relationship with Schopenhauer is very different from Schlick’s reading, centered on the persuasion – as pointed out above – that human action is a causally linked “natural process.” Both Wittgenstein and Schlick were admirers of Schopenhauer, but this is not enough to suggest that substantial convergence really existed between them regarding this great outsider of German philosophy.  In the conversation with Schlick held on 17 December 1930 Wittgenstein makes some remarks on religion. Wittgenstein emphasizes that we are dealing with the question of language in the case of religion too, in terms quite similar to the puzzle of ethics. For the essence of religion, Wittgenstein suggests, is not bound to language, or, rather, religion is by no means a theory: it is also quite irrelevant that religious words could be true, false or meaningless. Talking about religion is not necessary, but religion remains in any case a form of life that is worthy of full respect. As Wittgenstein says: “I do not scoff at this tendency in man; I hold it in reverence. And here it is essential that this is not a description of sociology but that I am speaking about myself” (Waismann 1979, 118). Note that here, Wittgenstein anticipates some arguments he will later develop more or less in his lectures on religious belief delivered in Cambridge in 1938, as he would explain that regarding religion “controversies look quite different from any normal controversies. Reasons look entirely different from normal reasons” (Wittgenstein 1999, 56). Religion, no differently from ethics, cannot be tested as is usual for meaningful propositions, namely by recurring to hypotheses, high probability or knowing. By contrast, one speaks only of faith and dogma when religion is asked (Wittgenstein 1999, 57). 32  An insightful analysis of Nietzsche’s influence on Wittgenstein is offered by (Brusotti 2009). See also (McGuinness 1988, 225–226, 228–229). 31

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Returning now to the conversation with Schlick of December 30, 1929, Wittgenstein – as we have remarked above – argued that not differently from religion, ethics, understood as a paradox in the sense of Kierkegaard, consists of “running up against the limits of language” (Waismann 1979, 68). Immediately after Wittgenstein stated that a radical change of view on the nature of ethics is needed, putting an end “to all the claptrap about ethics”: This running up against the limits of language is ethics. I think it is definitely important to put an end to all the claptrap about ethics—whether intuitive knowledge exists, whether values exist, whether the good is definable. In ethics we are always making the attempt to say something that cannot be said, something that does not and never will touch the essence of the matter. It is a priori certain that whatever definition of the good may be given – it will always be merely a misunderstanding to say that the essential thing, that what is really meant, corresponds to what is expressed (Moore). But the inclination, the running up against something, indicates something. St. Augustine knew that already when he said: What, you swine, you want not to talk nonsense! Go ahead and talk nonsense, it does not matter! (Waismann 1979, 68–69)33

In the field of ethics, according to Wittgenstein, any theory is superfluous, for one may speak of ethics only in the first person, thus making any justification of morality simply impossible. As Schopenhauer had said, “Preaching morality is difficult, justifying morality impossible” (Waismann 1979, 118); and Wittgenstein uses the reference to Schopenhauer, whose quotation is not correctly reported, in order to show that any foundation of morality is just “impossible”, although Schopenhauer, by contrast, says “difficult” and not “impossible”.34 The question is, however, whether Wittgenstein’s conception of ethics (or, ultimately, of the unsayable in general) could be compared to Schopenhauer’s conception of metaphysics. We do not know how Schlick reacted to Wittgenstein’s arguments, although it is immediately evident that this conception of ethics is completely different from Schlick’s. In fact, Schlick, conceives of ethics as a science (or better: as factual knowledge), and argues, in contrast to Wittgenstein, that Schopenhauer quite correctly grasped the central problem of ethics, namely as a “causal explanation of moral behavior,” which would, however, have to be freed from any metaphysical residue (Schlick 1939, 28). For now, it should be emphasized that Wittgenstein’s  Wittgenstein’s hint to Moore is clearly connected to Moore’s pivotal thesis that good is “indefinable” (Moore 1993, 60–61). However, it seems that Wittgenstein rethinks Moore’s stance by using it within the framework of his own idea of ethics as “transcendental”. For his part, Schlick too appreciates, at least ex negativo, Moore’s position so far as it “rightly” shows that ethics is not a mere question of conceptual definition or, more in general, “a branch of linguistic” (Schlick 1939, 6). In the English edition of Schlick’s Fragen der Ethik, the German expression “[Moore has] richtig bemerkt” (Schlick 2006, 361) is mistakenly translated as “[Moore] has pointed out”, instead of “rightly suggested” (my italics). 34  Actually, Schopenhauer writes: “Da ergiebt sich, daß Moral-Predigen leicht, Moral-Begründen schwer ist” (Schopenhauer 1950, 140: my emphasis). The reference to Schopenhauer’s motto just quoted was likewise not accidental within the Wittgenstein circle, as is demonstrated by Waismann’s lecture on ethics delivered in Cambridge on 1938 (or 1939). Waismann would make use of Schopenhauer’s words in order to strengthen his (Wittgensteinian) argument against the possibility to justify ethics (Waismann 1994a 50). 33

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remarks are in agreement with the lecture on ethics he had just before delivered in Cambridge on November 17, 1929, as he stated that “ethics, if it is anything, is supernatural and our words will only express facts” (Wittgenstein 1993, 40). This at first glance strange affirmation clearly echoes the aphorism 6.421 occurring in Tractatus: “It is clear that ethics cannot be put into words. Ethics is transcendental. (Ethics and aesthetics are one and the same)”. Now the conference in Cambridge tries to explain what Wittgenstein really meant as he says that “ethics cannot be put into words”. At stake here is the question of “absolute value”, for in Wittgenstein’s view no linguistic expression can be found in order to explicate what the absoluteness of a value could signify. We can indeed formulate judgments about relative values, given that they are refer to statements of facts; but no statement of fact can be converted into a judgment about absolute value. Wittgenstein summarizes this insight by saying that a series of facts can in no way lead us to that domain we call ethics. Ethics has rather to do with what lies beyond the world and cannot be expressed, accordingly, through our language. Ethical statements are, properly speaking, simply nonsense, but for Wittgenstein this is just the point: the nonsensicality of these propositions regarding “absolute value” or “good” represents its very “essence”. And Wittgenstein goes on: For all I wanted to do with [this nonsensical proposition] was just to go beyond the world and that is to say beyond significant language. My whole tendency and I believe the tendency of all men who ever tried to write or talk Ethics or Religion was to run against the boundaries of language. This running against the walls of our cage is perfectly, absolutely hopeless. Ethics so far as it springs from the desire to say something about the ultimate meaning of life, the absolute good, the absolute valuable, can be no science. (Wittgenstein 1993, 44)

The lecture on Ethics is a very problematic text, which would require a commentary impossible to deal with here. But an indispensable starting point is the link connecting Wittgenstein’s reflections in 1929 and the Tractatus, all the more so since the lecture revives a crucial aspect of Tractatus. An aspect that, however, Schlick – as already stressed – never took into consideration: namely, its ethical meaning. In a letter to Ludwig von Ficker in 1919, presumably from mid-October, Wittgenstein had been lapidary about his “system of philosophy” (as he called it in writing to Ficker earlier [Wittgenstein 1969b, 32]). “The meaning of the book  – explained Wittgenstein to Ficker – is an ethical meaning” (der Sinn des Buches ist ein Ethischer)”. And he added: my work consists of two portions: what is here available, and everything I have not written. And it is precisely this second part that is the important one. Namely, through my book the ethical is, as it were, delimited from within. (Wittgenstein 1969b, 35)

The question of the “second part” and therefore of the fundamentally ethical character of the Tractatus has been addressed by Wittgenstein’s scholars on many occasions, but cannot be discussed here in detail, despite the fact that many arguments

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seem to be, at least in general, in favor of such an interpretation.35 The main point here is to recall some central passages of Tractatus that can shed light on Schlick’s silence about the “ethical meaning” of Wittgenstein’s book. In other words, we can attempt the thought experiment of putting ourselves in the shoes of Schlick who is reading the Tractatus in order to understand what, essentially, did not interest him, or could only interest him marginally, about its ‘mystical’ side. As Wittgenstein had suggested to Ficker, to really comprehend his “system of philosophy” is needed to start from the preface and the conclusion, because it was precisely from those pages that the meaning of the work emerged “most immediately” (Wittgenstein 1969b, 35). In fact, in the preface to the Tractatus it is declared that “what can be said at all can be said clearly”; but Wittgenstein was evidently thinking above all of the aphorisms that begin with 6.41 and arrive at aphorism 7, which closes the book: the famous “What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence”. It was this “second part” that he had discussed with Ficker; the part that has its roots in the notes written by Wittgenstein on the war front between June and July of 1916 (McGuinness 1988, 244–246). These are dramatic annotations, in which Wittgenstein questions himself on the “meaning of life” and of the world, on God and on believing in Him as an answer to the question on the meaning of the world (Notebooks, 72e–73e). The world is independent of my will, but rather “given” and “already there (etwas Fertiges)”. With respect to the world, the will is something external to it; there is no logical connection between will and the world. And it is in this sense that “ethics does not treat of the world. Ethics must be a condition of the world, like logic” (Notebooks, 77e). This is the profound mystery of ethics: it does not allow itself to be formulated (Notebooks, 78e). In the Tractatus some of these statements will return, sometimes verbatim. The center of gravity of Wittgenstein’s statements is that “the sense of the world must lie outside the world” (6.41). The world is everything that happens, in which “everything is as it is”; it is a world where everything is accidental (zufällig) and in which there is no place for value, which is outside it as the sense of the world is. For this very reason there can be no propositions about ethics (6.42): “It is clear that ethics cannot be put into words. Ethics is transcendental. (Ethics and aesthetics are one and the same)” (6.421). With a formulation that seems in some ways to go along with Carnap’s (but also Schlick’s) concern to recognize “the needs of our soul”, Wittgenstein points out that the answer to all scientific problems would not, however, be an answer “to the problems of life” (6.52). On the contrary, the problem of the meaning of life is seen in its disappearance: clarity about it only leads, in the end, to the admission that one cannot say what it consists of (6.521). On the other

 The interpretation of the Tractatus as “ethical deed” traces back, as well known, to (Janik and Toulmin 1973, 167–201). To take into account the results of the most recent scholarship concerning the ethical point of the Tractatus goes beyond the goal of this paper. For a useful overview see (Engelmann 2021, 65–67), who discusses, more generally, different readings of the Tractatus after Janik’s and Toulmin’s interpretation, including the so-called “New Wittgenstein” inaugurated by James Conant and Cora Diamond. 35

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hand, it is not even plausible to trace ethics back to the will, because the will only concerns psychology, that is, a set of states of affairs (6.423). We have thus arrived at the most enigmatic statements of Tractatus, as Wittgenstein now indicates the limit that forces philosophy to give up its alleged “method” and to sever any connection with science, which teaches “to say nothing except what can be said, i.e. propositions of natural science”. But this, in Wittgenstein’s view, “has nothing to do with philosophy” (6.53). It is for this reason that metaphysics (we could add: so far as it attempts to speak about the world outside of science) says nothing meaningful and philosophy has just the task to show this nonsense (6.53). That which is not expressible simply shows itself up and is primarily the “mystical” (6.522). Therefore “It is not how things are in the world that is mystical, but that exists” (6.44). And it is also in this sense that ethics is for Wittgenstein not in the world, but a condition of the world: a “transcendental” condition, although it cannot be put into words and can only be shown. We can stop here with Wittgenstein’s gospel, at least as it emerges at first sight by reading the aphorisms we have just quoted. When Bertrand Russell read these parts of the Tractatus, he was puzzled: if he had already sensed in Wittgenstein “a flavor of mysticism”, now he was surprised to find in him “a complete mystic” intent on reading Kierkegaard and Angelus Silesius (Wittgenstein 1974, 82). Although we do not have a similar testimony in the case of Schlick, it is plausible to think that he too nourished similar uneasiness towards the dark side of Tractatus, believing if ever – as was becoming usual in Vienna – that from the Tractatus one could derive the denunciation of metaphysics as a set of senseless propositions. Actually, in Schlick’s published writings, unpublished manuscripts and letters, there is never any reference to these thoughts of Wittgenstein.36 This circumstance is all the more significant if we consider that in the very years in which his relationship with Wittgenstein was most intense, Schlick published (in 1930) his only book written in the Viennese period devoted to the Fragen der Ethik. A book for which the inverse of what Wittgenstein claimed is true: in reality, propositions about ethics can be formulated and are propositions about states of fact.

7.5 Problems of Ethics Schlick’s main idea of factual ethics implies a wholly different intention from Wittgenstein’s scattered remarks on this topic. To begin with, the incipit of Schlick’s late book on ethics leaves no room for doubt: “If there are ethical questions that have meaning, and are therefore able to be answered, then ethics is a science” (Schlick 1939, 1). No wonder, thus, that Wittgenstein immediately expresses his doubts about Schlick’s ethics as science. In a letter to Schlick written in Cambridge

 Ironically enough, in a letter from August 8, 1932, Wittgenstein wrote to Schlick that “the last propositions of the [Tractatus]” outlined the “ground thoughts of the book” (Iven 2015, 144). 36

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on November 27,1930, he counters: “I believe that from many points of view I will not agree with you” (Inv. 123 Wittg  – 10, Iven 2015, 120).37 Some weeks later Wittgenstein meets Schlick and part of their talk regards Schlick’s book. Wittgenstein appreciates some remarks Schlick has devoted to theological ethics: what is good is good because God wills it? Or does He will it because good is good? (Schlick 1939, 11–12). For Schlick, the former interpretation is the “more superficial” one, whereas the latter is “deeper”. But Wittgenstein contrasts Schlick’s opinion: good is that which God commands, and this is the right answer (Waismann 1979, 115).38 Moreover, a little later Wittgenstein emphasizes again, and in opposition to Schlick, that ethics has nothing to do with a conceptual discourse. In his own words: If I were told anything that was a theory, I would say, No, no! That does not interest me. Even if this theory were true, it would not interest me – it would not be the exact thing I was looking for. What is ethical cannot be taught. If I could explain the essence of the ethical only by means of a theory, then what is ethical would be of no value whatsoever […] For me a theory is without value. A theory gives me nothing. (Waismann 1979, 116–117)

The clash with Schlick’s account of a suitable epistemological and psychological foundation of ethics is patent. In his conversation with Schlick and Waismann, Wittgenstein maintains that any explication of ethics is wrong in itself as being precisely explication (Waismann 1979, 117). Hence, Wittgenstein refuses just what Schlick endorses: the possibility of explaining the nature of ethics, since Schlick insists, by contrast, that “ethics seeks causal explanations” (Schlick 1939, 22–25). Consequently, Schlick believes that “the method of ethics is psychological” (Schlick 1939, 28–30). Furthermore, the psychological foundation of ethics leads to the assumption that the space of an account of moral beliefs as norms has to be unambiguously limited: Even if ethics were a normative science it would not cease because of this to be a science of facts. Ethics has to do entirely with the actual; this seems to me to be the most important of the propositions which determine its task. (Schlick 1939, 21)

In some sense, a similar stance could be regarded as converging with Wittgenstein’s conviction that to speak about norms signifies, ultimately, to speak about state of affairs. However, the very idea of ethics as factual and science seems to be at odds with the conception of philosophy as pure activity of clarifying propositions Schlick

 Wittgenstein also expressed skeptical remarks about pleasure, joy, happiness and so on in his notes written on the last page of Schlick’s book (Limbeck-Lilienau and Stadler 2015, 159). 38  It should be noted that Wittgenstein obviously refers to the German edition of Schlick’s book (see Schlick 2006, 365). Later on, in the English translation, in part revised by Schlick himself, one finds a slightly, but significantly, modified version of the passage quoted by Wittgenstein: “more superficial” is substituted by “one interpretation”, and “deeper” by “perhaps profounder” (Schlick 1939, 11). However, Schlick’s whole argumentation intends to compare Kant’s “absolute ought” with the first way of theological ethics (good is good because God wills it). For Schlick, Kant’s formal ethics is in agreement with this theological stance and is wrong just because of this convergence (Schlick 1939, 11). At any rate, Wittgenstein does not consider Schlick’s Anti-Kantian argumentation. 37

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professes in the Preface to the Problems of Ethics. Despite these statements of principle, Schlick still aims to provide a contribution to “psychological knowledge” and to formulate, in this respect, authentic propositions, if not philosophical, then undoubtedly of a factual nature, since they refer to the domain of psychology (Schlick 1939, XV). Departing from the initial declarations inspired by Wittgenstein’s Tractatus, Schlick’s philosophical goal thus consists of providing an explanation of ethics, understood in turn as a “science of facts” exclusively committed to the reality of human action. In this way, Schlick outlines an account of ethics as science, which is, in a broader sense, a conspicuous inheritance of positivism and can, in more modern terms, be defined as a form of cognitivism or ethical naturalism (Stern-Gillet 1983; Bonnet 2001). Schlick judges the opposition between normative and factual sciences to be “fundamentally false” and considers ethics as a Tatsachenwissenschaft, since it deals with what is real in this world we live it. From this point of view one cannot but be suspicious of “the pride of those philosophers who hold questions of ethics to be the most noble and elevated of questions just because they refer not to the common is but concern the pure ought’” (Schlick 1939, 17, 21). This is precisely the fatal error of Kant, whose ethical formalism Schlick once again rejects, accusing him of having excluded any content of human action, contradicting thereby psychological experience by asserting that the moral imperative is completely independent of inclinations (Schlick 1939, 11, 62). In line with the major insights formulated over twenty years earlier, Schlick suggests that ethics seeks a “causal explanation”; but the explanation of moral evaluation cannot be separated from that of action, so that the essence of ethics is resolved in the legality of human action (Schlick 1939, 22–25). Again, the method of ethics is therefore a psychological method, and the authority invoked here to launch such a program of psychological-naturalistic reconstruction of ethics is – still in 1930 – no one but Schopenhauer: The moral problem was most clearly formulated in this way by Schopenhauer, whose sound sense of reality led him to the correct path here (if not in the solution) and guarded him from the Kantian formulation of the problem and from the post-Kantian philosophy of value. (Schlick 1939, 28)

Having thus acknowledged Schopenhauer for his criticism of Kantian ethics, Schlick goes on to point out that only empirical science is able to discover the laws of “the life of the soul (Seelenleben)” upon which moral behavior rests, the question of ethics being purely psychological (Schlick 1939, 28–29). It is not difficult to see that in the Problems of ethics the insights already expressed by Schlick in Lebensweisheit emerge again. Rooting man’s actions in the sphere of instincts (Triebe) is a form of explanation or knowledge, representing the key for giving to ethics the status of factual science, once it has been admitted that knowledge consists of finding what is common in what is different (Schlick 1939, 65). The feeling of pleasure and displeasure is in particular regarded as the motive for human action, seen, however, not so much in its individual aspect as in its social dimension (a point for which Schlick refers to Spencer) (Schlick 1939, 70, 90). On the other hand, the pursuit of happiness remains at the heart of ethics, which can be achieved

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by leaving behind an ethics of “renunciation (Entsagung)” and abandoning the selfishness of one’s own private satisfaction in order to open up to the social dimension, to the altruism, or, as Schlick puts it, to a de facto normative level, promoting respect for “one’s fellow men (Mitmenschen)” (Schlick 1939, 200; Siegesleitner 2014, 307–312). To the Kantian ethics of duty, Schlick therefore contrasts the “ethics of goodness”, to which he addresses something similar to the hymn that Kant intoned to duty in the Critique of Practical Reason: Kindness, thou dear great name, that containest nothing in thee demanding loveless esteem, but prayest to be followed; thou dost not menace and needst not establish any law, but of thyself findest entrance into feeling, and willingly art revered; whose smile disarms all sister inclinations; thou art so glorious that we need not ask after thy descent, for whatever be thy origin it is ennobled through thee! (Schlick 1939, 208–209)

As a consequence, Schlick distances himself from the current topics of absolute values in ethics, which had enjoyed considerable success in German-speaking philosophy, on both the neo-Kantian and the phenomenological sides (from Heinrich Rickert to Max Scheler, to name but two emblematic figures). While preserving the core of the criticisms already formulated in 1908, the Viennese Schlick was keen to stress how the rejection of absolute values, and their claimed independence from the psychological experience of appreciation and selection between competing values, could be motivated on the basis of the criterion of verification. Against the thesis of those who (such as Franz Brentano and his followers) theorized the subsistence of values and those who theorized the existence of values as entities intuitable “in themselves”, Schlick argued, by contrast, that value manifests itself on the psychological level and can therefore be verified through a datum of consciousness. The verification of an evaluative statement (Wertaussage) thus consists of exhibiting a certain “experience of consciousness”; and this means that “the essence of value” is exhausted in tracing it back to its emotional root, to the corresponding immediate experience, which is the feeling of pleasure (Schlick 1939, 110–115).39 Consequently, it is upon the principle of verification that the rejection of the ethics of absolute values, as well as of Kant’s morality of “absolute duty”, rests, both of which were already represented in Lebensweisheit as the targets of Schlick’s ethical monism. In Vienna, in more sober language and according to the stance of verificationism, this critique now became part of the scientific worldview, linked to the Epicurean morality of the wise: Life would proceed as if they did not exist; and for ethics they would not exist. But if the values, in addition to and without injuring their absolute existence, also had the property or power of influencing our feelings, then they would enter into our world; but only in so far as they thus affected us. Hence values also exist for ethics only to the extent that they make themselves felt, that is, are relative to us. And if a philosopher says, “Of course, but they also have an absolute existence,” then we know that these words add nothing new to the

 Noteworthy to recall that Schlick devoted two seminars, respectively to Brentano and Moore (winters semester 1927/1928 [054/B.34]) and to the question of value (summer semester 1930 [057/B. 37-1). Moreover, Max Scheler’s Wesen und Fomen der Sympathie was discussed in winter semester 1925/1926 (051/B. 31-2). 39

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verifiable facts, that therefore they are empty, and their assertion meaningless. (Schlick 1939, 118–119 [my italics])

That said, there is however a last point which deserves a brief comment. Dealing with the question of pleasure as the basis for ethics, Schlick points out that religions show the tendency to consider pleasure as something belonging to “the realm of prohibited things”. This means that a basic opposition arises for religion between “earthly and heavenly joys”: whereas the former are worthless, only the latter are good, as for instance in the case of ascetism providing, for the believer, the highest feeling of religious pleasure. By contrast, Schlick claims, “it would be the task of a sensible education to return the heavenly joys to earth again” (Schlick 1939, 126). Schlick’s endorsement of eudemonism is thus conceived in strong opposition to religious morality, which condemns the ethic of pleasure, even by charging it of immorality. Nonetheless, Schlick maintains that if the religious promise of future happiness as compensation for human evil and suffering could even be regarded as a form of eudemonism, in no way does this signify that this kind of future pleasure is at odds with our goals and feelings in this mundane world. It should be affirmed, by contrast, that just the hope for the future enhances our ethical rules here on the earth (Schlick 1939, 133–134). In other words, and in agreement with his early views, the future is for Schlick an essential aspect of ethical life, and thus religion too is welcomed when it enlarges the horizon of the search for happiness. Actually, ever since his juvenile book, Schlick had argued that religion can essentially be identified with the emotional state we experience as we are in intimate contact with the universe. This is, properly speaking, the “feeling of the world” (Weltgefühl), which coincides with the feeling of pleasure arousing from the effects of nature on man’s impulses (Schlick 2006, 185). Only in this way can our soul actually achieve happiness. But what remains, thus, of religion? Schlick believes that every religion rests just upon the “feeling of the world”, which is tightly connected with the “faith in the future”, with the open sea of possibilities: “the boundless sea is the symbol of future” (Schlick 2006, 191). And future signifies at once the spirit of youth, the spirit of an optimistic attitude towards the world (Schlick 2006, 190).40

7.6 Philosophical Grammar It has for a long time been commonly accepted that logical empiricists did not manifest any veritable interest in ethics. However, as scholarship has recently shown, a similar point of view is highly disputable, for moral engagement and scientific activity in their mutual connection represented rather complementary  On Schlick and religion see (Ramharter 2020). I allow myself to refer also to (Ferrari 2022b). Interestingly enough, Carnap has recalled that in talking about religion Schlick and Wittgenstein manifested a deep contrast. They agreed in considering religion as having “no theoretical content”; but Wittgenstein did not believe that religion belonged to the childhood of humanity and would disappear in the course of history of civilization (Carnap 1963, 26). 40

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aspects on the cultural and philosophical scene of the Vienna Circle, although the discussion about similar questions did not belong to the agenda of the Circle meetings (Siegesleitner 2010, 2014). Indeed, the members of the Vienna Circle were only apparently committed to pure epistemological inquiry on the “icy slopes of logic” (Carnap et al. 2012, 90). Neurath, Carnap, and others had a passionate interest in contemporary social, cultural and political life, being themselves engaged in sketching ethical perspectives within the wider context of the relationship between science and praxis (Bonnet and Nemeth 2016; Sigmund 2018, 243–263). Neurath’s ‘felicitology’ is a particularly interesting example of this shadowy side of the Vienna Circle; but Carnap’s reflections on the status of moral propositions also bear witness to the ethical implications of the scientific conception of the world, joined under the banner of a radical anti-cognitivism and a no less radical critique of the normative status of ethics. For his part, Karl Menger similarly ventures onto this ground (but we are already reach 1934) in his attempt to apply the scientific method to ethics by using mathematical models.41 But it was in particular Schlick who systematically pursued ethics as an essential part of philosophy. Even in the last years of his activity, Schlick would not cease to devote himself to moral issues, claiming, in his last writing, the centrality of the “Socratic” clarification of concepts of ethics: “For this philosophy [of Socrates]”, he said, “ethics is a philosophical task and it knows that for man the clarification of moral concepts is infinitely more important than all the problems of a theoretical nature” (Schlick 1938, 397). It seems appropriate to point out that Schlick reiterated this “philosophical task” in the very last phase of his thought, exactly when the relationship with Wittgenstein became more intense. But what consequences did Schlick’s acquaintance with Wittgenstein’s “new beginning” after the Tractatus have for his ethics? (Monk 1991, 309–327). One of the main aspects of Schlick’s relationship with Wittgenstein in this late period is surely his own appropriation of Wittgenstein’s “verificationism” at the beginning of the 1930s. In his highly influential article on Meaning and Verification (published in 1936) Schlick declares himself an enthusiastic follower of Wittgenstein’s verificationism, according to which the meaning of a proposition consists of the “method of its verification” (Schlick 2008, 712). Schlick’s central argument here is that verification properly means “possibility of verification,” to say “verifiability,” but not “verifiable here now” or “being verified now.” In Schlick’s own words, “verifiability means possibility of verification” (Schlick 2008, 717–718, 720). However, the relationship with Wittgenstein from 1930 onwards does not end with the question of verificationism and with Schlick’s interpretation of it in the conviction of being fundamentally in agreement with Wittgenstein. In fact, endorsing a new way of doing philosophy, Wittgenstein more and more questions the notion of “philosophical grammar”, which already emerges in the conversations  Siegesleitner (2014) offers a rich overview of the ethical theories within the Vienna Circle. In this context, a closer examination of Menger’s enquiry as well as of Waismann’s late investigations about ethical problems would surely be of high interest (see Menger 1934; Waismann 1994a, b). 41

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transcribed by Waismann and in the notes dictated to Schlick.42 Also in Schlick’s last writings the issue of grammar appears repeatedly and in an increasingly explicit form. In Meaning and Verification Schlick argues, for instance, that sentences having meaning and being verifiable are defined by “grammar rules [that] are not found anywhere in nature, but are made by man and are, in principle, arbitrary” (Schlick 2008, 725). A certain set of rules has the function of regulating, precisely, the use of language, and this is the function of grammatical analysis, taking  – with Wittgenstein – grammar in its broadest philosophical sense (Schlick 2008, 711). No less significantly, when in 1935 Schlick addresses the question of whether the laws of nature are conventional or not, he again resorts to grammatical analysis, which is also applied in relation to mathematics and physical science. There is, according to Schlick, a grammar of “scientific language”, that is an “inventory of rules according to which the symbols (letters, words, sentences, etc.) are to be used in the description of facts. All these ‘grammatical’ rules, and these alone, together determine the meaning of the propositions of science” (Schlick 1979, 443). Thus, geometry too can be regarded as “the grammar of the language in which we describe the spatial relationships of physics” (Schlick 1979, 437). How much importance Schlick recognized to Wittgensteinian grammar emerges in particular from the preface (which dates back to June 1935) to the Prolegomena zu einer kritischen Grammatik, a “propaedeutic” book written from his disciple Josef Schächter under the clear influence of Wittgenstein. On this occasion Schlick made some enlightening considerations on the notion of philosophical grammar. In the first place, he emphasized that Schächter showed well how the authentic philosophical problems were essentially grammatical and logical, constituting a ground on which Sprachkritik and Erkenntniskritik coincide (Schächter 1978, 3). This formulation is in truth not genuinely Wittgensteinian, and if anything documents how even in the latest Schlick Erkenntniskritik was not dismissed, but rather conjugated with the Sprachkritik (Ferrari 2008). Secondly, Schlick specified how the meaning of philosophical grammar consisted of assuming a “philosophical approach”, by virtue of which philosophical problems are to be tackled not in the austere form of doctrinal questions, but as problems arising from what is apparently obvious or unproblematic. This is, Schlick declared, “the method of our philosophizing,” which moves from “philosophical astonishment” well before problems take their traditionally philosophical form (Schächter 1978, 4). One might doubt that “the method of our philosophizing” of which Schlick speaks can be considered as a profession of strict Wittgensteinian faith. For Wittgenstein, can we really speak of a “method”, i.e. a procedure shared independently of its object, for the treatment of philosophical questions? In Wittgenstein’s perspective it would be a form of dogmatism, since it implies “that there are questions the answers to which will be found at a later date” (Waismann 1979, 182). It  We refer in particular to (Waismann and Wittgenstein 2003, 38–42). Waismann believed that Schlick praised the philosophical grammar as a “theory of the forms of thought”, able to realize Leibniz’s dream of a mathesis universalis (Waismann 1938, XXV). The background of this intricate discussion is highlighted by (Engler 2015, 200–204). 42

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is the kind of dogmatism in which Wittgenstein acknowledged to have fallen in the Tractatus, when he believed that there is a way of finding some results, for example to arrive at establishing a priori what elementary propositions are (Waismann 1979, 182).43 Therefore, for Wittgenstein, the “method”, that is, according to the etymological meaning of the word, the way to reach some goal, belongs to a still dogmatic way of doing philosophy that pretends to discover something. But in the conversation with Waismann of December 9, 1931, Wittgenstein had claimed clearly: In philosophy you cannot discover anything. I myself, however, had not clearly enough understood this and offended against it. The wrong conception which I want to object to in this connexion is the following, that we can hit upon something that we today cannot yet see, that we can discover something wholly new. That is a mistake. The truth of the matter is that we have already got everything, and we have got it actually present; we need not wait for anything. We make our moves in the realm of the grammar of our ordinary language, and this grammar is already there. Thus we have already got everything and need not wait for the future. (Waismann 1979, 183)

From here stems the fundamentally descriptive attitude of the philosophical exercise, which does not rely on a philosophical method, but if anything – Wittgenstein will say in Philosophical Investigations – on a plurality of methods, “like different therapies” (Wittgenstein 1953, 51). Although Schlick theorized, for his part, the use of a specific “philosophical method,” he did not extend this use to ethics as well, nor the grammatical analysis played any significant function – in his later writings – with regard to the analysis of moral problems.44 This is a question that would require a closer investigation; and for this reason we can only complain that Schlick’s work was interrupted so dramatically and suddenly. Perhaps in the time of a life prolonged beyond 1936 he would have revised, or at least integrated, his positions in the light of the positions that Wittgenstein had taken since the mid-thirties, in the long path that would lead him to the Philosophical Investigations. But even in this case the question remains as to whether the deep disagreement that marked Schlick’s relationship with Wittgenstein in matters of ethics would have been bridged. The answer, arguably, could only be negative. At the same time, the more general question could perhaps be posed as follows: was there, in Schlick, a tension that was never resolved between his original philosophical soul, which dates back to the years of Lebensweisheit, and the Viennese-Wittgensteinian soul that did not replace it, but rather coexisted with it in a sort of “perpetual peace”?

 See Tractatus 5.55: “We now have to answer a priori the question about all the forms of elementary propositions”. 44  An attempt to provide a grammatical examination of moral terms such as “freedom” or “will” would be taken by Waismann at the end of the 1930s (Waismann 1994a, 49–51). 43

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7.7 Conclusion Throughout his life Schlick remained a worldly-minded philosopher. In his mind, the sense of life lies both in our knowledge of the world and in our moral action. The pleasure brought by both these cornerstones of culture can wholly satisfy our need for happiness, once it is recognized that modern society has in any case to be protected from evil as well as from the loss of freedom (see Schlick 1952). Accordingly, the question of the meaning of life was for Schlick a core issue, from the beginnings of his work until his late thoughts on the “Socratic methods” in philosophy (Schlick 1986, 75, 1994, 3). However, just this profound conviction is a striking point of disagreement from Wittgenstein. As already noted, not only for Wittgenstein does the question about the meaning of life refer back to God, so much so that “to pray is to think about the meaning of life” (Notebooks, 73c), but it even seems to be a question destined to remain unanswered (Tractatus, 6.521). Even in the Cambridge conference, Wittgenstein had noted that “the inquiry into the meaning of life or into makes life worth living” still belongs to a conception of ethics centered on states of affairs, on relative goods, not on the good as good in itself (Wittgenstein 1993, 38). One might add that this is not even a question that has in any way to do with a regulative ideal in Kant’s sense; and this is because there is not, in general, a goal to be reached. As Wittgenstein says in a note that dates back to November 15, 1929, just before the Cambridge conference on ethics, “you cannot lead people to the good, you can only lead them to some place or other, the good lies outside the space of facts” (Wittgenstein 1998, 5). Much later, in the Philosophical Investigations Wittgenstein will argue that “philosophy simply puts everything before us, and neither explains nor deduces anything” (Wittgenstein 1953, 50). Philosophy does not have a normative task, but only a descriptive one: it does not tell us anything about what we should or could do. Now language games take the place of the investigation “about the structure of language” that Wittgenstein himself had carried out in the Tractatus (Wittgenstein 1953, 12); and within language games we can also formulate ethical propositions and use words such as “good”, “right”, “duty” learning to know their meaning, their use within a certain form of life. Wittgenstein wrote: “How did we learn the meaning of this word (“good” for instance)? From what sort of examples? in what language-­games? Then it will be easier for you to see that the word must have a family of meanings” (Wittgenstein 1953, 36). Yet, even in this eminently descriptive context, any possibility of saying something about the ultimate essence of good, about that “transcendent” sphere that in 1929 Wittgenstein had declared to be “inexpressible”, is precluded. In short, even in the late Wittgenstein there is no place for a normative ethics, nor is there room for a pronouncement on the ultimate meaning of moral action, on the “meaning of life” (Von der Pfordten 2010, 54–56). Much less is there room for explaining moral action. Again, we cannot help but wonder how Schlick would have reacted if he had been acquainted with the ultimate outcome of Wittgenstein’s philosophy. Perhaps

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he would have reformulated his naturalistic and scientific ethics, taking into account the forms of life within which moral orientation is placed, acquiring a plurality of meanings? Imagining Schlick’s possible answers to this question would be fertile ground for stimulating mental experiments, to which philosophers can resort in order to find new solutions to old problems. But Schlick was not allowed to devise such experiments, for he was brutally murdered on June 22, 1936. And the history of the Vienna Circle was thereafter interrupted for ever (Edmonds 2020).

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Ferrari, Massimo. 2008. Moritz Schlick in Wien: Die Wende der Philosophie. In Moritz Schlick. Leben, Werk und Wirkung, ed. Fynn O. Engler and Matthias Iven, 91–113. Berlin: Parerga. ———. 2022a. Moritz Schlick zwischen Schopenhauer und Nietzsche (forthcoming). ———. 2022b. The Place of Religion. An Open Question in Schlick’s Philosophy of Culture. In The Vienna Circle and Religion, ed. by Esther Ramharter. 41–48. Cham: Springer. ———. 2022c. Schlick, Russell and the Vienna Circle (forthcoming). Friedman, Michael. 2000. A Parting of the Ways. Carnap, Cassirer, and Heidegger. Chicago and La Salle, Illinois: Open Court. Gargani, Aldo. 2015. Kierkegaard and Wittgenstein. Philosophical Inquiries 3: 199–218. Glock, Hans Johann. 2006. Wittgenstein and Schopenhauer. Language as Representation and Will. In The Cambridge Companion to Schopenhauer, ed. Christopher Janaway, 422–458. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hacker, Peter M.S. 1996. Wittgenstein’s Place in Twentieth-Century Analytical Philosophy. Oxford: Blackwell. Haeckel, Ernst. 1919. Die Welträtsel. Gemeinverständliche Studien über monistische Philosophie. 11. Auflage. Leipzig: Kröner Verlag. Halais, Emmanuel. 2005. Que fait une métaphysique? Wittgenstein et Schopenhauer. In La Raison dévoilée. Études schopenhauriennes, ed. Christian Bonnet and Jean Salem, 213–228. Paris: Vrin. Haller, Rudolf. 1993. Neopositivismus. Eine historische Einführung in die Philosophie des Wiener Kreises. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Hoffmann, Dieter. 2008. Max Planck als akademischer Lehrer von Moritz Schlick und die Beziehungen beider Gelehrter im Spiegel ihrer Korrespondenz. In Moritz Schlick. Leben, Werk und Wirkung, ed. Fynn O. Engler and Matthias Iven, 31–58. Berlin: Parerga. Iven, Matthias. 2008. Moritz Schlick. Die frühen Jahre (1882–1907). Berlin: Parerga. ———. 2015. Er ist ‘eine Künstlernatur von hinreissender Genialität’. Die Korrespondenz zwischen Ludwig Wittgenstein und Moritz Schlick sowie ausgewählte Briefe von Friedrich Waismann, Rudolf Carnap, Frank F.  Ramsey, Ludwig Hänsel und Margaret Stonborough. Wittgenstein-Studien 6: 83–174. Jacquette, Dale. 2017. Wittgenstein and Schopenhauer. In A Companion to Wittgenstein, ed. Hans-­ Johann Glock and John Hyman, 59–71. Chicester: Willey. Janik, Allan, and Stephan Toulmin. 1973. Wittgenstein’s Vienna. New York: Simon & Schuster. Limbeck-Lilienau, Christoph, and Friedrich Stadler, eds. 2015. Der Wiener Kreis. Texte und Bilder zum Logischen Empirismus. Wien: LIT Verlag. Malcolm, Norman. 1984. Ludwig Wittgenstein. A Memoir. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Marini, Sergio. 1986. La presenza di Kierkgaard nel pensiero di Wittgenstein. Rivista di filosofia Neoscolastica 78: 221–226. McGuinness, Brian F. 1979. Editor’s Preface. In Waismann, Friedrich. Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle. Conversations recorded by Friedrich Waismann. ed. Brian McGuinness. Translated by Brian McGuinness and Joachim Schulte, 11–32. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 1988. Wittgenstein: A life. Young Wittgenstein 1889–1921. London: Duckworth. ———. 1991. Wittgensteins Beziehungen zum Schlick-Kreis. In Jour Fixe der Vernunft, ed. Paul Kruntorad, 108–126. Wien: Holder-Pichler-Tempsky. ———. 2010. Wittgenstein und Schlick. Berlin: Parerga. Menger, Karl. 1934. Moral, Wille und Gestaltung. Grundlegung zur Logik der Sitten. Wien: Springer. ———. 1982. Memoires of Moritz Schlick. In Rationality and Science. A Memorial Volume for Moritz Schlick in Celebration of the Centennial of His Birth, ed. Eugene T. Gadol, 83–103. Wien-New York: Springer. Miles, Thomas. 2016. Ludwig Wittgenstein: Kierkegaard’s Influence on the Origin of Analytical Philosophy. In Kierkegaard’s Influence on Philosophy. Tome I: German and Scandinavian Philosophy, ed. Jan Stewart, 209–241. Oxford: Routledge. Monk, Ray. 1991. Ludwig Wittgenstein. The Duty of Genius. London: Vintage.

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Moore, George Edward. 1993. Principia Ethica. Revised edition. Edited and with an introduction by Thomas Baldwin. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mormann, Thomas. 2010. Zwischen Weisheit und Wissenschaft. Schlicks weites philosophisches Spektrum. Grazer Philosophische Studien 80: 263–285. von der Pfordten, Dietmar. 2010. Höchster Moralismus und tiefste Skepsis gegenüber der normantiven Ethik – Zu Wittgensteins Metaethik. In Logischer Empirismus, Werte und Moral. Eine Neue Bewertung, ed. Anne Siegesleitner, 45–60. Wien-New York: Springer. Ramharter, Esther. 2020. Die strenge Trennung. Religion im Umfeld des Wiener Kreises. In Die Geburt der Moderne aus dem Geist der Religion, Weltanschauung und Moderne in Wien um 1900, ed. Rudolf Leeb and Astrid Schweighofer, 377–398. Frankfurt am Main: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Rudolf, Kurt, ed. 1999. Österreiche Philosophie von Brentano bis Wittgenstein. Wien: Universitätsverlag. Schächter, Josef. 1978. Prolegomena zu einer kritischen Grammatik. Bibliographie und Nachwort von Gerd H. Reitizg. Stuttgart: Reclam. Schlick, Moritz. 1918. Allgemeine Erkenntnislehre. Berlin: Springer. ———. 1938. Gesammelte Aufsätze 1926–1936. Wien: Gerold & Co. ———. 1939. Problems of Ethics. Translated by David Rynin. New York: Prentice-Hall. ———. 1952. Natur und Kultur. Aus dem Nachlaß hg. von Josef Rausche. Wien: Humboldt Verlag. ———. 1974. In General Theory of Knowledge. Translated by Albert E. Blumberg, with an introduction by, ed. Albert E. Blumberg and Herbert Feigl. Wien: Springer. ———. 1978. Philosophical Papers, vol. I: (1909–1922), ed. by Henk L.  Mulder and Barbara F.B van de Velde-Schlick. Translated by Peter Haeth, Wilfrid Sellars, Herbert Feigl and May Brodbeck. Dordrecht/Boston/London: Reidel. ———. 1979. Philosophical Papers, vol. II: (1925–1936), ed. Henk L.  Mulder and Barbara F.B van de Velde-Schlick. Translated by Peter Haeth, Wilfrid Sellars, Herbert Feigl and May Brodbeck. Dordrecht/Boston/London: Reidel. ———. 1986. Die Probleme der Philosophie in ihrem Zusammenhang. Vorlesung aus dem Wintersemester 1933/34, ed. Henk L. Mulder, Anne J, Kox and Rainer Hegselmann. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. ———. 1994. The Main Ideas of the Theory of Values. In Waismann, Friedrich, Josef Schächter, and Moritz Schlick. Ethics and the Will. Essays. Edited and with an Introduction by Brian F. McGuinness and Joachim Schulte. Translated by Hans Kaal. 3–6. Dordrecht: Springer. ———. 2006. Kritische Gesamtausgabe. Abteilung I, vol. 3. Lebensweisheit. Fragen der Ethik, ed. Matthias Iven. Wien-New York: Springer, 2006. ———. 2008. Kritische Gesamtausgabe. Abteilung I, vol. 6, Die Wiener Zeit. Aufsätze, Beiträge, Rezensionen 1926–1936, ed. Johannes Friedl and Heiner Rutte. Wien-New York: Springer. ———. 2009. Kritische Gesamtausgabe. Abteilung I, vol. 1. Allgemeine Erkenntnislehre, ed. Hans Jürgen Wendel and Fynn O. Engler. Wien-New York: Springer. ———. 2012. Kritische Gesamtausgabe, Abteilung II, vol. 5.1, Nietzsche und Schopenhauer (Vorlesungen), ed. Matthias Iven. Dordrecht–Heidelberg–London–New York: Springer. Schroeder, Severin. 2007. The Tightroper Walker. Ratio (News Series) 20: 442–463. Schopenhauer, Arthur. 1950. Über den Willen in der Natur. In Sämtliche Werke, ed. by A. Hübscher, vol. 4, Wiesbaden: Brockhaus, 1950. Schönbaumsfeld, Genia. 2009. ‘Objectively there is no truth’  – Wittgenstein and Kierkegaard on Religious Belief. In In search of Meaning. Ludwig Wittgenstein on Ethics, Mysticism and Religion, ed. Ulrich Arnswald, 11–147. Karlsruhe: Universitätsverlag. Siegesleitner, Anne. 2010. Logischer Empirismus, Werte und Moral. Anmerkungen zur vorherrschenden Sicht. In Logischer Empirismus, Werte und Moral. Eine Neue Bevertung, ed. Anne Siegesleitner, 9–19. Wien-New York: Springer. ———. 2014. Ethik und Moral im Wiener Kreis. Zur Geschichte eines engagierten Humanismus. Wien-Köln-Weimar: Böhlau.

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Sigmund, Karl. 2018. Sie nannten sich Der Wiener Kreis. Exaktes Denken am Rand des Untergangs. 2. Auflage. Wiesbaden: Springer. Stadler, Friedrich. 2001. The Vienna Circle. Studies in the Origins, Development, and Influence of Logical Empiricism. Wien-New York: Springer. Stern, David G. 2003. The Methods of the Tractatus: Beyond Positivism and Mataphysics? In Logical Empiricism. Historical and Contemporary Perspectives, ed. Paolo Parrini, Wesley C. Salomon, and Merrilee H. Salmon, 125–156. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Stern-Gillet, Suzanne. 1983. Revue Internationale de philosophie. Vol. 87, 145–162. Vrahimis, Andreas. 2020. The Vienna Circle’s Reception of Nietzsche. Journal for the History of Analytical Philosophy 8: 1–29. ———. 2021. Aesthetics Naturalized: Schlick on the Evolution of Beauty and Art. Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 132. https://doi.org/10.1515/agph-­2020-­0129. Waismann, Friedrich. 1938. Vorwort. In Moritz Schlick, Gesammelte Aufsätze 1926–1936. VII-­ XXVI. Wien: Gerold & Co. ———. 1979. Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle. Conversations recorded by Friedrich Waismann, ed. Brian McGuinness. Translated by Brian McGuinness and Joachim Schulte. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 1994a. Ethics and the Science. In Waismann, Friedrich, Josef Schächter, and Moritz Schlick. Ethics and the Will. Essays. Edited and with an Introduction by Brian F. McGuinness and Joachim Schulte. Translated by Hans Kaal. 35–52. Dordrecht: Springer. ———. 1994b. Will and Motive. In Waismann, Friedrich, Josef Schächter, and Moritz Schlick. Ethics and the Will. Essays. Edited and with an Introduction by Brian F.  McGuinness and Joachim Schulte. Translated by Hans Kaal. 55–137. Dordrecht: Springer. Waismann, Friedrich, and Ludwig Wittgenstein. 2003. The Voices of Wittgenstein. Original German texts and English translations, ed. Gordon Baker. London and New York: Routledge. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1953. Philosophical Investigations. Translated by Gertrud Elisabeth Margaret Anscombe. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 1969a. The Blue and the Brown Books. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 1969b. Briefe an Ludwig Ficker. Hg. von Georg H. von Wright unter Mitarbeit von Walter Methlagl. Salzburg: Otto Müller Verlag. ———. 1974. Letters to Russell, Keynes, and Moore, ed. Georg H. von Wright. Ithaca–New York: Cornell University Press. ———. 1993. Philosophical Occasions 1912–1951, ed. James C. Klagge and Alfred Nordmann. Indianapolis and Cambridge: Hackett Publishing Company. ———. 1998. Culture and value, ed. Georg H. von Wright in collaboration with Heikki Nyman. Translated by Peter Winch. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. ———. 1999. Lectures & Conversations on Aesthetic, Psychology and Religious Belief, ed. Cyril Barrett. Oxford: Basil Blackwell.

Chapter 8

Plagiarism!: Wittgenstein Against Carnap Richard Creath

Abstract  In 1932 Ludwig Wittgenstein accused Rudolf Carnap of plagiarism and seems to have gone so far as to scrawl the word ‘Plagiarism’ on one of Carnap’s offprints and initial that note as well. Priority disputes are inherently distasteful and usually sterile. And they are often impossible to adjudicate fully. I make no such attempt here. But these disputes can also be revealing about what the participants thought they were doing and what they thought they had achieved. It is in this latter vein that I revisit the 1932 dispute. My primary focus will be on Carnap, and I begin by examining the accounts of the dispute by three distinguished philosopher/historians, Jaakko Hintikka, Thomas Uebel, and David Stern. The aim is not a verdict on Wittgenstein’s charge of plagiarism, but to see what the dispute and surrounding documents show about how Carnap’s views were developing in the early thirties, what antecedents those ideas may have had (including in Wittgenstein), and how Carnap saw the changes in his views. Keywords  Rudolf Carnap · Heinrich Neider · Otto Neurath · Ludwig Wittgenstein · Plagiarism · Physicalism · Logischer Aufbau · Intersubjectivity · Intertranslatability As is well known, in 1932 Ludwig Wittgenstein accused Rudolf Carnap of plagiarism in the latter’s then recent paper embracing physicalism. Not to put too fine a point on it, Wittgenstein accused Carnap of stealing his new and unpublished ideas. Moreover, Wittgenstein charged that this was done without attribution and in such a way that a reader might think that Wittgenstein had taken the ideas from Carnap rather than the other way around. As Wittgenstein’s anger built, the list of thefts grew. But even from the beginning, the charges included the claim that Carnap had taken such ideas as physicalism from the Tractatus. These ideas, he said, were so central and so obviously there that Carnap could not possibly have failed to notice R. Creath (*) School of Life Sciences, Arizona State University, Tempe, AZ, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_8

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and understand them. I do not think that there is any dispute, either then or now, that Wittgenstein was highly influential on Carnap and the whole Vienna Circle in the late twenties and early thirties. But plagiarism is a very different and more serious matter, and that is my subject here. In this essay I want to examine Wittgenstein’s claim, not because I think that such priority disputes are inherently interesting: I don’t. In fact, I find them always distasteful and usually sterile. Nor do I intend to settle the issue by definitively vindicating one side or the other. Instead, my focus will be on Carnap to see what light the dispute and surrounding documents can shed on how Carnap’s views developed in the early thirties, what antecedents those views may have had, including in Wittgenstein, and how Carnap saw those changes. After a brief summary of the exchanges among Wittgenstein, Carnap, and Moritz Schlick, I will examine the accounts of the dispute by three distinguished philosopher/historians, Jaakko Hintikka (1993), Thomas Uebel (1995), and David Stern (2007). Thereafter I will take up the idea that Carnap impermissibly appropriated from Wittgenstein a formal/material mode distinction. Finally, I argue that the most central claim of Carnap’s new physicalism is already implied by the Aufbau project, and that much of the Aufbau construction survives Carnap’s newfound commitment to intersubjective verifiability. There is thus more continuity in Carnap’s thinking than might be supposed. While my primary focus is on Carnap, the paper also helps to illuminate the other figures involved, including Wittgenstein, by showing the context in which they operated and how they reacted to each other’s work.

8.1 A Brief Summary of the Charges On May 6, 1932 Wittgenstein wrote to Schlick: I see myself as drawn against my will into what is called “the Vienna Circle.” In that Circle there prevails a community of property, so that I could e.g. use Carnap’s ideas if I wanted to but he could also use mine. But I don’t want to join forces with Carnap and to belong to a circle to which he belongs. If I have an apple tree in my garden, then it delights me and serves the purpose of the tree if my friends (e.g. you & Waismann) make use of the apples; I will not chase away thieves that climb over the fence, but I am entitled to resent that they are posing as my friends or alleging that the tree should belong to them jointly. (Wittgenstein, quoted in Stern 2007, 321)

He did not specify what had been stolen, but he did claim that physicalism was in the Tractatus and that “And now I will soon be in a situation where my own work shall be considered merely a reheated version [zweiter Aufgruβ] or plagiarism of Carnap’s.” (Wittgenstein, quoted in Hintikka 1993, 33. Translation by Hintikka) June 12  Wittgenstein wrote to Schlick saying that he would see Schlick in 2 weeks. July 10  Schlick wrote to Carnap and listed off four specific ideas on which Carnap ought to give Wittgenstein credit: • Nature of philosophy • Ostensive definition – This does not lead outside language

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• Character of laws of nature – that they are hypotheses • Material/formal mode distinction July 17  Carnap wrote Schlick to say that he didn’t mention Wittgenstein in the physicalism paper because Wittgenstein hadn’t dealt with physicalism. August 8  Wittgenstein wrote Schlick saying that the material/formal mode distinction is “not taking a single step beyond me” (as it is to be found in the last propositions of the Tractatus). Hintikka endorses this, saying that the material/formal mode distinction is just another affirmation of the language-as-universal-medium tradition. Hintikka sometimes calls this the idea that semantics is ineffable. August 20  Wittgenstein wrote Carnap communicating his accusations directly. August 2  Schlick wrote Carnap saying “How lucky that you are such quiet and reasonable person!” (Schlick, quoted in Sigmund 2017, 258) 1935  Schlick published “On the Relation between Psychological and Physical Concepts” which not only espouses physicalism but points out that he had defended physicalism in his 1918 book General Theory of Knowledge. By this time Schlick had come to accept Carnap’s claim that he had not plagiarized Wittgenstein’s work. Finally  There has come to light an offprint of “The Physical Language as the Universal Language of Science” on which there is a marginal holograph note: “Plagiarism. L. W.”, apparently put there by Wittgenstein himself. It is next to the footnote on p. 452 of the original, where Carnap acknowledges his debt to Neurath on the issue of physicalism and stresses the importance of the formal/material mode distinction. I haven’t had a chance to examine the offprint directly (and I don’t know what I would learn if I did), but a photograph of it appeared in an exhibition that accompanied Karl Sigmund’s book, Exact Thinking in Demented Times (2017). That exhibition appeared as Der Wiener Kreis: Texte und Bilder zum logischen Empirismus by Christoph Limbeck-Lilienau and Friedrich Stadler (2017). The documents listed above are not the only ones that bear on the issue, but they give some idea of the duration and range of topics of the attacks.

8.2 Hintikka’s Take Ideas are not like apples. As Stern points out in (2007), with apples the identity conditions are clear, and there is at least a clear fact of the matter about where they came from and who owned them, though this is often unknown. With ideas it is often not clear when differences are sufficient to imply that we are dealing with quite distinct ideas or minor variations of the same. Nor is it always clear when and to what extent an idea is original or what sources were used and to what degree, if

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any, they helped shape the final product. Still, we can make hypotheses and support them with evidence. But remember, my aim is not so much to reach a verdict as to see what we can learn about how Carnap’s ideas developed in the early thirties and how those changes related to Wittgenstein and among others such figures as Otto Neurath and Heinrich Neider. I will begin by discussing the findings of three distinguished philosopher/historians, whose papers over the last generation are independently interesting and have mobilized the issues that I want to raise. The first of these is “Ludwig’s Apple Tree: On the Philosophical Relations between Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle” by Jaakko Hintikka (1993). Hintikka’s argument begins by insisting that, contrary to many standard views, Wittgenstein in the Tractatus took the basic objects to be phenomenological, not phenomenal or physical. There was however a decisive change in Wittgenstein’s thinking in October 1929, at which point Wittgenstein became a physicalist, arguing for the primacy of the physical language in philosophically important discourse. Moreover, Carnap would have had full access to these new developments through conversations that Wittgenstein had with Waismann and Schlick. And contrary to one standard view, according to which Carnap and his friends misunderstood nearly everything that Wittgenstein said, Hintikka asserts that by 1932 Wittgenstein and Carnap had identical or virtually identical views on all four of the topics in Schlick’s letter of July 10.1 Wittgenstein saw this perfectly clearly and made the accusations. Hintikka reports that Schlick seems to have been surprised by the accusations, calling them “puzzling”. Hintikka also opines that Schlick’s list of supposed thefts was probably dictated personally by Wittgenstein. Part of the evidence for this opinion is internal to the phrasing of the letter. But in addition, Hintikka expresses some skepticism that Schlick would have had sufficient “intellectual empathy and analytic understanding” (36) to have come up with such a list on his own. This is certainly unfair to Schlick, but it also rather undermines the suggestion that Schlick would have been an adequate conduit of Wittgenstein’s new ideas. In any case we are left to conclude that Carnap’s new ideas were in fact the very same ideas that Wittgenstein developed in October 1929 and to which he had access. While I find many of Hintikka’s claims problematic, I will limit my comments to just three: First, Hintikka’s argument that the two protagonists’ views on a wide range of issues are identical is given in a very broad-brush way. He points out similarities but does not go into detail. Ideas that seem similar at one level of analysis can on finer grained examination appear very different and even contradict one another.2 They can even come from very different traditions. Second, Hintikka draws a distinction between two very different points of view in the study of logic and language: one that he calls “language as universal medium” (and sometimes describes as the idea that semantics is ineffable) and another point of view that he describes as the model theoretic approach, though one sometimes hears it called the

 I do not know whether Hintikka’s claim that Wittgenstein’s and Carnap’s views were identical in all these respects will cause more alarm to Wittgensteinians or to Carnapians. 2  This is a point that is also made by both Uebel (1995) and Stern (2007). 1

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metamathematical approach. I think that there is something to this distinction, though I would certainly quarrel with his various attempts to put many individual philosophers into one camp or the other. In the present case, Hintikka puts Wittgenstein clearly into the language as universal medium group. And he takes Carnap’s drawing of a material mode/formal mode distinction as proof that he belongs there also. I think that this is a serious misunderstanding of Carnap of 1932, and I’ll try to show that later. Finally, since Hintikka does not discuss any other possible source or the possibility that Carnap could have developed such ideas on his own, we are also left to conclude that Carnap did, in fact, take them from Wittgenstein. Such a conclusion would be unwarranted, and Hintikka does not explicitly draw it. In fact, there were other influences on Carnap, and his views on physicalism are not exactly the same as theirs either.

8.3 Thomas Uebel’s Analysis If Hintikka’s argument is rather broad-brush, Uebel goes into admirable detail, especially from the side of the Vienna Circle, about the texts, published and unpublished, about alternative influences that may have played a role, and about the timelines of these developments. He also considers a wide swath of the secondary literature and carefully weighs the available interpretations. On the whole, I find his historical arguments very convincing, though I reserve the right to quibble with his philosophical conclusions about the viability of parts of the Aufbau project. Fortunately for me, those latter issues are sufficiently complicated that I can reasonably concentrate at least for now on the areas where we agree and only hint at areas of doubt without giving a full argument. Uebel’s central claim is that Wittgenstein, Carnap, and Neurath have three different versions of physicalism and three different private language arguments among them, and this renders most of the issues of priority moot. For this, he has to compare not only Wittgenstein with Carnap but also Wittgenstein with Neurath and Carnap with Neurath. Later on Uebel adds Heinrich Neider and Moritz Schlick to the mix. Neurath’s claims are important in their own right and important likewise to see what other forces might have been at work on Carnap. In fact, Neurath’s commitment to and campaign for broadly physicalist views long predates the time frame we are examining here. If nothing else, he kept the issues before Carnap and forced him to respond accordingly (By the way, in his “Intellectual Autobiography” Carnap gives a detailed account of the back and forth between himself and Neurath). We can’t go into detail, but I think that Uebel is convincing that Neurath’s version of physicalism is interestingly different from Carnap’s even to the point of incompatibility. It is also subtle and a live option. And like other living things it underwent change and growth. Omitting it here, omits something important and well worth studying in Uebel’s paper. That goes for Uebel’s comparison of Wittgenstein and Neurath as well.

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Uebel finds several important differences between the physicalist views of Wittgenstein and Carnap: (1) Wittgenstein has it that the everyday physical objects are basic, while Carnap holds that the language of physics and its basic objects are primary. (2) Wittgenstein did not embrace the unity of science view that there is only one kind of basic object (Actually, this sounds to me to be a material mode formulation, and ontological rather than epistemic as I take Carnap’s unity of science to be). (3) Wittgenstein rejected while Carnap accepted a “two language model” of science. Carnap retained a separate protocol language that was “primary” for the purposes of epistemology. These claims serve as an epistemic foundation, though that word is open to various interpretations. Uebel shows that this difference is crucial and not just terminological. (4) Uebel fully recognizes but does not discuss in detail another important difference, namely that Carnap’s physicalism is formulated as a metalogical thesis which, as Carnap understands it, Wittgenstein’s view cannot be.3 Perhaps the most striking feature of Uebel’s account is that he highlights the contribution of Heinrich Neider, then a graduate student member of the Vienna Circle. In 1975 Neider said: I said to [Carnap]: “You will have to drop the auto-psychological base, for sentences about the auto-psychological are not intersubjectively verifiable, and sentences which are not intersubjectively verifiable do not belong to science. Philosophy can consider them in explaining how these sentences come about, and once they are formulated they must be intersubjectively verifiable.” [sic] We talked for a long time and then Carnap asked: “This is really a very correct observation.” . .. Neurath was delighted. Neurath was not present then, but the next evening we were at Neurath’s and told him about it. He said: “of course, finally!”, for with this the bridge to materialism was built which he valued so much as the philosophy of the workers’ movement. (Haller and Rutte 1977, 29–30, quoted in Uebel 1995, 335)

Uebel is very much aware that this is a (highly) retrospective claim and that we lack very detailed knowledge of Neider’s argument or what Carnap saw in it. Moreover, there is some reason to doubt other parts of Neider’s claims, such as that he “invented physicalism” (Uebel 2007, 130, fn. 65). I have to admit, though, that I also find somewhat doubtful as well Carnap’s unargued assertion that only the sentences of the physical language are intersubjectively verifiable (1932, 410). I shall have more to say on this later. Neider does not indicate exactly when his conversation with Carnap took place. But from other textual evidence Uebel here places it in October of 1929 (337). Uebel later (Uebel 2007, 137) revises his estimated date for the Neider-Carnap conversation to 16 December 1929, which would make it in the very month that Wittgenstein had announced his new physicalist conclusions to Schlick and Waismann (Stern 2007, 330). If indeed the conversation took place in mid-­ December, then there can be questions about how original Neider was. Uebel himself notes that in October of that year Neurath “introduced the notion of intersubjectivity into his reasoning about the basis of unified science” (Uebel 2007,  On this see Stern (2007, 319). There Stern says “…Wittgenstein rejects the very idea of metalogic…” and gives further citations. 3

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130), and intersubjectivity is one of the major themes of the Aufbau (Richardson 1998, 29f.). Whatever doubts I may have about Neider’s argument or Carnap’s apparent conclusion, I am utterly convinced by Uebel’s historical argument that Neider’s argument nudged Carnap in the direction of physicalism and that the formulation in terms of intersubjective verifiability continued to be an important part of Carnap’s thinking. Of course all this is compatible with Neider’s discussion with Carnap being the occasion or the trigger of a change of commitment on Carnap’s part rather than its full cause. Carnap gives in his “Intellectual Autobiography” (1963, 51) gives a somewhat different origin story for his move to physicalism. Of course, those autobiographical remarks are more than 30 years after the fact, but then Neider’s account is more than 40 years after the fact. And Carnap plainly used many of his contemporaneous notes and archival materials that we would now use to form an “independent” judgment. Carnap’s account gives pride of place to Neurath, both as the first and most sustained defender within the Circle some form of materialism and for having made a “strong impression” by turning Carnap’s own argument against him. In the end, I do not think that we must choose between Neider and Neurath for there is unlikely to be only one cause involved. Uebel includes an argument that if Neider’s demand is taken seriously, a robust physicalism along the lines of Neurath’s must be the correct position. I’m not convinced that there are “correct” positions in philosophy, though I am inclined to agree that some of Carnap’s 1932 view would need to be revised. Carnap seems to take the view, as part of his two-language view, that the language of protocols is genuinely about sensations (and cognitive thoughts?), incorrigible, and truly basic in some sense. I think that some of this, though not all, can be coherently sustained even if we accept Neider’s demand. I can at best touch on some of these issues later in this paper. Finally, Uebel brings Schlick into the picture via his 1935 paper, “On the Relation between Psychological and Physical Ideas” (Schlick 1935/1949) that also defends a version of physicalism. This paper reminded it readers that Schlick had defended a physicalist view in his 1918 General Theory of Knowledge (Schlick 1918/1985). Uebel details the differences of views and arguments as between Schlick’s 1918 and 1935 views. Moreover, he shows that Carnap was in 1932 unaware of Schlick’s 1918 physicalism and was deeply chagrined when Schlick pointed to it in 1935. I won’t discuss this further either, except to wonder why Schlick did not bring up his own priority claims during the whole tempest of 1932. So Uebel shows, by careful attention to detail, that there were three (or more) distinct versions of physicalism and three (or more) distinct private language arguments. Thus, the priority issues are moot and the idea of outright plagiarism seems inappropriate. This is not to say that Wittgenstein knew all of these details that would have undercut his charges. He probably didn’t. Possibly he knew no more than the superficial similarities that Hintikka describes. If so, then from his vantage point his

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charges would not have seemed as unreasonable as they might in twenty-twenty hindsight.

8.4 David Stern’s Account David Stern’s paper, “Wittgenstein, the Vienna Circle, and Physicalism: A Reassessment” (2007) is impressively well-balanced. He wisely advises us at the outset that in a priority dispute, ideas are not like apples in their identity conditions, their criteria of ownership, or in the terms of their appropriate use. Views that seem to be identical at a general level of analysis, such as Hintikka’s, may appear as quite different or even opposed at a more fine-grained level of analysis, such as Uebel’s. In the twenties and thirties the terms and positions under debate here were a lot less clear and a lot more fluid than they are today. And hence it is easy to be anachronistic and easy for the participants to misunderstand one another. And standards of fair use do vary. Wittgenstein, himself, could sometimes be quite cavalier, and explicitly so, about (not) citing his own sources or those who had influenced him. In the preface to the Tractatus Wittgenstein says, “…the reason why I give no sources is that it is a matter of indifference to me whether the thoughts that I have had have been anticipated by someone else” (Wittgenstein 1921/1961, 3). Moreover, similarity of view can result from independent work on similar problems and drawing on related work open to all. We might also add, what is widely acknowledged, that Wittgenstein’s work, including but not limited to the Tractatus is difficult to interpret. If it were not, then sympathetic Wittgenstein scholars over the last century would all have agreed. They have not. If there is now widespread agreement on some issues, it has been hard won. As a result, some view might well be expressed in the Tractatus or in discussion and a sympathetic reader or listener might reasonably deny that it is there. Stern gives helpfully detailed timelines of the shifting attitudes of the participants toward one another and toward the various claims under discussion. Schlick’s wife said that he approached the visit with Wittgenstein “as if he was preparing to go on a holy pilgrimage … he explained to me, almost with awesome reverence, that Wittgenstein was one of the greatest geniuses on earth” (Blanche Schlick, quoted in Stern 2007, 311). Neurath was less impressed. Wittgenstein seemed warmly disposed to Schlick and also to Waismann, at least at the beginning. Carnap had a mixed attitude, but Wittgenstein’s antipathy toward Carnap was apparent from the beginning. At their first meeting, Schlick mentioned that Carnap had an interest in Esperanto. Carnap recalled later: As I expected, Wittgenstein was definitely opposed to this idea. But I was surprised at the vehemence of his emotions. A language which had not “grown organically” seemed to him not only useless but despicable. (Carnap 1963, 26)

Yet Carnap did not respond in kind, for after the meeting he wrote in his diary that Wittgenstein was “a very interesting, original, and attractive person” (Carnap,

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quoted in Stern 2007, 313). Even more than 30 years later, when Carnap was still puzzling about Wittgenstein’s continuing hatred, he described Wittgenstein in the following terms: “But his behavior was not caused by any arrogance. In general, he was of a sympathetic temperament and very kind; but he was hyper-sensitive and easily irritated” (Carnap 1963, 25). Finally, Stern gives an extended discussion, informed by some important work of Cora Diamond, of the sense or senses in which physicalism might be “in” the Tractatus, even though that term or any of its cognates is never used. Though neither Stern nor Diamond would put it this way, their discussions help to defuse a problem at the heart of Wittgenstein’s accusations. In his first, May 6, letter to Schlick Wittgenstein made two claims that at face value do not cohere well with one another: First, he claims that physicalism is in the Tractatus. And second, he claims that Carnap’s work is so similar to his that he, Wittgenstein, would soon be in a position where his own work “shall be considered as a reheated version or plagiarism of Carnap’s” (Wittgenstein, quoted in Hintikka 1993, 33). If physicalism is in the Tractatus, obvious and plain for all to see, then how could Wittgenstein ever be thought to have stolen physicalism from Carnap when he had published the Tractatus more than 10 years before Carnap published his physicalism paper? This apparent incoherence raises two more questions: (1) Is physicalism in some sense in the Tractatus and if so, how? And (2) how, if at all, can the appearance of incoherence be removed from Wittgenstein’s letter of May 6? Neither Hintikka nor Uebel needs to address this second question but for different reasons. Hintikka rejects the idea that physicalism is in the Tractatus. Instead, he insists that the Tractatus is to be understood “phenomenologically” and that Wittgenstein’s physicalism arose only in October of 1929. Uebel argues that Wittgenstein’s and Carnap’s physicalisms are sufficiently different that the question of whether Wittgenstein’s version is in the Tractatus is no longer relevant. Stern, by contract, raises the first question directly and in the process resolves the incoherence from question 2. Stern cites an interesting argument by Cora Diamond to the effect that what is rightly said to be “in” the Tractatus is more than what is explicitly stated there. We should also include “the conclusions Wittgenstein wants his readers to draw for themselves” (Diamond 2000, 263, quoted in Stern 2007, 328). Specifically, Diamond wants us to think about what Wittgenstein wanted Russell to work out. Since for the Tractatus all languages must be intertranslatable, the Russellian idea of a language based on objects of acquaintance that belong to individual subjects and that are therefore utterly private must be abandoned. An (utterly) private language would then be one “which describes my inner experience and which only I can understand” (Wittgenstein 1953/1958, §256). This line of reasoning makes it plausible that there is a version of physicalism in the Tractatus and a private language argument too. But as Stern points out, however, physicalism requires not only the intertranslatability claim, but also the primacy of the physical. Stern’s view is that the Tractatus may have embraced the intertranslatability idea but not yet the primacy claim. This, then, allows us to resolve the apparent incoherence of Wittgenstein’s letter to Schlick. Physicalism is in the Tractatus in the sense of intertranslatability.

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Wittgenstein could see that as physicalism as opposed to Russell’s phenomenalism of utterly private episodes. But the primacy idea might have come to Wittgenstein only in October of 1929. And Wittgenstein, not realizing how different their physicalisms were, might worry that Carnap would get credit for his discovery. But should Carnap have seen the physicalism that was, on this account, in the Tractatus? Not necessarily. The reason given by Diamond that Russell should have seen it is that the intertranslatability idea was incompatible with Russell’s own stance on privacy. But Stern correctly says that intertranslatability is compatible with “an Aufbau-inspired phenomenalism” (Stern 2007, 329). The language of Level I of the Aufbau, the auto-psychological level, is not utterly private in the sense that no one else can understand it. We will see why later in this paper. In the end, however, Stern accepts Uebel’s conclusion that there are such considerable differences between Wittgenstein’s and Carnap’s physicalisms as to make it unlikely that Carnap’s was stolen from Wittgenstein. Moreover, Stern accepts Uebel’s account of Neider’s influence.

8.5 Formal and Material Modes One of the things that we learned from the three papers is that Carnap placed much weight on the formal/material mode distinction in his 1932 argument for physicalism and in the syntax program generally.4 Why? Because with the distinction we can make the claims of physicalism and philosophy more generally clear, precise, and literal by casting them in terms of logical implication and translation. But the development of that distinction within Carnap’s thinking is conceived by him as in opposition to Wittgenstein, not due to him. Wittgenstein claimed in 1932 that the formal/material mode distinction was the whole point of the Tractatus. Perhaps there is more than one “whole point” of that book, but one of them is that philosophical problems are problems of language in the sense that they arise when the logical structure of language is violated. Moreover, the statements of logic, and hence mathematics, do not have sense or content. Only the empirical statements from science have such content. Finally, logical form cannot be said, only shown. Only the last of these claims bothered Carnap. He and most of the Circle with him were happy to acknowledge that philosophical problems were problems of language. And the idea that logic and mathematics, though essential for science, do not have content, allowed them to embrace a thoroughgoing empiricism for science, i.e., for all of the content of science, while also allowing them to acknowledge the specialness of mathematics and logic. Neither traditional empiricism nor traditional rationalism, they felt, allowed them to do both. To the end of his life Carnap thought

 The distinction is formulated in such a way that it does not survive the introduction of a truth predicate into Carnap’s philosophical work later in the 1930s. But the general idea behind it does. 4

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that this was perhaps the most central part of his philosophy. And he was happy to trace that directly to Wittgenstein. But these wonders came with a price, namely the final Wittgensteinian commitment above: that logical form cannot be described but only shown. The price seemed part of the package. Some Wittgenstein scholars today take it as perfectly obvious that Wittgenstein was right on this. And some Carnap scholars take it as perfectly obvious that Wittgenstein was in error. Often when there is a clash of “obviousnesses” like this the combatants are talking past one another. I have no intention of trying to adjudicate this issue (if it is an issue). I don’t need to. Carus and Awodey in several places describe this idea that logical form cannot be represented as “Wittgenstein’s prison”, e.g. in (Carus and Awodey 2009). Again, we don’t have to worry about whether that is a fair description – fortunately. And I think we can say that the writing of Carnap’s physicalism paper was in part a long process of freeing himself from this perceived confinement. I want to indicate here some of the major steps along the way and some of the influences in play. But I want to emphasize that these changes in Carnap’s view are not because they seemed called for by the Tractatus or by Wittgenstein’s more recent remarks. Instead, Carnap’s perception was that he was making these changes despite and probably against what he saw as Wittgenstein’s view. Probably the most important event on the way to the formal/material mode distinction was the so-called sleepless night of January 1931. The product of this sleeplessness was 44 shorthand manuscript pages that Carnap titled “Attempt at a metalogic”. The pages themselves have not been found. But according to Carnap they formed the basis of what became The Logical Syntax of Language. After a little more work he switched to a coordinate language so that he could use Gödel’s arithmetization technique to express the logical form of a not uninteresting language within that language itself. Once logical form could be expressed at all, the step to doing so for a richer language did not seem so insurmountable. That would require a distinct metalanguage. What may have triggered the changes of the sleepless night? The most obvious possibility is that Carnap had learned of Gödel’s incompleteness proof only shortly before. That proof had exploited the arithemetization technique. The proof was also a triumph of the metamathematical approach to logic epitomized by Hilbert, Tarski, and Gödel. Tarski had also given several lectures in Vienna, and Carnap gave a lecture in Warsaw in November 1930. So what can we say about the formal/material mode distinction? Carnap seems to have believed that it is in opposition to the Tractatus and to Wittgenstein’s comments thereafter. The path that leads up to the physicalism paper of 1932 is heavily influenced by Gödel, Tarski, and with some caveats, Hilbert. Hintikka’s distinction between thinking of language as the universal medium and the model-theoretic tradition is both real and relevant. That leaves plenty of room

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for caveats about the terms in which it is framed, the range of its application,5 how much of it is due to prior work of van Heijenoort, etc. I am interested only in its application in this case, and in this case I think Hintikka has it wrong. I will concede, if only for the sake of the argument that the Tractatus is on the language-as-­ universal-medium side. Surely, Wittgenstein believed that something was ineffable. Carnap took Wittgenstein to be pointing at logical form. Hintikka says that Carnap’s use of formal/material distinction shows that he is in the same camp with Wittgenstein. On closer inspection, Carnap’s formal/material distinction represents Carnap’s embrace of the metamathematical or model theoretic tradition rather than its rejection. Hintikka conceded that Carnap does turn to the metamathematical approach in Carnap’s turn to semantics in the later thirties. And he takes the fact that Carnap does not include a truth predicate in The Logical Syntax of Language to mean that Carnap thought that semantics was ineffable. But that was not the argument Carnap gave there or anywhere else. His reason for not including a truth predicate within metalogic was that truth is an empirical notion, not a logical one. Carnap’s argument against having a philosophical truth theory may not be a good one, but it was certainly not that truth, or semantics generally, is ineffable. The conclusion seems to be clear. In drawing the formal/material mode distinction Carnap is, or at least thinks he is, making an important step beyond and even away from Wittgenstein. And insofar as that distinction is important for stating and arguing for his version of physicalism, and Carnap thinks it is absolutely vital, Carnap’s physicalism differs from that of Wittgenstein.

8.6 Carnap’s Physicalism and the Aufbau I have already described some of the salient features of Carnap’s physicalism and some of the respects in which it differs from that of Wittgenstein. Here I want to ask how much of Carnap’s older commitments need to change in view of the arguments of 1932. But first a terminological point. Carnap often speaks of “the physical language”. This seems to suggest that there is only one such language, but we have already seen that there are at least two, one with a base in ordinary everyday physical objects and the other with a base in the basic objects of theoretical science. No doubt there are many more. This is not a question of the descriptive analysis of some natural language. So perhaps it would be best to treat ‘the physical language’ as a distributive singular term, thus speaking of all physical languages. The chief claim of “The Physical Language as the Universal Language of Science” is that all scientific claims can be translated into the physical language. I

 For example, Hintikka takes Quine to be a life-long member of the language-as-universal-medium camp. Quine does not recognize himself in the portrait. 5

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think that this follows from the Aufbau project  – not from what Carnap actually shows there, but from the presumed successful completion of the project. Carnap did say even in the Aufbau that a construction of the whole language of science on a physical basis was possible. My claim is about the construction that Carnap is actually developing in the Aufbau, not the project that might have been. And the proof for my claim is complicated – so much so that I will set aside any attempt to provide it, at least for now. But I cannot avoid saying a few words about the Aufbau’s structure. It consists of four levels, the most basic of which is the auto-psychological level, roughly claims about my own mind. Actually, the basis of the whole edifice is far narrower, namely claims involving a single predicate. This is used to construct quality classes. Carnap’s aim at this level is to construct concepts that are intersubjective despite the fact that only I have my experiences. Roughly, the strategy is to build a logical structure on my experiences, and then identify the concepts with this logical structure. Since you could build the same structure on your experiences, we could share the concepts thus defined. The concepts at this first, auto-psychological, level are to be used to construct the second level, that of physical concepts. Carnap doesn’t give any actual definitions but lays out roughly how the construction might go. The physical concepts of this second level are then to be used to construct those of the third level (the hetero-psychological level) and those are to be used to construct the fourth level, i.e., the cultural level. When completed the construction would unify all the sciences on a common evidence base. While the accomplishments of the Aufbau were considerable, the upper stages of the construction were part of the project but not yet accomplished fact. It is important to note that there is no claim in the Aufbau that only the base level objects are real or conversely that constructed objects are unreal. Carnap was not only uninterested in such ontological issues, he thought that they amounted to a dangerous metaphysics. Another central commitment of “The Physical Language as the Universal Language of Science” is the insistence that all scientific claims must be intersubjectively verifiable. It might seem plausible to assume, as Neider does that this will force Carnap to drop level one and begin the construction with the physical level. In the physicalism paper Carnap does envision starting the construction of science with the physical level. And he can, but the serious question is whether he must. So are the auto-psychological claims of level 1 intersubjectively verifiable? The answer is, as it is for all interesting questions: That depends. Perhaps the best way of addressing the question is first to ask whether the claims of the physical level are intersubjectively verifiable. The answer may seem obvious, but it is not. This is because we cannot talk of intersubjective verifiability until we can talk about a multiplicity of subjectivities, and we don’t get that until level 3, the hetero-psychological level. This does not mean that the physical level claims are not intersubjectively verifiable, merely that they can be called that only by way of anticipating the results of level 3. Now we are confident that that is what we will find, so we have no worries.

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Carnap doesn’t quite define ‘intersubjectively verifiable’, but he does define when a sentence is intersubjective and when a sentence is verifiable. The word ‘verifiable’ here does not mean completely verifiable. Instead it comes closer to his later phrase ‘testability in principle’. Here he says that a statement is verifiable if and only if according to the rules of transformation (inference) that statements from a person’s protocol language can be deduced from it. If this sort of inferential relation holds between a statement p and each of the protocol languages of several persons, p has sense for those persons intersubjectively. It seems straightforward then that we can talk of the intersubjective verifiability of the statements of physics only by way of anticipating level 3 where we have more than one person and more than one set of inner episodes to talk about. Again, there is nothing wrong with that. And Carnap proposes to translate the statements of my protocol language (level 1) into the language of physics and so make them anticipatorily intersubjectively verifiable as well. The translation is carried forward by treating the level 1 statements as expressing dispositions to molar physical behavior. For statements in my protocol language this translation will involve the physical behavior of one particular humanoid body that we can then call mine. That body, my body, will be one of the human bodies further constructed at level 3. There, at level 3, that body will also be said to think and feel. This is the hetero-­ psychological level after all. Of course, Carnap says even in the Aufbau, that talk of these episodes can be translated into the language of physics (level 2). Crucially, the translation6 of these statements in level 3 is exactly the same as the translation of the statements in my protocol language. So the way lies open for one to identify the statements of and the events described in my protocol language with the statements of that person in level 3. Only by such an identification can we call the statement/ events of level 1 psychological at all. Once we have that identification and agree that all claims from level 2 and above are intersubjectively verifiable, we must conclude that the claims of level 1, the auto-psychological level, are intersubjectively verifiable as well. This shouldn’t be surprising since among the activities that we describe at level 3 is a bunch of people coming to understand the contents of one another’s minds by attending to their behavior, verbal and otherwise. And I am one of those people. Neider’s demand for intersubjective verifiability, it would seem, does not imply that Carnap must drop level 1 from the construction of scientific concepts. Is there nothing that Neider’s demand rules out? Far from it. I cannot discuss it fully here, but I think that the demand rules out the utter privacy of any claims in the sense of claims that, even in principle, only one person could ever understand or have evidence about. Some have claimed such utter privacy for first person judgements, and I think that Neider’s demand rules this out. It may also rule out the absolute certainty of any claim. Again, some have claimed this for first-person reports. Excluding absolute certainty may also be a result of the theory of confirmation. An exception to this exclusion might be the claims of logic and mathematics, but confirmation theory and Neider’s demand were never intended to apply there.

 Compare what Carnap says about construction/translation of concepts in (Carnap 1928/1967, ix).

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Carnap does talk in the physicalism paper (1932/1963) of certainty and say that some statements need no justification. But whether of these is intended to be absolute is a story for another day. So where does all this leave us, especially on the plagiarism issue? Well, it shows, I think, that even with the introduction of Neider’s demand for intersubjective verifiability, which we know to have been influential on Carnap and on Neurath, Carnap’s physicalism is far more continuous with the Aufbau than might be supposed.

8.7 Summary Wittgenstein made some very serious changes against Carnap. After reviewing them we examined three papers on the issue in detail. Though Hintikka argues that Wittgenstein’s and Carnap’s views on all the disputed issues were identical, this argument was not sustained on closer review. The two versions of physicalism are sufficiently different that the idea that Carnap stole Wittgenstein’s version is implausible. They are just not the same apples. While Hintikka and Wittgenstein both assert that Carnap’s formal/material mode distinction is straight out of the Tractatus, we dealt with that later saying that not only was the distinction conceived in opposition to what Carnap understood to be Wittgenstein’s view, it arises out of Carnap’s embrace of a tradition that seems not to have included Wittgenstein at all, namely the metamathematical tradition. Uebel’s paper lays out in great detail the documentary evidence concerning the nature and genesis of Carnap’s views on physicalism circa 1932. That evidence shows, as we just said, that Carnap’s version of physicalism and Wittgenstein’s are substantially different. The most striking thing about Uebel’s paper is that he highlights an argument made directly to Carnap by Heinrich Neider to the effect that all statements in science must be intersubjectively verifiable and so Carnap would have to drop the auto-psychological base from the Aufbau construction leaving us with a thoroughgoing physicalism. Neider’s recollection of his conversation with Carnap did not include the date of the conversation. But by careful examination of the archival evidence, Uebel is able to show that the conversation occurred early enough that it had more considerable influence on both Carnap and Neurath that reports of Wittgenstein’s quite different physicalism could have had. Third, we looked at a paper by David Stern. It largely accepted Uebel’s conclusions including on the influence of Neider. But it did more than this. Stern’s richly detailed timelines and accounts of the personal interaction of the various participants deepened the story we have. Importantly, it also addressed the question of whether physicalism was in the Tractatus in any sense and how that bears on the issues at hand. After considering these papers I examined the nature and origin of Carnap’s formal/material mode distinction and concluded that it was both conceived of and was a step away from Wittgenstein. Finally, I looked at Neider’s claim that, given that all statements in science must be intersubjectively verifiable, Carnap must drop

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the auto-psychological base from his construction of the concepts of science. Without challenging the importance of Neider’s demand, it appeared that the auto-­ psychological did not have to be dropped from science, though it was no longer the base from which all other concepts were to be defined. Carnap did not drop the auto-psychological, at least not immediately, but he did reposition it. In short, Carnap’s physicalism of 1932, while it represents some important departures from the Aufbau, is also continuous with it in significant ways. In any case, one of the central claims of the physicalism paper, that everything in science is translatable into the physical language, seems to be implied by the presumed successful completion of the Aufbau project. The significance of all this is not that it renders a verdict on the charges of plagiarism. That is at most incidental. The main lesson is that views on physicalism available in Vienna in the early 1930s were varied, complex, interrelated, and shifting. We are not done understanding them.

References Carnap, Rudolf. 1928/1967. The Logical Structure of the World. Trans. R.A. George. Berkeley: University of California Press. ———. 1932/1963. The Physical Language as the Universal Language of Science. Translated by Max Black in 1934 as The Unity of Science, updated in 1963 by Rudolf Carnap. In Readings in Twentieth-Century Philosophy, ed. William P. Alston and George Nakhnikian, 393–424. Repr. New York: Free Press. ———. 1963. Intellectual Autobiography. In The Philosophy of Rudolf Carnap, ed. Paul Schilpp. LaSalle: Open Court. Carus, André, and Steve Awodey. 2009. From Wittgenstein’s Prison to the Boundless Ocean. In Carnap’s Logical Syntax of Language, ed. Pierre Wagner, 79–106. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Diamond, Cora. 2000. Does Bismarck Have a Beetle in His Box? The Private Language Argument of the Tractatus. In The New Wittgenstein, ed. Alice Crary and Rupert J.  Read, 262–292. London: Routledge. Haller, Rudolf, and Heiner Rutte. 1977. Gespräch mit Heinrich Neider. Conceptus 11: 29–30. Hintikka, Jaakko. 1993. Ludwig’s Apple Tree: On the Philosophical Relations between Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle. In Scientific Philosophy: Origins and Development, ed. Friedrich Stadler, 27–46. Dordrecht: Klewer Academic Publishers. Limbeck-Lilienau, Christoph, and Friedrich Stadler, eds. 2017. Der Wiener Kreis: Texte und Bilder zum Logische Empirismus. Exhibition. Richardson, Alan W. 1998. Carnap’s Construction of the World: The Aufbau and the Emergence of Logical Empiricism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schlick, Moritz. 1918/1985. General Theory of Knowledge. Trans. A.E.  Blumberg. LaSalle: Open Court. ———. 1935/1949. On the Relation of Psychological and Physical Concepts. In Readings in Philosophical Analysis, ed. Herbert Feigl and Wilfrid Sellars, 393–407. New  York: Appleton-Century-Crofts. Sigmund, Karl. 2017. Exact Thinking in Demented Times: The Vienna Circle and the Epic Quest for the Foundations of Science. New York: Basic Books.

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Stern, David. 2007. Wittgenstein, the Vienna Circle, and Physicalism: A Reassessment. In The Cambridge Companion to Logical Empiricism, ed. Alan Richardson and Thomas Uebel, 305–331. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Uebel, Thomas. 1995. Physicalism in Philosophy and the Vienna Circle. In Physics, Philosophy, and the Scientific Community: Essays in the Philosophy and History of the Natural Sciences and Mathematics in Honor of Robert S. Cohen, ed. Kostas Gavroglu, John Stachel, and Marx W. Wartofsky, 327–356. Dordrecht: Klewer Academic Publishers. ———. 2007. Empiricism at the Crossroads: The Vienna Circle’s Protocol-Sentence Debate. Chicago: Open Court. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1921/1961. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Trans. D.F.  Pears and B.F. McGuinness. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. ———. 1953/1958. Philosophical Investigations. Trans. G.E.M. Anscombe. London: Macmillan.

Chapter 9

Truth in Russell, Early Wittgenstein and Gödel Juliet Floyd

Abstract This Tractatus’s engagement with the issue of the nature of truth and falsity emerged from engagement with Russell. This engagement reverberated through the Vienna Circle and in particular affected Gödel. The Tractatus’s “elementary sentences” must be seen against the backdrop of Russell’s “multiple relation theory of judgment”, his theory of truth in Principia Mathematica, which Wittgenstein discussed at length with Russell in 1912–1913 and Gödel studied in 1929–1932. Russell’s approach was directed against both Idealism and William James’s pragmatist view of truth. It aimed at a direct treatment of the distinction between truth and falsity in terms of particular, logically simple beliefs (judgments lacking in truth-functional and quantification complexity). Schlick rejected Russell’s view in favor of his more holistic correspondence theory, one which, however, tipped easily into pragmatism, conventionalism and verificationism. The Tractatus begins, rather, with Russell’s bottom-up approach truth, and then draws in two further ideas: (1) The need for a medium of representation and (2) The importance of modality (possibility and necessity) to logic. This approach was developed further in his later work, i.e., Philosophical Investigations. Aware of the Tractatus and Russell’s engagement with Wittgenstein on truth, Gödel continued to engage with Russell’s multiple relation theory of truth and I am honored by Friedrich Stadler for the invitation to address the Institut Wiener Kreis’s June 2021 conference in honor of the centennial of the Tractatus. Stadler’s history of philosophy in and emigrating from Austria and the Vienna Circle has taught us much, and has inspired me for many years. The audience at the conference provided me with questions that led to the improvement of this paper, as well as an anonymous referee to whom I am grateful for comments on the final version. To Zeynep Soysal I owe many stimulating discussions about truth, and very timely help assembling the final version: without her the paper would not have been written. To Sanford Shieh I owe a great debt for many years of conversation about Russell, Gödel, Wittgenstein, and the Tractatus in particular. His views have influenced me in all that follows, and he greatly improved the final version of this essay. J. Floyd (*) Department of Philosophy, Boston University, Boston, MA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_9

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Principia philosophically up through 1944. The parallel yet distinct engagements of Gödel and Wittgenstein with Russell on truth (and Vienna positivism) show that each regarded Russell’s view as requiring amendment. However, their philosophical differences with one another are not merely to be understood in terms of the ­dichotomy between conventionalism (the usual view of Wittgenstein) and Platonism (the usual view of Gödel). They must rather be seen to emerge from the original approach to truth we find in Russell. Keywords  Truth · Russell · Wittgenstein · Gödel · Multiple relation theory of judgment · Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus · Vienna Circle

9.1 Introduction As we celebrate the centennial anniversary of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-­ Philosophicus (hereafter cited as “TLP”), the contemporary relevance of this now classic text is striking. What is it to be committed to exact thinking about truth? The title of Karl Sigmund’s recent book on the history of the Vienna Circle, Exact Thinking in Demented Times: The Vienna Circle and the Epic Quest for the Foundations of Science (2017), shows the struggle with this question in Wittgenstein’s time in a larger context. I am not sure that the times aren’t more demented now than they were in 1930, which makes this philosophical history even more significant. Certainly, back then, in 1912–1918, there was demented thinking to which members of the Vienna Circle, including Wittgenstein, intended to address themselves. What is it to be committed to exact thinking about truth? The character of this question is not so evident as one might think right off the bat. It is really an ongoing struggle that is at stake, one that does not end, as I believe the Tractatus admits, although in lamentably schematic outline. As Wittgenstein emphasized – early, middle and late – to find meaningful traction the goal of exact thinking about truth needs a great deal of reflection, logical and philosophical work, including the labor of embedding of the concept of truth in history, science, ethics and everyday life. In what follows I cut a line through the history of the Vienna Circle and the Tractatus’s place in its history by exploring, from a broad perspective, the origins and nature of Wittgenstein’s particular handling of the Fragestellung of this issue in the Tractatus. My pretense is to place the Tractatus against the backdrop of Russell’s thinking about truth, moving backward, and Gödel’s, moving forward, comparing Wittgenstein’s Tractatus appropriation of Russell on truth with Gödel’s later appropriation of Russell on truth, Gödel reacting here to Russell’s and Wittgenstein’s reactions to one another. My point is to resist certain potted histories of early analytic philosophy that regard the Vienna Circle and Wittgenstein as having confused language with what it represents, confused conventions with what the conventions allow us to say and think and talk about, and also regard Wittgenstein and Gödel as simply opposed, anti-Platonist or conventionalist (Wittgenstein) to Platonist (Gödel). The truth is more complex, as we can see by placing Wittgenstein and Gödel in a line whose

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inspiration derives from Russell, with Wittgenstein reacting to Russell, and Gödel reacting to Russell’s and Wittgenstein’s mutual reactions to one another, and in particular Russell’s reaction to the Tractatus. Showing the importance of Russell’s approach to truth as a root that develops and extends through the twentieth century in the hands of these two Viennese thinkers will, I think, confirm the relevance of the Tractatus for us today, where we surely also face with a vengeance the question, “What is it to be committed to exact thinking about truth?” This question, situated in a broad social context that includes not only science but politics and ethics, is a question with which Russell struggled throughout his life, thereby inspiring others to continue on with it, Wittgenstein and Gödel among them. Their struggles fall to us. This essay comprises three parts. First, I consider Russell’s so-called “Multiple Relation Theory” of truth  – really an account, fundamentally, of the distinction between truth and falsity; I shall refer to this theory as the “MRT” in what follows. Second, I briefly canvass some of Gödel’s reactions to the MRT. Finally, third, I consider Wittgenstein’s responses to this theory, especially in the Tractatus. Arguably the Tractatus offers a version of the MRT, crucially amended, but it is also clear that he levelled fundamental criticisms at several versions of theory, and in my presentation I shall present Wittgenstein’s amendments as in fact overturning certain crucial elements of Russell’s theory.1 As is well-known, Wittgenstein discussed the MRT at length with Russell in 1912–1913, and his criticisms led Russell first to reformulate his theory and then to abandon altogether his Theory of Knowledge manuscript (1913), a book that was intended to precisify the MRT with respect to general issues of knowledge. Russell wrote at the time to Lady Ottoline Morrell that after these exchanges he felt he would never be able to do fundamental work in philosophy again.2 As I shall sketch in what follows, Russell’s arguments with Wittgenstein shaped the Tractatus – and even, I would say, Wittgenstein’s later work  – in crucial ways. This last is an uncontroversial point; I shall be situating it in a somewhat new context. In particular, I stress that the young Gödel was aware of the evolving exchanges between Russell and Wittgenstein on the nature of truth, and how the Tractatus figured in this conversation. He preoccupied himself especially with Wittgenstein’s view of the nature of logical and mathematical truth. Gödel was always critical of the Vienna Circle’s willingness to follow Wittgenstein’s Tractatus view that logic is tautological in nature, and then generalize it (as Wittgenstein had not) to apply to all of mathematics. Although Gödel regarded mathematical knowledge as in some way conceptual, he never held that mathematical truth is tautological or “purely analytic” (In this nominal respect at least, he agreed with Wittgenstein on a certain “syntheticity” in mathematics). By contrast Russell sided with the Vienna Circle, holding that logical and mathematical truth are “tautological” in character, and explicitly stating that he had learned this from Wittgenstein (1918, 1927). This part  The literature on whether Wittgenstein refuted Russell’s MRT and how, or whether he endorsed it, in adapted form, is very large and rapidly evolving. The best brief introduction to the thorny nest of reconstructed criticisms and Russellian replies, including a good review of the literature, is Shieh (forthcoming). See also the editors’ introduction to Russell (1913). 2  See the Introduction to Russell (1913). 1

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of Russell on truth Gödel resisted, criticizing in his unfinished paper on Carnap the view that mathematics reflects the logical syntax of our language (1953/1959). Here we look to how Russell figured in Gödel’s development. As we know from Dawson (1997) and Stadler (2001), Gödel attended discussions of Russell’s Introduction to Mathematical Philosophy (1919) in the Circle in 1925–1926, where he would have learned of Russell’s and the Vienna Circle’s appropriation and generalization of the Tractatus view of “tautologies”. We know from these sources as well that he continued to study in Schlick’s seminars 1928–1932 Russell’s Problems of Philosophy (1912), Analysis of Mind (1921) and Analysis of Matter (1927). Each of these works treat the distinction between truth and falsity, and the MRT is defended in Russell’s (1912). Gödel purchased a copy of Principia Mathematica in 1928, making his turn to logic at that point (Dawson 1997, 53, n.5), and as we shall stress below, this is one of the first places Russell defends his MRT.3 The MRT must have struck Gödel early on. For even after his initial, ground-breaking logical work on completeness (1930) and incompleteness (1931), Gödel continued his study of Russell’s philosophy, checking Russell’s (1912, 1919, 1921, 1927) out of the Vienna library in 1932–1933.4 He returned to consider Russell’s MRT in his Max Phil Notebooks just as he sat down to write his essay on Russell (1944) – the only philosophical essay Gödel ever published.5 Amongst all the criticisms and questions posed about Russell by Wittgenstein and by Gödel, and Gödel’s criticisms of Russell and Wittgenstein on truth, Wittgenstein’s and Gödel’s lasting interest in Russell’s MRT, their struggles with the theory, show their general indebtedness to Russell’s approach. Russell’s MRT is a common source for their thinking. I want in what follows to lay out a partial account of what made their struggles with Russell, philosophically speaking, worthwhile. Generally, I argue that although the Vienna Circle’s way of inheriting conventionalism through physics and mathematics led many members to distrust the notion of truth as foundational – insisting on its replacement by, or at least submission to, stipulations of meaning and/or the epistemological processes of science itself  – Wittgenstein was not, except perhaps in his brief middle period (1929–1934), inclined to accept these moves, despite the widely promulgated view that his interest in language leads inevitably in this direction. Here he was joined by Gödel, and anticipated by Russell, who never accepted the Circle’s general views on truth, at least the conventionalist and pragmatic elements as part of an analysis of the nature of truth.6  Russell (1910a) first endorsed the MRT, and then he incorporated the English manuscript into the Introduction to Principia Mathematica (Whitehead and Russell 1910). 4  Floyd and Kanamori (2016, §6, p. 310). 5  Floyd and Kanamori (2016, §§3–6). 6  See Russell (1940), his William James lecture at Harvard. In his account of the Vienna Circle Stadler (2001, 91) identifies a realist and objectivist strand in the Austrian tradition, associating Gödel with it. On the importance of pragmatism to the Vienna Circle see Pihlström et al. (2017) and compare, for a more general characterization of the role of pragmatism in the history of 20th century European philosophy, Baghramian and Marchetti (2017). 3

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Of course, many members of the Vienna Circle, and in particular Carnap, were led to accept the notion of truth as a scientifically rigorous notion later on, persuaded by Tarski’s analysis of the notion of truth for formalized languages in terms of satisfaction-in-a-structure (see Tarski 1933). Tarski’s analysis utilizes the distinction between metalanguage and object language. However, it was Russell who first proposed a hierarchy of languages in his Introduction to the Tractatus, reacting against the Tractatus’s sharp distinction between that which may be said and that which may only be shown. And Russell had already informally presented truth as a systematically ambiguous notion figuring in a hierarchy of conceptual orders in Principia Mathematica.7 Tarski made the concept of truth scientifically acceptable to philosophers by showing that the notion of definability in a formal language could be made mathematically rigorous in a systematic, procedurally tractable way, and by proving that the definition of truth for a quantificationally complex language may not generally be defined in that language without paradox. Yet neither Russell nor Wittgenstein nor Gödel ever accepted Tarski’s analysis as philosophically fundamental with respect to the nature of the distinction between truth and falsity itself, even if they accepted the result that formally the concept of truth cannot be defined for a language within that language without paradox.8 From the primordial point of view, the distinction between truth and falsity is simply taken for granted in Tarski’s analysis: there remains a philosophical problem concerning what we may call “0th truth”, the step that gets us on to the hierarchy of metalanguages, which starts with “first truth”, the assignment of truth values to quantifier-free sentences of the formal language.9 What Russell endorsed was a bottom-up solution, confronting the question of the distinction between truth and falsity right at the start. And it is this approach that Wittgenstein inherited from him, and Gödel inherited from them both. What do I mean by “bottom up”? This means different things for Russell, the Tractatus and Gödel, to be sure, but in the large – which is where I am writing now – it implies a certain important overlap in their otherwise differing perspectives on the problem of drawing a distinction between truth and falsity. Russell’s multiple relation theory of truth is the theory of truth he first endorses in Principia Mathematica (Introduction, Chapter II, Section III, “Definition and

 Whitehead and Russell 1919, Introduction, Chapter II, Section III, “Definition and Systematic Ambiguity of Truth and Falsehood”, 42ff. Compare Floyd and Kanamori (2016). 8  Gödel remarked to Wang in 1976 that he had already seen by 1930 that the notion of arithmetic truth cannot be defined within arithmetic, thereby getting to that part of Tarski’s undefinability result on his own (Wang 1996, 82). On hesitations Russell, Wittgenstein and Gödel expressed about the usefulness of Tarski’s analysis to treat the most fundamental problem of the distinction between truth and falsity see Russell (1940), Diamond (2002), and Floyd and Kanamori (2016). 9  Levine (2013) gives a nice account of Russell’s Principia treatment which he argues does not, like the Tractatus, separate molecular from atomic facts at the first level of truth; Levine argues that one of Wittgenstein’s main troubles with Russell’s MRT concerned the status of logical laws, in particular the issue of the Law of Excluded Middle. 7

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Systematic Ambiguity of Truth and Falsehood”).10 This treatment of truth stimulated both the young Wittgenstein and the young Gödel – and, I would argue, more generally the mature Wittgenstein and the mature Gödel also  – to philosophize about the nature of truth. What’s important for our purposes is that the MRT is not in any way a linguistic view of truth, a conventionalist theory of truth, and much less a form of deflationism about truth. Instead, it is a view of true judgment as correspondence with the facts. So, in the end, it is a kind of realism, in a very broad sense. But it is not a form of representationalism: representations are not the vehicles of truth on this view. Indeed, part of the point of my drawing in the Russellian backdrop is to distance the Tractatus from all such representationalist views, despite the apparent representationalism embedded in Wittgenstein’s discussion of “picturing”. In fact the picture idea is articulated as a kind of response to the MRT’s aspirations, but incorporates this feature of it. This I shall explain in Sect. 9.3 below. According to the MRT, there is in no vehicle of truth such as a sentence or mental representation. The distinction between truth and falsity is, so to speak, directly accounted for in an account of belief, or “judgment”, as Russell calls it. Beliefs are right or wrong directly, and they are also facts, not merely psychological representations awaiting endorsement by a believer. There are true judgement facts and false ones, and in this way the primordial distinction between truth and falsity is analysed. Schlick characterized Russell’s theory of the nature of truth as “ingenious” (Schlick 1925, I §10), although Schlick argued that his own theory of truth is superior, because his view, in taking the (formal) sentences of a theory as given, “rests solely on the relation of pure coordination or correspondence, which is the simplest and most general of all relations” (1925, I §10). Both Schlick and Russell explicitly rejected the coherence and pragmatist accounts of the nature of truth. Neither accepted the idea of synthetic a priori phenomenological truths. Both accepted the use of the notion of “concept” in articulating their theory. And both rejected “false objectives” or “negative facts”, i.e., intensional (and intentional) entities that correspond to false judgments. In Schlick’s “On the Nature of Truth in Modern Logic” (1910) he developed an original view of truth as univocal designation. On this view a judgment, as a structured complex of its constituents, is taken to be coordinated via language with the fact consisting of the entities signified by the judgment’s constituents. Later, in his (1925) Schlick argued that concepts are formed in clusters, just as the concepts of a mathematical field are defined in the context of an axiomatic theory. But Schlick’s theory takes general laws and language to be primary. The “simplest and most general relation of all”, coordination, is the fulcrum of his view of truth (1925, §10). And this takes the generality of coordinating sentences of a theory with facts for granted at the start, rather than beginning from the analysis of particular judgments. On Schlick’s view, terms should be interpreted in the context of a theory so as to designate objects and properties, and then sentences may designate  The MRT was first introduced in Russell’s (1906), endorsed in Principia, as we have said, and amended in Russell (1910b, 1912, 1913). The introduction to Zalabardo (2012) gives an overview of the differing versions of Russell’s MRT. 10

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(or fail to designate) facts. This “top down” or holistic view of the distinction between truth and falsity lends itself to straightforward incorporation in a conventionalist or formal-pragmatic-empiricist point of view. For the notion of “correspondence” is eliminated except as something theory or law-constituted. Russell’s MRT, by contrast, begins “bottom up”, addressing itself in the first instance to particular judgments or beliefs, what Russell calls in Principia “judgments of perception”, though he does not mean that only what would ordinarily be called judgements of perception lie at the basis of truth, but, rather, that quantifier-free belief facts do (e.g., my believing that the red ball is heavier than the blue ball).11 From Russell’s point of view, Schlick was not facing the problem of characterizing the distinction between truth and falsity head on, but dodging it. Why was this beginning with particular beliefs important to Russell? One reason is that he differed with the pragmatists about the nature of belief and of truth. Here is Russell in 1908, a little after he began framing the MRT, addressing himself to William James, in the context of arguing against the Pragmatic view of truth: I think there is an impression in the mind of William James, as of some other pragmatists, that pragmatism involves a more open mind than its opposite. As regards scientific questions, or even the less important questions of philosophy, this is no doubt more or less the case. But as regards the fundamental questions of philosophy—especially as regards what I consider the fundamental question, namely, the nature of truth—pragmatism is absolutely dogmatic. … Dogmatism in fundamentals is more or less unavoidable in philosophy, and I do not blame pragmatists for what could not be otherwise; but I demur to their claim to a greater open-mindedness than is or may be possessed by their critics. (Russell 1908, 40–41)

This tells us the framework within which Russell is conceiving of what he’s doing. “The” fundamental question of philosophy is for Russell the question of the nature of truth. And on this point he differs with James, regarding James’ theory as dogmatic. Russell also insists that every philosophy must, “in fundamentals”, be “more or less dogmatic”, and we shall see that this issue of avoiding dogmatism insofar as possible, especially about the nature of truth, is a central aim for Wittgenstein. This will become clearer when we consider Russell’s alternative MRT below (Sect. 9.1). Here, in the main, we see that Russell accuses James of failing to draw a sharp and well-grounded distinction between truth and falsity, accusing him of confusing our epistemological and pragmatic criteria for belief with true belief. This is dogmatism in the wrong direction, for Russell. I think this response to James deeply shaped Wittgenstein’s response to Russell. Wittgenstein loved reading James’ The Varieties of Religious Experience (1902). By contrast, Russell detested the “tender-minded” sides of James (1908, 9–10), and he held himself to be “tough minded” on the question of truth.12 Wittgenstein had no use, I think, for Russell’s emotivism and hostility toward religious experience at any stage of his life.13 But in the Tractatus – and in fact throughout his life – Wittgenstein  Whitehead and Russell 1919, Introduction, Chapter II, Section III, “Definition and Systematic Ambiguity of Truth and Falsehood”, 42ff. Compare Floyd and Kanamori (2016, §4.2). 12  Compare Russell’s later notes on James in Russell (2015–2016). 13  Compare Diamond (1991), Floyd (2022). 11

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is, from a wider point of view, quite Russellian in seeking to avoid dogma so far as possible in treating the fundamental question – the nature of truth – with exactitude, while at the same time granting pragmatism its place in scientific theorizing and in everyday life.14 Wittgenstein’s approach to ethics is also, in a broad sense, “bottom up”: although value is imbricated everywhere in our judging (just as truth is), and analysis works on everyday language in a holistic way by expressing samenesses and differences among thoughts through the use of variables, the heart of how truth manifests itself lies in our particular actions, how we face the particular facts, how we call it like it is, which is also a matter of fact, part of the world of everything that is (actually) the case. As for value [Wert], in the Tractatus it is like truth a “formal” notion, that is, it is not a material concept serving as a sortal, but rather one getting its grip through our affirmations and denials. And these concerns, in the final analysis, are particular (“elementary”) facts, particular judgements – even as our affirmations and denials also reflect and express our relation to “the world as a whole”, and our efforts at logical analysis have a holistic character, reflecting as they do our inferential activities in everyday life.15 It is evident that the Tractatus, like Russell, adopts the direct, particular, bottom­up approach to the fundamental question of philosophy, i.e., the question of the nature of truth. For Wittgenstein insists that the final analysis must comprise, at least as an ideal, a well-founded bottom level of particular judgements, expressed in elementary sentences which are quantifier-free and mutually logically independent of one another, and then affirmed or denied by us. This allows Wittgenstein to skirt pragmatism and empiricism on the issue of the fundamental question, the nature of the distinction between truth and falsity, while incorporating within epistemology both pragmatic and empiricist elements when it comes to the process of devising axioms and pursuing empirical investigation (compare TLP 3.04, 5.55ff., 6.3431ff). Wittgenstein emphasizes that there is no way to know a priori what the forms will be like in the final analysis, only that we know, schematically so to speak, what the endpoint will look like. Tractatus 6.363 offers a direct contrast with Schlick’s differing view of simplicity when Wittgenstein remarques that “The procedure of induction consists in accepting as true the simplest law that can be reconciled with

 The primacy of the issue of anti-dogmatism in Wittgenstein’s thought is stressed in Kuusela (2008).  Laugier (2020, 397f.) explains the importance of the Tractatus’s response to the top-down Lotzean idea of “validity” [Geltung], which joined cognition and ethics in a theory of “value as such” [Wert]. The price of this top-down joining, she argues, opened ethics up to the non-­cognitivist criticisms of empiricists. By contrast, the Tractatus overturns the very idea of using such notions as top-down, substantial or “simple” ones, treating them as “formal”. Compare Wiggins (2004). This is the sense in which value-as-such “has no value” (TLP 6.4f.): Truth as such is not true. Humanity must treat as a “dream” the idea of a “simple” sphere of questions whose answers would unite in a symmetrical closed structure a priori, i.e., in which sentences would be valid-as-such, (or valuable as such) and the simple would be the sign of the true (TLP 5.4541). Instead, the symmetrical closed structure of logic, which is a priori, consists of tautologies and contradictions, which are sinnlos according to the Tractatus and hence only “true” in a limiting sense (not really true at all, for they carry zero information). Floyd (2020, 2022) elaborate these points. 14 15

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our experiences. This procedure, however, has no logical justification but only a psychological one.” (TLP 6.363f.). All of Wittgenstein’s philosophy is Russellian at least in this respect: Wittgenstein seeks an entry into the question of the nature of truth through particular affirmations and denials. This is true of his philosophy early, middle, and late. The phenomenological approach he initially attempted to develop in his middle period (1929) failed to carry off the intrinsic directness at which he aimed, though in its emphasis on immediate judgments it also grows from the Russellian approach.16 And in the later philosophy we see the shadow of Russell shining through in Wittgenstein’s remarks on truth in relation to our Übereinstimmungen in forms of life: it is particular things people say in everyday life – however much the spoken words need embedding, or friction in life – that bring us our concept of truth, not a top-down concept of truth (compare Philosophical Investigations §§241).17 I also believe – more controversially – that Gödel, who is nowadays mostly read as a dogmatic metaphysical Platonist holding that we “perceive sets”  – was also committed to pursuing Russell’s bottom-up approach in addressing the Urproblem of the nature of truth. He is a far less dogmatic thinker that is usually thought. When Gödel writes of “judgments of perception” in his essay on Russell (1944), he is not advocating a naïve Platonism or anti-naturalistic form of set “perception”, but instead reverting to an examination of Russell’s approach to the nature of truth in Principia, where “judgments of perception” are the particular beliefs or judgments with which we begin the ascent through orders of truth.18 – Of course, Platonism can take many forms, one of which is a dialectical Platonism; arguably Plato himself was a dialectical rather than a metaphysical Platonist. And there is some evidence that Gödel actually held such a dialectical point of view (Toledo 2011). In any case, if we look to Russell’s MRT approach to the problem of the nature of truth as a source of Gödel, we get a rather different picture than the one ordinarily espoused. Gödel may be read as insisting on the infinite character of our judgments at the basis of mathematics: our judgments may be taken to concern actual infinities, even if our articulations of concepts and the proof-theoretic aspects we attach to them are finite in terms of our capacity for “noticing” objects.19 Let’s look first at Russell’s view, mentioning Gödel along the way, and then consider some of Wittgenstein’s debts to Russell’s treatment of the nature of truth in the Tractatus.

 See Floyd (2018, 77). Engelmann (2013) gives an excellent an overview of Wittgenstein’s middle period development. 17  See also Floyd (2021b, §4.1), where MS 160, 27r is adduced in justification of this reading. 18  Floyd and Kanamori (2016, §§4.1–4.2). 19  See Floyd and Kanamori (2016, 287, 291, 304) on Gödel, an infinitary perspective on the MRT, and Gödel’s remarks on “noticing”. Thanks to Sanford Shieh for making me aware of the distinction between “perceiving” and “noticing” in Russell (1913): this may well have been appreciated by Gödel, careful reader of Russell as he was.

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9.2 Russell’s MRT Russell’s pre-MRT view of propositions, imbibed from Moore, was that propositions simply are true or are false, and one can say nothing further about that disjunction, truth (and falsity) being too primitive to be explicated. But this makes it impossible to discuss the nature of error, because one cannot address the fundamental question, i.e., the nature of the distinction between truth and falsity. To take true propositions and false propositions as fundamental leaves one speechless with regard to the difference between these classes of propositions.20 Is such speechlessness appropriate? Initially Moore and Russell were unperturbed, thinking that to say more is to invite Idealism. In 1906/7 Russell moved beyond this early view, wanting to say more. He eliminated propositions as entities (objects of belief or judgement, the subject matter of logic) to avoid paradox and “false objectives” (“negative facts”), but also to allow there to be some kind of account of the distinction between true and false beliefs, and in particular the very human problem of error. To be clear, Russell was first and foremost discussing the nature of the distinction between truth and falsity, as opposed to the idea of a “criterion” that may be available to us in judging what is true what is false. The question of whether the latter idea of a “trademark” of truth exists is a different question entirely, and Russell simply does not believe that there is one (Russell 1910b, 172f.). Intuitively there are no “alternative facts”. At best – assuming she was not, like her candidate, attempting to erase the distinction between truth and falsity altogether – what Kellyanne Conway meant to say when she lit up millions of protests on Twitter during the 2016 U.S. Presidential election is that there are different interpretations of the facts, not that there are alternative facts. Twitter lit up in resistance to what she said because this point is deep in the grammar of our concepts of “fact” and “truth”. However, equally, there are no “negative facts” – things that actually are in being false, things that make falsehoods false. Yet avoiding this commitment is more complicated than it may seem. If one analyzes “A believes p” as a 2-term relation between a mind and a proposition (something, that is, over and above a particular sentence, something regarded as that-which-is-common-to-all-sentences-that-express-that-particular-thought) it looks very much as if one must regard false objectives as existing. For, intuitively, there must be something that an erroneous believer believes. In presenting what he took to be Wittgenstein’s views in the Notes on Logic (1913) during his Harvard lectures of 1914, Russell, canvassing the issue, faced “a riot in the class” against the idea of negative facts.21 Russell’s elimination of propositions with his MRT was intended to avoid the problem of false objectives, as well as avoid paradoxes involving talk of “all  Wittgenstein critically responds to this older view in “modern epistemology” at TLP 5.54f., as well as Russell’s version of the MRT. 21  See Levine and Linsky (forthcoming). 20

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propositions”. His idea was to use his theory of descriptions to make talk of propositions a mere façon de parler. But he still needed something to play the role of propositions, for he wanted to be able to say something about true, as opposed to false, judgments, i.e., errors. He broached the idea of his MRT in his 1906/7, and there are several versions he developed (see footnote 9 above). Here I will give an overview of the theory attending only to the different versions when it helps me convey the overarching approach. According to the MRT, actual judgment-facts (i.e., beliefs) exist and are necessary for the concept of truth (error). This of course does not mean that what we believe makes true what is true, but rather than to characterize the distinction between truth and falsity we need the concept of belief as a fact. The MRT construes true belief (= “true judgment”) in terms of the existence of a multigrade, (i.e., > dyadic) relation among multiple objects. Russell is attacking the idea that in a belief we have a subject who is a judger judging a proposition: that would be a dual relation only. According to the MRT, there is no dual relation between a judger and a proposition (or sentence) that she judges, truly or falsely: there is only a (complex) judgment fact, which is either true or is false. True judgement facts “correspond” (directly) to extant facts; false judgment facts do not. And that is how the nature of truth, as opposed to falsity, is characterized. On the MRT there is indeed a relation of “correspondence”, but there is no representation, or vehicle of truth. And there are, on this account, no negative facts making false judgements false. The fictional example of Othello that Russell uses illustrates the MRT nicely (Figs. 9.1 and 9.2). This is a picture of Othello, peering in from the background, making the judgment that Desdemona loves Cassio: it is an image of tragic error.22 The picture is analyzed in the MRT like this: you have Othello joined in a four-term existing complex consisting of himself as judger, Cassio, Desdemona and the relation of x loves y. Now – speaking set theoretically for the moment, a bit anachronistically – the relation of loving does not contain the ordered pair (at least as the play is usually read), and therefore Othello’s belief is false. For there exists no actual complex or fact of Desdemona loving Cassio.23 In his (1912) Russell added the idea that judging relates Othello and the objects of his judgment in various orders, so as to distinguish Othello’s belief that Desdemona loves Cassio and the other, distinct, belief that Cassio loves Desdemona. In his (1913), he added acquaintance with the logical form of dual relations, because

 The image is by Théodore Chassériau, Plate 6 in Le Cahiers de l’Amateur, Rue Lafitte 2 (1844), in the public domain at https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/371334 (accessed March 13, 2022). 23  Our anachronism is intended to help the reader appreciate the MRT. Of course, the analysis of the ordered pair in terms of sets was not at issue for Russell, and Wittgenstein’s non-extensionalism would never have allowed him to speak quite this way (see Floyd and Mühlhölzer 2020). Russell did however firmly believe that such a material relation would be an external, and not an internal one. Compare the Tractatus’s distinction between material and “internal” relations at TLP 4.122. 22

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Fig. 9.1  Othello judging

Othello needs to grasp the diadicity of the relation of loving, and it also needs to make sense that Desdemona and Cassio are involved in that type of relation. This raises the prospect of a regress problem: for, one may ask, how does it make sense that that form becomes synthesized with the rest? In his (1913), perhaps partly in response to Wittgenstein, Russell added the idea of positions in beliefs. This is because he came to think that there is no order in judging, and so the difference between Othello believing that Desdemona loves Cassio and Othello’s believing that Cassio loves Desdemona has to be accounted for differently. In all of its versions Russell’s MRT is a puzzling theory of truth. In every judgment there is one and only one genuine relation that relates objects: that of the belief itself. The mind synthesizes the objects and relations the judgment is, intuitively,

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Fig. 9.2  Russell’s MRT

“about” in a belief complex. But that whole synthesized complex is the belief itself: it contains what it is about. And, while the mind synthesizes, it does not unite these elements into a fact: the belief is itself a fact, but not a representation of one. The so-called “subordinate” relation within the belief (here, loving) does not, in being synthesized into it, actually relate the objects in being configured in the belief. Thus in the MRT there is no medium of representation: judgment-facts consist of relations of > 2-arity amongst a judger S and other elements of the judgment-fact, e.g., Othello, Cassio, Desdemona, x loves y and the logical form xφy. False judgment-­facts exist, e.g. when Othello (falsely) judges that Desdemona loves Cassio. But there exists no situation (“truth maker”) of Desdemona loving Cassio.

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True judgment-facts have “corresponding” (subset) “complexes”, relations of objects in situations. But there are no “negative facts” corresponding to false judgments and no non-extensional “correspondence”: Othello’s error is reflected in the non-existence of a situation, not an existing situation that is negative. Schlick discussed Russell’s view explicitly – as Gödel knew, because he attended Schlick’s seminars on Russell and read Schlick (1925).24 Schlick, as he have said, calls the MRT (1925, §10) an “ingenious theory” on which “truth is built up entirely out of differences that characterize various kinds of relations”. But he prefers his own, more holistic view of truth, which does not fail, he argues, to make decisive the “objective relations between judged objects” (1925, §10) that the MRT relies on. Schlick argues that “there is no coordination [between judgements and facts] without re-cognition”; that is, the recognition of an object as one and the same, which takes place in language. So the limitation he sees with Russell’s account is that “cognition of the most primitive sort does not yield a system; on the contrary what it produces is initially only a collection of independent single coordinations” (1925, §10). So Schlick appreciates the bottom-up character of Russell’s MRT, but takes the more holistic process of representation (via language and theory) to play an ineliminable role. Russell in turn, appreciated the difficulty he faced in locating belief-facts in the system of logic. That, in fact, is just what his Theory of Knowledge manuscript (1913) was devoted to doing. But he wished to account for this location without identifying the process of judging with the development of a whole epistemological system, as Schlick’s theory does. For Russell the distinction between truth and falsity must be secured, and actually secured, at the 0th step, that is, before any steps are taken with beliefs. Principia already began developing an answer. Its starting point erects the distinction between truth and falsity via Russell’s MRT. Russell writes, The universe consists of objects having various qualities and standing in various relations. Some of the objects which occur in the universe are complex. When an object is complex, it consists of interrelated parts. Let us consider a complex object composed of two parts, a and b standing to each other in the relation R. The complex object “a-in-the-relation-R-tob” may be capable of being perceived; when perceived, it is perceived as one object. Attention may show that it is complex; we then judge that a and b stand in the relation R.  Such a judgment, being derived from perception by mere attention, may be called a “judgment of perception.” This judgment of perception, considered as an actual occurrence, is a relation in four terms, namely a and b and R and the percipient. The perception, on the contrary, is a relation of two terms, namely “a-in-the-relation-R-to-b,” and the percipient. Such an object of perception cannot be nothing, we cannot perceive “a-in-the-relation-R-to-b” unless a is in the relation R to b. Hence a judgment of perception, according to the above definition, must be true. This does not mean that, in a judgment which appears to us to be one of perception, we are sure of not being in error, since we may err in thinking that our judgment has really been derived merely by analysis of what was perceived. But if our judgment has been so derived, it must be true.

24

 Floyd and Kanamori (2016, §6).

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In fact, we may define truth, where such judgments are concerned, as consisting in the fact that there is a complex corresponding to the discursive thought which is the judgment. That is, when we judge “a has the relation R to b,” our judgment is said to be true when there is a complex “a-in-the-relation-R-to-b,” and said to be false when this is not the case. This is a definition of truth and falsehood in relation to judgments of this kind. (Principia, Chap. II, III, pp. 43 f., emphasis added)

Here Russell’s contrast between the dyadic relation of perceiving and the multigrade relation of believing is made very clear. In this construction “judgments of perception” form the first level of a multi-leveled series of orders (“first truth”, “second truth”, and so on), which Russell presents informally. Russell’s “judgments of perception” are not mere perceptions, which would be dyadic. Rather, they are particular judgments involving objects and relations that have no quantificational complexity (see Levine 2013) but are multigrade complexes or facts. Russell treats them as true, for purposes of his logical construction. The verb “to see” or “to perceive” is a success verb: if one sees or perceives something, it is there to be seen. Judgement involves analysis into components. One may mis-analyze what is presented to one, which explains error. But Russell’s goal here is not to establish that we know anything. Rather, he shows that he is able to “define” truth for the first level: what it is and how it differs from falsity. This is the primordial basis of his (ultimately ramified) hierarchy of truth and definability in Principia. It is an “undogmatic” view of truth, to be sure. For it commits Russell to the truth of no particular belief, only committing him to a particular explanation of that wherein truth, if true belief exists, consists.

9.3 Gödel and the MRT Gödel gave a nicely sharp characterization of the Principia view much later on, in his Max Phil IX (unpublished, 1942), a manuscript book he began the very day he accepted Schilpp’s invitation to write his (1944) paper “Russell’s Mathematical Logic” for Schilpp’s Library of Living Philosophers volume on Russell.25 Gödel wrote: [Russell claims that] The proposition “A believes bRc” does not have the structure A believes (bRc), but instead b (RA) c. What however is added [supervenes] here (in relation to all simple (elementary) propositions) appears to be not a new form, but a new content. All propositions revert to the same form (that is, belief), but with another indication [Bedeutung].26

Gödel appreciates well that the entire treatment of truth in Principia involves, not subjects relating to true sentences or propositions, but belief-facts. He seems to appreciate however also how undogmatic this treatment of truth is. The only thing

 Floyd and Kanamori (2016, §6.3).  Quoted in Floyd and Kanamori (2016, 274).

25 26

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that the MRT forces one into saying is that there would be no distinction between truth and falsity if there weren’t beliefs, some of which are, we hope, as a matter of fact right, and some of which are, we fear, as a matter of fact wrong. Of course, we could be wrong everywhere, but still this theory of truth would hold. Thus, as Gödel is noting, Russell’s MRT gives content to the entire edifice of truth. Of course, in Principia Russell’s “first truth” is developed as part of a hierarchy of levels of truth, a series of proceeding according to definability through added logical structure, viz., quantification. Russell splits the concept of truth, allowing for variegation in levels, to avoid paradox. In his Max Phil notebooks, much later on (1942), Gödel remarks that Russell gave to Principia an entire – and as he knew long before, controversial – interpretation of the significance of the system in terms of beliefs (based in “judgments of perception”). Russell’s presentation of truth in terms of levels reminds one of Tarski’s hierarchy of languages. However, in Principia “has first-level truth”, “has second-level truth” etc. are woven into the informal language through definition and uses of quotation marks in Russell’s presentation: That the words “true” and “false” have many different meanings, according to the kind of ^x and proposition to which they are applied, is not difficult to see. Let us take any function φ let φa be one of its values. Let us call the sort of truth which is applicable to φa “first truth”… Consider now the proposition (x).φx. If this has truth of the sort appropriate to it, that will mean that every value φx has “first truth”. Thus if we call the sort of truth that is appropriate to (x).φx “second truth”, we may define “{(x).φx} has second truth” as mean^x has first truth,” i.e., “(x).φx has first truth).”… ing “every value for φ

It was only in Russell’s introduction to the Tractatus that the idea of a hierarchy of “metalanguages” appeared. It is these pre-Tarski passages in Principia that led Gödel, presumably, to come to see that truth is undefinable inside a single language. Gödel saw this before he read Tarski, that is to say independently, in 1930 (see footnote 8). It is sometimes said that Gödel’s (1931) avoids the concept of truth, replacing it with provability, because Gödel feared controversy over metaphysics. That explanation of Gödel’s may be correct, though the controversy may not have come only from Vienna Circle worries about Platonism and metaphysics in general, but also more internal quarrels over the concept between Schlick and Russell. Gödel’s (1931) corrects what he later lamented as Russell’s “regrettable” lack of formal precision in Principia in stating a syntax, in the mathematical logician’s sense of the term (1944, 126): Gödel had incorporated from the Vienna Circle and Hilbert’s metamathematics a precise sense of the idea of a formal language. (We shall see below (Sect. 9.2) that it was the Tractatus that brought in the issue of language, forward as a central issue for logic, and for Russell’s MRT in particular). It is also notable that if one looks carefully at these same Introductory passages in Principia on the systematic ambiguity of truth, one can see how Russell’s discussion of the Richard paradox that is, of truth’s definability may well have led Gödel to the idea that a form of diagonalization might prevent a general definition of

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(arithmetic) truth in one language.27 In his (1931) Gödel separates proof from truth, writing in his sketch at the beginning of the paper that “the analogy with the Richard paradox leaps to the eye”. The influence of Principia on Gödel’s work in logic extended forward, through the time he went on to set theory. In his (1938) he announced his proof of the consistency of the Axiom of Choice and the Generalized Continuum Hypothesis, alluding to Principia by characterizing his use of “an axiom of reducibility” in iterating reflection and implementing Russell’s ramified theory of truth in relation to transfinite orders.28 Thus Russell served as a continued philosophical inspiration of Gödel’s mathematical and philosophical work on the topic of truth. Gödel appreciated from the start that Russell’s approach to the distinction between truth and falsity offered an alternative to the conventionalism he was hearing all around him in Vienna. He sought to develop an anti-conventionalist theory of truth for the foundations of mathematics. Gödel appreciated the difficulties Wittgenstein had unearthed in Russell’s views, and accepted modal or at least conceptual ways of thinking about logic, but he disliked very much the effect the Tractatus had on Russell in philosophy of mathematics. In particular he disliked the idea that Russell came eventually to embrace under the influence of the Tractatus, namely, that mathematics is tautological.29 Wittgenstein did not regard mathematics as tautological (6.2), but he did regard it through the eyes of Principia’s predicative structuring of definitions in terms of Russell’s ramified hierarchy of truth. And here there is something lasting for Gödel’s relationship with Wittgenstein. Wittgenstein always advocated the importance of non-extensionalism in the foundations of mathematics, taking as basic the human being’s ability to follow step-by-step rules and constructive procedures (see Floyd and Mühlhölzer 2020; Floyd 2021b). Wittgenstein regarded set theory as just one more mathematical representation, and no “foundation” for mathematics in any real philosophical sense (compare Tractatus 6.031). Thus for him it was philosophically important to separate the non-extensional from the extensional point of view, and then examine their interactions. In the Tractatus Wittgenstein took as basic a form of generality that is non-extensional, our ability to write down “form series”, or recursively presented expansions that we unfold by applying a step-by-step formal rule (4.1273, 5.2522, 5.501, Floyd 2021b, §2). This is not necessarily conventionalism, because this capacity would be common to any set of conventions adopted. And, as we have stressed, truth is not reduced to proof.

 Floyd and Kanamori (2016, 279).  Floyd and Kanamori (2016, 254). The Tractatus had dismissed this Axiom as non-logical, because “it is possible to imagine a world in which [it] is not valid” (6.1232f.). This reflects Wittgenstein’s non-extensionalist, potential-infinity stance in the Tractatus. 29  On 7 October 1932 Gödel copied out into his notebook an extract from Russell’s (1927, 171, Chap. XVII) in which Russell explicitly agrees with Wittgenstein’s Tractatus view that logical “truths” are tautologies, and then goes beyond Wittgenstein (“though here Wittgenstein might dissent”) to say that mathematics also consists of tautologies. He was highlighting an impact on Russell with which he deeply disagreed. 27 28

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Yet Gödel answers back to Wittgenstein’s preference for non-extensionalism, both in his mathematical practice and in his philosophizing about mathematical truth. For Wittgenstein’s non-extensionalism, like Russell’s in Principia, precludes a full development of an extensional theory of the infinite, namely set theory. What about infinity and the MRT? I believe that Gödel posed this question.30 Russell tended to consider finite cases (like Othello judging Desdemona to love Cassio) when he discussed his MRT, for he was interested in the theory of symbolism and psychology. Classically speaking, sentences are finite in length and contain finite elements. But if one takes (infinite) extensions for granted at the outset, the MRT may be extended, and this, I believe, is what Gödel at least toyed with, as an idea, in preparing to write his (1944) essay on Russell. Russell himself was always careful to allow that reality and perceptual experience may be infinitely complex. Gödel would have noticed this, reading lectures 1, 4, and 7 of The Philosophy of Logical Atomism (Russell 1918) as well as Russell’s Williams James lecture Inquiry into Meaning and Truth (1940). Gödel clearly had Russell’s William James lectures open before him while he wrote in his MaxPhil notebooks in preparation for his (1944) article on Russell.31 And he would have felt attunement with what Russell is very explicit about in The Inquiry into Meaning and Truth: metaphysics is needed for the foundations of knowledge, and the Vienna Circle and the Pragmatists failed to rid us of this need.

9.4 Wittgenstein and the MRT Principia’s bottom-up, quasi-recursive presentation of truth inspired the Tractatus. Wittgenstein takes as a necessary feature of any possible analysis of logic the ideal of a well-founded set of elementary (quantifier- and truth-function-free) sentences for the language, each of which is mutually independent of all the others. The Tractatus elucidates the notion of truth as something “formal,” shown in the possible activity, for any language capable of saying how things are, of formally constructing sentences logically, step-by-step, from a basis of logically simple elementary sentences that may be used to affirm or deny precise truths and/or falsehoods. However, Wittgenstein does not take Russell’s MRT to offer a satisfactory account of the distinction between truth and falsity. Wittgenstein’s Tractatus construal of propositions as “pictures” draws in the idea of a medium of representation. In this way the Tractatus crucially differs from Russell’s MRT. It also, more profoundly, goes beyond Russell in drawing modality into the foundations of logic, partly to implement this “medium” idea. This is done, not through an analysis of modality given in terms of possible worlds, not in terms of any ontological realm of necessities, but rather by taking possibility and

 Floyd and Kanamori (2016, §§3, 5.0).  Floyd and Kanamori (2016, 269).

30 31

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necessity as primitive features of certain constructions that evince the logic of our language, as primitive features of our reflective capacity to engage in logic and say what is the case, what might be the case, what would be the case if something else were the case, and so on (i.e., to affirm certain sentences as true, and others as false).32 Wittgenstein’s drawing in signs and modality at the foundations of logic is something that Russell refused to do, preferring an actualist approach to the distinction between truth and falsity and, as we have seen, a no-medium-of-representation account.33 As Zalabardo has stressed (2015, 4.9, 131–5), the Tractatus opens with a move that is “actualist” in invoking “the world” as “all that is the case”, the totality of facts (that hold).34 But Wittgenstein quickly moves beyond this to get to the notion of “reality”, the totality of possibilities for the way the world might be, i.e., the totality of possible ways truth and falsity might be distributed over the (logically independent) elementary sentences (2.06ff.). And this notion remains modal throughout the Tractatus. Moreover, Wittgenstein discusses pictures, including “sentences” [Sätze] i.e., linguistic constructions which, given certain arbitrary correlations between signs and objects, “picture” reality. However, though the Tractatus insists on the idea of a medium that embodies the expression of a proposition, belief or thought, and holds that a sentence, for example, is itself a fact, his picture conception is framed in terms of “logical form”, the totality of all possible ways a particular thought or belief may be expressed, and this includes our ability to work out translations from one form of representation to another (Wittgenstein offers (4.0141) the example of “laws of projection” that allow us to play from a musical score, or, conversely, work out the score of a piece from hearing the music35). In the end, it does not matter what the particular vehicle of thought happens to be: it could be linguistic, couched in either everyday language or in a formalized language, it could be pictorial, or it might be psychological.36 The important point is that in the TLP a sentence pictures a possibility, a situation that either exists or does not exist: this is what it is for a sentence to have Sinn:  Diamond (2002, 270) is concerned to argue that all talk of necessity with an ontological cast “falls into incoherence”. I am not in disagreement, I join Diamond in agreeing with Goldfarb (1997, 66) that “our understanding of possibility … arises simply from our understanding of and our operating with the sensical sentences of our language”. But like Shieh (2019) I take the entrance of possibility and necessity into early analytic philosophy in the Tractatus to be essential to Wittgenstein’s intervention and diagnosis of truth. For more on modality see Floyd (2022). 33  Frege, who equally banished necessity from the foundations of logic (again, see Shieh 2019), complained, after discussing logic with Wittgenstein, that “W lays too great value upon signs”; cf. Floyd (2011, 7). 34  Floyd (2019) discusses this actualism. 35  Compare Diamond (2002, 277 n. 33). 36  Compare Wittgenstein’s letter to Russell (August 19, 1919, 1995, 98f.), answering Russell’s question about the constituents of thoughts: “I don’t know what the constituents of a thought are but I know that it must have such constituents which correspond to the words of Language. Again the kind of relation of the constituents of thought and of the pictured fact is irrelevant. It would be a matter of psychology to find it out.” 32

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it is “bi-polar”, contrastive. So our ability to see through an affirmation of a particular sentence to seeing what we are doing as affirming one possibility among others is fundamental to our appreciation of logic. A proposition (Satz-Sinne) or bethought propositional structure is an applied propositional sign, a fact expressing a specific truth-condition (what is the case if it is true and what if it is false): it shows its Sinn. But, as a picture (structure), it has no Bedeutung, as names do. Its actual truth is the realization of a possibility in “reality” (“reality” being the sum total of logical possibilities for what may be true, “world” being the totality of what is actually the case). To affirm a sentence is to say that the possible situation it pictures is realized, but this is not to predicate an external property of a situation. The very same picture may be used to say what is the case, or what is not the case: negation is not a constituent of the sentence, but a formal operation available for any picture. It is the TLP’s Grundgedanke (4.0312) that the logical constants, especially negation, do not represent. Thus the Tractatus, while it follows Principia in devising a non-dogmatic, bottom up approach to the distinction between truth and falsity, does not take the notion of correspondence in general for granted, as did Schlick’s theory. Instead, in the Tractatus our knowledge of truth is shown to be a task or activity, and although actuality, in the form of “all that is the case”, is presupposed at the start, as in Principia it is not something dogmatically presented. We see “the general form of proposition” – what is common to all truths – in seeing the possibility of analysis, the task of displaying truth-conditions, the possibilities of truth and falsity for the totality of sentences in our language. But, crucially, what we “see” in logic involves seeing through our activities of affirming and denying particular sentences to take in contrastive possibilities, to see ourselves as affirming one among other possibilities, to see ourselves engaging in the activity that logic is. In this sense dogmatism is overcome. And the distinction between truth and falsity has its nature clarified – hence what Russell called the fundamental problem of philosophy is addressed – but not in terms of any particular actuality, but in terms of affirmations and denials of particular truths, in the Russellian vein. It is crucial that the Tractatus does not pronounce on what the elementary sentences are or must be like (see 5.55ff.). Logic is not a theory, but an activity, a way of presenting “forms”, possibilities of truths, logical features and commonalities among thoughts that display themselves in our uses of language. And there is no saying what the particular forms will in fact be a priori. Logic is a way of presenting content, what we already say when we speak, truly or falsely (or so I read the Tractatus, see 4.002, 5.5563). But this judging requires us to step back from our particular judgments and reflect. It requires that we have the capacity to see our particular judgments and beliefs as realizing one possibility of judging among others. This is part of the Tractatus’s way of developing Russell’s approach to the problem of truth farther than Russell does, delving into the very nature of the logical as such. In the Tractatus forms famously show themselves in logic and cannot be described or named. This is because forms evince modal aspects, or dimensions of

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our judging, dimensions that (we take to) show through regardless of what we take to be the case, rightly or wrongly.37 Here the most important remark in the Tractatus is arguably 2.033: Form is the possibility of structure. In the fall of 1914, in the wartime Notebooks (1979), Wittgenstein took propositions to designate facts. But in thinking about goodness and truth, he “suddenly” saw that the property of a situation mirrored by or designated by a proposition “must always be internal” (21.9.14). The difficulty of negative facts motivated this issue for him: It could be asked: How can the situation p have a property such as goodness if it turns out that the situation does not hold at all? (23.9.14). As he works at this question, he comes to see that this problem of false objectives (what “we [tend to] call ‘negative facts’”, cf. Tractatus 2.06), concerns, as he says, the “truth-problem” (24.9.14). And thinking it over allows him to win through to the idea of a sentence as a picture, a picture that pictures a possibility, i.e., a possible situation. That is the solution to “the nature of truth”, and it strikes him, dimly at this point, that his picture idea “must yield the nature of truth straight away” (29.9.14). Now 2.033 is not drafted in in the Notebooks or the Prototractatus: it was added in that sense rather late to the manuscript of the Tractatus. But the fact that Wittgenstein added the remark relatively late does not gainsay the importance of the distinction he draws in 2.033 between a structure (a particular fact, or sentence, or thought) and its possibility. Gödel would have noticed this early on. In his (1944, 129, n.7), in expounding Russell’s correspondence theory of true belief, he refers back to Russell’s Philosophy of Logical Atomism (1918, IV §1) remarking that one “… should expect [there] to be in Russell’s theory a possible fact (or rather the possibility of a fact), which would exist also in the case of a false proposition. But Russell, as he says, could never believe that such “curious shadowy things really exist.” Wittgenstein told Russell in 1913 that he tried a theory like the MRT out and found it wouldn’t work (Russell 1913, Introduction xix, n. 51). Their writings and correspondence from 1912 to 1918, including letters Russell wrote at the time to Lady Ottoline Morrell, show a very fascinating back and forth between them on the MRT (see Russell 1913, Introduction). An enormous and growing literature exists on what precisely is most essential to Russell’s theory, what Wittgenstein’s criticisms of the theory were, and whether and how they may or may not have actually led to Russell’s abandoning his (1913) manuscript. I’m going to be brief and somewhat ecumenical in my presentation of this here because it’s very controversial, and I do not wish to take a final stand on an interpretation (Shieh forthcoming contains an excellent review of the issues and literature). Briefly put, there is, first of all, a problem about order: how does this existence of the four-place relation differentiate Desdemona loving Cassio from Cassio loving Desdemona? These are different facts, and Russell really owes us an account of what it is that differentiates them. Second, arguably, is a sub-problem of the first:

37

 Compare Narboux (2014) and Floyd (2022).

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there’s a problem with nonsense. What disallows Othello from putting together nonsense such as “This table penholders this book?” (compare TLP 5.5422). Third, there’s a problem with negation: If the items connected in the belief do not correspond to a fact, then the negated belief (E.g., “Desdemona does not love Cassio”) is true, but what is the logical connection between this negation and its opposite? Every particular belief is either true or false, and according to the law of excluded middle there is no tertium datur. Russell doesn’t explain why this is, or in general why it is that we seem to know such generalities about the logical interconnections among possible judgments of perception at the outset. (Of course for Wittgenstein there are no such “laws” at all, rather, these are forms of description running through all of our saying of what is and is not the case; cf. 5.132.) By 1918 Russell had not only undergone his discussions of the MRT with Wittgenstein, he had abandoned his Theory of Knowledge manuscript, and then been influenced by many of the Tractatus’ ideas. In The Philosophy of Logical Atomism, Russell says (1918, IV): Every theory of error sooner or later wrecks itself by assuming the existence of the non-­ existent. As when I say “Desdemona loves Cassio”’ it seems as if you have a non-existent love between Desdemona and Cassio, but that is just as wrong as a non-existent unicorn. So you have to explain the whole theory of judgment in some other way. Russell continues. “Suppose you try such a map as this”:

             You cannot get in space any occurrence which is logically of the same form as belief. When I say “logically of the same form” I mean that one can be obtained from the other by replacing the constituents of the one by the new terms. If I say “Desdemona loves Cassio” that is of the same form as ‘A is to the right of B’. Those are of the same form, and I say that nothing that occurs in space is of the same form as belief. I have got on here to a new sort of thing, a new beast for our zoo, not another member of our former species but a new species. The discovery of this fact is due to Mr. Wittgenstein.

Now of course Wittgenstein did not regard logic as Russell did, as the quest to limn the most general zoology of what in fact exists. Wittgenstein did not think that logic was in the business of doing zoology at all, did not see logical forms as (actually) out there, awaiting taxonomic sorting. He thought that logic was an activity. So he would not have regarded himself as discovering any particular “fact” at all (By contrast, Gödel told Hao Wang that one of his favorite quotes from Russell was the remark that logic is the study of the zoology of reality.38). In the Tractatus actual 38

 Wang (1987, 270); compare Floyd and Kanamori p. 268.

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beliefs occur as structures, sometimes in space and time (e.g., as in utterances or written sentences), thereby embodying and realizing possible forms. But these structures are not what they are apart from our regarding them as realizing contrastive relations with other structures or facts. What’s missing from Russell’s two-dimensional picture are these further dimensions, or aspects, of belief. The Tractatus draws in a notion of possibility-space for beliefs, alongside the idea of a vehicle of representation (such as a sentence). We use sentences (models, pictures) to affirm or deny what is the case  – rightly or wrongly. Sentences expressing propositions are organized structures (facts) consisting of configurations of names. They do not function as names (as for instance Frege had suggested), but depict articulately. We are capable of affirming or denying any given sentence. But we are also capable of seeing this, when we reflect on any particular affirmation. And thus we are capable of seeing through our judgments to seeing each saying-what-is-the-case as an affirmation that one possibility among others is realized. This line of thought is what’s missing from Russell’s MRT, from Wittgenstein’s point of view. Russell sticks to actuality. Yet every time he tries to look for or describe something actual, he fails to get across solutions to the problems Wittgenstein is offering. A telling remark from Russell (1905, 520): “… the subject of modality ought to be banished from logic, since propositions are simply true or false, and there is no such comparative and superlative of truth as is implied by the notions of contingency and necessity.” Wittgenstein would agree in the Tractatus that propositions are simply true or false. But what he’s saying is that in order to hold a view of the distinction between truth and falsity as something absolute, we need to draw in our capacities, including our way of seeing our affirmations in terms of contrastive possibilities. This is the only way, from his point of view, to uphold the idea of there not being a way in which something is true. He agreed with Russell that that adverbial idea leans us ineluctably toward the idea of “true in a way”, and that surrenders the whole ideal of truth as absolute holding or not holding of the facts (In our time “truthiness” has come into vogue in just this way: it was dubbed word of the year by the American Dialect Society in 2006). So how does the Tractatus revise, adapt, or if you like reject Russell’s MRT? First, Wittgenstein agrees with Russell that one cannot regard belief as a dyadic relation, and he explicitly refers to the older Moore-Russell dyadic view, showcasing his truth-functional analysis of the general form of proposition: 5.54 In the general propositional form, propositions occur in a proposition only as bases of the truth-operations. At first sight it appears as if there were also a different way in which one proposition could occur in another. Especially in certain propositional forms of psychology, like “A thinks, that p is the case”, or “A thinks p”, etc. Here it appears superficially as if the proposition p stood to the object A in a kind of relation.

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(And in modern epistemology (Russell, Moore, etc.) those propositions have been conceived in this way.)

But this, he has seen (as had Russell before him) cannot work, if anything because of the problem of negative facts. What then is Wittgenstein’s analysis of belief? 5.542 But it is clear that “A believes that p”, “A thinks p”, “A says p”, are of the form “‘p’ says p”: and here we have no co-ordination of a fact and an object, but a co-ordination of facts by means of a co-ordination of their objects.

I do not think this is “clear”. But I shall venture an interpretation broaching some of the issues. Let us say that I attribute to Othello the belief that Desdemona loves Cassio. The Tractatus regards this as my taking Othello to have taken up a particular standpoint on the facts, to have affirmed (even if silently) one possible way that the facts may lie. When I do this, I take the situation including Othello, Desdemona and Cassio in as a picture, as a fact, a structure depicting a certain situation. In other words I translate, putting together in my own language a picture of what may or may not be the case. There is no such thing as my affirming or denying nonsense: what I translate Othello’s belief into must make sense, constitute a structure with sense, enter into my language. And I must take it that this structure is there to be a fact in his language as well, and that it is possible to translate (project) between the two different particular languages (see 3.3421). That does not mean, of course, that I must agree with what (I take it) Othello thinks (affirms). Rather, I take the whole situation in (the situation pictured above in our etching, Othello peering out and putting together the situation into a judgement of perception, or basic belief). Then I take that structure – Othello and all the other actors and so on (‘p’39) – as a picture and use it to affirm that Othello believes p (that Desdemona loves Cassio). I say the world is not the way Othello thinks that it is. But there is something in common between the coordination of facts: I’m attributing to Othello an affirmation that is wrong, an affirmation whose negation is already an available thought for Othello to think (even if, tragically, he does not), and I take his affirmation to voice the actuality of a possibility that is not realized in the world of everything that is the case. As the play has been read by Cavell, it is indeed the very possibility of his being right that drives Othello mad: scepticism, the possibility of error in human relations, is a dimension of love that, so to speak, Othello cannot get over.40 5.542 continues:

 Thomas Ricketts pointed out that the quotation marks here, as in Wittgenstein’s early draft in his 1914 Moore Notes (see 1979, p. 119) are not playing the role of metalinguistic mention-devices, describing uninterpreted sentence-structures, but rather allude to a whole situation in which the correlations between names and objects, arbitrary in themselves, are nevertheless taken to have been fixed, and the affirming-as-true is in place. Compare Diamond (2002, n. 33). 40  Cavell (1969). Cavell deepens through the accent on modality an idea Wittgenstein voiced to Engelmann in a letter of 21 June 2020, namely that he was in the condition of “not being able to get over a particular fact” (McGuinness 1988 293). 39

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This shows that there is no such thing as the soul—the subject, etc.—as it is conceived in superficial psychology. A composite soul would not be a soul any longer. The correct explanation of the form of the proposition “A judges p” must show that it is impossible to judge a nonsense. (Russell’s theory does not satisfy this condition)

If “Othello believes Desdemona loves Cassio” is to be analyzed, as Wittgenstein suggests, as “‘situation-of-Othello-peering-out-and-taking-Desdemona-to-loveCassio’ says Othello believes that Desdemona loves Cassio”, then the believer, unlike in Russell’s MRT, vanishes from the analysis. It all comes down to the projection of a fact, a picture, in a thought, a thought that is up for being affirmed or denied, a proposition that says what is the case, rightly or wrongly. In attributing beliefs to one another, we are left with relations alone, not subjects-that-are-objects. Indeed a certain complexity of the soul, the thinking and experiencing subject, evinces itself here, and it is one that, I think, evinced itself throughout Wittgenstein’s life. The “soul” unfolds through articulations and actions, one is revealed by one’s affirmations and denials (among other things). How one comes to terms in particular ways with the “grammar” available to one, and the facts as they are, evinces who one is. As in William James’s view of consciousness (1904), the distinction between what is mental and what is not mental is constituted through “logic”, through our practices of differently applying relational descriptions and categorizations of items, of differentiating and discriminating a variety of experiences through, if you like, “grammar”. As it happens, James’s and Russell’s student H.M. Sheffer, deviser of the “Sheffer Stroke” – the key logical device Wittgenstein uses in the Tractatus to convey the thoroughgoing character of negation running through all thought  – invented a name for this view: “neutral monism”.41 This, as we have stressed, is in no way a representationalist view of consciousness. Instead, an ontological dualism of mental and physical is overcome through a relational view of knowledge as articulation of experience. The distinction between mentality and extra-mental aspects of “reality” can be drawn, but only “functionally”, by placing events and facts into relations with one another. Nothing is “intrinsically” experiential alone, or intrinsically bodily alone.42 Wittgenstein came to think that the Tractatus turned out to be, unwittingly, dogmatic in its method. He claimed to have essentially resolved the questions of philosophy. His show/say distinction was not dynamic. And he gave not a single  See Floyd (2021a, 42f).  Russell at first resisted neutral monism, but later on, in his 1921, he came to advocate it. Russell (1927, 10), refers to Sheffer explicitly. To do this Russell moved beyond his 1912, which assumed we could be acquainted with our own self, and which analyzed belief in terms of a believing subject. In 1913 Chapter 3, Russell holds that we can “attend to” or select from a group of objects with which we are directly acquainted, attending to this. We may then know who we are through a description (“the subject attending to ‘this’), rather than acquaintance with a self. However, Russell’s (1921), with its oddly dual emphasis on behaviorism and on first-person introspection, failed to satisfy Wittgenstein, who was closer to Sheffer in “grammaticalizing” James’s view. Russell (1921) did much to stimulate Wittgenstein in his writings on private language. 41 42

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example of an elementary proposition, only promissory notes about the analysis of statements. Finally, Wittgenstein knew that his treatment of logic was not complete. I think these dogmatisms were overcome in Wittgenstein’s mature (post-1937) philosophy. But that philosophy could not have been devised without Wittgenstein’s having written, and then overcome, the dogmatisms of the Tractatus. His mature philosophy bears the stamp of his longstanding ambition concerning the nature of truth, an ambition that runs from the Tractatus to Philosophical Investigations. And in this sense neither the Tractatus nor Philosophical Investigations would ever have existed without Wittgenstein’s inspiration by Russell, and in particular, Russell’s overall approach to treating “the fundamental problem” of philosophy, the nature of truth, in as undogmatic a way as possible. The mature Wittgenstein surrendered the Tractatus ideal of a gap-free formal unity to logic partly because he knew about Gödel and Turing’s undecidability results (Floyd 2016). As he says in the preface to Philosophical Investigations (2009), he came to see that the unity of truth, and of logic, is not purely formal. What he had to do to preserve the unity of logic and truth, and to treat truth with exactitude, was to adopt a more fluid ideal of simplicity.43 This allowed him to alter his very conception of exactitude and revise his perspective on the role of (formal constructions of) truth in logic. For the mature Wittgenstein, the unity of truth is cobbled together through harmonies among us as we weave words within forms of life. This notion of Lebensformen first appears in Wittgenstein’s writing in 1937, alongside his truly mature style (Floyd 2016). It too, is modal: “forms of life” are really “possibilities of life with language”. In Wittgenstein’s mature thought each and every sentence can be associated, not merely with one technique of projection, but with many. Forms of life have a “universal” and a “particular” aspect. There are commonalities among us that have emerged through the course of our human evolution with language: we chat, tell jokes, play games, work out sums, and so on. Yet as words are used and inflected and projected in particular situations, a great deal of variation on these universal themes emerges. And it is what people say in particular circumstances that is true or false (Philosophical Investigations §§240ff.). This is not relativism about truth, but rather, a profound way to insist on the necessity of friction in life to our ideal of absolute truth. It is neither deflationism nor anti-metaphysics, but, rather, a way of thinking exactly about the absolute distinction between truth and falsity, avoiding dogmatism so far as one humanly can.44

 Floyd (2018, 2021a, b).  Travis (2006) applies this notion to a reading of Philosophical Investigations, stressing the affinities between the mature Wittgenstein and Frege on the issue of truth and falsity, with Wittgenstein adding in a notion of “occasion sensitivity”, which Travis does not take to be a form of relativism. 43 44

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Bibliography Baghramian, Maria, and Sarin Marchetti, eds. 2017. Pragmatism and the European Traditions: Encounters with Analytic Philosophy and Phenomenology Before the Great Divide. New York: Routledge. Cavell, S. 1969. The Avoidance of Love: A Reading of King Lear. In Must We Mean What We Say? A Book of Essays, ed. Stanley Cavell, 267–356. New York: Cambridge University Press. Dawson, John L., Jr. 1997. Logical Dilemmas: The Life and Work of Kurt Gödel. Wellesley: A.K. Peters, Ltd. Diamond, Cora. 1991. Ethics, Imagination and the Method of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus. In Bilder der Philosophie, ed. Richard Heinrich and Helmuth Vetter, 55–90. Munich: Oldenbourg. ———. 2002. Truth Before Tarski: After Sluga, After Ricketts, After Geach, after Goldfarb, Hylton, Floyd and Van Heijenoort. In From Frege to Wittgenstein: Perspectives on Early Analytic Philosophy, ed. E. Reck, 252–282. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Engelmann, Mauro L. 2013. Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Development: Phenomenology, Grammar, Method, and the Anthropological View. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Floyd, Juliet. 2011. Prefatory Note to the Frege-Wittgenstein Correspondence. In Interactive Wittgenstein: Essays in Memory of Georg Henrik von Wright, ed. E.  De Pelligrin, 1–14. New York: Springer Science + Business Media. ———. 2016. Chains of Life: Turing, Lebensform, and the Emergence of Wittgenstein’s Later Style. Nordic Wittgenstein Review 5 (2): 7–89. ———. 2018. Lebensformen: Living Logic. In Language, Form(s) of Life, and Logic: Investigations After Wittgenstein, ed. C. Martin, 59–92. Berlin: deGruyter. ———. 2019. ‘Ultimate’ facts? Zalabardo on the Metaphysics of Truth. Australasian Philosophical Review 2 (3): 299–314. ———. 2020. Wittgenstein on Ethics: Working Through Lebensformen. Philosophy and Social Criticism 46 (2): 115–130. ———. 2021a. Sheffer, Lewis and the “Logocentric Predicament”. In C.I.  Lewis, the a Priori and the Given, ed. Q. Kammer, J.-P. Narboux, and H. Wagner, 27–103. New York: Routledge. ———. 2021b. Wittgenstein’s Philosophy of Mathematics, Cambridge Elements in the Philosophy of Mathematics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2022 Modal Moments: Transpositions of the Tractatus in Wittgenstein’s Later Work. Revue Internationale de Philosophie, 6 (300): 119–141. Floyd, Juliet, and Akihiro Kanamori. 2016. Gödel vis à vis Russell: Logic and Set Theory to Philosophy. In Kurt Gödel Philosopher-Scientist, ed. G. Crocco and E.-M. Engelen, 234–326. Provence: Presses Universitaires de Provence. Floyd, Juliet, and Felix Mühlhölzer. 2020. Wittgenstein’s Annotations to Hardy’s Course of Pure Mathematics: An Investigation of Wittgenstein’s Non-Extensionalist Understanding of the Real Numbers. New York: Springer Nature. Gödel, Kurt. 1930. The Completeness of the Axioms of the Functional Calculus of Logic. In Kurt Gödel Collected Works Volume I: Publications 1929–1936, eds. Saul Feferman et al., 103–123. New  York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Original publication “Die Vollständigkeit der Axiome des logischen Funktionenkalküls,” Monatshefte fur Mathematik und Physik 37: 349–360; page references to this edition. ———. 1931. Über formal unentscheidbare Sätze der Principia Mathematica und verwandter Systeme I. Monatshefte für Mathematik und Physik 38: 173–198. Page references to this edition. Reprinted in English as On Formally Undecidable Propositions of Principia Mathematica and related Systems I in Gödel 1986, 145–195. ———. 1938. The Consistency of the Axiom of Choice and of the Generalized Continuum-­ Hypothesis. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 24: 556–557. Reprinted in Gödel 1990, 234–237. ———. 1953/59 (unpublished). Is Mathematics Syntax of Language? In Gödel (1995), 230–260.

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———. 1942 (unpublished). Max Phil Notebooks: IX. 1st Rough Draft 27, 80-83 by C. Dawson; First Complete Transcription Eva-Maria Engelen; G. Crocco, P. Cantu, R. Rollinger, M. Van Atten, Firestone Library and the Library of the Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton University. ———. 1944. Russell’s Mathematical Logic. In Gödel 1990, 119-143. Originally published in P.A. Schilpp, ed. The Philosophy of Bertrand Russell. Chicago: Northwestern University Press. References are to the original edition. ———. 1986. Kurt Gödel Collected Works Volume I: Publications 1938–1974, eds. Solomon Feferman, et al. New York: Oxford University Press. ———. 1990. Kurt Gödel Collected Works Volume II: Publications 1938–1974, eds. Solomon Feferman, et al. New York: Oxford University Press. ———. 1995. Kurt Gödel Collected Works Volume III: Unpublished Essays and Lectures, eds. Solomon Feferman, et al. New York: Oxford University Press. Goldfarb, Warren. 1997. Metaphysics and Nonsense: On Cora Diamond’s The Realistic Spirit. Journal of Philosophical Research 22: 58–73. James, William. 1902. The Varieties of Religious Experience. New York: Longmans, Green & Co. ———. 1904. Does ‘Consciousness’ Exist? Journal of Philosophy, Psychology and Scientific Methods 1 (18): 477–491. Kuusela, Oskari. 2008. The Struggle Against Dogmatism: Wittgenstein and the Concept of Philosophy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Laugier, Sandra. 2020. Necrology of Ontology: Putnam, Ethics, Realism. The Monist 103: 391–403. Levine, James. 2013. Principia Mathematica, the Multiple-Relation Theory of Judgment and Molecular Facts. In The Palgrave Centenary Companion to Principia Mathematica, ed. Nicholas Griffin and Bernard Linsky, 247–304. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Levine, James and Bernard Linsky, eds. forthcoming. Bertrand Russell and His Students, 1910–1916 [Working title]. Contains Transcriptions of Russell’s Lectures. McGuinness, Brian. 1988. Wittgenstein: A Life: Young Ludwig 1889–1921. Berkeley: University of California Press. Narboux, Jean-Philippe. 2014. Showing, the Medium Voice, and the Unity of the Tractatus. Philosophical Topics 42 (2): 201–262. Pihlström, Sami, Friedrich Stadler, and Niels Weidtmann, eds. 2017. Logical Empiricism and Pragmatism. Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook. Cham: Springer International Publishing. Russell, Bertrand. 1905. Necessity and Possibility. Paper Read to the Oxford Philosophical Society 22 October 1905. In The Collected Papers of Bertrand Russell: Foundations of Logic 1903–05, Vol. 4, ed. Alasdair Urquhart and Albert C. Lewis, 507–520. London/New York: Routledge. ———. 1906. On the Nature of Truth. Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, N.S. 7(1906/7): 28–49. Reprinted in Russell 2014, 433–454. ———. 1908. William James’s Conception of Truth. In Russell 2014, 465–488. Originally published in The Albany Review, n.s. 2 (January 1908): 393–410, as a review of William James, Pragmatism: A New Name for Some Old Ways of Thinking, New York, Longmans, Green, 1907. Page references to the original edition. ———. 1910a. La Théorie des types logiques. Revue de Métaphysique et Morale 18 (May) 1910: 263–301. Reprinted as Chapter 1 of Russell 1983, 4–31. ———. 1910b. On the Nature of Truth and Falsehood. In Philosophical Essays, Chap. VII, ed. B. Russell. New York: Routledge. Reprinted in Russell 1983, 115–124. References are to the original edition. ———. 1912. The Problems of Philosophy. London/New York: Oxford University Press. ———. 1913. The Theory of Knowledge 1913 Manuscript. In Russell 1984. ———. 1918. The Philosophy of Logical Atomism. London/New York: George Allen & Unwin. Published initially in The Monist, 28 (Oct. 1918): 495–527; 29 (Jan., April, July 1919): 32–63, 190–222, 345–80. ———. 1919. Introduction to Mathematical Philosophy. London: Allen & Unwin.

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———. 1921. The Analysis of Mind. London: Routledge. ———. 1927. The Analysis of Matter. New York/London: Harcourt, Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner. ———. 1940. An Inquiry into Meaning and Truth. London: G. Allen and Unwin. ———. 1983. The Collected Papers of Bertrand Russell. Vol 6: Logical and Philosophical Papers 1909-13, eds. J. G. Slater and B. Frohmann (1992). New York: Routledge. ———. 1984. The Collected Papers of Bertrand Russell, Vol. 7: Theory of Knowledge: The 1913 Manuscript, eds. Elizabeth R. Eames and Kenneth Blackwell. New York: George Allen & Unwin. ———. 2014. The Collected Papers of Bertrand Russell Vol. 5: Toward “Principia Mathematica”, 1905-8, ed. Gregory H. Moore. New York: Routledge. ———. 2015–2016. Notes on William James: The Varieties of Religious Experience. Russell: The Journal of Bertrand Russell Studies 35: 181–182. Schlick, Moritz. 1910. The Nature of Truth in Modern Logic. In Moritz Schlick: Philosophical Papers Vol. I (1909-1922), 41–103, eds. Barbara F.  B. van de Velde-Schlick and Henk L. Mulder. Boston/London: D. Reidel. Original publication Das Wesen der Wahrheit nach der modernen Logik. In Vierteljahrsschrift für wissenschaftliche Philosophie und Soziologie 34 (1910): 386–477. ———. 1925. Allgemeine Erkenntnislehre, Berlin: Springer. 2nd edition reprint (2009) in Moritz Schlick Gesamtausgabe Abteilung I, Band 1, eds. Hans Jürgen Wendel and Friedrich Stadler. Vienna: Springer. English translation (1985), General Theory of Knowledge. Translated by A.E. Blumberg. Library of Exact Philosophy, 11. LaSalle: Open Court Publishing. Shieh, Shieh. 2019. Necessity Lost. Modality and Logic in Early Analytic Philosophy. Vol. I. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. forthcoming. Wittgenstein and Russell. The Philosophy of Ludwig Wittgenstein, Cambridge Element, ed. D. Stern. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Expected date of publication 2022. Stadler, Friedrich. 2001. The Vienna Circle. Studies in the Origins, Development, and Influence of Logical Empiricism. Vienna: Springer. Translation of Studien zum Wiener Kreis. Ursprung, Entwicklung und Wirkung des Logischen Empirismus im Kontext, Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1997. Tarski, Alfred. 1933. The Concept of Truth in Formalized Languages. In Tarski 1983. Logic, Semantics, Metamathematics. Papers from 1923 to 1938. Translated by J.H. Woodger, John Corcoran, ed. Indianapolis: Hackett: 152–278. From “Der Wahrheitsbegriff in den formalisierten Sprachen” (German translation of [1933] with a postscript), Studia Philosophica 1 (1935): 261–405. Toledo, Sue. 2011. Sue Toledo’s Notes of Her Conversations with Gödel in 1972-5 (edited by Juliette Kennedy). In Set Theory, Arithmetic and Foundations of Mathematics: Theorems, Philosophies, eds. Juliette Kennedy and Roman Kossak, 200–207. New York: Association for Symbolic Logic, Cambridge University Press. Travis, Charles. 2006. Thought’s Footing: Themes in Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wang, H. (1987). Reflections on Kurt Gödel. Cambridge, MA, The MIT Press. Wang, H. (1996). A Logical Journey: From Gödel to Philosophy. Cambridge, MA, MIT Press. Whitehead, Alfred North, and Bertrand Russell. 1910. Principia Mathematica, 3 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wiggins, David. 2004. Wittgenstein on Ethics and the Riddle of Life. Philosophy 79 (3): 363–391. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1913. Notes on Logic. In Wittgenstein 1979, Appendix 1: 92–107. ———. 1921/1981. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Translated by C.K.  Ogden. London/New York: Routledge & Kegan Paul. First German edition in Annalen der Naturphilosophie, ed. Wilhelm Ostwald, 14, 12–262, Leipzig: 1921. ———. 1979. Notebooks 1914–1916, 2nd ed., eds. G.H. von Wright and G.E.M.  Anscombe. Translated by G.E.M. Anscombe. Oxford: Basil Blackwell.

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———. 2008. Wittgenstein in Cambridge: Letters and Documents 1911–1951, ed. Brian McGuinness. Malden: Blackwell Publishing. ———. 2009. Philosophische Untersuchungen = Philosophical Investigations. Translated and edited by G.E.M. Anscombe, P.M.S. Hacker, and J. Schulte. Malden: Wiley-Blackwell. Zalabardo, J.L. 2015. Representation and Reality in Wittgenstein’s Tractatus. New York: Oxford University Press. ———., ed. 2012. Wittgenstein’s Early Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Chapter 10

Wittgenstein, Ramsey and the Vienna Circle Cheryl Misak

Abstract  This paper will explore the engagement of Wittgenstein, Ramsey and the Vienna Circle (mostly Schlick and Carnap) in the 1920s. This is before Wittgenstein became what we know as the later Wittgenstein and one upshot of the paper will be that it was Ramsey who turned Wittgenstein away from the quest for a pure and objective language (a quest he shared with the Vienna Circle) and turned him towards the pragmatist idea that meaning is bound up with use. Keywords  Frank Ramsey · Ludwig Wittgenstein · Vienna Circle · Moritz Schlick · Rudolf Carnap · Meaning as use · Tractatus · Habit

10.1 The Un-Understandable Manuscript Wittgenstein wrote what would become the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus during the First World War, often under extreme conditions on the front. He ended up in a prisoner of war camp in Italy (he had been fighting for the Austrians), manuscript in hand and eager for it to be published. Keynes used his considerable influence to get it out of Europe and to Cambridge. Wittgenstein maintained the pretense of doing philosophy from scratch, uninfluenced by others, but the ideas contained in the manuscript built on Russell’s logical atomism—his attempt to specify the exact relationship between language and reality. On Wittgenstein’s account, the world fundamentally divides into atomic facts or existing states of affairs, which consist of absolutely simple objects in a definite set of relations with each other. Language, like a picture, represents that objects are a Some of this material can be found in Misak (2019, 2020), but much is new, such as the sections on structuralism and concept change. C. Misak (*) Department of Philosophy, University of Toronto, Toronto, ON, Canada e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_10

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certain way. Elementary propositions assert the existence of particular states of affairs and these propositions are true if the world is as they say it is. This primary world is the only thing we can meaningfully talk about—everything else is a kind of nonsense. In the famous last words of the Tractatus: “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent” (Wittgenstein 1922 6.53–7). When Russell wrote with some questions about the manuscript, Wittgenstein replied saying he couldn’t provide answers—Russell should know how difficult it was for him to write about logic. That is why the manuscript was “so short, and consequently so obscure” (McGuinness 2012, 98).1 But he was eager to correct Russell about its “main contention”, which Wittgenstein took to be the distinction between what can be expressed and what cannot be expressed. In a subsequent letter he was quite brutal about what he took to be Russell’s misunderstanding of his work: I should never had believed that the stuff I dictated to Moore in Norway six years ago would have passed over you so completely without trace. In short, I’m now afraid that it might be very difficult for me to reach any understanding with you. And the small remaining hope that my manuscript might mean something to you has completely vanished. As you can imagine, I’m in no position to write a commentary on my book. I could only give you one orally. If you attach any importance whatsoever to understanding the thing and if you can manage to arrange a meeting with me, then please do so. If that isn’t possible, then be so good to send the manuscript back to Vienna by a safe route as soon as you’ve read it. It is the only corrected copy I possess and is my life’s work! Now more than ever I’m burning to see it in print. It’s galling to have to lug the completed work round in captivity and to see how nonsense has a clear field outside! And it’s equally galling to think that no one will understand it even if it does get printed! (McGuinness 2012, 93)

Wittgenstein had already broken with Moore over his inability to comprehend the ideas in that dictation in Norway. He noted also to Russell that he had sent the manuscript to Frege, who “doesn’t understand a word of it at all”, and that “It is VERY hard not to be understood by a single soul!” (McGuinness 2012, 98). After much difficulty, Russell got a visa, and the two met in The Hague so that Wittgenstein could explain his ideas. He would remain of the view that Russell didn’t understand them. Nonetheless, Wittgenstein was keen to have his work translated into English and published and he needed Russell’s help in doing that. But who could possibly translate a work so difficult that the author claimed that Russell, Moore, and Frege didn’t understand it? I.A. Richards recalled: All sorts of people were called in . . . They couldn’t make it make as good sense in English as, if it made any good sense in German, they thought it should. Moore had been insisting very much that it wasn’t translatable—it would be much better left just as it was. . . . [It] got into a kind of discord; and then I don’t know who suggested that Frank ought to have a try at it. (Mellor 1978)

“Frank” was Frank Ramsey, an 18  year old mathematics undergraduate at Cambridge, with a passion for philosophy. It is astonishing that they would settle on someone so young and inexperienced, since the titans of logic and philosophy were

 My policy with respect to citation of archival sources is that when a quote is published somewhere, I cite that source, relying on archival references only when necessary. 1

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deemed to be unqualified. But it was a stroke of genius. As C.K. Ogden, who was keen to publish the book, put it to Wittgenstein, their translator was a “Trinity mathematical prodigy” (Misak 2020, 131). Ramsey was well-versed in the work of Russell and in German logic and philosophy. He had won the German Prize as a schoolboy at Winchester. The decision would change the course of analytic philosophy, for, as I shall argue, Ramsey was responsible for Wittgenstein turning his back on the Tractatus and becoming what we think of as the later Wittgenstein. Ramsey went to Miss Pate’s secretarial agency in the winter of 1921–22, reading Wittgenstein’s treatise in English to a shorthand writer who then typed it up. After some to-and-fro between Wittgenstein, Russell, Ogden, and Ramsey, Wittgenstein declared that the translation had “equal authority with the original” and where the translation differed from the original, it was the translation that best captured his meaning (McGuinness 2012, 298). He conveyed his “best thanks” to the translator for excellent work despite having “an awful job” (von Wright 1973, 21).2 The manuscript was published in 1922  in Ogden’s International Library of Psychology, Philosophy and Scientific Method, the English and German side-by-side. Ramsey was the only person who Wittgenstein felt understood the ideas in the Tractatus. I don’t believe he said that of anyone else, not at the time or later.

10.2 Ramsey and Wittgenstein: 1923 Ramsey then wrote a long Critical Notice of the Tractatus for the journal Mind. He had yet to meet Wittgenstein. That would finally happen in September 1923, a couple of months after Ramsey finished his final undergraduate examinations and while his Critical Notice was in press. They spent 5 hours a day for a fortnight, going over the Tractatus line by line. Ramsey was in awe of Wittgenstein, but he had some worries about his view, which he had expressed in his Critical Notice. He was relieved that the marathon sessions with Wittgenstein didn’t show that he had misread the great man. He remarked to his diary: “Read my review of W written in August; jolly good seeing I hadn’t talked to him then; decide certainly to send it to him” (Misak 2020, 142). Ramsey focussed on two things in his Critical Notice. First was Wittgenstein’s picture theory of meaning: “the non-mystical deductions” that occupy most of the text or the arguing in detail for “the necessity of something in common between the picture and the world” (Ramsey 1923, 468). Here he raised a number of objections, including what is now known as the colour exclusion problem. A “great difficulty” with Wittgenstein’s “account of the proposition as the expression of agreement and disagreement with truth-possibilities of independent elementary propositions” is that “the only necessity is that of tautology, the only impossibility that of  At the time, Wittgenstein thought that there were two translators, but was soon put right about the fact that it was only Ramsey. Ogden took credit for the translation but it is clear that it was Ramsey who did it. See Misak (2020). 2

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contradiction” (Ramsey 1923, 473). Ramsey pointed out that it is not a tautology that red and blue cannot be in one place at the same time, although when I say that x is red all over, that necessarily excludes x’s being blue all over. Ramsey’s second focus was the distinction between saying and showing—what Wittgenstein told Russell was his main contention. Wittgenstein maintained that we can only gesture at all the things that are not expressible in the elementary language that pictures the world. In Ramsey’s words, “there are certain things which cannot be said but only shown, and these constitute the Mystical” (Ramsey 1923, 472). One problem on which Ramsey zoomed was the rationale for this main contention. Wittgenstein held that a picture has the same logical form as reality and anything that does not mirror reality in this way is not expressible in the elementary language. Ramsey thought “it is evident that, to say the least, this definition is very incomplete; it can be applied literally only in one case, that of the completely analysed elementary proposition” (Ramsey 1923, 469). All sorts of important things are excluded. For one thing, Wittgenstein’s form of representation itself is an “elusive entity which is intrinsically impossible to discuss” (Ramsey 1923, 468). Later, Ramsey would object that universal generalizations, hypotheses, and all other manner of important things couldn’t be expressed in the elementary language. But already in the Critical Notice he was ready to conclude that “we cannot be satisfied with a theory that deals only with elementary propositions” (Ramsey 1923, 469).

10.3 Ramsey, Wittgenstein, and the Vienna Circle: 1923–1924 In the spring of 1924, Ramsey went to Vienna for 6 months to be psychoanalysed. He had been kind to Wittgenstein’s nephew Tommy in 1923, when the boy was a mathematics undergraduate at Trinity. Tommy was now keen to introduce Ramsey to his mother, Wittgenstein’s sister, Margaret Stonborough. She took Ramsey under her wing, inviting him to dinners and the opera. At one of these dinners, Ramsey met Moritz Schlick, the philosopher at the centre of the Vienna Circle. Ramsey’s contemporary from the Cambridge mathematics tripos, Max Newman, happened also to be in Vienna and took him to see Hans Hahn, the eminent professor of mathematics and Vienna Circle member. Hahn arranged for Ramsey to use the University library and invited him to attend his seminar on Theory of Functions of a Complex Variable. Ramsey’s verdict on Schlick was “he didn’t seem to me much of a philosopher, but a very nice man” (Misak 2020, 166). He would retain this fond but sceptical view of Schlick for the rest of his life. He was more keen on Hahn’s work. He didn’t attend the seminar on complex variables, but he did rue that he wouldn’t be in Vienna the following year, when Hahn was to give a seminar on Russell’s Principia Mathematica. While in Vienna, Ramsey played an important role in introducing the English version of the Tractatus to the Circle. It differed from the German version, which

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had hastily been published in a German periodical, uncorrected and unrevised by Wittgenstein. Schlick wrote to Reichenbach in August 1924: Do you know the ‘Tractatus-logico-philosophicus’ from L. Wittgenstein, which appeared in the Annals of Natural Philosophy and which has been edited by Russell in a book version in German and English? The author lives close to Vienna, and is highly original, also as a human being; the more one studies his treatise, the more one is impressed by it. The English translator, a mathematician from Cambridge, whom I met in the summer, is also a very intelligent and sophisticated mind. (Misak 2020, 173–74)

Schlick wrote to Wittgenstein on Christmas day 1924 expressing his admiration of the Tractatus and his desire to meet its author. He told Wittgenstein that “last summer I had the pleasure to meet Mr. Ramsey, the translator of your work, during his last stay in Vienna” and asked how he might get a copy of the English version of Tractatus. Wittgenstein wrote back, saying he himself didn’t have spares, but Ramsey “would certainly be kind enough to arrange for some copies” (Misak 2020, 173f). By early 1925, the Circle was in possession of the Ramsey translation. The Tractatus quickly became essential to the Vienna Circle. For they too were trying to stake out the boundaries of the meaningful, arguing that a meaningful sentence is one that is reducible, via truth-preserving logic, to an elementary language of simple, basic observation statements. They thought, with Wittgenstein, that “The totality of true propositions is the total natural science” (Wittgenstein 1922, 4.11).

10.4 Ramsey: In Step with the Vienna Circle? Ramsey wrote his undergraduate thesis, published as “The Foundations of Mathematics”, while in Vienna. In it, he tried to repair Russell’s Principia Mathematica and save logicism. Ramsey sent Schlick a copy of the published paper. Carnap transcribed parts of it and Schlick scribbled comments on the whole of it. The Circle read it carefully and talked about it for 2 weeks in January 1927 and then intermittently right through to 1929. They took the paper, and Ramsey, to be an important part of their movement. Wittgenstein had characterised logical truth as tautology, thereby not being about the world at all and saving it from the rubbish bin of nonsense. But he took mathematics statements to be equations, not tautologies. Ramsey extended the notion of tautology to mathematics in his undergraduate thesis and the Circle took the two moves together  to be the turning point in philosophy. The Vienna Circle’s 1929 Manifesto named Ramsey as one of those “sympathetic” to their mission (Hahn et al. 1929, 318). They took him to be very much on their side, trying to make even better the view they thought they shared with Wittgenstein. The similarities were indeed striking between Wittgenstein and the Circle. Carnap, in his 1928 Der Logische Aufbau der Welt, started with ostensive definition, where one picks out objects in subjective experience. Classes of experience are then constructed out of individual time slices of sensory experiences; then concepts such as blue are built up; then objects; then higher concepts. An equivalence relation is

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used to define or construct things of a less basic kind. But Carnap soon became more a structuralist than Wittgenstein. Our system of knowledge has a purely logical or formal character and a concept is determined by its place in that formal structure. Schlick’s 1918 Allgemeine Erkenntnislehre also held that theories are formal deductive systems, where the axioms implicitly define the basic concepts and concepts are pure structure. They “float freely” from reality (Schlick 1918/1925, 37). Ramsey’s worries about the Tractatus only intensified and encompassed the Vienna Circle. When Carnap’s Aufbau appeared in 1928, he thought it suffered from the same defects. He continued to worry about one of the major problems he had identified in his Critical Notice. The picture theory is apt only for elementary propositions, not for the whole range important beliefs. In his 1925 “Facts and propositions”, he concluded with the following striking remark: I must emphasize my indebtedness to Mr. Wittgenstein, from whom my view of logic is derived. Everything that I have said is due to him, except the parts which have a pragmatist tendency, which seem to me to be needed in order to fill up a gap in his system. … The essence of pragmatism I take to be this, that the meaning of a sentence is to be defined by reference to the actions to which asserting it would lead, or, more vaguely still, by its possible causes and effects. (1927/1990, 51)

There was nothing at all pragmatist in the Tractatus, which held that meaning is about word-world relationships, not actions to which assertion would lead. Ramsey was announcing his move away from Wittgenstein’s project. His pragmatism said that belief is a habit and is assessed as such. The depth of the disagreement only grew when Wittgenstein returned to Cambridge in January 1929, in what turned out to be the last year of Ramsey’s life. The two met almost daily for philosophical wrangles. Here is how Ramsey was expressing his objections in 1929, in a draft of a paper titled “Philosophy”: Philosophy must be of some use and we must take it seriously; it must clear our thoughts and so our actions, Otherwise it is mere chatter. Or else it is a disposition we have to check . . . i.e. the chief proposition of philosophy is that philosophy is nonsense. And again we must then take seriously that it is nonsense, and not pretend, as Wittgenstein does, that it is important nonsense! (Misak 2020, 361)

Ramsey simply did not agree with Wittgenstein and Carnap’s project in 1928: that in philosophy we should “take the propositions we make in science and everyday life and try to exhibit them in a logical system with primitive terms and definitions, etc.” (1929a/1990, 1) In a later draft of “Philosophy”, he said: We cannot really picture the world as disconnected selves; the selves we know are in the world. What we can’t do we can’t do and it’s no good trying. Philosophy comes from not understanding the logic of our language; but the logic of our language is not what Wittgenstein thought. The pictures we make to ourselves are not pictures of facts. (Galavotti 1991, 51)

Ramsey was also set against the view of definitions and concepts on which a definition nails down the meaning of a concept once and for all. In “Philosophy”, he argued that definitions show us “how we intend to use [concepts] in the future”; “meaning is mainly potential” (1929a/1990, 1). In another rebuke to Wittgenstein

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and Carnap, who tried so hard in the 1920s to explicitly set out the structure of knowledge, Ramsey said that definitions “are to give at least our future meaning, and not merely to give any pretty way of obtaining a certain structure” (1929a/1990, 1). Any attempt to analyse “This patch is red” into “a theoretical construction” of an infinite class of points on a visual field would be “giving up philosophy for theoretical psychology. For in philosophy we analyse our thought, in which patch could not be replaced by an infinite class of points” (1929a/1990, 4). Ramsey saw that “infinite classes of points could only come in when we look at the mind from outside and construct a theory of it, in which its sensory field consists of classes of coloured points about which it thinks”. (1929a, 4) The philosopher, as opposed to theoretical psychologist, must ask questions about what it is like for a perceiver to experience a patch of red and how we assess a perception as veridical or not. And in this philosophical project, a theory of how perception is logically constructed will always fall short. Carnap and Wittgenstein make a “mistake” because the subject or the perceiver is not in their picture, but is somehow meant to be standing outside it. They are so concerned with the nature of representations that they left no room to consider the nature of representing—of what it is for beings like us to manage to say, think, and believe things. This results in a solipsism that Wittgenstein and Carnap accepted, but Ramsey thought unacceptable. Wittgenstein said in the Tractatus: “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world” (Wittgenstein 1922, 5.6). What is meaningful and certain is, at bottom, an individual’s experience of the world of objects. Ramsey asked how we are supposed to bridge the chasm between ourselves and the world. How we can even make claims about the world on this account? “Ludwig’s” primary world “contains no thought” (Misak 2020, 362). “Solipsism in the ordinary sense in which as e.g. in Carnap the primary world consists of my experiences past present and future will not do. For this primary world is the world about which I am now thinking” (Galavotti 1991, 66). We need to think about the human facts, not try to do the impossible—try to think about the facts somehow abstracted from all human understanding. Carnap too came in for criticism on this score. In a scribbled note Ramsey said: Solipsism in the ordinary sense in which as e.g. in Carnap the primary world consists of my experiences past present and future will not do. For this primary world is the world about which I am now thinking. (Galavotti 1991, 66)

In another note about Carnap, Ramsey again went after the constructionist approach: The most idealistic philosophy accepts only the given in the sense of present experience, memory and expectations. This is solipsism of the present moment. It seems to me untenable, because in order to describe the present I should never make such elaborate constructions. (Galavotti 1991, 35)

Ramsey also took a poor view of the structuralism in Carnap and Schlick (also held by Eddington) that says that concepts get their meaning from their place in the structure of a formal theory. He wrote a number of scattered notes about structuralism:

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C. Misak It is “muck” and a “silly muddle”. If chess were a structure, the leaves of the trees would play it. Structuralism ignores the subjective, human side of concepts.3

Ramsey was rebelling against any position that attempted “a construction of the fundamental epistemological concepts, ‘meaning’, ‘acquaintance’, ‘truth’, ‘knowledge’, etc.” on the basis of “streams of consciousness connected to a physical world” (Ramsey ASP/FPR 004-22-02). Wittgenstein’s method, Ramsey said, is to construct a logic, and do all our philosophical analysis entirely unselfconsciously, thinking all the time of the facts and not about our thinking about them, deciding what we mean without any reference to the nature of meanings. (Ramsey 1929a/1990, 5)

That is the wrong approach: The chief danger to our philosophy, apart from laziness and wooliness, is scholasticism, the essence of which is treating what is vague as if it were precise and trying to fit it into an exact logical category. (Ramsey 1929a/1990, 8)

In an undated note, Ramsey criticized the idea of having a “first” or absolute philosophy and concluded: Our world is therefore a vague one and the precise is a fiction or construction. We cannot use Wittgenstein’s notations like “.3 red /.7 blue”; what colour is that? I have no idea. I could only understand it by translating into intelligible terms. (Galavotti 1991, 55)

Ramsey was clearly not on board with the project of the Vienna Circle. Despite sharing with them an interest in Russell, Wittgenstein, and the new logic, Ramsey never wrote anything but a few notes about the Circle.4 The dearth of commentary is itself an indication of his attitude towards their project. And we have seen that those few notes were negative. Unfortunately, the one instance in which Ramsey was going to pay proper (if reluctant) attention to the Circle was cut short by his death at the age of 26. He was apologising to Schlick on what turned out to be his deathbed for not producing a promised review of Carnap’s Aufbau: “I feel very guilty that I’ve not yet written a review of Carnap’s book, which is really inexcusable. I found it very interesting, though some things I thought certainly wrong and others I felt very doubtful about” (Misak 2020, 400).

 ASP/FPR-003-11-01; ASP/FPR 002-10-01.  The 1929 “Theories” did have Carnap in the background as a target. In the 1950s, Carnap and Hempel employed “Theories”, with its Ramsey Sentences, to their own ends. See Psillos (2006) and Misak (2020) for a corrective. 3 4

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10.5 Ramsey on Definitions, Hypotheses, and Conceptual Change Pragmatism tells us that we must think of ourselves always in the midst of inquiry, not as building knowledge from certainties. Ramsey puts the pragmatist point nicely in “Philosophy” We cannot make our philosophy into an ordered progress to a goal, but have to take our problems as a whole and jump to a simultaneous solution; which will have something of the nature of a hypothesis, for we shall accept it not as the consequence of a direct argument, but as the only one we can think of which satisfies our several requirements. … We are in the ordinary position of scientists of having to be content with piecemeal improvements; we can make several things clearer, but we cannot make [every]thing clear. (Ramsey 1929a/1990, 6)

Two other papers Ramsey drafted in 1929 fill out his alternative picture: “Theories” and “General Propositions and Causality”. Wittgenstein had been alert in the Tractatus to the need to give an account of how generalizations and scientific theories that fit into the picture theory of meaning and truth. But his efforts were not satisfactory. He treated the general quantifier as depending “palpably on that of the elementary propositions” (Wittgenstein 1922, 4.411): generalizations are infinite conjunctions of their instances. That is, they are part of the elementary language and do not go beyond the objects in the world. To say “All humans are mortal” is to say that “Bertrand Russell is mortal and G.E. Moore is mortal” and on and on. But scientific laws seem to be more than generalizations—they suggest causality. Wittgenstein declared the causal nexus to be “the superstition” (Wittgenstein 1922, 5.1361), which indeed it is on a view like his where we are restricted to the world of existing objects. He attempted to characterise scientific laws as meshes applied to a surface, giving it form. We can apply a variety of such “networks” to describe the world (Wittgenstein 1922, 5.1361, 6.341, 6.35). But then the question is how these meshes or networks can possibly be in the world of elementary objects. We get no answer from him. Ramsey takes a completely different approach, set against the attempt to cram all knowledge into a logical scientific system. We have to see “the vagueness of the whole idea of understanding, the reference it involves to a multitude of performances any of which may fail and require to be restored”. (Ramsey 1929a/1990, 2) We cannot content ourselves with strict definitions. The moorings of Carnap and Wittgenstein’s project are too taut. The ship of knowledge will never be released from the drydock in which it was built.5 Ramsey’s corrective was to put the representer back into representation and definition. Only by doing so will we come up with a realistic account of universal generalizations or scientific laws, (what Ramsey called “variable hypotheticals”),  Ramsey, although he seems not aware of Neurath’s metaphor about knowledge being like a ship being re-built at sea, was on Neurath’s side in this debate within the Vienna Circle. 5

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unobservable or theoretical terms in science, and all manner of other necessary parts of our conceptual system: In the process of clarifying our thought we come to terms and sentences which we cannot elucidate in the obvious manner by defining their meaning. For instance, variable hypotheticals and theoretical terms we cannot define, but we can explain the way they are used, and in this explanation we are forced to look not only at the objects which we are talking about, but at our own mental states. … in this part of logic we cannot neglect the epistemic or subjective side”. … Self-consciousness is inevitable in philosophy, except in a very limited field. (Ramsey 1929a/1990, 6–7)

On Ramsey’s alternative approach, beliefs are expectations or habits of action. In “General Propositions and Causality”, he argues that hypotheses or causal law-like statements are a particular kind of belief. They are expectations with which we meet the future; “rules for judging” or rules that we “trust” (Ramsey 1929b/1990, 153f, 146f, 151). They are assessed by how well they meet the future. In “Theories”, he argues that we should think of a theory as a growing existential judgment which will meet the future successfully or not. We say: “There exists a least one x, such that x is an electron, which . . .”, and go on to tell a story about those electrons. We assume there are electrons for the sake of the story, just as we assume there is a girl when we listen to a story that starts ‘Once upon a time there was a girl, who . . .’ (Ramsey 1929c/1990, 131). But in science, unlike fiction, we don’t suspend belief. We commit ourselves to the existence of the entities in our theory, knowing that if the theory gets overthrown, so will our commitment to its entities. In the meantime, we use the theory. Any additions to it are to be made within the scope of the quantifier that says that there exists a wealth of objects. That is, we can revise the theory. It can evolve while still being about the original entities. A definition of an entity in the theory (observable or not) tells us how to go on using a term by making more precise the vague and complex concept it stands for. We are to treat our theory of the world as an evolving existential statement. But its claim that the objects exist is a claim we have made, using inductive and abductive reasoning, not at all written in the language of certainty.

10.6 The Middle Wittgenstein and Waismann on Hypotheses Wittgenstein was treated to a barrage from Ramsey on these topics in 1929. I have argued (Misak 2020) that during this period he was persuaded by Ramsey and adopted parts of Ramsey’s pragmatism. The day after Ramsey died, Wittgenstein wrote his notebook, talking about pragmatism positively for the first time and repudiating the Tractarian position that a scientific hypothesis can be reduced to immediate experience: When I say ‘There is a chair over there’, this sentence refers to a series of expectations. I believe I could go there, perceive the chair and sit on it, I believe it is made of wood and I expect it to have a certain hardness, inflammability etc. If some of these expectations are disappointed, I will see it as proof for retaining that there was no chair there.

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Here one sees how one may arrive at the pragmatist conception of true and false: A sentence is true as long as it proves to be useful. Every sentence we utter in everyday life appears to have the character of a hypothesis. … The point of talking of sense-data and immediate experience is that we are looking for a non-hypothetical representation. But now it seems that the representation loses all its value if the hypothetical element is dropped, because then the proposition does not point to the future any more, but it is, as it were, self-satisfied and hence without any value. It makes no sense to speak of sentences, if they have no instrumental value. T h e sense of a sentence is its purpose. When I tell someone ‘There is a chair over there’, I want to produce in him certain expectations and ways of acting. [MS 107, 247–50]6

Ramsey died in January 1930. In March, Wittgenstein made a trip to Vienna and put forward the idea that hypotheses are expectations to Schlick and Waismann.7 Waismann’s notes from this meeting say: Distinction between “propositions” and “hypotheses”: An hypothesis is not a proposition, but a law for constructing propositions. A natural law cannot be verified or falsified. Of natural laws you can say that it is neither true nor false but “probable”, and here “probable” means: simple, convenient. A proposition is true or false, never probable. Anything that is probable is not a proposition. (McGuinness 2012, 99–1008)

Shortly after discussing hypotheses with Wittgenstein, Waismann gave some lectures to the Vienna Circle titled “On Wittgenstein’s Philosophy” and adopted the Wittgensteinian (really the Ramseyan) account of hypotheses as rules of judging: “The hypothesis is never verified. It always points towards the future” (Waismann 1930, 255).9 Many of the members of the Vienna Circle then adopted this conception of hypotheses. Schlick, Neurath, and Carnap latched onto it straight away. Hahn adopted it later and a little less confidently.10 Wittgenstein accused Carnap of plagiarism—of stealing from him “the character of laws of nature, where hypotheses are characterized by means of their peculiar logical form, which differs from ordinary propositions” (Stern 2007, 322). Why accuse only Carnap and not the others? It may be that Wittgenstein saved much of his vitriol for Carnap, who he disliked (as opposed to Schlick, who he liked very much). In any event, no one mentioned Ramsey. It’s clear that Wittgenstein, before throwing stones at Carnap, should have been acknowledging that his own position derived from Ramsey’s. It’s more understandable that the members of the Vienna Circle would overlook Ramsey. They got the idea from Wittgenstein. Ramsey’s

 The translation is due to the separate but combined (by me) efforts of Anna Boncompagni and Joachim Schulte. 7  Here I rely on Limbeck-Lilienau (forthcoming). 8  I have replaced McGuinness’s translation of “Aussage” by “statement” with “proposition”. 9  He would later explain the idea by saying that concepts have “open texture”. See Limbeck-­ Lilienau (forthcoming). 10  See Schlick 1931, Neurath 1931, Carnap 1931, Hahn 1933/1959. 6

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“General Propositions and Causality” would only be published in 1931, when Braithwaite edited a selection of Ramsey’s papers and drafts.

10.7 Aftermath The Carnap and Wittgenstein to which Ramsey objected were the Carnap and Wittgenstein of the 1920s—1928 to be precise. That was the year Carnap’s Aufbau was published and it was before Wittgenstein returned to Cambridge to face the barrage of Ramsey’s pragmatist challenges. After 1928, both Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle started to be influenced by Ramsey. Hahn put the Circle’s pragmatist turn as follows in 1933: As against the metaphysical view that truth consists in an agreement with reality—though this agreement cannot be established—we advocate the pragmatic view that the truth of a statement consists in its confirmation. (Hahn 1987/1933, 43)

The origins of their influence were obscured by the fact that the influence travelled through Wittgenstein. Wittgenstein was keen to think, and have others think, that his ideas arose solely through his own genius and hard thinking. So when the Circle got wind of Ramsey’s idea, they took it as Wittgenstein’s. Wittgenstein, however, was under no illusions in 1929. He knew that Ramsey rejected the primacy of the primary language and thought we should not be obsessed by word-world relationships. Ramsey was challenging Wittgenstein almost daily about the value of the elementary language. I have suggested that in 1930, Wittgenstein started to see that almost all statements of ordinary language have the character of a hypothesis and that he moved towards Ramsey’s view. After Ramsey’s death, he would begin his long route to the Ramseyean idea that meaning is use and practice is primary.

References Carnap, Rudolf. 1931. Die Physikalische Sprache als Universalsprache der Wissenschaft. Erkenntnis 2: 432–465. Galavotti, Maria Carla, ed. 1991. Notes on Philosophy, Probability and Mathematics. Naples: Bibliopolis. Hahn, Hans. 1933/1959. Logic, Mathematics and Knowledge of Nature. In Logical Positivism, ed. Alfred Ayer, 147–161. 1959. Repr. New York: The Free Press. ———. 1987/1933. Logik, Mathematik, Naturerkennen. Repr. Vienna: Gerold. Hahn, Hans, Rudolf Carnap, and Otto Neurath. 1929. Wissenschaftliche Weltauffassung. Der Wiener Kreis. Vienna: Wolf. Limbeck-Lilienau, Christoph. From Hypotheses to ‘Open Texture’: The Reception of Ramsey’s Conception of General Propositions in the Vienna Circle (forthcoming). ———, ed. 2012. Wittgenstein in Cambridge: Letters and Documents 1911–1951. Oxford: Blackwell.

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Mellor, D.  H. 1978. “Better Than the Stars”. Broadcast on BBC Radio 3: 27 February, 1978. Audiofile: http://www.dspace.cam.ac.uk/handle/1810/3484. Misak, Cheryl. 2019. Ramsey and the Vienna Circle. European Journal of Pragmatism and American Philosophy xi/1: 1–16. ———. 2020. Frank Ramsey: A Sheer Excess of Powers. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Neurath, Otto. 1931/1981. Physikalismus. In Otto Neurath: Gesammelte philosophische und methodologische Schriften, ed. Rudolf Haller and Heiner Rutte, 417–421. Repr. Vienna: Holder-Pichler-Tempsky. Psillos, Stathis. 2006. Ramsey’s Ramsey Sentences. In Cambridge and Vienna: Frank P. Ramsey and the Vienna Circle, ed. M.C. Galavotti, 67–90. Dordrecht: Springer. Ramsey, Frank. 1923. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, by Ludwig Wittgenstein. Mind 32 (128): 465–478. ———. 1927/1990. Facts and Propositions. In Philosophical Papers, ed. D.H.  Mellor. 1990. Repr., 34–51. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 1929a. Philosophy. In Philosophical Papers, ed. D.H.  Mellor. 1990. Repr., 1–8. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 1929b/1990. General Propositions and Causality. In Philosophical Papers, ed. D.H. Mellor. 1990. Repr., 145–164. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 1929c. Theories. In Philosophical Papers, ed. D.H. Mellor. 1990, 112–137. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.. Schlick, Moritz. 1918/1925. General Theory of Knowledge, (2nd German Edition). Trans. A. E. Blumberg. Wien & New York: Springer. Stern, David. 2007. Wittgenstein, the Vienna Circle, and Physicalism: A Reassessment. In The Cambridge Companion to Logical Empiricism, ed. A.  Richardson and T.  Uebel, 305–331. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Von Wright, G. H. 1973. Letters to C. K. Ogden with Comments on the English Translation of the “Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.”, ed. G. H. von Wright, with an appendix of letters by Frank Plumpton Ramsey. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Waismann, Friedrich. 1930. Theses. In Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle. Conversations Recorded by Waismann, ed. Brian McGuinness. 1979, 233–261. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1922. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Trans. C.  K. Ogden. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.

Chapter 11

Wittgenstein and the External World Programme Michael Potter

Abstract  I trace the history of Wittgenstein’s engagement with Russell’s external world programme from 1913 to 1929. Keywords  Wittgenstein · Russell · Ramsey · Carnap · Tractatus · Sense data · Sensibilia · Simple objects · External world programme · Physicalism

I take as my starting point the work Wittgenstein did directly after his return to Cambridge, and to regular philosophical work, at the beginning of 1929 (during the period, of course, when he was interacting quite often with members of the Vienna Circle). Two highlights of this period are frequently mentioned: the short article “Some remarks on logical form” (Wittgenstein 1929), in which Wittgenstein gave up the independence of elementary propositions; and the announcement he made in his notebook in November 1929 that he no longer had a phenomenological language as a goal. These two changes of mind have been much discussed, both for the light they might cast on what he was doing in the Tractatus and for evidence of the influence on him of the Vienna Circle. It would be straightforward to present them as instance in which Wittgenstein, at least in some loose sense, responded to the external world programme that was being pursued by members of the Vienna Circle, most notably Carnap. The question I want to discuss here is how well such a presentation explains the movement of Wittgenstein’s thought. The standard view has, I think, been that in the Tractatus he did not think it was his task to identify the simple objects, but that in 1929 he came under pressure from the more scientifically-­ minded members of the Vienna Circle to undertake the task that he had previously eschewed. Without thinking that this sketch is altogether false, I want to argue here that it is at the very least incomplete, because it does not explain what Wittgenstein’s engagement with the Vienna Circle could have given him that was not already present in his engagement with Russell’s work more than a decade earlier. M. Potter (*) Faculty of Philosophy, University of Cambridge, Cambridge, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_11

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11.1 Wittgenstein’s Knowledge of Russell’s Project In the summer of 1911 Russell wrote his “shilling shocker”, The Problems of Philosophy (1912), in which he proposed a two-level epistemology. There are in the external world some entities, called “sense data” which I know directly by acquaintance, and others, such as tables, chairs and distant stars, for whose existence and properties I can make only a fallible inference. The “external world programme”, which aimed to explain the nature of this inference, can be traced back to this two-­ level conception. Very soon after this, of course, Wittgenstein arrived in Cambridge to work with Russell. During the period of their collaboration the external world programme was one of Russell’s main projects. In 1912 he attempted an article, “On matter”, but its content was unusually hesitant. Wittgenstein, meanwhile, was evidently sceptical about the prospects for success of the project. “I was very interested to hear your views about matter,” he wrote in January 1913, “although I cannot imagine your way of working from sense-data forward.” (Wittgenstein 2012, no. 11) Russell returned to the problem in September 1913 while writing the first draft of his Lowell Lectures (due to be delivered at Harvard the following April). He had already decided by early that month (letter to Ottoline Morrell, 3 Sep. 1913, Russell Archives, RA3 2.61.000735) that the subject of the lectures would be “Scientific Method in Philosophy”. His first draft (Trinity College archives, ADD.MS.a/337), which was completed on 25 September, already sketched his key idea of a “perspective-­space”—a three-dimensional arrangement of three-dimensional perspectives, each located at the point from which this perspective would putatively appear were there sense-organs at that position to sense it (see Blackwell 2017). It is surely quite plausible that Russell may have mentioned this key idea to Wittgenstein during their discussions in early October (even though those discussions were no doubt dominated by Wittgenstein’s attempts to produce the “Notes on Logic”). This is especially so since Whitehead had just sent Russell a draft of his own, related work on space, a draft which he and Wittgenstein read together. Directly after this Wittgenstein departed for Norway. The following January Russell wrote his article, “The relation of sense data to physics” (Russell 1914a), which offered rather more detail on his proposal for a set-theoretic construction of public space using the previously mentioned array of private spaces as the constructional base. The construction involved the sort of technical intricacy that Russell evidently enjoyed, and showed some similarity to Whitehead’s proposal (which Whitehead had not yet published).1

 The fact that the key idea of Russell’s construction (that of a three-dimensional space of three-­ dimensional perspectives) already seems to have been in the draft he wrote in September, before seeing Whitehead’s paper, might be thought to absolve Russell of Whitehead’s later complaint, which ended their collaboration, that Russell made use of his ideas before he was ready for them to be publicized (see Whitehead’s letter to Russell, 8th Jan 1917). It may be significant in this connection, however, that a few days before writing the lecture on perspective space Russell spent an evening (11th September) with the Whiteheads, during which they may well have discussed Whitehead’s ideas. 1

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Suppose the technical details of Russell’s construction are granted. A question then arises as to the extent of the constructional base. Russell distinguished three possibilities: a base consisting only of his own sense data; a base consisting of the sense data of himself and other people; and a base that includes sensibilia more generally (i.e. entities of the same kind as sense data, whether or not they have been presented to any sentient being). He seems to have regarded it as a matter to be determined by investigation whether an adequate account of the external world could be derived from a purely phenomenological base or not. Russell wrote his paper for delivery at three American universities in April, during his American trip, and one of these (Columbia) produced a mimeographed version for distribution. The paper was then published in the journal Scientia in July, and Russell evidently sent an offprint of it to Wittgenstein then, although Wittgenstein did not actually receive it until around Christmas, when he wrote to Russell, “Thank you very much for sending your piece about sense-data.” (Wittgenstein 2012, no. 44) It is rather less clear how much Wittgenstein knew of the content of the Lowell Lectures themselves. I have already suggested that he might well have discussed the part of the lectures devoted to the space of perspectives at the beginning of October; but I know of nothing to suggest that they then discussed the rest of the lectures. (Wittgenstein’s recommendation in January that Russell should use his “lecture-­ course in America” to tell his audience his “thoughts and not just cut and dried results” might suggest ignorance of the lectures, but it is unclear whether Wittgenstein was here referring to the Lowell Lectures, intended for a wide audience, or to the more specialized courses Russell was to deliver in the philosophy department at Harvard.) It is worth noting at this point that although Russell originally intended the Lowell Lectures to be titled Scientific Method in Philosophy, their publication in book form was under the rather longer title, Our Knowledge of the External World as a Field for Scientific Method in Philosophy (Russell 1914b). (The change to this longer title seems to have occurred quite late: the running heads still use the old title.)2 When Wittgenstein wrote in his notebook on 1st May 1915 about Russell’s ‘Scientific Method in Philosophy’ (Wittgenstein 1961), he may perhaps have been referring to this book. Unfortunately, though, there is no clear evidence that he ever got hold of a copy of it. Keynes had mentioned to him in a letter (without mentioning the title) that Russell had published a book around the beginning of the war. In reply Wittgenstein asked Keynes to send him a copy, and he also made a similar request to Pinsent, but it is unclear whether either of them actually sent it, or, if they did, whether it got past the wartime censors and reached its intended recipient. At any rate Pinsent’s next letter to Wittgenstein made no mention of having found a copy. Somewhat more indirectly, Takagi (2021) has argued that the influence of Our Knowledge of the External World is visible in Wittgenstein’s notebook entries around May 1915. I shall not adjudicate on this issue here, however, since it is  I am grateful to Shunichi Takagi for pointing this out and, more generally, for persuading me of the importance of considering the possible influence of the lectures on Wittgenstein’s thinking in 1915. 2

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sufficient for my purposes that Wittgenstein should have read Russell’s paper “The relation of sense-data to physics”, which contains his construction of matter out of sensibilia. The purpose of rehearsing here the details of Wittgenstein’s engagement with Russell’s project is to invite what I think is the obvious question, why did Wittgenstein not discuss the project in the Tractatus? It is surely a striking fact that the Tractatus simply glides past it. Now one sort of explanation for this might invoke the difference in direction between Wittgenstein’s account and Russell’s. Wittgenstein took the possibility of saying things with determinate sense about the world as given, and then deduced, by a transcendental argument, the condition that, he thought, grounds this possibility, namely that there should exist simple objects with names in the ideal language of thought. He thus worked backwards from ordinary factual statements about the world in order to deduce a base which must underlie these statements. Russell, on the other hand, started from a constructional base consisting of what he took to be indubitable in experience. He then worked forwards from this base, attempting to construct from it an external world suitable to account for our ordinary empirical knowledge. Merely alluding to this difference between them, though, surely does not prevent us from comparing the two projects and asking how the base deduced by Wittgenstein relates to that assumed by Russell.

11.2 Points and Moments as Tractarian Objects Now the first point one might wonder about is whether Wittgenstein simply had not thought about the difference between perceptual and physical space. But that notion can be swiftly dismissed. For the distinction was central to Russell’s considerations throughout the period—he mentioned it in his article “On the relations of universals and particulars” (Russell 1911), and his construction in “The relation of sense-data to physics” was largely devoted to deriving physical space from perceptual space— and it is therefore inconceivable that Wittgenstein did not recognize the centrality of the distinction to Russell’s thinking. So are the objects of the Tractatus phenomenological or physical? The Hintikkas (1986, ch. 3) sought to answer this question by conjecturing that Tractarian objects should be identified with objects of acquaintance (whether particulars or universals). To see why this conjecture cannot be accepted unmodified, we need to recall some features of Russell’s conception of acquaintance. Russell wrote Problems shortly after reading Moore’s lectures—later published as Some Main Problems of Philosophy—and their conceptions were notably similar. When they spoke of sense data, both were thinking of such things as patches in my visual field that can be taken in at a single glance. Such a patch may (and typically will) have an internal complexity. Russell decided that the process of detecting internal complexity must stop with minima sensibilia, in which no internal

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complexity is detected, but that these minima sensibilia are not points but have finite positive extent. “We must suppose”, he said, that an indivisible object of visual perception may occupy a finite extent of visual space. In short, we must, in dividing any complex object of visual perception, reach, after a finite number of steps, a minimum sensibile, which contains no plurality although it is of finite extent. Visual space may, in a sense, be infinitely divisible, for, by attention alone, or by the microscope, the immediate object of perception can be changed in a way which introduces complexity where formerly there was simplicity; and to this process no clear limit can be set. But this is a process which substitutes a new immediate object in place of the old one, and the new object, though more subdivided than the old one, will still consist of only a finite number of parts. We must therefore admit that the space of perception is not infinitely divided, and does not consist of points, but is composed of a finite though constantly varying number of surfaces or volumes, continually breaking up or joining together according to the fluctuations of attention. (Russell 1911, 12)

Notice, though, that Russell’s motivation for positing these fluctuating minima sensibilia was not logical. Nothing he said here suggests that he denied that we may be acquainted with, and hence name, a non-minimal sense datum. Why should he? His semantics did not require logical simplicity to correspond to spatial simplicity. The picture theory, on the other hand, did require such a correspondence. So Wittgenstein could not admit as simple objects sense data that have expressible complexity. For this reason the Hintikkas’ proposal in its original form is untenable. It must at the very least be amended so that Tractarian objects are some phenomenological entities. Might they, for instance, be identified with Russellian minima sensibilia? In the summer of 1915 Wittgenstein evidently contemplated just such a phenomenological base, writing on 6th May (in Wittgenstein 1961), “As examples of the simple I always think of points of the visual field (just as parts of the visual field always come before my mind as typical complex objects).” And a month later, on 18th June, he still thought it “perfectly possible that patches in our visual field are simple objects”. Yet his views on the matter were not yet stable. A couple of days later he mentioned “the material points of physics” as examples of simple objects. He was at that stage still engaged in a prolonged struggle to exorcise the apparent context sensitivity of his notion of simplicity---a struggle whose outcome is tantalizingly hidden from us by the loss of the succeeding notebook---and hardly any trace of this struggle is visible in the Tractatus as completed. So nothing in this notebook can be regarded as decisive for the interpretation of the finished Tractatus. On that question various commentators3 have argued, as against the Hintikkas, that the Tractatus does not commit itself either to a phenomenological or to a physicalistic interpretation. Commentators often quote Wittgenstein’s much later comment to Malcolm that it was not his task to settle what the objects are. I asked Wittgenstein whether, when he wrote the Tractatus, he had ever decided upon anything as an example of a “simple object”. His reply was that at that time his thought had been that he was a logician; and that it was not his business, as a logician, to try to decide

 I shall not rehearse this debate here, for reasons that will, I hope, become clear shortly. For details, see e.g. Blank (2002), Bradley and Resnick (1990). 3

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whether this thing or that was a simple thing or a complex thing, that being a purely empirical matter! It was clear that he regarded his former opinion as absurd. (Malcolm 1958, 86)

Even stronger is the claim made by Ramsey (1925b, 417) that Wittgenstein had declared that “about the forms of atomic propositions we can know nothing whatever”. The first suspicion that there may be more to be said on the matter arises from the fact that in the Tractatus Wittgenstein did not in fact stick to his alleged agnosticism about simple objects, explicitly remarking that “space, time and colour (colouredness) are forms of object” (1922, 2.0251) It seems to follow from this that whatever are the atomic elements of space and time (presumably points in space and moments in time) will count as Tractarian objects. So the claim that the Tractatus is completely agnostic as to the nature of the simple objects goes too far. (It is worth noting that Ramsey withdrew the following year his claim that Wittgenstein took the forms to be unknowable.) Notice, though, that Wittgenstein did not say space, time and colouredness are the only forms of object. The remark is thus consistent with his having thought that it is in general an empirical matter which things are simple or complex. Nonetheless, the remark does not go as far as one might wish, since it does not specify whether it is perceptual space or physical space (and perceptual time or physical time) that is meant. Is it perhaps significant that in the Prototractatus Wittgenstein wrote that “colour (being coloured) is a form of visual objects” (1971, 2.0252, my emphasis), only deleting the “visual” in a later revision? This might suggest that in the course of writing the book he became increasingly agnostic as between phenomenological and physicalistic interpretations. I want now to explain why I think he reached this position.

11.3 Rejecting the Distinction? What I wnat to suggest is that Wittgenstein’s conception in the Tractatus simply leaves no room for the distinction between phenomenological and physical that Russell was attempting to draw. Wittgenstein’s argument for solipsism has as a central premise that there is a single language—“the language which alone I understand” (TLP 1922, 5.62, amended). He thus denied the Russellian idea that each of us has a phenomenological language to describe our own phenomenological space, and that these can be patched together to form a basis from which the neutral (i.e. physical) description of the world is to be derived. Let me explain. In “The relation of sense-data to physics” Russell expressed himself in the material mode; but it might be more natural, given his purpose in that article, to express matters linguistically. For each perspective we might suppose that there is in principle a language that is available to any consciousness situated so as to experience the world from that perspective—a language in which it would be possible to name any sensibile belonging to the perspective. We might, adopting the terminology that

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later became common, call these phenomenological languages. A physical language, by contrast, would be one in which the quantifiers range over such physical entities as pieces of matter. Expressed in these linguistic terms, Russell’s project becomes that of reducing the physical language to the phenomenological. Now although I cannot name sensibilia belonging to perspectives other than my own, Russell held that I can refer to them by means of descriptions that quantify over a domain to which they belong: all the phenomenological languages can thus in this sense be rolled into one. Wittgenstein conceived of matters differently. On the Tractarian view the range of entities I can quantify over is identical to the range for which my language has names. All objects already have names. In the Tractatus the word “name” is thus as much a technical term with a specific, non-standard meaning as “object” is. A name, according to the Tractatus is a symbol, not a sign. The process which Russell called ‘naming’ corresponds in the Tractatus not to giving an object a name—it already has one—but to what we might call “signifying the object”, i.e. selecting a simple sign to express the name in my idiolect. It has often been remarked that the Tractatus lacks any discussion of epistemology. An instance of this is that the process just mentioned, of associating a sign with a name, is hardly acknowledged in the text at all. Indeed Wittgenstein showed so little interest in it that he did not even introduce a term for it, nor did he draw the contrast I have invoked between “language” and the particular idiolect that any empirical subject happens to possess. Given his almost total lack of interest in the empirical subject, it is unsurprising that the solipsism he discussed in the 5.6 s is not an empirical solipsism. The “language” that is the only one I understand is not the idiolect that I, Michael Potter, happen to possess. Rather, it is the collection of thoughts that are available to me in thinking about the world. And it is this that renders the question whether Tractarian objects are phenomenological or physical meaningless. For Russell the contrast between private and public, phenomenological and physical, is a contrast between on the one hand the language available to a conscious, spatio-temporally located being and on the other a “view from nowhere” or “absolute conception”—a realist language for describing the physical world that does not adopt any particular perspective. For Wittgenstein there can be no such contrast, because the language that is available, to me or to anyone else, is the only language that I can understand and hence the only language for which any question can be meaningfully raised.4  The account I am offering evidently has something in common with Cora Diamond’s putative private language argument in the Tractatus (Diamond 2000). But the conclusion I draw is somewhat different. It is not that in the Tractatus Wittgenstein denies the possibility of a private language, but rather that he denies the resources for distinguishing private from public. The view I have been presenting as Wittgenstein’s, that is to say, adopts a solipsism which rejects the distinction, whereas Russell treated the phenomenalist (and in particular the solipsist) as someone who accepts the distinction but holds that nothing belongs to the physical category. Of course, it would be possible to argue, as Diamond in effect does, that Wittgenstein’s Tractarian position does end up being much the same as a full-blown private language argument, but the view I have been taking here does not require this further step. 4

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11.4 Physicalism in the Tractatus? Although the account I have just offered fits well, I believe, with almost all the available historical evidence, I have to concede that there is one puzzling piece of evidence pointing in the other direction. This concerns Wittgenstein’s notorious 1932 accusation of plagiarism against Carnap. The main focus of this accusation seems to have concerned Wittgenstein’s most recent ideas, which he had been sharing with members of the Circle. This of course included Carnap directly at first, but even after he had been excluded, and Wittgenstein’s meetings were limited to Schlick and Waismann, Carnap would no doubt have heard about Wittgenstein’s ideas indirectly through them. This part of Wittgenstein’s complaint fits with a repeated pattern, of course—he at various times objected to Alice Ambrose, Richard Braithwaite and Donald Coxeter circulating his ideas in a form that he had not endorsed—but now he went further than in those other cases, complaining also that Carnap had plagiarized the Tractatus. It is not true that I have not dealt with the question of “physicalism” (albeit not under this— dreadful—name) and [admittedly] with the same brevity with which the entire Tractatus is written. (Letter from Wittgenstein to Schlick, 8/8/1932, quoted in Hintikka 1996, 137)

This is in evident tension with the account I have offered here. If the Tractatus rejects the very distinction between phenomenal and physical, how could Carnap have been plagiarizing it when he discussed physicalism? I am not the only commentator who has struggled to detect where in the Tractatus Wittgenstein dealt, even briefly, with the question of physicalism. At a stretch one might, I suppose, say that he did so by holding that there is no question to be answered (because the attempt to state laws of physics will result in nonsense). But that would hardly merit an accusation of plagiarism, since the position Carnap argued for in the article complained of was quite different. The best explanation I can offer, therefore, is, disappointingly, that Wittgenstein had allowed his anger with Carnap to get the better of him, leading him to mis-state his complaint. There are several points in the article at which Carnap might be said to have made use of Tractarian ideas—including, for instance, the notion of a single language for describing the world—but physicalism, I suggest, is not one of them.

11.5 Addressing the Private/Public Distinction There is thus, if I am right, a genuine shift between the Tractatus and Wittgenstein’s work in 1929, namely that this later work does recognize as legitimate the distinction that he had previously denied between phenomenological and physical languages. What occasioned this shift? Frustratingly, the surviving record does not say: the shift happened during the period when he was not overtly working on philosophy, a period for which the documentary evidence of his thinking is slight; when he took up formal work again in February 1929, he immediately referred in his

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notebook to a distinction between physical and phenomenological languages, and betrayed no sign that this represented any sort of shift in his stance. One possibility, of course, is that what I earlier called the “standard view” is correct: namely that Wittgenstein was occasioned to re-introduce the phenomenological/physical distinction by the influence of the Vienna Circle. This might have involved his conversations with members of the Circle, or it might have been brought about by his thinking about Carnap’s work in the Aufbau, which is centrally concerned with the relationship between such languages. But what seems unlikely about that is that it is difficult to see what there is in the Aufbau to make him question his earlier stance that is not already present in Russell’s pre-war work. What makes it especially difficult to reconstruct Wittgenstein’s thinking in this case is the extent to which his denial of the phenomenological/physical distinction in the Tractatus lay at the intersection of several parts of the Tractarian account, so that giving up any one of these might have sufficed to allow the distinction back in. Thus, for instance, his later replacement of the single language with a patchwork of language games would have sufficed, but so too would his weakening of the absolute unsayability of semantics, and so would his abandonment of the argument for substance. In the Tractatus he had (just about) kept all these plates spinning simultaneously: perhaps it is invidious to ask which one came off first. It is worth noting, though, that in Wittgenstein’s 1929 work the division between two languages is not characterized in the first instance as one between private and public, but rather between determinate and indeterminate. The primary language is one in which statements are verifiable or refutable, whereas the secondary language contains hypotheses. This suggests that what led him to abandon his Tractarian position may in the first instance have been not so much an acceptance of the phenomenological/physical distinction as such, but rather a rejection of the single-­ language view. In this connection it is surely interesting to note that Ramsey made just such a shift from a one-level to a two-level view. In his case, the departure from the Tractarian one-level view had two stages. Wittgenstein had held in the Tractatus, let us recall, that every object has a name and that the range of objects I can quantify over is the same as the range of objects I can name. Russell held that there was an obvious difficulty with this view, namely that it makes ∀xφx equivalent to φa∧φb∧…, whereas this equivalence obviously only holds under the extra assumption

( A ) ∀x ( x = a ∨ x = b ∨ …) .

In the Tractatus, this objection was neutralized because the inexpressibility of identity made (A) nonsensical. Ramsey, on the other hand, argued (1925a) for a different view of identity (depending his notion of propositional function in extension) which had the consequence that (A) is not nonsensical but tautological. Nonetheless, despite this difference, he could still (Ramsey 1927) agree with Wittgenstein that there is no need to posit a substantive general fact expressed by (A). In 1928, however, Ramsey began to accept that there are generalizations—so-called “generalizations of law”—that are not reducible to conjunctions but that cannot simply be

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dismissed as nonsensical. The possibility of this sort of generalization is denied in the Tractatus, which is therefore forced into the somewhat implausible claim that the laws of physics are nonsense. It was the desire to avoid this sort of implausibility that led Ramsey to the two-language view. Because of the lack of documentary evidence, I know of no way to establish whether Wittgenstein’s reasons were similar to Ramsey’s. The opportunity for any direct interaction between them on this matter was in any case very limited, since the two had had hardly any contact during this period. (There was a falling-out in 1925, after which they had only one exchange of letters via Schlick.) If Ramsey did persuade Wittgenstein to abandon his one-level view, it could only have occurred in the fortnight between Wittgenstein arriving back in Cambridge on 18th January 1929 and his resuming philosophical work in early February. What is at any rate clear is that he did eventually adopt Ramsey’s view that there are two kinds of generalization. At Schlick’s house on 22nd December 1929 he thus distinguished between complete propositions (in effect, Ramsey’s “generalizations of fact”) and incomplete ones (“generalizations of law”). One further piece of evidence provides some limited support for the interpretation I have offered here. My interpretation suggests an especially close connection between Wittgenstein’s denial of the distinction between phenomenological and physical language and his more general conviction, central to his solipsism, that there can only be one language with which I confront the world. If I am right, we might therefore expect his 1929 acceptance of the distinction to have been followed by a reconsideration of solipsism, shorn now of its Tractarian trappings. And this is indeed what we find in the Blue Book: there Wittgenstein’s discussion of the self retains much of its Tractarian flavour, but he no longer makes any attempt to deduce a solipsistic conclusion form a premise concerning the intrinsic unity of thought (see Wittgenstein 1958).

References Blackwell, Kenneth. 2017. Our Knowledge of Our Knowledge revisited. Russell (n.s.) 37: 334–341. Blank, Andreas. 2002. Wittgenstein’s Tractatus and the Problem of a Phenomenological Language. Philosophia 29 (1): 327–341. Bradley, Raymond, and Lawrence Resnick. 1990. Investigating Wittgenstein. Canadian Journal of Philosophy 20 (3): 449–466. Diamond, Cora. 2000. Does Bismarck have a Beetle in his Box? The Private Language Argument in the Tractatus. In The New Wittgenstein, ed. Alice Crary and Rupert Read, 262–292. London/ New York: Routledge. Hintikka, Jaakko. 1996. “Ludwig’s Apple Tree: Evidence Concerning the Philosophical Relations Between Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle", in his Ludwig Wittgenstein: Half-Truths and One-and-a-Half Truths, Selected Papers, Vol. 1. Dordrecht: Kluwer. Hintikka, Merrill B., and Jaakko Hintikka. 1986. Investigating Wittgenstein. Oxford: Blackwell. Malcolm, Norman. 1958. Ludwig Wittgenstein: A Memoir. Oxford University Press. Ramsey, Frank. 1925a. The Foundations of Mathematics. Proceedings of the London Mathematical Society 2: 338–384.

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———. 1925b. Universals. Mind 34: 401–417. ———. 1927. Facts and Propositions. Proc. Aristotelian Soc. 7: 153–206. Russell, Bertrand. 1911. On the Relations of Universals and Particulars. Proc. Aristotelian Soc. 12: 1–24. ———. 1912. The Problems of Philosophy. London: Williams & Norgate. ———. 1914a. The Relation of Sense-Data to Physics. Scientia 16: 1–27. ———. 1914b. Our Knowledge of the External World as a Field for Scientific Method in Philosophy. Open Court. Takagi, Shunichi. 2021. Wittgenstein and the ‘Kantian Solution of the Problem of Philosophy’ (10 February 1931). PhD thesis, University College London. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1922. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Trans. C. K. Ogden and F. P. Ramsey. London: Kegan Paul. ———. 1929. Some Remarks on Logical Form. Proc. Aristotelian Soc. 9: 162–171. ———. 1958. The Blue and Brown Books: Preliminary Studies for the “Philosophical Investigations”. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 1961. In Notebooks 1914–1916, ed. G.H. von Wright and G.E.M. Anscombe. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 1971. In Prototractatus: An Early Version of Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, ed. B.F. McGuinness et al. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. ———. 2012. In Wittgenstein in Cambridge: Letters and Documents 1911–1951, ed. B.F. McGuinness. London: Wiley-Blackwell.

Kapitel 12

Wittgenstein und Waismann über Sprachspiele Joachim Schulte Zusammenfassung  Es gibt eine Reihe von Aufzeichnungen Waismanns, in denen Wittgensteins Begriff des Sprachspiels eine zentrale Rolle spielt. Da Waismann nur während eines Zeitraums von wenigen Jahren Einblick in Wittgensteins Manuskripte hatte, ist damit zu rechnen, dass dieser Begriff bei Waismann andere Umrisse erhält als etwa in den Philosophischen Untersuchungen. Daher stellt sich als Erstes die Frage: „Inwieweit spiegelt der Sprachspielbegriff in Waismanns Aufzeichnungen und Darstellungen die besonders einschlägigen Ausführungen in Wittgensteins eigenen Schriften?“ Andererseits sollte man nicht vergessen, dass Waismanns Interesse an Wittgensteins Gedanken der 1930er-Jahre ursprünglich durch die Auseinandersetzung mit Wittgensteins Frühwerk  – dem Tractatus Logico-­ Philosophicus – geweckt wurde. Daher möchte ich als Zweites die Frage erörtern, ob und inwieweit die von Waismann wiedergegebenen Gedanken zum Sprach‑ spielbegriff Aufschluss geben können über eine allmähliche Entfernung Wittgen‑ steins von den Überlegungen seines Frühwerks. Schlüsselwörter  Antidogmatismus · Regel · Sprachspiel · Übersichtlichkeit · Vergleichsobjekt · Waismann · Wittgenstein Es gehört zu den Standardformen der intellektuellen oder (vielleicht besser gesagt) akademischen Beschäftigung mit bedeutenden Köpfen, dass man die Zeit ihres Wirkens in Perioden einteilt. Das gilt auch für Wittgenstein: In den ersten Gesamtdarstellungen seiner Philosophie, die in den Jahren nach seinem Tod (1951) erschienen, war es üblich, den frühen und den späten Wittgenstein nicht nur vonei‑ nander zu unterscheiden, sondern auch in möglichst kräftigen Farben einander gegenüberzustellen. Auf der einen Seite stand das der modernen Logik verpflichtete und trotzdem für mystische Erfahrungen offene Frühwerk – die z. T. während des Ersten Weltkriegs entstandene Logisch-philosophische Abhandlung (besser bekannt unter dem Titel der englischen Buchveröffentlichung: Tractatus Logico-­ Philosophicus). Auf der anderen Seite das aus dem Nachlass herausgegebene J. Schulte (*) Philosophisches Seminar, University of Zürich, Zürich, Schweiz E-Mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_12

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Spätwerk Philosophische Untersuchungen, das – zeitgeistbedingt und sicher nicht völlig zu Unrecht – von vielen der ersten Leser in die Nachbarschaft der damals populären Ordinary-language philosophy gerückt wurde. Diese scharfe Zweiteilung hing natürlich mit dem Umstand zusammen, dass Wittgenstein vor allem als Autor zweier Bücher wahrgenommen wurde, die zumin‑ dest auf den ersten Blick völlig verschieden, um nicht zu sagen: einander entgegen‑ gesetzt wirkten. Je mehr man dann durch Veröffentlichungen aus dem Nachlass über Wittgensteins Denken der Zeit zwischen diesen beiden Büchern erfuhr, desto klarer wurde, dass man neben dem Früh- und dem Spätwerk auch die Arbeiten aus den dreißiger Jahren heranziehen musste, um sich ein einigermaßen getreues Bild von seinem Denken zu machen. Dieser Schritt hin zu einer intensiveren Berücksichtigung der (wie man gern sagt) mittleren Periode von Wittgensteins philosophischen Reflexionen ist sicher zu begrüßen. Allerdings geht dieser Schritt vielfach mit der Tendenz einher, die Schriften der relevanten Zeit als Arbeiten des Übergangs einzustufen, was leicht dazu führt, dass sie vom Leser als weniger wichtig angesehen werden als der Anfangs- und der Endpunkt dieser Entwicklung, mit anderen Worten: als weniger wichtig als das Früh- und das Spätwerk. Zu konstatieren ist jedenfalls, dass die Schriften der mittleren Periode sehr viel weniger Beachtung gefunden haben als der Tractatus und die Untersuchungen. Chronologisch gesprochen, reicht Wittgensteins mittlere Periode von 1929 bis 1936. Biographisch gesprochen, fällt ihr Anfang mit Wittgensteins Rückkehr nach Cambridge zusammen, ihr Ende mit der Übersiedlung in die Einsamkeit einer Hütte im norwegischen Skjolden, wohin er sich 1936 nach dem Auslaufen seiner Cambridger Dozentur zurückzog, um einen weiteren Versuch der Abfassung seiner Summa zu unternehmen. Diese Jahre (1929 bis 1936) umfassen zugleich den Zeitraum der engsten Bekanntschaft mit Friedrich Waismann. Und zumindest ein nicht unerheblicher Teil dieser Zeit war der Zusammenarbeit zwischen den beiden gewidmet. Damit sich aus einer sei’s noch so groben Darstellung dieser Zusammenarbeit so etwas wie ein Bild ihrer gemeinschaftlichen Tätigkeit ergeben kann, muss man eine ungefähre Vorstellung von Wittgensteins Arbeitsweise und Arbeitstechnik haben. Dementsprechend möchte ich hier das Unmögliche zu tun versuchen und in wenigen Sätzen einen Überblick über Wittgensteins Schaffen während des ersten Teils der mittleren Periode geben. Dabei werde ich die kleinen Notizbücher, die vermutlich nur zum Teil erhalten sind, von vornherein ausklammern. Allein in den knapp dreieinhalb Jahren zwischen Anfang 1929 und Mitte 1932 entstanden fast zehn großformatige Manuskriptbände mit einem Umfang von jeweils ca. 300 Seiten. In den akademischen Ferien (also drei Mal pro Jahr) pflegte Wittgenstein zumindest den jeweils aktuellen Manuskriptband auf die Heimreise nach Wien mitzunehmen; manchmal dürfte er jedoch mindestens einen weiteren Band dabeigehabt haben. In Wien nutzte er die Zeit, um im Kontor der Familie ausgewählte Bemerkungen aus den mitgebrachten Bänden in die Maschine zu diktieren. Auf diese Weise entstanden drei Typoskript-­ Konvolute, die eine enorme Zahl von ausgewählten, z. T. umformulierten, aber nur selten umgestellten Bemerkungen umfassen. Diese Typoskripte wiederum wurden in Stücke zerschnitten, die ihrerseits die Basis für eine teils drastische Umgruppierung

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der Bemerkungen bildeten. Die so entstandene Collage wurde dann neu abgetippt. Und so entstand die von Wittgenstein selbst so bezeichnete „Große Maschinschrift“ – besser bekannt unter dem Titel der Veröffentlichung, nämlich als Big Typescript. Dieses große Typoskript wurde unverzüglich einer weiteren, zweistufigen Bearbeitung unterzogen, deren Resultat später von Rush Rhees benutzt wurde, um die Philosophische Grammatik (Wittgenstein 1969) herauszugeben. Was die ersten fünf Jahre der Cambridger Zeit betrifft, sprechen wir also von einer mehrfachen Umarbeitung im Rahmen des Versuchs, das bisher Gedachte und z. T. in Cambridge Gelehrte in einem Buch zusammenzufassen. Parallel zu diesem Cambridge-zentrierten Unterfangen war Wittgenstein an einem weiteren, vor allem in Wien – und zumal im Umkreis Schlicks – angesiedelten Projekt beteiligt. Dabei handelte es sich um die Abfassung eines eher populär intendierten Buchs, das in Wittgensteins Denken und damit in die Grundbegriffe zumindest einiger Vertreter des Wiener Kreises einführen sollte. Über Teile der Geschichte dieses Projekts und seines (wenigstens partiellen) Scheiterns ist schon öfters berichtet worden, so z. B. von Brian McGuinness in seinem Vorwort zu dem Band Wittgenstein und der Wiener Kreis sowie in mehreren Texten von Gordon Baker, beispielsweise in seinem Vorwort zu dem Band Voices of Wittgenstein, der zahlreiche Aufzeichnungen Waismanns von Mitteilungen Wittgensteins enthält. Das Scheitern war insofern nur ein „partielles“, als es Waismann in der zweiten Hälfte der 1930er-Jahre tatsächlich gelang, seine Aufzeichnungen zu einem in Kapitel und Abschnitte gegliederten Buch umzuformen. Dieses Buch erschien jedoch – in seiner deutschen (LSP) wie in seiner englischen Fassung (Waismann 1965) – erst nach dem Tod seines Verfassers Waismann sowie seines Inspirators Wittgenstein. Das Buch sollte den Titel Logik, Sprache, Philosophie tragen und wurde bereits 1930  in der Zeitschrift Erkenntnis als erster, hauptsächlich der Erläuterung von Wittgensteins Philosophie gewidmeter Band einer Schriftenreihe des Wiener Kreises angekündigt. Über den Entstehungsprozess des Buchs wissen wir einerseits recht viel, andererseits aber zu wenig, um den spezifischen Beitrag der beiden Urheber wirklich beurteilen zu können. Viele, ja die meisten Sätze lassen sich auf Formulierungen Wittgensteins zurückführen; aber dennoch hat man als Leser oft das Gefühl, nur ein Echo von Wittgensteins Stimme zu hören. Man meint, man werde von Waismann an die Hand genommen, um den Autor der mitgeteilten Gedanken aus der Ferne zu bestaunen und nur in Umrissen kennen zu lernen. Handelt es sich hier um einen bewussten Verfremdungseffekt? oder eher um eine gelungene Konzentration aufs Wesentliche? Mein eigener Eindruck ist der, dass diese Fragen nicht klar beantwortet werden können. Die Verfremdung ist jedenfalls da; sie verdankt sich der Anstrengung des auf Erläuterung bedachten Bearbeiters; und sie kann manchmal nützlich sein, weil sie verstehen hilft, inwiefern sich Wittgensteins Gedanken von denen unterscheiden, die ihm zugeschrieben werden. Im Folgenden möchte ich – mit diesen Fragen im Hintergrund – einige Stellen in Waismanns Text betrachten, die dort unter der Überschrift „Sprachspiele“ stehen, um zu sehen, inwieweit seine Darstellung helfen kann, das von Wittgenstein Gemeinte zu verstehen. Der Ausgangspunkt von Waismanns Erörterung ist Freges

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Auseinandersetzung mit den Formalisten in den Grundgesetzen der Arithmetik (Frege 1893/1903). Leser des Bands Wittgenstein und der Wiener Kreis fühlen sich bei der Erwähnung dieser Thematik sicher gleich an die eine oder andere Stelle aus Waismanns Gesprächsaufzeichnungen erinnert. Bei einem am Neujahrstag 1931 im Hause Schlick geführten und von Waismann mitstenographierten Gespräch z. B. verweist dieser auf eine im Sommer stattgefundene Diskussion und liest nun sogar einschlägige Passagen aus den Grundgesetzen vor. Wittgenstein kommentiert diese Passagen und sagt: Für Frege besteht die Alternative: ein Zeichen hat entweder eine Bedeutung, d. h., es vertritt einen Gegenstand […] oder es ist nur die mit Tinte auf das Papier gemalte Figur. Aber diese Alternative besteht nicht zu Recht. Es gibt, wie schon das Schachspiel zeigt, etwas Drittes: Der Bauer im Schachspiel hat weder eine Bedeutung in dem Sinn, dass er etwas vertritt, dass er Zeichen von etwas ist, noch ist er bloß die aus Holz geschnitzte Figur, die auf einem Holzbrett herumgeschoben wird. Was der Bauer ist, wird erst durch die Regeln des Schachspiels bestimmt. Dieses Beispiel zeigt, dass wir nicht sagen dürfen: Ein Zeichen ist entweder Zeichen von etwas, oder es ist nur das sinnlich wahrnehmbare Gebilde. Etwas am Formalismus ist also berechtigt, und Frege hatte diesen richtigen Kern nicht gesehen. (Waismann 1967, WWK, 150; cf. 105)

Diese Erörterung, die (historisch betrachtet) gewiss als eine der Wurzeln von Wittgensteins Sprachspielbegriff gelten darf, nimmt Waismann in seinem Abschnitt über Sprachspiele auf. Allerdings setzt er den Akzent ein wenig anders: Zunächst stellt er fest, dass Freges Formalismus-Kritik zum Teil berechtigt und zum Teil unberechtigt ist. Doch nun schlägt er vor, die Frage, ob die Arithmetik ein Spiel sei, zunächst einmal unberücksichtigt zu lassen und stattdessen einfach anzunehmen, dass wir sie (die Arithmetik) im Kontext anerkannter Spiele mit Gewinn betrachten können. Von dieser Voraussetzung ausgehend, können wir sodann versuchen, die Situation, in der die Arithmetik neben bestimmte Spiele gestellt wird, zu beschrei‑ ben, um uns auf diese Weise ein anschaulicheres Bild von einer Arithmetik zu machen, die zwar in die Nachbarschaft von Spielen gerückt, aber nicht mit einem Spiel gleichgesetzt wird. In diesem Sinn schreibt Waismann: Setzen wir die Untersuchung des Spieles neben die Untersuchung der Arithmetik und lassen wir das eine Licht auf das andere werfen! Seien wir ganz gerecht, behaupten wir nichts, sondern lassen wir die Dinge für sich selber reden! (Waismann 1976, LSP, 118-19)

Diese programmatischen Worte klingen ganz ähnlich wie manches, was wir in ähnlicher Form aus Wittgensteins späteren Schriften kennen. Allerdings bedürfen diese Worte einer genaueren Auslegung und Bestimmung, um wirklich etwas zu leisten und deutlich zu machen, was Wittgenstein und Waismann vorgeschwebt haben mag. Jedenfalls erinnern die zitierten Worte (zumindest entfernt) an eine der bekanntesten Stellen der Philosophischen Untersuchungen, an denen es um Sprachspiele geht. Dort schreibt Wittgenstein: Unsere klaren und einfachen Sprachspiele sind nicht Vorstudien zu einer künftigen Reglementierung der Sprache,  – gleichsam erste Annäherungen, ohne Berücksichtigung der Reibung und des Luftwiderstands. Vielmehr stehen die Sprachspiele da als

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Vergleichsobjekte, die durch Ähnlichkeit und Unähnlichkeit ein Licht in die Verhältnisse unsrer Sprache werfen sollen. (Wittgenstein 1953, PU § 130)

Das entscheidende Wort lautet „Vergleichsobjekte“, und genau darum – nämlich um das Vergleichen – geht es an der zitierten Waismann-Stelle ebenfalls. Das wird auch dadurch bestätigt, dass dort betont wird, es müsse eine gewisse „Verwandtschaft“ zwischen der Arithmetik und den relevanten Spielen bestehen. Und diese Verwandtschaft ist deshalb hervorzuheben, weil ohne sie kein Vergleich möglich ist. Denn wir können nicht Beliebiges mit Beliebigem vergleichen, sondern nur Dinge, die, wenn sie nebeneinandergehalten werden, Licht aufeinander werfen; mit anderen Worten: nur Dinge, bei denen die Behauptung des Bestehens von Ähnlichkeiten oder Unähnlichkeiten sinnvoll und begründbar ist. Diese Einschränkung ist freilich recht vage, aber daran ist nichts Verwunderliches, denn „Ähnlichkeit“ und „Vergleich“ sind nun einmal vage Ausdrücke, die aber trotzdem manches leisten können – ebenso wie übrigens die Rede von klaren und einfachen Sprachspielen, durch die Wittgenstein die eigenen, zum Vergleichen besonderes geeigneten Spiele charakterisiert. Blicken wir nun zurück auf Waismanns Darstellung, stellen wir fest, dass er den Einsatz von Sprachspielen zu Vergleichszwecken in mehreren Hinsichten näher bestimmt. So schreibt er, das Verfahren, bei dem wir die Dinge für sich selber sprechen lassen möchten, erschließe uns den „Gesichtspunkt, unter dem wir die Sprache betrachten wollen“: Wir wollen nicht dogmatisieren, sondern wir lassen die Sprache, wie sie ist, und stellen ihr ein grammatisches Bild an die Seite, dessen Eigenschaften wir völlig in unserer Gewalt haben, in welchem wir also auch genaue Regeln aufstellen können. Wir konstruieren gleich‑ sam einen idealen Fall, aber ohne die Prätention, dass er mit etwas übereinstimmt; sondern wir konstruieren ihn nur, um ein übersichtliches Schema zu gewinnen, mit dem wir die Sprache vergleichen; gleichsam als einen Aspekt, der noch nichts behauptet, also auch nicht falsch sein kann. (Waismann 1976, LSP, 129)

Der erste Punkt, den Waismann in dieser erläuternden Bemerkung nennt, ist der auch von Wittgenstein selbst an etlichen Stellen seiner Manuskripte aus der Zeit um 1930 betonte Antidogmatismus seines Verfahrens. In einer häufig zitierten Gesprächsaufzeichnung berichtet Waismann, Wittgenstein habe gesagt, im Grunde habe er schon zur Zeit der Arbeit am Tractatus gewusst, dass die Philosophie nicht-­ dogmatisch verfahren müsse (Waismann 1967, WWK, 182–186). Allerdings habe er diese Einsicht nicht genügend beherzigt, weshalb sein Vorgehen im Frühwerk dennoch in gewissem Maße dogmatisch gewesen sei. Und dieses Dogmatische äußere sich darin, dass man gewissermaßen wie ein Entdecker – wie ein Forscher – verfahre und daher von Unerwartetem überrascht werden könne. Für den nicht-­ dogmatischen Philosophen, der alles lässt, wie es ist, gibt es hingegen keine Überraschungen, die sich dem Verhalten der Realität verdanken, sondern allenfalls Verschiebungen im Verhältnis der betrachteten Dinge zueinander. Wie Waismann an der eben zitierten Stelle betont, liegt die Art des gewählten Vergleichs ganz in unserer Macht: Wir können z.  B. sprachliche Regeln nach Belieben aufstellen und auf diese Weise, wie er sagt, ein „grammatisches Bild“

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zeichnen, das sich zum Vergleich neben die Phänomene der wirklich gebrauchten Sprache halten lässt. Man darf hier auch, wie Waismann unterstreicht, von „Idealisierung“ sprechen, sofern man bedenkt, dass diese Idealisierung nicht als mehr oder weniger zutreffendes Abbild, sondern als erläuterndes Hilfsmittel einer übersichtlichen Darstellung gemeint ist. (Auf diesen Gedanken der Übersicht möchte ich zurückkommen.) Ehe ich fortfahre, Waismanns Darstellung von Wittgensteins Gedanken zu erläutern, möchte ich zwei auffällige Wortverwendungen ansprechen: Im ersten Zitat aus dem Sprachspiel-Abschnitt sagt Waismann, wir sollten „ganz gerecht“ sein und auf alles Behaupten verzichten. Wenige Zeilen später heißt es im zweiten Zitat aus diesem Abschnitt, dass wir den „idealen Fall“ gleichsam konstruieren. Um diese Verwendungen der Wörter „gerecht“ und „konstruieren“ ein wenig klarer zu machen, möchte ich eine Stelle aus einem Manuskript von 1932 anführen, an der Wittgenstein Folgendes schreibt: Wenn ich bestimmte Spiele beschreibe, so geschieht es nicht um mit ihnen nach und nach die wirklichen Vorgänge der Sprache  – oder des Denkens  – aufzubauen, was nur zu Ungerechtigkeiten führt, – sondern ich stelle die Spiele als solche hin, und lasse sie ihre aufklärende Wirkung auf die besondern Probleme ausstrahlen. (Wittgenstein, MS 113, 89; 01.03.1932)

Die Konstruktion des idealen Falls ist kein, wie man sagen könnte, „konstruktivis‑ tischer“ Ansatz. Das heißt, sie ist etwas völlig anderes als der Versuch, die „wirklichen Vorgänge der Sprache“, also den faktischen Sprachgebrauch durch ein allmähliches Aufschichten von Sprachbausteinen aufzubauen bzw. nachzubauen. Der hier gemeinte „ideale Fall“ ist einer, der sich auf eine Weise in unsere Erklärungsschemata einfügt, die verstehen hilft, was wir verstehen wollen. Erfolg und Misserfolg sind also leicht festzustellen, und sie brauchen nichts mit Tatsachenentsprechung zu tun zu haben. So gesehen, beinhaltet die angestrebte Beschreibung von Spielen auch keine „Ungerechtigkeit“ gegenüber der empirisch gegebenen Wirklichkeit, denn die soll nach Möglichkeit so belassen werden, wie sie ist. „Gerechtigkeit“ heißt also gewissermaßen, dass man die Dinge nicht antastet, sondern sich darauf beschränkt, sie in einem Kontext zu stellen, in dem sie, wie Wittgenstein schreibt, „ihre aufklärende Wirkung auf die besondern Probleme ausstrahlen“ lassen können. Bei der von Waismann unter dem Stichwort „Sprachspiele“ beschriebenen philosophischen Technik Wittgensteins geht es demnach nicht um eine möglichst ge‑ treue Darstellung der Realität. Spezifischer ausgedrückt: Es geht nicht um eine zutreffende Beschreibung oder eine der Realität gerecht werdende Rekonstruktion des faktischen Sprachgebrauchs. Und das heißt unter anderem, dass Regeln zur Beschreibung von Sprachspielen nicht deshalb angegeben werden, weil wir wirkliche Verwendungsweisen unserer Sprache erfassen wollen, sondern deshalb, weil wir durch solche Regeln Modelle des Sprachgebrauchs charakterisieren können. Diese Modelle wiederum können wir neben diejenigen Sprachverwendungen stellen, die uns durch aus ihnen resultierende philosophische Probleme beunruhigen. Und wenn wir diese Modelle geschickt ausgewählt haben, kann es durch das

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Nebeneinanderstellen von Modell und Problem bzw. Problemauslöser gelingen, klärendes, hilfreiches Licht auf bestimmte, irritierende Muster des Sprachgebrauchs zu werfen. – Waismann fasst diesen Gedanken wie folgt zusammen: Wir stellen Regelverzeichnisse auf, die mit der wirklichen Sprache gleichsam stückweise parallel laufen und die dazu dienen, Schwierigkeiten zu beseitigen, die durch Aufstellen von Regeln zu beseitigen sind. […] wir stellen das Schema [also das durch Angabe von Regeln gekennzeichnete Muster] neben die Wirklichkeit und lassen es so viel Licht darauf werfen, als es wirft. (Waismann 1976, LSP, 122)

Interessant ist an diesen Bemerkungen Waismanns unter anderem, dass er fortfährt und das so beschriebene Vorgehen mit einem der Vorväter des Wiener Kreises, nämlich mit dem von Wittgenstein geschätzten Ludwig Boltzmann in Verbindung bringt. Die „hier dargelegte Methode“, schreibt Waismann, sei derjenigen „ähnlich, die Boltzmann vorgeschlagen hat“. Sie bestehe darin: ein physikalisches Modell zu beschreiben, z. B. ein Modell für die Maxwellschen Gleichungen, und zwar ohne die Prätention, dass es mit irgend etwas übereinstimmt. Sondern es wird einfach beschrieben, und dann wird sich die Ähnlichkeit schon von selbst ergeben. […] Es ist gleichsam so, als wäre das Boltzmannsche Modell einfach neben die Erscheinung der Elektrizität gestellt und man würde sagen: Schaut euch das doch einmal an! (Waismann 1976, LSP, 122-3)

Was hier von Waismann (im Namen Wittgensteins) empfohlen wird, ist eine gleich‑ sam quietistische Haltung, die sich freilich auch in der Maxime ausdrückt, alles so zu lassen, wie es ist. Aber weder diese Maxime noch der empfohlene Quietismus kann darüber hinwegtäuschen, dass in das Wie – also in die Art und Weise, in der die neutral bleibende Parallelisierung von Modellen (oder Mustern) vorgenommen wird – ein erhebliches Maß von Gedankenarbeit einfließen kann und soll. Das geht aus einer 1931 notierten Manuskript-Bemerkung Wittgensteins hervor, die (wie ich vermuten möchte) mit dem eben angeführten Waismann-Zitat zusammenhängt. Wittgenstein schreibt dort: Wer […] dogmatisiert, weiß seinem Satz nicht den richtigen Platz zu geben. (Das ist so, als wollte ich, dass einer Präsident bei einer Sitzung ist, wüsste aber nicht, wie ich ihm die richtige Stellung – das richtige Ansehn – geben sollte. Denn er kann nicht etwa statt jedes der Mitglieder sprechen, er kann nicht auf allen Stühlen sitzen; sondern nur auf einem, aber auf dem einen an der Spitze.) Was ich hier sage, ist eigentlich, was Boltzmann über die Stellung des Mechanischen Modells, etwa in der Theorie der Elektrizität, sagt. (Wittgenstein, MS 111, 120, bearbeitet)

Das eigentlich wichtige Moment wird wieder einmal mit der Ablehnung jeder Form von Dogmatismus in Verbindung gebracht: Eine dogmatische Haltung, meint Wittgenstein, hindert uns daran, unsere Urteile „richtig“, d.  h.: anschaulich und durch Anschaulichkeit überzeugend zu artikulieren. Mit anderen Worten: die‑ dogmatische Haltung ist ein Hindernis auf dem Weg einer hilfreichen Kontextualisierung – einer übersichtlichen Einordnung – dieser Urteile. Was es mit einer passenden Kontextualisierung, einer übersichtlichen Einordnung auf sich hat, erläutert Wittgenstein an dem hübschen Beispiel der Sitzordnung: Wer  – für andere erkennbar  – ein bestimmtes Amt (etwa als „Präsident“ oder Wortführer) wahrnehmen soll, wird diese Position (im genannten Fall) am ehesten

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ausfüllen können, wenn man ihm den Platz „an der Spitze“ zuweist. Natürlich kann das, was mit dem Ausdruck „an der Spitze“ gemeint ist, wieder von ganz verschiedenen kontextbedingten Faktoren abhängen, aber es lässt sich durch das Arrangement der Sitzplätze erläutern und intuitiv nachvollziehbar darstellen. In diesem Sinn ist wohl auch der Hinweis auf Boltzmann zu verstehen: Wenn das Modell in geschickter Weise arrangiert und den problematischen oder interessierenden Phänomenen der Elektrizität gegenübergestellt wird, kann es helfen, unser Problem zu lösen oder unser Interesse zu befriedigen. Misslingt das hingegen oder verhalten wir uns bei der Zusammenstellung von Modellen, Mustern und Phänomenen ungeschickt, wird das gleiche Modell, das sich im einen Fall als hilfreich erwiesen hat, nichts zu unserem Verständnis beitragen können. Zu den auffälligen Parallelen zwischen Waismanns Darstellung in dem Abschnitt über Sprachspiele und Wittgensteins eigenen Bemerkungen (zumal in den Philosophischen Untersuchungen) gehört, dass in beiden Texten mehrmals Fragen nach der Vollständigkeit gestellt und besprochen werden. Waismann betont, dass man eine solche Frage im Hinblick auf einen bestimmten Kalkül durchaus aufwerfen und beantworten kann, während eine entsprechende Frage bezüglich der Mathematik (oder unserer Mathematik) keinen klaren Sinn habe, da unser allgemeiner Begriff der Mathematik (ebenso wie der allgemeine Begriff der Sprache) fließend sei, also keine festen Grenzen kenne und somit keine Vollständigkeitsfrage zulasse. In ähnlicher Weise wehrt Wittgenstein die Frage ab, ob unsere Sprache vollständig sei, ehe ihr z.  B. „der chemische Symbolismus und die Infinite‑ simalnotation einverleibt wurden“ (Wittgenstein 1953, PU § 18). Diese Frage nach der Vollständigkeit habe ebenso wenig einen fest umrissenen Sinn wie die Frage nach der Anzahl der Häuser und Straßen, die nötig sind, um eine Stadt zu bilden. In den Philosophischen Untersuchungen heißt es, das Wort „Spiel“ solle, wenn es in dem Ausdruck „Sprachspiel“ verwendet wird, besonders „hervorheben, dass das Sprechen einer Sprache ein Teil ist einer Tätigkeit, oder einer Lebensform“ (PU § 23). Waismann wiederum legt in seinen Ausführungen besonderes Gewicht auf den Umstand, dass Sprachspiele erfunden werden können. Das gestattet es uns, diese Spiele so zu gestalten, dass sie unseren Zwecken leicht erkennbar gerecht werden. Dementsprechend schreibt Waismann: Wir könnten Sprachspiele erfinden und uns etwa vorstellen, ein Volksstamm könne nur dieses oder jenes Sprachspiel oder nur eine bestimmte Kombination von ihnen. Und so beleuchten wir das unübersehbare[,] wogende Ganze unserer Sprache dadurch, dass wir ihm festumschriebene Gebilde gegenüber- oder an die Seite stellen, welche wir nicht gut umhinkönnen, Sprache zu nennen. (Waismann 1976, LSP, 125)

Man sieht jedoch leicht, dass durch den Gedanken der Erfindung eines Sprachspiels der eben erwähnte Aspekt der Tätigkeit (sozusagen durch die Hintertür) in unsere Überlegungen Eingang findet. Denn sobald wir uns einen fremden Volksstamm vorstellen, dessen Angehörige sich in manchen oder vielen Hinsichten völlig anders verhalten als wir, stützen wir uns – um überhaupt etwas zu verstehen – zumindest indirekt auf die Gemeinsamkeiten im Verhalten, also im Tun. Das steht in

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Zusammenhang mit einem grundsätzlichen Problem, das Wittgenstein in seinen Manuskripten mehrmals anspricht, indem er auf die Anfangsbemerkungen der Philosophischen Untersuchungen (und damit auf den Sprachspielbegriff) Bezug nimmt. So schreibt er an einer nicht häufig zitierten, 1941 notierten Stelle: Man muss das Sprachspiel schon mit einer arbeitenden Sprache beschreiben. Das Problem am Anfang meines Buchs. (Wittgenstein, MS 123, 41r)

Das Problem besteht offenbar darin, dass ich mit ungeklärten, vagen und ganz unterschiedlich interpretierten Mitteln etwas zu beschreiben versuche, was dem Hörer deutlich, fest umrissen und unmissverständlich vorkommen soll. Es gibt aber vielleicht eine Möglichkeit, wie man dem sich hier abzeichnenden Problem die Spitze brechen könnte. Diese Möglichkeit liegt in den vorhin angedeuteten Gemeinsamkeiten des Verhaltens, also etwa den Gemeinsamkeiten zwischen dem Volksstamm der Bauenden im Sprachspiel (2) der Untersuchungen und uns selbst, aus deren Perspektive dieser Volksstamm und sein Sprachspiel beschrieben werden. Dabei wird angenommen, dass sich die Aktivitäten der Stammesangehörigen auf das Bauen mit Hilfe von vier Bausteintypen und den Gebrauch der entsprechenden vier Einwort-Befehle beschränken, die einen Gehilfen dazu auffordern, einen Baustein der relevanten Art herbeizubringen. Wie gesagt, Wittgenstein hat dieses Sprachspiel in seinen späteren Manuskripten mehrmals thematisiert, und an einer (wie ich meine) aufschlussreichen Stelle schreibt er dazu: Es ist natürlich wahr, das Leben jener Menschen [also des Volksstamms der Bauenden aus PU §2] muss dem unsern in vieler Beziehung gleichen […]. Das Wichtige […] ist, dass ihre Sprache, wie auch ihr Denken, rudimentär sein kann, dass es ein ‚primitives Denken‘ gibt, welches durch ein primitives Verhalten zu beschreiben ist. (Wittgenstein 1967, Z §99; siehe Schulte 2004)

Wichtig ist diese Einsicht deshalb, weil die Primitivität des Denkens und Verhaltens der Bauenden, also der Angehörigen des von uns beobachteten und beschriebenen Volksstamms, eine Primitivität ist, mit der wir im Hinblick auf eine Beschreibung etwas anfangen können. Damit soll keineswegs behauptet werden, dass das Verhalten der Bauenden in einer Primitivität wurzelt, die wir vom eigenen Fall her kennen – so als hätte ihr Verhalten die gleiche oder eine ähnliche Grundlage wie unser eigenes Verhalten. Das würde, wie ich meine, eine für Wittgenstein viel zu substanzielle Behauptung über empirische Gegebenheiten beinhalten. Seine Überlegung dürfte einfacher und zugleich komplizierter sein: Wir werden dazu aufgefordert, die Primitivität im Verhalten der Bauenden als eine zu sehen, die ein frühes Stadium in der Entwicklung irgendeines – und immerhin insofern auch unseres – Stammes bilden könnte. Das heißt, wir sollen sehen lernen, dass aus dem primitiven Verhalten überhaupt etwas Komplexeres, Subtileres und Raffinierteres hervorgehen kann. Auf diese Weise wird es uns möglich, mit unserer hochkomplexen und zugleich offenen und vielfach unbestimmten Sprache an die (wie Wittgenstein sagt) „rudimentären“ Verhaltens‑ äußerungen der Bauenden anzuschließen.

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Diese vorsichtige Ausdrucksweise ist auch im Hinblick auf das angebracht, was Wittgenstein in den Anfangsbemerkungen der Untersuchungen (§  8) über die Möglichkeit der „Erweiterung“ primitiver Sprachspiele sagt. Denn wenn er darauf anspielt, wie aus der primitiven Sprache der Bauenden ein immer komplexeres Gebilde wird, geht es nicht darum, dass die Sprache der anderen der unseren immer ähnlicher wird. Nein, es geht darum, dass man die primitive Sprache überhaupt als Glied eines (sei’s noch so stilisierten) Prozesses der Entwicklung einer Sprache bzw. eines Sprachspiels sehen kann, wobei die benachbarten Entwicklungsstadien zugleich als Stufen einer Leiter fungieren, auf der wir zwischen verschiedenen Modellen des Vor- und Nacheinanders hin und her gehen können. Manchen Leser Waismanns wird es überraschen, dass er den Abschnitt über Sprachspiele damit abschließt, dass er die eigene, also die von Wittgenstein inspirierte Methode mit Goethes Gedanken zur Morphologie, insbesondere zur Metamorphose der Pflanzen vergleicht. Der Ausgangspunkt dieser Überlegungen ist der, dass ein am Kausalitätsbegriff orientiertes Verfahren, also ein kausalgeschichtliches Nachzeichnen tatsächlicher Gegebenheiten, nicht dazu geeignet wäre, die mindestens zum Teil erfundenen und stilisierten Sprachspiele miteinander zu vergleichen und durch geschickte Kontextualisierung so auf den Betrachter wirken zu lassen, dass er sich von Funktionen der Sprache ein übersichtliches Bild machen kann. Goethes Idee läuft darauf hinaus, dass er alle Organe der Pflanzen als Formen von Blättern begreift und deren verschiedene Gestalten durch teils erfundene, teils stilisierte – also gerade nicht kausalgeschichtlich aufgefasste – Entwicklungsstadien hindurchlaufen lässt, um so ihre charakteristischen Züge herauszuarbeiten. Der Grundgedanke ist also der einer übersichtlichen Darstellung durch eine idealtypische und daher wenigstens teilweise erfundene Entwicklungsgeschichte (siehe Schulte 1990). Waismann schreibt, auf Goethes Beispiel bezogen: Wir verfolgen die Abwandlung eines Typus im Sinnlichen, indem wir das Blatt durch Zwischenformen hindurch mit den übrigen Organen der Pflanze verbinden. – Und das ist es eigentlich auch, was wir hier tun. Wir stellen eine Sprachform mit ihrer Umgebung zusammen oder wandeln sie in der Phantasie ab, um so den gesamten Raum sichtbar zu machen, in dem die Struktur unserer Sprache schwebt. (Waismann 1976, LSP, 128)

Wenn man bedenkt, dass Waismanns Wittgenstein-Verständnis hauptsächlich auf seiner Kenntnis der Schriften um 1930, also der frühen 1930er-Jahre beruht, ist es erstaunlich zu sehen, in wie hohem Maß er die ausschlaggebenden Details und vor allem den Geist von Wittgensteins Überlegungen erfasst, der auch die relevanten Stellen der Philosophischen Untersuchungen prägt. Das wird beispielsweise deut‑ lich, wenn man die 1931 entstandenen Bemerkungen über Frazers Golden Bough heranzieht und dort liest: Diese übersichtliche Darstellung vermittelt das Verständnis, welches eben darin besteht, dass wir die „Zusammenhänge sehen“. Daher die Wichtigkeit des Findens von Zwischengliedern. (Wittgenstein 1993, PO, 132)

Erst später, im Zuge der weiteren Umarbeitung seiner Bemerkungen, gelangt Wittgenstein dahin, diesen Gedanken – ganz in Einklang mit Waismanns Betonung

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des Beitrags unserer Phantasie – umzuformulieren, so dass er in den Philosophischen Untersuchungen schließlich lautet: „Daher die Wichtigkeit des Findens und des Erfindens von Zwischengliedern.“ (PU § 122) Diese gefundenen oder erfundenen Zwischenglieder brauchen wir, um die ebenfalls gefundenen oder erfundenen – d. h. wirklich beobachteten oder zum Zweck der übersichtlichen Darstellung erdichteten – Sprachspiele so nebeneinander zu stellen, dass sich das eine ganz natürlich aus dem anderen zu ergeben scheint. Diese Natürlichkeit des Übergangs ist deshalb erwünscht, weil sie es uns ermöglicht, eine plausibel wirkende und daher überzeugende Geschichte über die sprachlichen Ressourcen des Volksstamms zu erzählen, dessen Sprachtechniken uns dazu veranlasst haben, beunruhigende philosophische Fragen zu stellen. Diese Überlegung hilft vielleicht verstehen, worauf Wittgenstein mit der folgenden, selten bemerkten Notiz von 1941 hinauswill. Er schreibt: Ich gruppiere Sprachspiele rund um gewisse Partien der Sprache, fülle gleichsam Lücken aus, um das Frappante der einzelnen Erscheinung zu mildern und es ihnen zu nehmen. (Wittgenstein, MS 123, 45v; 29.05.1941)

Mit den „Partien der Sprache“, von denen hier die Rede ist, sind sicher Verwendungsweisen unserer Sprache gemeint, die zu ungeklärten Fragen oder Problemen Anlass geben. Dass Wittgenstein sagt, er „gruppiere“ Sprachspiele, beinhaltet, dass die betreffenden Sprachspiele Gebilde darstellen, die man zum Zweck der Klärung handhaben kann. Mit anderen Worten: Es muss sich um einfache und klare Sprachspiele handeln (wie es an einer vorhin zitierten Stelle heißt), also um primitive Sprachspiele des Typs, den wir vom Anfang der Philosophischen Untersuchungen her kennen, wo Wittgenstein uns mit den kaum menschlich wir‑ kenden Bauenden und ihren vier Einwort-Befehlen konfrontiert. Um solchen primitiven  – und in ihrer Primitivität geradezu schockierenden  – Sprachspielen das „Frappante“, also das Verblüffende (und insofern Beunruhigende) zu nehmen, bemüht er sich, sie in eine natürlich wirkende (und damit auch über‑ sichtliche) Reihe mit anderen Sprachspielen zu stellen. Deren Komplexität wird vom Zweck der jeweiligen Erklärung abhängen. Auf jeden Fall wird es darauf ankommen, dem Betrachter aus seiner philosophischen Beunruhigung herauszuhelfen, indem man das Betrachtete wenn nicht natürlich, so doch zumindest übersichtlich wirken lässt. Auf eine spätere Bemerkung der Philosophischen Untersuchungen anspielend, könnte man sagen, unsere Forderung (nach Übersichtlichkeit) sei eine „architektonische“. Und dementsprechend könnte man hinzufügen, die Erklärung – also die Lücken füllende Gruppierung von Sprachspielen  – sei „eine Art Scheingesims, das nichts trägt“ (Wittgenstein 1953, PU § 217). Aber dass es nichts trägt, schließt natürlich nicht aus, dass diese aus „architektonischen“ Gründen geforderte Ergänzung mithilft, den nervösen Philosophen zu beruhigen, indem es den einzelnen Sprachspielen durch deren übersichtliche Gruppierung das Frappante nimmt.

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Literatur Frege, Gottlob. 1893/1903. Grundgesetze der Arithmetik: begriffsschriftlich abgeleitet, Bde. 2. Jena: Hermann Pohle. Schulte, Joachim. 1990. Chor und Gesetz. Wittgenstein im Kontext. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp. ———. 2004. The builders’ language – The opening sections. In Wittgenstein at work: Method in the philosophical investigations, Hrsg. Erich Ammereller and Eugen Fischer, 22–41. London: Routledge. Waismann, Friedrich. 1965. The principles of linguistic philosophy, Hrsg. R.  Harré. London: Macmillan. ———. 1967. Wittgenstein und der Wiener Kreis, Hrsg. Brian McGuinness. Oxford: Blackwell. (= WWK. Wittgenstein Werkausgabe Band 3). ———. 1976. Logik, Sprache, Philosophie, Hrsg. Gordon P. Baker und Brian McGuinness unter Mitwirkung von Joachim Schulte. Stuttgart: Reclam. (= LSP). ———. 2003. The voices of Wittgenstein: The Vienna Circle: Ludwig Wittgenstein and Friedrich Waismann, Hrsg. Gordon Baker. London: Routledge. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1953. Philosophische Untersuchungen, Hrsg. G.E.M. Anscombe und Rush Rhees. Oxford: Blackwell. (= PU. In Wittgenstein Werkausgabe Band 1). ———. 1967. Zettel, Hrsg. G.E.M. Anscombe und G.H. von Wright. Oxford: Blackwell. (= Z. In Wittgenstein Werkausgabe Band 8). ———. 1969. Philosophische Grammatik, Hrsg. Rush Rhees. Oxford: Blackwell. (Wittgenstein Werkausgabe Band 4). ———. 1984. Wittgenstein Werkausgabe. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp. ———. 1993. Philosophical occasions: 1912–1951, Hrsg. James C. Klagge and Alfred Nordmann. Indianapolis/Cambridge: Hackett. (= PO). ———. 2005. The big typescript: TS 213, Hrsg. C. Grant Luckhardt and Maximilian A.E. Auge. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. MS 111, 113, 123 Manuskripte 111, 113, 123 (nach der Standard-Nummerierung von G.H. von Wright, zit. nach der elektronischen Ausgabe BEE).

Chapter 13

The “Diktat für Schlick”: Authorship Research and Computational Stylometry Revisited Michael Oakes and Alois Pichler

Abstract  Both the authorship and the dating of the so-called “Diktat für Schlick” (DFS), once attributed to Ludwig Wittgenstein and assigned by Georg Henrik von Wright to the Wittgenstein Nachlass as item 302, are debated topics in Wittgenstein and Vienna Circle research. Schulte (Waismann as Spokesman for Wittgenstein. In: McGuinness B (ed). Friedrich Waismann - causality and logical positivism. Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 15. Springer, Dordrecht, pp 225–242, 2011) and Manninen (Waismann’s testimony of Wittgenstein’s fresh starts 1931–35. In: McGuinness B (ed). Friedrich Waismann - causality and logical positivism. Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 15. Springer, Dordrecht, pp 243–265, 2011) hold that DFS was authored by Friedrich Waismann rather than Wittgenstein. Applying techniques from computational stylometry to the authorship question, the paper concludes that DFS is located stylometrically in the middle between Waismann’s and Wittgenstein’s writings, but slightly closer to Wittgenstein, and so Wittgenstein authorship is hence stylometrically still not unlikely. The paper concludes by presenting a number of factors that speak in favour of the view that DFS might originally indeed have been dictated by Wittgenstein. For the computational stylometry component, the paper uses the Eder et al.’s (Stylometry with R: a package for computational text analysis. R Journal 8/1:107–121. Accessed 21 Oct 2021. https://journal.r-­project.org/ archive/2016/RJ-­2016-­007/index.html, 2016) “Stylometry with R” package; the degree of similarity and dissimilarity between documents is calculated by Burrows’ Delta measure; and the results are displayed using Hierarchical Cluster Analysis and Principal Components Analysis. For the text corpus part, the paper uses texts authored by Schlick, Waismann and Wittgenstein. For the archival research part, the paper refers to materials form the Schlick Nachlass in the North Holland Archives, the Waismann Nachlass in the Bodleian Libraries, the Rose Rand Nachlass in the Pittsburgh Archives of Scientific Philosophy, the Ludwig Wittgenstein Nachlass in the Trinity College Cambridge Wren Library, and the Cornell copy of the Ludwig M. Oakes · A. Pichler (*) Computational Linguistics, University of Wolverhampton, Wolverhampton, UK Department of Philosophy, University of Bergen, Bergen, Norway e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_13

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Wittgenstein Nachlass. The paper is a follow-up on Oakes and Pichler (Computational stylometry of Wittgenstein’s ‘Diktat für Schlick’”. In: Hareide L, Johannson C, Oakes M (eds). The many facets of corpus linguistics in Bergen: In honour of Knut Hofland. Bergen Language and Linguistics Series (BeLLS), Bergen, pp 221–240, 2013); for the current paper we have extended the Waismann text corpus with more texts written under the influence of Wittgenstein, a.o. Logik, Sprache, Philosophie (1976). Keywords  Computational stylometry · Ludwig Wittgenstein · Friedrich Waismann · Moritz Schlick · Rose Rand · Archive materials · Dictated manuscripts · Stenography · Authorship disputes · Dating disputes · Writing style

13.1 Applying Computational Stylometry to Wittgenstein Nachlass Item 302, the So-Called “Diktat für Schlick” Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889–1951) and Friedrich Waismann entered, on the initiative of Moritz Schlick, in the early 1930s a close cooperation on a publication offering a systematic and updated presentation of Wittgenstein’s philosophy.1 For this purpose Waismann conducted discussions with Wittgenstein, had access to Wittgenstein’s manuscripts from which he produced excerpts and summaries, and received, either directly or via Schlick, dictations from him (Waismann 1976, Nachwort). However, in 1935 the joint book project was abandoned. Some of the work already done made it nevertheless into Waismann’s own publications, incl. The Principles of Linguistic Philosophy (Waismann 1965), published in the original German as Logik, Sprache, Philosophie in 1976 (LSP), as also his earlier Einführung in das mathematische Denken (1936). The text in our focus here stands in the context of this joint publication project and is commonly referred to as “Diktat für Schlick”. Wittgenstein trustee Georg Henrik von Wright (1916–2003) accepted it as a part of the Wittgenstein Nachlass and catalogued it as Nachlass item no. 302. He also included in his description of the item the label under which it is commonly known: “The so-called Diktat für Schlick” (von Wright 1982, 49) / “Sog. Diktat für Schlick” (von Wright 1986, 58). However, both the authorial status, the authorship and the dating of the item are debated. With regard to authorial status, views range from regarding the item a “Kompositionsskizze” that was at least co-authored by Wittgenstein with a view of sketching (also) his own independent publication (Keicher 1998, 211), to  Manninen dates the beginning of this cooperation to December 1931: “Serious collaboration between Wittgenstein and Waismann began immediately following the meeting on 9 December 1931” (Manninen 2011, 2). Just a few weeks earlier, Wittgenstein had let Schlick know that he no longer wanted Waismann to continue his planned book on the Tractatus since he now disagreed with “very, very many” of its formulations (Letter by Wittgenstein to M. Schlick 20.11.1931, no. 37 in Iven 2015). 1

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acknowledging it at most as a part of the joint publication project which was however produced by Waismann (Schulte 2011; Manninen 2011). Von Wright himself seems to have thought that the item was dictated by Wittgenstein to Schlick: “302–308. Eight typescripts are known of dictations by Wittgenstein to Schlick …” (von Wright 1982, 56) and dates the origin of the text “[a]pproximately 1931–33” (von Wright 1982, 49). In contrast to von Wright’s dating, Pichler 1994 (123) assumes as possible earliest dating the second half of 1933; Keicher (1998, 83) proposes 1933–34; Baker dates it to December 1932 (VOW 2003, xv); Iven (2009, 67ff.) dates it to September 12–20, 1933; Manninen (2011, 9) finally thinks that it stems only from 1935. While neither Pichler nor Keicher challenge von Wright’s view that the first author of the text was indeed Wittgenstein, that the text originates in a dictation by Wittgenstein, and that the text was directly dictated to Schlick, each of these points have again been questioned by others. Keicher 2000 (210) adds an argument for the view that the text was dictated to Schlick. Proposals about the possible addressee of the dictation include not only Schlick, but, most prominently, also Waismann (e.g. Baker in VOW, xlvi). Substituting Waismann for the addressee is consistent with the information given on a cover sheet that was included in the 1967 Cornell microfilming (vol. 99 in the print version) of a transcript of the Waismann typescript version of the item: “Diktat für Schlick This typescript was found among Waismann’s papers. Dictated by Wittgenstein, probably to Waismann. Date: 1932–1933”.2 Most importantly, not only von Wright’s view that Schlick was the actual addressee and protocollant of the dictation, but also his view that Wittgenstein was the author of the dictation has been questioned: Schulte 2011 and Manninen 2011 argue that the authorship of the Diktat für Schlick is indeed to be located in Waismann rather than Wittgenstein. Manninen argues that Waismann used to regularly present recent developments of Wittgenstein’s philosophy at Moritz Schlick’s seminars in Vienna, and that the text was indeed authored by Waismann for precisely such a presentation in 1935. The text would thus be nothing but a “presentation by Waismann for Schlick’s seminar early in 1935, in this sense a dictation für Schlick, although not by Wittgenstein. It was written down on this occasion in shorthand by Schlick and also by Rose Rand, both of them listening to Waismann’s presentation” (Manninen 2011, 251). Iven summarizes the state of the debates in the following way: “Bis heute … ist jedoch unklar, wann dieses Diktat, wenn man es denn überhaupt so bezeichnen kann, entstand und wer der eigentliche Urheber bzw. Protokollant oder Adressat war.” (Iven ­forthcoming (n.d.)). It should be emphasized that none of the participants in the debate questions that Wittgenstein had at least some share in the authorship of the Diktat für Schlick (in the following abbr. as “DFS”)  - if not by direct dictation to either Schlick or Waismann, then via reuse of his thought and texts through Waismann. The real issue of the debate is not whether Wittgenstein was to some degree involved, but rather:

 A copy of the transcript is kept at the Wittgenstein and von Wright Archives at the University of Helsinki. 2

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How strongly was Waismann involved in the making of the text? Of Schlick we have to assume that, if the text was dictated to him, he would try to accurately write it down. The same would apply to Rose Rand’s involvement in any writing down or copying of the text. But was Waismann maybe already the first receiver of the dictation? Was he maybe even its first author rather than receiver only? If the text was dictated by Wittgenstein to either Schlick or Waismann, was Waismann when editing the text subsequently taking on more and more capacities of authorship? Or was he only intended as an addressee of the dictation further down in the line, after the item was first dictated to Schlick and then maybe typed out (possibly by R. Rand) for further use and editing by Waismann for the joint book project? Our paper is intended as a contribution to this discussion as supported by computational stylometry (Sects. 13.2 and 13.3) and further reflections on DFS’s archival situation (Sect. 13.4). We have already approached this question in Oakes and Pichler (2013). Our computational stylometry question was then and is also now: “... what can computational stylometry, using this specific method on these specific texts, tell us in relation to our specific research questions” (Oakes and Pichler 2013, 222). The specific stylometric approach and software adopted was the “Stylometry with R” package of Eder et al. (2016). The specific text corpus for stylometric comparison consisted of: (a) DFS in typescript version, (b1) the Wittgenstein Nachlass item Big Typescript alias item Ts-213, without revisions in Wittgenstein’s hand, 1932–33 (= BTt), (b2) the Wittgenstein Nachlass item Big Typescript alias item 213, with revisions in Wittgenstein’s hand, 1933–34 (= BTh), (c) Schlick texts amounting from the Vienna period (= SCH), (d) Waismann texts from the Vienna period (= WAI). Each of the texts (a)–(b) can be inspected in both facsimile and transcription in the Bergen Electronic Edition of Wittgenstein’s Nachlass (BEE) as well as in the more updated Bergen Nachlass Edition on Wittgenstein Source (BNE, Wittgenstein 2015).3 The questions treated by us back in Oakes and Pichler (2013) were the following: (1) How can computational stylometry contribute to investigating the authorship question? (2) How can computational stylometry contribute to investigating the dating question? For investigating the authorship question, DFS was compared to BT, SCH and WAI; for investigating the dating question, DFS was compared to BTt and BTh. Given the specific stylometric approach and the specific corpus as described above, we concluded that: 1. DFS was closer to BTh than to SCH which suggested that DFS was closer to Wittgenstein authorship than to Schlick authorship. 2. DFS was closer to BTh than to either WAI or SCH which suggested that DFS was closer to Wittgenstein authorship than to Waismann authorship. 3. DFS was closer to BTh than to BTt which suggested that DFS was to be dated 1933–34 rather than 1932–33.  For reproducing the text base of Ts-213 without revisions in Wittgenstein’s hand (= BTt), we recommend use of IDP (Wittgenstein 2016) where one can choose “Exclude handwritten revisions in typescript”. 3

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For the current paper we build on the continued ongoing discussions and the following two assumptions derived from our 2013 paper: The authorship question most relevant to us here is really about Wittgenstein vs. Waismann authorship rather than Wittgenstein or Waismann vs. Schlick authorship; the Wittgenstein corpus to be compared to is BTh, the Big Typescript including Wittgenstein’s handwritten revisions rather than the Big Typescript without Wittgenstein’s handwritten revisions. However, for investigating the issue of Wittgenstein vs. Waismann authorship, we have since 2013 always wanted to check our stylometric results against a text corpus that was extended with additional writings in German by Waismann, including Logik, Sprache, Philosophie (LSP), the most comprehensive text arising from Waismann’s and Wittgenstein’s joint work.4 LSP was completed by Waismann in Oxford only in 1937, going through some additional revision in 1938–39 (LSP, Nachwort, 657 f.) but goes, as mentioned, back to the early 1930s, when Wittgenstein and Waismann met regularly in Vienna for joint work on the book. LSP thus coincides with the period of Wittgenstein’s and Waismann’s cooperation as well as the post and ante quems for dating DFS. We expected that the inclusion of the additional Waismann writings could have an impact on allocating DFS in the stylometric landscape, for example, that it might lead to diminishing the stylistic distance between DFS and Waismann’s writings. We also wondered how LSP did compare stylistically to the other Waismann writings included (= WAIS). Or, related to this, how close both LSP and WAIS would turn out to be to the Wittgenstein Nachlass item BTh. Since much of LSP’s thought, text and wording originates in Wittgenstein’s own thoughts and wordings, one would expect that LSP could be as close to BTh, as we had found DFS to be. Naturally, Waismann would always have wanted not to have Wittgenstein’s wordings and expressions completely disappear from the text. Additional questions included, whether it, on the extended text basis, would be possible to locate elements of style that characterized both LSP and DFS, but not BTh. Could including LSP and additional writings by Waismann in our stylometric experiments maybe help identify the specific Waismannian elements in, and contribution to, editing Wittgenstein’s thoughts and texts, thus Waismann’s own style as it entered DFS? Rerunning our experiments, we now obtained the following results: 4. Comparing LSP and WAIS shows surprisingly no consistent stylistic distinction between LSP and WAIS; LSP seems stylistically different from Waismann’s other works in that the WAIS texts are rather spread out over Fig. 13.5 below, while the individual chapters of LSP cluster close together. This result is surprising because one would expect the influence of Wittgenstein’s style on LSP to be stronger than its influence on Waismann’s other writings. Thus we needed to see how the Wittgenstein BTh texts would appear when added to the same diagram. 5. Comparing DFS to LSP, WAIS and BTh shows DFS equidistant between LSP, WAIS and BTh; DFS seems thus stylistically different from both Waismann’s  Another candidate for inclusion would naturally be also Waismann’s Einführung in das mathematische Denken (Waismann 1936). 4

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works and from Wittgenstein’s BTh, while at the same time also very close to both Waismann’s works and Wittgenstein’s BTh. Our current results are ­consistent with our results from 2013 in that DFS was shown to be closer to BTh than to Waismann’s works, even though the Waismann corpus now included more items that were under the strong influence of Wittgenstein’s writings. 6. Comparing WAIS and LSP to BTh shows WAIS slightly to the right of LSP which is well to the right of BTh; LSP seems thus stylistically slightly closer to BTh than the other Waismann writings. This result suggests that a specifically Wittgensteinian (vs. Waismannian) style is only slightly more present in LSP than in WAIS. This finding was only made apparent by the addition of the BTh texts to the comparison of WAIS and LSP. The result most important for us here is that DFS, while it has stylistic marks of both BTh and LSP, is still almost equidistant between the two. The inclusion of LSP and WAIS in our studies has thus on the one hand indeed led to a slight revision of our 2013 result which clearly suggested a Wittgenstein rather than a Waismann authorship of DFS. But on the other hand, the result does not suggest sufficient stylistic closeness of DFS to LSP and WAIS so that one could derive Waismann rather than Wittgenstein authorship from it. In fact, in the similarity graph, DFS is located almost in the middle between the two, albeit slightly closer to BTh. Wittgenstein authorship is hence still not unlikely. However, we did find some interesting deviations which we want to comment upon further down. Our results are, as were the results from Oakes and Pichler (2013), compatible with each of the competing views surrounding the question of authorship. They do neither exclude that DFS was originally dictated by Wittgenstein to Schlick and later edited further by Waismann (as Iven holds in his 2009); nor do they exclude that DFS was originally dictated by Wittgenstein to Waismann and later edited further by Waismann (as Baker holds in VOW); nor do they exclude that Waismann, using texts going back to Wittgenstein, himself stood for the compilation of the original text and dictated it (a.o.) to Schlick and Rand (as Manninen holds in his 2011 paper). While our results strengthen the position that Waismann had at least a co-authoring hand in the production of DFS, they do not imply that Waismann also actually authored DFS; the Waismannian parts of the style of DFS might simply be a result of his editing the original dictation by Wittgenstein. If, on the other hand, DFS should have originated much more in Waismann’s than in Wittgenstein’s authorship, as Manninen holds, then it seems surprising that DFS stylistically is closer to BTh than LSP is; LSP being a paradigm for such a text originating much more in Waismann’s than in Wittgenstein’s authorship. DFS is in fact equidistant between LSP and BTh (see Fig. 13.4), while LSP, though slightly closer to BTh than the other Waismann writings, is significantly more to the right of BTh than DFS (see Fig. 13.7). The only accounts with which our results therefore are not compatible, would be accounts which deny that either Wittgenstein or Waismann have had any hand in the composition of DFS, to be precise: of DFS, as it entered our computational stylometry study. However, none of the competing hypotheses about DFS authorship makes such a strong claim.

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We present the details of our experiments in Sect. 13.3. However, before that we want to present at least briefly the computational stylometry techniques used in our experiments.

13.2 Methodology Computer or Computational stylometry (CS) is the computational analysis of writing style. Traditionally it is used in cases of disputed authorship to determine the most likely author of a text of uncertain authorship, such as DFS in the present study. In our analysis, we make use of Eder et  al.’s (2016) “Stylometry with R” package, which is freely downloadable. The first task is to decide on the list of plausible candidates for authorship of the disputed text, and then to collect a number of texts undisputedly written by those authors. The texts should be characterised by the numbers of linguistic features they contain, where in our case we use the 100 most common words in the vocabulary. Thus for each text we find how many times (ignoring case) “die” is found in each text under consideration, the number of times “das” is found in each text, and so on. We chose the number 100 because that, as we found for Oakes and Pichler (2013), most clearly distinguished the texts by Waismann from those by Wittgenstein. The next step is to estimate the inter-textual distances between the texts. There are a number of measures for this, and we use the popular “Delta” measure of Burrows (2002). If two texts are identical, the distance between them is 0, otherwise the distance is positive, and in proportion to the extent they differ. The inter-textual differences for all the pairwise comparisons between the texts are stored in a matrix. The matrix is used as the basis for a number of visual representations of the distances between the texts. We use two, Hierarchical Cluster Analysis (HCA) and Principal Components Analysis (PCA). Finally, these steps are repeated with the addition of the disputed text(s), in our case here DFS. HCA produces a diagram called a “dendrogram”, such as the one in Fig. 13.1 which looks like a tree on its side. All the texts are joined at the “root” on the left, and individual texts appear on the right. Each text is joined to its most similar text, and the distance between those texts is proportional to the length of the branch connecting them, as measured on the scale at the bottom. To find the distances between the other texts, such as BTh_Allgemeinheit from Wittgenstein’s BTh and LSP_ XVIII from Waismann’s LSP, find the distance on the bottom scale of the vertical bar connecting them, which corresponds to a Delta distance of almost 5. The diagram has two main branches, one mainly corresponding to Wittgenstein texts, and the other mainly to Waismann texts. Specifically, we use Ward’s (1963) method of HCA, the default option in the “Stylo” package. The PCA analysis such as the one in Fig. 13.2 is a two-dimensional map, where similar texts appear close to one another and dissimilar texts appear far apart. The horizontal axis is the first principal component (PC1), where the extremes are low and high occurrences of groups of linguistic features (frequent words) which tend to occur in the same texts as each other. PC1 is that group of words which most

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Fig. 13.1  Hierarchical Cluster Analysis for Waismann’s LSP and Wittgenstein’s BTh

accounts for the differences in texts, while the second principal component (PC2) is the group of words which accounts for the next most difference between the texts. The texts used in our analyses are the following (Table 13.1):

13.3 Analysis Figures 13.1 and 13.2 below show the outputs obtained when the set of texts indisputably by either Wittgenstein or Waismann alone were each compared against the others. The resulting table of pairwise distances between the texts formed the basis of the Hierarchical Cluster Analysis (HCA) shown in Fig. 13.1 and the Principal

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Fig. 13.2  Principal Components Analysis for Waismann’s LSP and Wittgenstein’s BTh

Component Analysis (PCA) shown in Fig. 13.2. In general Fig. 13.1 shows clear separation between Wittgenstein’s BTh (shown in red) and Waismann’s LSP (shown in green). The one exception is where BTh_Philosophie seems interestingly to have stylistically more in common with Waismann’s LSP than with the other parts of BTh. We do not at present have any explanation for this. Figure 13.1 shows that DFS appears in the same cluster as BTh. This is because there were just two main clusters in Fig. 13.1, so DFS had to appear with either LSP or BTh, even though it is probably only slightly closer to BTh. In the PCA (see Fig. 13.2), it is possible to place a text equidistant between two other groups of texts, reflecting its true position. In Fig. 13.2, the Principal Components Analysis (PCA) of the Wittgenstein and Waismann texts, the texts are more clearly separated between Waismann on the left hand side and Wittgenstein on the right (negative and positive values on the first

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Table 13.1  Texts used in the analyses Text Diktat für Schlick (1933–34): in the typescript version originally published in Wittgenstein 2000 (BEE)

Erkenntnistheorie und moderne Physik; Erleben, Erkennen, Metaphysik; Ernst Mach, der Philosoph; Gibt es ein Materiales Apriori? Positivismus und Realismus; Quantentheorie und Erkennbarkeit der Natur; Über das Fundament der Erkenntnis; Vom Sinn des Lebens; Die Wende der Philosophie; Wilhelm Jerusalem zum Gedächtnis (1926–36) (Schlick 2008) Logik, Sprache, Philosophie (1937) (Waismann 1976)

Die Natur des Reduzibilitätsaxioms (1928); Logische Analyse des Wahrscheinlichkeitsbegriffs (1930); Was ist logische Analyse? (1939–40); Von der Natur eines philosophischen Problems (1939); Logische und psychologische Aspekte in der Sprachbetrachtung (1947/48) Big Typescript (1933–34); in the typescript version, incl. handwritten revisions, originally published in Wittgenstein 2000 (BEE)

Author Ludwig Wittgenstein? Friedrich Waismann? Moritz Schlick

Abbr. DFS

Friedrich Waismann (except Vorrede which is by Moritz Schlick) Friedrich Waismann

LSP

Ludwig Wittgenstein

BTh

SCH

WAIS

principal component respectively). BTh_Philosophie appears however again midway between the clusters for the two authors. SCH_Vorrede appears to the left of the Waismann texts. The “Vorrede” or preface to Waismann’s LSP, was actually signed by Moritz Schlick, and not unexpectedly appears in the Schlick clusters for both HCA and PCA (SCH_Vorrede, in Figs.  13.3 and 13.4). It at the same time appears in Figs. 13.1 and 13.2 to have a writing style that is closer to Waismann’s than to Wittgenstein’s. In Figs. 13.3 and 13.4 we introduce further texts, several definitely written by Schlick and already included in Oakes and Pichler (2013), as well as DFS. In these figures the Wittgenstein texts are shown in red, the Waismann texts in blue, the Schlick texts in black, and DFS in green. The Hierarchical Cluster Analysis (HCA) in Fig. 13.3 shows clear distinct clusters for Schlick (SCH), Waismann’s LSP and Wittgenstein’s BTh, except where “BTh_Philosophie” clusters with the Waismann texts and DFS clusters with BTh. The “Vorrede” to Waismann’s LSP clusters expectedly with the Schlick texts. In the Principal Components Analysis (PCA) of Fig. 13.4, the clusters for the Waismann and Wittgenstein texts are generally distinct, but there is some overlap between them. The colour coding is the same for Fig.  13.4 as for Fig.  13.3. For example, BTh_Philosophie appears more similar to Waismann’s LSP than to Wittgenstein’s, while the “Anhang” of Waismann’s LSP appears more similar to

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Fig. 13.3  Hierarchical Cluster Analysis for texts by Schlick (Sch), Waismann (LSP), Wittgenstein (BTh), and DFS

Wittgenstein’s Bth than to Waismann’s LSP texts. It is in this area of overlap that DFS appears, showing that the stylometry technique does not attribute DFS conclusively to either Waismann or Wittgenstein. The “Vorrede” to LSP appears clearly in the cluster of Schlick texts. In Fig. 13.4, LSP and BTh differ in their positions on the PC2 (Second Principal Component) axis. The frequent words most typical of BTh’s style and the style of LSP can be found by using the command a = stylo() to run the analysis. This also causes additional numeric data to be stored in a file called a. A second command sort(a$pca.rotation[,2]) will return an ordered list of the words most associated with the extremes of PC2. Thus the words (ignoring case) most associated with the writing style of BTh are “als”, “auch”, “muß”, “denn”, “sein”, “du”, “ich”, “heißt”, “nicht”, “dem”, while the style of LSP is associated with frequent usage of ­“wir”,“uns”,“diese”,“eine”,“eines”,“Sprache”,“nun”,“die”,“Wort”,“einer”.

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Fig. 13.4 Principal Components Analysis for texts by Schlick (Sch), Waismann (LSP), Wittgenstein (BTh), and DFS

Figure 13.5 shows no consistent variation between Waismann’s other texts (WAIS) and LSP. In general the LSP chapters are closely clustered together, while the WAIS texts are scattered throughout the diagram. LSP is in red, while WAIS is in blue. Figure 13.6 shows that LSP is distinct from BTh, the texts which appear clearly to the right. The WAIS (non-LSP) texts now appear slightly to the left of the LSP chapters. BTh is in red, LSP in green and WAIS in blue. Figure 13.7 uses the same set of texts as Fig. 13.6, with the addition of DFS. DFS appears in an intermediate position between BTh and LSP, but is somewhat closer to BTh. BTh is in red, LSP in blue, WAIS in black and DFS in green.

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Fig. 13.5  Principal Components Analysis for texts by Waismann (LSP and WAIS)

13.4 Discussion of Results and Outlook Schulte (2011), arguing that DFS was authored by Waismann, attributes important evidence to the references, vocabulary and style of DFS: Another point to consider are direct and indirect references to other authors. Neither the reference to Nietzsche (VoW, 12) nor the discussion of Heidegger’s “Das Nichts nichtet” (72) are in Wittgenstein’s usual style. The awkward statement about the influence of Adolf Loos (76) was certainly not phrased by Wittgenstein himself. And it is unthinkable that Wittgenstein should have referred to the Logisch-philosophische Abhandlung [Wittgenstein’s first philosophical work] by the absurd name ‘Traktat’ (which on the other hand was used by Waismann). (Schulte 2011, 239)

Regarding use of “Traktat”, one should take notice of the fact that Wittgenstein is also in WWK (Wittgenstein 1984) cited as referring in the conversations to his first

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Fig. 13.6  Principal Components Analysis for texts by Schlick (Vorrede to LSP), Waismann (LSP and WAIS) and Wittgenstein (BTh)

philosophical book by “Traktat” (77, 182 and 209; from January 2 1930, December 9 1931 and July 1 1932, respectively), rather than “Abhandlung”.5 It may indeed be that “Traktat” was mostly Waismannian and Vienna Circle speech only. The stenograms seem to confirm that “Traktat” may not origin in the original dictation: In the (allegedly original) Schlick stenogram (183/D.1, 2v; see Fabian 2007) “Traktat” seems put in square brackets (as though Schlick wanted to mark the reference to the

 We have not yet been able to cross check the published texts of WWK with Waismann’s original records, and thus to establish whether “Traktat” possibly also in these cases was added only post conversation. 5

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Fig. 13.7  Principal Components Analysis for texts by Schlick (Vorrede to LSP), Waismann (LSP and WAIS), Wittgenstein (BTh), and DFS

Tractatus as his addendum), and in the Rand stenogram (RR 11-16-3, 3r)6 “Traktat” is either added post first writing, or from the beginning put in the right margin (as though it should be marked as something not dictated by Wittgenstein, but still a reference worthwhile including). But rather than weakening, this seems to strengthen the view that DFS originally was dictated by Wittgenstein: While he may not have made the reference to the Tractatus, or at least not have used the title “Traktat”  Ludwig Wittgenstein, “Manuscripts I and II”. Rose Rand Papers identifier 31735061817973. In: VI. Rose Rand’s Research Notes, Transcriptions, Manuscript Fragments, and Minutes, 1912–1978, Container: Box 11, Folder 16. University of Pittsburgh: Archives of Scientific Philosophy. For facsimiles and an item description see https://digital.library.pitt.edu/islandora/object/ pitt:31735061817973 (accessed October 21, 2021). 6

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himself, Schlick and Rand may have considered it worthwhile to include the reference, and added it post dictation, hereby marking it as not being part of the original dictation. If the text of the dictation, on the other hand, should originate with Waismann - why should Waismann not have included the reference and used the “Traktat” label from the beginning? Manninen (2011) holds that DFS was not dictated by Wittgenstein, but produced by Waismann on his own, even if with a basis in texts and oral communications by Wittgenstein, and as a part of presenting Wittgenstein’s recent philosophical developments. Manninen continued to argue for his thesis in other, yet unpublished papers: The Diktat für Schlick has been seen as Wittgenstein’s dictation to Waismann and more recently as Wittgenstein’s dictation to Schlick, in any case as a dictation by Wittgenstein. In the following, I will defend the thesis that it was not a dictation by Wittgenstein, but a dictation by Waismann, or, more specifically, a dictation to Schlick and others within Schlick’s Circle.7

However, in other work Manninen discusses, without taking a final position, carefully the pros and contras of all other possible scenarios, including the one that Iven (2009) proposes as well as some alternative ones. We think, as stated above, that our results are compatible with any of Schulte’s (2011) and Manninen’s (2011) views, as well as with Iven’s (2009) view, and that the only view they are incompatible with would be one that excludes Waismann (or Wittgenstein) from any contribution to the authorship of the item which entered the text base of our CS study, i.e. DFS in the version of the typescript preserved in the Trinity College Cambridge Wren Library and originally published in the BEE (2000). This version is, with regard to the typed text, identical with the version kept in the North Holland Schlick archives (183/D.3; see Fabian 2007). It is only then when the text base of our experiments is extended further with transcriptions of the two original stenograms, the DFS related materials contained in Waismann notebooks and the Waismann “Vorstufen” material (see VOW, xxxix), as well as the Waismann DFS related typescripts (Section F, “Ältere Reste”; see Schulte 1979 and item 4 in Table 13.2 below), published by G. Baker in VOW, that we might be able to come to more precise conclusions. Naturally, in addition to CS techniques and methods one will also need detailed document comparisons helping to establish the text genetic and chronological dependencies. So far, the stenograms themselves seem to have received insufficient research attention - surely partly due to the difficulty of deciphering the shorthand scripts they are written in. The DFS archival situation includes at least the documents listed below. While we have not yet been able to study each of the documents in detail, we consider it a viable hypothesis that the sequence in which we list them in the following table largely corresponds also to their chronological sequence:8

 J.  Manninen: “An Analysis of the So-Called Diktat für Schlick, Attributed to Wittgenstein” (Unpublished-a). 8  Here we don’t take into account the issue of the origin and dating of DFS’ last page (see Manninen’s “Analysis” paper). 7

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Table 13.2  “Diktat für Schlick” archival items Produced by Archive Moritz Schlick North Holland Archives in Haarlem Schlick Nachlass 2. Stenogram in Gabelsberger and Rose Rand Pittsburgh occasionally also normal script Archives of 65 pages Scientific Philosophy Rand Nachlass 3a. Typescript based on no. 183/D.1 Friedrich North Holland 32 pages Waismann(?) Archives in Haarlem Schlick Nachlass 3b. Typescript based on no. 183/D.1, Friedrich Trinity College carbon copy of item 3a a Waismann(?) Cambridge Wren Originally part of Waismann Library Nachlass Wittgenstein 32 pages Nachlass 4. Dispersed DFS related Friedrich Oxford Bodleian typescripts of brief lengths and Waismann Libraries with each a heading, but with Waismann many changes to the underlying Nachlass DFS partsb In total 52 pages 1.

Document Stenogram in Stolze-Schrey 37 pages

Identifier 183/D.1

11-16-3

183/D.3

“Ältere Reste” F 4–7, 15, 18, 47, 80, 84–87, 89, 91, 93, 99, 101–102

The Wren Library exemplar is, according to the front cover of the folder which contains the item, a “[c]arbon copy of typescript”, “[P]resented by BFMcGuinness May 1969”  (see  Wittgenstein 2015). Items 3a and 3b contain a few handwritten corrections in the same (Waismann’s?) hand. Item 3b provided the text base for our stylometric experiment. b The Waismann Nachlass in the Bodleian Archives does not contain DFS in one continuous and complete typescript, but only the set of related short F “Ältere Reste” typescripts (see Schulte 1979 and VOW, footnote apparatus). It may be just as appropriate to keep these typescripts, which only when arranged in the sequence F 99–84–18-85-102-101-87-86-4-87-91-5-80-6-15-47-89-93-7 make up the text sequence of the original DFS (see VOW, Contents Table), separated from the list of DFS archival items and thus to not include them in the table above. Schulte thinks that the “Ältere Reste” typescripts were earlier than DFS (2011, 240), but to us they appear to be later than the original DFS and to represent a Waismannian transformation of the DFS text into independent smaller chunks which each per se elaborate specific DFS contents further. Also Baker thinks that these typescripts are “excerpted” from DFS, and he regards them as “attempts to work towards the text of Logik, Sprache, Philosophie” (VOW, xxxi). We are indebted to the Bodleian Special Collections and especially to Superintendent Oliver House for providing us with copies of the Waismann F “Ältere Reste” material. a

Rand’s stenogram RR 11-16-3 (item 2 in Table 13.2 above) contains on the top of p.4r a note saying that what, in her stenogram, is underlined by one straight line is her own underlining, but that what is underlined by double straight line is  Wittgenstein’s underlining: “v. Wittg. unterstr.”. Manninen correctly notes in his “Analysis” paper that Rand’s double underlinings not always coincide with the single underlinings in Schlick’s stenogram (item 1 in Table 13.2 above), but still

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thinks it plausible that the Rand stenogram bases on the Schlick stenogram, and thus reproduces its single - “Wittgenstein’s” - underlinings in her own stenogram as double underlinings. Manninen discusses in his “Analysis” paper also the possibility that DFS originates already from the Christmas break 1931–1932 and was dictated by Wittgenstein to Waismann  - with Rose Rand taking the shorthand notes. But from the little of comparison of the two documents we could do so far, it seems that the Schlick stenogram is indeed earlier than the Rand stenogram, the latter being more orderly, containing less deletions, and transferring the only two subheadings occurring in the Schlick stenogram in neat form to the new stenogram.9 The two subheadings are “Verstehen eines Satzes analog dem Verstehen einer Melodie als Melodie” and “Verstehen eines Genrebildes”. The first subheading can be found in the Schlick stenogram on p.5, in the Rand stenogram on p.2v, and in the Wren and North Holland Archives typescript exemplars on p.2; the second can be found in the Schlick stenogram on p.17, in the Rand stenogram on p.8r, and in the Wren and North Holland Archives typescript exemplars on p.8. The idea that the Rand stenogram is earlier than the two typescript exemplars fits with one of the several hypotheses Manninen discusses, namely that Rand received “Schlick’s dictations from Schlick’s shorthand notebook after Schlick’s return from the meeting with Wittgenstein in Istria 1933. When one was used with one shorthand style, she or he could not read another one without special expertise. So it was necessary for the writer to dictate the contents for a person who used a different shorthand method. The text could well have been meant for use by Waismann. …”.10 If this suggested scenario is correct, then the DFS typescript could have been produced by Waismann on the basis of the Rand stenogram. One exemplar of the typescript, the top copy, could then have been given to Schlick (item 3a in Table 13.2 above, kept today with the Schlick Nachlass in the North Holland Archives), while the other, the carbon copy (item 3b in Table 13.2 above), remained with Waismann, but was later, as confirmed by the note on the Wren Library folder for the item, “physically separated from Waismann’s papers and deposited with Wittgenstein’s papers in the Library of Trinity College, Cambridge” (VOW, xl). It would thus have been the “Waismann exemplar” which in 2000 was published in the BEE. Both the Wren and the North Holland Archives typescript exemplars contain handwritten corrections and additions (by Waismann?). G. Baker, when editing DFS for VOW,  Manninen argues in his “Analysis” paper that, on the basis of holding that both stenograms were taken simultaneously, it doesn’t make sense to try to determine which of the two is the earliest: “Both Moritz Schlick’s and Rose Rand’s shorthand manuscripts were made while listening to this dictation. For this reason, it is impossible to say which of them was the original and which a copy. They were both “original” documentations of Waismann’s lecturing, so close to Wittgenstein as Waismann was able to be. The Diktat für Schlick is an excellent candidate to be counted among those of Wittgenstein’s writings – or presentations of Wittgenstein’s thought – which were read in the Circle.” Unfortunately, Manninen does not discuss why the two, although allegedly being taken simultaneously of the same dictation, still differ significantly in tidiness of writing, location of corrections etc. 10  J. Manninen: “Dictations. Ludwig Wittgenstein’s dictations to Friedrich Waismann and Moritz Schlick (including the problem of Rozalia Rand’s notes)” (Unpublished-b). 9

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included and interpolated additional subheadings stemming from the Waismann “Ältere Reste” DFS related typescript in the Bodleian Libraries (item 4 in Table 13.2 above).11 While Manninen (“Dictations”) thinks that Rand’s note on the double underlinings (“by Wittgenstein”) may indicate that the shorthand notes were actually taken by Rand during the Christmas break 1931–32, he does not make more out of it. To us, Rand’s comment clearly either suggests that she herself knew or believed that the DFS text was authored by Wittgenstein, or that she believed it was sufficiently authored by Wittgenstein that she could attribute the underlinings to him. Either Waismann, during dictation at the seminar (if this is the story), communicated that the underlinings were Wittgenstein’s (thus basing himself on a text source stemming from Wittgenstein), or Rand had access to a text source whose underlinings were either in Wittgenstein’s hand or could indirectly be attributed to Wittgenstein, or she was directly present at a dictation by Wittgenstein where he would lift his voice in order to stress the words to be underlined. Each of these scenarios casts doubt on any view that questions that Wittgenstein in any substantial way had an important hand in authoring the text. Combining these reflections with the results from our CS investigations, it seems that the hypothesis that the DFS was originally dictated by Wittgenstein to Schlick still remains plausible, and that the passages underlined in Schlick’s stenogram would be the passages where Wittgenstein would during dictation lift his voice in order to put stress on a specific word or phrase. According to Manninen (“Analysis”), the Rand stenogram is “almost identical, so far as I can judge, with Schlick’s manuscript and the typescript corresponding to it”. We have ourselves not yet been able to compare the text of the two stenograms in sufficient detail with each other, nor in sufficient detail the text of the Wren and North Holland Archives typescript exemplars on the one hand with the text of the two stenograms on the other. Most importantly, we have not yet been able to compare these four documents stylometrically with each other. But it is only by carrying out such detailed comparisons and stylometric studies that one will be enabled to establish whether the Waismannian style which is undeniably present in DFS possibly came in post-stenogram (which would strengthen the hypothesis of Wittgensteinian authorship), or maybe was already there with the Schlick and Rand stenograms (which would strengthen the opposed hypothesis of Waismannian authorship). It is also only then and if Waismannian style can be shown to come in post-stenogram, that we can start approaching an answer to the question which are the specific Waismannian elements in, and contribution to, editing Wittgenstein’s thoughts and texts, thus Waismann’s own style as it entered DFS. We ask the reader to keep in mind that it was the text of the typescript exemplars in the Wren and North Holland Archives which (so we assume) already have gone through Waismann’s hand, on which our comparison of DFS to WAIS, LSP and BTh, yielding a clear connection of DFS to Waismann’s text, was based. It would be very

 The transcript filmed for the Cornell microfilm doesn’t contain any other subheadings than the two contained in the original Wren Library and North Holland Archives typescripts. 11

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interesting to try to find out whether DFS’s development from the stenogram to the typescript versions was a process of stylistic distancing from BTh on the one hand, and approximation to WAIS and LSP on the other. For this, further transcription and CS work is required.

References Burrows, John. 2002. ‘Delta’: A Measure of Stylistic Difference and a Guide to Likely Authorship. Literary and Linguistic Computing 17 (3): 267–287. Eder, Maciej, Jan Rybicki, and Mike Kestemont. 2016. Stylometry with R: A Package for Computational Text Analysis. R Journal 8 (1): 107–121. Accessed 21 Oct 2021. https:// journal.r-­project.org/archive/2016/RJ-­2016-­007/index.html. Fabian, Reinhard. 2007. Wiener Kreis Archiv (Noord-Hollands Archief, Haarlem/NL): Inventarverzeichnis des wissenschaftlichen Nachlasses von Moritz Schlick. Accessed 21 Oct 2021. https://docplayer.org/16959754-­Wiener-­kreis-­archiv-­noord-­hollands-­archief-­haarlem-­ nl-­inventarverzeichnis-­des-­wissenschaftlichen-­nachlasses-­von-­moritz-­schlick.html. Iven, Mathias. 2009. Wittgenstein und Schlick. Zur Geschichte eines Diktats. In Stationen. Dem Philosophen und Physiker Moritz Schlick zum 125. Geburtstag, ed. Friedrich Stadler and Hans Jürgen Wendel, 63–80. Wien/New York: Springer. ———. 2015. Er ‘ist eine Künstlernatur von hinreissender Genialität’: Die Korrespondenz zwischen Ludwig Wittgenstein und Moritz Schlick sowie ausgewählte Briefe von und an Friedrich Waismann, Rudolf Carnap, Frank P.  Ramsey, Ludwig Hänsel und Margaret Stonborough. Wittgenstein Studien 6: 83–174. ———. (n.d.). Forthcoming. Diktate – Friedrich Waismann und Moritz Schlick. In WittgensteinHandbuch. Leben – Werk – Wirkung, ed. Anja Weiberg and Stefan Majetschak. Heidelberg: J.B. Metzler. Keicher, Peter. 1998. Untersuchungen zu Wittgensteins ‘Diktat für Schlick’. In Arbeiten zu Wittgenstein, eds. Heinz Wilhelm Krüger and Alois Pichler, 43–90. Working Papers from the Wittgenstein Archives at the University of Bergen 15. Bergen: Wittgenstein Archives at the University of Bergen. ———. 2000. Aspekte musikalischer Komposition bei Ludwig Wittgenstein. Studienfragmente zu D 302 und Opus MS 114ii/115i. In Das Verstehen des Anderen, ed. Katalin Neumer, 199–255. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang. Manninen, Juha. 2011. Waismann’s Testimony of Wittgenstein’s Fresh Starts 1931–35. In Friedrich Waismann - Causality and Logical Positivism, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 15, ed. Brain McGuinness, 243–265. Dordrecht: Springer. ———. Unpublished-a. An Analysis of the So-Called Diktat für Schlick, Attributed to Wittgenstein. ———. Unpublished-b. Dictations. Ludwig Wittgenstein’s dictations to Friedrich Waismann and Moritz Schlick (including the problem of Rozalie Rand’s notes). Oakes, Michael, and Alois Pichler. 2013. Computational Stylometry of Wittgenstein’s ‘Diktat für Schlick’. In The Many Facets of Corpus Linguistics in Bergen: In Honour of Knut Hofland, ed. Lidun Hareide, Christer Johannson, and Michael Oakes, 221–240. Bergen: Bergen Language and Linguistics Series (BeLLS). Pichler, Alois. 1994. Untersuchungen zu Wittgensteins Nachlaß. Working Papers from the Wittgenstein Archives at the University of Bergen 8. Bergen: Wittgenstein Archives at the University of Bergen. Schlick, Moritz. 2008a. Erleben, Erkennen, Metaphysik. In Gesamtausgabe Band I/6: Die Wiener Zeit - Aufsätze, Beiträge, Rezensionen 1926–1936, hg. und eingeleitet von Johannes Friedl und Heiner Rutte, 33–54. Wien: Springer.

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———. 2008b. Ernst Mach, der Philosoph. In Gesamtausgabe Band I/6: Die Wiener Zeit - Aufsätze, Beiträge, Rezensionen 1926–1936, hg. und eingeleitet von Johannes Friedl und Heiner Rutte, 61–68. Wien: Springer. ———. 2008c. Vom Sinn des Lebens. In Gesamtausgabe Band I/6: Die Wiener Zeit - Aufsätze, Beiträge, Rezensionen 1926–1936, hg. und eingeleitet von Johannes Friedl und Heiner Rutte, 99–125. Wien: Springer. ———. 2008d. Wilhelm Jerusalem zum Gedächtnis. In Gesamtausgabe Band I/6: Die Wiener Zeit - Aufsätze, Beiträge, Rezensionen 1926–1936, hg. und eingeleitet von Johannes Friedl und Heiner Rutte, 137–141. Wien: Springer. ———. 2008e. Erkenntnistheorie und moderne Physik. In Gesamtausgabe Band I/6: Die Wiener Zeit - Aufsätze, Beiträge, Rezensionen 1926–1936, hg. und eingeleitet von Johannes Friedl und Heiner Rutte, 161–172. Wien: Springer. ———. 2008f. Die Wende der Philosophie. In Gesamtausgabe Band I/6: Die Wiener Zeit  Aufsätze, Beiträge, Rezensionen 1926–1936, hg. und eingeleitet von Johannes Friedl und Heiner Rutte, 213–222. Wien: Springer. ———. 2008g. Positivismus und Realismus. In Gesamtausgabe Band I/6: Die Wiener Zeit  Aufsätze, Beiträge, Rezensionen 1926–1936, hg. und eingeleitet von Johannes Friedl und Heiner Rutte, 323–362. Wien: Springer. ———. 2008h. Gibt es ein Materiales Apriori? In Gesamtausgabe Band I/6: Die Wiener Zeit Aufsätze, Beiträge, Rezensionen 1926-1936, hg. und eingeleitet von Johannes Friedl und Heiner Rutte, 455-469. Wien: Springer. ———. 2008i. Über das Fundament der Erkenntnis. In Gesamtausgabe Band I/6: Die Wiener Zeit - Aufsätze, Beiträge, Rezensionen 1926–1936, hg. und eingeleitet von Johannes Friedl und Heiner Rutte, 487–514. Wien: Springer. ———. 2008j. Quantentheorie und Erkennbarkeit der Natur. In Gesamtausgabe Band I/6: Die Wiener Zeit - Aufsätze, Beiträge, Rezensionen 1926–1936, hg. und eingeleitet von Johannes Friedl und Heiner Rutte, 807–820. Wien: Springer. Schulte, Joachim. 1979. Der Waismann-Nachlaß: Überblick – Katalog – Bibliographie. Zeitschrift für Philosophische Forschung 33 (1): 108–140. ———. 2011. Waismann as Spokesman for Wittgenstein. In Friedrich Waismann - Causality and Logical Positivism, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 15, ed. Brian McGuinness, 225–242. Dordrecht: Springer. von Wright, Georg Henrik. 1982. The Wittgenstein Papers. In Wittgenstein, ed. Georg Henrik von Wright, 35–62. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. ———. 1986. Wittgensteins Nachlaß. In Wittgenstein, Übersetzt von Joachim Schulte, ed. Georg Henrik von Wright, 45–76. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp. Waismann, Friedrich. 1928. Die Natur des Reduzibilitätsaxioms. Monatshefte für Mathematik und Physik 35 (1): 143–146. ———. 1930. Logische Analyse des Wahrscheinlichkeitsbegriffs. Erkenntnis 1: 228–248. ———. 1936. Einführung in das mathematische Denken. Die Begriffsbildung der modernen Mathematik. Wien: Gerold & Co. ———. 1939. Von der Natur eines philosophischen Problems. Synthese 4 (340–350): 395–406. ———. 1939–40. Was ist logische Analyse? Erkenntnis 8: 265–289. ———. 1947/48. Logische und psychologische Aspekte in der Sprachbetrachtung. Synthese 6 (9–12): 460–475. ———. 1965. The Principles of Linguistic Philosophy, ed. Rom Harré. New  York: St. Martin’s Press. ———. 1976. Logik, Sprache, Philosophie. Mit einer Vorrede von Moritz Schlick, hg. von Gordon P.  Baker und Brian McGuinness unter Mitwirkung von Joachim Schulte. Stuttgart: Philipp Reclam jun. [LSP]. ———. 2003. The Voices of Wittgenstein: The Vienna Circle. Ludwig Wittgenstein and Friedrich Waismann, ed. Gordon Baker. London and New York: Routledge. [VOW].

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Ward, Joseph H. 1963. Hierarchical Grouping to Optimize an Objective Function. Journal of the American Statistical Association 58 (301): 236–244. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1984. Werkausgabe Band 3: Ludwig Wittgenstein und der Wiener Kreis. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. [WWK]. ———. 2000. Wittgenstein’s Nachlass: The Bergen Electronic Edition, edited by Wittgenstein Archives at the University of Bergen under the direction of Claus Huitfeldt. Oxford: OUP. [BEE]. ———. 2015. Wittgenstein Source Bergen Nachlass Edition, edited by the Wittgenstein Archives at the University of Bergen under the direction of Alois Pichler, in: Wittgenstein Source (2009–) [wittgensteinsource.org], Bergen. [BNE]. ———. 2016. Interactive Dynamic Presentation of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s philosophical Nachlass [http://wittgensteinonline.no/], edited by the Wittgenstein Archives at the University of Bergen under the direction of Alois Pichler, Bergen. [IDP].

Kapitel 14

Wittgensteins virtuelle Präsenz im Wiener Kreis, 1931–35 Juha Manninen

Im Wiener-Kreis-Archiv in Haarlem/NL befinden sich zahlreiche Protokolle, die mit Moritz Schlicks Lehrstuhl für Philosophie in Zusammenhang stehen  – Manuskripte, Typoskripte und stenografische Manuskripte.1 Diese enthalten umfangreiche und ausführliche Informationen über Schlicks Seminare und auch über die sogenannten Proseminare, die den Dokumenten zufolge „bei Prof. Schlick“ stattfanden, nach 1929 jedoch de facto nicht von ihm gehalten wurden. Seit seiner Ankunft in Wien war Schlick für diese beiden Arten von Seminaren verantwortlich, die unter seiner Aufsicht standen und hauptsächlich von Studenten dokumentiert wurden. Die verschiedenen Teilnehmer hatten die Aufgabe, einen handschriftlichen Bericht über das Treffen zu erstellen, später auch Typoskripte. In den Protokollen wird nicht erwähnt, wer für die grundlegenden Seminare verantwortlich war. Die entscheidende Person war der Professor. Interessanterweise nahm Schlick in seinen Seminaren vor allem Beschreibungen von in philosophischen Büchern enthaltenen Kapiteln vor, während die Proseminare ambitionierter waren. So basierten diese ab 1929 auf den Vorlesungen der Person, von der sie gehalten wurden: Friedrich Waismann. Offiziell konnten sie nicht als Vorlesungen bezeichnet werden. Waismann hatte die Voraussetzung für die Vortragstätigkeit – die Vorlage einer Habilitationsschrift  – nicht erfüllt. Offiziell war er nur ein einfacher Bibliothekar. Ursprünglich hatte Waismann als seinen Forschungsgegenstand das

 Vgl. den auf den Internetseiten des Wiener-Kreis-Archivs (=WKA) verfügbaren Katalog von Fabian, R. Inventarverzeichnis zu den Unterlagen der Wiener-Kreis-Bewegung (1924–1938) mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der wissenschaftlichen Arbeiten der Philosophen Moritz Schlick (1882) und Otto Neurath (1882–1945). Weitere Dokumente im Nachlass Waismann der Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. Rudolf Carnap Collection, Archives of Scientific Philosophy, University of Pittsburgh (RC 110-07-24). 1

J. Manninen (*) Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies, University of Helsinki, Helsinki, Finland © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_14

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phänomenologische Problem des Raumes, eine kritische Auseinandersetzung mit Edmund Husserls Philosophie, gewählt. Als sich Schlick für Ludwig Wittgensteins Tractatus begeisterte und Kontakt mit dem Autor aufnehmen konnte, erschien Waismann dank seines klaren Verstands und seiner ausgezeichneten Präsentations­ fähigkeit als die ideale Person für das Verfassen eines Buchs über den Tractatus, das allgemeinverständlicher war als der Tractatus selbst. Waismanns wurde aufgrund seiner Darstellung der neuen Ideen Wittgensteins im Wiener Kreis sehr geschätzt. Waismanns Proseminare genossen hohes Ansehen, wie Carl G. Hempel, ein Gaststudent aus Berlin, wie folgt belegt: Im Carnapschen Seminar wird ‚Unser Wissen von der Außenwelt gelesen‘ und Carnap benützt dann häufig die Gelegenheit, in sehr instruktiver Weise die Abweichungen der Wittgensteinschen Einstellung von der Russellschen zu erläutern. Hierdurch und durch Waismanns Seminar hoffe ich allmählich zu lernen, was Wittgenstein mit seinen Fundamentalthesen überhaupt meint, die ja für die Wiener Philosophie eine ganz erstaunliche Rolle spielen. […] Schließlich wird das Schlicksche ‚Proseminar‘ von Waismann abgehalten. Ich bin froh, durch Zufall davon gehört zu haben, denn gerade bei Waismann scheint man sehr viel über die Wittgensteinsche Auffassung der Logik lernen zu können. Im Seminar finde ich Waismann ganz wesentlich angenehmer als damals in Prag. Seine Vorsicht in der Argumentation und die straffe Art, wie er den Gang der Diskussion fördert, gefallen mir sehr.2

Waismann klärte den Kreis über Wittgensteins neue Vorstellungen auf, während sich Wittgenstein bald dazu entschloss, nur mit Schlick und Waismann Diskussionen zu führen. Die Diskussionen mit diesen beiden kongenialsten Partnern sind in dem von Brian McGuinness herausgegebenen Buch Wittgenstein und der Wiener Kreis dokumentiert.3 In diesem Buch bildet ein Treffen am 9. Dezember 1931 Waismanns Aufzeichnungen zufolge de facto den Endpunkt. Nur ein unzusammenhängendes späteres Fragment ist vorhanden. Manche Interpreten zogen den Schluss, dass Wittgenstein nach diesem einzigen Treffen das Vertrauen in Waismann verloren haben muss. Allerdings hielt Wittgenstein während seiner Weihnachtsferien im Jahr 1931 mehrere Treffen mit Waismann ab, die zu Ostern im kommenden Jahr fortgesetzt und sogar intensiviert wurden. Schlick, der sich als Gastprofessor in den USA befand, nahm an diesen Treffen jedoch nicht teil. Die Treffen endeten zwar nicht, doch Waismann änderte seine Methode, diese aufzuzeichnen. Die Hypothese des „Vertrauensverlustes“ ist zurückzuweisen. Ohne Waismanns Belege für seine Interaktionen mit Wittgenstein bleibt die Entwicklung Wittgensteins Vorstellungen während und nach dieser bestimmten Phase schwer nachvollziehbar. Die gemeinsame Arbeit nahm neue Formen an. Sie konzentrierte sich auf das Verfassen zweier neuer Bücher, die jeweils Wittgensteins neue Philosophie präsentierten, wobei eines von Wittgenstein selbst und das andere von Waismann s­ tamm­ten.

 C.  G. Hempel an H.  Reichenbach, 15.12.1929. Archives for Scientific Philosophy (=ASP), Pittsburgh, HR 014-28-12. 3  Waismann, F. Wittgenstein und der Wiener Kreis. Aus dem Nachlass herausgegeben von B. F. McGuinness. Basil Blackwell, Oxford 1967 (=WWK). 2

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Wittgensteins Teilnahme am Schlick-Zirkel unter bestimmten Voraussetzungen, die  einst einen Wendepunkt für seine Rückkehr zur Philosophie darstellte, setzte sich bis zu Schlicks Lebensende ohne Unterbrechung fort. Selbstverständlich erschien Wittgenstein nicht zu den offiziellen Treffen des Zirkels, doch Schlick und Waismann durften seine Ideen im Rahmen der Treffen und in ihrer Lehre vorstellen. Dies änderte sich erst im Jahr 1932, als Wittgenstein Rudolf Carnap mit Plagiatsvorwürfen konfrontierte. Eine Zeitlang konnte Waismann nicht mehr als Wittgensteins Bote fungieren, doch Schlick hatte bereits 1933 ein fruchtbares Treffen mit Wittgenstein, das in seinen während des folgenden Wintersemesters gehaltenen Vorlesungen und in seinem Plan, auf der Grundlage dieses Materials ein Buch zu schreiben, seinen Niederschlag fand. Wittgenstein beschränkte seine Kommunikation auf Waismann und Schlick. Carnap und seine Freunde wie Otto Neurath und seine jungen Anhänger waren von seiner Kommunikation zwar ausgeschlossen, aber dennoch überaus interessiert daran zu erfahren, wie Wittgenstein seine Ideen entwickelte. Eine Art Höhepunkt wurde dabei im Sommer 1934 mit der Verbreitung aufgeregter Gerüchte erreicht, die jedoch nahezu keinen Informationsgewinn brachten. Schließlich fasste Schlick während des Wintersemesters 1934–1935 den Mut, eine Diskussion über Wittgensteins neue Ideen anzuregen. Diese präsentierte er aus seinen eigenen Quellen und bereitete Waismanns sogenanntem Diktat für Schlick, welches  – da viele Inhalte davon direkt von Wittgenstein stammten – fälschlicherweise als Diktat von Wittgenstein verstanden wurden, eine Bühne. Die Angelegenheit war nach wie vor so heikel, dass diese Treffen unter strenger Geheimhaltung stattfanden.

14.1 Der Anfang von Wittgensteins und Waismanns Zusammenarbeit Eine ernsthafte gemeinsame Arbeit zwischen Wittgenstein und Waismann begann unmittelbar nach dem Treffen vom 9. Dezember 1931 und nicht erst ein paar Jahre später wie gewöhnlich angenommen. Das von Gordon Baker herausgegebene Werk The Voices of Wittgenstein (VoW) stellt einen ersten wichtigen Bezugspunkt für diese gemeinsame Arbeit dar, allerdings ist dessen künstlich konstruierte thematische Struktur ohne Untersuchungen der ursprünglichen Archive irreführend. Neben den Quellen im Wiener-Kreis-Archiv befinden sich zahlreiche relevante von Waismann angefertigte stenografische Notizen nach wie vor untranskribiert in seinen in der Bodleian Library in Oxford ausbewahrten Notizbüchern. Bakers Ausgabe umfasst lediglich maschinenschriftliche Stücke aus diesem einzigen Archiv. Selbst ohne Kenntnis dieser untranskribierten Notizen lässt sich feststellen, dass zwischen Wittgenstein und Waismann ein weitaus höheres Maß an Ebenbürtigkeit bestand, als gewöhnlich vermutet wird. Hat Waismann beispielsweise im Gegensatz zu Wittgenstein weiterhin „Thesen“ aufgestellt? In seinen maschinenschriftlichen aber unveröffentlichten Lehrmaterialien aus dem Jahr 1932 erläuterte Waismann:

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„Man sieht also, dass Fragen, die auf ‚Beunruhigung‘ beruhen, nicht sachlich, d. h. durch Eingehen auf ihren Inhalt und Partei-Ergreifen zu lösen sind, sondern dass es vielmehr nötig ist, sie durch methodische Kritik zu entwirren. Es gehört also gar nicht in den Stil unserer Auffassung, etwas zu behaupten, d. h. irgendwelche Thesen aufzustellen.“ Wittgenstein hatte Schlick ein Buch versprochen bzw. wurde die Angelegenheit zumindest von Waismann so verstanden, der die Nachricht seinem Vorgesetzten in Wien übermittelte. In einem Schreiben an Wittgenstein zeigte sich Schlick höchst erfreut darüber: „Sie tun damit wirklich ein gutes Werk.“ In Wittgensteins Entwicklung war seit diesem Zeitpunkt viel geschehen, doch er hatte sein dem Professor in seiner Heimatstadt gegebenes Versprechen nicht vergessen, auch wenn er nur eine teilweise Einlösung im Sinne gehabt haben dürfte. Ende Oktober 1931 fand Wittgenstein, dass er Schlick in einer angemessenen Weise über den ca. 400 Seiten lange und mittlerweile maschinenschriftlich vorlie­ gende Dokument informieren sollte, den er auf der Basis seiner handschriftlichen Bände erstellt hatte. Dies war der Hauptteil des heute als TS 211 bekannten Typoskripts. Einige der darin aufzunehmenden Manuskripte fehlten allerdings noch bzw. waren noch nicht verfasst worden. Wittgenstein erwähnte Schlick gegenüber, dass er keine Zeit habe, eine kurze Darstellung seiner Ansichten zu schreiben, dass er jedoch glaube, nun alle wichtigen Themen durchgegangen zu sein. Innerhalb eines Jahres würde ein Buch fertiggestellt sein, was sich selbstverständlich als Illusion erwies. Wittgenstein schrieb bald weitere Notizbücher und diktierte Waismann seine neuen Ideen, als er nach Wien zurückkam. Schlick hatte Wittgenstein nachdrücklich gebeten, Waismann bei der Fertig­ stellung des Buches über den Tractatus behilflich zu sein, auf welches er für seine Reihe noch wartete. Wittgenstein pflichtete ihm bei dass es bedauerlich sei, dass die Arbeit an Waismanns Buch so lange gedauert hatte, erklärte jedoch zugleich, dass er nicht an einem Buch über dieses mehrere Fehler enthaltende frühe Werk von ihm interessiert sei. Am 20. November 1931 schrieb er die folgenden Zeilen an Schlick: …auch ich kann mein Versprechen – wenn es einʼs war –Ihnen lieber H. Professor einen vernünftigen, oder verständlichen, Auszug aus meinen Manuskripten zu schicken, nicht halten. Nebenbei: alles oder doch das meiste was ‚Elementarsätze‘ oder ‚Gegenstände‘ betrifft hat sich nun als fehlerhaft erwiesen, & mußte gänzlich umgearbeitet werden. […] Nur eine Bemerkung möchte ich machen, obwohl ich nicht weiß, ob sie Ihnen helfen kann: vielleicht den [sic] Hauptunterschied zwischen der Auffassung des Buches [Tractatus] & meiner jetzigen ist, daß ich einsah, daß die Analyse des Satzes nicht im Auffinden verborgener Dinge liegt, sondern im Tabulieren, in der übersichtlichen Darstellung, der Grammatik, d. h. des grammatischen Gebrauchs, der Wörter. Damit fällt alles Dogmatische, was ich über ‚Gegenstand‘, ‚Elementarsatz‘ etc. gesagt habe. Will man z.  B. das Wort ‚Gegenstand‘ verstehen, so sehe man nach wie es tatsächlich gebraucht wird.

Mit diesem Brief zerstörte Wittgenstein jegliche Hoffnung auf zwei Bücher: Waismanns geplante Darstellung des Tractatus und das versprochene von ihm stammende – was auch immer er genau versprochen hatte. Nach der Fertigstellung der ca.  400 Seiten für das TS 211 begannen neue Ideen in seinem Kopf Gestalt anzunehmen.

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Schlick wusste, dass Wittgenstein die Unabhängigkeit der Elementarsätze abgelehnt hatte. Dieses Thema hatte Wittgenstein bereits am 2. Januar 1930 mit Schlick und Waismann diskutiert. Zu diesem Zeitpunkt hatte Wittgenstein noch die Ansicht vertreten, dass die Analyse eine „unmittelbarer Verbindung von Gegenständen“ ergeben müsse. Wittgenstein hielt diese Konzeption der logischen Analyse nun für einen irreführenden Versuch, etwas Verborgenes zu finden. Am 28. November 1931 schrieb er im MS 112, S. 133v-134r: Die Idee Elementarsätze zu konstruieren (wie dies z. B. Carnap versucht hat) beruht auf einer falschen Auffassung der logischen Analyse. Sie betrachtet das Problem dieser Analyse als das, eine Theorie der Elementarsätze zu finden. Sie lehnt sich an das an was in der Mechanik geschieht wenn eine Anzahl von Grundgesetzen gefunden wird aus denen das ganze System hervorgeht. Meine eigene Auffassung war falsch: teils, weil ich mir über den Sinn der Worte ‚in einem Satz ist ein logisches Produkt versteckt‘ (und ähnlicher) nicht klar war, zweitens weil auch ich dachte die logische Analyse müsse verborgene Dinge an den Tag bringen (wie es die chemische und physikalische tut).

Ein ähnliches Schicksal ereilte die „Gegenstände“, die bei einer weit genug gehenden Analyse vermeintlich zum Vorschein kamen. Wittgenstein befasste sich nicht nur mit den nun im alltäglichen Sinne im Gegensatz zu den Ambitionen des Tractatus stehenden „Gegenständen“, sondern mit Gegenständen, Stichproben, Etiketten und Namen und allen für den jeweiligen Kontext relevanten Entitäten einschließlich der Rolle der Ostension. Am 15. August 1931 hatte Wittgenstein in seinem MS 111, S. 15–17 etwas festgehalten, das sich für ihn als einzigartig bedeutend erwies, als er seine Instrumente weiterentwickelt hatte: Augustinus, wenn er vom Lernen der Sprache redet, redet ausschließlich davon wie wir den Dingen Namen beilegen, oder die Namen der Dinge verstehen. Hier scheint also das Benennen Fundament und Um-und-Auf der Sprache zu sein. (Und was Augustinus sagt ist für uns wichtig weil es die Auffassung eines natürlich-klar denkenden Mannes ist, der von uns zeitlich weit entfernt gewiß nicht zu unserem besonderen Gedankenkreis gehört.) Diese Auffassung des Fundaments der Sprache ist offenbar äquivalent mit der, die die Erklärungsform ‚das ist…‘ als fundamental auffaßt.  – Von einem Unterschied der Wörter redet Augustinus nicht, meint also mit ‚Namen‘ offenbar Wörter wie ‚Baum‘, ‚Tisch‘, ‚Brot‘ und gewiß die Eigennamen der Personen, dann aber wohl auch ‚essen‘, ‚gehen‘, ‚hier‘, ‚dort‘; kurz, alle Wörter. Gewiß aber denkt er zunächst an Hauptwörter und die übrigen als etwas, was sich finden wird. (Und Plato sagt, daß der Satz aus Haupt und Zeitwörtern besteht.) Sie beschreiben also das Spiel einfacher, als es ist… Dieses Spiel kommt aber wohl in der Wirklichkeit vor. Nehmen wir etwa an ich wolle aus Bausteinen ein Haus bauen, die mir ein Andrer zureichen soll, so könnten wir erst ein Übereinkommen treffen, daß ich auf einen Stein zeigend sagte ‚Das ist eine Säule‘, auf einen andern zeigend ‚das ist ein Würfel‘, –, ‚das ist eine Platte‘ u.s.w. Und nun bestünde die Anwendung im Ausrufen jener Wörter ‚Säule‘, ‚Platte‘ etc. In der Reihenfolge wie ich sie brauche. […] Ich will damit sagen: Augustinus beschreibt wirklich einen Kalkül; nur ist nicht alles was wir Sprache nennen dieser Kalkül.

Jeder Leser kennt die Geschichte von Wittgensteins Baumeistern, diese hatte jedoch noch nicht die bedeutende Rolle, die Wittgenstein ihr später beginnend mit dem Diktat des Brown Book ab Oktober 1934  in Cambridge beimaß. Wittgenstein

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liebäugelte mit der Analogie zwischen Sprache und Spiel, hatte in diesem Stadium den Begriff des „Sprachspiels“ für primitive Arten der Sprachverwendung und die von ihm erfundenen aber recht gewöhnlichen Vergleichsobjekte jedoch noch nicht geprägt. Dies geschah erst im Frühling 1932 und ist in Notizen unmittelbar vor seinen Osterferien in Wien festgehalten. Als Wittgenstein am MS 112 zu schreiben begann, glaubte er noch an die Unterscheidung zwischen „primären“ und „sekundären“ Zeichen. Als sich das Manuskript seinem Ende zuneigte, hatte er die Unterscheidung mitsamt den damit verbundenen Gleichnissen verworfen. Er konnte Sprache nun gewissermaßen als „autonom“ verstehen, wobei jedoch eine wichtige Einschränkung galt, die beispielsweise im MS 112, S.  16r folgendermaßen angeführt wird: „Die Regel in dieser Form bringt das Spiel schon mit dem Leben in Zusammenhang.“ Dies könnte als Wittgensteins Neustart beschrieben werden. Unter einem „Neustart“ versteht der Verfasser keine scharfe Trennlinie. Trotz der Faszination, die diese Vorstellung auf zahlreiche Schreibende ausübte, ist der frühere Wittgensteins von dem späteren nicht durch eine einzelne Linie abgegrenzt. Ebenso wie Verbindungspunkte gab es viele Trennlinien und vielleicht mehr Turbulenzen als in jeder anderen Periode. Die in dieser Arbeit thematisierten Neustarts, manchmal auch Fehlstarts, waren von quälend langer Dauer und kamen nicht aus dem Nichts. In seinem Taschen-Notizbuch MS 153a, S. 76v äußerte Wittgenstein nachdrücklich: „Es ist wahr: Namen können Dinge vertreten; aber sie vertreten nicht ihre Bedeutungen und die Dinge (etwa räumliche Gegenstände) die Bedeutungen der Wörter zu nennen ist absurd.“ Er akzeptierte den Umstand, der Träger des Namens „Ludwig Wittgenstein“ zu sein, lehnte jedoch die Vorstellung ab, die Bedeutung dieses Namens zu sein. „Aber zeigen wir nicht zur Erklärung der Bedeutung auf den Gegenstand den der Name vertritt? Ja; aber dieser Gegenstand ist nicht die Bedeutung obwohl sie durch das Zeigen auf diesen Gegenstand bestimmt wird.“ Kurz darauf übertrug er diese Notizen in das MS 111 und die Unterscheidung zwischen einem Namen und seinem Träger blieb eine Voraussetzung für seine Diskussionen in dem MS 112. Wittgenstein begann sein erstes „big typescript“ TS 211 mit dem MS 111, ging dann aber merkwürdigerweise zurück zu seinen älteren Manuskripten. Im September 1931 hatte er Waismann bereits die ersten 90 Seiten – de facto die auf dem neuesten Stand befindlichen Teile daraus – gezeigt. Als er Schlick über die maschinenschriftlichen „ca. 400“ Seiten informierte, bestand der Großteil davon aus Überarbeitungen älterer Manuskripte. Erst als er angefangen mit dem MS 112 neue Manuskripte zu schreiben begann, gewann er grundlegend neue Erkenntnisse. Da er daran arbeitete, war es ihm nicht möglich Waismann seine Manuskriptbücher zu leihen, doch er konnte Waismann seine neuen Konzeptionen diktieren. An dieser Stelle ist auf das Beispiel des „Moses“ hinzuweisen, da es für viele weitere steht. Dieses erschien in Wittgensteins Schriften erstmals in dem MS 112 am 15. November 1931 und bald darauf erneut, auf S. 93v-93v und 94r etc. Beispiele bezüglich der Namen „Napoleon“ und „Ludwig Wittgenstein“ waren ihm vorausgegangen. Das Problem bestand in der Frage, wie Russells Beschreibungen in solchen Sonderfällen anzuwenden seien.

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Wittgenstein war bereit, den Fall offener zu lassen, als Russell dies getan hatte. Aus Wittgensteins Sicht verzerrte dies den Sprachgebrauch nicht. Namen und viele andere Wörter wurden ohne eine „fixierte Bedeutung“ verwendet. Waismann beeilte sich oft damit, Wittgensteins neue Ideen seinen Kollegen und Studenten zu erläutern. Dies geschah auch dieses Mal im Rahmen seines Proseminars. Obwohl die von einem Studenten angefertigten Notizen nicht aus­ führlich sind, geht daraus hervor, dass Waismann die grammatische Klarstellung mit Verweis auf Wittgenstein zur Aufgabe der Philosophie erklärte. Anfang Februar 1932 fuhr er folgendermaßen fort: „Begriffe haben keine scharfe Grenzen, deshalb muss man für wissenschaftliche Zwecke willkürliche Grenzen ziehen.“ Er kommentierte die vielen unterschiedlichen Arten der Beschreibung und Definition von Namen: „Moses hat, wie viele andere Begriffe, eine schwankende Bedeutung.“ Zwei Monate nachdem „Moses“ in Wittgensteins MS 112 erstmals vorgekommen war, fand der Begriff somit Eingang in Waismanns Lehre.

14.2 Die eindeutig folgenreichste Zusammenarbeit zwischen Wittgenstein und Waismann: Ende 1931 und Anfang 1932 Wittgenstein begegnete Waismann während seiner Weihnachtsferien siebenmal  – am 9., 11., 17., 24., 26. und 28. Dezember 1931 und am 9. Januar 1932 – und elfmal während seiner Osterferien – am 14., 16., 25., 26., 28., 29. und 30. März sowie am 4., 5., 6. und 7. April (einschließlich eines telefonischen Kontakts mit Waismann am 28. März) –, um seine neuesten Ideen zu diktieren. Wittgenstein verließ Wien erst am 16. April 1932. Mit dem Vorlesen aus seinen fertiggestellten Manuskripten verfolgte Wittgenstein nicht nur das Ziel, ein Typoskript herzustellen. Er las nicht einfach aus vollendeten Manuskripten vor, um ein Typoskript zu erhalten – dies hätten das Büro oder seine Familie in Wien für ihn übernommen. Es war keine Aufgabe für Waismann, seinen vertrauten Mitarbeiter in philosophischen Fragen. Vielmehr befand er sich auf der ambitionierten Suche nach guten und neuen Ausdrücken und Formulierungen für sein sich rasch entwickelndes Denken. Vor Waismann, der das Material kannte und selbst viele Kritikpunkte anzubringen hatte, konnte er nicht verbergen, dass völlig neue Erforschungen notwendig waren. Dies geht zum Teil aus Wittgensteins eigenen Worten in zwei Briefen an Schlick nach Amerika hervor. Der erste datiert vom März 1932: „Haben Sie Waismannʼs Aufzeichnungen, die ich zu Weihnachten diktierte, erhalten?“ Die Nachricht darüber hatte selbst Herbert Feigl in den USA. erreicht. Er schrieb am 21. Februar 1932 an Schlick: „Dass Sie von Waismann gute Nachrichten haben, freut uns sehr. Auf Umwegen hörten wir, dass Wittgenstein ihm zu Weihnachten wieder viel diktiert hat. Wir sind leicht gespannt.“

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Aufschlussreicher war Wittgensteins zweiter vom 6. Mai 1932 datierter Brief an Schlick. Dieser betraf Waismanns neuen Buchplan. Sicherlich hielt es sich dabei nicht mehr um ein Buch über den Wittgensteins Ansicht nach nunmehr in Verruf gebrachten Tractatus: „Wie Sie bemerkt haben werden, habe ich Waismann bei der Abfassung seines Buches zu Ostern wieder aufgehalten und er hat mit größter Geduld gewartet, wenn ich unter Druck, tropfenweise, Erklärungen aus mir heraus gepreßt habe.“ Diese zahlreichen Sitzungen lieferten eindrucksvolle Ergebnisse. Am 29. Mai 1932 wies Schlick Carnap darauf hin, dass sein bevorstehendes Buch zur „Metalogik“ (d. h. sein Werk Logische Syntax der Sprache) nicht zu umfangreich werden sollte, da bereits absehbar war, dass Waismanns im Entstehen begriffenes Werk aufgrund dessen Umfangs zu Schwierigkeiten mit dem Verlag führen würde: „[…] zumal jetzt nach Waismannʼs neuesten Plane auch sein Buch wegen der Fülle des neuen Materials in zwei Teilen erscheinen soll. Dies neue Material stammt von Wittgenstein selbst, der zu Weihnachten und Ostern ungeheuer eingehend mit Waismann disku­ tiert hat und in dem Buche seinen jetzigen Standpunkt dargestellt zu sehen wünscht, den er selbst nur in einer großen Menge von Aphorismenbücher dargestellt hat. Seiner Hilfe ist es zu danken, wenn der 1. Teil jetzt im Sommer fertig wird.“ Die beiden Bände sollten von Wittgensteins damals aktueller Philosophie handeln. Die Nachricht über die vielen Treffen zu Ostern verbreitete sich. Otto Neurath war innerhalb des Wiener Kreises der entschiedenste Kritiker an der im Tractatus dargestellten Philosophie gewesen. Nun bemerkte er Carnap gegenüber am 10. Mai 1932: Angeblich gedeiht Waismannʼs Buch, aber Wittgenstein gebärt ständig rätselhafte Thesen, die sich schwer immer voll umformen lassen. Eine komische Art Bücher zu verfassen. Wittgenstein sollte das Buch schreiben und Waismann ihm assistieren. Aber bei Sektierern ist alles anders. Die Hauptsache ist, dass ihre Sektenlehre sich der wahren Lehre, wie wir sie jetzt vertreten, immer mehr annähert.

Carnap hatte bereits am 24. März 1932 erfreut in seinem Tagebuch vermerkt: Waismann. Sein Buch wird bald fertig. Wittgenstein nähert sich uns sehr. Kein Vergleich mehr zwischen Sätzen und Wirklichkeit, alles ‚grammatisch‘? Aber trotzdem noch allerhand beinahe phänomenologisch anmutende Überlegungen, was ‚Bedeutung‘ sei.

Bezüglich der unterstellten Annäherung tätigte Neurath nur die oben zitierte Äußerung. Eine gemeinsame Arbeit schien gewissermaßen bevorzustehen. Aber wer sollte deren Urheber sein? Es gibt Anhaltspunkte dafür, dass Wittgenstein zufrieden gewesen wäre, wenn es Waismann gelungen wäre, seine neuen Ideen für die Schriftenreihen des Wiener Kreises systematisch darzustellen. Er tat sein Bestes, um dieses Ziel zu fördern. Waismann war zu diesem Zeitpunkt in jeder möglichen Hinsicht sein Assistent und Schlick Waismanns wohlmeinender Vorgesetzter, der auch über den Zugang zu einem zuverlässigen Verleger verfügte. Unabhängig von dem endgültigen Ergebnis war Schlick bereit, alles zu unternehmen und sogar Carnaps Arbeit zu kürzen, um die Veröffentlichung Wittgensteins  – oder Waismanns – Buch bzw. Bücher oder das gemeinsame Buch zu gewährleisten.

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Im Spätfrühling 1932 plante Wittgenstein, seine Bemerkungen und deren Gruppen in einem Wörterbuch zu organisieren. In seinem Taschen-Notizbuch MS 154, S. 1r hielt er fest: „Der Titel meines Buches: ‚Philosophische Betrachtungen. Alphabetisch nach ihren Gegenständen/Themen/geordnet/aneinandergereiht/nach Stichwörtern geordnet.‘“ Mit der Anmerkung auf S.  9v-10r dieses Manuskripts wurde der Titel auf „Philosophische Bemerkungen“ geändert. Josef Rothhaupt hat überzeugend nachgewiesen, dass es sich dabei nicht nur um eine originelle vereinzelte Idee handelte. Im Laufe der Zeit befasste sich Wittgenstein tatsächlich mit dieser Arbeit an seinem komplizierten und zuvor unerklärten Zahlensystem, das von Rothhaupt erklärt wurde. Ein von Wittgenstein selbst stammendes Wörterbuch, das jedoch leider nur einen Teil der Übergangszeit abdeckte, konnte tatsächlich veröffentlicht werden. Letztendlich erschien Wittgenstein dieses Experiment als Misserfolg. Ein in diese Richtung gehendes Typoskript entstand nie. Unterdessen hatte Waismann Wittgensteins neueste Ideen durch Diskussionen und Diktate erhalten. Es besteht kein Grund zur Annahme, dass sie alle in Wittgensteins eigene Manuskripte und Typoskripte eingeflossen sind.

14.3 Ein Diktat für Schlick Waismann hinterließ Dokumente betreffend sowohl Wittgensteins Weihnachtsferien des Jahres 1931 als auch die Osterferien des Jahres 1932. Leider sind nahezu alle seine Dokumente undatiert und die Wittgenstein am unmittelbarsten aufzeichnenden Schriftstücke sind nur in Kurzschrift vorhanden. Dies mag nach einem „unmöglichen Unterfangen“ klingen. Allerdings lassen auch ohne Transkriptionen der stenografischen Notizen einige interessante Beobachtungen anstellen. Die Texte im Anschluss an das Treffen zwischen Wittgenstein und Waismann vom 9. Dezember 1931 wurden nicht untersucht, da sie nicht als solche identifiziert wurden. Es gibt einen einfachen Grund für die Vermutung, dass sie zusätzlich zu den originalen stenografischen Notizen unter Waismanns Typoskripten zu finden sind. Schlick verwendete die in Norddeutschland verbreitete Kurzschrift Stolze-­ Schrey und Waismann die im damaligen Österreich-Ungarn verbreitete weniger fortgeschrittene Gabelsberger-Kurzschrift. Nur Kurzschriftsystem-Experten konn­ ten beide Systeme lesen. Um Schlick seine Kurzschrift-Notizen zur Verfügung zu stellen, musste Waismann ein Typoskript davon anfertigen, indem er sie entweder einem Studenten diktierte oder selbst abtippte. In beiden Fällen war er für das Ergebnis verantwortlich, doch es ist wichtig festzuhalten, dass seine Aufgabe nicht darin bestand, eine Auslegung durchzuführen oder seine eigenen Ansichten darzulegen. Im März 1932 schrieb Wittgenstein an Schlick: „Haben Sie Waismanns Aufzeichnungen, die ich zu Weihnachten diktierte, erhalten?“ Sicherlich rechneten sowohl Wittgenstein als auch Schlick damit, dass Waismann die Aufgabe überneh­ men würde. Für jemanden, der von den beiden so abhängig war wie Waismann, war es unmöglich, die Arbeit unerledigt zu lassen, zumal es auch für Waismann selbst

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äußerst interessant war, das Produkt in einer übersichtlichen Form zu sehen. Es lässt sich vermuten, dass es eine Reihe von Gründen enthielt, die Pläne ein Buch über den Tractatus zu schreiben zusätzlich zu Wittgensteins Aussagen zu den „Thesen“ in der Philosophie während der ersten Diskussion abzulehnen. Hat das Dokument überlebt? Einige zunächst faszinierende Hypothesen sind zu verwerfen. Nach Ansicht des Verfassers ist Joachim Schulte zu Recht der Ansicht, dass das sogenannte Diktat für Schlick nicht von Wittgenstein gehalten wurde. Es bestehen zwar Verbindungen zu Wittgensteins bereits aus 1931 datierten Konzeptionen, doch es bezieht sich stark auf viel später datierte Manuskripte und Ideen Wittgensteins. Der Verfasser betrachtet es als eine Präsentation Waismanns für Schlicks Seminar Anfang 1935 und in diesem Sinne als Diktat für Schlick, wenngleich nicht von Wittgenstein. Es wurde bei dieser Gelegenheit von Schlick und auch Rose Rand in Kurzschrift aufgeschrieben, während beide Waismanns Präsentation hörten. Es existiert jedoch eine perfekt zum Kontext passende Quelle. Auf den ersten Blick ist diese nicht leicht zu untersuchen, wenngleich sie in VoW abgedruckt ist. Dies klingt befremdlich und ist es in gewisser Hinsicht auch. Zur Erklärung eines derart merkwürdigen Phänomens sind einige Fakten bezüglich der originalen Archivmaterialien sowohl in Oxford als auch in Haarlem notwendig. Erstens kann Waismanns Bericht an Schlick über Wittgensteins Diktate nur unter anderen Texten unterschiedlicher Herkunft gefunden werden. Zweitens ist es ungeachtet dessen möglich, die zu dem originalen Bericht gehörenden Texte zu identifizieren. Dazu genügt ein Blick auf Waismanns originales Notizbuch. Drittens sollten – unter der Voraussetzung, dass Waismanns Bericht Schlick übergeben wurde und überlebt hat  – die dazugehörigen Typoskripte auch unter Schlicks Unterlagen im Wiener-­ Kreis-­Archiv und nicht nur in Oxford zu finden sein. Tatsächlich befinden sie sich in Haarlem, allerdings mit falscher Zuordnung. Das sich auf den Namen Moses beziehende Beispiel zeigt sich in Wittgensteins Manuskripten erstmals kurz vor seinen Weihnachtsferien im Jahr 1931 in Wien und bald darauf in Waismanns Lehre. Wenn man die Spur des „Moses“ verfolgt, findet man eine Diskussion dieses Beispiels in VoW, S.  212–216  in einem ‚Vagheit‘ genannten Schriftstück. Der Text zählt zu Waismanns Notizbuch I. Schon die ersten Seiten dieses Notizbuchs beginnen mit einer Betrachtung der „Namen“ in diesem neuen Sinn. Ganz ähnliche Punkte finden sich in einer weiteren Reihe von in Kurzschrift vorliegenden Schriftblättern Waismanns, den so genannten Vorarbeiten 1–8, genauer gesagt in Vorarbeit 3, in der die den Notizen aus WWK entnommenen Schriftstücke enden und neue Titel beginnen. Mit derartigen Beobachtungen könnte man fortsetzen, doch eine Lösung ist direkt in Haarlem zu finden. Dort befindet sich eine Reihe maschinenschriftlicher Werke, von denen die meisten 1–4 Seiten umfassen. Jede dieser „Bemerkungen“ ist einzeln paginiert und verfügt über einen eigenen Titel. Kein Autor wird erwähnt und es sind keine Daten angegeben. Das Wiener-Kreis-Archiv enthält eine Sammlung von Arbeiten, die als Schlicks „Wittgensteiniana“ klassifiziert werden, doch diese Stücke befinden sich in einer anderen Sammlung mit dem Titel „Aufzeichnungen über Sitzungen des Wiener Kreises“. Sie sind mit den Archivnummern 188/W.17–36

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versehen und somit insgesamt zwanzig Stücke. Nach dieser Klassifizierung besteht der überwiegende Teil aus Protokollen über die in den Zeitraum vom 4. Dezember 1930 bis zum 25. Juni 1931 fallenden Sitzungen des Zirkels. Rose Rand hatte stenografische Notizen zu den Sitzungen angefertigt. Viele Jahre später wurde sie von Otto Neurath gebeten, Typoskripte des Materials herzustellen und wurde nach der Fertigstellung ihrer Arbeit auch von ihm dafür bezahlt. Diese Protokolle sind nun von Friedrich Stadler veröffentlicht worden. Eine ähnliche Anfrage übermittelte Neurath Waismann, der angab, dass über einige Zirkelprotokolle verfügen dürfte. Rand verwendete die gleiche Richtung der Gabelsberger-Kurzschrift wie Waismann. Nun war sie als mittelloser Flüchtling in England angekommen und Neurath suchte nach einer Arbeit, um sie zu unterstützen. Als Neurath die Dokumente erhielt, kommentierte er dies folgendermaßen: „Vielen Dank für die Zirkelprotokolle, die Sie bald zurückbekommen. Sind das alle, die Sie haben?“ Waismann: „Die Zirkelprotokolle, die ich Ihnen sandte, sind alles, was ich davon besitze.“ Die Anzahl war scheinbar gering. Das passt nicht so gut zu der zuvor erwähnten Sammlung von etwa zwanzig Stücken. So verfügte Waismann nur über einige wenige von Stadler veröffentlichte Zirkelprotokolle. Hätte Neurath die größere Sammlung erhalten, hätte er sofort bemerkt, dass es sich dabei keineswegs um Zirkelprotokolle handeln konnte. An dieser Stelle soll nochmals auf Oxford und Waismanns dort befindliche Sammlung eingegangen werden. Es besteht eine genaue Übereinstimmung zwischen den in Haarlem aufbewahrten Typoskripten 188/WK.17ff und Waismanns mit F.2, 3, 21, 27–41 nummerierte Typoskripten in der Bodleian Library. Einzig und allein diese, die innerhalb von Waismanns Arbeiten in die große Sammlung Ältere Reste eingeteilt sind, sind Durchläge. Wo befinden sich die obersten Exemplare? Dies führt zurück nach Haarlem … Selbstverständlich sollten in genau diesen beiden verschiedenen Archiven Abschriften zu finden sein, wenn es sich dabei um den von Waismanns erstellten Bericht an Schick über Wittgensteins Diktate handelt. Ein Blick auf das originale Kurzschrift-Notizbuch NB 1 zeigt, dass sich all diese Stücke daraus ableiten. Die abzutippenden Stücke markierte Waismann mit Sternchen. In seiner Ausgabe VoW hat Baker auf diese Sternchen hingewiesen, aber keine Erklärung dafür angeführt. Es ergibt sich dann jedoch ein weiteres Problem. In der Einleitung gab Baker bekannt, dass er sich an die „Abfolge“ der Stücke in NB 1 gehalten hatte. Dies entspricht der Wahrheit. Während er sich allerdings an die Abfolge hielt, fügte er zu den Texten des Notizbuchs eine große Anzahl von Stücken hinzu, die gewissermaßen thematisch mit den Originalen verbunden waren. Das wird zumindest in der posthumen englischen Ausgabe nicht erwähnt. Als NB 1 ist in VoW eine vom Herausgeber geschaffene Konstruktion aus recht unterschiedlichen Elementen in Wittgensteins Vermächtnis und nicht das historisch richtige NB 1 publiziert. Als Beispiel sei die kleine Studie mit dem Titel ‚Folgen die Regeln aus der Bedeutung?‘ erwähnt. Darin wird der Standpunkt vertreten, dass sich die Bedeutung eines Wortes aus den Regeln seiner Verwendung bildet; die Regeln folgen nicht aus der Bedeutung. Die Arbeit besteht aus der Kritik an vier Argumenten, anhand derer Gottlob Frege die Gegenmeinung vertrat, mitsamt Zitaten von Frege und Verweisen

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auf die relevanten Paragraphen. Die Grundidee stammt sicherlich von Wittgenstein, aber nicht die wissenschaftliche Verwendung des Instrumentariums. So lässt ein Vergleich des Textes mit dem letzten Kapitel von Waismanns Buch Einführung in das mathematische Denken die exakt gleiche und oft wortgleiche Argumentation erkennen. Am Ende des Buches gab Waismann seine Quellen an und bemerkte insbesondere, dass er den ersten der vier Kritikpunkte aus Wittgensteins unveröffent­ lichtem Manuskript über die Grundlagen der Mathematik verwendet hatte. Aber hört sich nicht alles davon nach Wittgenstein an? Gegenwärtig genügt es festzustellen, dass die Diskussion in den Kontext der Erstellung eines 1936 erschienenen Buches fällt. Bei einer Betrachtung des originalen Manuskripts des NB 1 ist der Text dort nicht auffindbar. Es finden sich Stücke, bei denen es sich um Überarbeitungen oder Ausarbeitungen von Wittgensteins Ideen handelt und sogar kleine Studien, die scheinbar nicht mit Wittgenstein in Zusammenhang stehen. Der maschinenschriftliche Bericht an Schlick enthielt die folgenden Stücke aus dem originalen NB 1 in der folgenden Abfolge: ‚Kausale Auffassung der Sprache‘, ‚Was ist ein Befehl?‘, ‚Verifikation 1‘, ‚Philosophie‘, ‚Das Folgen und die W-F-­ Notation‘, ‚(Ein Gleichnis) Regel und Bedeutung‘, ‚Allgemeinheit 1‘, ‚Das Hineinsehen der Allgemeinheit‘, ‚Russells Logik‘, ‚Tautologie‘, ‚Vagheit‘, ‚Verbindung der Sprache mit der Wirklichkeit‘, ‚Rechtfertigung der Grammatik‘, ‚Allgemeinheit 2‘, ‚Elementarsätze‘, ‚Zusammengesetztheit‘, ‚Was ist eine Regel?‘, ‚Verifikation 2‘, ‚Hypothese‘, ‚Philosophie‘. Waismann nahm bei der Herstellung der Typoskripte einige Bearbeitungen vor. Allerdings sollte bedacht werden, dass sein Ziel bei der Herstellung dieser Typoskripte darin bestand, eine lesbare Darstellung Wittgensteins jüngster Diktate zu produzieren. Er schien dabei den Grundsatz angewandt zu haben, so nahe wie möglich an den originalen Diktaten zu bleiben, allerdings ist einzuräumen, dass er keine historisch-kritische Ausgabe dieser Diktate erstellte. Dennoch kann Waismanns Bericht an Schlick über Wittgensteins neue Ideen diesem Gedankengang folgend gelesen werden. Nebenbei bemerkt wurden einige der letzten Stücke, die im oben genannten Katalog nicht erwähnt werden, in den Typoskripten ausgelassen; ebenso einige frühere mit den Titeln ‚Strukturbeschreibung‘, ‚Interne Relation‘ und ‚Russells Klasse von Aspekten‘. Beispielsweise wurde jenes über strukturelle Beschreibungen als Gegenargument zu Schlick und Carnap konzipiert. Es wurde mutmaßlich von Waismann verfasst, der zwischen den Diktaten über freie Zeit verfügte. Worum auch immer es sich jedoch handelte, wollte Waismann es Schlick nicht vorlegen. Interessant ist die Beobachtung, dass Wittgenstein ausschließlich in diesen Typoskripten in erster Person von seinen sich ändernden Ansichten spricht. Dies entspricht genau dem Zweck dieser Typoskripte, wenn sie für Schlick als Bericht über Wittgensteins Diktate vorgesehen waren. Üblicherweise werden nur neutrale Verweise festgestellt, doch Waismann hatte keinen Grund, die Verwendung der ersten Person in diesen Passagen zu ändern.

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14.4 Wittgenstein gesteht seine Fehler Wittgenstein war es, der sich in Waismanns Bericht an Schlick wandte, nicht Waismann selbst. Die folgenden Passagen sind in diesem Zusammenhang zu berücksichtigen: ‚Verifikation‘: Ich kann durch die Angabe der Verifikation nicht die Sprache mit der Welt verbinden. Das kann ich überhaupt nicht. […] Ich kann mich nur an den Gebrauch der Sprache erinnern.

‚Das Folgen und die W-F-Notation‘: Daß alle Schlussfolgerung in der W-F-­Notation geschieht und ein Übergang in der W-FNotation ist, darin habe ich ganz richtig gesehen. Doch habe ich einen anderen grundlegenden Fehler gemacht: Wenn aus den Satz p der Satz q folgt, so meinte ich, dass p.~q ein Widerspruch sein müsse und darin sah ich ganz recht. Daraus glaubte ich weiter schließen zu müssen, dass, wenn ~p aus q folgt, ~p in irgendeinem Sinn in q enthalten sein müsste. In welchem Sinn der eine Satz in dem anderen enthalten ist, habe ich nicht klar gesehen.

‚Regel und Bedeutung‘: Mein Irrtum war die falsche Auffassung der Analyse, nämlich die Auffassung, dass im Satz etwas verborgen ist, eine Struktur, die man ans Licht ziehen müsse. Ich hatte die Auffassung – die durch unseren irreführenden Sprachgebrauch erzeugt wird – als sei der Sinn eines Ausdrucks gleichsam hinter dem Ausdruck versteckt. […] Die Auffassung gegen die ich mich hier wenden möchte, ist nun die: Man holt die Regeln der Grammatik aus den Figuren heraus. Das ist irreführend.

‚Rechtfertigung der Grammatik‘: Ich sah nun, dass die Schlüsse: Wenn etwas rot ist, ist es nicht grün, wenn es 6h ist, ist es nicht 8h, wenn ein Mensch 1.8 m groß ist, dann ist er nicht 1.5 m groß […].

‚Elementarsätze‘: Meine Auffassung der Elementarsätze hängt zusammen mit meiner früheren falschen Auffassung von der Analyse. Ich war mir nicht im klaren darüber, was es heißen soll, ein Satz müsse sich in Elementarsätze auflösen lassen, wenn er nicht aufgelöst ist. […] Allerdings gilt dann nicht, dass die Elementarsätze unabhängig voneinander sind.

‚Zusammengesetzheit‘ [sic]: Ich hatte früher gemeint, dass jeder Satz zusammen­gesetzt sei. Diese Meinung hing mit meiner damaligen Auffassung von dem Komplex zusammen. […] Aber diese Analogie ist irreführend und hat mich tatsächlich irregeführt, wenn ich nämlich von Komplexen geredet habe, welche den Sätzen entsprächen. Man kann, wie gesagt, den Sessel einen Komplex nennen. Man könnte auch einen angestrichenen Sessel und den braunen Farbüberzug (das Pigment) einen Komplex nennen. Dagegen Sessel und braun (die Farbe braun) einen Komplex nennen, wie ich es früher getan habe, ist ein Mißbrauch. Subjekt und Prädikat geben keinen Komplex.

Hier wird vorausgesetzt, dass der intendierte Leser weiß, wer das „Ich“ ist. Schlick wusste das sicherlich. Als Waismann den Bericht erstellte, war es nicht nötig, den Text von Wittgensteins Verwendung der ersten Person zu distanzieren. Wäre dies Waismann überhaupt möglich gewesen? Die Voraussetzung dafür wäre ein hoher Interpretationsauswand gewesen; Ähnliches wurde oben in dem Zitat von Neurath angegeben. Dieses Zitat stammt jedoch aus dem Zeitraum nach den Treffen zu Ostern. Bei diesem Anlass verfolgte Waismann bereits ein anderes

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Ziel: ein Buch über den „neuen Wittgenstein“. Die schwierige Entscheidung, die jahrelange Arbeit mit dem Tractatus zu verwerfen wurde durch Wittgensteins Offenheit über seine gegenwärtigen Gedanken abgemildert. Die mögliche Hypothese, dass Waismann in dem Bericht an Schlick selbst die Rolle Wittgensteins übernahm, ist zurückzuweisen. Es besteht kein Grund zur Annahme, dass Wittgensteins Zitate aus der Perspektive der ersten Person nicht original sind. Sie sind nach Meinung des Verfassers die einzigen dieser Art in Waismanns Nachlass außerhalb des WWK. Was Waismanns Bericht faszinierend macht, ist sein Charakter als einzigartige Momentaufnahme, ob sie nun verschwommen ist oder nicht. Es können in Bezug auf diese Phase der Karrieren Wittgensteins und Waismanns und deren Interaktionen mehrere Schlussfolgerungen gezogen werden, allerdings ist für eine detailliertere Untersuchung eine Transkription Waismanns stenografischer Notizen dringend erforderlich.

14.5 Das Problem der Intention Der Bericht an Schlick enthielt keine ‚Sprachspiele‘. Diesen Ausdruck prägte Wittgenstein erst im kommenden Frühling, er hatte sich jedoch schon eine Zeitlang mit der Analogie von Spiel, Mathematik und Sprache beschäftigt. In Vorarbeit 6 befindet sich ein mit ‚Sprachspiele‘ betiteltes Stück; parallel dazu enthält NB III einen Text mit dem Titel ‚Welche Rolle spielen falsche Sätze in einem Sprachspiel?‘ Wittgensteins erste Gelegenheit, Waismann Sprachspiele als Ver­ gleichsobjekt zu lehren, scheint sich zu Ostern im Jahr 1932 ergeben zu haben. Waismanns Aktivitäten nach dem Aufzeichnen von Wittgensteins Diktaten zu Ostern des Jahres 1932 sind in drei verschiedenen Quellen hervorragend dokumentiert. Dabei handelt es sich erstens um die von Studenten angefertigten handgeschriebenen Protokolle zu seinen Lehrinhalte in den Proseminaren und den anschließenden Diskussionen, zweitens um Waismanns eigenen maschinenschriftlichen Bericht über dieses Proseminar, der Schlick und vermutlich den an seinem Unterricht teilnehmenden Studenten vorgelegt wurde, und drittens um eine maschinenschriftliche von Waismann verfasste „Fortsetzung“ dieses Proseminars, die aufgrund des emotional belasteten Plagiatsstreits zwischen Wittgenstein und Carnap scheinbar nie gehalten wurde. Trotz seiner guten Absichten war Waismann an dieser Auseinandersetzung nicht unbeteiligt, was sogar Wittgenstein zur Kenntnis nahm. Waismann war für die Übermittlung der neuen Ideen für den Wiener Kreis und seine Studenten verantwortlich. Die Auseinandersetzung erzeugte eine Distanz zwischen Wittgenstein und Waismann und Waismann konnte Wittgensteins Ideen nicht mehr so offen wie zuvor präsentieren. Dies bedeutete kein Ende der gemeinsamen Arbeit zwischen den beiden, doch Waismanns Erläuterungen von Wittgensteins Ideen für den Schlick-Zirkel würden für lange Zeit unterbrochen werden.

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In seinem während des Sommersemesters 1932 vom 2. Mai bis zum 4. Juni mit neun Einheiten gehaltenen Proseminar galten diese Einschränkungen noch nicht für Waismann. Er sprach über das, was er von Wittgenstein während der elf gemeinsamen Treffen zu Ostern des vergangenen Jahres – vom 14., 16., 25., 26., 28., 29. und 30.3. sowie vom 4., 5., 6. und 7.4.  – gelernt hatte. In Wittgensteins relevantem Manuskript MS 113 befindet eine Lücke im Hinblick auf den Zeitraum dieser Treffen. Danach, am 18. April, scheint Wittgenstein kurz darüber reflektiert zu haben, was geschehen war: „Glauben. Hiermit verwandt: erwarten, hoffen, fürchten, wünschen. Aber auch zweifeln, suchen, etc.“ Die Treffen waren eine Reihe von Diskussionen und Diktaten über Intentionalität. Über dieses Thema hatten Wittgenstein und Waismann erstmals im September 1931 auf den Straßen von Wien diskutiert, was aus WWK, S. 166ff hervorgeht. Sicherlich hat Waismann Wittgensteins in Brentanos These eingeführt, was selbstverständlich für jemanden war, der früher eine Untersuchung der Phänomenologie Husserls geplant hatte. Die Kommentare dazu stammten von Wittgenstein. Im Rahmen der Treffen zu Ostern des Jahres 1932 zeigte sich bei Wittgenstein ein raffinierter Umgang damit, den er Waismann vermittelte. Waismanns Proseminar-Protokoll endet folgendermaßen: „Wenn man keine Sprache hat, dann lebt man in einer anderen Welt. Die Frage, ob ein Wesen ohne Sprache überhaupt einen Wunsch haben könnte, dürfte verneinend entschieden werden.“ In seiner Fortsetzung des Protokolls schrieb Waismann: „Hier muss erst ein sehr tief wurzelndes Vorurteil ausgerottet werden, nämlich das Urteil, dass die Sprache nur eine äussere Begleiterscheinung sei […]. Inwiefern kann ein sprachloses Wesen etwas wünschen, etwas hoffen, sich vor etwas fürchten, eine Absicht haben, etc.? Wenn man sagen wollte, der Wunsch ist ein seelischer Vorgang, so würde sich die Frage erheben, wie dieser seelische Vorgang anfängt über sich hinaus zu weisen auf den Gegenstand hin – und wir stünden vor dem alten Problem der Intention!“ Folglich hielt er fest: „Es handelt hier eben nicht um gewisse psychische Vorgänge, sondern um diese und um einen Kalkül mit Worten: die intentionale Beziehung des Wunsches liegt ganz in der Sprache. Zieht man das Gewebe der Sprache weg, so bleibt nicht etwa noch ein seelischer Vorgang übrig, der der ‚Wunsch‘ wäre, einen Apfel zu bekommen, sondern nur ein dumpfes Gefühl oder ein körperliches Verlangen, vergleichbar dem Hunger, der Müdigkeit etc., d. h. mit dem Ausdruck des Wunsches verschwindet auch der Wunsch. Ein Wunsch ohne Ausdruck wäre wie ein Gedanke ohne Worte […].“ Einer der Hintergründe für Wittgensteins neues Interesse an der Intentionalität und die sprachliche Verrenkung, die er dafür unternahm, war eine schon lange empfundene Unzufriedenheit mit der von Russell und anderen vertretenen Kausaltheorie der Sprache. Diese dürfte aufgrund der Tatsache, dass die deutsche Übersetzung von Russells Werk The Analysis of Mind zu Beginn des Sommersemesters 1929 in Schlicks Seminar diskutiert wurde und Wittgenstein verärgert über diese Nachricht

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gewesen sein wird, wieder an Dynamik gewonnen haben. Kaum jemand hat seine eigenen Lehrer mit mehr Erfolg diskreditiert als Wittgenstein. Zu Beginn des Proseminars von 2. Mai 1932 schrieb ein Student Waismanns, während er dessen Worte aufzeichnete, dass Franz Brentanos Konzeption der „intentionalen Inexistenz“ von Dewey, Russell, dem Behavioristen Watson und Vertretern des Wiener Kreises wie beispielsweise Carnap angegriffen worden war. Die letzten Verweise wurden aus Waismanns Typoskript ausgelassen, in dem hier nur „die Meinungen des Behaviorismus, insbesondere die von Watson (Dewey) und Russell“ erwähnt wurden. Hier soll nicht auf Details von Waismanns Typoskripts eingegangen werden. Es ist in diesem Band zur Gänze veröffentlicht. Waismann war die erste Person, mit der Wittgenstein Sprachspiele diskutierte, wie ein Blick auf das Fortsetzungs-Skript zu Waismanns im Sommer 1932 gehaltenen Proseminar, eine Sammlung getrennter Stücke mit dem Titel Worin besteht das, was man „Denken“, „Meinen“, „Intention“ nennt? (Fortsetzung vom Sommer-Semester 1932), zeigt. Es ist kein Datum angegeben, doch der Text scheint sich aus auf der Grundlage von Wittgensteins jüngsten Diktaten basierenden Diskussionen zusammenzusetzen. Es besteht kein Grund zu der Annahme, dass es sich um einen viel späteren Zeitpunkt handelte. Zum ersten Mal tauchten hier Wittgensteins Sprachspiele außerhalb seiner eigenen Manuskripte, genauer gesagt außerhalb Waismanns Notizen zu Wittgensteins Diktaten, auf. Waismann diskutierte dieses Thema als Erster recht ausführlich in seinem Fortsetzungs-Typoskript. Das Thema fand erst eine Weile später Eingang in Wittgensteins Lehre in Cambridge. In dem MS 113 finden sich Wittgensteins als „Sprachspiele“ beschriebene erste Notizen unmittelbar vor seinen Osterferien in Wien und vor der Lücke in seinen Manuskripten während der Zeit in Wien. Die darauf folgende Explosion von Diktaten an Waismann, die die „stille“ Periode abdecken, beinhaltete höchstwahrscheinlich eine detailliertere Diskussion unter anderem der Sprachspiele. Später zitierte Waismann eine Passage, die sogar auf ein früheres Datum zurückgehen könnte, doch das muss dahingestellt bleiben.

14.6 Die Entdeckung der Sprachspiele Am 1. März 1932 schrieb Wittgenstein in sein MS 113, S.  45r die ersten Anmerkungen zu einem „primitiven Sprachspiel“, jenem mit den Worten Licht und finster. Er verwendete die konzeptionelle Innovation so, als wäre sie bereits bekannt. Demnach lernt ein Kind, die Wörter mit einer Inszenierung von Licht und Finsternis zu verbinden und sie nach Veränderungen unter neuen Gegebenheiten auszudrücken. Waren diese Worte Propositionen? Bestand eine Übereinstimmung mit der Wirklichkeit? Die erste Frage könnte konventionell beantwortet werden, währende es die zweite verdiente, negativ beantwortet zu werden. In der Diskussion erinnerte Wittgenstein an die vielfältigen Verwendungen von Sprache. Wittgenstein äußerte seine Haltung solchen Beispielen gegenüber wie folgt: „Wenn ich bestimmte einfache Spiele beschreibe, so geschieht es nicht um mit

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ihnen nach und nach die wirklichen Vorgänge der Sprache – oder des Denkens – aufzubauen, was nur zu Ungerechtigkeiten führt, – sondern ich stelle die Spiele als solche hin, und lasse sie ihre aufklärende Wirkung auf die besonderen Probleme ausstrahlen.“ Bekanntlich hat er später den ersten Teil der methodologischen Bemerkung während des Schreibens des Brown Book verworfen, was die Sprache anging, um dann das ganze Projekt dieses Buchs beim Neuschreiben zu verwerfen. Der verbleibende Teil der Bemerkung spiegelte weiterhin stets seine Haltung wider. Am 10. März folgte dann ein weiteres Beispiel: Welche Rolle spielen falsche Sätze in einem Sprachspiel? Ich glaube, es gibt verschiedene Fälle. I. Einer hat die Signallaternen an einer Straßenkreuzung zu beobachten und einem anderen zu sagen welche Farben sie zeigen. Er verspricht sich dabei und sagt die falsche Farbe. II. Es werden meteorologische Beobachtungen gemacht und nach gewissen Regeln aus ihnen das Wetter für den nächsten Tag vorhergesagt. Die Vorhersage trifft ein oder nicht. Im ersten Fall kann man sagen, er spielt falsch; im zweiten nicht  – . Man wird hier (nämlich) von einer Frage geplagt die etwa so lautet: gehört die Verifikation noch mit zum Sprachspiel? Wie schaut die Verifikation aus, – wie geht sie vor sich?

Die Person, die im darauffolgenden Sommer Wittgensteins Typoskript TS 211 auf der Basis dieser Passagen herstellte, ging direkt von dem Satz „Gehört die Verifikation noch (mit (?)) zum Sprachspiel?“ zu jenem über, der nach der Wien-­ Periode in dem MS 113 folgte: „Glauben. Hiermit Verwandt: erwarten, hoffen, fürchten, wünschen. Aber auch: zweifeln, suchen, etc.“ Gab es nichts dazwischen? Wittgenstein ließ ausdrücklich eine Passage weg, in der er sich Fragen über seinen ehemaligen Schullehrer für Englisch und Französisch, Jonas Groag stellte, „einen Juden“, wie er sagte, an dessen Namen er sich nicht genau erinnerte, und von dem er gelernt hatte, dass „ich die Methode, eine sprachliche Betrachtung mit einer Gruppe von Beispielen zu beginnen [habe]“. Eine solche biografische Information mag sich nach einer Plattitüde anhören. Andererseits lässt sie Wittgensteins große Unsicherheit zu diesem Zeitpunkt und seine Rückkehr zu den frühesten Phasen seiner Ausbildung erkennen. Von dieser Stimmung war er getragen, als er zu Ostern 1932 nach Wien zurückkam und auf zahlreiche Diskussionen und Diktate mit Waismann zurückblicken konnte. Zu diesem konkreten Zeitpunkt und sogar später war sich Wittgenstein nicht im Klaren darüber, ob er oder Waismann „sein“ Buch, wofür Waismann es hielt, schreiben würde. In dieser Phase war Wittgenstein mit den Turbulenzen in seinem eigenen Denken unzufrieden oder, wie er in dem MS 155, S. 65v-66r schrieb: „Das erste Zeichen Ihres Verständnisses wäre für mich der Anfang Ihrer Kooperation und dies würde die Tonart dieser Diskussionen zu einer leisen Suche verändern.“4 Eine isolierte Bemerkung, die sich wahrscheinlich auf die Begegnung mit Waismann oder zumindest auf eines der diskutierten Themen bezog, findet sich in Wittgensteins Taschen-Notizbuch MS 154, S.  52v: „Erinnere Dich hier an die  Originalzitat: „The first sign of your understanding would be if I began to have your cooperation and this would alter the tone of these discussions which would become that of a quiet search.“ 4

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Sprachspiele mit grünen und roten [unklar] und den Sinn von wahr und falsch.“ Wittgenstein erinnerte sich hier an einen Text, der in seinen eigenen Manuskripten oder Typoskripten nicht dokumentiert war. Es sprechen jedoch gewichtige Gründe dafür, dass er von einer anderen Person – Waismann – dokumentiert wurde. Er findet sich in einem Typoskript Waismanns und daher in VoW, S. 466–472. Der Text ist nicht in Wittgensteins wissenschaftlichem Stil verfasst sondern klingt eher nach einer – wie er es kommentierte – „unter Druck“ und recht „hektisch“ gehaltenen freien Rede Wittgensteins. Es besteht kein Grund zur Annahme, dass Waismann diese klärenden Beispiele selbst ohne Wittgensteins Hilfe erfand, in dem er einfach die kurzen Bemerkungen in dem MS 133 heranzog. Es ist aber durchaus möglich, dass sie beide in ihrer jeweils eigenen Weise aktiv waren. Das hier präsentierte Sprachspiel in Zusammenhang mit den Begriffen wahr und falsch wurde nicht als Wahrheitstheorie konzipiert und ging nicht über die Alltagssprache hinaus. Tatsächlich war eine Gruppe von drei Sprachspielen zu diesem Zweck notwendig und nicht alle davon waren „primitiv“. In Waismanns „Fortsetzung“ seines Proseminar-Protokolls sind die drei Spiele leicht voneinander zu unterscheiden. Im Rahmen des ersten wird ein Kind unserer Spielempfehlung entsprechend dazu aufgefordert, ein Papierstück von einem Stapel herunterzu­ nehmen. Wir sagen „rot“ und das Kind greift zu grün. Dieser Fehler ist keine Frage von „Wahr“ oder „Falsch“. Beim zweiten Sprachspiel leuchtet eine Lampe unregelmäßig rot und grün. Wir lehren die Regeln für die Verwendung dieser beiden Wörter. Das Kind verhält sich regelwidrig, doch dies hat dennoch nichts mit wahr und falsch zu tun. Diese Handlungen sind nicht Teil dieses Spiels. Der dritte Fall ist anders gelagert. Das Kind muss erraten, ob die Lampe rot oder grün leuchten wird. Nun kann man das Ergebnis als „wahr“ oder „falsch“ betrachten. Man könnte sagen, dass es Ausdruck eines Gedankens ist und etwas bedeutet, doch eine psychologische Studie wird nicht erwünscht. Man sollte im Spiel bleiben, und nur das. Dann schloss Waismann eine Übereinstimmung mit der Wirklichkeit aus. Der wesentliche Unterschied bestand darin: „[…] im zweiten Spiel ist die unrichtige Angabe verboten, im dritten Spiel ist sie erlaubt.“ Waismann folgerte daraus: „Unsere wirkliche Sprache gleicht nun diesem dritten Spiel: wenn z. B. ein Meteorologe das Wetter vorhersagt und dann seine Prognose eintrifft oder nicht, so ist dieser Fall ganz ähnlich dem Spiel mit dem Erraten; d. h. auch die falsche Prognose war nicht etwa durch die logische Grammatik verboten; der Witz ist gerade der, dass unsere Sprache sowohl die Bildung von wahren als von falschen Sätzen erlaubt und daher ein falscher Satz auf ganz anderen logischen Stufe steht als ein verbotener. (Verbotener Satz = unsinniger Satz.)“ „Unsere wirkliche Sprache unterscheidet sich von einem primitiven Sprachspiel (wie unser zweites Spiel) dadurch, dass sie zwei Möglichkeiten vorsieht, die in der Sprache selbst als ‚wahr‘ und ‚falsch‘ unterschieden werden.“ Dies erklärte auch, warum keine ostensive Definition einer Proposition existierte: „[W]enn man einen Satz durch eine hinweisende Definition erklärt, so hat man den Satz gar nicht als Satz verwendet, sondern ihn zu einem Eigennamen gemacht: er benennt eine Situation, aber er beschreibt sie nicht. Ein Satz, den man als Satz

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versteht, kann wahr oder falsch sein, er beschreibt.“ Das Kind könnte lügen, doch das war wieder ein anderes, komplizierteres Spiel. Es kann hier nicht näher auf den reichhaltigen Inhalt von Waismanns Lehrmaterial für 1932 eingegangen werden. Die genaueste Übereinstimmung damit findet sich in VoW, S. 436–472. Auf welche Art und Weise Waismann sie auch immer bearbeitet haben mag, bestehen Gründe zu der Annahme, dass der Ursprung dieser Themen auf Ostern in diesem Jahr zurückgeht. Für Waismann blieb das Sprachspiel wahr und falsch ein Hauptelement in seiner Diskussion über die Propositionen im posthum veröffentlichten Werk Logik, Sprache, Philosophie. Man könnte anmerken, dass es auf einer Voraussetzung aufbaut, die später von Wittgenstein problematisiert wurde: jene der Regelbefolgung. Andererseits wurden die vielfältigen Verwendungen von Sprache von Waismann bereitwillig anerkannt. Er diskutierte Behauptungen, war jedoch nicht blind für die anderen Verwendungen. Vergaß Wittgenstein auf das Sprachspiel wahr und falsch? Anhand zweier Paragraphen in den PI könnte das Gegenteil behauptet werden. In §  136 sah es Wittgenstein als schlechtes Bild an, „wahr“ als zu einer Proposition „passend“ zu betrachten, als läge es gewissermaßen außerhalb des Sinns dieses Wortes und sei nicht konstitutiv dafür. „Und die Verwendung der Worte ‚wahr‘ und ‚falsch‘ kann zu den Bestandteilen dieses Spiels zählen; und wenn dies zutrifft, gehört es zu unserem Konzept ‚Proposition‘, ‚fügt‘ sich jedoch nicht darin ‚ein‘“5 In § 225 kommentierte Wittgenstein: „Die Verwendung des Wortes ‚Regel‘ und die Verwendung des Wortes ‚gleich‘ sind miteinander verflochten. (Ebenso verhält es sich mit der Verwendung von ‚Proposition‘ und der Verwendung von ‚wahr‘.)“6

14.7 Die Carnap-Affäre Nach einer Auseinandersetzung mit dem Inhalt der Diktate Wittgensteins an Waismann zu Ostern 1932 ist eine nochmalige Lektüre von Wittgensteins Brief an Schlick vom 6. Mai 1932 von Interesse. Dieser enthält die Bemerkung, dass Wittgenstein Waismann bei der Produktion seines Buches unterstützte, indem er ihm schonungslos diktierte. Nun fragte sich Waismann später, wessen Buch es eigentlich hätte sein sollen und teilte mit, dass sie endlose Diskussionen darüber führten. „Nun aber bin auch ich soweit“, so Wittgenstein, „dass ich wünsche sein Buch würde recht bald erscheinen. Dieser Wunsch wurde heute früh durch den Umstand geweckt, das mir die Post eine Schrift Carnaps (Sonderabdruck der ‚Erkenntnis‘) brachte, in dem ich beim Durchblättern viele meiner Gedanken anonym ausgesprochen fand. Sie wissen, in welcher etwas seltsamen Lage ich mich befinde: Ich habe  Originalzitat: „And the use of the words ‘true’ and ‘false’ may be among the constituent parts of this game; and if so it belongs to our concept ‘proposition’ but does not ‘fit’ it.“ 6  Originalzitat: „The use of the word ‘rule’ and the use of the word ‘same’ are interwoven. (As are the use of ‘proposition’ and the use of ‘true’.)“ 5

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während dieser letzten 4 Jahre ziemlich viel gearbeitet, nichts drucken lassen, aber ständig ausführliche mündliche Mitteilungen über meine Arbeit gemacht. Und nun werde ich bald in der Lage sein, dass meine eigene Arbeit als bloβer zweiter Aufguss oder als Plagiat der Carnapschen angesehen werden wird. Dies ist mir natürlich sehr unerwünscht. – Das ist es was mich wünschen läβt Waiβmanns Arbeit möchte bald veröffentlicht werden.“ Damit begann der sogenannte Plagiatsstreit zwischen Wittgenstein und Carnap. Schlick und Waismann waren daran maßgeblich beteiligt, wenn auch in recht unterschiedlicher Weise: Schlick als Interpret und Botschafter und Waismann als jene Person, für die die schwerwiegendsten Folgen damit verbunden waren. Für sie alle handelte es sich um eine sowohl emotionale als auch intellektuelle Angelegenheit, die nie beigelegt wurde und nur verblasste. Zunächst ist festzustellen, dass Wittgenstein in Eile war und über Waismanns Buch über seine neue Philosophie sprach. Er hatte Waismanns Pläne, ein Buch über den Tractatus zu schreiben, verworfen, da er den in diesem Buch zum Ausdruck gebrachten Ansichten nicht mehr zustimmen konnte. Stattdessen stellte er Waismann Diktate über alles zur Verfügung, woran er damals dachte, und entwickelte in diesem Prozess weitere Gedanken zu diesen Themen. In einem späteren Brief verwies er freilich auf den Umstand, dass der Tractatus schon den „Physikalismus“ enthalte, wenn auch nicht unter diesem abscheulichen Namen, was jedoch nicht bedeutet, dass er sein altes Buch verteidigte. Am 25. Mai 1932 schrieb William Watson an Wittgenstein: „Mit großer Enttäuschung habe ich in Ihrem letzten Brief gelesen, dass es Sie bedrückt hat, Ihre Arbeit grundsätzlich selbst für die Presse aufzubereiten, und ich hoffe, dass es sich dabei lediglich um eine vorübergehende Phase handelt, die durch die Grippe hervorgerufen wurde, von der Sie sich hoffentlich wieder ganz erholt haben.“7 Dennoch ermutigte Watson Wittgenstein am 2. September folgendermaßen: „Wie kommen Sie mit Ihrem Manuskript voran? Ich hoffe, dass Sie nicht zugunsten des Mannes in Wien [Waismann], der ein ‚Philosophiebuch in Ihrem Sinne‘ schreibt, aufgeben“.8 Dem Verfasser ist Wittgensteins Brief an Watson nicht bekannt, doch Watsons Antworten verdeutlichen, dass sich Wittgenstein im Frühjahr 1932 fast vollkommen auf Waismanns Darstellung seiner Gedanken stützte. In seinem Tagebuch erwähnt Wittgenstein, dass er Schlick am 6. Juni und noch dreimal am 3., 5. und 9. Juli1932 begegnete. Sein Treffen mit Waismann wurde in kurzen Notizen zu zwei mit Carnaps vermeintlichem Diebstahl verbundenen Themen aufgezeichnet. Er leugnete die in manchen Fällen existierende Konfrontation von Sätzen mit der Wirklichkeit nicht, setzte jedoch fort: Etwas anderes ist es mit der hinweisenden Erklärung und dass die innerhalb der Sprache bleibt. Hier gibt es kein Konfrontieren des Zeichens mit der Wirklichkeit.  Originalzitat: „I was very disappointed to read in your last letter you have been despondent about ever preparing your work for the press yourself, and hope that this has been a merely temporary phase occasioned by influenza from which I hope you have now quite recovered.“ 8  Originalzitat: „How is your manuscript getting on? I hope that you are not giving up in favour of the man in Vienna [Waismann] who is writing a book of ‘philosophy in your sense’.“ 7

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Unklar im Traktat war mir die logische Analyse und die hinweisende Erklärung. Ich dachte damals, dass es eine ‚Verbindung der Sprache mit der Wirklichkeit gibt‘.

Die andere Bemerkung bezog sich auf die Hypothesen: Man hatte immer früher gedacht, dass die Hypothese ein Satz ist, dessen Wahrheit nur weniger sicher feststeht. Man dachte: Bei der Hypothese haben wir noch nicht alle Fälle geprüft, wir sind daher ihrer Wahrheit weniger sicher, so, als ob das unterscheidende Kriterium sozusagen ein historisches wäre. Nach meiner Auffassung ist aber die Hypothese von vornherein ein ganz anderes grammatisches Gebilde. Wenn ich die Grammatik der Hypothese beschreiben sollte, so würde ich sagen: Sie folgt aus keinem singulären Satz und aus keiner Menge singulärer Sätze. Sie ist – in diesem Sinn – nie verifiziert.

Beide dieser Bemerkungen Wittgensteins waren korrekt. Carnaps Arbeit enthielt die gleichen Ideen, zunächst in Bezug auf die Definitionen: Eine Definition ist eine Regel zur Umformung innerhalb derselben Sprache; das gilt sowohl für die sog. Nominaldefinitionen (z. B. ‚Elefant‘: ‚Tier mit den und den Merkmalen‘), als auch  – was gewöhnlich nicht beachtet wird  – für die sog. Definitionen durch Aufweisung (z. B. ‚Elefant‘: ‚Tier von der Art des Tieres an der und der Raum-Zeit-Stelle‘). In zweiter Hinsicht betraf dies die Hypothesen: Ein Naturgesetz hat in bezug auf die singulären Sätze den Charakter einer Hypothese; d. h. es kann aus keiner (endlichen) Menge singulärer Sätze streng abgeleitet werden, sondern kann sich an solchen nur (günstigenfalls) immer mehr bewähren.

Es ist hier nicht erforderlich, auf alle Details der darauf folgenden Briefe einzugehen. Schlick schrieb an Carnap dann ganz im Sinne Wittgensteins, fügte jedoch zwei weitere allgemeinere Vorwürfe hinzu. Diese betrafen einerseits Carnaps eigentliche Konzeption von Philosophie und andererseits seine „formale Redeweise“ bezogen auf das, was Wittgenstein früher mit „logischer Syntax“ und vor allem jetzt mit der „Grammatik“ meinte. Carnap sandte Schlick am 17. Juli eine ausführliche Antwort zu. Diese enthielt die folgende Bemerkung: „Ich habe jetzt zur Vorsicht noch einmal den Tractatus und Waismanns Thesen durchgeblättert.“ Das hatte Wittgenstein nicht gemeint. Am 8. August schrieb Wittgenstein einen Brief an Carnap, den Schlick an die richtige Adresse senden sollte. Er enthielt den Vorwurf, dass Carnaps Verweise im Übrigen zwar richtig waren, dass Carnap jedoch über Wittgenstein als Hauptquelle geschwiegen hatte. Die Fälle der ostenstiven Definitionen und Hypothesen wurden als etwas auf Carnaps Diskussionen mit Waismann Zurückgehendes bezeichnet. Wittgenstein machte unmittelbar geltend, dass Carnap seine Konzeption von Hypothesen von ihm bezogen hatte und von Waismann darüber in Kenntnis gesetzt worden war. De facto hatte Waismann Carnaps Notizen zufolge in seinem Vortrag für den Zirkel am 3. Juli 1930 ausgeführt: „Wenn ein Naturgesetz eine generelle Aussage wäre, so wäre es nicht endgültig verifizierbar, also überhaupt nicht verifizierbar. Ein Naturgesetz ist vielmehr eine Anweisung zur Konstruktion von Aussagen.“ Es handelte sich um eine Konzeption, die von Schlick und nicht von Carnap

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übernommen wurde, doch es liegen keine Kenntnisse in Bezug auf irgendeine damit zusammenhängende Diskussion zwischen Waismann und Carnap vor. Wittgenstein fuhr folgendermaßen fort: Dass Carnap, wenn er für die formale und gegen die ‚inhaltliche‘ Redeweise ist, keinen Schritt über mich hinaustut, wissen Sie wohl selbst; und ich kann mir nicht denken, dass Carnap die letzten Sätze der ‚Abhandlung‘ [Tractatus] – und also den Grundgedanken des ganzen Buches – so ganz und gar missverstanden habe sollte. Und ich muss Ihnen wohl nicht sagen, dass sich meine Kritik der Metaphysik auch auf die Metaphysik unserer Physiker und nicht nur auf die Berufsphilosophen bezieht!

Wittgenstein brachte Carnap hier eine extrem hohe Wertschätzung entgegen, doch Carnap sah seine Art, die Sprache sozusagen von außen zu betrachten, definitiv nicht als äquivalent zu dem an, was Wittgenstein mit den Worten, dass die Sprache „sich zeigt“, beschrieb. Unabhängig davon, wie Carnap das Ende von Wittgensteins Tractatus verstand, bestand ein Unterschied. „Am widerlichsten ist es mir, wenn Carnap von seiner ‚unhistorischer Einstellung‘ schreibt, und dass es nicht wichtig sei, wenn er sich seiner Abhängigkeit von mir ‚und anderen‘ vielleicht nicht ganz bewusst sei.“ Am 21. August ergänzte Wittgenstein Schlick gegenüber: „Die Angelegenheit mit Carnap habe ich nur mit ungemeinem Widerwillen und unter Schmerzen erledigt.“ Das Thema war damit nur für Wittgenstein beendet. Carnap schrieb am 28. September einen langen Brief an Schlick, in dem er betonte: „Ich glaube, dass die von W[ittgenstein] genannten Einzelpunkte meines Aufsatzes nicht von ihm stammen, sondern nur die allgemeine Grundlage.“ Selbstverständlich blieb die Angelegenheit kein Geheimnis zwischen den Beteiligten. Beispielsweise schrieb Neurath am 1. Oktober an Carnap: „Apropos Schlick. N[eider] berichtet, dass er [Schlick] tief erschüttert und enttäuscht W[ittgenstein]s Expressionen zur Kenntnis nahm. […] Ein Einsamer auf den Firnen wandeln – und dann nicht durchhalten können…“ Am 23. Oktober notierte Carnap in seinem Tagebuch, dass Frank mit Schlick diskutiert hatte: „Dieser will Wittgensteins sonst unverständliches Verhalten so erklären: Am Zitieren liegt ihm nichts, aber diese Dinge liegen schon so weit hinter ihm, dass er sich über ihre Darstellung geärgert hat und dieser Ärger hat sich falsch geäuβert. Seine Verehrung von Wittgenstein sei gefährdet gewesen durch dessen Verhalten.“ Ebenso über Schlick ist dem Tagebucheintrag vom 13. Dezember zu entnehmen: „Über Wittgenstein. Er meint auch, es gehe ihm schlecht, er habe wohl irgendwelche Enttäuschungen oder so durchgemacht.“ Am 18. Dezember schrieb Carnap in sein Tagebuch: „Waismann erzählt über Wittgenstein. 1) dass Waismann ihm nicht zustimmt in der Sache mit mir und da­­ durch eine Spannung zwischen ihnen entstanden sei. 2) dass Wittgenstein auf die Nachricht, dass ich krank im Hotel liege, impulsive geantwortet hatte, ob er nicht […] hingehen könne, mir helfen, Wickel machen oder irgendetwas. Schlick sagt, dass Wittgenstein auch ihm es anscheinend verüble, dass er die Vorwürfe für unberechtigt hält.“ Die Auseinandersetzung setzte Waismanns offenen Darstellungen der Ideen Wittgensteins sowohl für den Zirkel als auch für seine Studenten ein Ende. Sein

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nächstes Proseminar war eine Einführung in die Philosophie ohne Spuren von Wittgenstein. Während des Sommersemesters 1933 hielt er gemeinsam mit Schlick ein philosophisches Kolloquium. Ein gewisser Einfluss Wittgensteins zeigte sich erst danach in seinen Proseminaren auf der Grundlage eines alten ursprünglich 1890 veröffentlichten Lehrbuchs von Alois Höfler mit dem Titel Grundlagen der Logik. Waismann stand dem Buch kritisch gegenüber, ohne Wittgenstein jedoch direkt zu erwähnen. Es entsteht der Eindruck, dass Wittgenstein ein verbotenes Thema für seine Lehre war. Die Lage änderte sich erst Anfang 1935.

14.8 Wittgensteins Zusammenarbeit mit Schlick auf Istrien Als Wittgenstein sein Big Typescript endlich beendet hatte, schrieb er Schlick, dass es ihm ein Anliegen sei „einmal die Ergebnisse meiner Arbeit gründlich zu erklären […]. Denn wer weiβ, ob ich sie je werde veröffentlichen können.“ Im September 1933 diskutierten und arbeiteten Wittgenstein und Schlick gemeinsam zehn Tage an Schlicks Urlaubsorten in Istrien an der adriatischen Küste. Die Begegnung war eine produktive, erfreuliche und anregende Erfahrung. Nach der Rückkehr nach Wien berichtete Schlick einem amerikanischen Philosophen über die Ergebnisse: „Ich diktierte Waismann nach meiner Rückkehr die wichtigsten Resultate.“ Ein solches Dokument oder solche Dokumente sind wohl in Waismanns Nachlass zu finden. Es gibt mehrere Möglichkeiten, doch nur einige wenige scheinen zu den Tatsachen zu passen. Unter Schlicks Arbeiten befindet sich eine, die sicherlich mit dem Big Typescript in Verbindung steht. Sie ist in Schlicks Kurzschriftstil verfasst und trägt den Titel „Wittg. Math. (623)“, Signum 184/D.7. Sie enthält Verweise auf Paragraphen auf den Seiten 626, 622, 584, 628, 634–636, 639, 745, 747 und 750 des Big Typescript in dieser Reihenfolge. Wittgensteins Philosophie der Mathematik scheint eines der diskutierten Themen gewesen zu sein. Allerdings findet sich unter Waismanns Arbeiten kein entsprechendes Diktat. Es sei daran erinnert, dass Waismann zusätzlich zu dem Buch über Wittgensteins neue Philosophie auch ein Buch über die Philosophie der Mathematik schrieb, das 1936 mit dem Titel Einführung in das mathematische Denken publiziert wurde. In dem Buch erwähnte Waismann dankbar mehrere Ideen die er von Wittgenstein erhalten hatte. Das Big Typescript ist in der Regel übersät mit Korrekturen und Ergänzungen, die Wittgensteins spätere Arbeit daran dokumentieren, doch der Mathematik-Teil ist frei davon. War Wittgenstein voll und ganz damit zufrieden? Dennoch weist er starke Gebrauchserscheinungen auf, wie B. F. McGuinnes berichtet. Es gibt eine weitere Erklärung dafür. Zu einem späteren Zeitpunkt erwähnte Schlick, dass sich ein Teil von Wittgensteins Text in seinem Besitz befand. Offensichtlich verlieh er den Mathematik-Teil um Waismann bei der Produktion seines Buchs über Mathematik behilflich zu sein. Schlicks Manuskript umfasste nur drei Seiten und war sicherlich nicht detailliert genug, um für die Rekonstruktion von

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Wittgensteins Ideen in einem Diktat verwendet zu werden. Es war vorzuziehen, das Ganze für Waismanns Gebrauch zu verleihen. Es existieren noch zwei weitere sehr realistische Möglichkeiten in Bezug auf das Treffen in Istrien. Zunächst befindet sich unter Schlicks Arbeiten ein Notizbuch mit dem Titel Wittgenstein. Dieses beginnt mit dem Stück „Die normale Ausdrucksweise ‚Ich habe Zahnschmerzen‘“, Signum 183/D.4. Es ist als Wittgensteins Diktat D 303 an Schlick veröffentlicht und besteht aus drei Teilen. Der erste und längste thematisiert „meine“ Schmerzen und die Schmerzen einer anderen Person und deren Bezug auf einen Körper. Die anderen beiden sind sehr kurz: „Kann eine Maschine denken?“ und „Der Ausdruck ‚rot und grün an demselben Ort‘“ Sie erscheinen als frei diktierte Darstellungen im Unterschied zu der pedantischeren Abschrift von „Hat es Sinn zu sagen“, Signum 184/D.14, die Schlick offenbar ein Jahr früher übermittelt wurde. Es ist vorstellbar, dass Schlick einige Fragen zu dem früheren Stück stellte und Wittgenstein die Angelegenheit dann mit seinem neuen Diktat klarstellte und zusätzlich die anderen beiden Fragen kommentierte. Dies könnte Schlick Waismann nach seiner Rückkehr nach Wien diktiert haben. Zweitens besteht eine hohe Wahrscheinlichkeit, dass die Überarbeitung des Big Typescript in dem MS 114ii gemeinsam mit Schlick in den heiteren Tagen in Istrien begonnen hat. Schlick sagte, dass sie eine „gemeinsame Arbeit“ leisteten und nicht nur, dass er sich hinsetzte und Wittgensteins Diktate aufzeichnete. Trotz Schlicks Verehrung für Wittgenstein war die Erteilung von Rat und die Diskussion von Problemen eigentlich eine geeignetere Rolle für einen deutschsprachigen Professor. Im nächsten Wintersemester 1933/34 hielt Schlick eine Vorlesung über die Probleme der Philosophie in ihrem Zusammenhang. Gegen Ende der Vorlesungsreihe diskutierte er Probleme wie „Vom Ich oder von der Psyche“ und „Das Verhältnis des Psychischen zum Physischen“. Die von ihm vorgeschlagenen Lösungen waren eindeutig verbunden mit dem, was er unlängst von Wittgenstein gelernt hatte. Käthe Steinhardt, eine seiner Studentinnen, fertigte umfangreiche Aufzeichnungen über diese Vorlesungen an. Darin findet sich beispielsweise die folgende Passage: Die gewöhnliche Verwendung des Wortes ‚ich‘ kennt allerdings einen logischen Unterschied; dieser ist aber nicht leicht zu sehen oder zu erklären. Es sind z. B. Sätze wie: ‚Ich habe ein Buch‘, ‚Du hast ein Buch‘, ‚Er hat ein Buch‘, ich du, er gleichberechtigt, nebengeordnet. Man kann auch sagen: ‚Er hat jetzt dasselbe Buch, das ich gehabt habe.‘ Nicht gleichberechtigt aber ist das Wort ‚ich‘ mit den Worten ‚du‘ und ‚er‘ in Sätzen wie ‚Ich empfinde Schmerzen‘, ‚Er empfindet Schmerzen‘. Man kann nicht sagen: ‚Er empfindet jetzt dieselben Schmerzen, die ich gehabt habe‘; die Schmerzen, die man selbst hat, können nicht so auf einen anderen übergehen wie z.  B. ein Buch. Das ist keine übliche Sprechweise, und sie einzuführen, wäre nicht opportun. Ich kann nicht Schmerzen eines anderen haben. Der Ort des Schmerzes kann ein Zahn des anderen sein, trotzdem bin ich es, der den Schmerz empfindet.

Es folgte ein Verweis auf ein „unveröffentlichtes Manuskript“ Wittgensteins, in dem Wittgenstein zu siamesischen Zwillingen zitiert wird. In diesem Stadium von Wittgensteins Karriere finden sich diese besonderen Zwillinge nur in einem seiner Manuskripte, in dem D 303, übereinstimmend mit 183/D.4. bei Schlick.

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Schlick plante bekanntlich ein Buch zu Wittgensteins Themen. Die Vorlesungen waren ein Ausgangspunkt dafür. Waismann war andererseits wenig fasziniert von diesen Überlegungen. Er konnte in seinen früheren und späteren Schriften kaum etwas damit anfangen. Die Asymmetrie der egozentrischen Referenz blieb ein gemeinsames Thema Wittgensteins und Schlicks.

14.9 Wittgenstein zieht seine Unterstützung zurück Carnap war bereits 1932 nach Prag gereist und besuchte Wien nur einige Male. Neurath musste Wien 1934 verlassen, doch beide verfolgten die Geschehnisse in Wien mit Interesse. Neurath war an einem Streit mit Schlick beteiligt. Besonders die jüngeren Philosophen in Wien informierten ihm in ihrem sarkastischen Stil über die Entwicklungen und betrachteten die Angelegenheiten oft durch die von Neurath hergestellten Linsen. Anfang 1934 schrieb Carnap an Rose Rand: Inwiefern sind alle Fragen der Logik unsicher geworden? Das scheint mir gar nicht. […] Sind die ‚Unsicherheiten‘ durch das MS von Waismann entstanden? Ich habe mit Freude gehört, dass es druckfertig ist.

Schlick war besser informiert. Am 12. März 1934 schrieb er an Carnap: Waismann’s Buch steht tatsächlich unmittelbar vor dem Abschluss; es sind noch kleine Korrekturen nötig, und auβerdem möchte Wittgenstein, den ich hier in einer Woche erwarte, das Buch gern mit Anmerkungen versehen. An seinem eigenen Teil hat er mit dem gröβten Fleiβ arbeitet [sic]; von den [sic] letzten Auszug aus dem gewaltigen Material, der wirklich publiziert werden soll, war zu Weihnachten schon fast ein Drittel fertig und da W[ittgenstein] ja sehr schnell arbeitet, ist die Vollendung in greifbare Nähe gerückt.

Schlick glaubte, dass Waismanns Buch vor Ende 1934 veröffentlicht werden könnte, und hatte dies in einem Brief an Wolfgang Köhler zum Ausdruck gebracht. Allerdings wurde die Situation durch Wittgensteins Besuch in Wien vollkommen verändert. In einer vom 13. April datierten Postkarte schrieb Waismann verzweifelt die folgenden Zeilen an Schlick: „Mir geht es nicht gut, das Buch macht mir groβe Sorgen, den [sic] was W[ittgenstein] vorschwebt, ist eine ganz neue Arbeit […].“ Am exakt gleichen Tag erklärte Carnap Neurath: „Waismann hat sein Buch wirklich fertig, aber zu seinem Kummer will Wittgenstein es mit ihm in den Ferien nochmals ganz durcharbeiten: Ich glaube, dass Weismann in dem Buch mehr die Probleme bearbeitet, mit denen er uns nahe steht, logische Analyse u. dgl., nicht Ichsätze usw.“ Am Ende des Monats kommentierte Carnap dann Feigl gegenüber: „Waismann habe ich jetzt Ostern gesprochen. Er hat sein MS vollständig fertig, hat sich aber von Schlick bereden lassen, es mit Wittg[enstein] in den Sommerferien nochmals ganz durchzugehen und es daraufhin in den Herbstmonaten nochmals umzuarbeiten! Er ist selber ganz unglücklich darüber, hat aber diese Zusage schon gegeben.“

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Aus Schlicks Perspektive trat Waismanns Buch nun in die letzte und möglicherweise sogar fatale Phase ein, worauf aus Schlicks Brief an Carnap vom 10. Mai geschlossen werden kann: Waismann hat Dir wohl über das neuerlichste Schicksal seines Buches erzählt: es ist eine unglückselige Angelegenheit, aber man kann wenigstens sagen, dass das Buch jetzt entweder im Sommer mit Wittgenstein’s Hilfe fertig gemacht wird oder überhaupt ungedruckt bleibt. Wittg/genstein/s eigenes MS, von dem ich einen groβen Teil in Verwahrung habe, ist höchst genial; es räumt wirklich mit den philosophischen Problemen auf ohne jede formale Vorbereitung und besonderen technischen Hilfsmittel.

Carnap antwortete sofort darauf: „Waismann hat mir erzählt, dass er mit Wittgenstein dahin übereingekommen sei, dass Wittg[enstein] ihm freie Hand lasse, wenn sie sich über die Änderungen nicht einigen können. Ich bin entsetzt, aus Deinem Brief zu ersehen, dass Du an Umstände denkst, die Dich davon abhalten könnten, sein Buch herauszugeben. Schreib doch mal, unter welchen Umständen das sein könnte. Ich finde es schon bedauerlich, dass der Druck des Buches nun mindestens wieder ½ Jahr verschoben ist.“

14.10 Wittgensteins Vorschlag Was war geschehen? In einem offenbar auf den Spätsommer 1936 zurückgehenden undatierten Brief an Karl Menger beschrieb Waismann die Änderungen des Buchplans. Zu Ostern 1934 hatte Waismann Wittgenstein den ihm damals zur Verfügung stehenden Text gezeigt. Im Gegenzug erhielt er einen radikalen neuen Vorschlag: Er war mit Inhalt u[nd] Form der Darstellung zwar einverstanden (er nannte sie eine ‚wertvolle Arbeit‘), beschwor aber Schlick u[nd] mich, das Buch in dieser Form nicht zu veröffentlichen, da seiner Meinung nach das Buch ungeheuer gewinnen würde, wenn es einen ganz anderen Weg einschlagen würde. Ich war in meiner Darstellung darauf ausgegangen, philos[ophische] Probleme der Klärung zuzuführen, indem ich eine sprachliche Untersuchung der Ausdrücke anstellte, in denen das Problem formuliert wird. Die Lösung des philos[ophischen] Problems war die Hauptsache, die grammatische Untersuchung das Mittel hierzu. W[ittgenstein] aber schlug vor, ein Buch zu schreiben, das nichts von Philosophie enthält, sondern das die Grammatik systematisch aufbaut; ich sollte, so meinte er, nachdenken, wie ich eine Reihe von Beispielen bilden kann, die von den einfachsten Begriffen bis zu den schwierigsten der Philosophie führen. Wenn eine solche Darstellung gelingt, so braucht man sich um die Lösung der philos[ophischen] Fragen gar nicht mehr zu bemühen: sie fallen einem wie die reifen Früchte in den Schoss. Ich sagte damals, dass mir dieser Gedanke sehr gut gefalle, dass ich aber seine Durchführung für enorm schwierig halte; u[nd] dass ich mich einer solchen Aufgabe nicht gewachsen fühle. Auch fand ich, dass meine ursprüngliche Darstellung gewisse Vorzüge habe, die bei der Umarbeitung verloren gehen würden. Kurz, ich wehrte mich heftig gegen diesen Vorschlag. Schließlich bat ich Schlick, meine Sache gegen W[ittgenstein] zu vertreten, da ich mit ihm nicht verhandeln wollte. Schlick ließ sich durch W[ittgenstein] umstimmen, ich kam damals mitten in der Nacht zu S[chlick], wo auch W[ittgenstein] war, u[nd] beide baten mich, ich möge doch eine Umarbeitung in diesem Sinne versuchen. Schließlich willigte ich ein, mit der Bedingung, dass ich die Arbeit einstellen könne u[nd] dass ich nicht Schuld sei, wenn das

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Buch entweder spät oder gar nicht erscheine. (Schlick hat auch, wie ich bei einem Gepräch [sic] im Juli sah, den Direktor [Otto] Lange [Springer Verlag] hiervon verständigt.)

In seinem Brief an Menger datierte Waismann Wittgensteins neuen Vorschlag zunächst auf Ostern 1934 und änderte dann das Datum auf Ostern 1933. Aus dem Briefwechsel zwischen den Teilnehmern des Zirkels geht hervor, dass das ursprüngliche Datum richtig war. Offenbar spielte Wittgenstein schon mit den Gedanken, die ihn zum Diktat des Brown Book in Cambridge im Jahr 1934/35 bewogen. Es kam zu wilden Spekulationen. Jedermann war gespannt auf Wittgensteins nächsten Besuch. Neurath hatte eine Auseinandersetzung mit Schlick über Protokollsätze. Er vermutete, dass sich die Figur Wittgensteins hinter Schlicks „Absolutismus“ verbarg. Am 8. Juni schrieb er an Heinrich Neider: „Ist die Rede des Gesalbten [Schlick] auch die des HERRN [Wittgenstein]! Was macht die Waismann-Arbeit! Wann kommt der HERR, um in den Ferien sich herabzusenken auf dies sterbliche Gebilde [Waismann]. Oder wird inzwischen gar des HERRN Offenbarung erschienen sein, so dass er gar Waismanns Arbeit für überflüssig finden wird!“ Darauf antwortete Neider: „Der HERR kommt noch im Juni nach Wien. Prophet und Jünger warten mit ängstlicher Spannung. Vielleicht übersteigt die neue Offenbarung völlig menschliche Fassungskraft. Wer kann es wissen?“

14.11 Schlicks Veränderung an Carnaps Vorwort Unterdessen erhielt Schlick die Druckprobe von Carnaps Werk Logische Syntax der Sprache. Er war unzufrieden: „[…] vor 5 Minuten erhielt ich vom Verleger das Vorwort zu Deinem Buche. Entschuldige, wenn ich Dich in aller Eile bitte, noch eine kleine Änderung vorzunehmen. Wittgenstein ist von der Möglichkeit einer absolut freien Wahl der Sprachregeln seit langem überzeugt; […].“ Carnap sagte, dass Wittgenstein seiner früheren Auffassung vor langer Zeit eine Absage erteilt hatte und führte diesbezüglich aus: „[…] also ganz in Übereinstimmung mit dem, was ich ‚Toleranzprinzip‘ nenne, und unabhängig davon.“ Dies war mehr als Carnap zu glauben bereit war: „Ich selbst habe nicht den Eindruck, dass Wittg[enstein] die Auffassung vertritt, die ich als Toleranzpr[inzip] bezeichne. Es scheint zwar, dass er eine tolerantere Auffassung vertritt als er (und wir alle) es früher taten. Aber seine Auffassungen scheinen mir nach dem, was ich von Dir […] und Waismann erfahre, in diesem Punkt nicht ganz mit meiner Auffassung übereinzustimmen. (Z.  B. lehnt er, wenn ich recht unterrichtet bin, nicht-vollst[ändig]-verifizierbare Sätze ab; ferner läβt Du, und ich vermute danach: auch er, als analytische Sätze (Tautologien) nur solche zu, für die man ein Entscheidungsverfahren besitzt.)“ Schlicks Antwort auf diesen Brief fiel länger aus: Die Schwierigkeit kommt nur daher, dass Du Wittg[enstein] eine andere Auffassung zu­­ schreiben zu müssen glaubst als er tatsächlich vertritt. Ich teile Dir also hiermit noch ausdrücklich mit, dass W[ittgenstein] gar nicht daran denkt (und zwar mindestens seit vier

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Jahren), ‚nicht vollständig verifizierbare Sätze abzulehnen‘. Er bezeichnet sie natürlich als Hypothesen, wie wir alle es tun; es ist keine Rede von ‚Ablehnung‘, auch nicht von einer Abneigung, sie ‚Sätze‘ zu nennen. Der frühere Standpunkt in dieser Hinsicht war nicht viel mehr als seine terminologische Marotte. Dass man von Tautologien nur dort sprechen dürfe, wo man ein Entscheidungsverfahren besitzt, ist eine Formulierung, die W[ittgenstein] durchaus nicht vertritt; seine Auffassungen und Ausdrucksweisen sind in jeder Hinsicht viel freier. Waismann und ich haben dies seit langem deutlich betont. Meine eigenen Äusserungen in meinem letzten Aufsatz dürfen zu Vermutungen über Wittgenst[ein]s Ansichten umso weniger benutzt werden, als ich mich ja nicht auf ihn berufe. Da Deine Kenntnis von W[ittgenstein]s neueren Auffassungen sich [sic] lediglich auf Waismanns und meine Informationen stützt und ich in der Vorrede ausdrücklich als Gewährsmann zitiert werde, so kannst Du z. B. an jener Stelle über W[ittgenstein] nichts anderes sagen als was in den Informationen selbst enthalten ist, also vor allem keine darüber hinausgehenden Vermutungen aufstellen.

Carnap war dennoch skeptisch und offenbarte seine Quelle: Das Vorwort habe ich Deinem Wunsch entsprechend geändert. Du hast gewiss recht, dass zur Beurteilung von Wittgensteins gegenwärtiger Auffassung Du die einzige Quelle bist. Dagegen bin ich nicht sicher, ob Deine Interpretation von seiner Auffassung, die um einige Jahre zurück ist, zutrifft, und ebenso die Interpretationen von Waismann. Ich sehe nicht recht, wie diese Interpretationen mit Euren damaligen Berichten, und insbesondere mit dem ganz deutlichen Wortlaut von Waismanns Thesen vom Jahre 1930  in Einklang gebracht werden kann. Aber diese historische Frage ist ja nicht wichtig: Wichtiger wäre es, wenn wir bald, etwa an Hand des hoffentlich doch bald erscheinenden Buches von Waismann, feststellen könnten, ob und welche Meinungsunterschiede vielleicht heute noch vorliegen, und dann diese erörtern.

Carnap hatte eine Abschrift des Typoskripts aus dem Jahr 1930. Danach, insbesondere nach 1932, wurde er von jeglichen detaillierten Informationen über die Entwicklung von Wittgensteins Gedanken ausgeschlossen. Nun fügte er dem Vorwort zu seinem Buch jedoch Folgendes hinzu: „Zu meinen Bemerkungen, besonders §§ 17 und 67, gegen Wittgensteins frühere dogmatische Einstellung teilt mir jetzt Herr Schlick mit, dass Wittgenstein schon seit mehreren Jahren in unveröffentlichten Arbeiten die Regeln der Sprache als völlig wählbar hinstellt.“

14.12 Aufregung wegen Wittgensteins neuer Ansichten Wittgensteins Besuch im Sommer 1934 war von Spannung und dramatischen Ereignissen geprägt. Schlick berichtete Carnap am 27. Juli folgendermaßen über die Unruhen: „In Wien war es zum Schluss heiβ und aufregend. Wittgenstein kam diesmal spät von England, und ich habe nicht viel mit ihm sprechen können. Die letzte Entwicklungsphase des Waismannschen Buches ist, dass es gar nicht von ihm, sondern von Wittg[enstein] selbst geschrieben wird! Ich weiβ noch nicht, wie Waismann diese neue Wendung aufnimmt, da ich ihn nur telefonisch sprechen konnte. Ich bitte Dich, vorläufig noch nichts darüber zu sprechen, da dies mögli­ cherweise doch noch nicht die letzte Phase der Angelegenheit ist und ohnehin schon

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so viele Gerüchte über das unglückliche Buch verbreitet worden sind.“ Das Geheimnis war sofort zu jüngeren Ohren gedrungen. An genau dem gleichen Tag wie Schlicks Brief schrieb Neider an Neurath: „Wi[ttgenstein] will die Publikation von Wa[ismann]s Buch verhindern und ihm die Rechte abkaufen! Dann will er das Buch selbst schreiben. Wie klein ist doch dieser Groβe!“ Wie vorherzusehen war, erzürnte ihn Neuraths Brief: Vielen Dank für den Frontbericht. […] Was der Meister da für sein Meisterstück plant ist schon widerlich. Aber Sie wissen, dass ich nicht abgeneigt war zu argwöhnen, als er die Veröffentlichung zuletzt inhibierte, um im Sommer letzte Offenbarungen hinzufügen. Das uns allen zugebilligte Privileg auf Eitelkeit usw. wird dadurch geradezu diskreditiert. ‚Rechte abkaufen‘ – also gar auch die eigene gute finanzielle Situation ausnützen. Und da wurde alles getan, damit Wa[ismann] die Hilfe der Notgemeinschaft bekam. Es ist schon schauderlich, wenn das aufgerollt würde. Und gerade der Erhabene, der auf Publikation usw. kein Gewicht legt. […] Ich hätte längst die Geduld verloren! Was sagt der Prophet zu diesem Ereignis? Ich finde Wa[ismann] zerstört sich seine Lebenschancen, wenn er selbst nicht publiziert. Er hätte wahrlich anerkannt, dass er alles dem Erhabenen verdankt. Aber einfach gestrichen werden aus dem Kreis der Publizierenden… Aber schliesslich hat man Wa[ismann] genug aufmerksam gemacht mit wen [sic] er zu tun hat. Und der Prophet wird wieder sagen, dass man um der SACHE willen…

Schlicks Vermutung, dass es sich dabei noch nicht um die letzte Phase des Dramas handelte, erwies sich als richtig. Vielleicht gelang es Schlick, Wittgenstein zu neuen Gedanken zu bewegen oder Wittgenstein schämte sich selbst für sein Verhalten. Wittgenstein tat etwas, das er früher wahrscheinlich nicht getan hatte. Er erschien bald in Waismanns bescheidenem Zuhause in der Fruchtgasse. Am 4 August schrieb Waismann einen Brief an Schlick. Einige Teile daraus werden immer wieder zitiert. Jeder an Wittgenstein Interessierte hat einige der bekanntesten Zeilen gelesen. Wenige haben ihn als Ganzes gelesen. Allerdings sind der Kontext des Briefes und sein eigentlicher Gegenstand – Waismanns wie auch immer geartete „gemeinsame Arbeit“ mit Wittgenstein  – nie erläutert worden. Schlick erhielt das folgende Schreiben: Ich möchte nun Ihnen kurz erzählen, was ich mit Wittg[enstein] abgemacht habe. Freitag vor Ihrer Abreise kam W[ittgenstein] zu mir, um in gemeinsamer Arbeit die Disposition zu beginnen. Einen Teil hatte ich schon geschrieben. Allein es zeigte sich, dass W[ittgenstein] gleich mit dem Anfang nicht einverstanden war u[nd] erklärte, so könne doch das Buch nicht beginnen. Das seltsame ist, dass gerade dieser Anfang von ihm stammt. Er hatte mir nämlich zu Ostern, als er den Plan des Ganzen entwickelte, vor allem erklärt, wie er sich den Anfang vorstellt u[nd] sogar auf einem Bogen Papier ziemlich ausführliche Bemerkungen niedergeschrieben, – eben die Sätze, an denen er jetzt Anstoβ nahm. Als ich ihm das sagte, wollte er es durchaus nicht glauben, bis ich zum Glück den Bogen fand u[nd] ihm nun schwarz auf weiβ zeigen konnte, dass diese Sätze von ihm sind. Ich schreibe Ihnen dieses Detail durchaus nicht, um etwa W[ittgenstein] einen Vorwurf zu machen. Er hat ja die wunderbare Gabe, die Dinge immer wieder wie zum ersten Mal sehen. Aber es zeigt sich doch, meine ich, wie schwer eine gemeinsame Arbeit ist, da er immer wieder der Eingebung des Augenblicks folgt u[nd] das niederreiβt, was er vorher entworfen hat. Sie wissen, wie unendlich hoch ich W[ittgenstein]s Urteil schätze u[nd] wie gern ich eine solche Arbeit mit ihm machen würde, wenn ich nur die geringste Möglichkeit dazu sähe, d. h. wenn es sich wirklich nur um die Verbesserung eines Planes handelte.

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Aber so sieht man doch nur, dass Stück um Stück des Aufbaus niedergerissen wird u[nd] dass alles langsam ein völlig anderes Gesicht annimmt, so dass man fast das Gefühl erhält, dass es ganz egal ist, wie man die Gedanken zusammenfügt, da ja schlieβlich kein Stein auf dem anderen bleibt. Vor allem ist dies keine gemeinsame Arbeit: da brauchte ich ja überhaupt keine Disposition zu machen u[nd] nur zuzuschauen, wie W[ittgenstein] einen völlig anderen Weg sucht. Und das schien er plötzlich selbst zu erkennen. ‚Es ist des Teufels, mit mir zu arbeiten‘, sagte er, ‚ich kann nur meinen Weg gehen u[nd] weiβ nie vorher, wohin er führen wird.‘ Er meinte, er habe das Gefühl, er würde in derselben Zeit mehr leisten, wenn er für sich arbeite, da er dann den Aufbau auf zehn Arten versuchen u[nd] sie vielleicht alle verwerfen u[nd] es auf ganz andere Art machen werde. Er sprach die Wahrheit. W[ittgenstein] wird sich also bis Ende August ausschlieβlich mit der Disposition beschäftigen. Ob er sie bis dahin fertig bringt, weiβ ich nicht. Ich soll dann nach dieser Disposition die Arbeit ausführen. Ob ich das werde tun können, d. h. ob erstens meine Fähigkeit dazu ausreicht u[nd] ob zweitens die Anlage nicht vielleicht gegen meine Überzeugung sein wird (was ich im Stillen ein wenig fürchte), weiβ ich nicht. Gesetzt aber, ich könnte diese Arbeit leisten, so ist die weitere Frage, ob es dann ein irreführender Schein ist, wenn mein Name auf dem Titelblatt steht; es ist doch schlieβlich nicht mein Buch. Über diesen Punkt haben wir lange gestritten – aber vorläufig um des Kaisers Bart, denn die Disposition ist eben noch nicht gemacht. Warten wir also bis Ende August, dann wird sich ja zeigen, was da im Werden ist.“

Nach dem Erhalt des Briefes schrieb Schlick am 11. August an Carnap: „Meine letzte Mitteilung um Waismanns Buch muss ich etwas korrigieren. W[ittgenstein] will im Laufe dieses Monats eine detaillierte Disposition ausarbeiten, und Wa[ismann] soll dann das Skelett mit Fleisch bekleiden – ich beneide ihn nicht um die Arbeit.“ Eine weitere Beschreibung der Situation findet sich zwei Jahre später in dem oben zitierten Brief Waismanns an Menger. Er ist sehr dicht und an manchen Stellen gewiss nicht zutreffend: Ich versuchte nun mir einen solchen Aufbau zurechtzulegen; aber ohne Erfolg; es wollte sich kein Weg zeigen. Im Juli 1933 [should be: 1934] sagte ich W[ittgenstein], dass ich nicht weiter komme u[nd] zeigte ihm meine misslungenen Entwürfe. Er schlug mir darauf vor, dass er selbst versuchen werde, eine Disposition aufzuarbeiten. Er machte sich auch an die Arbeit. Ich glaube im Winter schrieb er mir dann, dass er die Arbeit nicht bewältigen konnte; er lasse mir freie Hand, rate mir aber dringend, weiter nachzudenken u[nd] das Buch womöglich doch in diesem Sinne abzufassen. Nach diversen Versuchen, mit deren Schilderung ich Sie nicht ermüden will, glaubte ich schlieβlich einen Weg zu sehen.

Wittgenstein diktierte das Brown Book im nächsten Winter. Vor seiner Abreise nach Cambridge traf er Waismann nicht. Waismann konnte kein Manuskript bekommen. Er hatte kein Interesse daran, die folgenden Phasen des Dramas im Detail zu be­­ schreiben. Offenbar wurde zumindest für Waismann kein „Plan“ erstellt. Für die Teilnehmer des ehemaligen Zirkels gab es noch viele andere Dinge zu tun, doch zum Jahresende begannen Carnap und Neurath, sich Sorgen zu machen. „Wie stehts mit Waismanns Buch“, schrieb Carnap am 27. Dezember an Schlick. Ebenso stellte Neurath am 4. Januar 1935 Neider die Frage: „Nun was ists mit Wittg[enstein]? Berichten Sie. Was macht das Waismannbuch.“

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14.13 Das Big Typescript als Wittgensteins Disposition für Waismann Leider enthielt Waismanns Brief keine Informationen über den Inhalt seiner Versuche, Wittgensteins Gedanken zu erfassen und weiter zu entwickeln. Waismann versuchte, ein Buch zu produzieren und zu diesem Zeitpunkt war selbst Wittgenstein nicht zufrieden mit einer Sammlung von Bemerkungen. In diesem Sinne verfolgten sie das gleiche Ziel. Hat irgendetwas von dieser gemeinsamen Arbeit überlebt? Schlick dachte, dass Wittgenstein eine Art Abriss erstellen würde, der dann um in Waismanns Besitz befindliche Materialien erweitert und abschließend  – wahr­ scheinlich von den beiden gemeinsam  – ausgefeilt werden würde. Wittgenstein wäre verantwortlich für den Aufbau des Buchs. Dies ist eine Möglichkeit, passt jedoch ganz und gar nicht zu Wittgensteins Arbeitsgewohnheiten. Der Erstellung eines Inhaltsverzeichnisses wäre die einfachste Methode, um den Aufbau wiederzugeben. In Wittgensteins Schriften befinden sich jedoch keine Inhaltsverzeichnisse, die dem geschriebenen Text, bevor dieser produziert wurde, vorausgehen. Sogar das einzigartige Inhaltsverzeichnis für das Big Typescript wurde erst erstellt, als Wittgenstein mit dem Verfassen des Textes fortgeschritten war. Er schrieb die ersten Kapitel und nahm dann offenbar nacheinander die entsprechenden Ergänzungen im Inhaltsverzeichnis vor. Wittgenstein begann seine Schriften nie mit Zusam­ menfassungen dessen, was dann folgen würde. Was immer er unter einem „Plan“ oder einer Disposition in Waismanns und Schlicks Briefen verstand, kann keine solche den späteren Lesern bekannte Bedeutung gehabt haben. Es existieren keine unmittelbaren Nachweise. Man kann hier nur fundierte Annahmen treffen. Waismann hat klar zum Ausdruck gebracht, zu Ostern 1934 eine Art „Plan“ erhalten zu haben. Der Verfasser vertritt die Hypothese, dass Wittgensteins erster „Plan“ für das Buch das sogenannte Big Typescript MS 140, eine „zweite Umarbeitung“ eines früheren Teils des Big Typescript, war, und somit die zweite nach MS 114ii/115i, die sich in hohem Maße daran anschließt. Es zielte offen­ sichtlich darauf ab, den Anfang eines wirklichen Buches zu bilden, und nicht nur eine Sammlung von Materialien wie das Big Typescript oder die MS 114ii/115i genannte „erste Umarbeitung“. Erst der Anfang des zweiten Teils 115i war mit einem Datum versehen: dem 14. Dezember 1933. Folglich muss der erste Teil 114ii zuvor vollendet worden sein. Es ist durchaus möglich, die „zweite Umarbeitung“, d. h. das Big Typescript, mit Ostern 1934 in Verbindung zu bringen. Das würde zu dem Datum des Waismann gegebenen „Plans“ passen. Das als Big Typescript bezeichnete Manuskript wurde von Wittgenstein in einer kaum transparenten Form stark bearbeitet, wobei auf Wittgensteins jüngste Manuskriptenbücher verwiesen wurde. Es war im Gegensatz zu einem philosophischen Anhänger Wittgensteins wie Waismann für jeden gewöhnlichen Menschen eine nahezu unmögliche Aufgabe, ein Typoskript davon herzustellen. Vieles davon lässt sich leicht abtippen, doch an vielen Stellen wurden die ständigen Querver­ weise, Einfügungen, Ergänzungen und Substitutionen zwischen verschiedenen

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Manuskripten überaus schwer nachvollziehbar, insbesondere wenn die Argu­ mentation flüssig wirken sollte. Es gibt zeitgenössische Abschriften des Typoskripts des Big Typescripts. Eine findet sich unter Schlicks Arbeiten unter Signum 184/D.5 beginnend mit den Worten „Wie kann man von dem ‚Verstehen‘ und ‚Nichtverstehen‘ eines Satzes reden?“ Früher war sie bekannt unter den Namen Wi:MS und Mulder V in G. H. von Wrights Katalog von Wittgensteins Schriften. Die andere gehörte Waismann und befindet sich nun im Besitz von Brian McGuinness. Es handelte sich offenbar nicht um ein Diktat an Moritz Schlick von Wittgenstein (MS), sondern um ein von Waismann angefertigtes Typoskript des sogenannten Big Typescripts. Die Buchstaben MS bedeuteten damals einfach ein Manuskript von Wittgenstein und waren kein Verweis auf Moritz Schlick. Es handelt sich um eine Rekonstruktion dessen, was Wittgenstein mit dem Big Typescript meinte, wenn alle komplizierten Anordnungen in Bezug auf die Manuskripte MS 140 und MS 114 berücksichtigt werden. Schlick unterstützte Waismann in mehrfacher Hinsicht, doch er war kein Philologe und nicht interessiert an dieser mühevollen Arbeit. Als solches ist das Manuskript für die Forschung kaum etwas Neues, denn Rush Rhees leistete nahezu die gleiche Arbeit bei der Bearbeitung von Teil I des von ihm als Wittgensteins Philosophische Grammatik bezeichneten Werks. Das Typoskript D.5 umfasst 57 Seiten, die den ersten 42 Paragraphen von Rhees Publikation ungefähr entsprechen. Es besteht kein Grund, dieses Typoskript als auf einem Diktat beruhend zu betrachten, zumal keine stenografischen Notizen vorliegen, die die Grundlage dafür bilden könnten. Das Big Typescript enthält einen Verweis auf eine hinzuzufügende Passage, der auf den ersten Blick merkwürdig erscheinen mag. Er befindet sich auf S. 38: „S. 180 kl[eines] Format ff“. Die erwähnte Seite im MS 114ii enthält einen Hinweis auf die in das „gr[oße] Format“ zu verlegenden Passagen. Die Angelegenheit ist unkompliziert. Keine Aufregung über das angeblich verlorene Small Typescript (Kleine Format) ist nötig. Sowohl der ursprüngliche Rekonstrukteur Waismann als auch der spätere Bearbeiter Rhees haben die Abschnitte Wittgensteins Anweisungen folgend an den richtigen Stellen angebracht. Unter der Voraussetzung, dass es sich bei dem oben Genannten um das Wittgenstein während des Besuchs im Sommer 1934 von Waismann vorgelegte Typoskript handelte, ist die heftige Reaktion des ursprünglichen Autors leicht verständlich. Vor ihm lag nur der Anfang seines eigenen Buchs und keineswegs des Buchs Waismanns. Selbstverständlich konnte Wittgenstein für das Abtippen bezahlen. Es ging nicht darum, „Rechte“ zu „kaufen“. Es war Waismann wahr­ scheinlich nicht möglich gewesen, die neuen von Wittgenstein im Rahmen des Ostertreffens gesetzten Maßstäbe zu befolgen. Möglicherweise hatte er Angst vor Wittgensteins Stil der „Zusammenarbeit“. Wie könnte er (oder irgendjemand) die nächsten Schritte vorhersehen? Waismann wartete auf mehr Beratung. Wittgenstein war nicht zufrieden, begriff jedoch bald, dass die Waismann gestellte Aufgabe unmöglich war. Er versprach einen neuen „Plan“.

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14.14 Geheimdiskussionen über Wittgenstein im Wiener Kreis Wittgenstein verbrachte seine üblichen Weihnachtsferien 1934/35 in Wien. Er hatte fünf Treffen mit Waismann und begegnete Schlick zweimal. Bald nach seiner Rückkehr nach Cambridge wurde am Donnerstag, den 12. Januar 1935, ein Treffen des Zirkels abgehalten. Neider teilte Neurath Folgendes mit: „Im Zirkel sind jetzt auch [Edgar] Zilsel, dann [Alfred] Tarski und eine Menge junger Leute. Vorgestern wurde ein sehr interessantes Ms. Wittgensteins verlesen, das sich gegen die Behauptung richtet, dass Sätze in nicht-physikalischer Sprache metaphysisch seien.“ In einem Brief an Carnap vom 18. Januar kommentierte Neurath: „Über die Schlick-Zirkel dringen nur dunkle Berichte in mein Ohr. Der Schwur über alles zu schweigen, was aus den heiligen Büchern vergeflüstert wird, bindet alle – es sei den [sic], dass einer das Heiligste ‚zitiert‘. […] Ich warte jetzt nur, wie die Publikationsfrage Waism[ann] Wittg[enstein] gelöst wird.“ Am gleichen Tag drängte Neurath Neider: „Nun zu Wittg[enstein]. Dass das heilige Buch unter Schwur gelesen wird ist schon ergetzlich. Wann kommt dann das Waism[annsche] Buch!“ Es entspricht der Wahrheit, dass Schlick bei diesen Treffen eine gewisse Geheimhaltung voraussetzte. Außerdem erlaubt er nicht allen daran Interessierten den Zugang. Neider wandte sich mit den folgenden Worten an Neurath: „[Karl] Popper und [Walter] H[ollitscher] wurden nicht würdig befunden, in den engsten Zirkel des Propheten einzutreten.“ Nun ist bekannt, was Popper verloren hat und ihn sein ganzes Leben lang erzürnte: die Wittgenstein-Lektüre. Von besonderem Interesse ist dieser Ausschluss im Hinblick auf die späteren politischen Karrieren von Popper und des Kommunisten Hollitscher. In seinem Brief an Neurath fügte Neider eine weitere Vorwarnung hinzu, über die Neurath gewissermaßen bereits informiert war: Zu meinem Entsetzen fällt mir ein, dass ich Ihnen übrigens vergessen habe zu schreiben, dass über die Vorlesungen aus dem ‚heiligen Buch‘ strengstes Stillschweigen zu bewahren ist und bitte Sie daher dringendst von meiner Indiskredition keinen Gebrauch zu machen. Unter dem Siegel der tiefsten Verschwiegenheit soll Ihnen auch darüber berichtet werden.

Hollitscher bestätigte Neurath sein Versprechen: „Dr. Neider hat mir erzählt, er werde Ihnen einen ausfuhrlichen [sic] Bericht über die durch Wittgensteins Offenbarungen neulich über den Wiener Kreis hereingebrochenen geistigen Revolutionen übersenden.“ Nichts dergleichen geschah. Wie aus Schlicks Kalender ersichtlich ist, übermittelte Neider Neurath am 8. Februar nach fünf Treffen des Zirkels lediglich die folgende Information: „Hier gibt es nichts neues von Bedeutung. Weitere Offenbarungen wurden uns nicht zuteil. […] R[ose] R[and] kommt nicht mehr in den Zirkel, da M[oritz] S[chlick] für eine Stelle am Volksheim nicht sie, sondern eine Frl. Weiskopf empfohlen hat.“ Sicherlich erlebt der Zirkel keine Revolutionen, doch Neider scheint Schlicks Rat nach einer langen Diskussion mit ihm befolgt zu haben: „Im Übrigen sei es

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ganz falsch zu meinen, dass Wittgensteins Erörterungen gegen den Physikalismus zu wenden. Selbstverständlich seien alle Sätze der Wissenschaft physikalische Sätze. Die Gedankenexperimente, die mit den psychologischen Sätzen angestellt warden [sic], sollen nur dazu dienen, die Metaphysik (Solipsismus usw.) zu zerstören.“ Ferner warnte Schlick Neider vor Neuraths Dogmatismus. Neuraths alter Freund Philip Frank, der in Prag als Physikprofessor wirkte, hörte Mitte Februar einen Vortrag von Waismann, als er an einem Treffen des Zirkels teilnahm. Diesmal berichtete Carnap Neurath über den Anlass: „Ich habe ihn [Frank] gedrängt, es Dir ausführlich zu berichten. Hat ers schon getan? Waismann-­ Vortrag. Traurig. Du wirst einerseits betrübt sein, andererseits mit Recht triumphieren über den Erfolg Deiner Prognosen. Ich bestätige Dir hiermit, dass Du die phänomenolog[ischen] Keime bei W[aismann], die sich heute zur schönsten Blüte zu entfalten scheinen, schon in einem sehr frühen Stadium mit feiner Nase gerochen hast, als wir anderen und zumal ich es noch nicht glauben wollten. Charakteristisch, dass eine latente Opposition da war ([Karl] Menger, [Kurt] Gödel, [Alfred] Tarski), die aber erst hörbar herauskam, nachdem Frank mit Entschiedenheit gegen W[aismann] und Schlick aufgetreten war. Charakteristisch weiter, dass Schl[ick] sofort zurückzog, es wäre nicht alles so gemeint gewesen, und er im Grunde natürlich mit Fr[ank] einig usw., womit W[aismann] gar nicht zufrieden war. Gut, dass Frank zufällig in Wien war.“ Es folgte kein Bericht von Frank. Tatsächlich war er mit Schlick Mitherausgeber der Buchreihe des Zirkels. Waismanns Buch belegte in der Reihe immer noch den ersten Platz, wenngleich viele andere erschienen waren; Waismanns Erläuterungen zu Wittgensteins Philosophie allerdings noch nicht. Am 4. April zeigte sich Neider in seinem Brief an Neurath wieder etwas offener: „Sie müssen bedenken, dass er sich ständig im relativistischen Sinne entwickelt und viel besser ist als seine Jünger.“ In einem weiteren Brief war zu lesen: „Seine relativistische Entwicklung erblicke ich im Fallenlassen der Idee einer ausgezeichneten Idealsprache und der Lehre von den Atomsätzen und der Betonung des konventionellen Charakters aller Sprachformen. Der Absolutismus der ‚letzten Sätze‘ ist bei W[ittgenstein] ein Atavismus, den er wohl bald überwinden wird. […].“ Neurath war überrascht und gab seine Unkenntnis zu erkennen: „Wann hat Wittgenstein die Atomsätze fallen lassen? Und was ist das mit den ‚letzten Sätzen‘, wovon Sie sprechen? Ist das alles aus dem esoterischen Werk?“ Hollitscher bestätigte: „Dr. Neider und ich möchten Ihnen folgendes mitteilen: Von Atomsätzen ist in den, im Schl[icks] Zirkel verlesenen Arbeiten Wittgensteins nicht die Rede. Auch Schl[ick] und Wa[ismann] gebrauchen diesen Ausdruck weder in Seminaren noch in Vorlesungen.“ Hollitscher war jedoch erstaunt über die aus seiner Sicht vorliegenden Gesinnungswechsel: „Besonders erbitternd ist es, Wittgenstein über Carnap wegen philosophischen Ansichten höhnen zu hören, die Wittgenstein selbst vor zwei Jahren beistimmend mit demselben Pathos vortrug, mit dem er damals den gegenteiligen Standpunkt verhöhnte, den er heute vorträgt. Dies alles unabhängig von der Frage, ob Ca[rnap] und Wa[ismann] damals recht hatten oder Wittg[enstein]heute.“

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Die öffentliche Auseinandersetzung über Protokollsätze zwischen Schlick, Neurath, Carnap und anderen überschattete die Gedanken aller rund um den Zirkel. Es war schwierig, irgendetwas anderes wahrzunehmen. Folglich strebten die Beobachter danach, Wittgenstein insbesondere aufgrund dessen früherer Vorwürfe wegen Carnaps mutmaßlichen Plagiats in seiner Arbeit zum Physikalismus darin zu orten. Da im Laufe der Zeit keine konkreteren Einzelheiten zu Tage traten, beschloss Carnap, Rose Rand zu den Wintertreffen zu befragen, an denen sie teilnahm. Bekanntlich fertigte sie in der Gabelsberger-Kurzschrift Aufzeichnungen zu den Treffen an. Am 31. Mai schrieb Carnap an Rand: Ich bin mit [Carl G.] Hempel übereingekommen, dass wir Ihnen sehr dankbar wären, wenn Sie uns einen ausführlichen Bericht über die Zirkelsitzungen des Winter-Semesters verfassen würden (bitte in 5 Exemplaren tippen). Ich möchte Sie aber sehr bitten, Ihre Leistung selber einzuschätzen, da ich gar nicht weiss, wie viel Zeit und Mühe Sie die Sache kostet. Bitte teilen Sie mir das mit, ich werde Ihnen dann durch Neider das Geld schicken. Die Originalstücke von Wittgenstein interessieren uns natürlich besonders lebhaft. Wörtliche Zitate daraus bitte besonders kennzeichnen!

Es existiert kein Hinweis darauf, dass der Vorschlag ursprünglich von Rand gekommen sei, doch am 22. Juni erklärte Carnap Neurath die Angelegenheit folgendermaßen: „Die Rand hatte mir spontan geschrieben, sie könnte mir Bericht über Winterzirkel ausarbeiten. Diskussionen üb[er] Wittg[enstein] mit Originalzitaten aus dem im Zirkel Vorgelesenen. Ich bestellte es, mit Durchschlägen für Dich und Hempel. Jetzt schreibt sie, Schlick habe es ihr nicht erlaubt, und zwar, nachdem sie es schon fertig gemacht hatte.“ Von Originalmanuskripten Wittgensteins war nicht die Rede, nur von Diskus­ sionen und in Diskussionen dargestellten Zitaten. Carnaps Arbeiten enthalten keine Angaben zu seinem Briefwechsel mit Rand, doch Rand hat diese Dokumente aufbewahrt. Noch am 2. Juli schickte Carnap Rand, die in den Sommerzirkel zurückgekommen war, eine Karte: „Prof. Schlick sagte mir, dass Sie ihm den für mich gemachten Zirkelberich doch noch einmal zeigen möchten, damit er dann die endgültige Entscheidung trifft.“ Unter Rands Arbeiten befindet sich ein Durchschlag, der vermutlich von dem Carnp übersandten Bericht stammt. Dieser betraf nur den Sommerzirkel und enthielt keine Angaben zu Wittgenstein. Darin wurde beschrieben, wie Schlick seine Lehre von den Konstatierungen, wie er sie nannte, erläuterte. Carnap war enttäuscht: „Liebe Fräulein Rand, haben Sie besten Dank für die Anfertigung des Zirkelberichtes und für Ihre ergänzenden Bemerkungen. Ich bin leise enttäuscht darüber, dass die Diskussionen so wenig neue gebracht haben. Ist das, was Sie mir geschickt haben, der Bericht über das ganze Semester oder nur ein von Schlick bewilligter Teil?“ Danach scheinen keine zeitgleichen Quellen überlebt zu haben.

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14.15 Eine Pflegestätte der Philosophie Wittgensteins? Schlicks Tagebuch enthält die Termine der donnerstäglichen Treffen des Zirkels von Anfang 1935. Vermerkt waren der 10., der 17., der 24. und 31 Januar sowie der 7. Februar. Möglicherweise wurden die Treffen fortgesetzt. In zumindest einem Bericht wird behauptet, dass der Zirkel im Frühling regelmäßig zusammentraf. Zum letztgenannten Termin hielt Waismann einen Vortrag, und Frank besuchte den Zirkel und widersetzte sich Waismann in einer Weise, die Spekulationen über einen unmittelbar bevorstehenden Zerfall des Wiener Kreises aufkommen ließ. Damals verließ sogar Rand den Zirkel und konnte über die Geschehnisse nicht mehr berichten. Sie kam jedoch während des nächsten Sommersemesters zurück. Keine detaillierten Erinnerungen mit Ausnahme jener von Gustav Bergmann, der mehr oder weniger ein Außenseiter war, scheinen überlebt zu haben. 1936 schrieb er Neurath, dass sich der Schlick-Zirkel zuletzt in eine „Pflegestätte der Philosophie Wittgensteins“ verwandelt habe und seine Enttäuschung richtete sich vor allem gegen eine Person: „Allmählich […] sei es Waismann gelungen, das Sprachrohr des Meisters werden. Mit ihm unterredete er sich ausführlich, und, wenn auch in groβen Abständen, regelmäβig; von ihm erwartete man daher auch, dass er als Mittler die Lehre interpretiere und systemisiere.“ Eine weitere Ausnahme bildete ein Besucher aus Helsinki, der Experimen­ talpsychologe Kai von Fieandt, der sich ein halbes Jahrhundert später folgendermaßen an seinen Besuch des Zirkels im Spätfrühling 1935 erinnerte: Ich verfolgte, soweit ich erinnere, insgesamt zwei Sitzungen des Wiener Kreises. Moritz Schlick saβ am Tischende, die anderen um den Tisch herum, und es geschah folgendes: Jeder las aus einem Werk – ich glaube, es war Wittgenstein – einen Abschnitt vor und fuhr da fort, wo sein Vorgänger aufgehört hatte. Nach einer Runde kommentierte Moritz Schlick dann den Text. Man dürfte Fragen stellen und diskutieren, aber ich muβ der Ehrlichkeit halber gestehen, dass ich keine Grundlage, keine ausreichend gute Kenntnis des Logischen Empirismus, und im speziellen der Wittgensteinschen Philosophie, mitbrachte. Ich war also weder in der Lage, an der Diskussion teilzunehmen, noch zu begreifen, worum es ging.

Bis heute sind  – zumindest  – fünf Termine bekannt. Bekannt ist auch, dass nur Schlick und Waismann über Material von Wittgenstein verfügten, wobei Waismann selbstverständlich viel mehr hatte. Man kann sich vorstellen, dass diese Treffen mit etwas in Schlicks Besitz Befindlichem begannen und dass er dann Waismann, dem wahren Experten, das Wort erteilte. Selbstverständlich war es in Schlicks Interesse, von den jüngsten Treffen zwischen Wittgenstein und Waismann zu erfahren. Was würden sie nach dem dramatischen Sommer herbeiführen? Existierte ein neuer Plan für Waismann? Neider war aufgrund seines Bekenntnisses zu Neuraths Physikalismus nicht unbedingt eine verlässliche Quelle. Er war es jedoch, der das allererste Treffen in dem Brief an Neurath kommentierte und der Geheimhaltungspflicht noch nicht nachkam: Vorgestern wurde ein sehr interessantes Ms. Wittgensteins verlesen, dass [sic] sich gegen die Behauptung richtet, dass Sätze in nicht-physikalistischer Sprache metaphysisch seien.

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Als metaphysisch, also sinnlos, sind für ihn ja Sätze, die sich prinzipiell nicht verifizieren lassen. Technische Unmöglichkeit oder Verhinderung durch zufällige Naturgesetze machen nach W[ittgenstein] einen Satz nicht sinnlos. W[ittgenstein] wirft nun den Physikalisten implizit vor, dass sie die empirisch gegebene Einheit des Ichs verabsolutisieren. Nach ihm gelangen wir zur Bildung des Ichbegriffs durch die Erfahrung, dass unsere Erlebnisse mit den Veränderungen unseres Körpers verknüpft sind. Man kann aber sich leicht eine Gesetzlichkeit konstruieren, wonach z. B. alle Menschen im Körper des Karl (etwa dort, wo das [sic] früher amputierte Arm war) Schmerz empfänden, wenn Karl gestorben wäre. Da es nun möglich ist, eine prinzipielle intersubjektive Verifikationsmöglichkeit für den Satz ‚Schmerz ist in Karls Körper‘ (natürlich nicht physikalisch zu interpretieren) anzugeben (bloβ derzeit hindern uns zufällige Gesetzmäβigkeiten daran, das kann sich aber ändern), ist die Zulässigkeit der psychologischen Sprache erwiesen. Dass die physikalische Sprache nicht hinreicht alle Erfahrungen zu beschreiben, ist jedem klar, den man darauf hinweist, dass die Erfahrung ‚Ich habe Schmerz‘ grundverschieden ist von der ‚Ich nehme wahr, dass ich [unklar], schreie usw.‘

Neiders Bericht traf vermutlich keine Unterscheidung zwischen dem, was von Wittgenstein gelesen wurde und dem Beginn von Schlicks Kommentar. Zusätzlich zu dem, was Schlick in Ischia festhielt, verfügte er über eine Reihe weiterer Quellen. Alice Ambrose schrieb ihm am 19. Dezember 1934 die folgenden Zeilen: Ich habe Sie und mein Ihnen in Prag gegebenes Versprechen keineswegs vergessen. […] Die Schwierigkeit bestand bislang darin, dass der Prozess der Bindung der Notizen von Dr. Wittgenstein und der von uns angefertigten informellen Notizen zu einem Band noch im Gang ist. Mrs. Braithwaite, die sich damit beschäftigt, ist der Meinung, dass vor der Übermittlung ein Duplikat davon angefertigt werden sollte. […] Die Vervielfältigung hat sich also verzögert und ist noch nicht abgeschlossen. Wenn Sie möchten, können Sie den Band aber gerne haben, – Dr. Wittgenstein ist damit einverstanden. Er hat mir gesagt, dass er Ihnen seine diktierten Notizen bereits übermittelt hatte. Diese und informelle Notizen sind in unserem Band enthalten. Wenn Sie diesen Band haben möchten, lassen Sie es mich wissen und ich werde ihn Ihnen nach der Vervielfältigung senden.9

In den gegenwärtigen Jargon übersetzt, ist mit „diktierten Notizen“ das Blue Book und mit den „informellen Notizen“ das sogenannte Yellow Book gemeint. Diese informellen Notizen stehen heute an den Wittgenstein-Aktienmärkten nicht sehr hoch im Kurs, aber das konnte Schlick nicht wissen. Einige Blätter von Ambrose sind unter seinen Arbeiten erhalten geblieben. Zunächst ist ein Zitat von Ambrose aus Schlicks Arbeiten zu nennen: 120. Daraus ergibt sich, dass das Wort ‚Ich‘ nicht durch ‚dieser Körper‘ ersetzt werden kann, doch zugleich hat es nur in Bezug auf einen Körper eine Bedeutung. Der Schachkönig ist nicht ein Stück Holz, doch zugleich kann man nicht von dem reinen Schachkönig sprechen, der kein entsprechendes Zeichen oder Symbol hat. Da ‚dieser Körper‘ und ‚Ich‘ nicht

 Originalzitat: „I have by no means forgotten you and my promise made to you in Prague. […] The difficulty has been that the notes of Dr. Wittgenstein plus the informal notes which we took have been in the process of binding into a Volume. Mrs. Braithwaite, who has been attending to this, feels it should have a duplicate made before sending it. […] So the duplicating has been delayed; and not yet done. However, if you would like to have this, you may, – Dr. Wittgenstein is willing. He told me he had already sent you his dictated notes. Our volume contains these and informal notes. Would you like to have this volume, please let me know and I’ll send it on when duplicated.“ 9

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untereinander austauschbar sind, trifft es nicht zu, dass das Zeigen auf diesen Körper eine indirekte Art ist, auf mich zu zeigen.10

Das zweite Zitat stammt aus dem von Ambrose zu einem späteren Zeitpunkt in ihrem Leben veröffentlichten Yellow Book: Der Umstand, dass es Sinn ergibt anzunehmen, dass ich meinen Körper veränderte, dass es jedoch keinen Sinn ergibt anzunehmen, dass ich ein Selbst ohne einen Körper habe, zeigt, dass das Wort ‚Ich‘ nicht durch ‚dieser Körper‘ ersetzt werden kann; und zugleich lässt er erkennen, dass ‚Ich‘ nur in Bezug auf einen Körper eine Bedeutung hat. Parallel dazu ist der König im Schachspiel zwar nicht mit einem Stück Holz zu identifizieren, doch zugleich kann man nicht von einem reinen Schachkönig sprechen, der kein entsprechendes Zeichen oder Symbol hat. […] Da ‚Ich‘ und ‚dieser Körper‘ ebenso wie der ‚Schachkönig‘ und das ‚Stück Holz‘ nicht untereinander austauschbar sind, trifft es nicht zu, dass das Zeigen auf diesen Körper eine indirekte Art ist, auf mich zu zeigen.11

Ebenso vermerkte Ambrose in Schlicks Exemplar: „Das Word ‚Ich‘ hebt sich von den anderen Wörtern, die wir im praktischen Leben verwenden, nicht ab, sofern wir es nicht wie Descartes zu verwenden beginnen. Wittg[enstein] muss uns vom Gegenteil von Descartesʼ Betonung des ‚Ichs‘ überzeugen.“12 Ferner findet sich im Blue Book das Zitat: Wir glauben, dass wir ‚Ich‘ in Fällen, in denen es als Subjekt verwendet wird, nicht verwenden, weil wir eine bestimmte Person aufgrund ihrer körperlichen Eigenschaften erkennen; und dies erzeugt die Illusion dass wir dieses Wort für die Bezeichnung von etwas Körperlosem verwenden, das jedoch in unserem Körper seinen Sitz hat. Tatsächlich scheint das das wirkliche Ego zu sein, von dem ‚Cogito, ergo sum‘ gesagt wurde. – ‚Gibt es dann keinen Geist, sondern nur einen Körper?‘ Die Antwort lautet: Das Wort ‚Geist‘ hat eine Bedeutung, d. h. es hat eine Verwendung in unserer Sprache; doch indem dies gesagt wird, ist noch nicht gesagt, in welcher Weise wir es verwenden.13

 Originalzitat: „120. What this comes to is that the word ‘I’ can’t be replaced by ‘this body’, but at the same time it has only meaning with reference to a body. The king of chess isn’t this bit of wood, but at the same time you can’t talk of the pure king of chess which has no mark or symbol corresponding to it. Since ‘this body’ and ‘I’ can’t be interchanged, it is incorrect to say that pointing to this body is an indirect way of pointing to me.“ 11  Originalzitat: „The fact that it makes sense to suppose that I changed my body, but that it makes no sense to suppose that I have a self without a body, shows that the word ‘I’ cannot be replaced by ‘this body’; and at the same time it shows that ‘I’ only has meaning with reference to a body. A parallel in chess is that although the king is not to be identified with this piece of wood, at the same time one cannot talk of a pure king of chess which has no mark or symbol corresponding to it. […] Since ‘I’ and ‘this body’, like the ‘king of chess’ and the ‘wooden piece’, cannot be interchanged, it is incorrect to say that pointing to this body is an indirect way of pointing to me.“ 12  Originalzitat: „The word ‘I’ doesn’t stand out among all the other words we use in practical life unless we begin using it as Descartes did. Wittg[enstein] has to convince us just the opposite of Descartes’ emphasis on ‘I’.“ 13  Originalzitat: „We feel that in cases in which ‘I’ is used as a subject, we don’t use it because we recognize a particular person by his bodily characteristics; and this creates the illusion that we use this word to refer to something bodiless, which, however, has its seat in our body. In fact this seems to be the real ego, the one of which it was said, ‘Cogito, ergo sum’. – ‘Is there then no mind, but just a body?’ Answer: The word ‘mind’ has a meaning, i.e., it has a use in our language; but saying this doesn’t yet say what kind of use we make it.“ 10

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Der Inhalt der ersten „Wittgenstein-Lektüre“ innerhalb des Zirkels im Januar 1935 lag möglicherweise auf der gleichen Linie. Bei den Verweisen auf Naturgesetze und die Verifikation handelte es sich zu diesem Zeitpunkt vermutlich um Ergänzungen von Schlick oder Neider.

14.16 Eine Regel Wittgensteins Eine oberste Regel Wittgensteins findet sich in der Mitte des Blue Book. An diese Regel hatte er sich während seiner äußerst aktiven Periode von 1931–1935 durchgehend gehalten, wenngleich sich bereits Quellen aus früherer Zeit dazu finden: Ich habe mich in all dem versucht, um die Versuchung des Gedankens zu beseitigen, dass es einen sogenannten mentalen Prozess des Denkens, Hoffens, Wünschens, Glaubens, etc. ‚geben muss‘, unabhängig von dem Prozess, einen Gedanken, eine Hoffnung, einen Wunsch etc. auszudrücken. Und ich gebe Ihnen die folgende Daumenregel mit: Wenn Sie sich Fragen zur Natur des Denkens, Glaubens, Wissens und Ähnlichem stellen, ersetzen Sie den Gedanken mit dem Ausdruck des Gedankens etc. Die in dieser Ersetzung liegende Schwierigkeit und zugleich der springende Punkt dabei ist Folgendes: Der Ausdruck des Glaubens, Gedankens, etc. ist nur ein Satz, – und der Satz hat nur als Teil eines Sprachsystems einen Sinn; als ein Ausdruck innerhalb eines Kalküls. Wir sind nun versucht, uns diesen Kalkül gleichsam als permanenten Hintergrund eines jeden von uns ausgesprochenen Satzes vorzustellen und zu denken, dass der Kalkül in dem mentalen Akt des Denkens auf einmal vorhanden ist, wenngleich ein auf ein Stück Papier geschriebener oder gesprochener Satz isoliert steht. Der mentale Akt scheint auf wundersame Weise das auszuführen, was kein Akt der Manipulation von Symbolen auszuführen imstande wäre. Wenn nun die Versuchung, in gewissem Sinne zu denken, dass der gesamte Kalkül vorhanden sein muss zur selben Zeit verschwindet, hat es keinen Sinn, die Existenz einer besonderen Art des mentalen Aktes neben unserem Ausdruck zu postulieren. Dies bedeutet selbstverständlich nicht, dass wir gezeigt haben, dass besondere Bewusstseinsakte den Ausdruck von Gedanken nicht begleiten! Wir sagen lediglich nicht mehr, dass sie diese begleiten müssen.14

 Originalzitat: „I have been trying in all this to remove the temptation to think that there ‘must be’ what is called a mental process of thinking, hoping, wishing, believing, etc., independent of the process of expressing a thought, a hope, a wish, etc. And I want to give you the following rule of thumb: If you are puzzled about the nature of thought, belief, knowledge, and the like, substitute for the thought the expression of the thought etc. The difficulty which lies in this substitution, and at the same time the whole point of it, is this: the expression of belief, thought, etc., is just a sentence, – and the sentence has sense only as a member of a system of language; as one expression within a calculus. Now we are tempted to imagine this calculus, as it were, as a permanent background to every sentence which we say, and to think that, although the sentence as written on a piece of paper or spoken stands isolated, in the mental act of thinking the calculus is there – all in a slump. The mental act seems to perform in a miraculous way what could not be performed by any act of manipulating symbols. Now when the temptation to think in some sense the whole calculus must be present at the same time vanishes, there is no point in postulating the existence of a peculiar kind of mental act alongside of our expression. This, of course, doesn’t mean that we have shown that peculiar acts of consciousness do not accompany the expression of thoughts! Only we no longer say that they must accompany them.“ 14

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Diese „Daumenregel“ war für Waismann äußerst wichtig. Er versuchte sie zu befolgen. Es steht nicht mit Sicherheit fest, wo er sie gelernt hat, denn ihre Wirkung zeigt sich während dieser Periode in Wittgensteins Denken an mehreren Stellen. Es ist mit Sicherheit bekannt, dass Waismann im Zirkel Vorträge gehalten hat. Was war der Gegenstand seiner Präsentation? Der Verfasser stellt die einfache Vermutung an, dass es sich um das sogenannte Diktat für Schlick handelte. Es wird nach wie vor als Diktat von Wittgenstein betrachtet. Es existieren unterschiedliche Auffassungen darüber, wem es diktiert wurde, möglicherweise Schlick, möglicherweise Waismann, doch zuletzt kamen Zweifel hinsichtlich der Urheberschaft auf. Die Sprache des Textes enthält vieles, das mit Wittgenstein unvereinbar ist, wenngleich der Text zahlreiche Ideen Wittgensteins eindeutig verdichtet und entwickelt. Hierfür sind nur wenige Beispiele nötig. Wittgenstein sagte nicht: „(Diese letzte Betrachtung ist von der Art des Architekten Loos und gewiß von ihm beeinflußt.)“ Dieser Kommentar stammt von einer anderen Person. Das Gleiche gilt für einige zentrale Passagen wie beispielsweise die folgende: „Aber, was man sich hier als hinter dem Satz stehend denkt, ist, wie ich schon gesagt habe, der Kalkül, die Sprache, in der der Satz gebraucht wird. Und hier beruht die Auffassung des Dahinterstehens auf einer Täuschung. In diesem Sinn ist der Gebrauch des Wortes ‚Sinn‘ irreführend, und man kann sagen, dass er aus einer primitiven und obsoleten Auffassung der Sprache entstanden ist.“ Wittgenstein sprach über die primitive Auffassung der Sprache, sagte jedoch nie, dass diese „obsolet“ sei. Ebenso bestehen Unterschiede im Stil und im Vokabular („Gedankenwagen“, „Brustton“, „mnemotechnische Kunstgriffe“, etc.), wenngleich fast alles entweder auf Wittgensteins Schriften oder Diskussionen mit ihm zu beruhen scheint. Das Diktat für Schlick ist kein ursprünglicher Teil von Wittgensteins Nachlass. Es wurde von Waismann zusammengestellt, der es Schlick und dem Schlick-Zirkel diktierte. Waismann stand erheblich unter Druck zu zeigen, dass das Buchprojekt noch lebendig war und dass er selbst Wittgensteins fortschrittlichste Ansichten zu berücksichtigen vermochte.

14.17 Zur Struktur des Diktats Einer neuen Einteilung zufolge, die auf den Inhalten basiert und die Titel der Passagen außer Acht lässt, mit denen Wittgenstein seine späteren Typoskripte verschiedener Teile davon versah, lässt sich der Text grob in drei Teile gliedern. Der Verfasser wird sich auf die vom Wittgenstein-Archiv in Bergen erstellte elektronische Ausgabe von Wittgensteins Nachlass beziehen. Dieses ist leicht zugäng­ lich. Zunächst fand sich eine Einleitung (S. 1–2), die hauptsächlich aus offenbar frei gesprochenen Fragen in Bezug auf das Verstehen, die Bedeutung und die Interpretation von Sätzen innerhalb eines grammatischen Systems besteht. Es folgt ein langer Teil über verschiedene intentionale Prozesse, von denen viele mitei­ nander verknüpft sind. In diesem Teil wird in die Sprachspiele eingeführt (S. 2–23). Der abschließende dritte Teil betrachtet eine Reihe unterschiedlicher und wenn überhaupt nur begrenzt miteinander verbundener Themen (S. 24–32). Viele direkte

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Quellen bei Wittgenstein sind klar, aber das gilt auch für viele Kommentare, die nicht von Wittgensteins Manuskripten oder seinen Vorträgen stammen können. Eine weitere interessante Empfehlung für die Lektüre des Textes findet sich in einem von Wittgensteins Notizbüchern aus genau demselben Zeitraum, MS 150, S. 10. Auf einmal schrieb Wittgenstein außerhalb des kontextuellen Umfelds eine Reihe von Wörtern folgendermaßen untereinander: Verstehen Bedeutung Denken Erwarten Wünschen Fürchten Glauben Überzeugung In seinem Notizbuch sind keine Daten vermerkt, doch Wittgenstein begann nach ein paar Paragraphen mit den Vorarbeiten zum zweiten Teil des Brown Book, das er im Frühling 1935 in Cambridge diktierte. Ein Vergleich der oben angeführten Liste mit dem zweiten Teil des Diktats für Schlick zeigt nahezu die gleiche Struktur: Verstehen (S. 2–3), Bedeutung (S. 4–11), Denken (S. 11–12), Erwarten (S. 12–18), Wünschen (S. 18–19), Glauben (S. 19–21), Fürchten (S. 21–22), Überzeugung (S. 23 f.). Es ist wahrscheinlich, dass Wittgenstein und Waismann diese Themen im Dezember 1934 erörterten, doch die so kurze, systematische und gewissermaßen unproblematische Darstellung der meisten Themen passt kaum zu Wittgensteins Stil. Es ist jedoch leicht zu verstehen, warum manche Schreibende dies als eine geplante Publikation von Wittgenstein angesehen haben. Vielmehr gibt es keine Anhaltspunkte dafür, dass Wittgenstein einen solchen Artikel jemals geplant hat; noch tat dies Waismann, denn es handelte sich nur um seine Darstellung für den Zirkel, die gewährleisten sollte, dass ganz besonders er trotz alle Gerüchte, die im vergangenen Sommer kursiert hatten, an vorderster Front Wittgenstein erläuterte und der Autor eines bevorstehenden Buches über all dies war. Die Struktur der Liste stimmt mit Wittgensteins „erster Umarbeitung“ des Big Typescript, seines MS 114ii/115i weitgehend überein, und wenn Waismann tatsächlich das Typoskript der Großes Format genannten „zweiten Umarbeitung“ erstellt hat, muss ihm das erste gut bekannt gewesen sein, wenngleich viele der diskutierten Beispiele auf die intensive Kommunikation zwischen den beiden im Jahr 1932 zurückdatiert werden können. In dem Diktat für Schlick findet sich eine große Zahl von Passagen, die Wittgensteins im Blue Book  – wenngleich ohne diesen Namen und Verweis  – explizit formulierte „Daumenregel“ wiedergeben. Wittgenstein befolgte diese Regel in all seinen Schriften aus dieser Periode. Es gilt, Folgendes zu bedenken: Hier kann man ‚Überzeugung‘ ein Phänomen nennen, welches den Satz begleitet und zwar kann man für unsere Zwecke für die Überzeugung den Ausdruck der Überzeugung, nämlich den Tonfall setzen. (S. 1)

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J. Manninen Der Gedanke als psychischer Vorgang interessiert uns nicht. Jeder sogenannte innere Vorgang ist für uns durch einen äuβeren ersetzbar, das Erinnerungsbild durch ein gemaltes Bild, die Überzeugung durch die Geste der Überzeugung usw. In diesem Sinn könnte man unsere Auffassung behavioristisch nennen. […] Für uns ist am Gedanken nichts wesentlich privat. Und sagt man, die gemalten Bilder seien zwar nicht privat, wohl aber die Gesichtsbilder dessen, der sie sieht, so soll später gezeigt worden, dass die Sinnesdaten überhaupt keinen Besitzer haben. Und das ist wieder eine grammatische Bemerkung. Nichts ist übrigens irreführender als die Redeweise von dem Kopf als dem Ort des Gedankens. (S. 11) Setzen wir statt des Denkens den Ausdruck des Gedankens. (S. 16) Setzen wir aber statt der Erwartung, wie wir jetzt dürfen, den Ausdruck der Erwartung, so verschwinden diese Probleme. (S. 18) Es ist uns also nicht mehr als wäre der Geist gleichsam ein Protoplasma, in welchem Dinge zu geschehen scheinen, wie sie weder Physik noch Chemie kennen. Denn der Sinn steht nicht hinter dem Satz in der Sphäre des Geistes. Der Grund eines Glaubens verhält sich nicht zu dem Glauben, wie eine Rechnung zu deren Resultat. Und wir können statt des Glaubens den Ausdruck des Glaubens setzen, so statt Gründe des Glaubens, den Vorgang einer Ableitung jenes Ausdrucks. (S. 20) So können wir uns das grammatische Verhältnis von Inhalt und Intensität des Glaubens einfach darstellen, wenn wir statt des Vorgangs des Glaubens den Vorgang einer Rede setzen und statt der Intensität des Glaubens Stärke und Tonfall der Rede. Der Brustton der Überzeugung tut uns dieselben Dienste, wie die Überzeugung, oder vielmehr bietet er uns eine einfache und übersichtliche Darstellung der Grammatik des Wortes ‚Überzeugung‘ die in einer groβen Zahl von Fällen dem Gebrauch des Wortes ‚Überzeugung‘ gerecht wird. Die Ersetzung des Glaubens durch seinen Ausdruck usw. liefert uns mindestens einen konzisen Auszug aus der Grammatik des Wortes ‚Glauben‘. (S. 21) Es gilt eben von Erwartung, Glauben, Furcht, Hoffnung usw., dass jedes dieser Wörter nicht für einen bestimmten Vorgang, sondern für verschiedenartige, aber miteinander verwandte Vorgänge gebraucht wird. Und zwar kann man in allen diesen Fällen von artikulierten und unartikulierten Vorgängen sprechen, so wie wir schon früher von artikulierten und unartikulierten Motiven gesprochen haben. Man könnte fragen: wie kann man den Ausdruck der Furcht statt der Furcht setzen? (analog dem Vorgang, den ich im Fall des Glaubens vorschlug). (S. 21)

War dies möglich? Waismann hatte dies bis jetzt unausgesprochen gelassen. Es hätte die gesamte Methode des „statt dessen“ zerstört. Ich bin überzeugt, dass wir einem neuen Weltkrieg entgegengehen. Bei diesem Zitat handelt es sich um ein Beispiel von Waismann auf S.  23 im Diktat für Schlick. Waismann fragte: Wann wäre es möglich, den entgegengesetzten Standpunkt zu äußern? Und könnte eine gegenteilige Überzeugung darauf folgen? Waismann kommentierte: „Die Überzeugung begleitet das Sprechen, also nicht etwa wie Magenschmerzen, das heiβt ‚ich hätte diesen Satz nicht mit Überzeugung sagen können‘ ist nicht von der Art des Satzes ‚ich hätte diesen Satz nicht mit Magenschmerzen sagen können‘.“ Das Beispiel mag sich seltsam anhören, doch Wittgenstein befindet sich im Hintergrund. Ein ähnliches Beispiel findet sich nur in Wittgensteins deutschsprachiger Ausgabe, die eine Übersetzung des Brown Book sein sollte, doch offenbar hatte er das Beispiel schon viel früher mit Waismann diskutiert:

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Wenn ich z. B. sage: ‚Ich bin überzeugt, dass binnen fünf Jahren ein fürchterlicher Krieg ausbricht‘, so finde ich, ich empfinde ein schweres, drückendes Gefühl in der Magengegend. Und wäre dies nicht meine Überzeugung so hätte ich es nicht. Aber nun denke ich mir dass ich sagte: ‚Ich bin überzeugt, dass das Wetter wird heute schön bleiben. Auch da ist ein Gefühl, das nicht wäre, wenn ich nicht überzeugt wäre, – aber wo ist das Gemeinsame? Such es und sieh ob es da ist, und was es etwa ist! Nur glaub‘ nicht, es müsse da sein. Eines ist freilich gemeinsam: dieselben Worte; und das ist ja schon viel, und mit ihnen geht vielleicht auch ein etwas ähnlicher Ton. (MS 116, S. 266)

Tatsächlich ist in Wittgensteins Liste nur ein Wort im Vergleich zu seinen frühesten Schriften von besonderem Interesse: „Überzeugung“. Das Wort überzeugt und dessen Derivationen wurden in Wittgensteins Korpus häufig verwendet; es lässt sich jedoch festhalten, dass Überzeugung für ihn erst in dem MS 114ii/115i und in den dieses Werk vorbereitenden Notizbüchern zu einem philosophischen Problem wurde. Ein solches blieb es  – in Verbindung mit „Sicherheit“  – bis zu seinem Lebensende. ‚Bist Du in Deinem Zimmer gewesen?‘ – ‚Ja‘ – ‚Bist Du sicher?‘ […] Aber was machte Dich so sicher als Du diese Worte sprachst? Nichts; ich war sicher.

Dies blieb eine isolierte Bemerkung. Als Wittgenstein gegen Ende des MS 115i zum „Glauben“ kam, fügte er dem Text auf den Seiten 95–100 einfach Durchschläge seines viel früheren Textes TS 211, S.  603–609 mit dem folgenden Slogan bei: „Setzen wir statt des Glaubens den Ausdruck des Glaubens“. Die ursprüngliche Formulierung dieses Slogans war mit dem 22. April 1932 datiert. In Wittgensteins mittlerer Schaffensperiode ab 1931 bestand eine gewisse Einheitlichkeit, die erst in seinen Diskussionen mit Waismann und Schlick Ende 1934 und zu Beginn des neuen Jahrs in Frage gestellt wurde. Wie eine einfache von Waismann am Ende des Diktats für Schlick unter Anführungszeichen wiederholte Bemerkung belegt, zog sich Wittgenstein von dem Project, das ihn jahrelang beschäftigt hatte, zurück: Du sagst ‚setzen wir statt des Glaubens, den Ausdruck des Glaubens‘. Aber das ist ja, wie wenn Du sagtest: ‚setzen wir statt der Zahnschmerzen den Ausdruck: ich habe Zahnschmerzen‘. Der Satz ‚ich glaube usw.‘ ist einfach die Beschreibung eines, sagen wir geistigen Vorganges und diese Beschreibung ist von diesem Vorgang so verschieden, wie die Beschreibung eines Wettrennens von Wettrennen, oder die Beschreibung von Zahnschmerzen von den Zahnschmerzen. (S. 31)

Die ursprüngliche Form dieser Bemerkung findet sich in Wittgensteins undatiertem Notizbuch MS 156b, 28r-28v und stammt offenbar aus genau demselben Zeitraum. Unter Schlicks Arbeiten befinden sich Schlicks stenografische Notizen auf einem einzelnen Blatt Papier, dessen maschinenschriftliche Form als Wittgensteins D 306 bekannt ist. Als Wittgenstein diese Anmerkung diktierte, scheint Schlick sein Notizbuch zu Wittgenstein nicht zur Hand gehabt zu haben. Es wurde dem Notizbuch später hinzugefügt. Waismann nahm es in das Ende seines Diktats auf. An dieser Stelle findet es sich im Typoskript von Schlicks Abschrift des Diktats für Schlick und auch in Rands stenografischen Notizen zu dem Diktat. Die gleiche Botschaft wurde übermittelt: „Wir sagten, der Ausdruck des Glaubens sei die Beschreibung eines geistigen Vorganges, und ebenso wenig statt dieses

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geistigen Vorganges zu setzen wie die Beschreibung von Zahnschmerzen für die Zahnschmerzen.“ De facto bedeutete dies einen schweren Schlag gegen Waismanns Diktat und dessen Rekonstruktion eines wichtigen Teils von Wittgensteins Projekt. Es hatte katastrophale Auswirkungen auf das Projekt an sich. Es ist unklar, ob Waismann sofort begriffen hat, was Wittgenstein sagte, doch es muss ihm bald aufgefallen sein, dass Wittgenstein selbst die Arbeit mit ihm einmal als „des Teufels“ beschrieben hatte. Die im Blue Book formulierte „Daumenregel“ konnte nicht mehr befolgt werden. Wittgenstein ließ das große Projekt unvollendet hinter sich, wenngleich es vieles enthielt, wofür er später Verwendung fand. In dem vorbereitenden Notizbuch MS 165a, S. 49v hatte Wittgenstein Folgendes geschrieben: „Wir verzichten auf allgemeine Dogmen über unseren Gegenstand, – die besonderen Beispiele werfen so viel allgemeines Licht auf ihre Umgebung, als ihnen zukommt.“ Wittgenstein ließ Waismann jedoch nicht völlig im Ungewissen.

14.18 Gab es einen neuen Plan? Worin bestand der neue „Plan“ und – wenn überhaupt -, wann wurde er Waismann von Wittgenstein vorgelegt? Am frühesten wäre dies bei Wittgensteins kommendem Winterbesuch in Wien möglich gewesen. Das Projekt wurde fortgesetzt und es fanden fünf Zusammenkünfte statt: am 21., 28., 29. und 31. Dezember 1934 und am 2. Januar 1935. Es kam noch zu einem Telefonanruf von Waismann am 3. Januar. Das nächste Treffen nur einmal zu Ostern 1935 statt. Das war das letztmögliche Datum, an dem Waismann der „Plan“ vorgelegt werden konnte. Schlick befand sich auf einer Reise, doch nach seiner Rückkehr nach Wien konnte er Waismann zweimal treffen: am 26. Dezember und am 3. Januar. Eine Art „Plan“ findet sich unter Wittgensteins Arbeiten. Es wird kein Datum genannt, doch der Text lässt sich eindeutig den oben angegebenen Daten irgendwo zuordnen, wenn man Wittgensteins in Cambridge diktiertes Brown Book berück­ sichtigt. Am besten passt er möglicherweise zu dem Treffen zu Ostern 1935. Ein Plan im Sinne Wittgensteins oder zumindest ein dahingehender Versuch findet sich in dem MS 141. Dieses wird als früher Entwurf des Brown Book oder als Beginn einer deutschsprachigen Übersetzung davon angesehen. Das MS 141 könnte zeitlich sogar noch weiter zurückliegen als das Buch, doch es finden sich bisher keine Anhaltspunkte dafür in dem Diktat für Schlick. Es handelt sich um eine Geschichte, die mit den Baumeistern beginnt und nach und nach um Elemente der Sprache ergänzt wird. Mit dieser Reihe von Beispielen begann Waismann sein Privatseminar im Sommer 1935. Nach der Vorstellung einiger Schritte und Wortarten erfüllte Waismann seine Aufgabe sicherlich unabhängig von jeglichem Wissen über das Brown Book. Obwohl Waismann von Wittgensteins vielen vorbereitenden Diktaten für das Buch umfassend unterrichtet war, unternahm er damit den Versuch, Wittgensteins Rat zu befolgen.

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Waismann selbst beschrieb dieses Privatseminar in dem Brief an Menger folgendermaßen: Wie gesagt, glaube ich einen Weg für die Anordnung dieses Teils gefunden zu haben. Es kam mir sehr zustatten, dass ich gerade damals mit einem Kurs über log[ische] Grammatik begann. In diesem Kurs legte ich den Aufbau des Buches fest; ich präparierte mich sehr sorgfältig, schrieb mir alles vorher nieder, u[nd] auf diese Weise sind 5 starke Hefte (im Stenogramm) zustande kommen. Von den Kursteilnehmern wurde eine Ausarbeitung des Kurses in Maschinschrift angefertigt, die auch die Dinge enthält, die ich im Vortrag hinzufügte sowie die Ausführungen, die ich auf Fragen der Teilnehmer gab; diese Ausarbeitung befindet sich gleichfalls in meinem Besitz. Nun bin ich dem Philosophiebuch gegenüber in einer ähnlichen Lage wie dem Mathematikbuch: ich schreibe es auf Grund meiner Vorträge u[nd] kann hierbei die Ausarbeitung als Erinnerungsstütze verwenden. Der Kurs dauerte bis Ende des letzten Sommersemesters.

Ein Hinweis darauf, dass das MS 141 daran und später möglicherweise beteiligt war, wäre Waismanns Gebrauch des Wortes Quader in seinem im Wintersemester 1935 gehaltenen Proseminar, als er das Beispiel der Baumeister und die verschiedenen Wortarten erklärte, die in Verbindung mit diesem Beispiel gelehrt und erläutert werden könnten. Quader lässt sich im Englischen mit „square stone block“, „cubic block“, „ashlar“, beschreiben. Das Wort wird am häufigsten in Österreich gebraucht. Waismann hat es sicherlich dem MS 141 entnommen, in den Wittgenstein es im Gegensatz zu seinen anderen Schriften bis einschließlich PI, in dem er in diesem Zusammenhang von einem Würfel sprach, an mehreren Stellen verwendete. Dieses nahezu letzte in Wien gehaltene Proseminar Waismanns liefert im Übrigen zwei Zusammenfassungen, die zitiert werden sollen. Über die „Bedeutung“ erörterte er vier Ansichten. Nur die vierte machte er sich zu eigen: 1) „Die Ansicht Freges: Der Gegenstand ist die Bedeutung eines Wortes.“ 2) „Die Vorstellung ist die Bedeutung eines Wortes.“ 3) „Die Bedeutung ist die Wirkung, die auf das Hören eines Wortes erfolgt.“ 4) „Die Bedeutung ist die Verwendung eines Wortes, aller­ dings nicht von einer einzelnen Person, sondern beherrscht von allgemeinen Normen.“ Viele der Schriften Waismanns nach seinen früheren Neustarts können zumin­ dest „gewissermaßen“, ähnlich der ihm von Wittgenstein erteilten Lehre als Verteidigung der Autonomie der Sprache ausgelegt werden, doch damit war nicht alles gesagt. Im Proseminar 1935/36 betonte Waismann mehrmals Folgendes: „Kann man den Unterschied zwischen einem Spiel mit Worten und der Sprache mit Worten innerhalb der Sprache immanent erfassen? Nein! Erst wenn man aus der Sprache heraustritt und diese Worte in ihrem ganzen Zusammenhang mit dem Leben betrachtet, ist dies möglich.“ Der Fall der Baumeister blieb nicht der Anfang von Waismanns Buch. In dem Brief an Menger brachte Waismann seine Zusage zum Ausdruck und erklärte: Meine alte Idee wollte ich nicht ganz aufgeben, sondern dachte mir die Anlage des Buches so: In einer ausführlich geschriebenen Einleitung – die ca. ein Fünftel des Buches umfasst – soll an einer Zahl von Beispielen gezeigt werden, wie philosophische Probleme durch Unklarheit des Denkens entstehen u[nd] wie sie sich auflösen, sobald man sich den Sinn der verwendeten Ausdrücke deutlich vergegenwärtigt. Nachdem auf diese Weise die Wichtigkeit grammatischer Untersuchungen klar geworden ist, sollte der systematische Teil beginnen.

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Anmerkung  Das ist eine erweiterte und aktualisierte deutsche Version meines Artikels/This is an extended and updated German version of my article „Waismann’s Testimony of Wittgenstein’s Fresh Starts in 1931–35“, in: Friedrich Waismann  – Causality and Logical Positivism. Ed. by B.F. McGuinness. Dordrecht-Heidelberg-London-New York: Springer 2011, 243–266.

Literatur Friedrich Waismann Archives., Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. Fabian, Reinhard. 2007. Inventory of the papers of the Vienna Circle Movement (1924–1938), in particular of the scientific papers of the philosophers Moritz Schlick (1882–1936) and Otto Neurath (1882–1945), Wiener Kreis Archiv. Haarlem: Noord-Hollands Archief (= WKA). Waismann, Friedrich. 1967/1980. Wittgenstein und der Wiener Kreis. Aus dem Nachlass hrsg. von B.F. McGuinness. Oxford: Basil Blackwell/Frankfurt/M.: 1980. (= WWK).

Kapitel 15

Documents From the Archives: Friedrich Waismann Juha Manninen

15.1  Friedrich Waismann: Kritik der Philosophie durch die Logik (1929/1930)1 Die Philosophie ist keine Lehre sondern ein Tun. Das Ergebnis der Philosophie sind nicht Sätze, sondern das richtige Verstehen von Sätzen. Ihr Ziel ist logische Klärung unserer Gedanken. Hat die Philosophie ihr Ziel erreicht, so wird sie überflüssig. Nicht Vermehrung der Erkenntnisse ist das Ziel der Philosophie, sondern Reinigung der vorhandenen Erkenntnisse. – Eine Führerin, die wir nur so lange gebrauchen als wir irren. – Es gibt keine philosophischen Tatsachen. In der Wissenschaft handelt es sich um den Gegensatz von wahr und falsch, in der Philosophie von sinnvoll und sinnlos. Ein jedes philosophisches Problem entspringt daraus, dass wir den logischen Bau unserer Gedanken nicht durchschauen: dass wir versuchen etwas zu sagen, was sich nicht sagen lässt. – Unsere Sprache hat die Fähigkeit sinnvolle und sinnlose Sätze zu bilden, die auf den ersten Blick ganz gleich aussehen. Daher ist eine Kritik nötig, die die Sprache vor dem Unsinn schützt. Diese Kritik fällt der Philosophie zu. Die Lösung eines philosophischen Problems besteht besteht nicht darin, dass einen neuen Satz aufgestellt wird und dass sich in der berichtigten Sprache das Problem nicht stellen lässt. Wie ist philosophische Verständigung möglich? Eine philosophische Erörterung ist ein Art Eingriff in ein anderes Bewusstsein, die dieselbe Multiplizität besitzen muss wie die Gedanken, Vorstellungen usw. des anderen. (Also technischer Eingriff kein theoretisches Gebilde.) Ein solcher Eingriff ist eine Erläuchterung. Die Philosophie besteht aus Erläuchterungen:  – die Wissenschaft aus Sätzen.

 The following chapters except 15.2. are printed with kind permission of the Vienna Circle Archives, Rijksarchief in Noord-Holland, Haarlem (NL). 1

J. Manninen (*) Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies, University of Helsinki, Helsinki, Finland © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_15

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Die richtige Philosophie erhöht die Klarheit unserer Gedanken und bringt die Scheinprobleme zum Verschwinden. Die falsche Philosophie erzeugt Scheinprobleme; und das ist das Kriterium von richtig und falsch. Die Philosophie ist eine Kritik der Sprache. Sie untersucht, was sich ausdrücken lässt. Ihr Ziel ist die Konstruktion einer Sprache, die sich automatisch vor den Unsinn schützt. Die Logik untersucht zweierlei: 1) die Beziehung der Sätze unterei­ nander (klassische Logik, Theorie der Deduktion), 2) den inneren Bau der Sätze (Grammatik und Syntax).

15.1.1 Sprache Die Sprache dient zur Verständigung. Jedes System von Zeichen, das fähig ist, einen Sinn auszudrücken, ist eine Sprache. Die Sprache muss im Stande sein, mit alten Zeichen einen neuen Sinn auszudrücken. [Die Sprache hat dreierlei Funktionen: Kundgabe von Gefühlen, Auslösung von Handlungen, Mitteilung von Gedanken. Die Sprache teilt Gedanken mit. Was im Gedanken gedacht wird, ist sein Sinn. (Sinn und Gedanken sind nicht dasselbe. 2 Personen können denselben Sinn denken, dennoch sind ihre Gedanken verschieden.) Der Gedanke wird mit Zeichen mitgeteilt. Die Darstellung eines Gedankens mit Hilfe sinnlich wahrnehmbarer Zeichen heißt Satz. Die sinnlich Wahrnehmbare am Satz ist das Satz-Zeichen. Der Satz ist das Satz-Zeichen in seiner logischen Funktion, d.  h. in seiner Beziehung zum Sachverhalt. Der Satz entspricht dem Gedanken, das Satz-Zeichen dem Urteilsakt, der Sinn des Satzes aber ist der Sinn des Gedankens.] Sinn und Satz  Was der Satz ausdrückt, ist der Sinn. Der Satz ist nicht der Sinn, denn verschiedene Sätze können denselben Sinn haben. Der Sinn ist auch nicht der Sachverhalt; denn der negative Satz hat entgegengesetzten Sinn wie der positive, aber beide entsprechen demselben Sachverhalt. Der Sinn des Satzes ist das Bestehen oder Nichtbestehen eines Sachverhaltes. Jeder Sachverhalt ist zusammengesetzt. Verschiedene Sachverhalte können etwas miteinander gemein haben. Dieses Gemeinsame sind die Teile des Sachverhaltes. [Ein Sachverhalt ist komplex heißt: Er hat etwas mit andern Sachverhalten gemein. Jeder Sachverhalt ist komplex. Geben wir seine Teile an, so zerlegen wir ihn. Zerlegen kann man den Sachverhalt nur im Denken, nicht in Wirklichkeit. Der Sachverhalt ist nur auf eine Art zerlegbar.] Die Teile für sich sind allein nicht existenzfähig. Die Sprache führt für die Teile des Sachverhaltes Worte ein. Den Sachverhalt stellt sie durch eine Verbindung von Zeichen dar, und zwar so, dass die Verbindung der Worte im Satz der Verbindung der Teile im Sachverhalt entspricht. Die Sprache stellt das Komplexe durch das Komplexe dar. Hierauf beruht die Möglichkeit aller Verständigung. Die Bedeutung eines Wortes muss uns erklärt werden, damit wir es verstehen. Der Sinn des Satzes ergibt sich aus der Bedeutung der Worte: Der Satz zeigt seinen Sinn. Wir können ihn verstehen, ohne dass er uns erklärt wird. Das wechselnde unbeständige ist die Verbindung der Teile zu den Sachverhalten, [das Feste, Beständige sind die

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Bestandteile selbst] und das spiegelt die Sprache dadurch wieder, dass sie dieselben Worte zu immer neuen Sätzen verbindet. Tatsächlich überträgt der Satz etwas vom Sachverhalt. Die Gliederung des Satzes deutet die Gliederung des Sachverhaltes an. Der Satz muss dieselbe Multiplizität haben wie der Sachverhalt. Der Satz gibt den Sachverhalt zwar nicht vollständig wieder. Er legt nur Bestimmungsstücke des Sachverhaltes fest, und zwar so viele, dass es möglich ist, seine Wahrheit oder Falschheit festzustellen. Die Sprache hat wesentliche und unwesentliche Züge. Unwesentlich ist alles dasjenige, was nur einer einzelnen Sprache zukommt, und was bei der Übersetzung verloren geht. Wesentlich ist alles, worauf die Möglichkeit des Ausdrucks von Gedanken beruht und was allen denkbaren Sprachen gemeinsam ist. Kann man sich mit Wörtern verständigen? Nein. Die Worte wären den einzelnen Sachverhalten zugeordnet wie die Namen den Dingen. Wir könnten also nur so viel Worte verstehen, als wir Akte der Zuordnung vollzogen haben. Für jeden neuen Sachverhalt müsste ein neues Wort erfunden werden. Auch jetzt wäre der Sinn eines Wortes bestimmt, aber wir könnten diesen Sinn nicht mehr verstehen, ohne dass er uns erklärt wird. Wir könnten uns nicht verständigen. Die Worte würde die Sachverhalte benennen, aber nicht beschreiben. Es liegt im Wesen der Sprache, dass sie jeden Gedanken ausdrücken kann, und dass wir den Ausdruck ohne Erklärung verstehen. Was wir vor uns hätten, wäre ein System der Signale, aber keine Sprache. Durch Signale können wir nur den wirklichen Sachverhalten Zeichen zuordnen. Die Sprache muss auch mögliche Sachverhalte beschreiben können. Zusammenzug. Der Unterschied von Satz und Wort ist ein wesentlicher Zur der Sprache. Nur der Satz ist gegliedert. Nur der Satz hat Sinn, ist wahr oder falsch. Nur der Satz ist verneinbar. Für das Wort gilt das alles nicht. Der Satz hat Sinn: das Wort Bedeutung. Zu einem Wort kann man nicht erst einen Satz suchen. Das Wort enthält schon die Möglichkeit des Satzes in sich. Es ist nicht Zufall, in welchen Sätzen ein Wort vorkommt. [Was das Wort vertritt, ist seine Bedeutung. Auf die Bedeutung eines Wortes kann man nicht hinzeigen. Denn sowie man auf etwas zeigt, ist es schon Sachverhalt. Man kann nur den Gebrauch des Wortes in Aussagen verständlich machen, indem man auf die entsprechenden Sachverhalte hinweist. Das, was die Sachverhalte gemein haben, ist dann die Bedeutung des Wortes. Die Bedeutung eines Wortes verstehen, heißt seinen Gebrauch bei der Beschreibung von Sachverhalten kennen. Wer ein Wort nicht anzuwenden weiß, der kennt auch seine Bedeutung nicht.] Das Symbol  Das Zeichen und die Regeln seiner sinnvollen Verwendung – beides zusammen ist das Symbol. Das Zeichen ist das sinnvoll Wahrnehmbare am Symbol. Ein Zeichen kann verschiedene Bedeutungen haben. Es stellt dann zwei Symbole dar. Symbole, die mit verschiedenen Zeichen gebildet sind, sind verschiedene Symbole. Zwei Symbole können die Bedeutung gemeinsam haben. Wenn ein Symbol in einem Satz vorkommt, dann kann es nicht außerhalb des Satzes vorkommen. Die Möglichkeit des Vorkommens eines Symbols in einem Satz ist seine Ungesättigtheit. [Auf der Ungesättigtheit beruht die Möglichkeit der Verbindung mit andern Symbolen. Der ungesättigte Ausdruck bedarf der Ergänzung.] Alle

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Symbole, die in einem Satz vorkommen, sind für sich allein ungesättigt. Die Ungesättigtheit ist gleichsam die Kraft, welche die Teile eines Satzes zusammenhält. Frege meinte, dass es zwei Arten von Zeichen gebe: gesättigte und ungesättigte. Er meinte, die ungesättigten Zeichen seien eigentlich das satzhafte am Satz. Nach Wittgenstein sind alle Zeichen ungesättigt. Gewisse Worte (Eigenschaftsworte, Beziehungsworte) erfordern eine ganz bestimmte Satzform. [Die Art, wie ein Wort zu einem Satz zu ergänzen ist, bestimmt seine logische Form.] Im Wort ist die Form des Satzes vorgebildet. Das Wort hat gleichsam das Schema des Satzes um sich herum. Um das Symbol am Wort darzustellen, muss man auch schon die Art der Ergänzung der Worte zu einem Satz andeuten. Der Ausdruck des Symbols wird also darin bestehen, dass man das Wort und die Form des Satzes angibt. Die symbolische Logik stellt daher die Worte „gelb“, „Vater von“, „zwischen“ durch die Satzschemata dar: x ist gelb, x ist Vater von y, x liegt zwischen y und z. Die Anfügung der Variablen soll die Art der Ergänzung zu einem Satz kenntlich machen. Die Aufstellung des Satzschemas ist die Aufstellung der Syntax, das Wort folgt. Welcher Syntax ein Wort folgt, kann nie eine empirische Frage sein. [Nach der Form kann man nicht suchen.] Wenn wir überhaupt die Bedeutung eines Wortes verstehen, so wissen wir auch, in welchen Verbindungen es vorkommen kann und in welchen nicht. [Kennen wir die Formen aller Symbole, so kennen wir auch die Formen aller möglichen Aussagen.] In der Grammatik kann man keine Entdeckungen machen. Der Begriff  Der Begriff ist das ungesättigte Symbol. Was ist der Unterschied zwischen Begriff und Vorstellung? Der Grad der Schärfe kann es nicht sein; denn Vorstellungen können recht scharf, Begriffe unscharf sein. Ein Begriff ist keine Vorstellung (Berkeley). Der Begriff ist ungesättigt: also nur der Teil einer Beschreibung, die auf einen Sachverhalt geht. Eine Vorstellung ist immer Vorstellung von einem Sachverhalt. Eine Vorstellung ist immer etwas fertiges. Deshalb kann man sich keinen Begriff „vorstellen“. Denn wenn man sich ihn vorstellt, so stellt man sich bereits den ganzen Sachverhalt vor. Der Vorstellung entspricht in der Sprache nicht der Begriff, sondern der Satz. Bilden wir eine Reihe von Vorstellungen, die in einem gewissen Zuge übereinstimmen, in anderen varieren, so repräsentieren diese Vorstellungen plus der Tendenz des Varierens den Begriff. Das Variiren der Vorstellungen deutet das an, was die Variablen im Symbol ausdrücken: nämlich die Ungesättigtheit. Ein Wort hat Bedeutung nur im Satz. Ein Wort hat nur in so fern Bedeutung als der Sinn des Satzes von diesem Worte abhängt. Ändert das Weglassen eines Wortes nichts an dem Sinn eines Satzes, so ist das Wort überflüssig, und überflüssige Worte bedeuten nichts. Sagt man vor einem jeden Satz „es scheint, dass“, so fügen diese Worte dem Sinn des Satzes nichts hinzu. Und das heißt, dass die Auffassung, dass alles was wir wahrnehmen, Schein ist, unsinnig ist. Die Aussage: „Zwei Körper ziehen sich stets und notwendig an“ und „Zwei Körper ziehen sich stets an“, haben denselben Sinn. (Dieselbe Verifikation.) Darum kann aber das Wort „notwendig“ in dieser Zusammenhang nichts bedeuten. Alle Notwendigkeit ist logische Not­ wendigkeit. Auch, wenn alles was wir erleben von dem Gefühl einer inneren Notwendigkeit (eines Zwanges) begleitet wäre, so hätte doch die Beschreibung

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dieses Erlebnisses nichts mit logischer Notwendigkeit zu tun. Denn erleben der Notwendigkeit bedeutet nicht: Notwendigkeit des Erlebten. Der Sinn eines Satzes ist die Funktion der Bedeutung der Worte. Der Satz ist der gesättigte Symbol. Zwischen Wort und Satz gibt es kein allmählicher Übergang. Nur ein ungesättigtes Symbol kann Teil eines Satzes sein. Daraus folgt, dass es keine Aussagen über Aussagen gibt. Eine Aussage würde in einem umfassenderen Komplex nicht mehr haften. Man kann die Reihe Wort – Satz nicht über den Satz hinaus führen. Der Satz bezeichnet die natürliche Grenze der Symbolverbindung. Wenn ein Satz in einem anderen Satz vorkommen könnte, so müsste schon im ersten Satz die Möglichkeit seines Vorkommens erhalten sein. (Denn das Vorkommen eines Symbols im Satze ist nie Zufall.) Dann müsste es aber neben der Syntax der Worte auch eine Syntax der Sätze geben. Wenn wir sagen: „Die Sätze p und q wider­ sprechen einander“, so drücken diese Worte nicht das Bestehen eines Sachverhaltes aus. Sie machen nur aufmerksam, dass sich etwas an diesen Sätzen zeigt. Sie haben keine logische, nur eine psychologische Bedeutung. Daraus folgt auch, dass es keine theoretische Philosophie gibt. Denn die Philosophie macht den Versuch, Aussagen über Aussagen zu formulieren. Es gibt nur eine Sprache. Es gibt keine Hierarchie von Sprachen.

15.1.2 Der logische Raum Möglich ist ein Begriff der Grammatik. Möglich ist was beschreibbar ist. Der Ausdruck der Möglichkeit besteht nicht in einer Aussage, sondern darin, dass eine Aussage Sinn hat. Der Begriff „möglich“ geht zurück auf dem Begriff „sinnvoll“, so wie der Begriff „wirklich“ auf dem Begriff „wahr“ zurückgeht. Alles was sich beschreiben lässt, ist möglich. Dass ein Sachverhalt unmöglich ist, zeigt sich darin, dass sein Beschreibung unmöglich ist. Man kann nicht einen Sachverhalt beschrei­ ben und nachher sagen: „Dieser Sachverhalt ist unmöglich.“ Es ist das Wesen des Unmöglichen, dass es weder gedacht noch beschrieben werden kann. Ob ein Satz Sinn hat, kann nie von der Erfahrung abhängen, sondern nur von der Syntax; und davon, dass die Symbole, die im Satz vorkommen, in bezeichnender Beziehung zur Welt stehen. Die Erfahrung kann nur lehren, ob ein Satz wahr ist. Um aber die Wahrheit eines Satzes festzustellen, muss man bereits wissen, welcher Sachverhalt ihn wahr macht. Das heißt, man muss den Sinn des Satzes verstehen. Zuerst muss der Satz Sinn haben, erst dann kann er wahr oder falsch sein. Unsinnig ist ursprünglich nur die Verwendung der Zeichen. Man kann nicht sagen: „Ein Satz drückt einen Unsinn aus“, sondern: eine unsinnige Verbindung von Zeichen drückt nichts aus. Wenn jemand die Farbe rot kennt, wüsste er deswegen, dass es auch andere Farben gibt? Zum Wort rot gehört eine bestimmte Syntax. Wenn jemand von rot spricht und dasselbe wie wir meint, dann muss auch seine Syntax dieselbe sein. Wenn er überhaupt einen Satz von der Art „a ist rot“ formulieren kann, so muss er auch ­formulieren können, dass a eine andere Farbe hat. Denn wenn in seinen Farbbeschreibungen immer nur das eine Wort rot vorkommt, so ist dieses Wort kein

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logisch notwendiges Zeichen. Sein Weglassen würde nichts ändern. „A ist rot“ wäre also gar kein Satz, sondern nur der Name A. [D. h.: Der Farbname setzt zwar nicht alle anderen Farbnamen, aber andere Farbnamen voraus.] Wenn in einem Satz ein Zeichen auftritt, das Bedeutung hat, so muss dieses Zeichen durch ein anderes Zeichen von derselben Syntax ersetzbar sein. Die Existenz des Satzes fa setzt bereits die Existenz des Satzes fb voraus und ebenso die Existenz eines Satzes ga. Ein Satz muss in jedem seiner Teile variabel sein. Kann ich überhaupt von einer Farbe sprechen, so setzt das logisch die Existenz anderer Farben voraus. Jeder Satz liegt in „einer Umgebung“ von anderen Sätzen, welche dieselbe Form haben. Es kann nie sein, dass es nur einen einzigen Satz von einer bestimmten Form gibt. Den sinnvollen Sätzen entsprechen mögliche Sachverhalte. Jeder wirkliche Sachverhalt liegt gleichsam in „einer Umgebung“ von möglichen Sachverhalten. Die Wirklichkeit hat die Möglichkeit um sich herum. [Die Wirklichkeit ist gleichsam eine Insel in der Möglichkeit.] Die Gesamtheit der möglichen Sachverhalte, denen ein bestimmter Sachverhalt angehört, bildet den logischen Raum dieses Sachverhaltes. Jeder Sachverhalt liegt im logischen Raum, so wie die physischen Gegenstände im geometrischen Raum liegen. Es ist unmöglich, den Sachverhalt außerhalb des Verbandes mit dem logischen Raum zu denken, so wenig wie sich ein Punkt des Raumes denken lässt ohne den Raum. Der Satz bestimmt einen Ort im logischen Raum. Alles was ist, kann auch anders sein. Kein Sachverhalt besteht notwendig (d. h. außerhalb des logischen Raumes). Alle Sachverhalte sind zufällig. Auf dem logischen Raum beruht die Möglichkeit, Variable einzuführen und hierauf beruht die Möglichkeit aller Begriffsbildung.

15.1.3 Interne und externe Relationen Eine Eigenschaft ist intern, wenn es undenkbar ist, dass sie ihr Gegenstand nicht besitzt. Eine Beziehung ist intern, wenn es undenkbar ist, dass sie zwischen ihren Gegenständen nicht besteht. Die internen Eigenschaften (resp. Beziehungen) liegen im Wesen der betrachteten Gebilde. Sie sind nicht zufällig, sondern notwendig. Sie liegen nicht im logischen Raum. Der Ausdruck einer internen Eigenschaft (resp. Beziehung) ist nicht ein Satz, sondern ein Zug an den Symbolen. Die internen Eigenschaften zeigen sich. Was sich in der Sprache zeigt, kann nicht durch die Sprache gesagt werden. Alle logischen Zusammenhänge sind intern. Es ist die Aufgabe der Logik, ein Zeichensystem zu konstruieren, welches diese internen Eigenschaften sichtbar macht. Wenn ein Satz beim übersetzen in ein anderes Zeichensystem verschwindet und an seiner Stelle etwas tritt, was sich als ein Zug der Symbolik zeigt, dann ist dies der Beweis dafür, dass jener Satz gar nichts ausgedrückt hat, sondern ein Scheinsatz war. Sätze, die interne Eigenschaften auszudrücken suchen, sind logische Erläuterungen. Alles Grammatische ist intern. Extern sind alle Eigenschaften und Beziehungen, welche ausgesprochen werden können. [„Diese Strecke ist länger als jene“ ist eine externe Beziehung, „3 m ist länger als 2 m“ eine interne.]

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15.1.4 Die Frage der Verifikation Was ist eine Tatsache, resp. ein Sachverhalt? Ein Sachverhalt ist nicht das, was durch einen Satz beschrieben wird, sondern das, was einen Satz wahr oder falsch macht. Bei manchen Sätzen kann man zweifeln, ob ihnen ein Sachverhalt entspricht (z. B. bei dem Satz „Der Raum hat sich vergrößert“). Es kann nie eine Frage der Zweckmäßigkeit sein, ob eine Aussage Sinn hat oder nicht. Zweckmäßig ist nur das, was wir selbst machen (z.  B. die Art unserer Begriffsbildung). Ein Begriff kann mehr oder weniger zweckmäßig gebildet sein und das heißt: seine Einführung er­gibt eine mehr oder weniger große Vereinfachung. Der Begriff „zweckmäßig“ ist einer Abstufung fähig. Zwischen sinnvollen und sinnlosen Zeichenverbindungen besteht ein absoluter Unterschied, und das zeigt schon, dass es keine Frage der Zweckmäßigkeit sein kann, welche Aussagen wir als sinnvoll bezeichnen. Den Sinn eines Satzes verstehen kann nicht bedeuten: sich anschauliche Vorstellungen machen; denn zwei Personen können denselben Sinn verstehen und trotzdem ganz verschiedene Vorstellungsbilder haben. Und das Vorhandensein anschaulicher Vorstellungen ist auch keine Gewähr dafür, dass man den Sinn eines Satzes erfasst hat. Die Fähigkeit aus einem Satz Schlüsse zu ziehen beweist auch noch nicht, dass man den Sinn des Satzes versteht. Um sich den Sinn eines Satzes zu vergegenwärtigen, dazu gibt es nur eine Methode: man muss sich das Verfahren klar machen, das zur Feststellung seiner Wahrheit führt. Kennt man dieses Verfahren nicht, so kann man auch den Sinn des Satzes nicht verstehen. Man kann nämlich nicht angeben, wodurch sich der Satz von seiner Negation unterscheiden soll. Wer einen Satz ausspricht, der muss wissen, unter welchen Bedingungen er den Satz wahr oder falsch nennt. Vermag er das nicht anzugeben, so weiß er auch nicht, was er gesagt hat. Ein Satz kann nicht mehr sagen, als was durch die Methode der Verifikation festgestellt wird. Wenn ich sage: „Mein Freund ist zornig“, und dies dadurch feststelle, dass er ein bestimmtes wahrnehmbares Verhalten zeigt, so meine ich damit auch nur, dass er dieses Verhalten zeigt. Und wenn ich mehr meine, so kann ich nicht angeben, worin diese Mehr besteht. Ein Satz sagt nur, was durch seine Verifikation festgestellt wird und nichts darüber hinaus. Es gibt nicht erstens den Sinn des Satzes, und zweitens den Weg der Verifikation, sondern der Satz enthält schon den Weg der Verifikation in sich. Sie kann nicht ihm nachträglich hinzugefügt werden. Der bloße Satz ist nichts losgelöst von dem Wege der Verifikation. Hauptthese: Der Sinn des Satzes ist der Weg seiner Verifikation. Die Verifikation ist nicht nur das Vehikel um irgendwohin zu gelangen, sondern der Sinn selbst. Eine Methode der Verifikation kann man nicht suchen. Eine Aussage ist sinnvoll heißt – sie kann verifiziert werden. Eine Tatsache ist dasjenige, was durch einen sinnvollen Satz beschrieben wird. Die Art der Verifikation eines Satzes hängt nicht von der Erfahrung ab. Die Festsetzung der Bedingungen, unter welchen ein Satz wahr oder falsch genannt wird, ist die Festsetzung des Satzsinnes. Sind zwei Sätze unter denselben Bedingungen wahr resp. Falsch, so haben sie denselben Sinn. Das heißt: zwei Sätze haben denselben Sinn, wenn es undenkbar ist, dass der eine wahr, der andere falsch ist. Der Unterschied ist nur ein psychologisches. Ist eine Methode der Verifikation nicht denkbar, so hat der Satz keinen Sinn.

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Das Wort hat Bedeutung nur im Zusammenhang des Satzes. Um sich die Bedeutung eines Wortes zu vergegenwärtigen, muss man auf den Sinn der Sätze achten, in welchen er vorkommt, d.  h.: man muss auf die Art ihrer Verifikation achten. Kommt dasselbe Wort in zwei Sätzen vor, die auf gänzlich verschiedene Art verifiziert werden, so hat das Wort verschiedene Bedeutung. Den Zorn eines anderen Menschen stelle ich auf andere Weise fest als meinen eigenen Zorn. Dann muss auch das Wort Zorn etwas verschiedenes bedeuten. Zu einer Klasse von Worten gehören alle diejenigen Worte, die für einander substituierbar sind ohne dass der Sinn des Satzes zerstört wird. Es gibt viel mehr logische Wortklassen als grammatische Wortklassen. Das Adjektiv gelb hat in einer phänomenalen Aussage eine andere Bedeutung als in einer physikalischen.

15.1.5 Die Natur der Frage Wer eine Frage stellt, der muss wissen, was für eine Art Satz eine mögliche Antwort ist. Vermag er das nicht anzugeben, so weiß er auch nicht, wonach er gefragt hat. Eine Frage ist kein theoretisches Gebilde. Eine Frage ist eine Aufforderung zum Suchen. Sie leitet also gleichsam eine Denkbewegung ein, an deren Ende die Antwort steht. Die Richtung dieser Bewegung ist bestimmt durch den logischen Ort der Antwort. Das heißt  – zwei Fragen fragen dasselbe, wenn sie durch dieselbe Aussage beantwortet werden. Und sie sind verschieden, wenn die Antworten verschieden sind. Fragen unterscheiden sich durch ihre Antworten. Gibt es die Antwort nicht, so gibt es auch keine Richtung, in der man suchen kann, und das heißt – es gibt die Frage nicht. Man kann nur fragen, wo es eine Antwort gibt. Und wo keine Antwort besteht, da ist auch das Fragen nicht möglich. Rätsel (im Sinne unlösbarer Fragen) gibt es nicht. Die Erkenntnis hat keine logische Grenzen. Vermutungen sind Sätze, deren Wahrheit noch nicht bekannt ist. Auch eine Vermutung muss verifizierbar sein. Ein sinnloser Satz kann nie eine Vermutung sein. Metaphysisch sind alle Behauptungen, die nicht verifizierbar sind. Die Lösung der metaphysischen Fragen besteht darin, dass man ihre Unsinnigkeit durchschaut. Es bleibt dann keine Frage, und das ist die Antwort.

15.1.6 System der Begriffe und Definition Wenn in einer Aussage ein neues Symbol auftritt, dessen Bedeutung uns noch nicht bekannt ist, so muss uns seine Bedeutung erklärt werden. Diese Erklärung erfolgt durch eine Definition. Ein Symbol hat Bedeutung nur im Satz. Die Definition eines Symbols ist die Angabe des Satzsinnes. Sie besteht also darin, dass ein anderer Satz angegeben wird, der denselben Sinn wie der ursprüngliche hat, in dem aber jenes Symbol nicht mehr vorkommt. Durch die Definition wird das Symbol eliminiert. Die Definition erklärt also nicht, was ein Begriff ist, sondern sie erklärt nur die

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Verwendung des Begriffes im Satz. Definitionen sind also Umformungsregeln für Aussagen. Die explizite Definition besteht darin, dass ein Symbol als gleichbedeutend erklärt wird mit einer Zusammensetzung von anderen Symbolen. Die meisten und wichtigsten Definitionen sind aber nicht von dieser Art. Man kann z. B. nicht sagen was ein Kreis ist, was Masse oder Kraft ist etc., sondern man kann nur erklä­ ren was es bedeutet: „Ein Punkt liegt auf einem Kreis“, „Zwei Körpern haben dieselbe Masse“, „An einer Stelle des Raumes herrscht diese Kraft“, etc. Solche Definitionen sind Gebrauchsdefinitionen. Wenn wir durch die Definition eine Aussage umformen in andere Aussagen, diese wieder in andere usw. bis wir schließlich auf Aussagen kommen, in welchen nur Symbole von bekannter Bedeutung auftreten, so bedeutet das: wir geben damit den Weg der Verifikation der ursprünglichen Aussage an. Äußerlich betrachtet erscheint ein Satz lediglich als eine Verbindung von Zeichen. Aber zu diesen Zeichen müssen wir uns noch die Definitionen hinzugefügt denken, die einen Zusammenhang herstellen zwischen ihnen und anderen Zeichen – zu diesen wieder die Definitionen usw. Der Satz greift durch diesen ganzen logischen Apparat der Definitionen hindurch. Und die Definition angeben heißt nichts anderes als den Weg der Verifikation anzugeben. In diesem Sinne ist es zu verstehen, wenn wir sagten, der Satz enthält bereits den Weg der Verifikation. Definitionen sind Wegzeichen. Sie weißen den Weg zur Verifikation. Die Forderung der Verifizierbarkeit ist die Forderung, dass jedes definierbares Symbol definiert werde. Vermöge der Definitionen sind die Begriffe logisch geordnet. Die Begriffe bilden einen Stufenbau. Ein Begriff gehört einer höheren Stufe an als ein zweiter, wenn die Definition den ersten Begriff auf den zweiten zurückführt. Dieser Prozess der Zurückführung erreicht praktisch sein Ende bei der Begriffsstufe des täglichen Lebens, aber es ist möglich dieses Verfahren über diese Stufe hinab fortzusetzen, und dann treiben wir Erkenntnistheorie. Diese Verfahren kann nicht ins Endlose fortgesetzt werden, denn dann würde der Sinn eines Satzes immer wieder durch einen anderen Satz erklärt werden. Es wäre dann unmöglich, einen Satz zu verifizieren. Es gäbe kein Band zwischen Sprache und Welt. Wir müssen also auf Sätze kommen, deren Sinn nicht wieder durch andere Sätze angegeben wird, sondern die direkt mit der Wirklichkeit verglichen werden. Es ist die Aufgabe der Erkenntnistheorie diese nicht weiter zerlegbaren Sätze aufzufinden. Ein Zeichen, das nicht weiter definierbar ist, ist ein Urzeichen. Die Bedeutung der Urzeichen kann nur aufgewiesen werden. Diese Aufweisung der Bedeutung ist keine Definition. Denn sie tritt über die Sprache hinaus und setzt sie in Beziehung zur Welt.

15.1.7 Wahrheitsfunktionen Hängt der Sinn eines Satzes P ab von dem Sinn der Sätze p, q …, so heißt P eine Funktion des Sinnes von p, q … (So ist „p oder q“ eine Funktion des Sinnes von „pq“.) Ein Satz P heißt eine Wahrheitsfunktion der Sätze p, q …, wenn der Wahrheitswert von P nur abhängt von den Wahrheitswerten p, q … (So ist „p oder q“ eine Wahrheitsfunktion von p, q.) Man nennt p, q die Argumente.

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Eine jede Funktion des Sinnes ist eine Wahrheitsfunktion und umgekehrt. Bestimme ich unter, welchen Bedingungen ein Satz wahr oder falsch sein soll, so bestimme ich damit den Sinn des Satzes. Der Sinn eines Satzes mit Hilfe des Sinnes gegebener Sätze bilden, heißt die Bedingungen für die Wahrheit des neuen Satzes ausdrücken durch die Bedingungen für die Wahrheit der alten Sätze. Die Wahrheitsfunktion kann explizit dargestellt werden im Form eines Schemas, das jeder mögliche Kombination der Wahrheitswerte der Argumente einen Wahrheitswert der Funktion zuordnet. Beispiel p q p q WW W WF F F W W F F W

Die Angabe dieses Schemas ist die Festsetzung des Satzsinnes. Das Schema zeigt den Sinn. Um dieses Schema zu verstehen müssen wir seinen Sinn erläutern, indem wir z. B. sagen p q ist wahr, wenn eine von drei Kombinationen zutrifft. Hier scheint nun in der Erklärung der Implikation selbst die Implikation nämlich das Wort „wenn“ vorkommen. In Wahrheit ist das Schema nicht dasselbe wie die Erleuterung, die seinen Sinn erklärt. Kein Satz kann von sich selbst handeln, kein Satz kann in sich selbst vorkommen. p p WW F F

Die Wahrheitsfunktionen stellen das dar, was die gewöhnliche Sprache durch die Verwendung logischer Partikeln (und, oder, nicht, wenn etc.) andeutet. Die Darstellung mit Hilfe der Wahrheitsfunktionen legt das innere System der logischen Partikel bloß. Die Gesamtheit der logischen Partikeln bilden ein System dessen Umfang und Grenzen wir von vornherein überblicken. Es gibt keine ursprünglichen und keine abgeleiteten Partikeln. Wenn wir das Wesen eines einzigen logischen Partikels durchschauen, so kennen wir das ganze System. Ein Satz in dem logischen Partikeln vorkommen ist zusammengesetzt. Er hat Teile, die wieder Sätze sind. Sage ich: „Wenn es regnet ist es nass“, so behaupte ich damit nicht, dass ein bestimmter Sachverhalt vorliegt, sondern ich meine: „Es kann sein, dass es regnet und nass ist.“ Der Satz legt nicht einen Sachverhalt fest, sondern einen Bereich, einen Spielraum von Sachverhalten. So lange sich die Wirklichkeit innerhalb dieses Spielraumes sich bewegt, so lange ist der Satz wahr. Ein logisches Partikel ist kein Begriff, sondern eine Operation. So ist das „oder“ die Operation, die aus dem Sinn der Sätze p, q den Sinn des Satzes p v q erzeugt. Die Operation spiegelt sich im Bau der Wahrheitsfunktionen. Die logischen Partikeln verknüpfen Sätze¨und nicht Begriffe. (Daher kann man ein Begriff nicht negieren.) Was im Satz vorkommt kann nicht zwischen Sätze vorkommen und

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umgekehrt. Das Zeichen „⊃ “ in „p ⊃ q“ bedeutet keine Beziehung, die zwischen p und q besteht. Sätze können nicht in internen Beziehungen zu einander beziehen. Die Begriffe vertreten etwas in der Wirklichkeit. Die logischen Partikeln vertreten nichts. Ihnen entspricht nichts in der Realität. (Alle logischen Partikeln erzeugen sich selbst.) Zwei Sätze haben denselben Sinn, wenn sie der Wirklichkeit denselben Spielraum geben. Je enger der Spielraum ist, desto bestimmter ist der Satz. Je weiter der Spielraum ist, desto weniger sagt der Satz aus. Ist der Spielraum des Satzes ganz enthalten in dem Spielraume eines Zweiten, so ist der Sinn des zweiten Satzes enthalten in dem Sinn des ersten. Beispiel: p q p*q WW W WF F F W F F F F

pvq W F W F

Der Sinn von p v q ist enthalten in dem Sinn von p*q.

Wir können die Wahrheitsfunktionen nach der Größe des Spielraums in eine Reihe ordnen. Die beiden Extremen dieser Reihe sind Kontradiktion und Tautologie. Die logik ist die Methode mit Tautologien zu arbeiten. In der Logik ist nie die Tautologie das wesentliche, sondern das was die Tautologie zeigt. Dass z. B. p ⊃ q eine Tautologie ist, zeigt dass p aus q folgt. In der Notation der Wahrheitsfunktionen sind die Tautologien überflüssig. Die Symbole selbst müssen alles logische erkennen lassen. Die Verwendung der Tautologie erleichtert nur das Erkennen der logischen Beziehungen. Wenn aus p der Satz q folgt, dann ist der Spielraum von q gleich oder größer als der Spielraum von p. Schließen bedeutet erweitern des Spielraumes. Der erschlossene Satz sagt daher weniger als die Prämisse. Es gibt keinen Schluss, der aus einem einfachen Satz auf einen anderen einfachen Satz führt. Die Tatsachen sind logisch unabhängig von einander. Der Kausal­ zusammenhang ist kein logischer Zusammenhang. Zwischen Gegenwart und Zukunft besteht kein logischer Zusammenhang. Der Aberglaube ist ein Glaube an einem notwendigen Zusammenhang zwischen den Ereignissen. Es gibt nur eine Logik. Die Logik kann nicht geändert werden. Ändern kann man nur einen Satz, der Sinn hat, denn die Änderung des Satzes besteht ja in der Änderung des Sinnes. Die Sätze der Logik haben keinen Sinn. Sie können also auch nicht geändert werden. Wo immer es eine Sprache gibt, da gibt es Sätze, und Wahrheitsfunktionen, also auch Tautologien, und in allen Sprachen ist die Logik dieselbe.

15.1.8 Analyse der Sprache Ein Satz kann scheinbar einfach sein. Formt man den Satz gemäß der Definition der Begriffe um, so erweist er sich als zusammengesetzt, das heißt als eine Wahrheitsfunktion. (Beispiel: An dieser Stelle herrscht die und die Feldstärke „=“.

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Wenn eine Probeladung an diese Stelle gebracht wird, erfährt sie die und die Beschleunigung.) Die logische Form des umgewandelten Satzes ist immer der einer Wahrheitsfunktion. Einen Satz in eine Wahrheitsfunktion aufzulösen, heißt den Satz erklären. Der analysierte Satz drückt genau dasselbe aus wie der unanalysierte Satz. Wir haben die Fähigkeit, die Sätze in ihren unanalysierten Form zu verstehen. Die Analyse macht den Sinn des Satzes nur klar. Sie verändert ihn nicht. Der Zerlegung der Begriffe durch Definitionen geht parallel eine Auflösung der Sätze in Wahrheitsfunktionen. Die Analyse der Sätze muss eine Ende erreichen. Die letzten nicht weiter analysierbaren Sätze heißen Atomsätze (oder bei Wittgenstein Elementarsätze). Beweis der Vorhandensein der Atomsätze  Wir verstehen den Satz in seiner unanalysierten Form, das heißt, wir wissen, wie es sich verhält, wenn der Satz wahr ist. Also weist der Satz zur Wirklichkeit hin. Würde nun die Analyse des Satzes immer wieder auf andere Sätze führen, so würde die Wahrheit resp. Falschheit des Satzes nur abhängen können von anderen Sätzen, aber nie von dem Verhalten der Wirklichkeit. Dann hätte der Satz keinen Sinn. (Könnte nicht mit der Wirklichkeit verglichen werden.) Daher muss die Analyse schließlich auf Sätze führen, die nicht mehr Wahrheitsfunktionen sind, sondern die unmittelbar mit der Wirklichkeit verglichen werden. Die Existenz der Atomsätze ist keine Hypothese. (In der Logik darf es keine Hypothese geben.) Wenn es keine Atomsätze gebe, so könnten wir überhaupt keine Aussage verstehen. Es wäre dann keinerlei Beschreibung und Mitteilung möglich. Dass wir uns mit der Umgangssprache verständigen können, enthält bereits die Gewähr dafür, dass es Atomsätze gibt. Anzeichen der Atomsätze  1) Ein Anzeichen der Atomsätze ist, dass er die Wirklichkeit eindeutig festlegt. 2) Die Atomsätze müssen ferner logisch unabhängig von einander sein. (Das heißt: aus der Wahrheit eines Atomsatzes darf nie die Wahrheit eines anderen Atomsatzes folgen. Nur in diesem Sinn sind sie unabhängig.) 3) Der Atomsatz muss unmittelbar verifizierbar sein. Die Aussagen der Umgangssprache sind keine Atomsätzen. So ist z. B. der Satz: „Der Stuhl ist gebrochen“, kein Atomsatz, denn es kann uns scheinen, dass der Stuhl zerbrochen ist, ohne dass er es in Wirklichkeit ist. Hier sind wir in der Analyse nicht weit genug gegangen, wenn man dagegen glaubt die Aussage, „Dieser Fleck ist blau“ dadurch verifizieren zu können, dass man auf andere Sätze zurückgeht, so treibt man die Analyse zu weit. Es hat nämlich kein Sinn zu sagen: „Es scheint, dass ich blau sehe, aber ob ich in Wirklichkeit blau sehe, hängt von diesen oder jenen Umständen ab.“ (Carnap) Über die Phänomene darf man keine Hypothesen machen. Und wenn man in die Lage kommt die Beschreibung eines Phänomens von anderen Sätzen abhängig zu machen, so zeigt das, dass man auf ganz falscher Fährte ist. (Carnap hat den Weg der Verifikation über sein Ende hinaus weiter geführt.) Die Form der Atomsätze  Über die Form der Atomsätze darf man von vorne herein keine Hypothese aufstellen. Man darf z. B. nicht fragen: „Werden die Atomsätze den Subjekt/Predikatform haben, oder die Form zweistelligen Relationen, etc.?“

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Jede Form, die beschrieben werden kann, kann bei den Atomsätzen auftreten. Über die wahre Form der Atomsätze kann man nichts sagen, so lange man die Atomsätze nicht hat. Es wäre ja auch wunderbar, wenn wir die Formen der Atomsätze voraussehen könnten, ohne die Phänomene zu befragen. Die Form der Atomsätze ist unserer Willkür entzogen. Wir müssen uns klar machen, wie unser Erleben einer Farbe oder eines Tons auftritt etc. Dann wissen wir die Form ihrer Beschreibung. Solipsismus  Die Wahrheit der Atomsätze muss sich zeigen. Das kann nur dann der Fall sein, wenn im Atomsatz solche Bezeichnungen auftreten, die eine aus dem Erleben bekannte Bedeutung besitzen. (Eine physikalische Aussage über ein Elektron ist kein Atomsatz. Seine Wahrheit zeigt sich nicht unmittelbar.) Hier erweist sich, dass alle Aussagen klar formuliert nur vom Gegebenen handeln können. In einer Aussage, die nicht vom Gegebenen handelt, würden Symbole auftreten, deren Bedeutung nicht angegeben werden kann. Eine solche Aussage kann also nicht verifiziert werden und hat daher keinen Sinn. Das Erleben ist ja nicht einer unter verschiedenen Wegen, die Bedeutung eines Symbols kennen zu lernen. Ein Begriff, dessen Bedeutung sich nicht im Erleben aufweisen lässt, hat überhaupt keine Bedeutung. Es gibt keinen denkbaren Weg ihm eine solche beilegen. Die Gesamtheit der Symbole, die Bedeutung haben, ist von innen her begrenzt. Und ihre Grenze bedeutet die Grenze des Erlebens. Hier erweist sich die Wahrheit des Solipsismus. Die Wahrheit des Solipsismus besteht darin, dass der Bereich des Sagbaren begrenzt ist durch die Menge der Ursymbole, die Bedeutung haben, und dass diese Bedeutungen nur in meinem Erleben aufweisbar sind. Der Solipsismus kann nicht als Satz ausgedrückt werden. Er zeigt sich in dem logischen Bau der Sprache. Das Ich hat zwei Bedeutungen: das empirische Ich, meine Person, etwas in Raum und Zeit; von disem Ich ist im Solipsismus nicht die Rede. Sodann bedeutet das Wort Ich die Basis auf der alle sinnvollen Aussagen beruhen. In diesem Sinne ist das Ich nicht ein Teil der Welt, sondern die Grenze der Welt. Anmerkung  Die einfachen Zeichen, die im Atomsätze auftreten, sind Urzeichen. Ein Urzeichen kann nicht weiter definiert werden. Der Atomsatz ist eine Verbindung von Urzeichen ohne Zuhilfenahme logischer Konstanten. Die Bedeutung eines Urzeichens ist etwas ganz konkretes (etwa eine bestimmte Farbe). Substanz ist das, was durch die Urzeichen benannt wird. Die Substanz ist das Feste, Beständige in der Welt. Die Sachverhalte sind die wechselnden Konfigurationen der Substanz. Die Substanz wird nicht beschrieben. Sie ist ein Element der Beschreibung.

15.1.9 Abbildung Bild und Satz haben das gemein, dass beide ihren Sinn erkennen lassen ohne dass er uns erklärt wird. Die Sprache lässt sich unter ein noch allgemeineres Verfahren einordnen, unter das Verfahren der Abbildung. Wir können uns von Tatsachen Bilder machen. Das Bild einer Tatsache ist wieder eine Tatsache. Bild und

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Abgebildetes müssen etwas gemeinsam haben. Dieses Gemeinsame ist die Form. Eine Tatsache vermag nur eine Tatsache von derselben Form abzubilden. Das, was das Bild darstellt, ist sein Sinn. Im Bild ist das Abgebildete nicht enthalten, wohl aber die Form des Abgebildeten. Das Bild überträgt uns die Form. Darum können wir es verstehen ohne dass es uns erklärt wird. Um aus dem Bild den Sinn zu entnehmen, müssen wir die abbildende Beziehung kennen, die die Teile des Bildes den Teilen der Wirklichkeit zuordnet. Diese abbildende Beziehung kann nicht selbst abgebildet werden. Sie wird beim Abbilden vorausgesetzt. Die Beziehung zwischen Bild und Abgebildetem ist eine logische, keine kausale Beziehung. Die Landkarte, das Relief, die Notenschrift – sie alle sind Bilder von Tatsachen. Stellt das Bild räumliches durch räumliches, farbiges durch farbiges etc. dar, so sprechen wir von einem inhaltlichen Bild. Das Bild muss denselben Reichtum von Verknüpfungen (Ausdrucksmöglichkeiten) wie das Abzubildende besitzen. Bild und Tatsache müssen die gleiche Multiplizität besitzen. Ist die Multiplizität des Bildes geringer als der Tatsachen, so kann das Bild nicht alles an den Tatsachen wiedergeben. Ist seine Multiplizität dagegen größer, so sind im Bilde mehr Konfigurationen möglich als im Wirklichkeit. Ein Teil dieser Konfigurationen muss also leer oder überflüssig sein. Sie müssen durch Regeln ausgeschlossen werden, und diese Regeln sind die Syntax des Bildes. Die Transitivität der Bedeutung „nördlich von“ ist eine Regel der Syntax. Ein symmetrischer Sachverhalt wird durch einen symmetrisch gebauten Satz dargestellt. (Z. B. A ist gleichaltrig mit B.) Ist das Satzzeichen unsymmetrisch, so müssen wir die Asymmetrie unschädlich machen durch eine Regel der Syntax. (Dies ist logische Symmetrie. – Eine symmetrische Bezeichnung kann auch Sachverhalte darstellen. Dann ist die Symmetrie empirisch.) Die Sprache beruht auf zwei Prinzipien: die Dinge werden durch Zeichen vertreten; die Form wird nicht vertreten. Die Form des Sachverhaltes wird durch die Form des Satzes dargestellt. Übertragbar ist nur die Form. Hat das Bild nur die Form (Symmetrie, Asymmetrie, Anzahl) mit dem Abgebildeten gemeinsam, so ist es ein logisches, formales Bild. Der Satz ist ein logisches Bild der Tatsache. Die Asymmetrie kann nicht bezeichnet werden, wie die Farbe Gelb durch das Wort „Gelb“. Das Wort „Gelb“ gehört wesentlich zum Satz. Das Wort „Asymmetrisch“ deutet dagegen nur auf eine Satzform hin, die wir wirklich konstruieren müssen. Das Wort „Asymmetrisch“ symbolisiert in ganz anderer Weise als das Wort „Gelb“. Die Syntax hat die Aufgabe den Zeichenverbindungen die Form zu geben, die nötig ist, damit sie logische Bilder der Tatsachen sein. Die Syntax beschreibt nichts, sie begrenzt das Beschreibbare.

15.1.10 Identität Wen in der Sprache für denselben Gegenstand zwei verschiedene Zeichen verwendet werden, so müssen wir durch eine Regel der Syntax zum Ausdruck bringen, dass dieses „mehr“ an sich nichts bedeutet, dass es kein abbildender Zug der Sprache ist.

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Dies wird erklärt durch die Regel A = B. Die Identität ist also eine Zeichenregel. Sie ist kein logisches Gesetz. Der Satz der Identität sagt ja nicht, dass es eine Eigenschaft des Gegenstandes ist mit sich selbst identisch zu sein, noch behauptet er, dass die durch A und B bezeichneten Gegenstände in der Beziehung der Identität zu einan­ der bestünden. Die Aussage bedient sich der Zeichen um mittels ihrer „durch sie hindurch“ von der Wirklichkeit zu sprechen. Die Zeichnen in Aussagen sind transparent. Eine Zeichenregel handelt nur von den Zeichen als solchen und nicht von ihrer Bedeutung. Die falsche Auffassung der Identität beruht darauf, dass man die Zeichen A und B in transparentem Sinne auffasst. Daraus folgt die Unmöglichkeit der Russellschen Klassentheorie. Russell will z.  B. die Klasse, die nur aus den beiden Dingen A und B besteht, darstellen durch die Aussagefunktion: x  =  a. v. x  =  b. Das ist unerlaubt, weil das Zeichen der Identität kein Bestandteil einer Aussage ist. Dass die Identität eine Zeichenregel und keine Aussage ist, erkennt man ja auch daraus, dass diese Regel überflüssig wird, sobald man die Verabredung trifft einen Gegenstand nur mit einem Zeichen zu bezeichnen.

15.1.11 Intuition Der Gedanke ist ein logisches Bild der Tatsache. Der Gedanke stimmt also mit den Tatsachen nur in den formalen Eigenschaften überein. Eine Farbe vorstellen heißt nicht eine Farbe halluzinieren. Die Farbenvorstellungen sind nicht verblasste Bilder der Farbenempfindungen. Die Erinnerungsvorstellungen der Farben haben dieselbe Multiplizität (sie stehen in denselben internen Beziehungen zu einander) wie die gesehenen Farben, und dies ist ihr Zusammenhang mit ihnen. Eine Farbe kennen heißt den Weg kennen zu diese Farbe zu gelangen. Für das Erkennen kommt es nur auf diejenigen Eigenschaften an, auf welchen der Unterschied von wahr und falsch beruht. Das heißt auf die formalen Eigenschaften. Daraus folgt, dass ein inhaltliches Bild um nichts besser die Aufgabe der Erkenntnis erfüllt als ein formales. Gebe es eine intuitive Erkenntnis, so könnte sie nicht mitgeteilt werden. Denn es liegt in Wesen der Mitteilung, dass es sich Zeichen bedient, welche die Gegenstände vertreten, aber nicht die Gegenstände sind. Die Zeichen können nur von den Dingen sprechen, ihr Wesen ausdrücken können sie nicht. Was rot ist oder worin die Freude besteht, lässt sich nicht sagen. Das Wissen um die Bedeutung dieser Zeichen gehört zur Anwendung der Sprache. Und worauf die Möglichkeit der Anwendung beruht, kann nicht wieder ausgesprochen werden. Alles Mitteilen ist Abbilden. Eine mögliche Tatsache hat dieselbe logische Form wie eine wirkliche, und daraus folgt, dass das Wesen dessen, was den wirklichen von den möglichen Sachverhalten unterscheidet, nicht ausgedrückt werden kann. Die Wirklichkeit hat keine spezifische Struktur. Sie kann nicht abgebildet werden. Deshalb sieht ein wahrer Satz ebenso aus wie ein falscher. Wirklich, unwirklich, wahr und falsch gehören zur Anwendung der Sprache. Es gibt kein inhaltliches Kriterium für die Wirklichkeit.

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15.1.12 Äußere und innere Logik Die äußere Logik der Satzverbindungen ist bedingt durch die innere Logik der Sätze. Wenn es nämlich mehr Satzverbindungen (Wahrheitsfunktionen) gibt als Möglichkeiten für das Bestehen und Nichtbestehen von Sachverhalten, so muss ein Teil dieser Satzverbindungen durch Regeln der Syntax ausgeschlossen werden. Die oberste Regel der Syntax ist: durch die Sätze darf eine Koordinate der Wirklichkeit nicht festgelegt werden. Die Längenangabe legt nur eine Länge fest, die Temperaturangabe nur eine Temperatur usw. Wenn ich weiß, dass ein Mensch 1,70 Fuß ist, so weiß ich auch, dass er nicht zwei Meter groß ist. Und zwar weiß ich dies, sobald ich den Sinn der Längenangabe verstehe. Wenn ich einen Gegenstand messe, so lege ich den ganzen Maßstab an den Gegenstand an, und nicht nur einen Teilstrich desselben. Und ebenso legen wir, wenn wir einen Satz mit der Wirklichkeit vergleichen, nicht den einzelnen Satz, sondern das ganze Satzsystem (d. h. den logischen Raum) wie einen Maßstab an die Wirklichkeit an. Bei der Verifikation einer Farbenaussage, legen wir die ganze Farbskala an die Wirklichkeit an. Daraus folgt, dass ein Punkt des Gesichtsfeldes nicht zwei Farben zu gleicher Zeit haben kann. Dies ist kein Erkenntnis, denn der Satz lautet nicht: „Ein Punkt hat nie zwei Farben zu gleicher Zeit“, sondern: „Ein Punkt kann nicht zu gleicher Zeit zwei Farben haben.“ Das Wort „kann“ bedeutet die logische Möglichkeit, deren Ausdruck nicht ein Satz, sondern eine Regel der Syntax ist. In der symbolischen Ausdrucksweise wird diese Regel so ausgedrückt, dass die Kombination W W der Aussagen „Dieser Punkt ist rot“ und „Dieser Punkt ist grün“ ausgeschlossen wird. An die Stelle des logischen Produktes tritt die Wahrheitsfunktion, das heißt, in der durch die Syntax berichtigten Symbolik stellt sich die Aussage „Ein Punkt ist rot und grün“ als eine Kontradiktion dar. Anmerkung  Was die Phänomenologen für synthetische Urteile a priori halten, sind nicht selbständige Aussagen, die neben den empirischen Aussagen stehen, sondern sie sind die Regel, welche die Bildung sinnvoller empirischer Aussagen begränzen.

15.1.13 Formale Begriffe Die Sprache vertritt die Dinge durch Zeichen und überträgt die Formen. Ein Wort, das die Dinge mittelbar oder unmittelbar vertritt, ist ein eigentlicher Begriff. Ein Wort, das auf eine Form hindeutet, ist ein grammatischer oder formaler Begriff. Die Definition führt die eigentlichen Begriffe auf die Ursymbole zurück. (Konstitu­ tionssystem) Ein formaler Begriff kann dagegen nicht auf Ursymbole zurückgeführt werden. Der eigentliche Begriff wird dargestellt durch ein ungesättigtes Symbol. Die Darstellung eines formalen Begriffes hat nicht die Form eines ungesättigten Symbol. Man kann Worte wie Klasse, Funktion, Variable, Eigenschaft, Beziehung usw. nicht selbst wieder in Form von Aussagefunktionen darstellen. Man kann die Bedeutung solcher Worte nur durch Beispiele erläutern, aber nicht streng

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definieren. Jeder sinnvoller Satz enthält nur eigentliche Begriffe. Jeder sinnvoller Satz ist eine Wahrheitsfunktion von Atomsätzen. Ein Satz, in dem formale Begriffe auftreten, ist eine Erläuterung. Die Philosophie besteht aus Erläuterungen und nicht aus Sätzen. Ein formaler Begriff kann nicht umfangsgleich sein mit einem eigentlichen. Man kann z. B. nicht fragen: „Was haben alle wahren Sätze außer der Tatsache, dass sie wahr sind, noch gemeinsam?“ (Wiederlegung einer bestimmten Art von Evidenztheorie.) Die Wahrheit kann nicht bestehen in der eindeutigen Zuordnung zwischen den Sätzen und den Tatsachen, denn sonst wären die negativen Sätze ebenfalls wahr und nicht falsch. Hauptthesen  Jeder Satz ist eine Wahrheitsfunktion von Atomsätzen. Was sich in der Sprache zeigt, kann nicht durch die Sprache ausgedrückt werden.

15.1.14 Philosophische Probleme 1) Realismusfrage. Die Frage „Existiert eine von meinem Bewusstsein unabhängige Außenwelt?“ lässt keine Antwort zu. Die Aussage „Die Außenwelt ist real“ lässt sich nicht verifizieren. Sie lässt sich also auch nicht als eine Wahrheitsfunktion von Atomsätzen darstellen. Die Behauptung ist kein logisches Bild einer Tatsache. Denn die Realität ist kein Zug an der Tatsache, die abgebildet werden kann. Die Wirklichkeit kann man nicht definieren. Alles, was möglich ist, kann auch wirklich sein. Es gibt zwei Begriffe von Wirklichkeit. Wir nennen einen Sachverhalt wirklich, wenn der ihn beschreibende Satz wahr ist. Wir nennen aber auch Gegenstände der physischen Welt (die Tische und Stühle) wirklich, das heißt, wir entschließen uns die Phänomene in Form der Hypothese des Tisches und des Stuhles ordnen. Diese Hypothese weist in die Zukunft, und darauf beruht psychologisch ihr Wirklichkeitscharakter. Der Glaube an die Wirklichkeit ist der Glaube an die Induktion. 2) Subjekt. In den Tatsachen kommt nichts vom Subjekte vor. Dem Sehfeld kann man es nicht anmerken, dass es von einem Auge gesehen wird. 3) Existenz. Das Wort „Existenz“ tritt immer in derselben Weise auf, nämlich als ein logischer Operator in Verbindung mit einer Eigenschaft. Die Form der Existenzaussage ist und diese ist die Negation der Aussage. Die Existenz kann daher nur auftreten, wo das Wort „alle“ auftreten kann. Existenz ist nur aussagbar von etwas beschriebenem, nicht von etwas benanntem. Man kann nie von einem Einzelding sagen, dass es existiert. Denn die Negation einer solchen Aussage wäre eine Allaussage, und es ist offenbar unsinnig eine Allaussage über einem einzelnen Gegenstand machen zu vollen. (Die Existenz entsteht immer durch Negation einer Allaussage.) 4) Rationalismus. Der Rationalismus ist der Glaube, dass das Wirkliche das Logische ist. Nur dann könnten wir nämlich die Tatsachen begreifen. Alle Einsicht ist logische Einsicht. – Eine Seinsnotwendigkeit gibt es nicht.

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5) Induktion. Die Induktion ist kein Satz, sondern ein Tun. Sie ist das Aufstellen von allgemeinen Sätzen. Wenn man das Induktionsprinzip aussprechen könnte, so würde es etwa lauten: „Ein allgemeiner Satz, der sich bisher bewährt hat, wird sich auch in Zukunft bewähren.“ Aber es ist klar, dass sich das nicht ausdrücken lässt. Eine theoretische Begründung der Induktion gibt es nicht. Die Induktion hat nichts mit schließen zu tun. Eine induktive Logik gibt es nicht. 6) Kausalität. Kausalität ist das bestehen von Naturgesetzen bestimmter Art. Dass sich die Welt mit Gesetzen beschreiben lässt, das ist keine Eigenschaft der Welt, wohl aber dass sie sich mit dem Grad der Einfachheit beschreiben lässt. Wir finden die Gesetze nicht vor. Wir beschreiben die Wirklichkeit in der Form von Gesetzen. Man kann nicht fragen: „Ist die Welt gesetzmäßig oder gesetzlos?“, denn wir können nicht angeben, wie eine gesetzlose Welt aussieht. Die Gesetzlosigkeit kann sich nur in dem Nichtformulieren von Gesetzen äußern, aber nicht in einer Aussage, die die Gesetzlosigkeit beschreibt. 7) Der Wert. Alle Sachverhalte sind gleichberechtigt. Es gibt keine Rangordnung unter ihnen. In der Welt gibt es keinen Wert, denn die Welt besteht aus Tatsachen und der Wert ist keine Tatsache. Was dem Leben Wert gibt, kann nicht eine Tatsache sein. Die Ethik ist unaussprechlich. Gesetzt ein Ethiker hätte einen Lehrsatz aufgestellt, so wäre die erste Frage: „Wie wird dieser Satz verifiziert?“ Und dann würde sich zeigen, dass er entweder von Psychologie gesprochen hat, also, von etwas gleichgültigem, oder, dass er nicht angeben kann, was es sagt. Es gibt keinen ethischen Gedanken.

15.2  Friedrich Waismann: Vorträge im Wiener Kreis über Wittgensteins Philosophie2 Nachschrift Rudolf Carnap, 8.5.–7.7.1930 (Vortrag im Zirkel 8.5.1930)

Waismann: Wittgenstein gegen Russell Raum und Zeit Russell geht von den Wahrnehmungen aus; es werden Klassen und Relationen immer höherer Stufe aufgebaut, damit sollen die Begriffe der Wissenschaften und Mathematik erreicht werden. Dabei werden in gleicher Weise abgeleitet: Äpfel und Birnen, Elektron, Zahlen, Raum- und Zeitpunkte usw. (Analyse der Materie).

 Chapter 15.2. is reprinted with permission from the Rudolf Carnap Papers, 1905-1970, ASP 1974.01, Archives of Scientific Philosophy, Archives & Special Collections, University of Pittsburgh Library System (RC 110-07-24). All other chapters are printed with kind permission of the Vienna Circle Archives, Rijksarchief in Noord-Holland, Haarlem (NL). 2

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Russell baut Raum und Zeit aus Ereignisse auf. Definition des Zeitpunktes: „Klasse von Ereignissen derart, dass 1) je 2 sind kompresent, 2) die Klasse ist die größte ihrer Art“. Das geht auf Whiteheads Einschachtelungsreihe zurück; aber Russell will die Annahme belie­big kleiner Ereignisse vermeiden. Bei Russell sind es finiten Klassen; kein Grenzprozess usw. z. B. Zeitpunkt α = (a, b, c, d); dann bekommen die Sätze a ∊ α und b ∊ α denselben Sinn, und das geht doch nicht! (Dagegen: Der Zeitpunkt müsste so definiert werden: α = derjenige Zeitpunkt, in dem a und b sind.) „a und b“ = hinreichende Auswahl. Man kann einen Apfel suchen, aber nicht einen Raumpunkt; also Unterschied! Weiß ein Gefangener, dass die Zelle über die Raum hinaufreicht? Russell: Das ist eine Hypothese. W: Der Gefangene versteht die Aussage, dass ein Gegenstand außerhalb des Zimmers gebraucht wird; er weiß die Möglichkeit. Grundlegender Fehler bei Russell: Die Möglichkeiten auf Wirklichkeiten zurückzuführen. Ein Sachverhalt ist „wirklich“ bedeutet: Die Aussage, die den Sachverhalt be­schreibt, ist wahr; ein Sachverhalt ist „möglich“ bedeutet: die Aussage, die den Sachverhalt beschreibt, hat Sinn; das hängt nicht von der Erfahrung ab. „Wirklich“ und „möglich“ sind nicht reale Begriffe, sondern Begriffe der Syntax. Die Extension der Aussagefunktion fx wird von außen begrenzt, durch die Erfahrung; Klasse wahrer Sätze: fa, fb,… Der Sinnbereich der Aussagefunktion fx wird von innen begrenzt, durch die Syntax; sinnvolle Sätze: fa, fb,… Ein Raumpunkt ist niemals ein Gegenstand einer Aussage, sondern nur ein Hilfsmittel zum Sprechen über Dinge. Ein Satz, der die Läge eines Körpers zu anderen beschreibt, bestimmt einen Raumpunkt; gleich, ob wahr oder falsch. Die Gesamtheit der Raumpunkte wird bestimmt nicht durch die wahren, sondern durch die sinnvollen Sätze; kann nicht beschrieben werden durch eine Aussagefunktion, sondern wird begrenzt durch die Syntax der Aussage, in denen vom Raum die Rede ist. Also andere Symbolik als Aussagefunktion nötig. Auch der einzelne Raumpunkt ist nicht eine Klasse von Ereignisse. Darüber später. Die Menge der Zahlen, der Raumpunkte, der Zeitpunkte sind nicht wie Mengen empirischer Dinge; es sind in sich geschlossene Inbegriffe. So ist es ja auch bei den logischen Partikeln; wir überschauen ihre Gesamtheit. Das System der Wahrheitsfunktionen ist komplett. Wir können sie überschauen, weil wir selber sie bilden; logische Partikeln sind Wahrheitsoperationen, die sich in den betreffenden Wahrheitsfunktionen ausdrücken. Unterschied:

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„empirische Gesamtheit oder Menge“

---------------

geht immer zurück auf eine Aussagefunktion

„System“

ist immer erzeugt durch eine Operation

Russells Hauptfehler: Verwechslung dieser zwei Begriffsarten. Begriffspaare: wahr

sinnvoll

wirklich

möglich

Aussage

Regel der Syntax

wird ausgedrückt durch

Menge

System

(empirischer Gesamtheit) empirisch

a priori

Extern

Intern

Aussagefunktion

Operation

Russell vermengt das, definiert eine Zahl (Möglichkeit) durch eine wirkliche Menge; ebenso Raumpunkt (Möglichkeit einer Lage) als Klasse wirklicher Ereignisse; Identität (Regel der Syntax) mit einer Aussage; Menge der Zahlen anstatt System usw. Mill Mathematik empirisch, Begriffsbildung empirisch

Russell Wittgenstein Mathematik a priori, Die Sätze der Mathematik a priori, Begriffsbildung auch a priori die Begriffe (Zahl) empirisch, Mischung von Empirismus und Apriorismus (in Bezug auf Mathematik)

Also Wittgenstein nicht nur Reform im Kleinen, sondern völlige Auflösung des Russellschen Systems derart, dass von der Russellschen Philosophie sehr wenig übrig bleibt. Zahlen, Raumpunkte, Zeitpunkte müssen definiert werden ohne Bezug auf Wirklichkeit; denn sie sind Ausdrücke für Möglichkeiten. Sie sind Ausdrücke für Operationen, daher a priori durchschauen. Hier wird es erst klar, warum man die Geometrie nicht arithmetisieren kann, analytische Geometrie nicht aufstellen kann. Das beruht darauf, dass die Beziehungen zwischen den Raumpunkten intern sind. System, nicht Menge.

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Die axiomatische Methode wird ganz falsch aufgefasst, nämlich als hypothetisch-­ deduktives System von Sätze. Um Widerspruchsfreiheit zu beweisen, wendet man es auf die Zahlen an. Und dann fragt Hilbert nach Widerspruchsfreiheit der Arithmetik. Das sind falsche Fragestellungen. (Analog früher: worauf beruht die Geltung der Logik usw.) Das Beziehen der Axiome auf die Arithmetik ist nicht die Beziehung auf ein Modell, sondern ist die Übersetzung in die adäquate Sprache! In der arithmetischen Darstellung werden die in den Axiomen festgelegten internen Beziehungen sichtbar; eine Frage der Widerspruchsfreiheit der Arithmetik kann gar nicht aufgeworfen werden.

15.2.1 Mathematik und Logik Verhältnis zwischen Gleichung und Tautologie  Die Mathematik ist nicht ableitbar aus der Logik. In beiden ist von Systemen die Rede; in der Logik: Wahrheitsoperation; in der Arithmetik: arithmetischen Operationen, die Uroperation + 1, die die Zahlen erzeugt. Das Ergebnis einer logischen Operation ist ein Satz, das Ergebnis einer arithmetischen Operation ist eine Zahl; etwas ganz verschiedenes. Die Gleichung drückt aus, dass zwei arithmetischen Operationen dasselbe Ergebnis haben. Es ist ein Irrtum zu meinen, eine Tautologie drückt aus, dass zwei Sätze gleichbedeutend sind. ~(p.q) ~p v ~q Das beide gleichbedeutend sind, kann ich zeigen: 1) aus den Axiomen, 2) indem ich beide als Wahrheitsfunktionen aufstelle: F W W W

Die Tautologie „(~(p.q))~(~p v ~q)“ zeigt das auch; sie besagt es nicht, sondern an ihr zeigt es sich, es zeigt sich aber auch vorher. Die Gleichung ist keine Tautologie. Aber gleich ist folgendes: Löse ich beide Seiten der Gleichung in Normalform auf 1+1+1…; dann zeigt sich die Gleichheit. Aber die Gleichung besagt nicht die Gleichheit. Die Gleichheit ist keine Operation. 15.5.30 Über Frege-Russellsche Definition der Zahlen  Ist Mathematik ein Teil der Logik? Dafür sprechen zwei Argumente: 1) Erkenntnistheorie: In der Mathematik gibt’s keine synthetische Urteile a priori. W: Das ist nur insofern richtig, als eine Analogie besteht zwischen der Methode der Tautologie und der Methode des Beweises der Gleichung.

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2) „Tieferlegung der Fundamente der Mathematik“. Arithmetisierung, bewendet durch Weierstras und Cantor; Rückführung auf natürliche Zahlen. Logisierung durch Frege und Russell. Logische Konstruktion der Zahlen.Was heißt logische Konstruktion oder Definition? Eine Definition muss den Weg zur Verifikation angeben. Also muss und kann ein Begriff nur dann definiert werden, wenn die Aussagen über ihn noch nicht verifizierbar sind, sondern auf andere zurückgeführt werden müssen. Es gibt eine „logische Gefälle“; die Definition weist immer in eine bestimmte Richtung, in die Richtung der Verifikation. Das geht fort, bis wir zu Sätzen kommen, die sich unmittelbar mit der Wirklichkeit vergleichen lassen. (Problem der Atomsätze.) Also Frage: Gibt die Fregesche Definition der Zahlen die richtige Methode der Verifikation an? Wird der Satz „Hier liegen 5 Äpfel“ dann verifiziert durch Bezug auf alle gleichmächtigen Klassen? Offenbar nicht. (Dagegen: „5“ wird nicht defi­ niert als Klasse der Klasse, die gleichmächtig zu den Fingern meiner Hand ist, sondern:

 x,y, .)

Bei Russell gibt es andere Auffassungen von „Klasse“: 1) intensionale: Aussagefunktion 2) extensionale: durch Aufzählung. Bei (1) gibt die Definition nicht an, wie viele; bei (2) hat die Aufzählung schon in sich die Anzahl; da brauche ich die Definition nicht. Die Form des Sachverhalts wird nicht durch ein besonderes Zeichen dargestellt, sondern durch die Form des Satzes. Ein Begriffszeichen muss erklärt werden: die Form zeigt sich im Satze selbst, ohne erklärt zu werden; darauf beruht es, dass wir neue Sätze verstehen. Der Fehler von Russell und Frege ist: sie haben eine Form als Begriff aufgefasst; und sie hatten eine falsche Vorstellung von Allgemeinheit. Eine Zahl angeben, heißt: ein Vorschrift geben, um einen Satz von richtiger Multiplizität zu bilden. Sie ist eine Form, nicht ein Begriff. Frege und Russell wollen durch Abstraktion das Gemeinsame aller Trios suchen, das sollte die Zahl 3 sein. Verallgemeinerung. Verallgemeinern können wir nur Eigenschaften. Es hat keinen Sinn, von der Anwendung der Arithmetik zu sprechen. Wie bei einem empirischen Satz und einem Sonderfall. Sondern der einzelne Fall „2 Pflaume und 2 Pflaume sind 4“ enthält schon die allgemeine Form. Bei Form sind die Kategorien „allgemein“ und „speziell“ nicht anwendbar. Die Zahlzeichen, mit den Regeln ihrer Syntax, sind Vorschriften zur Konstruktion von Bildern.

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Wir definieren: 5 = 4+1 4 = 3+1 . . . 2 = 1+1; dies gibt mir an, die entsprechende Zahl von Symbolen zu bilden. Ebenso ist es bei „526“; hier kommt noch die Syntax der Stelle dazu. Die Zahlzeichen sind Bilder und nicht Namen. Gibt einen Weg an zur Konstruktion des Bildes.

Das Unendliche (stammt von Wittgenstein). Endliche und Unendliche Klassen sind völlig verschieden; denn die Verifikation ist in beiden Fällen völlig verschieden. Beispiel: Klasse der Stühle im Zimmer; Klasse der Primzahlen. Verifikation: durch Einzelfälle; durch vollständige Induktion. „Unendlich“ ist keine Anzahl, hat eine andere Syntax als ein Zahlwort. Das Wort „Unendlich“ bestimmt eine Möglichkeit, z. B. „Diese Strecke ist unendlich teilbar“. Eine Unendlichkeit drückt sich nicht darin aus, dass eine Aussage über der Unendliche Sinn hat; sondern sie drückt sich durch eine unendliche Möglichkeit der Sprache aus! 22.5.30 Eine mögliche Darstellung der Zahlen ist die folgende Reihe von Satzformen: aRb ( x).aRx.xRb ( x,y)...... . . .

Das Russellsche Unendlichkeitsaxiom ist nicht verifizierbar, also sinnlos. Russell würde fragen: Können wir diese Reihe immer weiter fortsetzen? Dagegen: Wir wissen a priori die Ausführbarkeit einer Operation, die aus einer Satzform die folgende erzeugt. Wir wissen, dass ein solcher Satz „Hier liegen 3 Äpfel“ Sinn hat; sie ist Bild einer möglichen Sachlage. Wir haben es nicht mit den bestehenden, sondern mit den möglichen Sachverhalten; nicht mit den wahren, sondern den sinnvollen Sätze. Also Zahlen existieren deshalb, weil sie in sinnvollen Sätze vorkommen. Wenn es 6 Stühle gibt, kann ich mir einen 7. dazu denken; wenn es 6 Grundfarben gibt, so kann ich mir nicht beliebig eine 7. dazu denken. Die Gesamtheit der Stühle ist „von außen begrenzt“; es gibt Dinge, die nicht Stühle sind; ich kann etwas beschreiben, was kein Stuhl ist.

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Die Gesamtheit von Farben ist „von innen begrenzt“; ich kann nicht etwas beschreiben, das keine Farbe ist (und dabei dieselbe Syntax hat). Die Stühle bilden eine empirische Menge; die logischen Partikeln bilden ein System,.sie werden konstruiert, ich kann ihre Gesamtheit überschauen; die Farben bilden keine empirische Menge, aber auch kein System, denn ich bin nur sicher, ob nicht eine neue auftaucht; nicht durch Aussagefunktion gegeben. (Ebenso mit: Gesamtheit der sinnvollen Sätze; auch nicht durch Aussagefunktion gegeben.) Ebenso: Die gesetzmäßig gebildeten Dezimalbrüche; von innen begrenzt; einen nicht gesetzmäßig gebildeten kann ich nicht annehmen. Die Gesamtheit der sinnvollen Ursymbole ist auch von innen begrenzt; kann unter Umständen erweitert werden. Nicht durch eine Eigenschaft begrenzt. Daher kann ihre Zahl nicht angegeben werden. Eine Zahl kann sich nur auf eine Eigenschaft beziehen, auf etwas von außen Begrenztes. Die Zahl der Ursymbole kann nicht durch einen Satz angegeben werden; also auch so kann das Unendlichkeitsaxiom nicht aufgefasst werden. Die Mathematik beschreibt nicht etwas, sondern ist ein Tun; ein Konstruieren mit Symbolen; wir lesen alles Mathematische an den Symbolen ab. Von dieser mathematischer Tätigkeit müssen wir deutlich entscheiden die Sprache, in der diese Tätigkeit beschrieben wird. Der Satz „5 ist eine Primzahl“ beschreibt eine Tätigkeit, das nicht Aufgehen der Division; es ist kein mathematischer Satz! Diese Sprachform ist aus der Umgangs­ sprache von Dingen genommen. Ebenso „0 ist eine Zahl“, „alle Zahlen…“, „…Menge von Zahlen…“, „es gibt eine Zahl…“, Eigenschaften und Beziehungen zwischen Zahlen; alles das gehört zur begleitenden Sprache. Russell hat nicht die Mathematik selbst, sondern die begleitende Sprache in einen logischen Formalismus gebracht! 5.6.30 Das Wesen der Geometrie Die Formalisten meinen: Die Geometrie ist ein hypothetisch-deduktives System. W: Die Geometrie ist die Syntax der Sätze, die von räumlichen Beziehungen, von der Lage der starren Körper behandeln. Die Geometrie handelt von der logischen Möglichkeit der Lagenbeziehungen. Also wird dadurch die Gesamtheit der sinnvollen Sätze über räumlichen Beziehungen abgegrenzt. Es scheint zwar, dass die Geometrie von Sachverhalten spricht. Die Sätze bestimmen im Gegenteil, wann wir ein Messresultat richtig nehmen wollen, und wann nicht (z.  B. wenn sich Winkelsumme = 190° ergibt). Was ist eine „Idealisierung“? Man meint: Die Grenze bei Annäherung durch immer genauere Approximation. Also z. B. würde man π immer genauer bestimmen, wie den Schmelzpunkt eines Metalls. W: Nein, die Zahl π folgt aus den Axiomen; wir betrachten sie dann als Richtschnur, um zu beurteilen, ob eine Messung richtig ist oder nicht (einen richtigen Kreis betrifft).

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Ein unendlicher mathematischer Prozess kommt nur vor, wo wir etwas postulie­ ren, nicht etwas empirisch beschreiben. Zum Beispiel, Differentialquotient als Grenzwert; er trifft nicht auf, wenn die Geschwindigkeit eines Autos gemessen wird, sondern hier sind es nur Differenzenquotienten. Sondern, wenn ich aus dem Fallgesetz eine Geschwindigkeit ableite. Also nicht Hypothese, die durch unendliche Erfahrung zu prüfen ist, sondern: Die Präzisionsgeometrie ist das erste, sie ist nicht abgeleitet aus approximations-geometrischen Messungen; im Gegenteil, sie dient als Richtschnur, um danach die Genauigkeit einer Messung zu beurteilen. Die Geometrie des Gesichtsraumes ist die Syntax der Gegenstände des Gesichtsraumes. Im physischen Raum können wir die einfachste Geometrie suchen; hier dagegen müssen wir einfach sagen, was wir sehen. In der Geometrie des Gesichtsraumes ist z.  B. die (Strecken-)Gleichheit nicht trivial. Ein Kreis und eine Gerade haben eine Strecke gemein. Die Syntax des Gesichtsraumes setzt sich zusammen aus der Syntax der mathematischen Sprache und der Syntax eines Unbestimmtheitsfaktors, der der Vagheit der Gebilde des Gesichtsraumes entspricht. Hier wird nicht gemessen. Hier liegt eigentlich keine „Geometrie“ vor. Denn Geometrie ist ein idealisiertes System im Hinblick auf die Hypothese der Physik. Die Sätze der Geometrie sind Regeln einer Syntax. Sie geben z. B. an, wann zwei Methoden der Verifikation äquivalent sind (z.  B.  Messung einer Strecke durch Messband und aus Triangulation). Die Trennungslinie zwischen Geometrie und Physik ist veränderlich. Je nachdem, ob wir die Euklidische Geometrie zugrunde legen oder an jeder Stelle die Krümmung empirisch ermitteln, ist die Festsetzung darüber, ob zwei Methoden der Verifikation gleich sind, verschieden. Der cos-Satz ist in der Euklidischen Geometrie ein Regel der Syntax, in der Riemannschen Geometrie dagegen ein Erfahrungssatz. Die beiden Arten der Streckenmessung sind dann in der Euklidischen Geometrie zwei Verifikationen desselben Sachverhaltes, in der Riemannschen dagegen verschiedene Verifikationen, also zwei verschiedene Sachverhalte. Arithmetik  Eine Gleichung ist eine Regel der Syntax, keine Aussage. Ich soll verifizieren, dass diese Geldstücke 100 sind. Einmal zähle ich 10 Häufchen zu 10, ein andermal 5 Häufchen zu 20. Die Arithmetik sagt, dass 10 × 10 = 20 × 5; das ist eine Festsetzung darüber, dass die beiden Methoden der Verifikation äquivalent sind. Man beweist eine Gleichung durch Rückführung auf andere Gleichungen. Die Grundgleichungen als Festsetzungen über den Gebrauch der Symbole, also Regeln der Syntax. Unterschied zur Geometrie  Auch die Geometrie ist Syntax. Aber sie kann geändert werden. Man kann zu einer anderen Form der Beschreibung übergehen. Mit Hilfe der Geometrie beschreiben wir die Dinge; dagegen werden die Zahlen nicht be­nannt, sondern die Sätze müssen selbst die Zahlen darstellen. Denn eine Zahl ist eine Form; sie wird nicht vertreten, sondern durch die Multiplizität der Sprache dargestellt.

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Wenn ich etwa die Ereignisse von zwei Zählungen derselben Dinge beschreibe, so müssen die Symbole selbst die Zahlen zeigen. Daher kann ich in der Arithmetik die Gleichheit nicht willkürlich anders festsetzen. Die arithmetische Syntax wird nicht nach möglichster Einfachheit gewählt. Die Mathematik stellt sich selbst dar. Man kann ihre Wahrheit an den Symbolen selbst erkennen. Es gibt eine mathematische Methode, mit Gleichungen zu arbeiten. Es gibt eine logische Methode, mit Tautologien zu arbeiten. Dass p ≡ q eine Tautologie ist, daran wird sichtbar, dass die beiden Sätze denselben Sinn haben; das würde ich aber auch an den Sätzen selbst schon sehen. Ebenso bei einer Gleichung: Sie ist eine Methode, um die Übereinstimmung zweier Zahlausdrücke zu erkennen. Wir müssen den Inhalt der Mathematik von der begleitenden Textsprache klar unterscheiden. „17 ist eine Primzahl“ gehört zur begleitenden Sprache! Die Mathematik ist wesentlich ein Tun. Die Tabelle der verschiedenen Divisionen von 17 ist das Mathematische; jener Satz beschreibt dies in nicht-adäquater Sprache, weil er die Form hat „dieser Tisch ist groß“. Ein Gegenstand („der Tisch“) ist immer unvollständig gegeben. „17“ ist kein Gegenstand, sondern eine Form. Eine Form muss immer vollständig angegeben sein. Ich darf keine Klasse angeben und offen lassen, ob diese endlich oder unendlich ist. Die begleitende Sprache der Mathematik, mit Aussagefunktionen und Mengen, Relationen usw. hat verhängnisvoll gewirkt. In dieser Sprache tritt auch das Entscheidbarkeitsproblem auf. Darüber später. Das mathematische System  Die Zahlen bilden ein System. Die Gleichungen bilden ein System. Die Operationen (addieren,…) bilden ein System. Wichtig  Die Mathematik besteht aus einer Reihe verschiedener Systeme; ein Stufenbau. Zum Beispiel, Die Buchstabenrechnung bildet ein neues System; die Euklidische Geometrie bildet ein System; die analytische Geometrie wieder ein anderes System. Jedes System ist von innen her begrenzt. Es gibt keine Ergänzung oder Erweiterung des Systems der natürlichen Zahlen (Verdienst von Russell). Es gibt auch keine Fragen, die über ein System hinübergehen. Was bedeutet dann aber das Suchen in der Mathematik? Zwei Bedeutungen: 1. Wie groß ist … + … ? Hier suche ich in einem System. 2. Das Suchen in der Buchstabenrechnung bedeutet etwas ganz anderes. Einen klaren Sinn hat das Suchen nur im ersten Fall. Dabei hat das Suchen eine Bürgschaft des Findens. Von „Suchen“ kann man nur sprechen, wenn man eine Methode hat. Was hat man bei der Dreiteilung des Winkels gesucht? Innerhalb der elementaren Geometrie hat die Frage gar keinen Sinn. Erst im umfassenderen System der algebraischen Operationen gibt es den Unterschied derjenigen Operationen, denen geometrische Konstruktionen zugeordnet sind, und den andern.

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Das Entscheidbarkeitsproblem ist nicht die Frage, um eine bestimmte mathematische Frage lösbar ist; sondern die Aufgabe: ein System zu suchen, in dem die Frage überhaupt stellbar ist; dann ist sie auch entscheidbar. Das Suchen nach dem System (nicht: in dem System) ist keine eigentliche mathematische Aufgabe. (? Hier hat Hahn Bedenken in Bezug auf den Sprachgebrauch.) Waismann gibt zu: besser „Problem“ des unbestimmten Suchens nennen. In der Logik gibt es kein Suchen nach Systemen! Wohl aber in der Mathematik! Unterschied! In der Mathematik, im Unterschied zur Logik, gibt es ein Entdecken neuer Systeme: analytische Geometrie, Differenzialrechnung, algebraische Zahl­ körper. Es gibt hier etwas Schöpferisches, dies Aufsteigen zu neuen Systemen, das ist kein Konstruieren von Tautologien auf immer derselben Ebene. 26.6.30 Vollständige Induktion  Bisher finite Gleichungen behandelt: 3  +  5  =  8. Die Arithmetik enthält nun aber sehr wesentlich auch allgemeine Sätze. Poincare  synthetisch apriori. Was früher synthetisch nannten, liegt häufig in den internen Beziehungen, in dem, was sich zeigt. Russell zerteilt die Zahlen in induktiven und nicht-induktiven. Aber das sind beides ganz verschiedene Gebilde; die bilden nicht einen Bereich; die Syntax ist ganz verschieden. Die natürlichen Zahlen sind von innen her begrenzt. Bei einem „induktiven“ Beweis wird nichts anders gezeigt als: Der Satz gilt für 1. Wenn er für n gilt, so für n + 1. Mehr nicht! Man pfegt noch hinzufügen „also gilt er für alle Zahlen“. Aber das kann sich in keiner mathematischen Formel ausdrücken. Das gehört zu begleitenden Interpretation. Es kommt nicht auf die Wiederkehr einer Struktur, z. B. auch so: 1 : 3 = 0,3 33… 10 10

Die Grundgleichungen der Buchstabenrechnung sind etwa nicht beweisbar. Sondern es sind Festsetzungen für den Symbolismus, Spielregeln. Es sind Regeln der Syntax. Solche Regeln irgendeiner Sprache kann man nur durch die Sprache selbst begründen. Ihre Rechtfertigung liegt in ihrer Anwendbarkeit. Insofern hat der Formalismus recht. Aber er nimmt irrigerweise doch die Formeln der Mathematik als so etwas Ähnliches wie Sätze: Er deduziert sie aus einander. Aber transformieren von Gleichungen ist nicht logisches Deduzieren. Satz von ausgeschlossenen Dritten  Die Intuitionisten sind nicht konsequent: Die Allaussage lassen sie gelten, die Existenzaussage nur, wenn man eine Konstruktion hat. Eine Allaussage sei nicht ohne weiteres negierbar. Brouwer über die Frage: „Gibt es eine Sequenz im Dezimalbruch von л?“ Dagegen: Man darf nicht sagen: „Es gibt eine Sequenz“, wenn man eine gefunden hat; höchstens: „Im Abschnitt 700.-800. Stellen liegt eine Sequenz“. Waismann: fa → (∃x).fx ist unberechtigt.

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Die Aussage „An der und der Stelle ist ein Sequenz“ kann auch negiert werden; etwas anderes ist gar nicht sagbar. Alles, was ich überhaupt sagen kann in der Mathematik, kann ich auch negieren. Wo man nicht negieren kann, da liegt auch kein Satz vor. Man hat da fälschlich im Unendlichen eine Extension angenommen, was nur im Endlichen sinnvoll ist. Das Gesetz des Dezimalbruches weist auf jede Stelle hin, aber bestimmt nicht eine unendliche Extension. Gleichnis von Wittgenstein: Ein Scheinwerfer beleuchtet jede Gegenstand, der unterwegs getroffen wird; Unsinn zu sagen, er beleuchtet das Unendliche. Verhältnis zwischen Gleichung und Tautologie  Personenzahl in zwei Zimmern: (E29x) γx. (E34x)ψ x. ~ (Ǝx).γ x.ψ x:⊃.(E63x) γ xc ψ x. Das ist allerdings eine Tautologie. Aber um die Zahl 63 richtig zu finden, muss ich ein Kalkül benutzen. Eine Gleichung ist das Ergebnis eines Kalküls. Mit Hilfe einer solchen Gleichung kann ich dann eine Tautologie bilden; aber das ist dann eine Anwendung der Arithmetik. Die Tautologie drückt die Gleichung nicht aus. Die Zahl kann man nicht beschreiben, sondern muss sie darstellen. Der Kalkül ist eine Rechenmaschine, der die Zahlen durch Kugeln, Ziffern oder dergleichen darstellt; die Tautologie ist eine Anwendung. Die Gleichung ist γdas Ergebnis des Kalküls, keine Abkürzung einer Tautologie. Sowohl bei der Tautologie wie bei der Gleichung beruft man sich letzten Endes auf die Symbole selbst; also Verwandtschaft zwischen beiden; aber trotzdem sind Gleichungen nicht Tautologien. 3.7.30

15.2.2 Außermathematische Gebiete. Logische Analyse der gewöhnlichen Sprache Hypothesen  Wenn ein Naturgesetz eine generelle Aussage wäre, so wäre es nicht endgültig verifizierbar, also überhaupt nicht verifizierbar. Ein Naturgesetz ist vielmehr eine Anweisung zur Konstruktion von Aussagen. Es ist ein mathematisches Gesetz, gebildet aus den Zahlen der einzelnen Aussagen. Eine solche „Hypothese“ (Gleichung) kann niemals bestätigt und niemals widerlegt werden. Man kann jede Hypothese beibehalten, mit Hilfshypothesen (Poincare). Die Möglichkeit der Festsetzungen beruht darauf, das die Physik immer offen ist; man kann stets neue Naturgesetze hinzufügen. Durch Aufstellung eines Naturgesetzes geben wir einen Wechsel; wir gehen die Verpflichtung ein, mit diesem und den andern Gesetz die Erscheinungen zu meistern. Fällt uns das zu schwer,

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so werden wir die Gesetze ändern. Das Kriterium liegt in der Einfachheit der Anwendbarkeit. In der theoretischen Physik werden nicht aus Aussagen Aussagen deduziert, sondern mathematische Gleichungen umgeformt. Nach Russell sind die Gegenstände (Dinge) Klassen von Aspekten. Adjektive, Komparative … haben eine bestimmte Syntax; dagegen die Sub­ stantive („Tisch“) können in vielen Satzformen auftreten. Für Frege gelten deshalb die letzteren im Gegensatz zu den ersteren für gesättigte Symbole. Aber so sind alle Worte ungesättigt; nur ist die Form der Ergänzung entweder fest bestimmt, oder aber wechselnd. Die Form eines Gegenstandes ist die einer Hypothese. Gegeben sind nur die Wahrnehmungen, die Phänomene, die Aspekten. „Da steht ein Stuhl“ geht über das Wahrgenommene hinaus. Ein Gegenstand ist niemals vollständig beschrieben! Ich kann immer neue Tatsachen über ihn hinzufügen; stets offen. Die Möglichkeit zu solchen Hinzufügungen muss in der logischen Natur des Gegenstandes vorgegeben sein. Der Gegenstand ist eben nur ein leeres Schema, eine Anweisung, eine Hypothese. Die Phänomene, die wir in dem Zusammenhang des Gegenstandes hinein gießen, sind von verschiedener Form. Daher hat der Gegenstand alle logischen Formen, die ihm die Sprache gibt. Wir können nicht nach „der“ Form von ihm sprechen, etwa Klasse oder Relation. Die Symbolik (Peano, Frege, Russell) ist zweckmäßig für bestimmte, begrenzte Gebiete. Aber im Allgemeinen ist die gewöhnliche Umgangssprache dieser Symbolik unendlich überlegen. Die Ausdrucksmöglichkeit durch Substantive ist viel reicher. Die Sprache ist, wie sie ist, logisch vollkommen in Ordnung. (!) Wir müssen also nicht eine ideale Sprache aufstellen; sondern es handelt sich darum, mit unserer Sprache zu arbeiten und das komplizierte System der Syntax sich zum Bewusstsein zu bringen. Die Sprache kommt auch ganz ohne Typentheorie aus! 7.7.30 Waismann: Analyse der Sprache  Einen Satz analysieren, heißt, ihn als Wahr­ heitsfunktion anderer darstellen. Der Definitionsprozess geht parallel dem Verifikationsprozess. Die Umformung auf Grund der Definition bahnt den Weg der Verifikation; dieser Prozess endet da, wo wir den Satz mit der Wirklichkeit vergleichen. Ginge die Rückübersetzung grenzenlos fort, so wäre niemals die Vergleichbarkeit mit der Wirklichkeit da; dann hätten die Sätze überhaupt keinen Sinn. Also führt die Analyse schließlich notwendig auf Atomsätze. Forderung der Existenz der Atomsätze = Forderung einer Beendigung des Definitionsprozesses = Forderung, dass nur verifizierbare Sätze sinnvoll sind. Die Art der Atomsätze  Ganz falsch ist die Übertragung der üblichen Sprache von Gegenstände (Dinge) auf die Atomsätze. Sie sehen sicher vollständig anders aus;

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nicht Prädikatssätze, Relationssätze usw. Ein Stuhl kann immer weiter beschrieben werden. Aber: „An der Stelle des Gesichtsfeldes ist gelb“ ist keine Relation. Die Atomsätze müssen die Multiplizität der Phänomene haben, also werden sie enorm sein! Z. B. reelle Zahlen enthalten. In der theoretischen Physik will man mit möglichst wenigen Grundsätze und Grundbegriffe auskommen. Die Übertragung dieses Prinzips auf die Atomsätze ist

!

unberechtigt. Den in der theoretischen Physik können

(wahrscheinlich

wir wählen, bei den Atomsätzen nicht. Diese finden wir

richtig)

vor; keine Verfügungsfreiheit. Hier ist es keine „Theorie“.

Die Phänomene sind wie sie sind. Es gibt Sätze, die ein unvollständiges Bild eines Sachverhaltes geben. Zum Beispiel, „In diesem Quadrat ist ein Kreis“. Diese Satzform enthält Variable, aber nicht so, dass Einsetzung gemacht werden sollte. „Ich traf einen Menschen“; nicht, wie Russell: (Ǝx). …, sondern einiges vom Sachverhalt wird mitgeteilt, anders nicht. Zum Beispiel, „Dieser Heft hat die Form x, und dieser andere Heft hat die Form x“. Trotz der Variablen wird die Gleichförmigkeit damit ausgedrückt.

15.3  Friedrich Waismann: Einführung in die moderne Philosophie Proseminarbericht und Fortsetzung dazu (1932)

15.3.1 I. Im gegenwärtigen Sommersemester soll hier im Proseminar über die Intention gesprochen werden. Und zwar wollen wir von den Überlegungen von Frantz von Brentano (Psychologie vom empirischen Standpunkt, 1874) ausgehen und dann die Meinungen des Behaviorismus, insbesondere die von Watson (Dewey) und Russell betrachten. Brentano bildet den Begriff der intentionalen Beziehung zum ersten Mal, als er ein Merkmal aufzusuchen bestrebt ist, welches allen psychischen Phänomenen gemeinsam wäre. Und er findet, dass alle seelischen Akte sich auf etwas bezögen, etwas meinten, etwas intendierten. Wenn man denkt, denke man an etwas, wenn man liebt, liebe man etwas usw. Dieses Bezogensein eines psychischen Phänomens auf den Gegenstand nennt Brentano die intentionale Inexistenz, die immanente

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Inexistenz, auch die immanente Gegenständlichkeit. Er glaubt auch, dass diese ein Kriterium alles Psychischen sei, welches es vom Physischen trenne und es so als Psychisches definiere. Es erhebt sich einerseits die Frage, ob wirklich nur Psychischem eine solche intentionale Beziehung zukomme, oder auch Physi­ schem. (Ziele etwa ein physisches Geschehen nicht auf etwas ab, meint ein physisches Geschehen nicht etwas?) Andererseits ist die Frage, ob wirklich alle psychischen Phänomene eine derartige Beziehung aufweisen. Zu letzterem ist zu sagen, dass z. B. manche Stimmungen, Angst, unbestimmtes Heimweh usw. kein Aufetwasgerichtetsein aufweisen; doch ist dies eine Frage der Psychologie und soll uns hier zunächst nicht weiter interessieren. Die Frage ist nun: kommt intentionale Beziehung nur Psychischem zu, oder auch Physischem? Zunächst betrachten wir einen Satz, etwa diesen: „Ich habe im vorigen Jahr furchtbares Gewitter erlebt.“. Wir können nun den Satz unterscheiden vom Vorgang, den er abbildet, ferner das Bezogensein des Satzes auf den Vorgang. Wir fragen uns, wieso der Satz die Situation meine, und antworten, dass dies durch die Vermittlung und den Gebrauch der Worte geschieht. Wir unterscheiden also einerseits das Bezogensein des Satzes auf eine Tatsache, andererseits eines Wortes zu seiner Wortbedeutung und finden, dass die Beziehung Wort zu Wortbedeutung die primäre ist. Wir wollen, um die oben erwähnte Frage beantworten zu können, uns zunächst mit der Wortbedeutung als einem einfachen Problem der Darstellung beschäftigen. Was heißt das, ein Wort meine etwas, wie geschieht es, dass ein Wort etwas darstellt? Betrachten wir zunächst einen noch einfacheren Fall. Wir sehen das Porträt eines Menschen an, den wir alle kennen und fragen uns, woran es nun liegen mag, dass jenes Porträt diesen Menschen darstellt. Liegt es am physischen Objekt, entsprechen etwa Teile der Ölfarbe Teilen der Haut des Betreffenden, oder wird die „Bedeutung“, nicht eben dadurch hergestellt, dass eine intentionale Beziehung in einem Bewusstsein hergestellt wird? Für die Meinung, dass es an der intentionalen Beziehung, und nicht an dem Bild als solchen gelegen ist, spricht die Möglichkeit der Tatsache, dass jenes Bild, das schlecht gemalte Porträt eines anderen Menschen ist; der Maler hätte auch gar keinen bestimmten Menschen darzustellen brauchen, es könnte ja lediglich ein Bild seiner Phantasie sein. Wir konstatieren also zunächst, dass für das Problem der Bedeutung die Auffassung in einem Bewusstsein we­sent­ lich ist. (Diese Auffassung ist einerseits eine willkürliche Festsetzung, in unserem Fall das Herstellen der intentionalen Beziehung im Bewusstsein des Malers; an­ dererseits das Herstellen der intentionalen Beziehung im Bewusstsein des Betrachters auf Grund der Wahrnehmung gewisser Strukturen, die als bekannt vorausgesetzt werden). Für den Fall, dass ein Porträt nun sehr alt werden würde und man es irgendwo fände und nicht wusste, wen es darstellen sollte, ergibt sich die Notwendigkeit eines Rückschrittes auf den Maler, er wäre der Einzige, der uns darüber Auskunft geben könnte, zumal eine „Auffassung“ im Sinne einer Herstellung einer intentionalen Beziehung im Bewusstsein des Betrachters auf Grund der Wahrnehmung gewisser

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bekannter Strukturen wegfällt und allenfalls unsicher wäre; denn es bestünde stets die Möglichkeit, dass der Maler jemand anderen gemeint hätte. Stürben alle Menschen aus, dann gäbe es kein Bewusstsein mehr, also könnte auch keinerlei intentionale Beziehung mehr bestehen. Gegen diese Auffassung der intentionalen Beziehung erhob sich ein Einwand. Es wurde behauptet, dass das Bild als solches, gleichviel ob ein Mensch es betrachtet, „Träger“ der intentionalen Beziehung sein müsse. Das Bild hält, nach dieser Meinung, „die Absicht des Malers fest“. Außerdem wurde behauptet, dass der Sinn des Satzes: Das Bild hält die Absicht des Malers fest, (den wir der Einfachheit halber mit p bezeichnen) verschieden ist vom Sinn des Satzes q (der Maler hätte bei besagtem Bild die Absicht, Herrn XY darzustellen). Da wir den Satz p nicht genau verstanden haben, fragten wir uns, ob diese beiden Sätze p und q wirklich etwas verschiedenes darstellen. Könnte nicht mit der bildlichen Ausdrucksweise „das Bild hält die Absicht des Malers fest“, infolge der verschiedenen Ausdrucksmöglichkeit eines Gedankens, nicht etwa dasselbe gemeint sein, wie mit dem Satz „der Maler hatte die Absicht, Herrn XY darzustellen“. Wir erinnerten uns, dass zwei Sätze dann den gleichen Sinn hätten, wenn sie unter den selben Umständen wahr und unter den selben Umständen falsch wären. Wir fragten uns, ob, wenn p wahr ist, auch q wahr ist, p wahr, und bejahten dies; ebenso ist wenn q wahr ist, p wahr, desgleichen ist, wenn p falsch ist, q falsch und wenn q falsch ist, ist auch p falsch. Wir fanden tatsächlich, dass diese beiden Sätze unter denselben Umständen wahr, und unter denselben Umständen falsch sind. Zur Erläuterung dieses Satzes erinnern wir uns an früher angestellte Überlegungen. Die Verschiedenheit zweier Aussagen äußert sich eben in der Verschiedenheit ihrer Wahrheitswerte, wenn wir die obige Operation anstellen. Zum Beispiel: 1) es regnet und 2) es ist schlechtes Wetter. Es lässt sich eine Situation denken, in der schlechtes Wetter ist, und es doch nicht regnet. (Sie bezeichnen also nicht das Gleiche). Etwa es hagelt, stürmt, schneit, etc. Der Satz „Es ist schlechtes Wetter“ hat den größeren Umfang, und unterscheidet sich dadurch vom Satz „es regnet“. Nun könnte man fragen, ob sich nicht ein Fall denken ließe, in dem zwei Sätze gleiche Wahrheitswerte und doch nicht gleichen Sinn hätten, etwa bei den Sätzen: „Cäsar ist tot, und Brutus lebt“ und „Cäsar ist tot, aber Brutus lebt“. Wir antworteten, dass es hierbei nur darauf ankommt, wie man das Wort Sinn hier interpretiert. Unter Sinn verstehen wir nicht einen psychologischen Prozess, sondern dasjenige, was für die Wahrheit oder Falschheit eines Satzes sozusagen verantwortlich ist. Sinngleich sind für uns Sätze, die denselben Tatbestand beschreiben. Die psychologische Nuance lässt sich etwa an folgenden Sätzen klar zeigen: „Der Mont Blanc ist die höchste Erhebung der Alpen“ und „weithin übertrifft an ragender Größe die höchsten Gipfel der Alpen der Mont Blanc“. Nach dieser kurzen Rekapitulation über Aussagegehalt, psychologischer Nuance und Gleichheit und Ungleichheit zweier Sätze kehrten wir zu unserem Problem zurück. Die beiden Sätze „das Bild hält die Absicht des Malers fest“ und „der Maler hatte bei besagtem Bild die Absicht, den Herrn XY darzustellen“ hatten sich zunächst als völlig sinngleich erwiesen, sie hatten den

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gleichen Aussagegehalt. Nunmehr wurde der Satz „das Bild hält die Absicht des Malers fest“ so interpretiert, dass man sagte, die Absicht, die es festhält, äußere sich eben darin, dass sie im Beschauer die Vorstellung des betreffenden dargestellten Herrn XY hervorrufe. Diese Interpretation zeige, dass der Sinn unseres Satzes q vom Sinn des Satzes p doch völlig verschieden sei. Wir formulieren also die beiden Sätze nach der Interpretation noch einmal: „Das Bild ruft in jedem Beschauer, der Herrn XY kennt, die Vorstellung vom besagtem Herrn wach“ und „der Maler hatte die Absicht, Herrn XY darzustellen“. Hierauf ist zu erwidern, dass, wenn mit diesem ersten Satz der Nachweis geführt werden sollte, dass die intentionale Beziehung in dem physischen Bilde stecke, dieser nicht stichhältig wäre, da eben immer noch die Möglichkeit bestünde, dass der Maler einen ganz anderen Menschen darstellen wollte. Steckte die intentionale Beziehung in dem Bilde, so müsste sowohl der Maler, als auch der Beschauer immer und ewig die gleiche „Auffassung“ haben, ohne dass der Maler den Beschauer vom Akte seiner willkürlichen Festsetzung in Kenntnis gesetzt hätte. Unser Problem wird durch die Tatsache der Verschiedenheit dieser 2 Sätze weiter gar nicht berührt; Der Nachweis der Gleichheit des Aussagegehaltes der Sätze p und q wurde von der Interpretation nur deshalb geführt, um die Vagheit und Unbestimmtheit des Satzes „das Bild hält die Absicht des Malers fest“ aufzudecken. Auch der Einwand, dass tatsächlich bei Porträts obige Bedingungen erfüllt wären (nämlich dass Beschauer und Maler die gleiche Auffassung haben, ohne dass der Maler dem Beschauer vom Akt seiner willkürlichen Festsetzung in Kenntnis gesetzt hätte – man denke etwa an ein Bild des Kaisers Franz Josef  – ist nicht stichhältig, denn die Folgerung, die man daraus ziehen könnte, wäre die, dass ein schlecht gemaltes Porträt aufhören müsste, ein Bild zu sein. Es gäbe also dann nur gut gemalte Porträts (was nicht der Fall ist). Um den Punkt auf dem die Diskussion angelangt ist, nochmals besonders zu markieren, sei kurz zusammengefasst: Wir erkannten, dass die intentionale Beziehung nur im Bewusstsein liegen kann und dass sich alle Einwände, die darauf hinausliefen, dem Gegenstand eine eigene Kraft, eine Seinsqualität, ein eigenes Leben usw. zuzuschreiben, sich als nicht stichhältig erwiesen haben.

15.3.2 II. Wir erkannten, dass zwischen dem physischen Gebilde (Zeichen) und dem Dargestellten, außer dem Zusammenhang durch die intentionale Beziehung im Bewusstsein, kein sonstiger Zusammenhang bestehen kann. Nunmehr versuchten wir, eine psychologische Erklärung für das Zustandegekommen der Meinung zu geben, dass die intentionale Beziehung im physischen Gebilde stecke. Das Gefühl der Abwehr gegen die Ansicht, dass ein Bild, (Porträt) subjektiv ausgedeutet werden könnte, zumal es doch etwas ist, das typisch objektiv (d. h. von allen gleich) aufgefasst werden sollte, wird wohl der Hauptgrund für das Entstehen der Meinung gewesen sein, dass etwas dem Willen inhärent sein müsse, das nicht vom Betrachter

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willkürlich verändert werden könne. Was richtig an dem Gefühl der Abwehr ist, ließen wir ununtersucht, wir konstatieren aber, dass es sich in Worte und Redewendungen kleidete, die wohl diesen Umstand irgendwie andeuten sollten, die aber nicht der adäquate Ausdruck für den Tatbestand selbst waren. Das Auseinanderhalten von solchen Nebengefühlen, die sich dann irgendwie in der Sprache äußern und den Tatbestand, auf den es bei unseren Untersuchungen allein ankommt, bildet in solchen Fällen die Hauptschwierigkeit. Wir kamen nochmals auf unser Problem zurück. Nach der von uns als irrig erkannten Meinung würde also krass gesagt vom Porträt aus eine Art unsichtbarer Faden oder Fühler ausgehen, der auf die dargestellte Person hinweist. Wir vereinfachten nun unser Beispiel vom Porträt und setzen an die Stelle des Porträts einen Scherenschnitt. Und zwar betrachten wir zunächst einen, der in der Absicht der Darstellung entstanden ist und einen, der diesem aufs Haar gleicht, aber als Phantasiebild geschaffen wurde. Wir fragten nun, ob und wie sich diese beiden unterscheiden. Etwa durch ihre mittels wissenschaftlicher Methoden konstatierbare Beschaffenheit? Da sich hierfür keinerlei solche Methoden angeben lassen, so blie­be nur die Annahme, einer eben nicht naturwissenschaftlich konstatierbaren qualitas occulta offen, die wir, weil sie nicht prüfbar wäre, wegen ihrer wissenschaftlichen Unbrauchbarkeit ablehnen müssen. Wir sagten vorhin, dass die intentionale Beziehung im Bewusstsein liegt. Diese Meinung wird bestätigt, wenn wir nach der Methode fragen, mittels der wir die Bedeutung eines Zeichens feststellen. Wir wenden uns in so einem Fall prinzipiell an gewisse Personen, die uns darüber Auskunft geben. Wir suchen da nicht etwa nach einer Kausalkette, wie bei einem uns unbekannten Naturphänomen. Dieser Umstand zeigt also, dass wir es hier mit Dinge zu tun haben, die sich im Bewusstsein von Personen abspielen. Es scheint allerdings zunächst beim Anblick eines Bildes, dass da sich keinerlei weitere psychologische Prozesse abspielten, wie wir sie oben zum Teil angesehen haben. Dieser Umstand liefert uns wieder eine psychologische Erklärung, die uns die Möglichkeit des Entstandenseins der Meinung von der innewohnenden Qualitas occulta verständlich macht. Forschen wir aber weiter nach dem Sitz der Intention, so stoßen wir unbedingt an die Notwendigkeit, die Bedeutung eines uns unbekannten Zeichens durch Erfragen festzustellen. Man könnte nun einwenden: Wenn im Zeichen keine Intention vorhanden ist, wie weiß man dann, dass es ein Zeichen ist? Im Falle man etwa eine alte Schrift auffindet, wie gelangt man zur Vermutung, dass es sich um Zeichen handelt? Da ist zunächst zu sagen, dass wir niemals wissen, dass es Zeichen sind. Die stabartigen Strukturen auf einem mesopotamischen Ziegel und dgl. könnten auch z. B. durch eine ganz eigenartige Verwitterung zustande gekommen sein. Wohl ist aber eine Vermutung berechtigt, und zwar nur auf Grund der Ähnlichkeit dieser Zeichen mit Zeichen, die von uns gebraucht werden. Würde so ein Fund isoliert gemacht werden, so wüssten wir auch nichts damit anzufangen. Wir sehen also, dass es nur auf den Gedanken ankommt. Der seelische Vorgang ist es, der den Zeichen eine Bedeutung gibt. Wir wollen nun weiter sehen, was am seelischen Vorgang eigentlich das Zeichen gebende ist.

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Wenn wir einen Namen nennen oder nennen hören, so haben wir, falls und der Name bekannt ist, eine Vorstellung von dem Bezeichneten. Haftet nun an der Vorstellung als solcher jener unsichtbare Fühler, den wir dem physischen Bild abgesprochen hatten? Am bloßen Vorstellungsbild läst sich kein solcher Fühler vorstellen. Die intentionale Beziehung kann ebenso wenig im Vorstellungsbilde selbst stecken, wie in dem physischen Bild, denn es ließe sich ja denken, dass ein Mensch eine Phantasievorstellung eines Mannes gehabt hätte, der z.  B. einen goldgelben Bart und grüne Augen hatte, und dass er dann wirklich einen solchen Mann sehen würde. Wäre die intentionale Beziehung in dem Vorstellungsbilde, so hätte er ja unbedingt diesen Mann meinen müssen, von dessen Existenz er aber damals nichts gewusst haben konnte. Wir konstatieren also: Weder im physischen Bild, noch in der psychischen Vorstellung steckt die intentionale Beziehung; bisher sind wir um keinen Schritt weiter gekommen. Nun fragen wir uns, ob es zur Erklärung des Zusammenhangs eines Zeichens mit dem Bezeichneten genügt, wenn wir sagen, es entstehe eben einfach kausal beim Erblicken eines Zeichens oder Nennen eines Namens ein bestimmtes Vorstellungsbild: Gegen diese Meinung spricht die Tatsache der Verschiedenheit der seelischen Gesten beim Hören eines Wortes, das mehrere Bedeutungen hat. Zum Beispiel, beim nennen des Wortes Oder. Bei dem Flusse stellen wir etwas ganz anderes vor, als wenn wir an Vel denken. Die Verknüpfung von Zeichen und Vorstellungsbild ist also nicht regelmäßig und eindeutig. Die Meinung, die besagt, dass zu jedem Zeichen sich ein bestimmtes Vorstellungsbild einstellt, erweist sich auch als viel zu eng. Haben wir denn ein bestimmtes Vorstellungsbild, wenn wir an die Worte und, alle, oder, vier etc. denken? Wenn wir uns vergewissern wollen, ob ein Mensch oder wir selbst ein solches Zeichen verstanden haben, dann fragen wir auch niemals nach einem Vorstellungsbild davon, sondern geben uns befriedigt, wenn Proben des Gebrauchs gezeigt werden können. Wir sehen also, dass Verstehen kein seelischer Zustand ist, was dem Vorstellen eines bestimmten Gegenstandes entsprechen würde. Verstehen eines Wortes bedeutet viel mehr die Fähigkeit, mit dem Zeichen zu operieren. Es verhält sich mit dem Konstatieren des Verstehens der Bedeutung eines Wortes ebenso, wie mit dem Konstatieren, ob ein Mensch weiß, was mit einem „Bauern“ im Schachspiel gemeint ist. Gibt er uns zur Antwort, dass dies eine höl­ zerne Figur von einer bestimmten Form und Beschaffenheit ist, dann werden wir uns nicht zufrieden geben. Sagt er uns aber die Regeln seiner Anwendung, dann sind wir vom Verständnis überzeugt.

15.3.3 III. Auf die Frage nach der Bedeutung der Begriffe: „meinen“, „denken“, „bedeuten“, gab Brentano die Antwort, dass sie den Unterschied, die differentia specifica, zwischen Physischem und Psychischem klar mache. Er behauptete, dass der Gemeinsame Inhalt

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dieser Begriffe, die ­Bezeichnung des Bestehens einer dem Psychischen eigentümlichen intentionalen Beziehung sei. Als einfaches Beispiel einer intentionalen Beziehung fungiert ein Bild und der Gegenstand den es abbilden soll. Klar ist: dass die Beziehung der Abbildung nicht in einem physikalischen Zusammenhang zwischen Bild und Dargestelltem besteht. Auch die Ähnlichkeit zwischen Bild und Abgebildetem ist weder hinreichender noch notwendiger Bestandteil dieser intentionalen Beziehung; auf der anderen Seite geben die Expressionisten z.  B. häufig Gelegenheit zur Konstatierung, dass Ähnlichkeit der physischen Gestalt kein notwendiger Bestandteil einer Abbildung ist. Nachdem wir uns nun an zwei Fällen klar gemacht haben, was eine intentionale Beziehung sicher nicht ist, fanden wir ein notwendiges Merkmal: dass diese Beziehung, wie man sich gewöhnlich ausdrückt, im Geiste eines Betrachters gesetzt wird; dass der Zusammenhang zwischen Bild und Abgebildetem im Bewusstsein besteht. Doch hier stehen wir auf anderer Ebene, sofort von derselben Frage wie vorhin. Denn während dort die Problematik der intentionalen Beziehung im Zusammenhang zwischen Bild und Gegenstand bestand, besteht sie hier in dem zwischen Vorstellungsbild und Gegenstand. Die Frage ist hier ebenso berechtigt oder unberechtigt wie dort; nun hindert uns schon hier ein stärkerer Sprachinstinkt, sie zu stellen. Wir wenden uns nun einem neuen Aspekte des Problems zu. Dieser Wechsel der Aspekte ist berechtigt und notwendig, denn ein philosophisches Problem kann einer gotischen Kathedrale verglichen werden, die man von verschieden Seiten betrachten muss, um einen Gesamteindruck zu erhalten. Ein solcher neuer Aspekt wird uns gegeben, wenn wir uns in die Situation eines Anhängers von Brentano versetzen, den man gebeten hat, er solle ein physikalisches Modell der intentionalen Funktion des Bewusstseins zu geben versuchen. (So wie es etwa den Anhängern der Assoziationspsychologie leicht war, ein Modell der assoziativen Verknüpfungen anzugeben). Der Standpunkt unseres Brentanoanhängers wird nun dadurch klar, dass er uns konsequenterweise erwidern musste: Dies sei prinzipiell unmöglich, denn man könne nicht an einem physikalischen, auf Kausalität beruhendem Modell psychische, auf Intentionalität beruhende Vorgänge abbilden. Denn diese Verschiedenheit der Gegenstandsbeziehung sei ja die unüberbrückbare Kluft, durch welche das Reich des Physischen von dem des Psychischen getrennt sei. Wenn Brentano recht hat, so erhellt das eben aus der Unmöglichkeit, ein Modell des Bewusstseins zu konstruieren. Ein neuer Aspekt: Worin besteht das Denken oder Verstehen eines Satzes? Darauf wird man gewöhnlich die Antwort hören: Das Verstehen sei ein psychischer Vorgang in mir; er sei das psychische Korrelat zu dem physischen Satzzeichen. Analog dem Wort, das seine Wortbedeutung hat, hat auch der Satz mit seinem Satzzeichen eine Bedeutung und das Verstehen dieser Bedeutung ist ein psychischer Vorgang. Dem Verstehen des Satzes geht ein ­Auffassen des Satzzeichens voraus. Dies lässt sich an folgendem Beispiel zeigen: Wenn ich folgende französische Worte ausspreche: Pas de lieu Rôhne que nous, so höre ich sie wohl, kann

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aber keinen Sinn damit verbinden. Spreche ich fast die gleichen Laute auf Englisch aus, so stellt sich sofort Verständnis ein: Paddle your own canoe. Wir konstatierten also: Das Auffassen des Wortes ist das Eine, das Verstehen das Andere. Die landläufige Psychologie sieht aus dieser Tatsache eine Wertung, indem sie die Zeichen als etwas Nebensächliches betrachtet, und begründet das damit, dass das eigentliche Denken, also ihrer Meinung nach das Entscheidende, sich in der Seele abspiele. Unsere Frage ist nun: Wie vollzieht sich das Verstehen vom Satzzeichen zum Bewusstseinsprozess? Verhält sich das Vorstellen der Bedeutungen der einzelnen Zeichen so wie das Singen von einzelnen Noten? Ist also das Verstehen eines Satzes ein zeitlich gegliedertes Prozess? Und das „volle Verständnis“ eine Summation der einzelnen Wortbedeutungen? Treten im selben Rhythmus wie einzelne Worte eines Satzes ausgesprochen werden, Vorstellungsbilder auf? Entspricht also dem „vom Blatt lesen“ einer Singstimme ein „vom Blatt verstehen“ eines Satzbildes? James, der diese Meinung vertrat, sah sich bald zu verschiedenartigen Einschränkungen gedrängt, da es Zeichen in Sätzen gibt, die nichts bedeuten, die logischen Konstanten (z. B. die logischen Partikel) oder die Zahlen. Er musste also dem Verstehen eines Satzes eigenartig fluktuierende Bewusstseinprozesse zuordnen. Dass diese Meinung unhaltbar ist, wird an Beispielen klar, in denen das Verständnis eines Satzes, dessen Satzzeichen unverändert bleibt, bei anderer Art des „Anschauens“ plötzlich klar wird. Als Beispiel nehmen wir etwa den berühmten Brief, den Hannibal, als er vor den Toren Roms stand, geschrieben haben soll: „Te te ro ro ma ma nu nu da da te te la la te te“. Zu lesen ist dieser Satz: „Te terro, Roma manu nuda; date tela latete!“ („Ich zerdrücke dich Rom mit bloßer Hand; liefert die Waffen aus, verberget euch!“). Wo ist hier die zeitliche Gliederung des Verständnisprozesses? Auf der anderen Seite wurde die Behauptung aufgestellt, dass das Verstehen neben der Wahrnehmung des Satzzeichens als amorpher Prozess einherlaufe; so etwa wie wenn man dabei Zahnschmerzen habe. Bei diesen „Alternativen“ fühlen wir das gleiche Unbehagen, durch die Art einer Fragestellung verursacht, die Worte und Verstehen scharf voneinander trennt. Wir müssen jenseits der Alternative von zeitlich gegliederten oder amorphen Verständnisprozess die primäre Frage aufwerfen: Ob es überhaupt ein Verstehen, losgelöst von dem Gebrauch des Satzzeichens gäbe; die Frage, ob das Verständnis überhaupt zeitlich dimensioniert sei, wie das Hören des Satzzeichens. Machen wir das an einem letzten Beispiel klar: Wir fragen jemanden: „Verstehst du das Wort Napoleon?“ Er antwortet mit ja. Wir fragen weiter: „Meinst du den Sieger von Austerlitz?“ Er bejaht wieder. Nun fragen wir: „Hast du das die ganze Zeit gemeint?“ Wir fühlen deutlich die Sinnlosigkeit dieser Frage. So stehen wir vor der Entscheidung: Ist das Verstehen eines Satzes in Form eines Zustandes in mir vorhanden? Oder nicht vielmehr in Form einer Disposition, einer Fähigkeit, die erlernt wird? Wenn wir jemanden fragen: „Kannst du Englisch?“, so meinen wir doch nicht etwa, ob das Englische in ihm zuständlich enthalten sei. „Englisch können“ ist keine Substanz, sondern die Fähigkeit, mit der englischen Sprache zu operieren. Die Frage: Verstehst du einen Satz? ist gleichbedeutend der: Kannst du mit ihm

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operieren? Kannst du ihn anwenden? Das Verstehen hat nichts mit einem Perzeptionsvorgang zu tun. Es ist nicht gegeben; es muss erlernt werden. Das Verstehen eines Wortes gleicht der Kenntnis der Bedeutung einer Schachfigur. Es ist die unsubstantielle Fähigkeit es anzuwenden, die erlernte Beherrschung der Spielregeln der Sprache.

15.3.4 IV. Gegen die Auffassung, dass das Verstehen eine höchst komplizierte Disposition ist, der man keine Dauer im Sinne eines Zustandes zusprechen kann, wurde folgender Einwand laut: Man müsse die psychologische Deskription des Vorganges des Verstehens, d. h. der Erlebnisse beim Auffassen eines noch unbekannten Satzes, von dem Verstandenhaben, d. h. von der Disposition des Operierens wohl unterscheiden. Die Disposition des Operierens mit gewissen Zeichen sei zugegeben kein seelischer Zustand, sie ist zeitlos, d. h. man hat sie eben jederzeit (nach dem Erlernt-haben). Dem „Erlebnis des Verstehens“ eines Satzes kann man ein Zeitmoment durchaus zusprechen. Denn wenn man z. B. eine logische Formel aufschreibt, so könne man doch das blitzartige Auftauchen des Kopierens ganz genau zeitlich fixieren. Bis zu der bestimmten Minute hat man es nicht kopiert und jetzt sei es klar geworden und von damals an, von jener logischen Stunde an beherrsche man es. Dazu antworteten wir, dass wir uns letzthin Mühe gaben, zu zeigen, was das Verstehen nicht ist. Wir wiederholten also: 1) Das Verstehen ist nicht das sinnliche Wahrnehmen gewisser Lautprozesse. Das war uns allen klar und wir sprachen nicht weiter darüber. Es ist die Sprache irreführend, indem sie von einem Vorgang spricht: Wenn, so sagten wir das Verstehen ein Prozess ist, dann fragten wir uns wie sieht denn dieser Vorgang aus? Ist er so strukturiert wie etwa das Blattlesen von Noten oder ist er mehr einem amorphen Gefühl, einer Stimmung gleich, die einen Vorgang begleitet? Wir erkennen diese ganze Disjunktion als irreführend. Wir sahen an der Hand unseres Beispiels: Verstehst du das Wort Napoleon, dass es sich hier überhaupt nicht um einen zeitlichen Ablauf handelt. Wir sind also auf einer falschen Fährte, wenn wir von einem Vorgang sprechen. Wir betonten demgegenüber, dass das Verstehen mit einer Disposition große Ähnlichkeit hat, etwa mit der Kenntnis der Differentialrechnung, oder des Englischkönnens u.s.f.. So weit waren unsere Untersuchungen in der vorletzten Stunde gediehen. Jetzt erhebt sich die Frage: Spielen sich nicht dennoch Vorgänge ab und sind nicht diese Vorgänge das Verstehen? Wir müssten nun alles wiederholen, was wir bisher gesagt haben. Doch wird uns das Beleuchten unseres Problems von einem anderen Aspekt vielleicht die Sache klarer machen.

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Wir erinnerten uns an Freges Meinung über unser Problem in seiner Kritik der formalen Auffassung der Mathematik. Er entwickelt dort zunächst folgende Auffassung: Er sagt „die Mathematik sei kein bloßes Spiel wie sonst irgendein Spiel. Sie unterscheide sich von den Spielen durch den Umstand, dass sie wahre Gedanken ausdrückt. Mit der Mathematik meine man ja etwas“. Nun tut Frege so, als gäbe es ein äußerliches Tun, ein Operieren mit Zeichen, dem man einen inneren Prozess des Verstehens gegenüberstellen könnte. Er sagt, das Wesentliche und Entscheidende sei im Bewusstsein, die Zeichen seien hierbei das Unwesentliche. Wir prüften zunächst diese Meinung: Ist es richtig, wenn wir sagen, die Zeichen in der Welt seien ein bloßes Verständigungsmittel; das würde eben so viel bedeuten, wie: Sind die Zeichen etwas rein Äußerliches in der Mathematik? Wir müssten das trotz mancherlei Einwänden verneinen. Ein Erfassen von mathematischen Sätzen in einer nicht diskursiven Form ist nicht der Fall. Lässt man auch die Zeichen beim Anschreiben weg (d.  h. schreibt man eben überhaupt nichts), so operiert man doch innerlich mit Zeichen, denn diese Zeichen sind Ausdruck gewisser Gedankenverknüpfungen, welche eben diese Zeichen ausmachen: etwa x3 für x*x*x n mal, u.s.f. Das Weglassen dieser Zeichen hieße das Weglassen der betreffenden Gedankenverknüpfungen, und es bliebe, täte man das, jetzt nichts übrig und nicht wie man geglaubt hat der erhabene, reine Gedanke. Der Einwand, der besagt, dass die Möglichkeit des Ausdruckes desselben Gedankens in verschiedenen Sprachen die Unabhängigkeit des reinen Denkens von den Zeichen bezeuge, wäre richtig, wenn sich das Verstehen in dem bloßen Lesen (sinnlichem Erfassen) der Worte erschöpfte. Das Verstehen kommt aber einem Einordnen in den ganzen Zusam­ menhang unseres Lebens gleich, entspricht also darin einer Disposition des Operierens mit dem Zeichen, gleichviel in welcher Sprache man den Gedanken nur ausdrücken mag; die Sprachen sind uns nur die verschriebenen Mittel hierzu. Nun wird uns auch klar, wie verschieden das Verstehen von dem Erleben gewisser Gefühle ist. Der am Anfang gemachte Einwand erscheint auch widerlegt, wenn man beachtet, wie es denn ist, wenn man versehentlich glaubt, einen Satz verstanden zu haben. Diese Täuschung beruht im Gewahrwerden, dass ein Stück der Art und Weise der Anwendung des besagten vermeintlich verstandenen Satzes fehlt. Wir fassten also nochmals zusammen: Nicht die Gefühle, die man beim Hören eines Satzes haben mag, sind das Verstehen, Verstehen eines Zeichens heißt vielmehr, mit diesem operieren zu können. Hierzu betrachteten wir ein Beispiel: In der Physik-Stunde würde folgender Satz gesagt werden: Das Licht besteht aus Wellen.

Alle Schüler haben diesen Satz gehört. Macht nun jenes Gehörthaben das Wesen dieses Satzes aus? Selbst wenn alle Schüler diesen Satz reproduzieren könnten, wäre dies kein Kriterium für das Verständnis. Hätte nun ein Schüler bei diesem Satz folgende Vorstellung: Das Licht breitet sich so wie Wasserwellen beim Hochwasser aus oder etwa so wie die kleinen Wellen, die beim Hineinwerfen eines Steines in einen ruhigen Teich entstehen u.s.f. Auch von diesem könnten wir nicht sagen, dass

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er den Satz verstanden hat. Wenn ein dritter Schüler logische Schlüsse von dem Satze aus ziehen könnte (etwa: das Licht ist kein Raum, ist keine Zeit, sondern besteht aus Wellen), so würden wir auch diese kein Verständnis zusprechen, denn es gibt ja auch rein äußerliches Operieren mit Sätzen, etwa so: das Licht besteht nicht entweder aus Wellen oder aus etwas anderem, sondern nur aus Wellen. Könnte uns aber ein Schüler angeben, was er beobachten müsste, um zu sagen dies oder jenes ist Licht, dann würden wir von seinem Verständnis überzeugt sein. Einen Satz verstanden zu haben heißt, einen prinzipiellen Weg angeben zu können, auf dem sich der Satz verifizieren lässt. In so einem Fall würden wir auch sagen, dass die Disposition des Operierens vorliegt. Nun wurde gefragt, ob es denn einen graduellen Unterschied des Verstehens gäbe und wenn es sich so verhielte, wann, das heißt bei welchem Grade Verständnis zugesprochen werden dürfe und wann nicht. Wir antworteten zunächst hinzu, dass die Frage uns einer übertriebenen Meinung von einer exakten, scharf umrissenen Bedeutung entstanden sein dürfte und erinnerten uns hierbei an Überlegungen, die wir im vorigen Semester über die Wortbedeutung gemacht haben: Wir sagten damals: „Begriffe haben keine scharfen Grenzen, deshalb muss man für wissenschaftliche Zwecke willkürlich Grenzen ziehen“. Dabei muss man unterscheiden zwischen Benennung und Bezeichnung, besser gesagt Charakterisierung, Kennzeichnung oder Deskription. Wenn ich sage, dies hier ist Herr X, so ist das eine Benennung, wenn ich aber sage, der älteste Einwohner von Wien, so ist das eine Charakterisierung. Diese Charakterisierung kann willkürlich sein und so kann es geschehen, dass historische Aussagen zu einer bloßen Tautologie werden wie folgendes Beispiel zeigt: Will ich unter Moses denjenigen Menschen verstehen, von dem alles das gilt, was die Bibel erzählt, nur dass er nicht Moses geheißen haben mag, so bleibt nur eine historische Feststellung übrig: dass Moses eben Moses geheißen hat, jede andere würde zu einer Tautologie führen. Man kann unter Moses denjenigen Menschen verstehen, den die ägyptische Königstochter aus dem Wasser gefischt hat, oder denjenigen, der auf Sinai ein Gesetz dem Volke gegeben hat u.s.f. Je nach der Definition werden nun andere nicht anschauliche Sätze zu Tautologien, d.  h. zu sinnlosen Sätzen. Also z. B. der Satz: Derjenige, der die Israeliten aus Ägypten geführt hat, hat die Israeliten aus Ägypten geführt. Die Frage, hat der leibliche Moses existiert oder nicht, ist nun relativ zu der Definition, die man von Moses gibt, zu beantworten. Wir entnehmen aber aus diesem Beispiel, dass der Sprachgebrauch sehr vage ist. Ebenso zeigt der Versuch, eine Definition der Wörter Sessel oder Tisch anzugeben, die Vagheit der Bedeutungen dieser Wörter. Nun könnte man etwa gegen diese Vagheiten protestieren und im Namen der Logik einen exakteren Sprachgebrauch fordern. Wir charakterisierten diese Stellungnahme als Dogmatismus und sagten, dass sie jedenfalls der Wirklichkeit

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nicht gerecht wird. Wir operieren eben in der alltäglichen Sprache mit vagen Wörtern, doch ist die Grammatik des Vagen durchaus keine vage Grammatik. Dies machten wir uns noch ein wenig deutlicher. Man hat die Sprache mit einem Spiel verglichen und zwar besteht die Analogie in der Tatsache, dass sowohl Spiel wie Sprache bestimmte Regeln haben. Wenn wir unsere Sprache etwa mit dem Schachspiel vergleichten, dann hätten wir einen schlechten Vergleich gemacht, denn die Regeln unserer Sprache sind nicht so exakt wie die Spielregeln des Schachspiels. Unsere Sprache ist eher einem laxeren Spiel zu vergleichen, etwa einem Tennistraining oder sonst etwa dgl. Denn wir verwenden unsere Worte nicht nur in einer Bedeutung. Das Suchen nach einer solchen ist irreführend, eben weil wir die Worte nicht eindeutig verwenden. (Nach dieser Meinung hätte also derje­ nige ein vollkommenes Wissen über „die Bedeutung“ des Wortes Napoleon, der eine vollständige Biographie von Ajaccio bis St. Helena schreiben könnte. In Wirklichkeit hat das Wort Napoleon viele Bedeutungen. (Dies haben wir uns im Falle Moses klargemacht.) Es ist seit altersher ein Fehler der Philosophen gewesen, an Stelle der Wirklichkeit ein künstlich vereinfachtes System zu setzen, also sozusagen Logik im luftleeren Raum zu betreiben. Dies sehen wir, wenn wir die verschiedenen Versuche betrachten, die seit Augustinus gemacht wurden, das Wort Zeit zu definieren. Es scheint, dass da nach einer Art Formel gesucht wird etwa wie: Zeit ist die Form des Geschehens, oder Zeit ist die Möglichkeit der Veränderung u.s.f. (Diese Bestrebungen gehen vielleicht von der Meinung aus, dass das Verstehen eines Wortes das sinnliche Wahrnehmen eines Zeichens ist.) Das Wort „Zeit“ verstehen gleicht hingegen sehr stark dem Verständnis z.  B. der Bedeutung des Schachkönigs, d. h. dem Verständnis des ganzen Schachbuches im Konvergenzpunkt, im Zusammenlaufen aller Spielregeln, wenn wir einen Zug mit einem König machen. Nachdem wir uns also die Beziehung zwischen dem Wort und seiner Bedeutung etwas klar gemacht hatten, gingen wir einen Schritt weiter in der Beantwortung, der oben genannten Frage (sie lautete: Gibt es einen graduellen Unterschied des Verstehens und, wenn dies sich so verhält, bei welchem Grad soll man Verständnis zuschreiben und wann nicht). Wenn wir das Wort Gotik und seine Verwendung betrachten, so unterscheiden wir oberflächlich zweierlei Bedeutungen. Und zwar eine ahistorische – rein architektonische – und eine historische. Jemand, der unsere Untersuchungen über die schwankende Bedeutung, d. h. über deren Vielzahl nicht kennt, könnte vorschlagen, für Gotik z. B. diejenige Bedeutung als „die Bedeutung“ zu erklären, welche die allesumfassende wäre. Demgegenüber betonten wir: Die Begrenzung der Bedeutung ist individuell und kann höchstens von wissenschaftlich-­ praktischen Gesichtspunkten beeinflusst werden. Vom Nichtverstehen zum Verstehen gibt es keinen Übergang, wie man etwa auf Grund der Meinung von der umfassendsten Bedeutung anzunehmen geneigt wäre. Nicht eine umfassende Bedeutung eines Wortes gibt es, sondern deren verschiedene. Bisher waren wir bemüht, die Vagheit der Sprache darzustellen. Wir haben absicht­lich nur diese eine Seite behandelt. Wir sind uns aber auch bewusst, dass es innerhalb des schwankenden Spiels der Sprache ganz bestimmte Bedeutungen gibt.

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Man darf nicht glauben, dass die Regeln der Grammatik vage wären (dies betonten wir auch oben), auch nicht, dass sie etwas Äußerliches sind. In den Regeln der Grammatik konstruieren wir den Begriff. Erst wenn wir sie kennen, gewinnen wir einen Einblick in das Reich der Begriffe. Der Begriff selbst erschöpft sich in der Angabe der Regeln seiner Anwendung.

15.3.5 V. Wir erinnerten uns an eine schon geäußerte Frage: Muss man sich nicht mit dem Erleben des Verstehens auch beschäftigen, wenn man vom Verstehen spricht? Zur Klärung dieser Frage betrachteten wir Freges Stellungnahme in seiner Kritik der formalen Mathematik. Frege meint dort, dass ein bloß formales Spiel mit Zeichen nicht die Mathematik ausmache, wesentlich in der Mathematik sei, dass sie Gedanken ausdrücke. Die Zeichen seien die bloße Fassade, und hinter ihnen stehe erst der Sinn; sie seien bloß das äußere Mittel, um den Sinn zu erfassen. Frege will gewissermaßen sagen, wenn wir das bloß äußerliche Tun beschreiben, so ist das noch nicht das Wesen (z. B. die Kreidestriche sind nicht die Gleichung). Es entsteht auf diese Art ein Dualismus, man will streng zwischen Denken und Zeichen unterscheiden. Nun fragten wir, ob dieser Dualismus den Tatsachen gerecht wird. Welcher Unterschied besteht etwa zwischen dem Verstehen eines Menschen, der die Regeln der Mathematik „papageienmässig“ anwendet und einem, der sie nach Freges Auffassung denkend anwendet? Hierauf wurde erwidert, dass der Eine nur Eingelerntes sagen, der Andere aber Neues erschließen könne. Wenn nun die Zeichen das unwesentliche, die Fassade der Mathematik sind, warum sprechen wir immer von ihnen, warum sprechen wir nicht einfach vom Denkvorgang? Wenn es wesentlich ist, was man dabei denkt, so fragen wir uns, was denkt man eben dabei? Was denken wir uns z. B. unter einem Gleichheitszeichen? Darauf erhalten wir nicht Antworten von psychologischem Inhalt, wie dies der Fall sein müsste, wenn Gedanken als solche beschrieben werden würden. Es wird vielmehr eine Reihe von gleichwertigen Transformationen angegeben. Was hat man also mit einer solchen Antwort getan? Erstens hat man die Regeln für die Verknüpfung der Zeichen in der Arithmetik angegeben. Zweitens hat man über das System der Arithmetik hinaus das Zeichen mit einem weiteren System, der Wortsprache, verknüpft. Wenn man nun einem Menschen diese Dinge rein äußerlich beibrächte, fehlt da noch das Denken? Der Mensch, der die Mathematik richtig verstanden hat, der könne schöpferisch damit umgehen, so sagte man, der andere hingegen könne dies nur reproduktiv tun. Wir sehen nach, ob die Anwendung der Worte schöpferisch und reproduktiv in unserem Fall richtig ist. Wenn man sich über das Verständnis eines mathematischen

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Satzes vergewissern will, lässt man den Betreffenden meist eine sogenannte eingekleidete Aufgabe rechnen. Können wir dann sagen, dass einer, der dies kann, die Mathematik schöpferisch beherrsche? Wohl nicht. Das Wort schöpferisch wird vielmehr in dem folgenden Fall richtig angewendet sein: Etwa wenn ein Kind von selbst darauf käme, das Dezimalsystem zu bilden. Könnten wir aber einem Menschen, der dies und ähnliches nicht kann, ein Verständnis der Mathematik absprechen? Wir sehen hier, dass die Unterscheidung schöpferisch  – reproduktiv nicht richtig angewendet ist, mithin der ganze Dualismus hinfällig ist. Es ist möglich, dass man zu dieser falschen Annahme: äußeres Zeichen, inneres Denken, aus der Tatsache der Bedeutungslosigkeit, d. h. der Variabilität der Form des Zeichens verleitet worden ist. Welche äußerliche Gestalt der König im Schachspiel hat, ist gleichgültig. Er wird durch die Regeln bestimmt, die von ihm gelten. Die Bedeutung eines Zeichens ist dessen logischer Ort, der durch die Regeln, die von ihm gelten, bestimmt wird. Nachdem wir also erkannt haben, dass jener Dualismus falsch ist, fragten wir uns, was denn das Berechtigte an Freges Kritik der formalen Auffassung in der Mathematik ist. Die Mathematik ist nicht ein bloßer Bestand von Formeln, wir müssen unterscheiden: 1) Die formale Auffassung, die Angabe der Axiome, bei Fragen über die Bedeutung der Zeichen. 2) Die Verbindung der mathematischen Zeichen mit der Wortsprache. Diesen zweiten Punkt übersieht die formale Richtung. Wir übersetzen also, außer dem Gebrauch innerhalb des Systems der Mathematik, z. B das Gleichheitszeichen in die Wortsprache, d. h. man stellt die Regeln der Arithmetik in eine unpassende Umgebung hinein. Zur Klärung des Begriffes Zeichen wurde gefragt, ob es nicht ein wortloses Denken gibt. Wir bejahten diese Frage. Wenn wir wortlos denken, haben wir doch eine Art Vorstellung von dem, was wir denken. Art und Form ist hierbei das Unwesentliche, wesentlich ist aber, dass wir sie so verwenden, wie etwa die Figuren des Schachspiels, d.  h. dass von ihnen Regeln gelten. Eine Vorstellung kann ­entweder als psychologisches Faktum behandelt werden, dann ist sie Gegenstand der Psychologie oder man vernachlässigt ihre wirkliche Gestalt und nimmt diese nur als Symbol an für die Regeln, die von diesen gelten, dann ist sie Gegenstand der Logik. Im Prinzip aber ändert sich beim wortlosen Denken nichts in der Art des Bezeichnens. Wir sehen also, wie immer die Vorstellung beschaffen sein mag, es ist dies für die Logik, die in der Vorstellung nur ein Symbol sieht, gleichgültig. Ein Beispiel wäre folgendes: Wenn wir ein Dreieck zeichnen, so wissen wir, dass die Winkelsumme 180° sein muss. Könnten wir, im Falle das Ergebnis einer empirischen ­Winkelsumme 179° wäre, sagen, dass der Satz von der Winkelsumme falsch ist? Wir sehen daraus, dass die Linien in der Geometrie auch Symbole sind, deren Aussehen uns ziemlich gleich bleibt und von denen nur die Regeln wesentlich sind.

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15.3.6 VI. Unser Hauptinteresse bei der Frage: „Ist das Verstehen ein psychischer Zustand oder ist es vielmehr so, dass das Verstehen eine Art Disposition des Operierenkönnens mit gewissen Zeichen ist usw.“ galt der Klarierung des Verhältnisses zwischen Logik und Psychologie, wenn wir vom Verstehen reden. Auf die Frage, was das Studium der Psychologie zur Aufklärung der Logik beitragen könnte, antworteten wir, dass diese Frage uns eben so anmutet, wie die Frage: „Was könnte das Studium der Chemie des Holzes zur Theorie des Schachspiels beitragen?“ Wir sehen aus dieser Gegenüberstellung, dass uns in der Logik lediglich die Regeln, die Gesetze interessieren, wie wir Symbole miteinander verknüpfen. Dies hat man auch zum Ausdruck gehabt, als man sagte, die Logik sei normativ, im Gegensatz zu einer Tatsachenwissenschaft. Was heißt es nun, dass die Logik eine normative Wissenschaft sei? Man will damit jedenfalls sagen, dass die Logik keine eigentliche Wissenschaft sei, ihre Aufgabe ist es nicht, die Dinge in ihrer zeitlichen Auseinanderfolge oder in ihren Kausalzusammenhängen zu beschreiben, sondern die Logik hat es mit Regeln zu tun. (Der Sinn ist erschöpft in der Gesamtheit der Regeln.) Diese Regeln kann man nun verschieden nennen, etwa Spielregeln oder Regeln des Kalküls, oder sonst wie. Wichtig für die Art unserer Einstellung, dass wir in der Logik nur mit Normen in diesem Sinn zu tun haben. Was man Begriff nennt, oder Sinn eines Satzes, wird immer gegeben durch die Regeln. Das Denken, Verstehen, Meinen etc. ist immer nur zu betrachten unter dem Aspekt von Normen und Regeln. Wenn wir bisher von einem Spiel sprachen, so ist dies nicht so aufzufassen, als wollten wir die Sprache in eine übergeordnete Kategorie einordnen, die etwa die der Spiele wäre. Dass die Sprache kein Spiel im Sinne von Verlieren und Gewinnen ist, ist offenbar. Der Begriff der Sprache wird hier auch nicht scharf umgrenzt, er reicht sehr weit. Gemeint ist folgendes: In der Sprache gelten Regeln (diese sind verzeichnet in der Grammatik). Diese Regeln vergleichen wir mit den Regeln eines Spieles. Wenn wir von einer Sprache als von einem Spiele reden, so konstruieren wir zum besseren Verständnis der Sachlage ein Modell, ganz so wie Boltzmann mechanische Modelle für komplizierte physikalische Geschehnisse konstruierte. Dieses Modell dient zu einer genauen Sonderung des Tatbestandes, also zu dessen Illustration, mehr kann und will es nicht sein. Es ist also nur bis zu einer gewissen Grade berechtigt. Das wird auch klar, wenn wir bedenken, welches Interesse wir an diesem Modell haben. Wir wollen nicht aus irgendeinem Grund ein verkleinertes, bis ins letzte getreue Abbild des Tatbestandes im Sinne eines Brückenmodells, z.  B., sondern wir wollen vermittels unseres Modells gewisse Probleme lösen. In unserem Fall verhält es sich folgendermaßen: Wir lehnen es ab, zu definieren, was eigentlich ein Spiel ist; eine Exaktheit hierin ist für unsere Zwecke nicht nötig und uns gleichgültig. Wir stellen bloß die Regeln der logischen Grammatik in Analogie zu den Regeln eines Spieles und sehen dabei, dass da bis zu einem gewissen Grade eine Ähnlichkeit vorhanden ist; hiermit haben wir uns die Verhältnisse, wie sie bei der Sprache liegen, etwas klarer gemacht.

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Wir brachten das Bild vom vagen Spiel. Halb planlos werfen die Spieler die Bälle einander zu. Dem entspricht die Tatsache, dass die Wörter in der Sprache keine scharf umrissene Bedeutung haben. Die Spieler halten sich nicht nach Regeln, die man aufstellen könnte. Wir wollen nicht prophezeien, was eintreten würde, wenn etwas Bestimmtes geschähe. Auch wollen wir kein Ideal des Spieles (so sollt ihr sprechen) aufstellen, also keine Reformbewegung der Sprache sein. Unsere Absicht ist vielmehr diese: Sollte unter den Spielern ein Streit ausbrechen über die Regeln, nach denen sie spielen, dann halten wir ihnen ein Regelverzeichnis vor und fragen, ob sie das oder jenes annehmen. Mit der Annahme einer bestimmten Regel ist auch jener Streit geschlichtet. Ebenso ist es nun in der Sprache. Sollte ein Streit ausbrechen über die Regeln, nach denen wir sprechen und denken, so ist es nützlich zu fragen, zu welchen Regeln man sich bekennen will. Hat man zu sich zu einer bestimmten Regel bekannt, dann ist jener Streit aus der Welt geschafft. Dies wird an folgendem Beispiel klar: Wir fragten, ob eine Aussage über die Zukunft heute schon wahr oder falsch ist. Ist ein Ereignis, das morgen eintreffen wird, heute wahr oder falsch? (Siehe Protokoll vom Wintersemester.) Wir haben damals nicht für eine Meinung Partei ergriffen, sondern haben nachgeschaut, welche Regeln von den Worten wahr und falsch gelten. Wir fanden, dass man „es ist wahr“ vor jeder Behauptung weglassen kann und folglich der Satz „es ist heute wahr, dass es morgen regnen wird“, der in dieser äußeren Form scheinbar sinnvoll ist, nach der erlaubten Streichung von „es ist wahr“ sinnlos wird. Wir erhalten nämlich: „Heute wird es morgen regnen“. Wir sehen also, dass die Fragestellung selbst unsinnig ist. Dies ist ein Muster für die Lösung philosophischer Fragen. Die Lösung einer philosophischen Frage besteht nicht darin, dass wir zum Schlusse irgendeine Behauptung aufstellen, sondern wir sehen in jeder dogmatischen Behauptung nur eine Methode, um unseren Gedanken zu erklären. So oft also beunruhigende Fragen auftauchen, ­greifen wir nach unserem Regelverzeichnis. Man sieht also, dass Fragen, die auf „Beunruhigung“ beruhen, nicht sachlich, d. h durch Eingehen auf ihren Inhalt und Partei-­Ergreifen zu lösen sind, sondern dass es vielmehr nötig ist, sie durch methodische Kritik zu entwirren. Es gehört also gar nicht in den Stil unserer Auffassung, etwas zu behaupten, d. h irgendwelche Thesen aufzustellen. Was wir bei der Lösung philosophischer Fragen tun, ist lediglich das Betreiben einer gewissen Methode. Nun könnte die Meinung auftauchen, dass wir uns um den Gegenstand selbst gar nicht kümmerten (also in unserem Fall, ob Aussagen über die Zukunft heute wahr oder falsch sind), und nur unsere Sorge wäre, wie sich einer ausdrückt. Hierauf ist zu sagen, dass unserer Meinung nach die Philosophie keine bloße Sammlung von Spielregeln ist. Wenn wir uns um die Regeln der Anwendung kümmern, so geschieht dies deshalb, weil wir wissen, dass den Gegenstand kennen nichts anderes bedeutet, als die Regeln kennen, die von ihm gelten. Die Bedeutung der Worte wahr und falsch erschöpft sich in der Angabe aller Regeln, die von den Wahrheitsfunktionen gelten.

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15.3.7 VII. Die Frage, die wir behandelten lautete: „Inwiefern sind Bejahen und Verneinen seelische Vorgänge?“ Wir hatten zu untersuchen, was am Bejahen und Verneinen der psychische Prozess ist und was rein logisch dabei ist. Unsere Einstellung zur Frage, was das Studium der Psychologie zur Aufklärung der logischen Gesetze leisten könne, haben wir schon letzthin charakterisiert, indem wir sagten, dass dies uns nicht weiter bringen würde, als analog das Studium der Chemie des Holzes etwas zum Verständnis der Schachregeln beitragen könnte. Wir betonen damit, dass wir lediglich den Kalkül studieren wollen. Wenn wir einen Satz bejahen oder ihn verneinen, spielen sich in uns gewisse Vorgänge ab. Etwa wenn ich sage: „Dieses Buch gehört nicht mir“ oder „das Quadrat einer geraden Zahl ist doch nicht ungerade“. Wir fragten uns, ob es nicht etwas wie ein Verneinungsgefühl gibt. Und wenn es das gibt, obwohl der Unterschied dieser seelischen Vorgänge das Wesentliche beim Bejahen und Verneinen ist, oder ob etwas anderes dafür verantwortlich gemacht werden müsste. Jedenfalls sind die Vorgänge in uns beim Anhören des Wortes nicht verschieden. Zum Beispiel, 2+2≠5 und „dieses Buch gehört nicht mir“. Demnach hätte, wenn die Verneinung ihre Bedeutung von den seelischen Vorgängen bezöge, das Wort nicht verschiedene Bedeutung. Es ist klar, es kommt darauf an, in welchem Sinn man die Verneinung gebraucht. Gebraucht man sie psychologisch, d. h. nichts anderes als man macht ihre Bedeutung von den Gefühlen abhängig, dann hat sie verschiedene Bedeutungen. Gebraucht man sie logisch, dann gibt es nur eine Bedeutung, denn es ist gleichgültig, welchen Satz auch immer ich z. B. zweimal verneine, es bleibt doch stets der gleiche Satz. Diese Untersuchungen sind ganz einfach. Weit schwieriger ist es aber, den richtigen Weg zu gehen, wenn wir unsere Untersuchungen auf die logischen Schlussgesetze ausdehnen. J.  St. Mill behauptete, dass sie Sätze der Logik nur deshalb wahr seien, weil wir sehr viele Beobachtungen ihrer Wahrheit gemacht hätten. Es sei unserem Bewusstsein eben nicht möglich, anders als die logischen Gesetze es vorschreiben zu denken, also sind die logischen Gesetze die Naturgesetze des Denkens, und ihre Geltung sei die der kausalen Gesetze. Dieser Meinung liegt folgende Auffassung  – es ist die des Psychologismus  – zugrunde. Man sagte: Denken ist ein seelischer Vorgang: Die Psychologie studiert die seelischen Vorgänge: Also studiert die Psychologie die Denkgesetze. Gegen diese Auffassung trat Husserl in seinen logischen Untersuchungen auf. Doch schon früher hatte dies Frege getan. Er bringt dies ungefähr so zum Ausdruck: Würden Wesen gefunden werden, deren Denken anderen Gesetzen gehorcht als denen der Logik, so würde ich sagen, hier haben wir eine neue Form von Verrücktheit vor uns. Wir analysieren die Behauptungen des Psychologismus wie folgt: Wenn wir z. B. den in der Logik so üblichen Schluss ziehen, Alle Menschen sind sterblich. Qajus ist ein Mensch. Also ist Qajus sterblich.

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so fühlen wir gewissermaßen einen Zwang, diesen Schluss als evident anzuerkennen. Jetzt könnte die Frage auftauchen, ob dieser Zwang begründet ist oder nicht. Somit scheint es hier als ob es sich um Psychologie handelte. Solche Fälle einer inneren Nötigung haben wir aber nicht nur bei logischen Schlüssen. Oft sind wir z. B. genötigt, an einen vergessenen Namen zu denken, an dem uns sonst gar nicht viel liegt, und wir finden keine Ruhe, bevor uns der Name nicht einfällt. Oder wir hören konstant eine Melodie, die nicht von uns lassen will. Oder wir sind genötigt, durch einen krankhaften Denkzwang ein Problem zu verfolgen, an dem uns gar nichts liegt usw. Der unfehlbare Zwang einer bestimmten Assoziationsreihe gehört auch hierher. Wir fragten uns: Ist z. B. diese assoziative Verkettung gewisser Vorstellungen die logische Voraussetzung für etwas anderes, was nach ihr kommt? Es ist klar, dass da ein Unterschied besteht. Abgesehen davon würden die logischen Gesetze dann nur so weit reichen, als es eben solche Gefühle gibt. (Zwang, Nötigung, Evidenz etc.) Sie hätten also ganz den Charakter der Gesetze der Assoziation. Wir sehen sofort, dass dieser nicht der Charakter der logischen Gesetze sein kann. Sind denn die Regeln des Schachspiels ungültig, wenn jemand einen falschen Schachzug macht? Konsequenterweise müsste man auch für wahr halten, dass die Gesetze der Logik durch einen Verstoß gegen sie widerlegt würden. Als wir oben fragten, ob die assoziative Verkettung gewisser Vorstellungen die logische Voraussetzung für etwas sei, was nach ihr kommt, wurden wir uns eines Unterschiedes bewusst. Die Nichtachtung dieses Unterschiedes brachte nun eine verhängnisvolle Verwechslung mit sich. Nämlich die Verwechslung von Ursache und Grund. Wir machten uns diesen Unterschied klar: Es schreibe z. B. jemand Gleichungen auf. Nun fragen wir ihn: „Warum schreibst du das?“ Jetzt können zweierlei Antworten gegeben werden. Entweder er sagt: „Ich habe gewisse Impulse im Hirnrinde, die bestimmte Bewegungen auslösen.“ Dann hätte er die Ursache angegeben. Oder er sagt: „Diese Gleichung folgt aus dieser, deshalb schreib ich sie her.“ Dann hätte er den Grund angegeben. Im Allgemeinen wird der Befragte sich über die Ursache nicht im Klaren sein, und sie nicht zur Antwort geben. Ein Beobachter könnte das viel besser. Den Grund hingegen weiß nur der Befragte allein. Wenn wir seiner Tätigkeit zuschauen, können wir zwar vermuten, dass er sich von gewissen Regeln leiten lässt, wissen können wir es aber ohne Befragen nie. Wir formulierten also: Grund und Ursache unterscheiden sich durch die verschiedene Art der Verifikation. Die Ursache ist auf hypothetisch-­ natur­ wissenschaftlichem Wege zu erfahren, der Grund nur als Antwort auf eine Frage. Eine Verwechslung dieser zwei Relationen liegt dem Psychologismus zugrunde. Denn das Denken ist wohl ein seelischer Vorgang, so lange man rein psychologisch die Denkgesetze beschreibt, sobald man aber den Kalkül betrachtet, sieht man, dass da Regeln walten, für die die seelischen Vorgänge nur Mittel, nur Angriffspunkt sind. Auf die Frage, wie man denkt, glaubt man nun durch die Angabe der Mittel zur Klarheit zu kommen. Man übersieht hierbei die oben erwähnten Unterschiede. Die Regeln nach denen man sich in der Logik richtet, sind nicht die Ursache, dass man sich so verhält, sondern die Folge davon. Wir unterscheiden eine Frage nach den

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Ursachen und eine Frage nach der Berechtigung. Das logische Schließen in der Art unserer Betrachtung hat mit den Ursachen nichts zu tun. (Wir wissen immer, dass die Ursache eines Schachzugs angeben, etwas anderes bedeutet, als den Zug rechtfertigen.) Wir wiesen noch darauf hin, dass bei der Beurteilung der logischen Gesetze (innerhalb der Sphäre des Psychologismus) noch folgende Verwechslung vorkam: Man sagte, die logischen Gesetze seien Imperative, wie alle Imperative der Ethik; und in diesem Sinne seien sie ein Maßstab, mit dem man Richtiges vom Falschen unterscheidet. Anschließend an diese Meinung bildete man auch die Freiheit des Wahren, Schönen und Guten. Es liegt also eine Verwechslung zwischen einem Naturgesetz (Synthese) und einer Norm zugrunde. Die logischen Gesetze sind nicht ewige Tafeln, sondern Kriterien, nach denen wir wahr und falsch unterscheiden. Alle diese Verwechslungen sind psychologisch gesprochen durch die Sprache bedingt. Folge heißt sowohl Ursache wie logischer Grund: Mit „warum“ fragen wir nach Ursache und Grund. Mit „weil“ beantworten wir die Frage nach beiden. Die Worte „Regel“ und „soll“ verhalten sich ebenso schwankend. Als wir sagten, dass das Verstehen kein zeitlicher Prozess sei, sondern dass das Verstehen in Form einer Disposition vorhanden ist, haben wir übersehen, dass das Wort Disposition zwei Bedeutungen habe. Wenn ich sage: blondhaarige, blauäugige Menschen haben die Disposition zu Lungenleiden, oder schwarzhaarige, dunkelhäutige Menschen haben die Disposition zu Gallenleiden, so hat das Wort Disposition hier eine andere Bedeutung als z. B. dort wo wir von Englisch-Können sprechen. Wir unterscheiden also einen konstitutionellen Sinn des Wortes Disposition und ein sich nach Regeln richten können. Wichtig für unsere Bedeutung des Wortes Disposition ist, dass man sie durch Erlernen erwerben kann. Disposition ist hier nicht etwas kausales, wie bei der körperlichen Konstitution, sondern etwas ganz anderes, ein Anwenden-Können von gewissen erlernten Regeln. Sie ist der Grund für das Anwenden-Können in unserem Falle, im Falle der Konstitution die Ursache. Wenn wir hier von Regeln reden, die wir unabhängig von psychischen Vorgängen betrachten, so leugnen wir damit nicht, dass sich beim Verstehen eines Satzes gewisse Vorgänge in uns abspielen, wir sagen nur, dass der Gefühlston für das Verstehen gleichgültig ist. Psychische Vorstellungen, Gefühle etc. sind für unsere Regeln nur der Angriffspunkt, die Vorstellungen selbst können wechseln. (Die Art des Symbols ist gleichgültig. Wesentlich für uns ist einzig ihre Verwendung.) Aus der Auffassung, dass für das Verstehen psychische Vorgänge maßgebend wären, lassen sich manche Folgerungen ziehen, die die Unhaltbarkeit dieser Auffassung zeigen. Vertreter dieser Meinung sprechen von einem Akte des Erfassens beim Verstehen; dieser richte sich auf den Begriff und durch diesen Akt bemächtigen wir uns der Bedeutung. Jeder Bedeutung wäre also ein solcher Vorgang, ein Akt des Erfassens korrelativ. Wie würde es sich verhalten, wenn die Seele mehr Akte des Erfassens hervorbrächte, als es Worte in der Sprache gibt? Erfindet sie dann neue Worte? Man hat auch die Fähigkeit Worte zu verstehen, der Fähigkeit Töne zu

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unterscheiden, gleichgesetzt und sprach von einer „Seelentaubheit“ für die Bedeutung gewisser Worte. Die Verkehrtheit dieser Denkweise leuchtet ein, wenn wir uns vor Augen halten, wie es wäre, wenn z. B. jemand die Bedeutung der Negation nicht verstünde. Dem gegenüber betonten wir, dass die Bedeutung der Wörter etwas erlernbares ist, die der Töne hingegen nicht. Als Beleg für diese Meinung von der Erlernbarkeit der Sprache betrachteten wir folgendes Beispiel: Wie verhält es sich, wenn man etwas nicht denken kann? Wenn ich sage: „der Ton c ist grün“, kann man für die Nicht-Denkbarkeit dieses Satzes wieder irgendein Gefühl der inneren Nötigung angeben oder muss man sich da nicht auf einen anderen Rechtsgrund berufen? Die Wortzusammenstellung „der Ton c ist grün“ ist jedenfalls unsinnig und müsste von der Grammatik verboten sein. Nun entsteht aber die Frage: ist diese Wortzusammenstellung verboten? Weil sie Unsinn ist, oder ist sie Unsinn, weil sie verboten ist? Anfangs wäre man geneigt, ersteres anzunehmen, doch wird man, sobald man sich die Frage stellt: „Woher wissen wir denn, dass es Unsinn ist?“, nicht umhin können, sich zum zweiten Teil der Disjunktion zu bekennen. Denn die Frage, ob es Unsinn ist, muss vorher entschieden werden und dies kann nur auf Grund der Regeln der Grammatik erfolgen. Dies wird klar, wenn man betrachtet, welcher Art das Nicht-Denkenkönnen hier ist. Die Schwierigkeit entspricht der Schwierigkeit beim Versuch, sich eine gerade Linie vorzustellen, die durch drei beliebige Punkte der Szene geht. Es geht dies definitionsgemäß nicht. Das Nicht-Verstehenkönnen läuft also nicht auf eine psychische Unfähigkeit hinaus, sondern auf Regelwidrigkeit. Wir sehen, es sind die Regeln der Grammatik nach denen wir uns richten und diese sind nicht angeboren, sondern erlernbar. Verständnis gleicht einer Disposition. Es wurde eingewendet, dass vor der Disposition, als dem Kalkül noch unbedingt eine andere vorhanden sein muss, nämlich die, den Kalkül zu begreifen. Wir bejahten dies mit dem Bemerken, dass es sich um eine konstitutionelle Disposition handelt, die durch Aufmerksamkeit, Zuhören, Unterscheidbarkeit, Erinnerungsvermögen etc. bestimmt wird; also Verständnis, Intelligenz.

15.3.8 IX. Unsere Aufmerksamkeit galt diesmal dem Einwand gegen unsere Auffassung vom Verständnis, der besagt, dass beim Ringen nach Worten, wenn man einen Satz noch nicht ausgesprochen hat, und dies eben tun will, dem Aussprechen eine Phase wortund vorstellungsfreier Intention vorangeht. Wir hatten nun zu entscheiden, ob dieser Einwand gegen diese Auffassung vom Verständnis stichhältig ist. Die erste Frage war diese: Ist der Gedanke während dieser Phase schon klar? Wir erinnerten uns an einige Situationen, wobei wir uns fragten, ob die betreffenden Vorgänge Ähnlichkeit mit dem Vorschweben eines Gedankens haben. Etwa wenn

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wir eine Gleichung vor uns haben, und eine Richtung in der die Lösung gehen wird, vorschwebt, oder wenn uns beim Schachspiel der Gang der Partie vorschwebt, ohne dass wir genau angeben können, wie sich die Partie entwickeln wird. Man hat so etwas wie ein Richtungsgefühl, man sieht die ersten Schritte. Wenn man aber einen solchen Gefühlsplan hat, hat man die Lösung noch nicht gefunden, denn das Ausführen selbst ist etwas ganz anderes. Wir fragten uns, ob es sich dabei so verhält, dass die Lösung schon im Kopfe bereit ist und dass das Ausführen etwas mechanisches wäre. Sowohl die erstere, wie die letztere Situation wäre möglich. Im letzteren Fall hätte man die Lösung schon gefunden, sie wäre schon eindeutig ausgeführt. Im ersteren Fall hätten wir schon ein gewisses Vertrautheitsgefühl, die Lösung selbst hat man aber noch nicht. Wie verhält es sich nun, wenn uns ein Gedanke vorschwebt? Eine sprachliche Analogie dürfte uns bei der Beurteilung in die Irre führen. Der Vorgang gleicht nämlich nicht dem Sehen eines Bildes, das man dann zu kopieren hätte. Es liegt nämlich tatsächlich diesem Vorgang kein Bild zugrunde. Unsere Sprache suggeriert uns aber diese Auffassung von der Nachzeichnung, indem sie von einem Vorschweben spricht, und damit doch dasjenige was vorschwebt von demjenigen dem es vorschwebt trennt. Dem ist aber nicht so. Es erweist sich hier, dass die Sprache nicht eine mehr äußerliche Zutat ist. Der sprachliche Ausdruck selbst gibt dem Gedanken erst Dasein. Das Ringen nach Worten ist ein Beleg, für die Unklarheit des Gedankens. Ein Vergleich des noch nicht klaren Gedankens mit dem sprachlichen Ausdruck kann aber trotzdem wohl möglich sein. Unter Ahnung des Gedankens ist dann jedes Form-, Vertrautheits- und Richtungsgefühl zu verstehen. Es verhält sich also nicht so wie bei unserem Beispiel, wo wir die Lösung des mathematischen Problems fertig im Kopfe hatten und das Aufschreiben eine mecha­ nische Angelegenheit war. Die Ahnung des Gedankens ist nicht der Gedanke selbst. Nur wenn man den Satz formuliert hat, hat man ihn gedacht. Man könnte nun noch fragen, ob das Denkschema, also alles was wir unter Ahnung des Gedankens verstanden haben, vorstellungsgemäß gegeben ist oder nicht. Die Beantwortung dieser Frage ist eine Angelegenheit der Psychologie, für unsere Betrachtungen irrelevant. Wir sagten: Nur wenn man den Satz formuliert hat, hat man ihn gedacht. Wenn man jemandem sagen möchte: „Bei der Votivkirche werden wir uns morgen treffen“ und es fällt uns der Name der Kirche nicht ein, wir haben aber dennoch eine visuelle Vorstellung von ihr, können wir da sagen, dass wir den Gedanken nicht gedacht haben? So eng ist unser Terminus „formulieren“ nicht zu fassen. Wir wissen ja, dass es ein Denken gibt, dass sich in Vorstellungen bewegt; diese Vorstellungen werden dann wie Symbole behandelt. Gegenüber unserer früheren Klarlegung des Ausdruckes „Vorschweben“ für jene vorstellungsfreie Phase, für die dieser sprachliche Ausdruck irreführend ist, betrachten wir einen Fall, für den das Wort „Vorschweben“ dem allgemeinen Sprachgebrauch nach gerechtfertigt ist und zu keinen falschen Vorstellungen Anlass gibt.

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Wenn wir einmal ein Zitat gehört haben, uns nicht mehr genau daran erinnern, und es gerne sagen möchten, so probieren wir, ob dieses oder jenes Wort an Stelle des vergessenen passt. Hier schwebt uns wirklich etwas vor, wir können, was da verglichen wird, und das, womit es verglichen wird, unterscheiden. Analog verhält es sich mit Formen, von Plastiken, nach vorschwebendem Vorbilde. Anschließend an diesen Gedankengang kamen wir auf die Frage der Übersetzbarkeit und Unübersetzbarkeit eines sprachlichen Ausdruckes. Hier wäre zu fragen, ob es nur eine, oder mehrere Grammatiken gibt. Eher das Erste, denn die scheinbar vielen Grammatiken ergänzen sich zu einer. Jedenfalls haben wir erkannt, dass die Sprache kein bloßes Kleid für den Gedanken ist, sondern dass ein viel engerer Zusammenhang besteht. Wir könnten dies so formulieren: Der Gedanke schwebt im Medium der Sprache, ohne dieses Medium kann der Gedanke nicht sein. Ein Gleichnis kann dieses Verhältnis klar machen: Wir vergleichen das Seelenleben den Vorgängen am Bord eines Schiffes auf hoher See. Es kann sich hier nun allerlei zutragen: Meuterei, Aufstand, Totschlag. Wenn nun die Flaggen, die zum Signalisieren dienen, auf dem Schiffe fehlen, dann erhielte die übrige Welt keine Nachricht von den Vorgängen an Bord. So ist es aber mit der Sprache nicht. Wenn man keine Sprache hat, dann lebt man in einer anderen Welt. Die Frage, ob ein Wesen ohne Sprache überhaupt einen Wunsch haben könnte, dürfte verneinend entschieden werden.

15.3.9 Worin besteht das, was man „Denken“ „Meinen“ „Intention“ nennt? (Fortsetzung vom SommerSemester 1932) Wir wollten hauptsächlich die Auffassung der „klassischen“ Psychologie Brentanos zurückweisen. Brentano behauptet, dass das Psychische durch das Merkmal des „Intentionalen“ ausgezeichnet ist (d. h. wenn man glaubt, glaubt man etwas, wenn man liebt, liebt man etwas, etc.). Also alle psychischen Vorgänge hätten die Eigenschaft auf etwas gerichtet zu sein, etwas zu meinen, etwas zu intendieren. Brentano bezeichnet das Psychische als dasjenige, das durch das Merkmal der „intentionalen Inexistenz“ ausgezeichnet ist. – Diese Auffassung Brentanos ist die Grundlage der modernen Philosophie geworden und wir haben uns bemüht, Kritik zu üben und größere Klarheit zu gewinnen; (wie sollte das Psychische auf etwas hinweisen, wenn wir uns doch kein Modell davon machen können… es ist dies mehr die Proklamierung eines Rätsels…) Was ist nun aber das „Denken/Meinen/die Intention“? Wie kommt es, dass ein psychisches Gebilde in dieser eigentümlicher Art über sich hinausweist? Das Rätsel der Intention soll entschleiert werden. Negativer Teil: Auseinandersetzung mit der gegenteiligen, der modernen beha­ vioristischen Einstellung, (vertreten durch Dewey, Russell, dem Pragmatisten

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Watson und denjenigen Philosophen, die sich dieser Auffassung angeschlossen haben: „Wiener Kreis“, Carnap): bei dieser Auffassung handelt es sich um Folgendes: das „Meinen“, „Hinweisen“, „einen Fühler ausstrecken“ ist natürlich bloße Metapher; das wusste man und suchte nach einer mehr wissenschaftlichen Erklärung, Auflösung in einer kausalen Zusammenhang. Die „Kausale Theorie des Wunsches“ von Russell (in seiner Analysis of Mind), eine gänzlich andere Auffassung der Psychologie, hat Russell mit den Behavioristen gemeinsam; treffender könnte man diese Einstellung als kausale Auffassung der Sprache bezeichnen. Brentano ging bei seiner Forschung hauptsächlich von der Selbstwahrnehmung, der Introspektion, aus. Russell geht von zwei Gruppen ganz anderer Art psychologischer Beobachtung aus: 1. Tatsachen der Tierpsychologie, 2. Tatsachen der Freudschen Psycho-Analyse, der Tiefen-Psychologie. Gemeinsam ist beiden, dass aus dem Wunsche eines Tieres, eines Neurotikers (die sich nicht mitteilen können), Schlüsse gezogen werden  – und zwar muss man aus äußeren Erscheinungen schließen (der Sinn dieser Aussage ergibt sich daraus, dass auf ein bestimmtes Verhalten dann ein anderes Verhalten eintritt). Der „Wunsch“ ist nichts anderes als eine zusammenfassende und abkürzende Beschreibung für den bestimmten, gesetzmäßigen Ablauf des Verhaltens. Wir wollen nicht sagen, dass sich im Tier ein Wunsch-­Phänomen abspielt, wir sprechen nur vom Verhalten, vom gesetzmäßigen Ablauf und so vermeiden wir Metaphern. Die zweite Quelle des „Wunsches“ sind die Erfahrungen der Psychoanalyse: Freud, Breuer (Untersuchungen der Hysterie und der Neurotiker): gewisse Krankheits-Symptome werden auf psychische Traumen zurückgeführt (Freud, „Vorlesungen“). Dies besteht darin, dass ein Triebwunsch auftritt, aber mit so vielen Hemmungen, dass er der Person gar nicht bewusst wird, und eine Konversion ins Psychische erfolgt (z. B. Unmöglichkeit, den Arm zu bewegen, Seh- und Sprech-Störungen etc.); diese Beobachtungen sind die Grundlage der Tiefen-Psychologie (Psycho-­Ana­ lyse): ein Mensch kann viele Wünsche haben, ohne davon überhaupt zu wissen. Wenn durch eine gewisse Therapie die verschüttete Erinnerung in die Helle des Bewusstseins gehoben wird, ist die normale Abfuhr der Affekte möglich und der Patient befreit; das sind Tatschen. Man spricht sowohl in der Tiefen-Psychologie wie in der Psychologie der Neurotiker von „Wünschen“, aber diese scheinen mit den gewöhnlichen Wünschen nichts gemein zu haben; denn sie können nicht geäußert werden und auch nicht sich selbst eingestanden werden. Was bedeutet hier eigentlich der Wunsch, den Freud dem Patienten zuschreibt? Es ist eine Art Hypothese, die über das Seelenleben und die Handlungen des Menschen aufgestellt wird und die dazu dient, unverstandene Einzelheiten des Seelenlebens dadurch zu erklären, dass man sie in Zusammenhang bringt. Auch beim Tier ist der „Wunsch“, den man ihm zuschreibt, eine Hypothese über den Zusammenhang von Verhaltungsweisen. Aus den Tatsachen der Tierpsychologie und der Psychoanalyse scheint nur hervorzugehen: ein Wunsch ist kein Stück bewusster Wirklichkeit: es ist eine

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theoretische Konstruktion, eine Hypothese um eine Vielzahl von Erscheinungen in einen systematischen Zusammenhang zu bringen, oder einen solchen vorherzusagen. Diese Hypothese ist also nicht viel verschieden von anderen wissenschaftlichen Hypothesen, ein Wunsch eine ähnlich theoretische Konstruktion wie eine Hypothese der Mechanik; die alte animistische Denkweise früherer Zeiten hat den Körpern auch in magischer Weise eine Art Willen oder Streben zugeschrieben. Die Physik hat gelernt sich dieser Denkweise zu entschlagen und an ihre Stelle eine objektive gesetzt; in der Physik tritt an Stelle der magischen Auslegung eine Beschreibung der wirklichen Bewegungs-Vorgänge; im Weltbilde der Physik, das die moderne Naturwissenschaft entwickelt, kommen nicht Kräfte als selbständige Wesenheiten vor, sondern die Kraft ist ein Hilfsbegriff, um die wirklichen Bewegungen beschreiben zu können. Dem Begriffe der Kraft vergleicht nun Russell den Wunsch in der Psychologie: der Wunsch ist nichts anderes als ein Gesetz von Handlungen oder seelischen Zuständen. Wir müssen uns nun die Erfahrungen der Tier-Psychologie und der Psycho-­ Analyse zum Vorbild nehmen und unsere ganze Psychologie ummodeln, indem wir auch den normalen Wunsch unter denselben Aspekt rücken: er ist nur mehr ein kausales Gesetz für den Ablauf der Erscheinungen. Diese Auffassung von Russell ist der Versuch, das philosophische Fazit zu ziehen aus gewissen Versuchen an Tieren. (Professor Schlick ist anderer Ansicht in diesem Punkte.) Es sind Ansätze einer neuen Psychologie (sobald wissenschaftliche Entdeckungen gemacht werden und im Flusse sind, ist es klar, dass sich im Anschluss daran gewisse philosophische Denkweisen herausbilden). „Wunsch“ ist also ein Begriff derselben Art wie Kraft, ein Hilfsbegriff der Psychologie. Von den anderen Phänomenen der Psychologie gilt etwas ganz Ähnliches; z. B. vom Affekt der Furcht. In der klassischen Auffassung ist die Furcht ein psychisches Faktum und richtet sich auf etwas. Die moderne Auffassung sieht die Furcht als etwas sehr Komplexes an, nicht als einen, sondern als eine Reihe von Zuständen, sie ist ein Hilfsbegriff und dient nur dazu, eine Reihe von Verhaltungen zu beschreiben und nur aus diesen Verhaltungen kann man dann erkennen, wovor sich ein Tier oder ein Neurotiker fürchtet. Kritik der Russell’schen Auffassung: Diese Auffassung will eine Paradoxie auflösen, die darin besteht, dass man glaubt sich vor etwas zu fürchten, während der Psycho-Analytiker sagt, dass man sich vor etwas ganz anderem fürchtet. Wie kann man sich über seine inneren Vorgänge so täuschen? Woher kommt dieser Schleier, der die inneren Vorgänge verbirgt? Russell sagt, dass eben kein Schleier vorhanden ist und man dazu nur durch nachträgliche Beobachtung komme. Der Wunsch, die Furcht ist kein unmittelbar-gegebenes, fassbares psychisches Datum: es scheint nur dadurch so, dass man sich über sich selbst eine Theorie macht. Diese Auffassung erklärt auch noch etwas anderes: dass andere Menschen oft unsere Wünschen und unsere Befürchtungen besser sehen als wir selbst. Russell meint, dies wäre nicht möglich, wenn wir unsere Wünsche und Befürchtungen durch den unmittelbaren inneren Blick erkennen würden; aber wir stehen uns gar nicht anders gegenüber als irgend einem anderen Menschen. Es gibt eine andere, analoge Auffassung, welche dieses Beispiel vom Wunsche auf die Sprache überhaupt überträgt: man könnte sagen, dass die Worte dazu dienen,

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Wirkungen von Menschen auf Menschen zu übertragen. Die Sprache ist ein Mechanismus, der zwischen die Menschen zwischengeschaltet ist und dazu dient, kausale Ketten herzustellen und Wirkungen zu übertragen; wenn ein Mensch in diesen kausalen Zusammenhang eingefügt ist, dann sagen wir, dass er die Sprache versteht. (Gleichnis dazu: man kann sich einen Mechanismus denken, der dazu dient, z.  B. die Glieder in Bewegung zu setzen; ganz primitiv durch Ziehen mit einem Strick. Diesen gleichen Mechanismus kann man durch einen feineren ersetzt denken: z. B. Heben des Arms immer bei Erklingen einer Glocke; es ist eine Tatsache, dass das möglich ist; der Klang der Glocke ist der Reiz, das Heben des Armes ist die Reaktion.) Das alles ist eingeordnet in die Physiologie; wir haben hier scheinbar nichts anderes vor uns als einen kausalen Zusammenhang zwischen Reiz und Reaktion; wir gehen einen Schritt weiter und sagen, dass es mit der Sprache nicht anders ist; das Aussprechen der Worte ist die kausale Ursache, das Heben der Arme ist die Reaktion. Der Befehl der Sprache ist also nichts anderes als ein Mechanismus, der dazu dient, Menschen zum Handeln zu bringen: in diesem Sinne kann man unsere Sprache einen Zeichen-Mechanismus nennen. Das Verstehen der Sprache besteht also in nichts anderem, als dass man die entsprechenden Reaktionen ausführt, dass man in der Weise auf die Wort-Reize reagiert, wie es die übrige große Mehrheit der Menschen tut. Ein Mensch versteht ein Wort, wenn er imstande ist, auf dieses Wort in entsprechender Weise zu reagieren. Das Kriterium des Verständnisses besteht in nichts anderem, als in der Fähigkeit, auf gewisse Wort-Reize in gewisser Weise zu reagieren. (Derjenige, der dies vermag, versteht die Worte, dem ist der Sinn der Worte aufgegangen.) Diese Auffassung ist deshalb so wichtig, weil sie für unser logisches Problem von allergrößten Bedeutung ist. Die Frage, was das Verstehen ist, ist eine ganz fundamentale Frage der Philosophie. Die Probleme der Philosophie entstehen dadurch, dass man sich über die Operationsregeln der Sprache nicht im Klaren ist; durch diese Unklarheit wird Unruhe hervorgerufen; diese Unruhe wird gebannt, indem man die Regeln der Sprache beschreibt. Man fragt: was ist die Ursache des Hervorbringens der Sprachlaute? Was ist die Wirkung, die diese Laute auf andere Menschen hervorbringen? Dies ist der Gesichtspunkt von Reiz und Reaktion, also ein ganz kausaler Gesichtspunkt. So wie der Wunsch aufgehört hat, ein selbstständiges psychisches Datum zu sein, sich aufgelöst hat in eine komplexe Reihe von Kausal-Vorgängen, so scheint auch das, was wir Verstehen eines Wortes nennen, sich in einen komplizierten Kausal-Nexus aufzulösen. Daraus geht hervor, dass „Meinen“, „Denken“, „Verstehen“, letzten Endes nur Hilfsbegriffe seien, die komplizierte Reihen von Vorgängen beschreiben. Dies ist die kausale Auffassung der Sprache, des Denkens, des Meinens, des Verstehens, vertreten von R. Carnap und mit dieser haben wir uns auseinandergesetzt. Werden dadurch, dass wir die kausalen Regeln der Sprache studieren, Probleme der Philosophie gelöst? Ist das der Weg dazu? Für die Anhänger der Auffassung der Sprache als Zeichen- Mechanismus erschöpft sich also Sinn und Bedeutung der Sprache in der Wirkung der Reaktion;

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die Sprache ist auf das physiologische Schema von Reiz und Reaktion reduziert. Kann man aber durch eine genaue und detaillierte kausale Erklärung der Sprache das zu erklären hoffen, was man „Intention“ nennt? Es handelt sich hier nicht darum, diese Theorie wahr oder falsch zu nennen, nicht um tatsächliche Widerlegung dieser Auffassung, noch um logische ad absurdum Führung; gewiss ist die Sprache ein Mechanismus und sie besteht aus kausalen Prozessen; aber uns handelt es sich um Klärung der Begriffe; wir fragen, ob die Begriffe dem entsprechen, was man im allgemeinen Gebrauche darunter versteht. Sobald es sich um wahr oder falsch handelt, hat man es schon mit einem wissenschaftlichen Problem zu tun und nicht mehr mit einem philosophischen; wir bewegen uns in einer völlig anderen Sphäre: unsere Kritik ist eine grammatische Kritik, die darauf hinausgeht zu zeigen, dass die uns vorgeschlagene Erklärung gewisser Begriffe nicht der Auffassung entspricht, die man im Allgemeinen von ihnen hat. Um an der kausalen Auffassung der Sprache Kritik zu üben wählen wir vorerst das Beispiel des „Befehls“: in diesem Falle nimmt die kausale Auffassung Folgendes an: ein Befehl ist eine Einrichtung, die eine gewisse Wirkung hervorruft; der Ausdruck des Befehls ist nur darum der Befehl, weil er die und die bestimmte Wirkung hat. Also lediglich das Eingebettetsein in einen bestimmten Kausal-­ Zusammenhang ist es, das den Befehl zu einem solchen macht: das Wesen des Befehls ist hier in seine Wirkungsweise verlegt. Die kausale Auffassung des Befehls schreibt sich von der Beobachtung der Wirkung von Signalen her (z. B. bei der Eisenbahn; es sind da folgende Faktoren: 1.) das rote Signal … die Ursache 2.) das Anziehen des Bremshebels … die Wirkung.) (Auf die Frage, wieso der Anblick des roten Signals die Handlung hervorruft, wird geantwortet, das geschehe durch den Prozess des Lernens, der eine „Disposition“ geschaffen hat: zwischen Ursache und Wirkung schiebt sich also etwas Drittes ein, die Vorgänge im nervösen Apparat: Ursache und Wirkung sind durch eine komplizierte Kausalkette miteinander verbunden, deren Einzelheiten, die physiologisch zu suchen sind, uns nicht weiter zugänglich sind.) An diesem Beispiel haben wir ein einfaches und richtiges. Paradigma gegeben, an dem wir die Gültigkeit der kausalen Auffassung studieren können; unsere Frage läuft darauf hinaus: ist der Befehl nur deshalb der Befehl, weil er eine bestimmte Wirkung hervorruft? Ist damit wirklich das Eigentümliche, das wir mit einem Befehl meinen, wiedergegeben? Es ist richtig, dass der Lokomotivführer als Teil des Mechanismus wirkt; er könnte auch durch einen wirklichen Mechanismus ersetzt werden, ohne dass sich für die kausale Auffassung etwas ändern würde. Wir können also folgende zwei Sätze aufstellen: 1.) p Das rote Signal ist der Befehl, stehen zu bleiben. 2.) q Der Mechanismus ist so bereitet, dass das Aufleuchten eines roten Signals das Stehenbleiben bewirkt.

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Der Satz p bewegt sich in der Ausdrucksweise der herkömmlichen intentionalen Psychologie (das Wort „Befehl“ ist ein Ausdruck, der in einer rein physikalischen Beschreibung nicht steht); der Satz q ist von jedem intentionalen Moment frei, in ihm tritt kein solcher Terminus wie „Befehl“ auf, er ist eine reinliche Beschreibung von Kausalzusammenhängen. Nun kann man die kausale Auffassung derart beschreiben, dass man sagt, sie mache uns den Vorschlag, den Satz q als Übersetzung des Satzes p anzuerkennen: Ist es wahr, dass diese beiden Sätze dasselbe meinen? Haben diese beiden Sätze denselben Sinn? Wir wollen nicht erkennen, ob die beiden Sätze dasselbe aussagen; wir wollen keine Tatsachen beschreiben; wir wollen ohne vorgefasste Meinung an diese beiden Sätze herantreten und uns fragen, ob der Satz q wirklich die Übersetzung des Satzes p ist? Entspricht dies dem normalen Sprachgebrauch oder sind die Regeln, zu denen man sich normalerweise bekennt so beschaffen, dass Satz q die Übersetzung von Satz p ist? Nur die Erfahrung kann lehren, ob Satz q wahr ist (dies ist die Art seiner Verifikation). Satz p aber lässt sich nur durch Fragen verifizieren; durch Fragen, wie es festgesetzt ist. Daraus schon ersieht man, dass die beiden Sätze einen völlig verschiedenen Sinn haben. Man kann auch leicht ersehen, dass der Wahrheitswert der beiden Sätze völlig unabhängig von einander ist: das rote Signal kann wohl der Befehl zum Stehenbleiben sein, aber das Stehenbleiben muss nicht erfolgen, d. h. der erste Satz kann also wahr sein und der zweite Satz kann falsch sein; man kann also bilden: p und non q; das ist hier kein logischer Widerspruch. Man könnte in gleicher Weise bilden: non p und q; auch das wäre kein logischer Widerspruch. Daraus sieht man, dass jeder dieser Sätze unabhängig wahr sein kann, d.  h. es liegen zwei völlig ge­trennte Sätze vor und man hat kein Recht, den Satz q eine Übersetzung des Satzes p zu nennen. Ob etwas Befehl ist oder nicht liegt nicht in der hervorgerufenen Wirkung; der normale Befehl hat das Merkmal der Intentionalität. (Es ist also nichts als eine Selbsttäuschung zu meinen, dass man die Reihe der Intentionalität in eine Reihe kausaler Zusammenhänge auflösen könne.) Für das Wort „Befehl“ ist es also charakteristisch, dass man von einer Befolgung und Übertretung des Befehls sprechen kann; das wäre nach der kausalen Auffassung unmöglich; hier zeigt sich klar der grammatische Unterschied. Die kausale Auffassung ist grundsätzlich genötigt unter „Befehl“ etwas ganz anderes zu verstehen als gewöhnlich darunter verstanden wird; sie wird also der Aufgabe, diesen Satz in physikalische Termini zu übersetzen, nicht gerecht. Die Vertreter der kausalen Interpretation suchten einen bei Philosophie oft üblichen Ausweg, indem sie sich auf die Kompliziertheit und Unübersehbarkeit der kausalen Verkettung beriefen: man könne wohl von Befehls-Übertretung sprechen, wenn irgendein anderes Glied der kausalen Kette fehlt. Diese „Erklärung“ können wir aber nicht gelten lassen, denn: nennt man den Befehl p eine Einrichtung, die das Stehenbleiben bewirkt, dann muss p und auch alle übrigen verursachenden Faktoren zusammen als „Befehl“ aufgefasst werden können und für diesen Befehl gilt die alte Schwierigkeit, dass er nur befiehlt, was er bewirkt und dass daher von einer

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Übertretung nicht gesprochen werden kann. (Durch die Ausrede auf die Kompliziertheit der Kausalkette ändert sich also die logische Schwierigkeit nicht.) Als weiteren Rettungsversuch der kausalen Auffassung könnte man nun auch noch sagen, dass ein Befehl immer die Willigkeit ihn zu befolgen voraussetze: Z. B., wir denken uns wieder einen ersetzenden Mechanismus: ein Hebel muss in einen Vorsprung eingreifen, um den Zug zum Stehenbleiben zu bringen. Vorausgesetzt nun, der Zug fährt an dem Vorsprung vorbei, der Hebel greift ein, der Zug bleibt aber nicht stehen: war dann die Stellung des Hebels noch immer die Willigkeit, der Vorsprung immer noch der Befehl? Und was dann, wenn der Hebel nicht in der willfährigen Stellung stand, der Zug aber doch stehen geblieben ist? Soll man dann sagen, dass in diesem Falle der Hebel nicht die Willigkeit bedeutet hat? Woher weiß man aber dann überhaupt, was die Willigkeit ist? Welches Kriterium hat man dafür? Wenn man erst aus dem nachträglichen Erfolg feststellen kann was die Willigkeit und was der Befehl ist, dann verliert es überhaupt jeden Sinn, einem Menschen Befehle zu geben; wenn erst der zukünftige Erfolg lehren würde, ob der sprachliche Ausdruck, den man gebraucht hat, ein Befehl war oder nicht, gäbe es z.  B. kein unfolgsames Kind! Richtig könnte man etwa wie folgt formulieren: ein Befehl ist nicht eine Einrichtung, die eine bestimmte Handlung hervorruft, sondern ein Befehl ist ein Ausdruck, dessen Ausführung so und so aussehen würde; d. h. man braucht nicht erst abzuwarten, was auf den Ausdruck des Befehls hin geschieht, sondern wir wissen schon im Vorhinein wie die Ausführung des Befehls aussieht. Ein Befehl ist nicht ein Zeichen auf das hin etwas geschieht, sondern auf das hin etwas geschehen soll. Befehl bleibt Befehl, auch wenn er nicht befolgt wird. Wesentlich für den Befehl ist nur, dass man von vornherein weiß, wie seine Ausführung aussehen würde. Ein Befehl ist nicht dasjenige, was Russell eine „description“ (Kenn­ zeichnung) nennt (z. B. das Buch, das in der Tasche liegt, der letzte Mann in Wien, der gegenwärtige König von England etc.). Wenn man weiters fragt: „Wer ist dieser Herr? Herr X oder Herr Y?“ So kann offenbar nur die Erfahrung auf diese Frage Antwort geben. Die kausale Auffassung fasst den Befehl fälschlich wie einen beschreibenden Ausdruck auf, wie eine description: man kann nicht sagen, wie die Ausführung eines Befehls tatsächlich aussieht; ist es etwa die Handlung q? Das wäre sinnlos zu behaupten und daran ersieht man den Unterschied – man kann nicht danach fragen und das ist der Ausdruck für die Tatsache, dass schon im Ausdrucks des Befehls enthalten ist wie die Erfüllung des Befehls aussieht und man nicht mehr weitere Erfahrung abzuwarten braucht. Die mechanische Auffassung der Sprache hat also den Sinngehalt des „Befehls“ nicht gelöst. Die Ausführung eines Befehls ist nur eine grammatische Transformation des Befehls. Es kann wohl sein, dass der Wortausdruck des Befehls verschiedene Ausführungen zulässt und in diesem Sinne kann ein Befehlssatz einen schwankenden Sinn haben; in diesem Sinne kann man dann auch fragen, wie die Ausführung des Befehls

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aussieht: es handelt sich dabei aber bloß um eine grammatische Ergänzung, nicht etwa um eine empirische, zwischen Befehl und Ausführung des Befehls. Dieselbe Verwechslung wie bezüglich des „Befehls“ liegt Russells Auffassung vom „Wunsche“ zugrunde. Wenn man z. B. sagt: „Ich wünsche mir einen Apfel“. So enthält dieser Wunsch bereits den Gegenstand auf den er abzielt: Der Wunsch ist intentional. Russell aber definiert den Wunsch wie folgt: „Ein Wunsch ist ein kausales Gesetz, das den Ablauf von Handlungen beschreibt.“ Das heißt ich habe eine gewisse Unruhe und dieser wird ein Ende bereitet, wenn ich einen Apfel esse. Es wäre eine Hypothese darüber, was dieser Unruhe ein Ende bereiten wird. Wir bemerken dazu, dass das Wort „Wunsch“ normalerweise nicht so verwendet wird. Der Fehler, der hier begangen wird ist eine Verwechslung, die ungefähr der Verwechslung von „Hunger“ und „Appetit“ entspricht: wenn man mit dem Satze „Ich habe Hunger“ ausdrücken will, dass der Organismus der Speise bedarf, so ist dieser Satz eine Hypothese der Physiologie; man sagt auch nicht, dass man Hunger nach einem bestimmten Gegenstand hat; der Hunger ist nicht intentional  – der Appetit aber ist intentional. (Dass ich mir einen Apfel zu essen wünsche, wird nicht durch einen wohltätigen Einfluss des erhaltenen Apfels bestätigt; man sagt auch nicht nach Erhalt des Apfels: „Ja das war es, was ich mir gewünscht habe“. Wenn erst die Erfahrung den Gegenstand des Wunsches offenbaren würde, dann müsste ich mir einen Schlag auf den Kopf gewünscht haben, als ich glaubte, mir einen Apfel zu wünschen, wenn dieser Schlag mir das Bedürfnis nach Speise genommen hätte.) Wenn die kausale Auffassung nichts anderes als eine Hypothese ist, dann weiß man ja noch gar nicht, was ein Gefühl der Befriedigung hervorrufen wird. Dies zeigt, wie weit sich diese Theorie von dem entfernt, was wir normalerweise einen Wunsch nennen. Das Wort „Wunsch“ hat außerordentlich viele Bedeutungen. Normalerweise verstehen wir unter einem Wunsch etwas anderes, als durch die Russell’sche Erklärung getroffen wird. Hingegen trifft die Russell’sche Erklärung für den Tier-Wunsch zu: ein gefangener Vogel „wünscht“ sich die Freiheit heißt nichts anderes als eine Hypothese über den Grund seines Verhaltens. Die Russell’sche Auffassung trifft schon nicht mehr ganz zu für den Wunsch der Psycho-Analyse und zwar darum, weil die Beobachtung für das Bestehen eines Wunsches nicht mehr das alleinige Kriterium ist, sondern erst das Bekenntnis des Wunsches von Seiten des Kranken. Hier interessiert uns nur die Begriffs-Bildung eines unbewussten Wunsches: er hat eine Ähnlichkeit mit dem Tierwunsch, eine Ähnlichkeit mit dem normalen Wunsche, aber er deckt sich mit keiner dieser beiden Bedeutungen, sondern ist wieder davon zu unterscheiden. Es gibt noch viele Arten von Wunsch. Neue Begriffe können immer gebildet werden. Es gibt z. B. auch Wünsche, die nicht in Form von Wunsch-Sätzen auftreten, sondern in Form von Tag-Träumen (wenn man so vor sich hin träumt); es gibt auch verschiedene Arten von Tierwünschen: man kann sagen, dass sich die Katze Milch wünsche, wenn ihre Gebärde auf den Milchtopf deutet, hier ist auch die Intentionalität enthalten und dieser Wunsch hat dieselbe Multiplizität wie das

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Gewünschte. Dasselbe trifft zu bei der Kundgabe kleiner Kinder, die noch nicht sprechen, sondern nur deuten. Also „Wunsch“ hat eine Vielzahl von Bedeutungen; wir greifen nur einige repräsentative Spiele mit dem Worte „Wunsch“ heraus, um auf die Russell’sche Erklärung des Wunsches Licht zu werfen. Was ist nun eigentlich ein „Wunsch“? Wenn wir das Wesen des Wunsches aufklären wollen, müssen wir vorerst die Frage stellen: „Inwieweit ist der Wunsch unabhängig vom Ausdruck des Wunsches?“ Hier muss erst ein sehr tief wurzelndes Vorurteil ausgerottet werden, nämlich das Vorurteil, dass die Sprache nur eine äußere Begleiterscheinung sei, dass sich das Eigentliche und Wesentliche aber unabhängig, wie man sagt „in der Seele“ des Menschen abspiele. Diese Auffassung kann man durch folgendes Gleichnis erläutern: Denken wir uns ein Schiff auf hoher See; an Bord kann sich alles Mögliche abspielen: Aufstand, Meuterei, Totschlag – wenn zufälligerweise die Signale fehlen, dringt keine Kunde von diesen Vorgängen nach außen. Dem Schwenken der Flaggen und Signale vergleicht man die Wortsprache und meint: Auch wenn die Worte fehlen, können doch die psychischen Vorgänge, z. B. Wünschen, Hoffen, Fürchten etc. dieselben sein. Der Irrtum, der hier begangen wurde, ist folgender: es werden zwei verschiedenen Funktionen der Sprache mitei­ nander verwechselt: die mitteilende (kommunikative) und die ausdrückende Funktion; der Irrtum ist derselbe, wie wenn man glauben wollte, dass man die arabischen Ziffern nur zur Mitteilung für andere brauche, nicht aber beim eigenen Rechnen! Ebenso verhält es sich mit der Sprache: um die Bedeutung der Sprache für die Psychologie aufzuhellen frage man sich: Inwiefern kann ein sprachloses Wesen etwas wünschen, etwas hoffen, sich vor etwas fürchten, eine Absicht haben etc.? Wenn man sagen wollte, der Wunsch ist ein seelischer Vorgang, so würde sich die Frage erheben, wie es dieser seelische Vorgang anfängt über sich hinaus zu weisen auf den Gegenstand hin – und wir stünden wieder vor dem alten Problem der Intention! Sollen wir etwa annehmen, dass es so viele verschieden nuancierte Wunschregungen gibt als Gegenstände des Wunsches? (Das unbestimmte, drangvolle Gefühl in der Brust ist völlig verschieden von dem, was man „Wunsch“ nennt, es ist Sehnen und diesem Sehnen kann man auch keine intentionale Beziehung geben; es steht näher einer Empfindung.) Was wäre die Verbindung zwischen einer Wunsch-Regung und dem Gegenstand? (Besteht vielleicht eine Art prästabilierte Harmonie?) Kommt man durch Beobachtung der Wunschregung darauf, was der Gegenstand des Wunsches ist? Nein. Wir sehen also, dass die Theorie der klassischen Psychologie, die das Wesen des Wunsches in einen spezifischen seelischen Zustand verlegt, unhaltbar ist. Der Wunsch ist kein Stück seelischer Wirklichkeit. Die Verbindung zwischen „Wunsch“ und „Gewünschtem“ muss schon ein für allemal bestehen, d. h. vor Beobachtung einzelner Tatsachen. Dann kann aber diese Verbindung nur in einer Festsetzung bestehen, sie muss ein Werk der Grammatik sein. Inwiefern bezieht sich dann der Wunsch: „Ich wünsche mir einen Apfel“ auf den Apfel? Die Verbindung kommt zustande durch den Ausdruck des Wunsches, d. h. durch das Wort „Apfel“ und die Erklärung, die man davon gegeben hat. Es

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handelt hier eben nicht nur um gewisse psychische Vorgänge, sondern um diese und um einen Kalkül mit Worten; die intentionale Beziehung des Wunsches liegt ganz in der Sprache. Zieht man das Gewebe der Sprache weg, so bleibt nicht etwa noch ein seelischer Vorgang übrig, der der „Wunsch“ wäre, einen Apfel zu bekommen, sondern nur ein dumpfes Gefühl oder ein körperliches Verlangen, vergleichbar dem Hunger, der Müdigkeit etc., d. h. mit dem Ausdruck des Wunsches verschwindet auch der Wunsch. Ein Wunsch ohne Ausdruck wäre wie ein Gedanke ohne Worte, eine Fiktion ohne Realität. Durch das Gesagte scheint aber der Zusammenhang zwischen dem Wunsch und dem Gegenstand noch immer nicht klar geworden zu sein; denn wie hängt nun das Wort Apfel mit dem Apfel zusammen? Es scheint, dass wir erst das Wort Apfel verstehen müssen und in diesem „Verstehen“ liegt wieder die ganze Schwierigkeit des Problems der Intention. Denken wir uns, dass jemand seinen Wunsch so äußert, dass er durch eine Geste auf einen Apfel hindeutet: kann man dann auch noch fragen, wie die Geste mit dem Apfel zusammenhängt, gibt es hier auch noch ein dem Problem der Intention vergleichbares Problem? Offenbar nicht, d. h. das Problem der Intention tritt nur auf für die Wortsprache und nicht für die Gebärdensprache. Will man nun den Zusammenhang der Wortsprache mit den Gegenständen verstehen, so achte man auf den Gebrauch der Worte. Man könnte z. B. sagen: „Ich wünsche mir einen Apfel“ und dabei das Wort Apfel durch eine hinweisende Gebärde erklären; in der aus Wort und Gebärde bestehenden Sprache tritt das Problem der Intention gar nicht mehr auf. Das Problem erscheint nur dann, wenn man sich auf die Wortsprache beschränkt und diejenigen Prozesse außer Acht lässt, welche die Verbindung zwischen den Worten und den Gegenständen herstellen; man vergisst, dass man einmal das Wort Apfel durch eine hinweisende Geste erklärt hatte, sieht das Wort Apfel allein vor sich und fragt sich nun im Tone der Beunruhigung, wie denn das Wort mit dem Gegenstand zusammenhänge? Beim Philosophieren hat man nur ein System von logischen Operationen vor sich. Man glaubt aber, man hätte auf einer Seite nur die Sprache, auf der anderen Seite die Wirklichkeit und fragt sich nun, wie sich die Sprache auf die Gegenstände beziehe und will diese Beziehung nun durch einen seelischen Akt des Meinens etc. herstellen. Die Wortsprache ist nicht die einzige Sprache: man muss sie zusammen mit ihrer natürlichen Umgebung betrachten, mit der Gebärdensprache und dann verflüchtigt sich das gefürchtete Problem. Dieses Problem der Verbindung der Sprache mit der Wirklichkeit, der „hinweisenden Definition“ entsteht also dadurch, dass man die vermeintlich getrennten Sphären von Sprache einerseits, Wirklichkeit andererseits, in Verbindung zu bringen sucht und glaubt, der Kontakt werde hergestellt durch die hinweisende Erklärung. Wenn man in der Erklärung des Wortes „Apfel“ auf einen wirklichen Apfel deutet, so scheint es, dass die Worte und die Gebärde dieses Vorganges noch der Sprache angehören, der Apfel aber der Wirklichkeit. Die Gebärde gehört gleichsam noch zur Verlängerung der Sprache; aber wir scheinen doch in der hinweisenden Erklärung aus der Sprache hinausgetreten zu sein im Gegensatz etwa zu einer NominalDefinition, die ganz in der Sprache verharrt. Dass es eine solche prinzipielle

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Verbindung der Sprache mit der Wirklichkeit gar nicht gibt sieht man am klarsten, wenn man eine ganz andere Art von Sprache denkt, die Gebärdensprache nämlich: gibt man z. B. einem Anderen in dieser Sprache den Befehl „Iss einen Apfel“ in der Weise, dass man ihm diese Tätigkeit vormacht, so kann man hier offenbar nichts finden, das einer „hinweisenden Erklärung“ entspräche. Soll man aber in diesem Falle vielleicht annehmen, man sei nun aus der Sprache hinausgetreten und die vorgenommene Handlung sei Wirklichkeit, zum Unterschied von Sprache? Tatsache ist, dass man sich dem Anderen auch durch die Gebärde verständlich gemacht hat; man kann durch Gebärden Befehle geben, diese werden befolgt oder nicht, kurz alles ist genau wie in unserer gewöhnlichen Wortsprache  – nur die hinweisende Erklärung fehlt. Ein anderes Beispiel: wenn man einen roten Kreis beschreiben will, kann man auf verschiedene Art vorgehen: indem man sagt: „Da ist ein roter Kreis“ oder man könnte diese Beschreibung auch ersetzen durch das Bild eines Kreises und ein daneben gesetztes Täfelchen mit der Aufschrift „rot“ (das wäre auch noch eine Art Wortsprache), oder indem man einfach einen roten Kreis hinmalt, um den Anderen damit kundzutun was man meint. Aus alle dem ersehen wir: die hinweisende Erklärung ist das Charakteristikum einer bestimmten Art von Sprache, nicht aber jeder Sprache. Ich könnte die englischen Farbworte: white, yellow, blue, erklären, indem ich die entsprechenden deutschen Worte wie in einem Vokabular danebensetze: die Erklärung könnte aber auch in der Weise erfolgen, dass ich neben die betreffenden Worte Farbtüpfchen setze  – dies wäre auch eine vollkommen angemessene Erklärung; denn jeder, der diese Tabelle liest, weiß nun, was diese Worte zu bedeuten haben. Nun liegt hier die Versuchung nahe zu sagen, dass man im ersten Falle, als man die englischen Worte durch die deutschen erklärte, „innerhalb der Sprache“ geblieben sei; im zweiten Falle sei man aus der Sprache herausgetreten und habe die „Farb-Worte“ mit den „wirklichen“ Farben in Verbindung gesetzt… Wir müssen uns vor allem klar machen, dass diese Meinung auf einer falschen, nämlich zu engen Auffassung vom „Zeichen“ beruht; unter Zeichen versteht man in erster Linie Worte, geschriebene Symbole etc. und übersieht, dass das Wesentliche am Zeichen die Verbindung ist und dass jeder Gegenstand zu einem Zeichen werden kann, wenn man entsprechende Festsetzungen gibt. Die Farbtüpfchen sind ebenfalls Zeichen in dem Sinne, dass auch für sie bestimmte Regeln der Verbindung bestehen (ich kann mich z.  B. auf dieses Zeichen berufen, wenn ich sage: „Nein, diese Farbe ist nicht blue“…) Die Farbtüpfchen spielen ganz dieselbe Rolle wie die Worte oder Zeichen unserer Sprache. Freilich gibt es auch einen Unterschied zwischen diesen Zeichen und den Zeichen unserer gewöhnlichen Wort-Sprache: nach einem Worte kann man z. B. nicht kopieren, nach einer Farbe wohl; wenn man diesen Unterschied betonen will tut man besser, die Farbtüpfchen „Muster“ zu nennen, oder man könnte auch von primären und sekundären Zeichen sprechen. Eine Erklärung verbindet entweder Zeichen mit Zeichen oder Zeichen mit Mustern, aber in jedem Falle verharrt sie innerhalb der Sprache.

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Damit, dass wir Muster mit zur Sprache rechnen, wollen wir keine Behauptung aufstellen, sondern nur das verbreitete Missverständnis von der „Verbindung der Sprache mit der Wirklichkeit“ zerstören. Es soll der Schein zerstört werden, dass ein besonderes Problem in der Frage vorliegt, wie die Zeichen auf die Wirklichkeit hinweisen, indem wir die Ähnlichkeit betonen, die zwischen der Nominaldefinition und dem Vorgang der hinweisenden Erklärung besteht; wir wollen beide Erklärungen unter demselben Aspekt ansehen. Wir haben es hier nur mit der Betonung einer grammatischen Verwandtschaft zu tun (wie z. B. die Aussage, dass eine imaginäre Zahl auch eine Zahl sei) und nicht mit einer Behauptung. Die falsche Auffassung in diesen Fragen hängt damit zusammen, dass man sich einen irgendwie abgezirkelten Begriff von der Sprache macht, etwa im Gegensatz zur Wirklichkeit und nun bestimmte Vorgänge nicht mehr zur Sprache rechnet: das ist aber ganz unberechtigt, denn die Sprache reicht so weit wie die Operationen reichen und nicht etwa nur so weit wie die Worte reichen. Es ist immer der Glaube an den abgegrenzten Körper, der Sprache, der das Missverständnis he­raufbeschwört. Wenn ich auf den Apfel hindeute und sage: „Das ist ein Apfel“, so habe ich den Apfel in meine Operationen mit einbezogen, ihn zum Angriffspunkt meines Kalküls gemacht. Man könnte nun fragen, ob der Apfel, auf den bei der Erklärung hingewie­ sen würde, ein Zeichen sei? Diese Frage entspringt schon einem Missverständnis, das sich durch die Bemerkung löst, dass es ganz darauf ankommt, was ich mit dem Apfel anfange: schenke ich ihn einem Kinde oder esse ich ihn, so ist er kein Zeichen. Bediene ich mich seiner aber zur Erklärung des Wortes „Apfel“, so habe ich ihn eben damit zum Paradigma gemacht, auf das ich bei allen künftigen Verbindungen des Wortes „Apfel“ berufen werde; er gehört jetzt mit zu einem System von Abmachungen, welche die Grammatik darstellen und in diesem Sinne ist er ein Zeichen. Bezüglich des „Wunsches“ hatten wir dargelegt, dass zum Wunsche auch der Ausdruck des Wunsches gehöre. Nun könnte gefragt werden, ob denn der Ausdruck des Wunsches schon alles sei, d. h. der Wunsch nur darin bestehe, dass man sagt „Ich wünsche mir…“. Offenbar nicht; wir wollen nicht ableugnen, dass es gewisse seelische Zustände, Gefühle, Regungen etc. gibt, welche einen Teil des Wunsches ausmachen: diese Gefühle etc. geben uns aber nicht das Recht zu sagen, dies sei der Wunsch z. B. einen Apfel zu bekommen; denn das Gefühl ist das Gefühl und weist nicht über sich hinaus. Um diese Frage klar zu machen könnte man unterscheiden zwischen dem Ausdruck des Wunsches und der Beschreibung des Wunsches; dem Ausdruck des Glaubens und der Beschreibung des Glaubens, dem Ausdruck der Absicht und der Beschreibung der Absicht etc. Damit ist folgendes gemeint: Eine Empfindung, z.  B. ein Zahnschmerz, lässt eine Beschreibung zu, aber keinen Ausdruck (denn das Wort „au“ drückt den Zahnschmerz nicht aus; es ist dies nur ein Ausdruck im Sinne eines Symptoms und das ist etwas ganz anderes), ein Wunsch dagegen hat einen Ausdruck („ich wünsche mir das und das“) und eine Beschreibung (erst war der Wunsch heftig, dann flaute er ab…). Wir wollen uns diese Frage klar zu machen suchen an dem Beispiel der „Absicht“ (vergleiche das früher Gesagte über den „Wunsch“): die Absicht besteht jedesfalls

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nicht in einem Gefühl (sondern in Ausdruck und Beschreibung); wenn ich sage: „Ich habe die Absicht, heute meinem Freunde zu schreiben“, besteht da die Absicht darin, dass ich diese Worte sage? Also nur in dem Ausdruck der Absicht? Diese Frage wird wohl jeder verneinen. Was aber fehlt noch? Ist es etwa ein bestimmtes Gefühl, das zu den Worten hinzutreten muss um die Absicht zu ergeben? Will man wissen, was die Absicht ist, so achte man auf die Kriterien nach denen man im einzelnen Falle feststellt, ob ein Mensch wirklich die Absicht hat oder sie nur vortäuscht: diese Kriterien sind im Allgemeinen sehr kompliziert und wir müssen uns jedenfalls vor der Versuchung hüten zu glauben, dass es einen ganz bestimmten Vorgang oder eine ganz bestimmte Reihe von Vorgängen gibt, welche die Absicht ausmachen. Ein typischer Fall ist der: als ich mir vorgenommen hatte heute abends meinem Freund zu schreiben, habe ich mir bereits den heutigen Abend frei genommen, ich habe eine Einladung abgelehnt… etc. In diesen vorbereitenden Handlungen liegt hier die Absicht; in anderen Fällen kann es wieder anderes sein. Wir geben keine allgemeine Regel, sondern zerstören nur eine: wir sagen nämlich nur: einen spezifischen Bewusstseinzustand „die Absicht“ (meinen Freunde zu schreiben u. drgl.) gibt es nicht; man erfährt in einem bestimmten Falle erst dann was man unter der „Absicht“ versteht, wenn man in diesem Falle das Kriterium angibt, wonach man entscheiden will, ob eine „Absicht“ vorliegt; im allgemeinen verfährt unsere Sprache sehr vague und fasst sehr verschiedenartige Vorgänge (Gedanken, Bilder, Worte, Handlungen etc.) unter dem Ausdruck „Absicht“ zusammen. (Es gibt also einerseits den Ausdruck der Absicht, andererseits die Beschreibung der Absicht; diese letztere kann nun sehr verschieden aussehen, es gibt dafür kein einheitliches Schema, dem sich alle Absichten fügen.) Wir haben uns bemüht auseinanderzusetzen, inwiefern die seelischen Vorgänge (Wünschen, Hoffen, Glauben etc.) eine von der Sprache losgelöste Existenz haben und sind dem weitverbreiteten Irrtum entgegengetreten, dass die Sprache nur den Wert eines Mittels zur Verständigung hat. Es könnte nun scheinen, dass man von „wünschen“, „fürchten“, „glauben“ etc. nur dort sprechen könnte, wo es eine Sprache gibt: ganz so verhält es sich aber nicht, wir müssen da etwas einschränken. Man kann von „wünschen“, „fürchten“, „hoffen“, „glauben“ etc. in einem gewissen Sinne auch da sprechen, wo es keine Sprache gibt (vergleiche das Beispiel mit der wünschenden Katze): dann reicht der Wunsch allerdings nur so weit als die Gebärde reicht, d.  h. man kann in diesem Falle nur in Russell’schen Sinne des Wortes von „Wunsch“ sprechen, in welchem der Wunsch ein kausales Gesetz des Verhaltens bezeichnet (es verliert den Sinn dem Tiere einen Wunsch zuzuschreiben, den es durch seine Gebärde nicht ausdrücken kann). Die letzteren Ausführungen sind auch sehr wichtig zum Verständnis dessen, was man „glauben“ nennt: Das Wort „Glaube“ hat wie die meisten Worte unserer Sprache viele Bedeutungen, die oft unklar ineinander übergehen. Wir wollen hier nur zwei typische Bedeutungen herausheben. 1) Der „Glaube“ ist etwas, das durch einen Satz ausgedrückt wird. Hier kann man nun wieder den Ausdruck des Glaubens von der Beschreibung des Glaubens

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unterscheiden und unter letzterem seelische Vorgänge im Menschen, vor allem aber eine gewisse Art seines Verhaltens verstehen; es ist so wie bei der „Absicht“; um zu erfahren, ob ein Mensch wirklich glaubt oder sich nur so stellt, achte man auf die Kriterien, die wir gemeinhin in einem solchen Falle anwenden (es gibt auch hier keine einheitliche Klasse von Vorgängen, die den „Glauben“ ausmachen, sondern dass in jedem Falle der Glaube etwas anderes ist; nennt man den „Glauben“ das, was in diesen Kriterien beschrieben wird, so kann man die Bedeutung des Wortes „Glaube“ mit Recht eine schwankende nennen); es ist tatsächlich so, dass das Wort „Glaube“ in vager Weise für ein Gewebe von seelischen Vorgängen, Handlungen, Stellungnahmen etc. verwendet wird und nicht für eine spezifische Art von Erlebnissen oder Vorgängen. 2 ) Der „Glaube“, der durch keinen Satz ausgedrückt wird: es ist dies der viel häufigere Fall im wirklichen Leben: wir tun im täglichen Leben unzählig viele Dinge im Vertrauen auf die Gesetzmäßigkeit der Natur (Induktion). Um uns klar zu machen, dass dieser „Glaube“ sich niemals in einem Satze ausdrückt, betrachten wir folgendes Beispiel: Ein Mensch wird mit Gewalt ins Feuer gezerrt; er wird sich verzweifelt wehren, wie ein Rasender mit Händen und Füssen um sich schlagen… ist das die Folge eines Raisonnements? Stellt er eine Überlegung an? Fällt er ein Urteil?… Er schlägt wie ein Rasender um sich… nun, das ist der Glaube! Das Wort „Glaube“ bezeichnet hier wirklich nur eine typische Art des Verhaltens und in diesem Sinne kann man natürlich auch den Tieren „Glauben“ zuschreiben. Wahr ist allerdings, dass man auch in diesem Falle seinen Glauben in Form eines Satzes ausdrücken kann (und das ist ja der Grund warum so viel Philosophen auf die Existenz von GlaubensAkten schließen wollten, welche in jedem Augenblick unsere alltäglichen Verrichtungen begleiten sollten): aber man darf nicht übersehen, dass dann die Bedeutung des „Glaubens“ in die erste Bedeutung übergegangen ist (die Irrtümer basieren auf der Meinung, dass dann noch immer von derselben Art Glauben die Rede sei). Da man die angenommenen „Glaubens-Akte“ in der Selbst-Beobachtung nicht vorfand, verlegte man sie ins Unbewusste und sprach daher von einem „unbewussten Glauben“: damit verhält es sich aber in Wirklichkeit wie folgt: z. B. wird ein Schachspieler gefragt, ob er sich bei jedem Zug, den er macht, die Spielregeln leise vorsage, dies verneinen; dagegen wird er auf die Frage, ob sein Zug berechtigt war, mit einer Regel antworten; wenn wir uns nun fragen, inwiefern sich der Schachspieler nach den Regeln gerichtet hat, können wir dies nicht dahingehen beantworten, dass ihm die Regeln im Moment des Ziehens „alle gegenwärtig waren“ oder er „im Unbewussten“ an sie gedacht hätte: Tatsache ist, er zieht mit den Steinen, gibt aber auf Befragen nachträglich eine Erklärung. Das Beispiel mit dem Schach macht nun auch deutlich, wie es sich mit dem „Glauben“ verhält: wenn man mit der Hand einer Flamme ausweicht und nachträglich nach dem Grunde des Handelns befragt wird, so gibt man als solchen an, dass ja die Flamme die Hand verbrenne; beim Wegziehen der Hand aber war dieser Gedanke nicht „unbewusst“ vorhanden, man hat auch tatsächlich an nichts

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gedacht, nur willkürlich die Hand weggezogen, aber auf Befragen den Grund dafür angegeben; darin liegt, dass man einmal die Disposition so zu handeln (oder Schach zu spielen) durch Erlernen erworben hat. Man hat geglaubt, dass in jeder Wahrnehmung ein Urteil erhalten sei; Brentano sagte in diesem Sinne: „Wahrnehmung“ ist „für wahr nehmen“; nach dieser Ansicht müsste man also in jedem Augenblicke, wenn wir um uns schauen, etwas hören etc. ununterbrochen Urteile fällen. Die Frage, ob die Wahrnehmung ein Urteil sei, ist verneinend zu beantworten; das Urteil ist ein Satz  – gebraucht man das Wort „Urteil“ anders, verwirrt man die Begriffe. Freilich kann man das, was man wahrnimmt in einem Satze ausdrücken – und erst dann hat man geurteilt. (Noch bei den heutigen Psychologen ist die Frage nicht ganz geklärt, inwiefern in der Wahrnehmung ein Urteil enthalten ist, laut Brentano). Die Theorie der „unbewussten Urteile“ spielt in der Psychologie auch eine Rolle bei der Frage des sogenannten Mit-Denkens: wenn man z. B. nach dem Alter eines Menschen fragt und erfährt, dass er 30 Jahre alt ist, so weiß man auch, dass er nicht 31, nicht 32 etc. Jahre alt ist: aus dem positiven Satze folgen zahllose negative. Man sagt nun, der Sinn aller dieser negativen Sätze sei schon in dem positiven Satze „mitgedacht“ gewesen. Wie ist dies aber zu verstehen? Hatte man an alle diese Sätze gedacht? Nein, man hat nur an das positiv Gesagte gedacht, wird aber auf Befragen, woher man denn wisse, dass dieser Mensch nicht 32 Jahre alt sei, mit einer Regel der Grammatik antworten: man wusste alle die negativen Sätze in dem Sinne, in welchem man eine Regel zu ihrer Bildung hatte und diese Regel liegt schon in dem, was man das Verständnis nennt (d. h. wenn man den Sinn des Satzes „A ist 30 Jahre alt“ versteht, so muss man auch die Grammatik der darin auftretenden Worte kennen und diese enthält auch die Regel, dass die Angabe eines Alters alle anderen Angaben ausschließt); wir wollen nur das „mitgedacht“ nennen, was mitgesagt ist… Wir haben hier einen Irrtum durch eine Reihe analoger Fälle verfolgt, die wir aneinanderreihten – dies ist unsere Methode um eine typische Art philosophischer Beunruhigung aus der Welt zu schaffen; wir reihen diese Fälle (wie: unbewusster Wunsch, unbewusster Glaube, unbewusstes Urteil etc., etc.) aneinander, um einen Licht auf den anderen werfen zu lassen. Es könnte nun die Frage aufgeworfen werden wie es komme, dass ein philosophisches Problem durch eine bloße Aneinanderreihung ähnlicher Fälle zum Verschwinden gebracht werden könne? Was hier geschieht ist ähnlich dem, wenn wir eine Erscheinung unserer physikalischen Welt für einzigartig halten; z. B. die Erde für den einzigen Himmelskörper und dann in Versuchung kommen, dieser Tatsache metaphysische Bedeutung beizulegen  – dann aber dadurch beruhigt werden, das diese Tatsache in eine Reihe mit anderen gestellt wird und so ihren Vorrang verliert. Unsere Methode besteht darin, bei leicht durchsichtigen Fällen zu beginnen und dann zu anderen überzugehen, bei welchen die Versuchung dem Irrtum zu verfallen eine viel größere ist. So haben wir gesehen, wie die Sprache Anlass für das Zustandekommen gewisser psychischer Irrtümer ist. Intention besteht nur wo eine Sprache besteht; es entsteht nun wieder die Frage nach dem Zusammenhang der Sprache mit dem beschriebenen Gegenstand: der

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wird hergestellt durch die hinweisende Erklärung. Eine Intention kommt dadurch zustande, dass man Zeichen durch hinweisende Definition erklärt und dass in dem Vorgang der hinweisenden Erklärung Zeichen und Gegenstand zusammentreffen. Die Aufklärung des Problems der Intention ist in der Klarstellung, wie unsere Sprache funktioniert, enthalten; es bedarf keiner separaten Formulierung; die Frage, wie denn die Zeichen auf den Gegenstand hinweisen, verflüchtigt sich und hört auf uns zu beunruhigen.

15.3.10 Ein anderer Aspekt: Die Frage des Sokrates (die Frage nach dem Wesen) Man kann die Frage stellen: „Was ist der Buchstabe A?“ Es sind nicht etwa die Graphitteilchen auf dem Papier, nicht das optische Bild, nicht der vernommene Laut… Was ist also der Buchstabe A? Diese Frage setzt uns in Verlegenheit; es scheint, dass wir ganz genau wissen, was der Buchstabe A ist… dass wir aber, wenn wir gefragt werden, nicht sagen können was er ist. Diese Frage hat übrigens die Philosophie nicht weiter beunruhigt; man braucht sie aber nur ein wenig anders zu formulieren und man erhält sofort ein ernsthaftes philosophisches Problem. Man fragt z. B. „Was ist die Zahl 5?“ Ist es das Zeichen auf dem Papier? Ist es der Typus des Zeichens oder ist die Zahl 5 ein Haufen von 5 Dingen? Wenn wir sagen, dass dies alles nicht die Zahl 5 sei, so beunruhigt uns wieder die Frage, was ist eigentlich die Zahl 5? Hier haben wir bereits ein Problem der modernen Logik (Frege und Russell haben sich bemüht eine Definition der Zahl zu geben). In ähnlicher Weise hat man gefragt: „Was ist der Sinn eines Satzes?“ (Die gewöhnliche Auffassung ist, dass der Sinn eines Satzes nicht der Satz selbst ist, sondern das, was der Satz ausdrückt.) Alle diese Fragen haben etwas Beunruhigendes und wir wollen versuchen, den Grund für diese Erscheinung aufzudecken. Es scheint doch, dass wir alle verstehen, was der Buchstabe A. was die Zahl 5, was der Sinn eines Satzes ist… wenn wir aber versuchen, eine Erklärung dafür zu geben, d. h. wenn wir nach einer Formulierung suchen, so geraten wir in Verlegenheit. Woher rührt diese seltsame Schwierigkeit? Die Fragen, mit denen wir uns hier beschäftigen, haben eine gewisse Ähnlichkeit mit einer klassischen Frage der Philosophie, der Frage des Augustinus nach dem Wesen der Zeit: Augustinus fiel es auf, dass er zwar das Wort „Zeit“ verstehe und es auch verwenden könne, dass er aber nicht erklären könne was die Zeit sei. Er drückte dies in den Worten aus: „… si nemo ex me querat, scio; si querento explicare velim, nescio.“ Die Schwierigkeit des Augustinus besteht darin, eine Formulierung für die Zeit zu geben… und das ist tatsächlich unmöglich. Wie kommt es aber dann, dass wir im täglichen Leben das Wort „Zeit“ sehr wohl zu verwenden wissen? Nun, mit dem Worte „Zeit“ verhält es sich gar nicht anders als mit den übrigen Worten unserer Sprache: um zu erfahren, was ein Wort bedeutet, achte man auf seinen Gebrauch,

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man gehe allen Verwendungsweisen des Wortes nach, man fahre die Linien nach, die der Sprachgebrauch für dieses Wort gebahnt hat – das gibt uns die Bedeutung des Wortes an. Will ich jemandem mitteilen, was das Wort „Zeit“ bedeutet, so muss ich ihn lehren, das Wort in allerlei Zusammenhängen gebrauchen; z. B. in den Zeitungen: „Ich habe jetzt keine Zeit“, „dazu ist nicht genügend Zeit vorhanden“, „seither ist viel Zeit verflossen“, etc. etc. Das Ausbreiten der ganzen komplizierten Grammatik dieses Wortes, das gibt den Sinn des Wortes „Zeit“ an und nicht eine Formulierung, die sagt, was die „Zeit“ sei. Viele Worte unserer Sprache werden in unregelmäßiger Weise gebraucht; der Philosoph möchte die großen Lücken ausfüllen, die der Sprachgebrauch gelassen hat: und doch sind es gerade diese Lücken, welche die Bedeutung charakterisieren. Was sucht der eigentlich, der nach dem Wesen der Zeit fragt? Was für eine Antwort erwartet er? Er möchte etwas finden, aus dem er die ganze Grammatik dieses Wortes herausspinnen kann; er sucht nach einer Formel, in die, wie in einen magischen Kristall die innerste Bedeutung dieses Wortes gebannt ist. Wir würden auf die Frage des Augustinus: „Was ist die Zeit?“ nicht mit einem Satze: „Die Zeit ist…“ antworten, sondern wir würden die ganze weitläufige Verwendung dieses Wortes beschreiben. Wir wollen damit sagen, dass alle diese Fragen (Was ist die Zeit? Was ist die Zahl 5? Was ist der Sinn eines Satzes? Etc.) falsch gestellt sind und uns eine Antwort suggerieren, die Missverständnisse erzeugen muss; denn auf ein „was“ erwarten wir ein „das“ zur Antwort und damit sind wir schon auf ein falsches Geleise geraten. In keinem Punkte der Philosophie zeigt sich eine verhängnisvollere Bezauberung des Denkens so deutlich wie in der Frage des Sokrates: „Was ist Erkenntnis?“ In den Platonischen Dialogen, die dieser Frage gewidmet sind, geben die Schüler verschiedene Antworten; Theaitetos nennt etwa verschiedene Beispiele der Erkenntnis – Sokrates aber weist alles das mit der Bemerkung zurück, dass er nicht gefragt habe, welche Arten der Erkenntnis es gibt, sondern was das Wesen der Erkenntnis sei. Wir würden sagen, dass gerade die Art, wie die Schüler antworten, die einzig richtige ist: was wir geben wollen und was wir geben können sind Beispiele. Man könnte glauben, wir geben Beispiele in Ermanglung eines Besseren; so ist es aber nicht: wir brauchen das Wort „Erkenntnis“ immer nur in konkreten Fällen (es kommt niemals darauf an, dass wir im täglichen Leben vom „Wesen“ der Erkenntnis sprechen, vom allgemeinen Prinzip des Erkennens). Was wir verstehen und was wir lernen müssen ist dieses Wort in den verschiedensten Beispielen zu gebrauchen und deshalb besteht auch die ganze Erklärung dieses Wortes in der Angabe von Beispielen, d.  h. die Beispiele, die wir geben sind nicht etwa die unvollkommene Andeutung von etwas, das wir auch abstrakt beschreiben könnten, sondern sie sind vollkommen legitime Methode um das Wort zu erklären. Warum sollte auch der Wesen der Erkenntnis schwerer zu verstehen sein als das Wesen eines Stuhles oder Tisches, wenn nicht deshalb, weil das Wort „Erkenntnis“ in viel unübersichtlicherer und freierer Weise gebraucht wird als diese Worte? Man kann ganz deutlich verfolgen, wie bei Plato das Wort „Erkenntnis“ zu seinem Nimbus gekommen ist. Plato fragt etwa: „Was ist die Gerechtigkeit?“ und meint, wir werden das erkennen, wenn wir verschiedene gerechte Handlungen

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betrachten: die Gerechtigkeit, meint er, ist das Gemeinsame an diesen Handlungen oder dasjenige, woran die einzelnen Handlungen Teil haben. Das führt uns auf das Grundbild der ganzen Platonischen Philosophie. Die Ideen sind eine Flüssigkeit, die in den einzelnen Dingen gleichsam verdünnt ist, so dass die Gerechtigkeit der reine Wein ist und die gerechten Handlungen Wasser, zu dem etwas Wein gemischt ist. Daraus ergibt sich die Tendenz die Ideen in ihrer Reinheit zu gewinnen, sie aus der Verbindung mit dem Irdischen zu isolieren. Die Beispiele, die die Schüler anführen, sind in Platos Augen immer schon verunreinigt und er sucht nun nach der Idee der Erkenntnis. (Aus diese Beispiele sieht man, wie der Nimbus zustande kommt.) Diese „Frage des Sokrates“ ist eine so wichtige, dass wir untersuchen wollen, warum die Philosophen eigentlich immer diese Frage nach der Erkenntnis, nach dem Wesen der Zeit etc. aufwerfen? Wenn wir dieser Frage nachgehen, kommen wir zu einer eigenartigen Untersuchung: die Behauptung, dass die Zahl 5 doch nicht das Zeichen 5 sei, ist ganz richtig, insofern die Grammatik des Ausdruckes „die Zahl 5“ wirklich eine andere ist als die Grammatik des Ausdruckes „das Zeichen 5“ (man kann vom Zeichen manches sagen, das sich von der Zahl nicht sagen lässt; z. B. dass es zerstört werden kann). Diese Behauptung ist ganz harmlos, wenn man damit nur einen grammatischen Unterschied betonen will. Er wird aber sofort zu einer Gefahr, wenn man sich von dem Ausdruck „das Zeichen ist nicht die Zahl“ in die Frage hineindrängen lässt, was also die Zahl sei. Es sieht dann nämlich so aus, als habe man nur eine Erklärung abgelehnt, aber nicht auch eine gegeben. Im Falle dieser Frage nach dem „Wesen“ lässt man sich von Analogien führen (und zwar unausgesprochen, was das Schlimme ist); so fragt z. B. Frege: „Was ist die Zahl 5? Ist sie etwa das Zeichen 5?“ Und wird nun diese Frage verneint, so scheint es, als hätte man damit gesagt „so viel ist also gewiss, das Zeichen ist die Zahl nicht – ich muss nun weiter suchen, was die Zahl ist“ und dabei schweben einem von ferne Analogien vor; z. B. „das ist der Mensch nicht, den ich suche, das ist nur sein Kleid“ oder „das ist nicht der wirkliche Mensch, das ist nur sein Bild“ oder „nicht dieser Mann ist es, den ich suche, sondern jener“ etc. Aber in Wirklichkeit habe ich gerade mit der Unterscheidung der „Zahl 5“ und des „Zeichens 5“ eine Antwort auf die Frage nach dem Wesen der Zahl gegeben: ich habe nämlich ein Stück Grammatik des Ausdruckes die „Zahl 5“ angegeben und keine Erklärung der Zahl 5 kann von wesentlich anderer Art sein. Die wirkliche Erklärung besteht nun in der Vervollständigung der Grammatik, also in der Angabe aller weiteren Regeln, die für die Zahl 5 gelten. Wir begreifen nun, worin die große Versuchung aller bisherigen Philosophien besteht: es ist das Drängen nach festen Formeln oder Formulierungen, die das inners­te Wesen eines Begriffes aussprechen wollen. Man sucht nach einer Erklärung, die uns das Wesen der Erkenntnis oder das Wesen der Zeit oder das Wesen der Zahl enthüllen soll. Die wahre Lösung dieser Fragen besteht in der Ausbreitung der ganzen komplizierten Grammatik dieser Worte, nicht in der Angabe einer Formel. Die Frage „Was ist die Zeit?“ hebt sich bereits von einem falschen grammatischen Hintergrund ab. (Denn auf die Frage „Was“ erwarten wir ein „Das“ zur Antwort; was aber diese Fragen betrifft können wir Spinozas omnis determinatio est negatio mit Recht umkehren in omnis negatio est determinatio.)

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Mit dieser Aufklärung wollen wir natürlich nichts gegen das Definieren in der Wissenschaft sagen; wenn in der Wissenschaft ein neuer Terminus eingeführt wird, so muss seine Bedeutung angegeben werden und das geschieht durch Definition (die Definition ist selbst ein Stück Grammatik); versucht man dagegen die Worte der Umgangssprache (z. B. Raum, Zeit, Sinn, Wahrheit, Erkenntnis, Sprache etc) zu definieren, so wird sofort die Vergeblichkeit dieses Unternehmens klar; denn hier handelt es sich nicht um Zurückführung eines Begriffes auf elementare Begriffe wie im Falle der wissenschaftlichen Definition; sondern um die Beschreibung des ­Gebrauches dieser Worte und die Beschreibung kann eben nur durch die gesamte Grammatik dieser Zeichen gegeben werden. (In der modernen Philosophie leiten zwei verschiedene Dinge irre: 1. das Vorbild der wissenschaftlichen Definition, 2. die suggestive Frage: „wenn die Erkenntnis nicht das… ist, was ist sie denn?“)

15.3.11 Die Frage der Vollständigkeit der Grammatik Für die Vagheit der Grammatik lassen sich zahlreiche Beispiele anführen; im Folgenden sei eines dieser vielen dargestellt, die Bedeutung der Farbnamen: die Erklärung des Wortes „rot“ geschieht in der Regel durch eine hinweisende Definition; man deutet auf ein rotes Farb-Muster hin und spricht dabei das Wort „rot“ aus. Aber dieser Vorgang der hinweisenden Erklärung ist es nicht allein, der dem Worte „rot“ seine Bedeutung gibt; denn derjenige, dem ich diese Erklärung gebe, könnte ja glauben, dass ich mit dem Worte „rot“ nicht die Farbe, sondern den materiellen Gegenstand meine auf den ich zeige. Was fehlt also noch? (Die hinweisende Erklärung ist zu wenig; man muss sie so vervollständigen, dass man sich wirklich nach ihr richten kann): zur Vervollständigung der hinweisenden Erklärung gehört noch ein Kriterium der Identität: erst dadurch, dass ich den Gegenstand zum Muster mache, mit dem andere Gegenstände übereinstimmen oder nicht übereinstimmen, gebe ich dem Worte „rot“ die Bedeutung eines Farb-Namens (d. h. ich kann beim Anblick eines anderen Gegenstandes nun sagen, dass dieser auch „rot“ ist). Soll aber weiter das Wort „rot“ angewendet werden können, so muss noch gesagt sein, worin das Kriterium der Identität bestehen soll (nenne ich dieses gelbliche rot noch „rot“ oder schon gelb?). Die Grenzen des Begriffes „rot“ könnten durch zwei Täfelchen gegeben sein und es sollte gesagt sein, dass jede Farbe zwischen diesen Grenzen als „rot“ zu gelten hat. Oder es wird nur auf ein Täfelchen hingewiesen; in diesem Falle muss aber wieder gesagt sein, wie die Farbe einer Fläche mit der Farbe des Musters zu vergleichen ist: soll ich zuerst auf das Muster schauen und dann auf die Fläche und sagen, ob ich einen Unterschied sehe, oder soll ich die Beiden nebeneinander legen und sehen, ob ich einen Farbübergang merke oder soll ich die eine Farbe nach der Erinnerung mit der anderen vergleichen? Soll ich wenn ich das Muster mit der großen Fläche vergleiche und sie mir beide als gleich hell erscheinen, sagen, das kleine ist heller als das große, weil jede größere Fläche heller erscheint? Wenn ich

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nach einiger Zeit die Fläche mit dem Muster wieder vergleiche und sie mir nun verschieden erscheinen, was dann? Gilt als Kriterium der Farb-Gleichheit die Erinnerung, die chemische Zusammensetzung, der Vergleich mit einem anderen Paradigma? Alles das ist möglich; wir spielen in jedem Falle ein anderes Spiel. Je nachdem welche Festsetzungen ich für den Farbvergleich gebe, erhält das Wort „rot“ einen anderen Sinn. Das Wort „rot“ war also nicht durch die hinweisende Definition allein erklärt, sondern durch diese und durch die Regeln des Vergleichs. Aber auch das ist noch nicht alles: der Satz „dieser Fleck ist zugleich ,rot‘ und ,grün‘“ beschreibt keine sichtbare Situation, er ist sinnlos und muss durch eine Regel der Grammatik ausgeschlossen werden; d.  h. es ist in der Grammatik der Farbworte schon vorgesehen, dass die Angabe eines Farbwortes die Angabe aller anderen ausschließt. Dies ist eine selbständige Regel, die nicht etwa aus der hinweisenden Erklärung der Farbworte und aus den Kriterien des Vergleichs folgt. Sie und die früheren Regeln zusammen bestimmen also erst die Bedeutung des Wortes „rot“. Wenn wir nun die Bedeutung eines Wortes durch alle Regeln sein lassen, die von dem Worte gelten, so erhebt sich die Frage, ob wir dann wohl je vollständig alle Regeln kennen, die ein bestimmtes Wort betreffen? (Das Wort „rot“ hat nicht eine Bedeutung, sondern viel Bedeutungen, je nachdem man die Grenzen zieht; es ist gänzlich arbiträr was man unter der Bedeutung des Wortes „rot“ versteht.) Es ist ein Aberglaube in der Logik, dass der Begriff eines Wortes ein für allemal feststeht; dass man einer Art ätherischem Wesen nachstrebt, einer „Ur-Bedeutung“. Will man das Wort präzisieren, so bieten sich verschiedene Möglichkeiten dar und die Logik kann nicht darüber entscheiden, wie wir wählen. Wir stellen also nur fest, dass die Grammatik der Worte (z. B. des Wortes „rot“) eine vage ist. Um unsere Auffassung der Sprache, unsere Methode zu illustrieren, ziehen wir Beispiele verschiedenster Art heran. Zum Beispiel, hat Frege die Anschauung kritisiert, dass die Arithmetik ein Spiel sei (er sagte u. a., dass die Arithmetik anwendbar sei, das Schachspiel aber nicht; die Mathematik drücke einen Gedankeninhalt aus, das Schachspiel nicht; etc.) An dieser Kritik von Frege ist Einiges richtig, Anderes nicht richtig… Man könnte nun aber in dieser ganzen Frage einen völlig anderen Standpunkt ein­nehmen: man könnte die ganze Frage beiseitelassen, ob die Arithmetik ein Spiel sei oder nicht und sagen, dass so viel klar sei, dass die Arithmetik irgendeine Ähnlichkeit mit einem Spiel habe, sonst wäre niemand auf diesen Vergleich gefallen: untersuchen wir einmal das Spiel, setzen wir die Beschreibung des Spieles neben die Beschreibung der Arithmetik und lassen wir das Eine ein Licht auf das Andere werfen (d. h. seien wir ganz gerecht und behaupten wir nichts). Dadurch wird nun zum Teil der Ton unserer Untersuchung geändert: wir gehen nicht mehr darauf aus, Behauptungen aufzustellen, sondern geben nur eine Methode an, die Dinge vorurteilsfrei anzusehen. Zum Teil ist unsere Betrachtungsweise derjenigen ähnlich, die Boltzmann für die Physik vorgeschlagen hat, nämlich mechanische Modelle zu konstruieren (z. B. für die elektromagnetischen Vorgänge) aber ohne Prätention, dass die Modelle mit irgendetwas übereinstimmen; sondern das Modell ist gleichsam eine Sache für sich,

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sie dient einem Zwecke so gut sie ihm dienen kann und verliert ihre Bedeutung auch dann nicht, wenn sie mit dem Vorgang nicht übereinstimmt (auch in solchen Fällen bleibt das Modell als solches lehrreich). Was Boltzmann dadurch bewirkt ist eine Reinlichhaltung seiner Erklärungen; es ist nicht immer wieder die Versuchung da die Wirklichkeit zu verfälschen, sondern das Modell wird neben die Wirklichkeit gestellt und Boltzmann macht nur auf die Ähnlichkeit aufmerksam. Es wäre ein Missverständnis zu meinen, dass unsere Bemerkung, dass alles fragmentarisch bleibt, einem Verzichte gleichkäme: um das zu beheben muss man sich nur fragen, was für einen Sinn es hat, die Regeln der Grammatik anzugeben? Unser Ehrgeiz liegt gewiss nicht darin, ein genaues Bild der Sprache zu entwerfen; denn die Sprache interessiert uns als Philosophen nur insoweit als sie ein Mittel ist, um philosophische Fragen aus der Welt zu schaffen. Um dies an einem Beispiel zu illustrieren wollen wir fragen, ob „wahrscheinlich“ wirklich ein Begriff sei, der zwischen „wahr“ und „falsch“ liegt. (Die Auffassung von Reichenbach geht dahin, dass „wahrscheinlich“ zwischen „wahr“ und „falsch“ liegt und dass es dazwischen einen kontinuierlichen Übergang vom 0 Wert zum 1 Wert gibt.) Was heißt es eigentlich, wenn man das behauptet? Nicht anderes offenbar, als dass die Worte „wahr“, „falsch“ und „wahrscheinlich“ einem grammatischen System angehören; das heißt z. B., dass man die füreinander einsetzen kann. Wir wollen unsere Kritik der Frage an einem Beispiel demonstrieren: die Wahrscheinlichkeit, mit einer Münze „Kopf“ zu werfen, beträgt ½; gesetzt, ich sage vor dem Wurfe: „die Münze wird auf Wappen fallen“, sie fällt aber auf „Kopf“, dann hat die Erfahrung meine Aussage widerlegt; hat sie aber auch widerlegt, dass die Wahrscheinlichkeit des Wurfes ½ ist? Offenbar nicht. Das heißt, dass die Wahrscheinlichkeits-Aussage ist von dem Eintreffen oder Nicht-Eintreffen unabhängig (sie bleibt immer ½). Die Aussage „es ist wahr, dass die Münze auf Wappen fällt“ hängt dagegen vom Eintreffen des Ereignisses ab. Wir sehen also, dass das Wort „wahrscheinlich“ eine ganz andere Grammatik befolgt als die Worte „wahr“ und „falsch“; man kann diesen Unterschied etwa so formulieren: Ein Wahrheitswert schließt den anderen aus (ein Satz kann nicht zugleich wahr und falsch sein); ein Wert der Wahrscheinlichkeit schließt jeden anderen Wert der Wahrscheinlichkeit aus (hier gibt es unendlich viele); dagegen schließt ein Wahrheitswert keineswegs einen Wert der Wahrscheinlichkeit aus. Der Begriff „wahrscheinlich“ hat also eine ganz andere logische Struktur als die Begriffe „wahr“ und „falsch“; die Worte „wahr“ und „wahrscheinlich“ gehören zwei ganz verschiedenen grammatischen Systemen an. Haben wir damit die gesamte Grammatik des Wortes „wahrscheinlich“ angegeben? Nein. Wir entwickeln die Grammatik so weit, dass man sieht, dass sie grundverschieden ist von der Grammatik der Worte „wahr“ und „falsch“; ist dies getan so ist man befriedigt, unser Ziel ist erreicht. Wir würden aber die Grammatik weiter entwickeln, wenn dies zu einem anderen Zwecke notwendig wäre. Unsere Auffassung darf nicht dahin missverstanden werden, als ob die Angabe der vollständigen Grammatik das unerreichbare Ideal wäre, dem wir uns nur mehr oder weniger nähern können. Wir können natürlich die Grammatik eines Wortes in

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der heutigen Sprache vollständig und erschöpfend angeben: was ist aber das Kriterium dafür? Woher weiß man, dass man alle Regeln für ein Wort kennt? Einfach daher, dass man dem Benutzer dieses Wortes ein Regelverzeichnis anbietet, mit der Frage, ob dies die Regeln sind, nach denen er sich tatsächlich richtet. Sagt er „ja“, so gibt uns erst dieses Bekenntnis das Recht, diese Regeln die Grammatik des Wortes zu nennen: in diesem Sinne scheint es also eine vollständige Angabe der Grammatik eines Wortes zu geben; wir wollen da aber aufmerksam machen, dass wir damit die Grammatik eines bestimmten Zustandes unserer Sprache beschrieben haben. Kann der Benutzer des Wortes versichern, dass er sich immer an diese Regeln halten wird? Könnte er nicht einmal das Wort in einer neuen und unvorhergesehenen Weise gebrauchen? Auf solche Fragen kommt man, wenn man sich gewisse Grenzfälle der Verwendung eines Wortes überlegt. Wir verwenden z. B. normalerweise das Wort „Bedeutung“ und sprechen etwa von der Bedeutung des Wortes „nicht“ etc. Andererseits spricht man aber auch von der Bedeutung eines Signals oder von der Bedeutung einer Geste, eines Blickes etc. Selbst wenn das Wort „Bedeutung“ in unserer Sprache immer nur in dem einen Sinn verwendet worden wäre, so können wir nicht wissen, ob nicht einmal jemand auf den Gedanken kommen wird, es auch in dem 2. oder einem neuen Sinne zu verwenden… Was sollen wir nun auf die Frage sagen: „Welches sind alle Regeln nach denen das Wort „Bedeutung“ verwendet wird?“ Man kann nie vorhersehen, wie ein Wort einmal verwendet wird, weil man die Gedankenbildung nicht voraussehen kann. Der Sprache bleibt immer eine gewisse Freiheit (es verhält sich damit nicht wie mit dem Schachspiel z. B., das abgeschlossen ist) – es handelt sich immer nur um alle Regeln zu denen man sich bekannt hat und die wir wie ein Spiel der Wirklichkeit entgegenhalten. Aber die Sprache geht oft über ihre Grenzen hinaus und verwendet Worte in ungeahnter Weise und doch nicht so, dass man sagen könnte, dass es sinnlos sei. Es stimmt nicht, dass man die Worte richtig verstanden hat, wenn man die sozusagen unwesentlichen Regeln ihrer Verwendung nicht kennt; man kann nicht ein Wort nur in großen Zügen verstehen und von den kleineren Regeln absehen; sonst versteht man das Wort eben doch nicht und weiß nicht, was damit gemeint ist.

15.3.12 Der Sinn eines Satzes Das Diktum „Der Sinn eines Satzes ist die Art seiner Verifikation“ ist ganz richtig, wenn es sich um Aussage-Sätze (Beschreibungen) handelt; denn man versteht eine Aussage über die Wirklichkeit erst dann, wenn man prinzipiell einen Weg angeben kann, auf dem sich Wahrheit oder Falschheit feststellen lässt. Wer uns auf keine Weise angeben kann, wie er es anfängt, einen Satz zu verifizieren, der weiß auch gar nicht, was er mit dem Satze meint. Nun muss man aber sagen, dass es verschiedene Arten von Sätzen gibt und dass damit auch die Bedeutung dessen ändert, was man den Sinn eines Satzes nennt. Es gibt eben nicht eine Art von Sätzen und eine Art von Sinn, sondern logisch verschiedene Satz-Typen und daher auch ganz verschiedene

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Sinn-Begriffe. Wenn man z.  B. buchstäblich an der Forderung festhalten würde, dass der Sinn eines Satzes die Art seiner Verifikation ist, so würde die Frage entstehen, ob ein physikalisches Gesetz, z.  B. das Newton’sche Gravitationsgesetz, noch Sinn habe oder nicht, da man dieses Gesetz nicht endgültig verifizieren kann. Wenn man unter „Satz“ nur das versteht, was eine endgültige Verifikation zulässt, müsste man den Aussagen der Physik den Sinn absprechen und sich damit in Konflikt gegenüber der allgemein herrschenden Auffassung setzen. Wenn man uns die Frage stellt: „Haben Gesetze der Physik Sinn oder nicht – und wenn ja, welches ist der Sinn?“ so tun wir am besten, in diese ganze Frage das Wort Sinn (das nur eine Quelle von Missverständnissen ist) gar nicht hineinzubringen, sondern einfach die Verwendung der Sätze zu beschreiben. Wir hätten dann zu sagen: „Ein Naturgesetz verwendet man freilich nicht so etwa die Aussage ‚Ich habe jetzt Zahnschmerzen‘, denn die letztere Aussage lässt sich verifizieren, die erstere nicht.“ Manche haben gemeint, dass ein Naturgesetz sich durch die Beobachtung nur falsifizieren, aber nie verifizieren lasse und haben daher gemeint, von einer einseitigen Entscheidbarkeit sprechen zu müssen; aber auch diese Auffassung trifft nicht ganz den Kern der Sache: ein Naturgesetz wird in strengem Sinne auch nie widerlegt; zeigt nämlich die Beobachtung eine Abweichung von dem Naturgesetz, so kann man diese Abweichung auch stets durch Einführung neuer ZusatzHypothesen erklären, ohne das Natur-Gesetz fallen zu lassen. Ein Natur-Gesetz verhält sich in dieser Hinsicht gänzlich anders als ein Satz, der von einer einmaligen Beobachtung spricht. Der letztere Satz gilt entweder als verifiziert oder als falsifiziert. Bei dem Natur-Gesetz aber hat man immer viele Möglichkeiten zur Hand; man kann daher niemals sagen, jetzt sei es endgültig falsifiziert und natürlich ebenso wenig es sei endgültig verifiziert. Damit wollen wir nicht sagen, dass die Naturgesetze keinen Erfahrungs-Inhalt in sich schließen oder unabhängig von den Beobachtungen sind. Der wahre Zusammenhang zwischen Natur-Gesetz und dem Verhalten der Wirklichkeit muss nur anders und etwas vorsichtiger formuliert werden. Der Zusammenhang besteht nämlich darin, dass die beobachteten Tatsachen für oder gegen ein Naturgesetz sprechen können, was aber nicht so viel heisst, wie dass sie es bestätigen oder widerlegen. Wenn z.  B. ein Physiker bei der Prüfung der Naturgesetze gewisse Experimente ausführt und nun zusieht was sich da ergibt, so kann es sein, dass die gewonnenen Beobachtungen mit dem Natur-Gesetz im besten Einklang stehen; aber es ist bekannt, dass noch so viele Beobachtungen das Naturgesetz nicht bestätigen, d. h. man kann ein Natur-Gesetz aus noch so vielen einzelnen Beobachtungen niemals logisch ableiten. Es kann aber auch so sein, dass der Erfahrungs-Befund mit dem Natur-Gesetz nicht in Einklang zu bringen ist; man hat da in früherer Zeit gesagt, die Erfahrungen „widersprechen“ dem Natur-Gesetz; das war aber keine ganz richtige Ausdrucksweise: ein „Widerspruch“ wie zwischen den Sätzen p und ~ p liegt hier gewiss nicht vor, d. h. das Zusammenbestehen des Natur-Gesetzes und des Beobachtungs-Satzes, der sich dem Natur-Gesetze nicht fügt, bedeutet keine Kontradiktion im Sinne der Logik. Wir haben schon bemerkt, dass der Forschung hier immer viele Wege offen stehen. Man kann z.  B. das

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abweichende Verhalten des Gases dadurch erklären, dass man einen neuen, bisher noch unbeachteten Natur-­Faktor heranzieht, d. h., dass man eine neue Hypothese aufstellt. Ja, es ist in der Geschichte der Wissenschaften gar nicht so selten, dass eine Erfahrung, die zuerst dem Natur-Gesetz zu widersprechen scheint, sich später, bei Einführung neuer Hypothesen in eine glänzende Bestätigung eben dieses NaturGesetzes verwandelt. Als man z. B. im Radium eine Quelle der Strahlung und Energie-Abgabe entdeckte, schien durch diese Erfahrung das Gesetz von der Erhaltung der Energie widerlegt. Als man sich aber entschloss, das Atom, das bis dahin für etwas Einfaches, Unteilbares gegolten hätte, als ein kompliziertes System von positiven und negativen elektrischen Teilchen zu sehen, d. h. als man sich entschlossen hatte, eine neue Hypothese in die Physik einzuführen, da konnte der anscheinende Widerspruch vollkommen aufgeklärt werden; das Gesetz der Erhaltung der Energie erwies sich nun als besser gegründet als vorher. Da nun Möglichkeiten wie die eben geschilderte nie auszuschließen sind, da wir nie vorher sehen können, welche Wege die Forschung einschlagen wird, so kann man auch nie mit endgültiger Sicherheit sagen, dass ein Naturgesetz durch die Erfahrung widerlegt ist. Man gibt es auf, wenn es sich nicht mehr bewährt, d. h. wenn uns die Aufstellung von entsprechenden Hilfshypothesen zu viel Mühe kosten würde; wir geben das Naturgesetz also auf, wenn es unzweckmäßig geworden ist, aber das heißt etwas ganz anderes als dass es durch die Erfahrung falsifiziert ist. Wenn wir zu unserer Ausgangsfrage zurückkehren, ob ein singulärer Satz (ein Satz, der eine einzelne Tatsache beschreibt) in derselben Weise verwendet wird wie eine Hypothese, so muss man mit Entschiedenheit verneinen. Eine Hypothese kann gar nicht mit der Wirklichkeit konfrontiert werden wie der singuläre Satz, sondern die Hypothese ist eigentlich eine Anweisung zur Bildung singulärer Sätze, die ihrerseits mit der Wirklichkeit konfrontiert werden können. Will man diese ganze Verwendungsweise eines Satzes seinen „Sinn“ nennen, so mag man das tun, nur ist dann nicht mehr wahr, dass der Sinn eines Satzes die Art seiner Verifikation ist. Und auch das ist noch nicht ganz richtig ausgedrückt: man könnte nämlich auch im Falle der Hypothese von einer Methode der Verifikation sprechen, nur bedeutet dann das Wort „Verifikation“ etwas total Anderes als im Falle des singulären Satzes. Jenes Diktum (der Sinn eines Satzes ist die Art seiner Verifikation) ist aber noch aus einem anderen Grunde irreführend: es wäre nämlich ein großer Irrtum zu glauben, dass singuläre Sätze und Naturgesetze (Hypothesen) die beiden einzigen Arten von Sätzen sind. Auf ein ganz anderes Beispiel stoßen wir schon wenn wir z. B. an die Sätze einer Novelle denken: es ist ganz klar, dass es hier so etwas wie eine Verifikation nicht gibt, und doch wird niemand solche Sätze als sinnlos bezeichnen. Die Wahrheit ist, dass das Wort „Sinn“ hier eine andere Bedeutung hat; um auf diese Bedeutung zu kommen frage man sich, wann man denn die Sätze einer Erzählung versteht? Eine Antwort wäre: „wenn man sich bei dem Text etwas vorstellen kann“ oder eine andere Antwort: „wenn man danach ein Bild zeichnen könnte“ oder „danach aus vielen

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Bildern die aussuchen könnte, die eine passende Illustration dazu wären“ etc. Es ist merkwürdig, dass wir auch hier von „Sätzen“ und von „Sinn“ sprechen, obwohl niemand solche Sätze wahr oder falsch nennt. Was berechtigt uns aber dann dazu, hier dieselben Ausdrücke zu verwenden? Das ist nichts weiter als eine Analogie. Man kann sagen, ein Satz eines historischen Romans verhält sich zu einem Satze der Geschichte wie ein Genre-Bild zu einem Portrait; man würde kein Genre-Bild malen, wenn es nicht Bilder von wirklichen Menschen gäbe; man würde dieses Spiel nicht treiben, wenn es nicht ein anderes, verwandtes Spiel gäbe, in dem es eine Verifikation gibt. (Alle die verschiedenen Bedeutungen der Worte werden durch Analogien zusammengehalten; da man die Grenze einer Analogie nicht fest ziehen kann, so kann man auch die Grenze der Bedeutung der Worte nicht scharf ziehen; das ist der eigentliche Grund warum unsere Sprache unscharf ist.) Erwägungen wie diese lehren eindringlich, dass es eine träumerische Hoffnung wäre, alle die verschiedenen Verwendungen des Wortes „Sinn“, „Verstehen“ und der damit zusammenhängenden Ausdrücke auf eine gemeinsame grammatische Formel zu bringen. Dem Philosophen, der von der Frage gequält wird, was der Sinn eines Satzes sei, geben wir den Rat, diese Frage beiseite zu lassen und lieber zu fragen, was man unter dem Sinne eines Satzes in diesem oder jenem konkreten Falle versteht. Die Antwort auf diese Frage ist die Beschreibung gewisser Verwendungsweisen; zwischen all diesen Verwendungsweisen besteht eine Analogie. Wenn wir diese Analogie aufzeigen, so sehen wir, was die Sprache bewogen hat in diesen verschiedenartigen Fällen dasselbe Wort „Sinn“ oder „Verstehen“ zu gebrauchen. Wir sehen dann aber auch ein, dass diese Begriffe letzten Endes auf einer unklar gefühlten Analogie beruhen und diese Einsicht bringt die Frage „was ist der Sinn“ zum Schweigen. Dies ist der Grund, warum wir nicht mehr an dem Diktum „der Sinn eines Satzes ist die Art seiner Verifikation“ festhalten. Diese Formulierung hat nur das eine Gute, dass sie uns gleich darauf aufmerksam macht, wie man eine sinnvolle von einer sinnlosen Aussage unterscheiden kann. Wichtig ist eine solche Kritik dann, wenn sich gewisse Sätze so gebärden, als ob sie sinnvoll wären; in diesem Falle ist es gut, ein Kriterium zu besitzen, dass zwischen sinnvoll und sinnlos unterscheidet (und dieses Kriterium ist eben die Verifikation); die Entlarvung der Sätze der Metaphysik als Scheinsätze wird dadurch wesentlich erleichtert. Dehnt man dagegen dieses Kriterium auf alle Arten von Sätzen aus, so wird es unbrauchbar und verleitet zum Dogmatismus. Durch diese Betrachtungen erhalten wir auch eine etwas deutlichere Antwort auf die Frage, ob wir denn je alle grammatischen Regeln eines Wortes kennen? Wir sehen jetzt deutlicher, in welchem hohen Masse sich die Sprache von Analogien leiten lässt. Eine Reihe der wichtigsten Worte wie z. B. „Satz“, „Sinn“, „Verstehen“, „Kalkül“, „Spiel“, „Regel“, „Zahl“, „Punkt“, „Punktion“, „Klasse“ und viele andere werden in verschiedenartigem Sinne gebraucht und alle diese verschiedene Bedeutungen werden durch den Faden der Analogie allein zusammengehalten. Da man nicht exakt erklären kann, wie weit die Analogie reicht und wie weit nicht, so kann man auch nicht exakt erklären, wie weit das Anwendungsgebiet dieser Termini reicht; es hat keinen Sinn, diese Tatsache zu verschleiern und nach einer

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vermeintlichen exakten Definition dieser Ausdrücke zu streben. Das Wesentliche an diesen Begriffen ist gerade ihre Offenheit, ihr Mangel an Starrheit und darum lehnen wir es ab, die Grammatik dieser Ausdrücke erschöpfend anzugeben.

15.3.13 Die Worte „wahr“ und „falsch“ (der Begriff der Negation) Die Erklärung der Worte „wahr“ und „falsch“ stoßt auf eigentümliche Schwierigkeiten, die damit zusammenhängen, dass man hier nicht mehr auf etwas deuten kann, was die Worte „wahr“ und „falsch“ bezeichnet. Die erste Bemerkung, die wir hier machen wollen ist die, dass man die Worte „wahr“ und „falsch“ gänzlich aus der Sprache eliminieren kann, indem man die Regel gibt: p ist wahr = p

p ist falsch = ~ p

Die Frage, was die Worte „wahr“ und „falsch“ bedeuten ist daher gleichwertig mit der Frage, welchen Sinn das Wort „nicht“ besitzt (Frage nach der Bedeutung der Negation). Wie erkläre ich nun jemandem die Verneinung? Nun dadurch, dass ich ihm Beispiele gebe; ich könnte einem Kinde, das sprechen lernt, die Bedeutung des Wortes „nicht“ etwa in der Weise beibringen, dass ich einen Kreis zeichne und einmal auf einen Punkt innerhalb des Kreises, das andere Mal auf einen Punkt außerhalb des Kreises deute und dabei sage: „Siehst Du, dieser Punkt liegt in dem Kreis und jener nicht“. Dieser Vorgang hätte eine gewisse Ähnlichkeit mit der hinweisenden Erklärung und man könnte, wenn man durchaus wollte, diese Erklärung die „hinweisende Definition der Verneinung“ nennen. Nur wäre es ein Irrtum zu glauben, dass die Grammatik des Wortes „nicht“ ähnlich ist wie die Grammatik des Wortes „Tisch“ z. B., weil man das letztere Wort auch durch eine hinweisende Definition erklärt. Wollten wir nun sagen, dass wir durch die eben geschilderte Erklärung die Bedeutung des Wortes „Nicht“ angegeben haben, so setzten wir uns einem naheliegenden Einwand aus: man würde uns nämlich sagen, dass wir ja gar nicht gesagt haben, was das Wort „nicht“ bedeutet, sondern nur ein Beispiel für seinen Gebrauch angeführt haben. Die Frage, auf die wir jetzt stoßen, ist die: können wir überhaupt die Bedeutung des Wortes „nicht“ angeben oder können wir nur Beispiele seiner Verwendung angeben? Wenn wir diese beiden Möglichkeiten prüfen, so muss uns auffallen, dass niemand eine Erklärung des Wortes „nicht“ geben kann, obwohl jeder die Bedeutung dieses Wortes in einzelnen Beispielen sehr wohl versteht. Gibt es also eine Erklärung der Negation und hat nur kein Mensch von ihr Kenntnis? Wie sonderbar, dass noch niemand darauf gekommen sein sollte! So kann es nicht sein  – diese ganze

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Überlegung muss uns nur in der Vermutung bestärken, dass die richtige Erklärung der Negation in nichts anderem besteht als in der Angabe von Beispielen dafür; wir sind demnach versucht zu sagen, die Bedeutung des Wortes „nicht“ erklären heißt, verschiedene Beispiele für den Gebrauch dieses Wortes anführen – aber hier taucht eine neue Schwierigkeit vor uns auf: man könnte nämlich sagen, die Anführung noch so vieler Beispiele kann dem Anderen den eigentlichen Sinn der Negation nicht übermitteln, wenn er nicht schon versteht, worauf es bei diesen Beispielen ankommt; man könnte meinen, dass wir durch die Beispiele nur einen Vorgang in dem Geiste oder Gehirne des Anderen anregen, dass wir ihm gleichsam nur den Anstoß geben und dass ihm nun von selbst die Bedeutung des Wortes aufgehen muss. Die Schwierigkeit vor der wir stehen scheint die zu sein: entweder wir können die Bedeutung der Negation durch Beispiele immer nur andeutungsweise erklären, dann scheint das eigentliche Verstehen ein Vorgang zu sein, der sich prinzipiell nicht in Worte fassen lässt (psychologistische Auffassung), oder wir nehmen an, es gäbe eine vollständige Erklärung der Negation, dann scheint diese Erklärung schon alle künftigen Verwendungen der Negation zu antizipieren. Die erste Auffassung verführt uns zu folgendem Gleichnis: das, was ich dem Anderen in dem Beispiel gegeben habe ist nicht nur das Beispiel, sondern mehr, nämlich gleichsam ein Knäuel, aus dem er die diversen Anwendungen des Wortes „nicht“ herausspinnen kann. Die zweite Auffassung wäre in der Sprache dieses Gleichnisses dann diese: was wir den Anderen geben ist nicht ein Knäuel, sondern ein Abbild aller künftigen Verwendungen; solange wir in dieser Frage nicht klar sehen, solange sind wir den Einwänden der Psychologisten ausgesetzt; die letztere Auffassung, dass es eine Erklärung der Bedeutung gäbe, die ganz unabhängig von den einzelnen Beispielen ist, brauchen wir hier wohl nicht im Einzelnen zu widerlegen; wir haben das Vergebliche solcher Bemühungen, das „Wesen“ der Zeit, das „Wesen“ des Sinnes etc. auszusprechen, schon zur Genüge beleuchtet und genau so verhält es sich natürlich mit dem hier in Rede stehenden Fall. Tatsächlich bringen wir einem Kinde ja auch die Bedeutung des Wortes „nicht“ bei, indem wir es die Verwendung in einzelnen Fällen lehren. Nur mit der ersteren Auffassung (psychologistischen) haben wir uns daher auseinanderzusetzen: die ganze Schwierigkeit besteht darin, wie man durch die Betrachtung von einzelnen Beispielen zum Verständnis des allgemeinen Wortes „nicht“ kommen kann. Wem ich das Wort „nicht“ in zwei oder drei Beispielen erklä­re, der versteht es, d. h. er kann dann das Wort in neuen, unvorhergesehenen Fällen, wie wir sagen würden „richtig“ verwenden. Wie kommt es nun eigentlich, dass er das Wort jetzt richtig anwenden kann? Inwiefern habe ich ihm dazu verholfen? Wir können das Verständnis des Wortes „nicht“ als Disposition oder die Fähigkeit mit dem Worte zu operieren auffassen und diese Fähigkeit stellen wir uns wieder gerne als ein Abbild der künftigen Verwendungen vor; wir meinen dann, dass in der Disposition schon alle künftigen Fälle der Verwendung enthalten sind, dass die Fähigkeit zur Anwendung gleichsam das Reservoir ist, aus dem die Anwendungen fließen. Aber diese Auffassung beruht schon selbst auf einer Hypostasierung der Begriffe „Fähigkeit“ oder „Disposition“.

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Die Substantiva „die Fähigkeit“, „das Können“, „das Vermögen“, „die Disposition“, suggerieren uns die Vorstellung von bestimmten Gegenständen, die durch diese Worte benannt werden und so entsteht der Glaube an eine Substanz, welche die Disposition ist und in welcher alle künftigen Anwendungen präexistieren. Wenn wir den Gründen dieses Irrtums nachgehen, so sehen wir uns schließlich auf den Begriff der Möglichkeit geführt („Können“, „Vermögen“, „Disposition“ etc. sind alles Formen der Möglichkeit); man hat die Möglichkeit meist als eine zweite, schwächere Wirklichkeit aufgefasst: denken wir uns eine Zeichnung, die in ganz dünnen Strichen ausgeführt ist und ziehen wir nun diese dünnen Striche dicker nach; die Meinung der Philosophen war dann die, dass die dünnen Linien der Möglichkeit, die dicken Striche der Wirklichkeit entsprechen; man kommt dann zu der Auffassung, dass die Wirklichkeit schon als Möglichkeit präexistiert hat; daher z. B. Nietzsches Ausspruch zur Begründung der ewigen Wiederkehr, dass „etwas schon geschehen sein müsse, damit es geschehen könne“. Daher auch die merkwürdige Ansicht Freges, dass eine gerade Linie schon existiere, bevor sie gezogen sei; Frege meint, dass die geometrische Gerade die Möglichkeit der physischen Geraden sei  – und hier haben wir wirklich das Gleichnis von der dünnen Linie und dem dicken Strich. Frege meint, der Geometer schaffe nicht erst die gerade Linie, sondern ziehe nur nach, was als ideales Gebilde schon da war. Diese Auffassung der Möglichkeit ist es im Grunde, die sich in den naiven Vorstellungen ausspricht, die man von Begriffen wir „Fähigkeit“ oder „Disposition“ besitzt. Die Fähigkeit möchte man als ein ätherisches Abbild der wirklichen Anwendungen erfassen, geradeso wie Frege die geometrische Gerade als ätherisches Vorbild für die wirkliche Gerade aufgefasst hat und nun wundert man sich, wie man durch einzelne Beispiele in dem Anderen jene Disposition hervorrufen kann. Die Wahrheit ist, dass die Disposition noch nicht die Anwendungen in sich enthält und dass wir dem anderen daher in dem Beispiel auch nicht etwas Unsichtbares, „die Disposition“ zur Anwendung überreicht haben. Wenn wir diese Auffassung abwehren, so bringen wir die Quelle aller dieser Probleme und Beunruhigungen zum Versiegen. Gegen unsere Auffassung lässt sich ein naheliegender Einwand erheben: dem Kinde bringen wir die Negation in der Form von Beispielen bei (wir sagen etwa : „dieser Punkt liegt auf dem Kreise, jener nicht“): dagegen erklären wir dem Kinde nicht, dass die doppelte Verneinung eine Bejahung ergibt (so erklärt man normalerweise dem Kinde die Negation nicht); wenn nun das Kind heranwächst und ihm nun jemand zum ersten Male sagt, dass eine doppelte Verneinung eine Bejahung ergibt, so ist das Kind dennoch nicht erstaunt und es kommt ihm gar nicht der Gedanke, dass es das ja gar nicht gewusst habe – inwiefern hat aber das Kind diese Regel gekannt? Hier ist man versucht zu sagen, dass sich diese Regel aus der Bedeutung der Negation ergibt, d. h. dass das Kind den Sinn der Negation erfasst hat und dass es nun aus diesem Sinn die Regel: ~ (~ p) = p abliest, so wie man etwa einen geometrischen Satz aus einer gezeichneten Figur abliest und tatsächlich ist dieser Vergleich auch kein so schlechter; als wir dem Kinde zum ersten male das Wort „nein“ (in dem Beispiele: „dieser Punkt liegt nicht in dem Kreis“) erklärten, da haben wir ihm

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in der Tat gleichsam ein Modell gegeben, an dem es die weitere Grammatik ablesen kann; wenn es nämlich weiss, dass der Satz: „Der Punkt liegt nicht in dem Kreis“ = (gleich ist dem Satze) „Der Punkt liegt außerhalb des Kreises“ und „Der Punkt liegt nicht außerhalb des Kreises“ = „Der Punkt liegt in dem Kreise“, dann kann er daraus ableiten: „Der Punkt liegt nicht nicht in dem Kreis“ = „Der Punkt liegt nicht außerhalb des Kreises“ = „Der Punkt liegt in dem Kreis“. Man kann nun sagen, dass die Regel von der doppelten Negation dem Kinde insofern nicht neu war, als es diese Regel aus der Vorstellung des In-dem-Kreise-­ Liegens ablesen konnte und dieser Vorgang hat tatsächlich gewisse Ähnlichkeit damit, dass man die geometrischen Regeln über einen Würfel aus einem anschaulichen Würfel-Modell ablesen kann; in der Tat verhält sich auch das Kind, das zum ersten Male von jener Regel über die Verneinung hört, nicht anders als ein Schüler, der zum ersten Male den Satz hört, dass in einer Winkel-Ecke drei Flächen zusammenstoßen und sich dabei sagt: „gewiss, das war schon in dem Bilde des Würfels enthalten“. Um Missverständnisse vorzubeugen muss noch eines gesagt werden: Die Vorstellung von dem Kreis und dem Punkt führt uns bei der Aufstellung der Grammatik der Negation; das heißt aber nicht, dass die Regel ~ ~ p  =  p eine logische Folge der früher gegebenen Erklärung dieses Wortes ist; diese Regel ist vielmehr eine selbständige Regel, die zusammen mit allen übrigen Regeln, die von diesem Worte gelten, den logischen Ort der Verneinung bestimmt. Wenn wir also streng sein wollen, müssen wir sagen: die Regel ~ ~ p = p folgt aus der hinweisenden Erklärung der Negation nicht. Wenn man nun trotzdem den Eindruck empfängt, dass das Kind in jener Regel nichts Neues erfährt, so liegt das nur daran, dass sich das Kind diese Regel an Hand einer anschaulichen Situation ableiten konnte. Die Frage ist ganz ähnlich der Frage: „Wenn ich jemandem das Modell eines Würfels in die Hand gebe, habe ich ihm damit auch die euklidische Geometrie des Würfels gegeben?“ Das heißt, waren etwa die geometrischen Sätze über den Würfel in dem Modell enthalten? Folgen die geometrischen Sätze aus dem Modell? Man braucht die Frage nur in dieser Form zu stellen, um klar zu sehen, dass sie verneint werden muss. Trotzdem aber besteht natürlich ein Zusammenhang zwischen dem Würfelmodell und der Geometrie des Würfels und zwar besteht dieser Zusammenhang ganz darin, dass uns das Würfel-Modell das Aussprechen der geometrischen Sätze wesentlich erleichtert; mit anderen Worten: das Würfelmodell ist selbst ein Ausdruck der Regeln, die von dem geometrischen Würfel gelten, in einer sehr einfachen und übersichtlichen Notation. Man hat in der Geometrie vielfach die Bedeutung der geometrischen Figuren nicht recht verstanden, sie schienen z. B. manchen Mathematikern die Objekte zu sein, von welchen die Geometrie handelt. Das Schiefe dieser Ansicht geht schon

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daraus hervor, dass man einen geometrischen Beweis auch an Hand einer ungenau gezeichneten Figur demonstrieren kann, also an einer Figur für welche der Satz nach dieser Ansicht eigentlich nicht gilt. Ferner kann ich an genau derselben Zeichnung einmal einen Satz der euklidischen, das andere Mal einen Satz der nichteuklidischen Geometrie demonstrieren. Das zeigt also schon, dass die Figuren in der Geometrie gar nicht die Objekte sind, die beschreiben werden, sondern dass ihre Rolle eine ganz andere ist; die Figuren gehören nämlich selbst zur Zeichensprache der Geometrie, d. h. sie sind ein Bestandteil des geometrischen Symbolismus und unterscheiden sich von den Symbolen der Wortsprache durch ihre große Einfachheit und Übersichtlichkeit. Wenn ich z. B. die Grammatik des Würfels rein abstrakt aufstellen wollte, so müsste ich ziemlich viele Regeln anführen; zeichne ich aber einen Würfel auf, so ist alles mit einem Schlage klar: die Zeichnung ist hier selbst der Ausdruck der Regeln, in einer übersichtlichen Notation, und darum fällt es mir so leicht, aus dieser Zeichnung die Regeln abzulesen; das heißt aber nicht, dass die Regeln aus der Zeichnung logisch folgen (eine Regel ist entweder ursprünglich oder sie kann nur aus anderen Regeln folgen). Wir sagen ja auch bezeichnenderweise, dass wir einen Satz aus einer Figur ablesen, aber nicht, dass wir den Satz aus Beobachtung der Figur finden. Man könnte natürlich die Geometrie auch so auffassen, dass ihre Sätze das beobachtbare Verhalten der Figuren beschreiben; aber dann sieht man sofort, dass sich der ganze Charakter der Geometrie von Grund aus ändert (dann würde z. B. wirklich in der Geometrie das Material auch eine Rolle spielen; die Dicke der Striche etc.). Das Gleichnis mit dem Würfel-Modell macht nun wieder deutlich wie es sich mit der Negation verhält: man kann nämlich sagen, die Regel ~ ~ p = p war zwar nicht in der ursprünglichen Erklärung der Negation enthalten, wohl aber konnte sie etwa aus dem Vorstellungsbild (von dem Punkt und dem Kreis) abgelesen werden; dieses Vorstellungsbild spielt hier genau dieselbe Rolle, welche in der Geometrie die Zeichnung eines Würfels spielt; aber die Vorstellung, gegen die wir uns hier wenden ist die, dass man die Grammatik des Wortes „nicht“ aus der Bedeutung „heraus­ holt“: in Wirklichkeit holt man gar nichts heraus, sondern die Vorstellung oder das Bild erleichtern uns nur, die Grammatik aufzustellen. „Wahr“ und „Falsch“: die Philosophen haben viele Mühe darauf verwendet, die Bedeutung solcher Worte wie „wahr“ und „falsch“ klarzustellen. Betrachtet man diese philosophischen Versuche so sieht man, dass sie in ihren Resultaten sehr weit auseinandergehen: während nämlich die Einen nach einer Definition dieser Begriffe suchen, behaupten Andere, dass „wahr“ und „falsch“ undefinierbare Grundbegriffe seien. In unserer Tendenz liegt es überhaupt keine allgemeine Antwort auf die Frage „was ist wahr“ zu geben, sondern zuzusehen, was diese Worte in einem konkreten Falle bedeuten. Um die Situation aufzuklären, denken wir uns folgenden Fall: Es kann eine so primitive Sprache geben, dass in ihr die Worte „wahr“ und „falsch“ noch gar nicht vorkommen; weiters gibt es auch ausgebildete Sprachen, in denen diese Begriffe auftreten… Wir wollen uns nun fragen: welche Ausbildung muss eine Sprache haben, wenn in ihr von „wahr“ und „falsch“ die Rede sein soll? Um uns hierüber Klarheit zu verschaffen, ist es das Beste, uns ganz bestimmte Beispiele oder Modelle

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zu konstruieren, in welchen wir die fraglichen Verhältnisse klar überblicken. Wir wollen drei solcher Sprachspiele schildern: 1) Wir lehren ein Kind das folgende Spiel: auf die Worte „rot“ und „grün“ soll es ein rotes oder grünes Täfelchen aus einem Haufen herausgreifen und auf den Tisch legen; wir erklären das Spiel, indem wir es ihm vormachen. Sagen wir nun „rot“ und das Kind zieht grün, so liegt hier ein Vergreifen vor, eine Fehlleistung, aber mit „wahr“ und „falsch“ im Sinne der Logik hat das nicht das Geringste zu tun. 2) An der Decke des Zimmers hängt eine Laterne die unregelmäßig bald rot, bald grün aufleuchtet: das Kind soll hinschauen und sagen „rot“, „grün“, je nach der Farbe des Lichtes und im Übrigen nichts von der Bedeutung dieser Worte in unserer Sprache kennen; das ist das ganze Spiel. Leuchtet nun die Laterne rot auf und sagt das Kind „grün“… ist das falsch? Man wird vielleicht geneigt sein, zu erwidern: „gewiss, das Kind sagt „grün“, das Licht war aber rot, folglich sagt das Kind das Falsche“… aber inwiefern ist denn das, was es sagt „falsch“? Man muss wohl beachten, dass die Worte „rot“ und „grün“ in diesem Spiel nach gewissen Regeln zu verwenden sind und wenn das Kind die falsche Farbe nennt, so ist das etwa so, wie wenn einer im Schachspiel einen falschen Zug macht oder auch wie wenn man sich verspricht, verliest, verrechnet etc. Das Kind verletzt die Spielregeln, aber es sagt nichts Falsches im Sinne einer falschen Aussage. Die Analogie mit dem Spiel 1 macht es vollkommen deutlich, dass auch hier nur etwas wie ein unerlaubter Zug vorliegt; dieses Spiel hat für „wahr“ und „falsch“ noch keinen Platz; dagegen könnten diese Begriffe auftreten in einen Spiel: 3) welches darin besteht, dass geraten werden soll, ob die Laterne rot oder grün aufleuchten wird. In diesem Spiel gibt es dann die Bestimmung: „du hast es erraten“ oder „du hast es nicht erraten“ oder „wahr“ oder „falsch“. Vergleicht man nun diese drei Spiele miteinander so sieht man, dass nur das dritte Spiel die Begriffe „wahr“ und „falsch“ hat und es fragt sich nun: welcher grundle­ gende Unterschied besteht nun zwischen diesen drei Spielen? Das heißt, woran liegt es, dass gerade in dem letzten Spiel die Begriffe „wahr“ und „falsch“ auftreten? Die Antwort auf diese Frage muss uns einen tieferen Einblick in die Natur der Begriffe „wahr“ und „falsch“ gewähren. Die Antwort auf diese Frage scheint aber nicht schwer zu sein: in den beiden ersten Spielen sind die Worte „rot“ und „grün“ gewissermaßen bloße Spielmarken, die nichts bedeuten; im dritten Spiel meint das Kind mit den Worten „rot“ und „grün“ etwas, es drückt einen Gedanken aus und darum ist seine Äußerung „wahr“ oder „falsch“. Man könnte sagen, wenn das Kind im zweiten Spiele die Farbe des Lichtes nennt, so sind diese Worte noch nicht als Satz gemeint; im dritten Falle dagegen meint das Kind einen Satz, es drückt einen Gedanken aus und darum ist seine Äußerung „wahr“ oder „falsch“. Dieses Argument besagt also, weil die Worte „rot“ und „grün“ einen Satz meinen, sind sie „wahr“ oder „falsch“. Die nächste Frage wäre dann die: worin besteht denn dieses Meinen? Ist es ein psychischer Vorgang, der sich an das Aussprechen dieser Worte anschließt? Wir kommen tatsächlich nicht

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durch eine psychologische Untersuchung darauf, dass das Kind einen Satz gemeint hat; das muss sich erst im Spiel ergeben. Wir müssen uns ganz an das Spiel halten. Man meint also, dass es ein Vorgang des Denkens sei, der den Unterschied zwischen diesen Spielen begründet; diese Antwort kann nicht befriedigen. Woher wissen wir, welcher Vorgang sich im Bewusstsein des Kindes abspielt, wenn nicht aus der sprachlichen Äußerung selbst? Was wir kennen, sind die drei Spiele und auf Grund der Regeln dieser Spiele sagen wir „nur das dritte Spiel kennt die Begriffe ,wahr‘ und ,falsch‘“. Welchen Zweck soll es da haben, sich auf Vorgänge im Bewusstsein zu berufen? Tatsächlich stellen wir auch gar keine subtilen psychologischen Untersuchungen darüber an was sich in der Seele des Kindes abspielt, sondern wir halten uns wie gesagt an das Spiel selbst. Der Unterschied zwischen den letzten und den beiden anderen Spielen kann also jedenfalls nicht in einem psychologischen Vorgang des Denkens bestehen, der den beiden ersten Fällen fehlt und der sich im letzten Falle einstellt; diese Auffassung würde uns nur sofort in alle Schwierigkeiten verstricken, von denen bisher so oft die Rede war. Man könnte nun versuchen, den Unterschied auf andere Weise zu erfassen, indem man sagt: nur im dritten Spiele kann man von einer Übereinstimmung der Angabe „rot“ und „grün“ mit der Wirklichkeit reden; im zweiten Spiel dagegen noch nicht; hier liegt der Ursprung der Begriffe „wahr“ und „falsch“. Auch diese Antwort trifft den Kern der Frage nicht; man sieht das ein, wenn man sich überlegt, was das Wort „Übereinstimmung“ bedeuten soll: man kann z. B. sagen, dass eine Farbe mit einer anderen übereinstimmt; man kann auch davon sprechen, dass ein Satz p mit einem anderen Satz q übereinstimmt, wo dann die Regeln der Übereinstimmung durch die logische Grammatik gegeben sind. Daraus sieht man aber schon, dass man in keinem Falle von einer „Übereinstimmung“ zwischen dem Worte „rot“ und einem roten Lichte sprechen kann; tatsächlich hat hier das Wort „Übereinstimmung“ eine ganz andere Bedeutung. Wenn ich sage: „der Satz p stimmt mit der Wirklichkeit überein“ so sage ich damit: „es ist so, wie der Satz p sagt“, d.  h. der Satz p ist wahr. Die Worte „Übereinstimmung“ und „Nicht-Übereinstimmung“ sind in diesem Falle nur Synonyme der Worte „wahr“ und „falsch“; wenn man also auf unsere Frage, was den Unterschied zwischen den drei Spielen begründe, antwortet: „weil im dritten Falle das Wort „rot“ mit der Wirklichkeit übereinstimmen kann, darum ist es wahr oder falsch“, so sagt man doch nur: „weil das Wort „rot“ wahr oder falsch ist, ist es wahr oder falsch“. Der Begriff der Übereinstimmung hilft uns gar nicht weiter, denn er ist ja selbst, geradeso wie das Wort „wahr“ ein logischer Operator. Man kann alle diese Worte aus der Sprache eliminieren, indem man etwa die Regel gibt: p stimmt mit der Wirklichkeit überein = p ist wahr = p p stimmt nicht mit der Wirklichkeit überein = p ist falsch = ~ p Wir wollen damit sagen, dass das Wort „Übereinstimmung mit der Wirklichkeit“ nicht etwa ein metalogisches Wort ist, das die Verbindung zwischen der Sprache und der Wirklichkeit bezeichnet, sondern dass es wieder nur ein Wort innerhalb der Sprache ist (man kann also damit nicht etwa das Verhältnis der Sprache zur Wirklichkeit beschreiben oder den Unterschied zwischen den drei Spielen erklären).

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Die beiden bisherigen Erklärungsversuche sind missglückt; sicher ist, dass das dritte Spiel komplizierter ist als die beiden ersten; so ist z. B. das zweite Spiel ein Teil des dritten Spieles. Man könnte daher auf den Gedanken kommen, die größere Ausbildung des dritten Spieles für das Auftreten der Begriffe „wahr“ und „falsch“ verantwortlich zu machen; aber auch damit wäre die wahre Einsicht verfehlt, denn man könnte das zweite Spiel durch Hinzufügung weiterer Regeln immer komplizierter machen, ohne dass doch jemals auf einer bestimmten Stufe der Ausbildung die Worte „wahr“ und „falsch“ auftreten müssten. Der Unterschied zwischen den Spielen muss ein ganz prinzipieller sein und es ist in der Tat nicht schwer ihm konkret anzugeben. Wenn das Kind im zweiten Spiel auf die Laterne schaut, rot sieht und „grün“ sagt, so verletzt es die Regeln dieses Spieles; es tritt gleichsam aus dem logischen Raum dieses Spieles heraus, es spielt gar nicht dieses Spiel. Man könnte sagen, das Spiel 2 sieht es ja gar nicht vor, dass das Kind hinschaut, rot sieht und „grün“ sagt, so wenig wie etwa das Schachspiel den Fall vorsieht, was zu geschehen hat, wenn einer einen falschen Zug macht. Im dritten Spiel dagegen bleibt sowohl die Angabe „rot“ als auch die Angabe „grün“ innerhalb des Spieles; das Spiel sieht sowohl die Möglichkeit vor, dass das Kind die richtige Farbe nennt, wie die, dass es die falsche Farbe nennt und diese beiden Möglichkeiten werden im Spiel selbst unterschieden als „wahr“ und „falsch“. Mit anderen Worten, der Unterschied ist der: im zweiten Spiel ist die unrichtige Angabe durch die Spielregeln verboten, im dritten Spiel ist sie erlaubt. Unsere wirkliche Sprache gleicht nun diesem dritten Spiel: wenn z.  B. ein Meteorologe das Wetter vorhersagt und dann seine Prognose eintrifft oder nicht, so ist dieser Fall ganz ähnlich dem Spiel mit dem Erraten; d.  h. auch die falsche Prognose war nicht etwa durch die logische Grammatik verboten; der Witz ist gerade der, dass unsere Sprache sowohl die Bildung von wahren als von falschen Sätzen erlaubt und daher ein falscher Satz auf einer ganz anderen logischen Stufe steht als ein verbotener. (Verbotener Satz = unsinniger Satz). Unsere wirkliche Sprache unterscheidet sich von einem primitiven Sprachspiel (wie unser zweites Spiel) dadurch, dass sie zwei Möglichkeiten vorsieht, die in der Sprache selbst als „wahr“ und „falsch“ unterschieden werden. Außerdem gibt es dann noch den Unterschied von „erlaubt“ und „unerlaubt“ (oder „verboten“) und dieser fällt mit dem Unterschied von „sinnvoll“ (=erlaubt) und „sinnlos“ (=verboten) zusammen. Diese Überlegung wirft z. B. Licht auf die Frage, warum es keine hinweisende Erklärung für einen Satz gibt; wenn jemand z. B. die Worte „es regnet“ dadurch erklären wollte, dass er durch eine hinweisende Gebärde auf den Regen deutet und wenn er nun später wieder einmal sagt „es regnet“, während es draußen schön ist, so wäre seine Äußerung gegen die von ihm aufgestellten Regeln, sie wäre verboten; das wäre aber etwas ganz anderes als ein falscher Satz (es wäre kein Irrtum im Sinne einer falschen Meinung; die falsche Meinung ist ja gerade erlaubt); die Worte wären nicht falsch im Sinne einer irrigen Meinung, sondern sie wären selbst falsch angewendet.

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Man könnte auch sagen: wenn man einen Satz durch eine hinweisende Definition erklärt, so hat man den Satz gar nicht als Satz verwendet, sondern ihn zu einem Eigennamen gemacht: er benennt eine Situation, aber er beschreibt sie nicht. Ein Satz, den man als Satz versteht, kann wahr oder falsch sein, er beschreibt. Von einer falschen Meinung kann man erst dort sprechen, wo beide Möglichkeiten, „wahr“ und „falsch“ schon innerhalb des Spieles auftreten. Über die Lüge: wenn in unserem zweiten Spiel das Kind „rot“ sieht und „grün“ sagt, so kann man nicht sagen, dass das Kind lügt, denn die Lüge hat in diesem Spiel noch gar keinen Platz. Die Lüge ist nicht definiert durch ein Gefühl des Lügenden, etwa die Bosheit, sondern dadurch, dass man, wie man sagt, „weiß“, was die Wahrheit ist und ab­sichtlich das Falsche sagt; es ist also die Lüge wieder durch ein Sprachspiel definiert. Nehmen wir an, ich habe dem Kinde das zweite Spiel beigebracht; ich selbst befinde mich in einem anderen Zimmer, von dem ich die Laterne nicht sehen kann, verwende aber die Worte „rot“ und „grün“ als Mitteilung, indem ich mich etwa von diesen Worten bei gewissen Handlungen leiten lasse. Wenn nun das Kind „rot“ sieht und „grün“ sagt – inwiefern kann man da von einer falschen Mitteilung sprechen? Es kommt ganz darauf, an wessen Standpunkt man einnimmt: vom Kind aus war es keine falsche Mitteilung; für mich war es eine. Das Spiel könnte die Möglichkeit einer Irreführung enthalten und in diesem Falle würden wir von einer falschen Mitteilung sprechen und zwar auch vom Standpunkt des Kindes aus; es wäre eine falsche Mitteilung, wenn ich das Kind ein Spiel mit Frage und Antwort lehren könnte, „war es wirklich rot?“, „ja es war rot“ oder „nein es war nicht rot“… d.  h. wenn ich es lehren könnte zu lügen. Worin besteht also die Möglichkeit des Lügens? Sie besteht darin, dass man ein komplizierteres Spiel spielt als das von dem hier die Rede ist. Sagt man also: „die Angabe des Kindes ist falsch“, so kommt es darauf an, was wir damit meinen: ob wir meinen, im Spiel selbst kommt diese Möglichkeit vor und das ist die Möglichkeit, die wir im Spiel die „falsche“ heißen, oder ob wir meinen, von einem Standpunkt außerhalb des Spiels ist es falsch. Wir sagten, wenn im zweiten Spiele das Kind rot sieht und „grün“ sagt, so könnte man meinen, es führt uns absichtlich irre – wir wollen überlegen, was damit gemeint sein kann: es sind hier offenbar zwei verschiedene Fälle denkbar: entweder das Kind verspricht sich, oder es sagt bewusst das Falsche. Aber was heißt hier „bewusst“? Man würde entgegnen: „nun, es weiß doch, dass das Licht rot ist und sagt grün“ – aber das sagt gar nichts; das Kind hat einfach hingeschaut und das Licht gesehen, das ist alles. Es „weiß, dass das Licht rot ist“ hätte nur dann einen Sinn, wenn das Kind die Fähigkeit hätte, diesen Satz zu bilden, sich also im Stillen zu sagen: „das Licht ist rot“, d. h. wenn es schon ein Sprachspiel von einer gewissen Ausbildung erlernt hat. Oder soll „bewusst“ heißen: „es sagt grün und hat dabei ein Gefühl der Bosheit“? Aber dieses Gefühl der Bosheit könnte es ja auch haben, wenn es rot sagt und daraus sieht man schon, dass es mit dem, was wir „bewusst“ oder „absichtlich“ nennen nichts zu tun hat. Wir können uns die Sache aber auch so denken: es sieht das Rote Licht, sagt leise „rot“ und laut „grün“; wir haben dann eine gesetzmäßige Reihe:

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rotes Licht……… rot………. grün

Sollen wir jetzt sagen, es spricht mit Bewusstsein das Falsche? Die Wahrheit ist, es spielt jetzt eben ein anderes Spiel, d. h. die Verwendung der Worte entspricht nicht der Abmachung, die wir getroffen haben, sondern einer anderen Abmachung, die wir hätten treffen können und das heißt, das Spiel hat sich geändert. Fassen wir zusammen: wer das Gesichtsbild einer Laterne beschreiben soll  – wie kann der einen Fehler machen? (Im Spiel 2, wenn er die Sprache noch nicht beherrscht): er kann sich entweder nur versprechen oder er führt absichtlich irre; aber ein Irrtum im Sinne einer falschen Meinung ist hier logisch nicht möglich. Hat er sich versprochen, so würden wir sagen, er hat das Spiel nicht gespielt; führt er absichtlich irre, so hat er ein anderes Spiel gespielt und die Absicht besteht eben in diesem anderen Spiel. Absichtliche Irreführung, falsche Meinung, Lüge, könne auf dieser Stufe noch nicht auftreten, sondern erst, wenn das Sprachspiel eine gewisse Ausbildung erfahren hat. (Das Kind sieht einfach auf die Laterne und sieht rot; ein Vorgang, dass es sich „bewusst“ ist, dass das Licht rot ist – wie viele Psychologen sagen – hat gar keinen Sinn, es sei denn, dass das Kind sich sagen kann „ich sehe jetzt ein rotes Licht“.)

15.3.14 Zur Kritik der kausalen Auffassung der Sprache Die kausale Auffassung beruht auf einer Verwechslung der logischen mit den kausalen Folgen. Dabei führen irre die Worte: „Grund“ (das sowohl den logischen Grund wie die Ursache bezeichnet), das Fragewort „warum“ (das sowohl nach Grund wie nach Ursache fragt), das Wort „weil“, ja auch das Wort „Erklärung“ und alle die damit ­zusammenhängen. Der Irrtum ist in der Sprache begründet: Grund und Ursache entsprechen den beiden möglichen Antworten auf die Frage „warum?“. Um uns den Unterschied klar zu machen, wollen wir ein Beispiel betrachten: Nehmen wir an, dass ein Mathematiker bei der Lösung einer Aufgabe eine Reihe von Gleichungen an­schreibt; auf die Frage, warum er eine bestimmte Gleichung hingeschrieben habe, kann er nun auf zwei ganz verschiedene Arten antworten: er kann entweder sagen „in meinem Nervensystem haben sich gewisse Vorgänge abgespielt, durch welche die Muskeln meiner Hand so ennerviert worden sind, dass diese Schriftzeichen entstanden sind“… dann antwortet er mit der Ursache. Oder aber er kann sagen: „nun, vorhin habe ich doch jene Gleichung angeschrieben und diese folgt aus jener“… dann antwortet er uns mit dem Grunde, d. h. mit einer Regel, die den Übergang von der einen Gleichung zur anderen erlaubt. Wenn wir nun diese beiden Antworten vergleichen, so fällt uns folgendes auf: die Ursache seines Handelns wird uns ein Mensch im Allgemeinen nicht zu nennen wissen, oder er wird sich häufig in seiner Angabe irren; ja ein fremder Beobachter, z. B. der Psychologe, wird uns viel eher die Ursache seiner Handlungen erklären können, als er selbst; dagegen ist es

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merkwürdig, dass er sich in der Angabe seines Grundes nicht geirrt haben kann; vielmehr ist er der Einzige, der den Grund weiß; d. h. „Grund“ nennen wir das, was jemand auf die Frage nach den Grunde zur Antwort gibt; die Ursache erfährt man durch empirische Beobachtung, den Grund durch Befragen der Person. Die Ursache ist eine Hypothese, die durch zukünftige Erfahrungen bestätigt werden kann; von dem Grunde kann man hingegen nicht sagen, er sei eine Hypothese; zu dem Grunde bekennt man sich. Gegen diese scharfe Abgrenzung von Grund und Ursache könnte man nun ein Bedenken vorbringen; man könnte sagen: es entspricht doch nicht ganz der Wahrheit, dass wir nur auf die Aussage der handelnden Personen angewiesen sind: in vielen Fällen können wir auf den Grund doch wohl auch durch Beobachtung kommen; so steht es außer Zweifel, dass man ein Spiel (d. h. die Regeln des Spiels) durch bloßes Zusehen erlernen kann. Wer in ein fremdes Land kommt, wird durch aufmerksame Beobachtung allein einen Teil der Sprache erlernen können etc. etc. Zeigen diese Beispiele nicht, dass man den Grund auch anders als durch Befragen feststellen kann? Das ist indessen nicht der Fall. Um uns die Sache etwas klarer zu machen, wollen wir wieder ein bestimmtes Beispiel ins Auge fassen: stellen wir uns vor, dass einer die Zahlen 1, 4, 9, 16, 25 aufs Papier schreibt: wir, die sie ihm zusehen, können vermuten, dass er sich hierbei nach einer bestimmten Regel gerichtet habe, nämlich nach der Regel, die Quadratzahlen zu bilden. Man könnte nun glauben, hier haben wir die Regel durch Beobachtung gefunden; aber es gibt stets unendlich viele mathematische Gesetze, welchen die hingeschriebenen Zahlen genügen: wie erfahren wir also, nach welcher von diesen Regeln er sich gerichtet hat? Etwa durch Ausdehnung der Beobachtung? Aber er hätte auch 1000 Zahlen hinschreiben können und diese hätten noch immer unendlich vielen mathematischen Vorschriften genügt. Es gibt offenbar nur einen einzigen Weg, um die Regel zu erfahren: wir müssen den Betreffenden fragen, nach welcher Regel er vorgegangen ist. Sagt er uns „Ich wollte die Quadratzahlen bilden“ so ist das nun nicht mehr eine der Regeln, denen die ­Tätigkeit des Hinschreibens folgt; er hätte z. B. auch sagen können: „die erste Zahl habe ich willkürlich gewählt, die zweite habe ich um 2 größer genommen und von da an habe ich die Quadratzahlen gebildet“ oder : „ich habe mich nach einer ganz anderen Regel gerichtet, die nur zufälligerweise in den Anfangsgliedern mit der Reihe der Quadratzahlen übereinstimmt“ oder : „ich habe mich nach der und der Regel gerichtet, habe mich aber beim Anschreiben geirrt“, oder: „ich habe mich nach gar keiner Regel gerichtet und diese Zahlen nur zufälligerweise hingeschrieben“ etc. Diese Antwort und ihre Mannigfaltigkeit zeigen aber schon, dass wir den Grund seines Tuns nicht durch Beobachtung erfahren können. Dies ist übrigens nicht die einzige Bedeutung des Wortes „Grund“. Wenn wir z.  B. den Grund nicht nur durch Befragen, sondern auch hypothetisch durch Beobachtung festgestellt sein lassen, so haben wir es wieder mit einer anderen Bedeutung dieses Wortes zu tun (z.  B. bei Interpretation einer untergegangenen Sprache oder von Regeln, deren Urheber nicht mehr am Leben ist etc.; da hat „Grund“ wieder eine andere Bedeutung). Uns kommt es nur darauf an, einen logischen Ort mit einer Marke zu bezeichnen, etwa mit dem Worte „Grund“; verschiedene logische Orte sollten, um

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Missver­ständnisse zu vermeiden, mit verschiedenen Marken bezeichnet werden; nicht darum handelt es sich, wie man die Sache nennt, sondern darum, dass man verschiedene Dinge auseinanderhält. Auf der geschilderten Verwechslung von „Grund“ und „Ursache“ beruht nun zum großen Teil die kausale Auffassung; diese knüpft ja gerne an die Wirkungsweise von Mechanismen an, z.  B. an die Eisenbahn-Signale und ihre Wirkung auf den Lokomotivführer. Nehmen wir an, ein rotes Signal leuchtet auf und der Lokomotivführer zieht den Bremshebel: auf die Frage, warum er das getan habe, antwortet er etwa: „nun, ich muss bremsen, denn dort steht das Signal ,halt‘“. Diese Antwort wird nun fälschlich für die Angabe der Ursache gehalten, während sie in Wirklichkeit die Angabe des Grundes war; die Ursache könnte gewesen sein, dass er es von jeher gewohnt war, auf dieses Signal so und so zu reagieren oder dass er in jenem Moment an die Vorschriften gedacht hatte oder sonst irgend- etwas. In der Angabe der Ursache könnte er sich irren; in der Angabe des Grundes dagegen nicht. Ein weiterer Grund für das Entstehen der kausalen Auffassung ist folgende Tatsache: Das Kriterium dafür, dass jemand einen Befehl versteht, scheint doch die Befolgung dieses Befehls zu sein; wenn ich z. B. einem Kinde, das sprechen lernt, einen Befehl gebe und es daraufhin die befohlene Handlung ausführt, so sagen wir, es „versteht“. Dasselbe Kriterium gebrauchen wir, um uns etwa zu überzeugen, ob ein Hund einen Befehl versteht etc. Daraus scheint aber hervorzugehen, dass nur derjenige den Befehl versteht, der ihn befolgt, d. h. dass der Befehl dasjenige Zeichen ist, das eine bestimmte Handlung hervorruft; und so scheint doch wieder alles in das Bett der kausalen Auffassung zu münden; darauf ist zunächst zu erwidern dass das Kriterium des Verstehens des Befehls nicht das Befolgen des Befehls ist. Nebenbei bemerkt hat das Wort „verstehen“ wieder die verschiedensten Bedeutungen. Ein Mensch „versteht“ z. B. einen Befehl, wenn er den Wortlaut in andere Zeichen übersetzen kann; im Falle des Kindes oder des Hundes, den wir abrichten, bedeutet das Wort „verstehen“ wieder etwas anderes. Es könnte hier die Frage entstehen, wem man überhaupt einen Befehl geben kann? Kann ich z. B. einer Maschine etwas befehlen? Wenn ich sagen wollte: „Ich habe einer Maschine einen Befehl gegeben“… Ist da meine Aussage falsch oder sinnlos? Man könnte denken, dass ich von einem Befehl nur dann sprechen kann, wenn das Wesen, dem ich den Befehl gebe, den Befehl versteht, d.  h., wenn ich mich mit ihm verständigen kann; aber mit einem Hunde kann man sich nicht verständigen und doch kann man ihm etwas befehlen. Ist es sinnlos, einem Baume einen Befehl zu geben? (Im Märchen kommt das ja vor; das zeigt schon, dass es in irgendeiner Weise Sinn haben muss.) Worin würde es sich dann äußern, dass ich einem Baume etwas befehle? Nun, einfach darin, dass ich z. B., wenn auf meinen Befehl hin nichts geschieht, den Baum ungehorsam nennen würde; am Schluss muss sich alles in meiner Sprache zeigen. Wenn ich also sage, ich habe einem Baume etwas befohlen, so heißt das nur: ich beschreibe die Vorgänge mit einer ganz bestimmten Sprache, in der z. B. vom Befehl, von Befolgung und Nicht-Befolgung des Befehles die Rede ist. Ich gebe also eine Anweisung, die normale Beschreibung der Vorgänge in eine Beschreibung von ganz bestimmtem Charakter zu übersetzen: also ist es gar nicht notwendig, dass das Wesen, dem ich den Befehl gebe, diesen

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Befehl versteht; notwendig ist nur, dass ich eine bestimmte Abmachung über die Sprache treffe, in der ich das Verhalten dieses Wesens beschreiben will. Hat es aber, so wird man weiter fragen, Sinn, einem Wesen einen Befehl zu geben, das ihn nie befolgen wird? Setzt also nicht die Rede vom Befehl schon implizit gewisse Erfahrungen über das tatsächliche Befolgen voraus? Man könnte so sagen: es ist zwar nicht nötig, dass der Hund, den ich abrichte, meinen Befehl ausführt, wohl aber, dass früher ähnliche Befehle ausgeführt worden sind; hätte nie ein Hund einen Befehl ausgeführt, so hätte es auch keinen Sinn, einem Hunde einen Befehl zu geben. Unsere früheren Ausführungen zeigen indes, dass auch diese Tatsache (nämlich, dass früher Befehle befolgt worden sind) nicht notwendig ist, um der Rede von einem Befehl Sinn zu geben. Auch wenn nie ein Befehl ausgeführt worden wäre, könnte ich doch von Befehl sprechen und müsste nur sagen, er wird nie befolgt; freilich hätte diese Ausdrucksweise keinen rechten Zweck und das ist es wohl eigentlich, was man mit dem Einwand sagen will. Es verhält sich mit dem Begriff „Befehl“ ungefähr so, wie mit dem Begriff der „Maßeinheit“; wenn es in der Welt viele starre Stäbe gäbe, die alle die Länge eines menschlichen Fußes hätten, dann wäre es sehr praktisch, ein Fuß als Längeneinheit zu erklären; aber diese Erklärung hätte ich auch geben können, wenn kein Körper in der Natur ein Fuß lang wäre; die Erfahrung könnte mich nur anregen, diese Abmachung zu treffen, aber sie ist in keiner Weise eine Voraussetzung dieser Abmachung. (Hier handelt es sich um eine falsche Auffassung der Rolle der Erfahrung; die Erfahrung kann nur anregen, ist nicht Voraussetzung.) Der Irrtum, den man hier begeht, ist beiläufig gesprochen derselbe, den diejenigen machen, welche die Mathematik auf Erfahrung beruhen lassen: fragt man nämlich, welches diese Erfahrungen seien, so werden gewisse Tatsachen genannt, welche die Veranlassung sein könnten, gewisse Abmachungen zu treffen (die Erfahrung kann zeigen, dass es praktisch oder unpraktisch ist, unsere Arithmetik zu gebrauchen, sie kann aber nie die Arithmetik widerlegen). So wie mit der Festsetzung der Längeneinheit verhält es sich nun mit dem Gebrauche des Wortes „Befehl“. Man kann nur sagen, gewisse Erfahrungen regen uns dazu an, diese Ausdrucksweise zu gebrauchen und andere wieder nicht. Nun könnte einer fragen: welches sind denn diese Erfahrungen, welche uns zur Verwendung dieser Ausdrucksweise anregen? Lässt sich dies nicht irgendwie genauer charakterisieren? Ich glaube, dass es sich so verhält: von einem Befehl zu reden hat zunächst einen klaren Sinn in unserer Menschenwelt; wenn wir uns von diesem Gebrauche entfernen, so beginnt sich der Begriff des „Befehls“ zu verflüchtigen; man kann von den Haustieren noch sagen, sie seien folgsam oder nicht, aber z. B. nicht mehr von einem Baum oder von Bakterien. Fragt man, „wo ist die Grenze?“, so geben wir auf diese Frage keine Antwort und zwar darum, weil es schließlich willkürlich ist, wie wir die Grenze ziehen. Zum Befehl gehört das spezifisch menschliche Wesen und je mehr wir uns von dem entfernen, desto mehr verflüchtigt sich der Sinn dieser Ausdrucksweise und schließlich geben wir es auf, sie zu gebrauchen; wenn man z. B. fragt: „Was ist eine Zahl?“, so kann man darauf auch keine exakte Antwort geben; man kann nur Zahlen-­Typen aufzählen (die natürlichen oder Kardinalzahlen, die ganzen, die

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rationalen, die reellen, die komplexen Zahlen u.s.f.): alle diese Zahlen-Typen sind ganz verschiedene logische Gebilde, jenes mit seinen eigenen Rechen-Gesetzen; zwischen diesen Gebilden besteht eine Ähnlichkeit der Grammatik und das veranlasst uns, sie alle „Zahlen“ zu nennen; aber der Begriff der „Zahl“ beruht dann eben auf einer Analogie und reicht daher auch nur so weit wie die Analogie mit dem Paradigma des Zahl-Begriffes, den Kardinal-Zahlen, reicht; schließlich, bei den Elementen einer abstrakten Gruppe, geben wir diese Bezeichnung auf (obwohl es da auch so etwas gibt wie Einheit, Multiplikation, Division); fragt man: „muss man diese Bezeichnung aufgeben?“, so würden wir erwidern: das nicht; aber wir geben sie auf, weil die Unähnlichkeit mit dem Vorbilde zu groß geworden ist. Wir wollen noch ein weiteres Argument anführen, das für die kausale Auffassung zu sprechen scheint; man könnte nämlich Folgendes sagen; es ist zwar richtig, dass der Sinn eines Wortes, eines Befehls, etc. nicht in seiner Wirkung liegt, sondern in den Regeln, die für die Verwendung des Wortes „Befehl“ bestehen; diese Regeln wendet man aber nur an, wenn man es seinerzeit so gelernt hat, also war es doch der Prozess des Lernens, der die Ursache davon ist, dass man ein Wort so und so ge­braucht; bei dieser Auffassung sieht es so aus, als wäre der Grund (oder die Regel) ausgeschaltet und alles doch letzten Endes auf eine kausale Beeinflussung zurückgeführt. In diesem Aspekt scheint die Sprache doch nur ein kausal arbeitender Mechanismus zu sein; man kann diese Auffassung auch so ausdrücken: wir haben gesagt, dass die Erklärung eines Wortes der Grund dafür ist, warum man es so verwendet. Diese Auffassung aber sagt: der Vorgang des Erklärens ist die Ursache, dass man das Wort so gebraucht. Man muss sich vor allem darüber klar werden, dass die in Rede stehende Auffassung nicht etwa falsch ist: wir wollen nicht leugnen, dass der Gebrauch eines Wortes tatsächlich eine Ursache hat, die in der Erklärung, die man seinerzeit gelernt hatte, gelegen sein kann. Und es ist nicht, als wollten wir einen kausalen Zusammenhang ableugnen und etwa das Bestehen eines anderen, nicht kausalen Zusammenhanges behaupten. Wir wollen nur darauf hinweisen, dass in dem Aspekt, in welchem man nur die kausalen Zusammenhänge zwischen den Worten und den Handlungen betrachtet, der Begriff des Sinnes oder der Bedeutung gar nicht auftritt, die Erklärung eines Wortes kann eine doppelte Rolle spielen: sie kann Ursache des Gebrauches sein, das ist natürlich gar nicht abzustreiten, denn die Erfahrung zeigt ja, dass die Kinder die Sprache erst erlernen müssen und dass sie ein Wort nicht gebrauchen können, bevor es ihnen erklärt wird, also ist die Erklärung die Ursache des Gebrauchs. Um uns die Rolle der Erklärung deutlicher zu machen, betrachten wir als Beispiel: das Singen nach Noten. Es ist gewiss wahr, dass niemand nach Noten singen würde, wenn er es nicht gelernt hätte und in diesem Sinne sind die Noten die Ursache der gesungenen Töne (d.  h. der Anblick der Noten löst gesungene Töne aus)  – ein kausaler Zusammenhang, nur hat dieser Vorgang noch etwas Charakteristisches an sich, das mit seiner kausalen Betrachtung nicht getroffen wird. Wenn man mich mit einer Nadel sticht, so dass ich „au“ schreie, so ist zwar auch der Schmerzenslaut durch den Stich hervorgerufen (wie der Ton durch die Note), aber wir sagen nicht, dass ich den Nadelstich absinge, indem ich „au“

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schreie; d. h. mit anderen Worten: den Gesang kann man rechtfertigen, indem man sich auf die Noten beruft; aber den Schrei rechtfertigt man nicht mit dem Nadelstich, sondern man erklärt ihn vielleicht dadurch. Ferner ist zu sagen, dass man von einem „falschen“ und „richtigen“ Singen spricht, aber nicht von einem „falschen“ und „richtigen“ Schrei… und schließlich: das Singen hat man gelernt, das Schreien nicht. Alles das sind Unterschiede, die uns klar machen, worin das Charakteristische einer Tätigkeit besteht, die nach Regeln vor sich geht, im Gegensatz zu einer anderen, wo keine Regel bestehen. Nur wäre es falsch, den Unterschied so auszudrücken, dass man sagt: „die Tätigkeit geht nach dem Gesetz von Ursache und Wirkung vor sich, die andere nicht“ (beide gehen so vor sich – aber die andere hat noch ein Plus). Diese Bemerkungen werfen, beiläufig gesprochen, Licht auf das Verhältnis des Psychologischen zum Logischen: man hat oft gesagt, dass das Denken ein psychologischer Prozess ist und dass die Psychologie die Naturgesetze dieses Prozesses erforscht; man hat sich nun gewundert, wie es dann komme, dass diese Naturgesetze des Denkprozesses zusammenfallen mit den idealen Gesetzen der Logik, die ja nicht von wirklichen Vorgängen handeln soll, sondern verbindlich ist für alles gültige Denken (Husserl). Wie kommen die Gesetze der Logik in das reale Bewusstsein? Wir müssen wieder das Unsinnige dieser Fragestellung durchschauen: es ist ja nicht so, als ob hier zwei verschiedene Arten von Gesetzen miteinander in Konflikt treten würden, die sich den Rang streitig machen, nämlich die Gesetze der Psychologie und die Gesetze der Logik. Der reale Ablauf der Bewusstseins-Prozesse untersteht natürlich empirischen Gesetzen oder Hypothesen, welche die Psychologie aufstellt; was den Logiker interessiert sind gar nicht diese Gesetze, sondern die Regeln, die in diesem Kalkül anerkannt werden. Die Regeln sagen ja gar nicht was geschieht, sondern was geschehen soll; das ist das Richtige an dem Wort, dass die Logik „normativ“ ist; allerdings besteht zwischen dem normalen Ablauf der Bewusstseinsprozesse und den logischen Regeln der Zusammenhang, dass der Gedanke an eine Regel die Ursache der Befolgung dieser Regel sein kann. Man sieht das ganz deutlich, wenn man die Frage auf ein etwas anderes Gebiet überträgt: nehmen wir an, dass jemand Zahlen miteinander multipliziert; Frage: sind die Gesetze der Arithmetik die Ursache davon, dass er diese Zeichen niederschreibt? (Das wäre das Analogon zu der Frage: sind die Gesetze der Logik die Ursache davon, dass unsere Gedanken tatsächlich so ablaufen?) Antwort: Nein; wohl aber kann der Gedanke an die Regeln der Arithmetik, die man einmal gelernt hat, die Ursache davon sein, dass man sie in einem gegebenen Fall befolgt; die Ursache könnte aber auch etwas anderes sein, z. B. ein Assoziationsmechanismus; aber auch wenn man falsch multipliziert und eine unrichtige Ziffer anschreibt, so wird das seine Ursache haben; die Ursache ist nicht die Regel, denn beide erfahren wir auf verschiedene Weise. Dieses Problem wird zum Teil verschuldet durch den Doppelsinn des Wortes „Gesetz“, das sowohl ein Naturgesetz, wie eine Vorschrift zum Handeln bezeichnet (es besteht gar kein Gegensatz zwischen ihnen; sie sind nicht konträr verschieden). Wie verhalten sich die logischen zu den psychischen Gesetzen? Der Gedanke, der uns dabei beunruhigt, ist der: Wie kann das Denken gleichzeitig zwei

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verschiedenen Arten von Gesetzen folgen? Wenn das Denken ein Prozess ist, der gewissen kausalen Gesetzen untersteht, wie kann es dann gültig sein? Man könnte die Situation durch folgendes Bild veranschaulichen: für ein bestimmtes Spiel, z. B. für ein Brettspiel, werden zwei verschiedene Regelverzeichnisse gegeben; wie ist es da möglich zu spielen? So fragt man auch hier; wie kann das Denken, dessen Ablauf doch durch die Naturgesetze (die psychischen Gesetze) vollkommen determiniert ist, noch außerdem den logischen Gesetzen gehorchen? Manche Philosophen haben darum geglaubt, dass das Denken irgendwie dem Ablauf der Naturgeschehnisse entzogen ist, so dass es frei den Folgerungen der Logik folgen kann. (Vgl. die entsprechenden Formulierungen bei Husserl und Hermann Weil: „Das Ich ist der Schnittpunkt von Sein und Sinn; es ist einerseits Glied der Wirklichkeit, andererseits gegen die Wahrheit offenes Gesicht“… so ungefähr heißt es dort.) Wenn man z.  B. sagen wollte, die Gesetze der Psychologie geben nur einen Rahmen für die „Denkvorgänge“ ab, unter welche auch das logisch richtige Denken fällt, so ist damit auch nichts geholfen; denn die Frage stellt sich ein: und was dann, wenn die Gesetze der Psyche ganz andere wären? Es erscheint dann das Zusammentreffen der Naturgesetze des Denkens mit den logischen Normen wie ein glücklicher Zufall oder wie eine prästabilisierte Harmonie; man könnte sagen, da ist ja die psychische Welt schon von vornherein nach einem Plane der Logik angelegt. Zwei Fehler, die nach entgegengesetzten Richtungen gehen, liegen hier nahe: 1) Man meint, dass die Gesetze der Logik Gesetze sind, die im Wesen der Wahrheit begründet sind (Husserl); man meint da, dass die Regeln der Logik nicht den Schatten einer Beziehung auf das wirkliche Bewusstsein haben, sondern dass sie eben eine Sphäre für sich bilden; man hat in diesem Sinne die Geltung der Logik eine Ideale genannt. 2) Man meint, dass die Logik ihre Begründung in dem tatsächlichen Ablauf unseres Denkens finde (Psychologismus). Wir wollen uns jetzt die Sachlage an dem Beispiel des logischen Widerspruchs klar machen: Husserl sagt: Der Satz vom Widerspruch hat nicht die mindeste Beziehung zu den tatsächlichen psychischen Vorgängen; ob ein Wesen einander widersprechende Vorstellungen, z. B. es ist kalt und nicht kalt, in sich vereinigen kann, darüber gibt die Logik keine Auskunft. Bei Schwachsinnigen kommt dies ja vor. Der Satz vom Widerspruch sagt bloß, dass ein Satz p und seine Negation nicht zugleich wahr sein können; die andere Auffassung dagegen sagt: wenn der Satz vom Widerspruch keine Beziehung zum tatsächlichen Denken hätte, wie kommt er dann in unser empirisches Bewusstsein? Nur weil wir die Unmöglichkeit erleben, zwei entgegengesetzte Urteile für wahr zu halten, nur deshalb gilt der Satz vom Widerspruch (so sagt etwa Sigwart in seinem Lehrbuch der Logik in seiner Polemik gegen Husserl). Diese Auffassungen beruhen auf einem unklaren Begriff des Denkens; wir wollen uns einmal fragen: was heißt es eigentlich, wenn man sagt, dass man etwas nicht denken kann? Man sagt z. B.: man kann nicht denken, es ist kalt und nicht kalt, oder

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man kann nicht denken, der Ton cis ist grün. Was heißt das, man kann es nicht denken? Heißt das etwa, dass man den Versuch unternommen hat und dass dieser Versuch misslungen ist? Oder heißt das, dass man den Versuch nicht unternehmen könnte? Ist die Schwierigkeit, einen solchen Satz zu denken, etwa vergleichbar der Schwierigkeit, sich einen komplizierten geometrischen Körper, z. B. ein Ikosaeder, in der Phantasie vorzustellen? In diesem Falle kann man sagen, ich habe es versucht, aber es ist mir nicht gelungen (es geht über die Denkkraft). Oder gleicht die Schwierigkeit der, sich eine Gerade zu denken, die durch die drei Eckpunkte eines Dreiecks geht? Doch offenbar das letztere: das heißt aber, dass es gar nicht auf mich ankommt, sondern auf den Kalkül; statt zu sagen, „ich kann das nicht denken“, würde man deutlicher sagen, „der Kalkül lässt es nicht zu, so zu denken“. Was uns hier immer wieder irreführt, ist die Vorstellung, dass unser Denken gleichsam auf ein Hindernis stößt, über das es nicht hinweg kann. Es ist eine der wichtigsten Einsichten der Philosophie, dass es in der Logik kein Hindernis gibt. Was einem Hindernis gleichsieht, ist die Grenze des grammatikalischen Raumes. Es ist etwa so, wie wenn ich beim Schachspiel mit der Figur an den Rand des Schachbrettes komme und nun nicht mehr weiter ziehen kann; hindert mich aber etwas, mit der Figur am Tisch weiter zu ziehen? Nein! Nur spiele ich dann nicht mehr Schach. Auch in der Grammatik kommen wir bei gewissen Zügen gleichsam an den Rand des Schachfeldes (z. B. wenn man behaupten wollte, p und zugleich ~ p; man kann den Satz bilden, aber er heißt nichts mehr). Der Satz vom Widerspruch sagt nicht eine Unmöglichkeit für mein tatsächliches Denken aus, sondern er verbietet nur die Bildung des Ausdrucks p. ~ p. (Ist ein logisches Produkt.) Man kann sich die Sache auch dadurch klar machen, dass man fragt: Ist der Satz: „Cis ist grün“ deshalb von der Grammatik verboten, weil er Unsinn ist, oder ist er deshalb Unsinn, weil er von der Grammatik verboten ist? In dem Streit zwischen Husserl und Sigwart hat also doch Sigwart Unrecht behalten. Nur muss man hinzufügen, dass Husserl von einem falschen Bilde geführt wird, nämlich von dem Bild, dass die Logik ein Bestand von ewigen Wahrheiten sei. Uns ist ja längst klar geworden, dass in der Logik keine Wahrheiten ausgesprochen werden, d. h., keine Sätze, sondern Regeln. Der Satz vom Widerspruch ist z. B. eine Regel, welche die Bildung des logischen Produktes p. ~ p verbietet. Die Schlussgesetze wieder sind Regeln, welche gewisse Übergänge zwischen Sätzen erlauben. Die Regeln der Logik bilden einen besonderen Teil der Regeln der Sprache überhaupt und in diesem Sinn ist die Logik ein Teil der Sprachlehre (Privat-Seminar, Wien, Sommer-Semester 1935).

15.4  Friedrich Waismann: Logische Grammatik der Sprache Nachschrift Käthe Steinhardt Wenn man bemüht ist, die philosophischen Probleme aus der Welt zu schaffen, geht man gewöhnlich primär von dem betreffenden philosophischen Problem aus und

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betrachtet die Grammatik der Sprache als das Sekundäre. In der Art dieser Betrachtungsweise liegt es, dass die Grammatik dabei zu kurz kommt. Es ist ferner Erfahrungstatsache, dass auf diesem Wege die Probleme keiner endgültigen Lösung zugeführt werden können, sondern die Schwierigkeiten nur gleichsam von einer an die andere Stelle verschoben werden, das Problem sozusagen nur transformiert wird. Um Philosophie radikal zu betreiben, soll das Verfahren hier umgekehrt werden. Wir wollen den Körper der Sprache selbst untersuchen und eine Art exakte Grammatik der Begriffe aufstellen; eine Grammatik gerade derjenigen Begriffe, die im philosophischen Denken eine große Rolle spielen. Dabei wird sich ergeben, dass von Stufe zu Stufe die Probleme von selbst wegfallen, sich auflösen. Der Aufbau einer derartigen Grammatik der Sprache muss langsam, in kleinen Schritten vorgenommen werden und damit von Beginn an Klarheit herrsche, müssen gewisse Richtlinien eingehalten werden: es darf nicht vorschnell nach allgemeinen Theorien gesucht werden! Die meisten Logiker haben Fehler gemacht, weil sie vorschnell verallgemeinert haben. Wir wollen so vorgehen, wie man es auch in jeder Wissenschaft tun muss: zunächst Tatbestände feststellen (nur der Laie will jede Tatsache vorschnell in eine Theorie einbetten); es ist wichtig, Tatsachen und Theorien zu trennen. Darum beschränken wir uns zunächst auf die Beschreibung; die Tendenz unserer Betrachtung ist eine rein deskriptive. Auch wenn man den Sprachgebrauch zunächst bloß beschreibt, sieht man, dass sogar das scheinbar ganz Einfache schon zu Schwierigkeiten und Problemen führen kann. Daher beginnen wir nicht mit komplizierten Begriffen (wie z. B. dem Begriff „Bewusstsein“ u. a.), sondern mit gebräuchlichen Worten unserer Alltagssprache. Wir wollen aufzeigen, wie die Worte wirklich verwendet werden, ohne historisch darauf einzugehen oder irgendwelche Hypothesen darüber aufzustellen, warum sie so verwendet werden (das betrachten wir als ein Gebot der Reinheit unserer Methode). [Die Sprachspielen als Ausgangspunkt und was damit zusammenhängt] Das Fundament unserer Betrachtung soll eine Überlegung darüber bilden, wie man überhaupt zum Verständnis der Wörter kommt, also die Sprache erlernt. Augustinus sagt in seinen Confessiones, dass das Kind die Sprache dadurch erlernt, dass die Erwachsenen auf bestimmte Gegenstände hinweisen und Worte dazu aussprechen. „Erlernen durch Hinweise“ trifft aber nur für eine bestimmte Gruppe von Worten zu, wie z. B. „Tisch“, „Hund“, „Zucker“ u. a., nicht aber für Worte wie „ja“, „nein“, „wenn“, „falsch“, „zwischen“, „viel“, „weil“ etc. Augustinus gibt also eine in gewissem Sinne zu primitive Beschreibung des Erlernens der Sprache; er hat falsch verallgemeinert. Gewiss wäre ein solches System der Verständigung denkbar, eine Art primitiver Sprache, die man nur durch „hinweisende Erklärungen“ erlernen kann. In unserer tatsächlichen Sprache aber erlernt das Kind nicht jede Art Wörter durch hinweisende Erklärung. Die Möglichkeit, sich eine derartig primitive Sprache denken zu können, auf die genau das zutrifft, was Augustinus vom Erlernen der Sprache sagt, ist dennoch von Wichtigkeit. Wir gehen damit so vor, wie es in der Jurisprudenz oft geschieht, wenn

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der Jurist von der Freiheit Gebrauch macht, fiktive Fälle zu konstruieren, um daran gegebene Fälle besser durchschauen zu können, den Sinn eines Gesetzes zu beleuchten, seine Grenzen zu ziehen. Ebenso macht es beispielsweise der Physiker: seine Idealisierungen oder Schematisierungen haben den Wert, dass sie das, was in der Wirklichkeit geschieht, klarer machen. So konstruieren auch wir uns rein fiktive Fälle, um die Wirklichkeit an einem klaren Modell zu messen: wir geben ein Modell des Gebrauchs unserer Sprache, betrachten ein sog. Sprachspiel (und zwar irgend­ ein denkbares Sprachspiel). Solche Spiele werden auch beim Erlernen der Sprache durch Kinder gespielt. Wenn wir der wirklichen Sprache ein solches Modell gegenüberstellen, so soll damit nicht behauptet werden, dass sie ihm genau gleicht, sondern wir ziehen uns nur auf ein klarer zu übersehendes Gebiet zurück. Wir geben folgendes Beispiel eines Sprachspieles: Eine Person A errichtet einen Bau und [eine Person] B soll die Bausteine reichen; es sind Steine von verschiedener Gestalt: Würfel, Säulen, Platten u.s.w. B wird abgerichtet, auf das Aussprechen des Wortes „Würfel“ zu reichen u.s.f. – das ist alles. Es sind nun zwei Methoden möglich, B das Sprachspiel zu lehren: a) Ist B bereits im Besitze einer ausgebildeten Sprache, dann können wir ihm das Spiel mit Hilfe der Sprache erklären (wie man z.  B. das Schachspiel erklärt, durch nennen der einzelnen Regeln); durch artikulierte Erklärungen also. b) Wenn B noch keine Sprache kennt, wir also von vorne, ab ovo beginnen müssen, dann können wir B das Sprachspiel nicht in Form von Erklärungen beibringen; und diesen Fall haben wir hier im Auge; man muss B dann das Spiel ­wiederholen, bis er es nachmacht; das Lehren ist hier ein Abrichten. Der einzelne Baustein wird gezeigt und die Benennung gesagt. Hier ist die hinweisende Definition nur ein Teil, der in das Sprachspiel eintritt, denn außerdem muss man noch alles vormachen (z. B. auf den Ruf: „Würfel!“ einen Würfel zu reichen); haben wir dies einige Male getan, dann wird B alles nachmachen; wir sagen dann, er „versteht das Spiel“. Die Frage, wieso B die Fähigkeit hat, das zu erlernen, was ihm vorgemacht wird, beantworten wir nicht, da wir uns damit aus dem Gebiet der klar zu beobachtenden Tatsachen hinaus in das Gebiet der Hypothesen begeben würden. Wir geben die Berechtigung derartiger Fragen zu, grenzen aber unser Gebiet ihnen gegenüber ab. Hier hätten wir ein Sprachspiel beschrieben, das der Erklärung des Augustinus von der Erlernung der Sprache vollkommen entspricht. Wir können versuchen, noch verschiedene anderer solcher Sprachspiele zu spielen. Es wird sich dabei zeigen, dass die Wörter auf die mannigfachste Art gebraucht werden und dass dem die Mannigfaltigkeit der Arten entspricht, in denen wir den Gebrauch dieser Wörter erklären und erlernen. Beispiel 2): Wir erweitern nun das erste Sprachspiel, indem wir dazu die Zahlworte einführen. Es wird B befohlen, z. B. 5 Säulen zu reichen; es werden die Zahlen 1 bis 5 hergesagt und dabei immer je eine Säule gereicht. B lernt die Zahlwörter dabei auswendig. Wir lehren ihm mechanisch 1 bis 5 herzusagen; bei jedem einzelnen Wort nimmt er einen Baustein und reicht ihn.

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Dieses Spiel zeigt uns die Art, wie man die Zahlworte erklären und erlernen kann (es gibt deren aber viele). Schon hier können Probleme entstehen wie: Kann man auf Zahlen deuten? Gibt es eine hinweisende Erklärung für die Zahlen? Beispiel 3): Wir erweitern unser Spiel wieder, indem wir verschiedene Richtungen angeben: „hierhin“, „dorthin“ etc. Auf diese Befehle soll B die Bausteine an den richtigen Ort bringen. Hier haben wir schon eine Verbindung der Wortsprache mit Gebärden und zwar so, dass die Gebärden nicht nur zur ersten Erklärung dienen, sondern immer von Neuem angewendet werden. Die Gebärde in Verbindung mit dem Befehl ist ein Teil des Ausdruckes des Befehls, d. h. der Befehl wäre ohne Gebärde unvollständig. Bei der hinweisenden Erklärung kommt die Gebärde nur einmal vor, bei dem eben ge­schilderten Spiel aber immer wieder; hier hat sie eine andere Funktion. Bei nur zwei bestimmten Stellen wären „hierhin“ und „dorthin“ eine Art Eigennamen; ansonsten aber sind sie variabel und daher ist jedes Mal eine hinweisende Gebärde vonnöten. Beispiel 4): Wir erweitern das Spiel neuerdings, indem wir verschieden gefärbte Bausteine verwenden und die Farbwörter einführen. B hat auf Befehl einen roten Würfel, eine blaue Säule, u.s.w. zu reichen. Wie erklärt man B die Farbwörter? A wird z. B. beim Wort „rot“ auf einen roten Gegenstand deuten, bei „gelb“ auf einen gelben u.s.f. und dies mehrmals wiederholen. Auch wird er bei „rot“ nacheinander auf verschiedene rote Gegenstände weisen ebenso bei anderen Farben. Wir haben unsere Sprach-Spiele sukzessive ausgedehnt: unser erstes Beispiel des Sprachspieles entspricht dem, was Augustinus über die Erlernung der Sprache gesagt hat; es besteht in hinweisenden Erklärungen. Bei Beispiel 2, 3 und 4 treten durch die Einführung von Zahlwörtern, Ortsbestimmungen und Farbwörtern andere Züge in das Spiel ein. In dieser Art könnten wir die Sprachspiele noch weiter ausdehnen und andere Wörter einführen, wie z. B. die logischen Partikel. Wir brechen aber hier und vergleichen die bisherigen Spiele miteinander: Wir sehen, dass die Wörter „Würfel“, „Säule“, „Platte“ eine Analogie im Gebrauch aufweisen, ebenso die Zahlworte untereinander, wie auch die Farbworte und Worte, die Richtungssinne angeben Der Gebrauch des Wortes „Würfel“ ist dem Gebrauch des Wortes „Säule“ z. B. ähnlicher, als dem Gebrauch des Wortes „rot“. Wir wollen die Wörter nach der Ähnlichkeit ihres Gebrauches in Wortarten zusammenfassen und fragen uns, wie wir dabei vorzugehen haben. Sagen wir, dass Wörter von wenig verschiedenem Gebrauch eine Wortart bilden sollen; so ist das unscharf formuliert: Rot, gelb, grün, blau können wir zusammenfassen, sie bilden eine Klasse. Bilden aber auch weiß und schwarz eine Klasse oder hell und dunkel? Das kann je nach dem Gebrauch der Fall sein oder auch nicht. Daraus ist ersichtlich, dass der Begriff der Wortart ein Begriff mit fliessenden Grenzen ist. Wir könnten die Worte unserer Sprache mit Werkzeugen vergleichen, die wir nach der Verwandtschaft ihres Gebrauches in Gruppen zusammenfassen wollen: Bohrer und Ahle gehören zusammen; aber Hammer und Nagel? Der eine schlägt, der andere wird geschlagen; eher gehören Hammer und Axt zusammen. Oder besser Axt und Stemmeisen? Wir sehen, dass die Werkzeuge auf mannigfache Art

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mitei­nander verwandt sind und daher gibt es auch viele verschiedene Arten der Anordnung, die sich nicht fest umreißen lassen. Worte und Werkzeuge sind ähnlich; die Worte unterscheiden sich durch ihre Funktion voneinander; stellen wir sie in der Grammatik zusammen, so wollen wir Wörter von eindeutiger Art zusammenstellen. Gibt es aber dafür ein Kriterium? Wir suchen nach einem und schlagen folgendes vor: Wir fassen diejenigen Wörter in eine Klasse zusammen, die füreinander eingesetzt werden können, ohne dass der Sprachgebrauch dabei verletzt wird. Zum Beispiel, kann man wo man „rot“ sagt, auch „blau“ einsetzen, und der Satz, in dem dieses Wort vorkommt, ergibt dann wieder eine mögliche Beschreibung. Dass aber „Stuhl“ und „Oberfläche“ nicht derselben Wortart angehören, wenn es auch vorerst so scheint, zeigen uns die folgenden Sätze: „Der Stuhl ist braun“ und die „Oberfläche ist braun“, aber der Stuhl „Die Oberfläche wiegt 6 kg“ und nicht „Die Oberfläche wiegt 6 kg.“; daher müssen Stuhl und Oberfläche zu verschiedenen Wortarten eingeteilt werden. In dem Satze „Soll ich mir ein gelbes, grünes, rotes oder schwarzes Kleid kaufen?“, sind gelb, grün, rot und schwarz für einander einsetzbar; dass sie es aber nicht in jeder Verwendungsweise sind, zeiget z. B., dass ein Signal wohl gelb, grün oder rot, nicht aber schwarz aufleuchten kann. Ebenso kann man sinnvoll davon sprechen, dass es hell oder dunkel, nicht aber, dass es gelb wurde; denn hier bilden hell-dunkel ein System für sich. Gegen den Vorschlag, die Wörter, die sich füreinander einsetzen lassen, in eine Kategorie zu stellen, lässt sich also einwenden, dass dieselben Wörter manchmal füreinander eingesetzt werden können, manchmal nicht und darum nicht im Hinblick darauf allein in Gruppen zusammengefasst werden können, da die ­Einsetzungsmöglichkeit uns kein scharfes Kriterium liefert. Also, was wir eine Wortart nennen, lässt sich nicht immer scharf und eindeutig abgrenzen, sondern es ist bis zu einem gewissen Grade willkürlich, wie weit wir die Grenzen der Wortarten ziehen. Wir entscheiden meist nach der Ähnlichkeit; ob aber diese Ähnlichkeit groß genug ist oder nicht, dafür gibt es kein allgemeines Kriterium. Die Exaktheit scheint zu fordern, dass wir alles scharf und klar machen: würden wir dieser Forderung aber stets Genüge leisten, dann entstünde daraus nur Pedanterie, die sich von der Wirklichkeit entfernt. Die Exaktheit besteht darin, dass wir so beschreiben, wie die Dinge sind. Dazu ist es notwendig, zwischen Exaktheit und Pseudoexaktheit zu unterscheiden. Russell und auch andere lehren eine „Algebra des Denkens“; diese Art der Exaktheit ist die ärgste Feindin der wirklichen Exaktheit. Wir müssen immer verantworten können, was wir behaupten: wo keine scharfen Grenzen sind, dürfen wir keine aufstellen. Man könnte auch eine Sprache betrachten, die nur Substantiva, Adjektiva und Verba enthält; für die Zwecke unserer Beschreibung aber wäre eine solche Grammatik unzulänglich, wie es auch die Einteilung unserer herkömmlichen Sprachgrammatik ist. Gibt es doch Substantiva von fundamental verschiedenem Gebrauch (z. B. „Tisch“ und „Erkenntnis“)? Wir wollen auch nicht von einer Klasse der Verba oder Eigenschaftswörter sprechen, denn sie lassen sich in viele verschiedene auflösen. Wie verschieden sind doch

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„gehen“ und „existieren“ oder „blau“ und „geistreich“. Diese übliche Einteilung in Haupt-Eigenschafts- und Tätigkeitswörter ist nicht falsch, aber für unsere Zwecke der logischen Analyse zu primitiv. Wie aber sollen wir eine Trennung richtig vorneh­ men? Wir können nicht die Ordnung, sondern nur eine mögliche Ordnung der Wörter zu finden trachten. Wir könnten die Wörter z. B. in Formwörter, Farbwörter, Zahlwörter, Klangwörter, Stoffwörter einteilen; dies wäre eine solche mögliche Unterscheidung. Wir beschrei­ ben z.  B. einen Fleck mit „rot“ (Farbwort) und „elliptisch“ (Formwort). „Laut“, „leise“, „schrill“, sind Klangwörter; „Kalk“, „Seide“ etc. sind Stoffwörter. Würden wir aber auch von Metallwörtern, Giftwörtern, Fischwörtern sprechen? Nein, denn wir können das nicht als Wortarten bezeichnen und vergleichen, um uns klar zu machen, warum nicht, folgende Sätze: a) „Rot ist eine Farbe“, „Drei ist eine Zahl“, b) „Gold ist ein Metall“, „Phosphor ist ein Gift“, „Der Walfisch ist kein Fisch“. Der Unterschied besteht darin, dass Worte wie „Metall“, „Gift“, „Fisch“ bereits irgendwie definiert wurden (der Fisch z. B. durch gewisse Merkmale der Zoologie, die Kiemen; da der Walfisch keine Kiemen, sondern Lungen hat, fällt er nicht unter diese Kategorie). Ob einer der unter (b) angeführten Sätze wahr oder falsch ist, ist lediglich eine Sache der Erfahrung. Zum Beispiel, ob Phosphor ein Gift ist: Wir können es jemandem eingeben und seine Wirkung beobachten. Die Metalle hinwiederum werden nach ihren Verhaltensweisen definiert: es sind diejenigen Elemente, deren Atome Elektronen abgeben, sich also gleich dem Wasserstoff verhalten. Wir können aber Metalle auch nach anderen Eigenschaften bestimmen; z. B. werden die Metalle, weniger theoretisch, als die guten Wärmeleiter oder durch ihren Glanz definiert; und in allen diesen Fällen fällt das Gold unter die Gruppe der Metalle „Metall“ wird nicht durch eine Liste, d. h. durch Aufzählung definiert, denn sonst wäre es niemals möglich, ein neuentdecktes Metall den übrigen hinzuzufügen; „Metall“ bezeichnet also keine endlich Anzahl, sondern ist ein Gattungsname. Die unter (b) fallenden Sätze enthalten also Begriffe, die durch Kennzeichen definiert sind, und nur die Erfahrung gibt Antwort auf die Frage, ob ein vorliegendes Objekt die Eigenschaften hat, die nötig sind, damit es unter diesen Begriff eingereiht werde; es handelt sich da um empirische Aussagen, Erfahrungstatsachen Die Fälle von (a) haben mit Erfahrung nichts zu tun. Die Negation dieser Sätze wäre sinnwidrig. Die Begriffe „Farbe“ und „Zahl“ sind nicht von vorneherein definiert. Es wäre sinnwidrig zu sagen: „Rot ist keine Farbe“. Aber der Satz „Phosphor ist kein Gift“ ist ein sinnvoller Satz; es lässt sich angeben, welche Umstände vorliegen müssten, damit ich diesen Satz für wahr halte; die Negation einer Erfahrungstatsache ist immer denkbar. – Auch die Frage: „Ist der Walfisch ein Fisch oder ein Säugetier?“ ist sinnvoll. Hingegen sind die Fragen: „Ist rot eine Farbe oder ein Klang?“ und „Ist drei eine Zahl oder ein Stoff?“ unsinnig. Was heißt es aber, dass es „im Wesen“ von rot liegt, dass es eine Farbe ist? Wie bildet man den Begriff „Farbe“? In welchem Verhältnis stehen die Begriffe „Farbe“ und „rot“? Welches Verhältnis haben die folgenden Begriffe zueinander: „diese

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bestimmte Farbe“, „Farbe“, „rot“? Ist einer allgemeiner als der andere? Besteht hier z.  B. das Verhältnis der logischen Überordnung (so wie bei Grieche-Mensch-­Sterblicher)? Die meisten bisherigen Versuche philosophische Kategorien aufzubauen, sind zum großen Teil nach der üblichen Grammatik orientiert, nach der Einteilung in Haupt-Zeit-Eigenschaftswörter und Partikeln, entsprechend: Dingen, Vorgängen, Eigenschaften, Relationen. Wir wollen ein exaktes Schema an ihre Stelle setzten: Farbe, Form, Zahl; nicht Eigenschaften überhaupt, sondern Gruppen wie „schwer-­ leicht“, „warm-kalt“, „eckig-rund“. Die herkömmliche Einteilung der Grammatik hat eine viel tiefere Wirkung, als man ursprünglich glauben würde; eben die, dass davon die üblichen philosophischen Kategorien abgeleitet werden. (Man hat den Substantiva die Dinge entsprechen lassen, den Eigenschafts-worten die Eigenschaften, den Tätigkeitsworten die Tätig­ keiten etc.) Wenn wir uns von diesem herkömmlichen Schema freimachen, fällt damit auch ein Motiv weg, die üblichen Begriffsschemata zu gebrauchen; wir werden auf andere hingeführt werden –, und das zeigt schon die Tragweite derartiger Überlegungen. Unsere Einteilung soll keine endgültige sein, nichts mit der Meinung zu tun [haben], dass es etwa ein Ideenschema a priori gäbe, das unsere Gedanken zwangsläufig führt (wie das die ältere Philosophie gemeint hat). Das, was wir „Kategorien“ nennen, ist aus der Sprache abgelesen; so, wie die Sprache, werden auch die Kategorien schwankend sein. Wir hatten nun zwei verschiedene Arten von Sätzen unterschieden; solche, die auf Erfahrung beruhen und andere, die mit Erfahrung nichts zu tun haben; diese letzteren enthielten die Begriffe wie „Farbe“ und „Zahl“; wir wollen nun überlegen: Wie gelangen wir zum Gebrauch solcher Worte wie „Farbe“ und „Zahl“? Wir hatten uns Sprachspiele als Modelle konstruiert, m an ihnen sehen zu können, wie man überhaupt zum Gebrauche derartiger Worte kommen kann. Nun wollen wir ein Spiel beschreiben, das man jemanden lehren könnte, um ihm das Wort „Zahl“ beizubringen (hier ist unter „Zahl“ Kardinalzahl gemeint). Wir nehmen an, wir hätten diesem Kind (oder Primitiven) schon das Zählen beigebracht (1, 2, 3, 4, …); es kann einen Befehl ausführen, drei Würfel oder 5 Säulen reichen. Der elementare Unterricht in der Arithmetik setzt den Begriff „Zahl“ nicht voraus; man kann das Kind die vier Grundoperationen lehren, ohne das Wort „Zahl“ zu verwenden, so wie wir in der Kindheit Worte erlernen, ohne die Termini „Wort“, „Sprache“, „Zeichen“ zu gebrauchen. Dies ist eine wichtige Einsicht. Man kann die Arithmetik auch in wissenschaftlich ganz präziser Weise aufbauen, ohne dass darin das Wort „Zahl“ vorkommt oder das Wort „Operation“. Ebenso kann man das Schachspiel lehren, ohne Worte wie „Schachspiel“ oder „Zug“ zu verwenden; ganz ohne dass solche generischen Worte überhaupt auftreten. Wie lehrt man nun die Verwendung des Wortes „Zahl“? Indem wir dem Lernenden eine Reihe von Beispielen geben: „Welche Zahl steht da?“, „Schreibe eine Zahl!“, „Nenne mir diese Zahl!“ etc. Es ist eine Erfahrungstatsache, dass der andere dann den Gebrauch des Wortes „Zahl“ erlernt; das sieht man daraus, dass er z. B. den Befehl ausführt. Wir geben dem anderen aber keine abstrakte Erklärung von „Zahl“.

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Newtons Arithmetik beginnt mit der Erklärung, dass eine Zahl das Verhältnis zweier Größen sei. Dies ist nun eine abstrakte Definition der Zahl; sie ist kompliziert und setzt bereits Vieles voraus; ein Kind könnte sie nicht verstehen; auch wäre nicht jeder imstande, eine abstrakte Definition der Zahl zu geben, theoretisch zu erklären, was eine Zahl ist. Man kann nur eine Beispielsreihe angeben und hinzufügen „u.s.w.“. Dieses „und so weiter“ ist im Falle der Zahl aber ein sehr komplizierter Begriff: Es ist nicht nur eine Art Notbehelf, weil man nicht alles anführen kann, oder ein Hindeuten aus einer Distanz oder das Zusammenfassen des Gemeinsamen. Man gibt auch bei anderen Erklärungen eine Reihe von Beispielen an und fügt „u.s.w.“ hinzu. Zum Beispiel, „Fische sind Hechte, Karpfen, Aale u.s.w.“. Im Falle der Zahlen ist die angeführte Beispielsreihe mit dem zugefügten „u.s.w.“ keine unvollständige Erklärung, die durch eine vollständigere ersetzt werden müsste oder könnte; hier ist das „und so weiter“ prinzipiell notwendig; wir fassen es als legitimes Wort auf, das einen Teil der Erklärung bildet und hier eine vollständige und abgeschlossene Grammatik besitzt. Es sollte in diesem Falle „und so weiter“ betont werden; das weist uns den Sinn dieses u.s.w.: es deutet nämlich auf ein Gesetz hin. Man erklärt die Zahlenreihe, und die einzelne Zahl wird dann abhängig davon erklärt als ein Glied dieser Zahlenreihe. Ein Sprachspiel, um dem Kinde die Zahlen beizubringen, kann natürlich auf verschiedene Art variiert werden. Wir können von speziellen Zahlen ausgehen und eine Beispielsreihe von Zahlen geben, oder sagen: „Welche Zahl hast Du hingeschrieben?“, „Lies diese Zahl!“ etc. Jedenfalls fassen Kind und Primitiver den Begriff der Zahlen 1, 2, 3, 4… nie abstrakt auf, sondern immer nur an Hand von Gegenständen; z. B. „3 Äpfel“, „5 Nüsse“ etc. Ist der Zahlvorrat nur ein beschränkter, dann genügt es, eine Zahl unabhängig von der Zahlenreihe zu erklären; handelt es sich aber um eine unendliche Menge von Zahlen, dann ist der Begriff der Zahl wesentlich an eine Zahlordnung geknüpft. Gegen Frege, Russell u. a., die die Zahl ohne Zahlenreihe definieren wollen, könnte man hier einwenden: Das Kind versteht die Zahlen 1, 5, 7, wenn es aus Eigenem die Lücken zur Zahlenreihe ergänzen kann. Auch bei der Erklärung der Farbe geben wir keine allgemeine Definition, sondern müssen uns, soll diese Erklärung in Ordnung sein, einen Reserveraum lassen, d. h., darauf hinweisen, dass es sich immer nur um Beispiele handelt usw. Wir geben also auch bei Farbe keine Definition unabhängig von den Beispielen. Bei der Erklärung von „Zahl“ und „Farbe“ sind also die Beispiele wesentlich, d. h., wir sehen keinen Weg, wie wir dabei ohne sie auskommen könnten. Wir sagen dem Kinde z. B. „Male eine Farbe hin; rot oder blau oder grün…“. Wir nennen nun eine Anzahl von Farben; es ist, wie bei der Zahl, immer ein Hinweis erforderlich, dass das nur Beispiele sind. Was heißt es, wenn wir sagen, dass rot eine Farbe ist? Um uns darüber klar zu werden, können wir einen solchen Satz („Rot ist eine Farbe“) nicht isoliert betrachten, sondern müssen ihn immer in die Situation hineingestellt denken, in der man diesen Satz gebrauchen will; die betreffenden Umstände werfen dann ein Licht auf den Gebrauch des Satzes. Es gibt da verschiedene Möglichkeiten:

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1) Der andere kennt das Wort „Farbe“ noch nicht, wohl aber die Worte „rot“, „grün“ etz.; dann können wir in der oben geschilderten Weise sagen: „Rot ist eine Farbe“, „Grün ist eine Farbe“ u.s.w. Hier bildet der Satz „Rot ist eine Farbe“ einen Teil der Erklärung des Wortes „Farbe“. 2) Nehmen wir an, jemand weiß wohl, was eine „Farbe“ ist, kenn aber nicht ein gewisses Farbwort, z. B. „beige“. – Sagen wir nun: „Beige ist eine Farbe“, so setzt dieser Satz schon voraus, dass der andere weiß, was eine Farbe ist; diese Erklärung soll ihm nun einen Wink geben, wie das Wort „beige“ zu gebrauchen ist; es soll heißen: du darfst „beige“ so ähnlich verwenden wie „grün“, „rot“ … Es wird also die sprachliche Region gekennzeichnet, der das Wort angehört. Es fehlt dann noch die hinweisende Erklärung, denn wir haben noch nicht gesagt, welche Farbe beige ist. „Beige ist eine Farbe“, ist eine Bemerkung über den Gebrauch des Wortes Beige; es wird gesagt, mit welchen anderen Worten es zusammenzustellen ist. 3) Es können ferner beide Worte, „Farbe“ und z. B. „rot“ bekannt sein. Dann hat der Satz „Rot ist eine Farbe“ nicht den Zweck einer Erklärung, sondern wir erinnern den anderen durch diesen Satz daran, wie er das Wort „rot“ gebraucht (daher der Eindruck der Selbstverständlichkeit beim Anhören dieses Satzes). – Es lässt sich aus dem Sprachgebrauch ablesen, dass „rot“ eine Farbe ist; im selben Sinne aber lässt sich aus dem Sprachgebrauch nicht ablesen, dass Phospor ein Gift ist. „Phosphor ist ein Gift“, ist eine Aussage. Anstatt „rot ist eine Farbe“ könnten wir deutlicher sagen: „Rot ist ein Farbwort“ „Drei ist ein Zahlzeichen“ u.s.f. Wir rufen uns so die Verwendungsweise dieser Worte ins Gedächtnis; wir gliedern sie in ein System von Wörtern ein und entgehen so der Versuchung zu meinen, es handle sich um eine wirklich Aussage über „rot“ oder „drei“. Ähnliches Beispiel: „Franz ist ein Vorname“ bedeutet, dass „Franz“ mit „Hans“, „Karl“ … in eine Reihe zu stellen ist; sie bilden alle eine Wortart. „Franz ist ein Vorname“ kann auch eine sprachwissenschaftliche Aussage sein, die z. B. besagt, dass die Menschen zu einer bestimmten Zeit die Gewohnheit hatten, solche Zeichen als Vornamen zu gebrauchen. – Dieser Satz gibt also entweder eine Konvention an oder ist eine historisch-ethnologische Aussage. Oder: „Das Rössel ist eine Schachfigur“; „Drei ist eine Zahl“; „Rot ist eine Farbe“; „Nicht ist ein logischer Begriff“ etc. Die Analogie bei diesen Beispielen besteht darin, dass es sich dabei nicht um Aussagen über die Wirklichkeit handelt, sondern um Hinweise auf den Gebrauch der Wörter. Überlegungen dieser Art werfen auch ein Licht auf das Problem: „Ist die Null eine Zahl?“ Es ist das die Frage, ob wir die Null noch in das System der Zahlen aufnehmen wollen oder nicht; dies ist keine Tatsachenfrage; wir können es diesbezüglich halten wie wir wollen, und es hängt nur davon ab, ob die Ähnlichkeit der Null mit den betreffenden übrigen Zahlen eine genügend große ist. Die Null ist mit den übrigen Zahlen manchmal sehr verwandt, manchmal nicht; sollen wir die Null zu den Zahlen rechnen? Wie wir wollen! Es ist dies kein sachliches Problem, sondern hängt von unserem Belieben ab, ist willkürlich. Man muß sich immer über

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gewisse Unterschiede klar werden; wenn in einem Coupé steht, „Rauchen ist verboten“, so kann dieser Satz dreierlei sein: a) ein Verbot (also weder wahr noch falsch), b) eine Aussage (Wenn hier jemand raucht, so wird er bestraft), Hypothese, also entweder wahr oder falsch, c) eine historische Mitteilung (die Bahnverwaltung, d. i. die Majorität des Verwaltungsrates, das Parlament o. a., wünscht, das hier nicht geraucht wird.). Wir müssen daher immer Konventionen von wirklichen Mitteilungen un­terscheiden. Wir reihen z.  B. die Farbworte mit Recht in eine Klasse ein, weil sich ihr Gebrauch von dem aller anderen Wörter ziemlich typisch abhebt. Würden wir hingegen Eisen, Kupfer, Blei etc. in einer Klasse zusammenfassen und „Metallwörter“ nennen, so wäre nicht einzusehen, warum Wörter wie „Kohle“ oder „Glas“ ausgeschlossen sein sollen, da ihr Gebrauch dem der erstgenannten Wörter ganz analog ist; daher hat es keinen Zweck, die Metalle zu einer eigenen Wortart zusammenzufassen; der Gebrauch der Metallwörter unterscheidet sich zu wenig von dem anderer Wörter. Hingegen untescheiden sich die Begriffe Farbe, Form, Zahl grundlegend vonei­ nander; man könnte auch sagen: „Farbe“, „Form“, „Zahl“ sind Kapitelüberschriften der Grammatik. (So wie es in unserer gewöhnlichen Sprachgrammatik „Substantiva“, „Adjektiva“ u.s.w. sind.) Was nennen wir alles „hinweisende Erklärung“? a) Wir deuten auf einen Gegenstand hin: „Das ist ein Apfel“, „Das ist ein Haus“. b) Auch einen Ton kann man in einem gewissen Sinn hinweisend erklären, z. B. kann durch eine Gebärde, die Stille verlangt, die Aufmerksamkeit auf einen Ton gelenkt werden. „Das ist cis“: Man kann auf einen Ton nicht so zeigen, wie auf einen Gegenstand; aber die Geste (bei: „Das ist cis“), hat doch Ähnlichkeit mit der im ersten Fall. c) In gewissem Sinn kann man auch die Zahlworte durch eine hinweisende Geste erklären, indem man sagt: „Eine Kugel, zwei, drei Kugeln“, „Zwei Äpfel“ und darauf hinweist. Ist das eine hinweisende Erklärung der Zahlen „zwei“, „drei“? Wenn man will, ja, aber in einem andern Sinn. Die großen Zahlen kann man nicht hinweisend erklären, nur eine übersehbare Menge. d) Ebenso verhält es sich mit der hinweisenden Erklärung des Wortes „nicht“, der Negation: man kann da verschieden vorgehen, z.  B. sagen: „Genug, keinen Zucker mehr!“, und man nimmt den Zucker weg. „Nicht schreien!“, und man hält dem Kind den Mund zu. Oder auch: Man zeichnet einen Kreis und einen Punkt im Innern des Kreises, das andere Mal den Punkt außerhalb des Kreises. „Dieser Punkt liegt im Kreis, dieser Punkt liegt nicht im Kreis.“ Ähnlich ist die Erklärung von „und“ und „oder“; man kann dabei durch charak­ teristische Gesten hinweisen; „Gib mir den Apfel und die Birne!“ mit zusammenfassender Gebärde. „Willst du den Apfel oder die Birne?“ mit der charakteristischen Geste. Definieren diese Gesten die Worte „und“ und „oder“? Offenbar nicht; aber sie illustrieren sie. Es gibt bei allen diesen Beispielen eine Gruppe von Gesten, die mit

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der Erklärung zusammenhängen. In allen diesen Fällen kann man von hinweisender Erklärung sprechen; wir haben aber gesehen, dass der Begriff der hinweisenden Erklärung ein fließender ist; wie wir die Grenzen ziehen, ist uns überlassen. Wir reihen Beispiele in Bezug auf ihre Ähnlichkeit aneinander und sehen, dass eine Abstufung dieser Ähnlichkeit vorliegt; deshalb ziehen wir keine scharfen Grenzen. Es entsteht z.  B. auch die Frage, ob man jedes Zahlwort hinweisend erklären kann. Offenbar nicht; es ist dies nur bei Zahlworten möglich, die übersehbare Mengen bezeichnen. Wozu brauchen wir überhaupt Wortarten und Namen dafür? Eine hinweisende Definition kann missverstanden werden. Wenn ich auf ein rotes Papier von elliptischer Form hinweise und sage: „Das ist elliptisch“, so kann der andere darunter verschiedenes verstehen: elliptisch, rot, Papier, Fläche. Sage ich aber: „Die Farbe ist rot, die Form ist elliptisch“, so habe ich durch Angabe der Wortart das Wort erklärt. Ebenso: „Dieser Stoff heißt Papier“, „Dieser Ton heißt cis“. Wir können also von verschiedenen Stufen der Erklärung der Sprache sprechen: Auf der ersten Stufe erklärt man nur ein einzelnes Wort: „Würfel“, „Säule“, „rot“. Auf der zweiten Stufe: Form, Farbe, Zahl. Auf der dritten Stufe verwendet man diese Wortarten, um den Prozess der hinweisenden Definition abzukürzen und vor Missverständnissen zu bewahren. Hier sehen wir, wozu allgemeine Ausdrücke dienen. Wir sehen also, dass es zwei Arten der hinweisenden Erklärung gibt, eine primitive und eine ausgebildete Art („Rot“ und „Diese Farbe ist rot“). Sie unterscheiden sich dadurch, dass die erste noch keine artikulierende Erklärung ist, die zweite dagegen schon einen Teil der Sprache zur Erklärung verwendet, Begriffe der Sprache, verbunden mit hinweisenden Gebärden: das ist dann eine hinweisende Definition in einem reicher entfalteten System. Man könnte von einer „Schichtung“ der Sprache sprechen; dieses Schichtensystem ist aber nicht eindeutig. Man kann z. B. einem Kind zuerst einen Namen erklären: „Das ist eine Fichte, das ist eine Tanne, das ist eine Lärche“ und erst später sagen: „Fichte, Tanne, Lärche sind Bäume“. Das ist eine Art der Erklärung. Man könnte aber auch zuerst sagen: „Das ist ein Baum, das ist ein Baum, das ist ein Baum“ und dann erst sagen: „Dieser Baum ist eine Fichte, dieser eine Tanne, dieser eine Lärche“. In manchen Fällen wendet man das generische Wort vor dem speziellen an, in andern Fällen wieder umgekehrt. Es ist nicht notwendig, ein einziges, ausgezeichnetes System von Zeichen anzu­ nehmen; wir haben völlige Freiheit, unsere Sprache aufzubauen, wie wir wollen. Kann man z. B. das Wort „Zahl“ erklären, ohne auf einzelne Zahlen Bezug zu nehmen? Nein! Kann man das Wort „Farbe“ erklären, ohne auf Spezielles hinzuweisen? Gewiss. Bei der Zahl jedoch scheint es keinen Weg zu geben, um dieses Wort zu erklären, ohne auf spezielle Zahlen Bezug zu nehmen. Jede Erklärung des Wortes „Zahl“ geht über die Angabe spezieller Zahlen vor sich. „Farbe“ und „Zahl“ verhalten sich verschieden. Wenn man Farben aufzählt und dann „und so weiter“ sagt, so ist in diesen beiden Fällen der Ausdruck „und so weiter“ nicht derselbe. Bei Zahlen müsste man richtiger „und so weiter“ sagen; dies weist auf das Bildungsgesetz der Zahlenreihe hin („Füge immer eines hinzu, und so weiter“). Bei

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Farben dagegen hat „und so weiter“ keinen bestimmten Richtungssinn. Man könnte auch sagen „und dergleichen mehr“, „und ähnliches“ etc. Bei den Zahlen muss man mit dem Anfang der Zahlenreihe beginnen, bei Farben besteht eine solche Notwendigkeit nicht. Das Wesen der Zahl kann man nicht von ihrem Erzeu­ gungsprozess loslösen. Praktisch ist es auch bei dem Wort „Farbe“ schwierig, es ohne Bezugnahme auf spezielle Farben zu erklären; es ist aber prinzipiell möglich. Wir vergleichen die hinweisenden Erklärungen: a) „Rot“, b) „Dies ist rot“, c) „Diese Farbe heißt rot“. Sind diese Erklärungen im selben Sinn? Die erste ist eigentlich keine Erklärung, sondern nur der Anfang eines Abrichtens, einer Dressur. Die zweite ist zwar eine artikulierte Erklärung, die aber noch Missverständnissen ausgesetzt ist (Der sie hört, könnte glauben, „rot“ sei ein Gegenstand.) Die dritte ist eine Erklärung, wie wir sie einem Erwachsenen geben, der im Besitz einer ausgebildeten Sprache ist. Es ist also zwischen primitiven und ausgebildeten hinweisenden Erklärungen zu unterscheiden. Es zeigt sich hier, wie der Begriff der „hinweisenden Erklärung“ schwankt; d. h. aber nicht, dass die erste hinweisende Erklärung die andere in einfacher Form enthalte, sondern die hinweisende Erklärung besteht aus dem, was gesagt und getan wird; beide hinweisenden Erklärungen sind in einem verschiedenen Sprachmedium und insofern verschiedene sprachliche Gebilde. Hier kommt man zu der Frage: Muss bei der hinweisenden Erklärung schon ein psychischer Zustand vorhanden sein? Die Hypothese über das, was im Bewusstsein dessen, der die Erklärung hört, vor sich geht, schließen wir vorläufig aus. Welche Rolle spielen die hinweisenden Erklärungen in der Sprache? Zu welchem Zweck gibt man sie? Es scheint, dass die hinweisende Erklärung die Verbindung zwischen Sprache und Wirklichkeit herstellt; man könnte sagen: Jede Sprache muss ein System von hinweisenden Erklärungen besitzen. Unsere Methode ist aber die, nichts zu behaupten oder zu verneinen, sondern durch Beispiele zu erläutern. Wir haben die Tendenz, das Feld der Möglichkeiten zu erweitern, indem wir die tatsächliche Sprache auf dem Hintergrund freier Möglichkeiten betrachten. Wir untersuchen, ob es in fiktiven Sprachen eine Funktion für die hinweisende Erklärung geben würde. Wir stehen auf demselben Standpunkt, auf dem die Mathematiker standen, als sie im 19. Jahrhundert entdeckten, dass die Euklidische Geometrie nicht die einzig mögliche sei. Der Nimbus fiel von der Euklidischen Geometrie ab, und dieser unendlich große Fortschritt war auf jeden Fall von höchster Wichtigkeit, abgesehen davon, ob man die neuen Geometrien auch verwenden konnte oder nicht. (Was aber doch tatsächlich in der Relati­ vitätstheorie geschieht.) Ein Teil unserer Einstellung der Sprache gegenüber ist der, dass wir versuchen, neben den wirklichen Sprachen andere mögliche Sprachen aufzustellen, um die Besonderheiten der Sprache zu beleuchten. Wenn es auch keine Völker gäbe, die „1, 2, 3, 4, 5 viele“ zählen, so wäre diese Fiktion doch sehr nützlich zu betrachten, um zu sehen, dass unsere Arithmetik nicht die einzig mögliche ist. Wir können neben

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unserer Sprache fiktive Sprachen konstruieren, die in der Wirklichkeit nicht angewendet werden. Unser Ziel ist nicht die Wirklichkeit, sondern die Möglichkeit. So wollen wir den Begriff der Sprache beleuchten. Denken wir uns folgenden Fall: die Menschen würden statt der gesprochenen Worte nur Zeichen verwenden; sie hätten kein Stimmorgan, sondern nur ein System geschriebener Zeichen zur Verständigung. Ein solches System würde voraussicht­ lich nicht aus Buchstaben, sondern eher aus Begriffsdarstellungen bestehen, ähnlich der chinesischen Begriffsschrift. Wie stünde es in einer solchen Sprache mit der hinweisenden Erklärung? Wir sagen: „Das ist Herr N.“ und deuten hin. Wie verhält sich dies, wenn man nicht spricht? Man könnte erstens auch hier den Sinn durch eine hinweisende Gebärde erklä­ ren. Man könnte zweitens die Zeichen mit Abbildungen versehen. Man könnte nach dem Muster unseres Sprachspieles vorgehen: wir könnten uns unter die geordneten Bausteine mit Zeichen versehene denken. Wir könnten die lernende Person abrichten, mit einem Zettel in der Hand, auf der dasselbe Zeichen steht, den betreffenden Stein zu suchen und zu holen; man könnte also auch ohne Geste auskommen. – Statt der Farbworte könnte man eine Farbtabelle verwenden, die man dem Lernenden in die Hand gibt und an Hand deren er die Farbe der Bausteine vergleicht. Auch hier brauchte man keine Gebärde. Sind dies aber auch wirklich hinweisende Erklärungen? Gebärden kommen hier nicht vor. Könnten wir aber nicht auch ohne Gebärde von einer hinweisenden Erklärung sprechen? Es liegt an uns, ob wir dieser Art der Erklärung noch „hinweisende Erklärung“ nennen wollen. Man sieht, dass dieser Begriff der „hinweisenden Erklärung“ nicht scharf begrenzt ist. Beide Fälle (der der Lautsprache und der der Zeichensprache) sind aber analog: In der Wortsprache stellt die Geste die Verbindung zwischen Wort und Gegenstand her. In der Zeichensprache wäre die Entsprechung zwischen Zeichen und Wirklichkeit (z.  B. zwischen Farbtabelle und Farbe) die räumliche Ordnung. Indem wir die Zeichen neben die Farben setzen, durch die räumliche Ordnung, ersetzen wir die Gebärde. Es gäbe natürlich auch hier eine hinreichende Erklärung mit einer Gebärde; man könnte den Gegenstand aufzeichnen und hinzeigen; die Geste ist aber nicht notwendig. Auch Prozesse, in denen keine Gebärden vorkommen, können noch hinweisende Erklärungen genannt werden. Solche Fälle gibt es ja auch in der Wirklichkeit. Ein Fremder fragt: „Wo ist die Singerstrasse?“ Man kann in seiner Sprache nicht antworten und zeigt ihm: dort! Oder er braucht auch nur einen Zettel mit dem Straßennamen in der Hand zu halten und kann dann durch Vergleichen mit den Straßentafeln die richtige Straße finden. Man kann dann auch die Straßentafel die hinweisende Definition nennen; hier ist keine Gebärde mehr vorhanden. Man kann also nicht sagen, dass jede Sprache ein System von hinweisenden Erklärungen enthalten muss. Das sieht man, wenn man zur Gebärdensprache übergeht.

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„Iss einen Apfel!“ Wenn ich erst auf den Apfel hinweise, dann die Gebärde des Essens mache, und der Betreffende isst dann den Apfel, so habe ich auch mit ihm gesprochen und zwar durch Gebärden. Nebenbemerkung: Es ist ein gewisses Vorurteil der Logiker, dass das Wesentliche an der Sprache die Aussage sei. – Spengler sagt: Das ursprüngliche Element der Sprache ist wahrscheinlich nicht die Aussage, sondern der Befehl, wahrscheinlich deshalb, weil sich die Sprache als ein Zweig der Technik entwickelt hat, so, dass man Menschen zu Arbeiten, technischen Verrichtungen anleitete. Erst als die Entwicklung der menschlichen Kultur zu einer Art von Arbeitsteilung führte, wurde der Gebrauch einer solchen Sprache notwendig. Das zeigt sich noch in der heutigen Struktur der Sprache, wo die erste, zweite und dritte Person als gleichwertig angesehen werden, was logisch nicht richtig ist. Die zweite Person ist wahrscheinlich eine der ursprünglichen Formen. Das alles sind natürlich nur Hypothesen, wir können uns aber gut denken, dass die Sprache sich so entwickelt hat, und uns eine Sprache vorstellen, die nur aus Befehlen besteht. Gibt es nun in einer solchen Sprache so etwas wie eine hinweisende Gebärde? Welchen Zweck hat denn eine hinweisende Erklärung? Einem Zeichen eine Bedeutung zu geben. Die Gebärde soll eine Hilfe sein, um zu verstehen, was der andere mit diesem Zeichen meint. Wie ist es aber, wenn es gar keine solchen Zeichen gibt, sondern nur die Gebärden? Es wäre unberechtigt, zu sagen, dass das etwa keine Sprache sei. Man kann die Gebärden gebrauchen, um sich mit dem andern zu verständigen. Gibt es aber in dieser primitiven Sprache eine hinweisende Definition? Gibt es hier etwas, das durch die Gebärden erklärt wird? Es sind ja nur die Gebärden da. Wir müssen hier eben annehmen, dass die Gebärden etwas ursprünglich Verständliches sind. Es gibt gewisse natürliche, von vornherein verständliche Gebärden, die von einem vernünftigen, erwachsenen Menschen verstanden werden. Wenn die Gebärde das einzige Verständigungsmittel ist, so braucht der andere nichts zu wissen, er kann aus dem bloßen Zusehen, was der andere für Gebärden macht, entnehmen, was er meint. Auf das Bedenken, ob da der andere nicht wissen muss, was ein Befehl ist, wollen wir mit „nein“ antworten. Ein kleines Kind weiß auch nicht, was ein Befehl ist und führt ihn doch aus. Was wir hier das Kriterium für das Verstehen des Befehls nennen, ist das Reagieren. Zwei Personen treten sozusagen nach dem Schema: Reiz-Reaktion in Beziehung und zwar durch die Gebärde. Wir können uns damit begnügen, dass wir aus der Erfahrung wissen, dass Menschen tatsächlich auf gewisse Gebärden hin in gewisser Weise reagieren. Auch ein Hund versteht einen Befehl, obwohl in seinem Geiste gewiss nichts ist, was wir die Kategorie des Befehls nennen könnten. Wenn A dem B etwas zeigt und B darauf reagiert, und wir fragen nun: Hat B das Bewusstsein „Das ist ein Befehl“?, so antworten wir auf diese Frage jetzt mit „nein“, ohne auf eine Erklärung darüber einzugehen. Hat B die Begriffssprache nicht, so hat er gar nicht die Möglichkeit, das als Befehl aufzufassen. So lernt ein Kind zuerst Gesten (ohne den Begriff des Befehls zu kennen); erst später wird man mit den

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Begriffen „Wort“ und „Sprache“ bekannt. Das sind vor allem psychologische Probleme, auf die wir vorläufig nicht eingehen können. Man könnte auch konventionelle und natürliche Gebärden unterscheiden. Bei den konventionellen Gebärden braucht man außer der Gebärde noch die hinweisende Erklärung, bei den natürlichen Gebärden nicht. Beide gehören aber zur Sprache. Man kann nicht sagen, dass die natürlichen Gebärden keine Sprache sind, weil sie keine Abkürzung, keine Ersparnis bedeuten und man sie immer wieder machen muss. Die hinweisenden Definitionen charakterisieren eine gewisse Art von Sprache, aber nicht jede Sprache. Man kann also nicht sagen, dass es im Wesen der Sprache liegt, dass sie hinweisende Erklärungen enthält. Wir wollen nun die Verhältnisse bei einer Bilderschrift (wie den Hieroglyphen) untersuchen. Könnten wir hier ohne hinweisende Erklärung auskommen? Mit der Bildersprache kann man alles Anschauliche, Sichtbare ohne hinweisende Erklärung ausdrücken. Kann man aber alles Sichtbare ohne hinweisende Definition ausdrücken? Man kann wohl Szenen und Personen darstellen, in der Art etwa, wie man eine Novelle schreibt, so dass man nicht von bestimmten Geschehnissen und bestimmten Personen berichtet. Wenn dies nun aber ein historischer Bericht sein soll oder ein Porträt einer ganz bestimmten Person? Ein Zeichen (wenn wir von der Gebärdensprache absehen) erhält Bedeutung durch eine Festsetzung. Wenn ich aber vor einem Bilde sage: „Das ist Herr N.“, so halte ich mich dabei an die Ähnlichkeit des Bildes mit Herrn N. und nicht an eine Festsetzung. Wenn ich dieses Porträt als Zeichen auffasse, so ist das ein ganz anderes Zeichen als die konventionellen, eine ganz andere Situation. Durch die Bildersprache kann man genau genommen nur die Gattung, aber nicht das Einzelne ausdrücken. Die Sprache der Bilder hat eine variable Bedeutung. Bilderschrift plus Deutung geben zusammen das Zeichensystem. Ein Porträt muss nicht die Person bedeuten, die es darstellen soll: 1) Es kann zwei völlig gleich aussehende Personen geben; dann weiß man nicht, welche gemeint ist. 2) Wäre das Bild schlecht gemalt, so würde es auch nicht die Person bedeuten. 3) Wäre das Bild ein schlechtes Porträt von A, aber dem B ähnlich, dann würde es eher den B bedeuten. Man hat hier also viele Möglichkeiten. Man kann mit der Bilderschrift anschaulich gattungsmäßig schildern, aber die Wiedergabe historischer Berichte in der Bilderschrift ist nicht eindeutig, außer, wenn sie gedeutet wird. Das ist aber dann schon Bilderschrift plus Deutung. [Zwei Arten von Regeln] Wir besprechen nun einen anderen grundlegenden Begriff, den Begriff der Regel. Wenn man z. B. die Worte „Zucker“, „Papier“ durch hinweisende Gesten erklärt, so nennt man das noch keine Regel. Das Abrichten nennt man noch nicht Lehren. Es erhebt sich also die Frage: Was ist eine Regel? Wo tritt sie auf?

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Wir können sagen: in der untersten Schicht des Systems der Sprache tritt so etwas wie eine Regel noch nicht auf. Man deutet auf einen Gegenstand und spricht ein Wort aus. Das ist ein Prozess des Abrichtens, des Dressierens, noch keine Erklärung im Sinne der Logik. Wo tritt eine Erklärung, eine Regel auf? Es gibt Spiele, die vorbereitend sind. Denken wir an unser Sprachspiel, so können wir sagen, dass das erste Spiel bei dem B von A abgerichtet wird, einen Baustein auf Zuruf zu reichen, eine Vorbereitung für die weiteren Spiele ist, oder dass dem B eine Regel für die weiteren Spiele beigebracht wird. Hat B das Spiel schon erlernt, und wir lassen ihn zur Vergewisserung doch auf einen Baustein zeigen, so kann man von einem Rekapitulieren der Regel sprechen. Wenn ein Spiel eine komplizierte Struktur hat, so kann man einen Teil dieses Spiels für sich betrachten und diesen abgelösten Teil des Spiels (z. B. nur das Deuten) als Regel für das Spiel bezeichnen. Die Regel ist etwas Gesprochenes (Wort mit Geste), Geschriebenes, Gezeichnetes und dergleiches; sie gehört zu den Utensilien des Spiels (wie z. B. zum Schachspiel das Schachbrett und die Figuren gehören). Was ist nun die Funktion der Regeln im Spiele? a) Ein Spiel muss nicht unbedingt mit Hilfe der Regeln erlernt werden. Es ist aber möglich, die Regeln des Spiels aus der Praxis abzulesen, nachdem man das Spiel ohne Regeln erlernt hat. b) Das Sagen, Denken, Lesen der Regeln kann als bloße Vorbereitung des Spiels dienen, kann aber auch in das Spiel selbst eintreten. Beispiel: Man hat eine Tabelle, auf der jede Schachfigur durch eine bildliche Darstellung ihre Bewegungsmöglichkeit zugeordnet ist; schaut man nun beim Schachspielen vor jedem Zug auf diese Darstellung? Der Anfänger tut dies; der geübte Schachspieler nicht, er spielt, ohne an die Regel zu denken. Sollen wir daraus schließen, dass die Regel nur eine Vorbereitung des Spiels ist, weil sie nur der Anfänger gebraucht? Wenn der Anfänger aber das Spiel aus der Praxis erlernt hat, sagt er sich die Regeln nicht vor. Wir könnten besser so sagen: es gibt hier zwei verschiedene Vorgänge: a) Ein Spiel mit Nachschlagen in einem Regelverzeichnis. b) Ein Spiel ohne Bezugnahme auf ausdrücklich formulierte Regeln. Das ist nicht nur eine Frage der Psychologie, sondern genau genommen müssen wir sagen: hir liegen zwei verschiedene Spiele vor; die Unterscheidung ist also nicht nebensächlich. Oder: wie erlernt man die französische Aussprache? Ein französisches Kind lernt sie aus der Praxis. Ein Nicht-Franzose lernt sie so, dass er bei jeder Lautverbindung etwa in einer phonetischen Tabelle nachsieht, wie sie ausgesprochen wird. In dem einen Fall treten die Regeln in die Tätigkeit selbst nicht ein, im andern Fall schon. Wir können uns also ein Spiel denken, bei dem es wesentlich ist, dass die erlaubten Spielhandlungen in einem Verzeichnis nachgeschlagen werden. Wendet man dagegen ein, dass dies allgemeine Anweisung („Schlage nach!“) selbst nicht zu den Regeln des Spiels gehört, so erinnern wir daran, dass man das Spiel ja auch

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durch die Praxis erlernen kann. Und es zeigt sich, dass das Wort „Regel“ wieder keine geradlinige und einfache Bedeutung hat, sondern wieder verschiedene Gebilde bezeichnet; solche, die ausdrücklich formuliert werden und solche, die man aus der Praxis abliest. Der typische Einwand ist, dass man nicht zum Verständnis einer Regel gelangen kann, wenn doch ihre Erklärung wieder in einer Regel besteht; dass dies also ein logischer Zirkel sei. Darauf ist zu antworten, dass das Wort „Regel“ hier eben nicht ganz denselben Sinn hat: es ist einmal die ausdrücklich formulierte (schriftlich fixierte oder mündlich gelehrte) Regel, das andere Mal die aus der Praxis abgelesene, deren man sich gar nicht bewusst zu sein braucht. (Wo man nachahmend das tut, was die andern tun; so erlernt ein Kind ein Spiel, so kann man in einem fremden Land eine Sprache erlernen.) Wir könnten hier einen analogen Fall aus der Jurisprudenz konstruieren: angenommen, es gäbe ein Volk, bei dem es zwar Rechtsbräuche gibt, die aber nirgends aufgezeichnet sind. Nun könnte man fragen: Besitzt dieses Volk ein Recht? Gewiss! Gibt es ein Gesetzbuch? Nein! So ist es mit der Regel. Man kann sie aus der Praxis erlernen, ohne sie zu kodifizieren; das Wort „Regel“ ist in beiden Fällen nach verschiedenen Kriterien verwendet. Wenn man fragt: „Wie kann man den tatsächlich bestehenden Rechtsgebrauch bei diesem Volk nun beschreiben?“, so gibt es darauf zwei verschiedene Antworten: a) durch einen ethnographischen Bericht, b) durch eine Beschreibung des Rechtsgebrauches wie in einem Gesetzbuch. Die erste Antwort kann wahr oder falsch sein; sie ist eine Beschreibung des Rechtsbrauches in Sätzen der Geschichte, der Völkerkunde; die zweite Antwort ist eine Formulierung des Rechtsbrauches in Form eines Gesetzbuches; dies ist etwas wesentlich anderes. So kann man auch auf die Frage, wie ein Spiel gespielt wird, auf zweierlei Weise antworten: man gibt an, was die Spieler tatsächlich tun oder man gibt eine Beschreibung in Form eines Regelverzeichnisses. Das sind zwei völlig verschiedene Wege. Ebenso kann man bei Beschreibung der Sprache vorgehen: man kann, wie der Sprachhistoriker dies tut, beschreiben, welche Worte die Angehörigen eines Volkes gebrauchen, in welcher Situation sie diese Worte verwenden; man kann aber auch ein System von Regeln dieser Sprache angeben. Wir wollen die Beschreibung der Sprache hier immer im zweiten Sinn verstehen, als eine Beschreibung in Form von Regeln. Wir untersuchen nicht die Physik, sondern die Geometrie der Sprache. Es gibt also zwei Arten von Regeln: solche, die man durch Nachschlagen im Regelverzeichnis erfährt, und solche, die man durch die Praxis erfährt. Es besteht hier kein logischer Zirkel (siehe oben). Man lernt zunächst die Regel aus der Praxis und verwendet sie dann dazu, um sich auf ausdrücklich formulierte Regeln zu beziehen. Ein logischer Zirkel wäre dann vorhanden, wenn die Regeln alle ausdrücklich formuliert wären. Woher wüsste man dann, dass man sich an diese Regeln zu halten habe? Dadurch, dass eine neue Regel gegeben würde: „Du hast dich an diese Regeln zu halten!“ Es besteht aber ein Unterschied im Erlernen: man erfährt die eine Regel durch Nachschlagen, die andere durch die Praxis! (Das ist nicht der einzige Unterschied:

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Die Regel, die man aus der Praxis erlernt, enthält z.  B. einen Appell an die Gesamtheit von Regeln, die einzelnen formulierten Regeln aber nicht.) Wir haben hier nur eine erste Orientierung über den Unterschied zwischen Regeln gegeben, haben nur einen Unterschied angeführt: dass man Regeln auf doppelte Weise erfahren kann: durch den Gebrauch und durch ausdrückliche Formulierungen. Es gibt Fälle, wo z. B. im selben Spiel Regeln beider Art auftreten: erstens formulierte Regeln; zweitens besteht aber zwischen den formulierten Regeln und dem, was ich beim Spiel zu tun habe, eine Kluft, die durch eine weitere Regel ausgefüllt werden muss: „Ich habe mich an diese Regel zu halten!“ Hier kommt der genannte Unterschied zur Geltung; es ist dies aber nicht der einzige Unterschied. (Vergleiche die logische Typentheorie: Regeln, die einen Appell an die Gesamtheit von Regeln enthalten und solche, die es nicht tun; das sind Regeln von verschiedenem logischen Typus.) Wir kehren zu unserem Sprachspiel zurück: es kommt darin etwas vor, was man eine „Abmachung“, eine „Bestimmung“ nennen könnte; allen diesen Sprachspielen ist etwas gemeinsam: eine Bestimmung, eine Regel. Durch die Bestimmung eines solchen Spiels wurde den Wörtern erst eine Bedeutung gegeben. Erst durch die Abmachung erlangt das Wort seine Bedeutung. Es ist wichtig, ein Wort von so großer Tragweite, wie dass Wort „Bedeutung“ richtig festzulegen. Wir haben die Sprachspiele beschrieben, uns den Unterschied klar gemacht, wie Worte verschieden gebraucht werden, haben Worte zu Wortarten zusammengefasst, haben gezeigt, wie sie verwendet werden. Wir haben gesehen, wie man verschieden erklären kann. Wir haben den Begriff der Regel eingeführt. [Was sollen wir zur logischen Grammatik rechnen?] Nun führen wir den fundamental wichtigen Begriff der „Bedeutung“ ein. Was setzt dieses Wort „Bedeutung“, den „Begriff“ einführen, indem wir auf die Bestimmung und Abmachung in unserem Spiel Bezug nehmen und zusehen, wie durch diese Regel, Erklärungen, Bestimmungen den Worten Bedeutung gegeben wird. Die Worte unterscheiden sich durch ihren Gebrauch. Der Gebrauch eines Wortes ist durch Regeln bestimmt. Dabei kann das Wort „Regel“ in dem oben beschriebenen doppelten Sinn verstanden werden: als Regel, die durch die Praxis erlernt und als Regel, die ausdrücklich formuliert wird. – Dem entsprechen auch zwei Methoden im Sprachunterricht: das Erlernen der Sprache direkt aus der Praxis oder mit Hilfe von grammatischen Regeln. Die Regeln, die den Gebrauch der Worte bestimmen, nennt man die Grammatik der Worte. Wenn wir verschiedene Sprachspiele mit Worten beschreiben, lehren wir die Grammatik der Worte. Was sollen wir nun zur Grammatik rechnen? Was ist der Begriff der Grammatik, was gehört zu ihren Regeln? Wir gehen dabei auf keine strenge Definition aus. Am besten ist es, den Gegensatz zur Grammatik anzugeben. Der Gegensatz zur Grammatik ist der wirkliche Gebrauch der Worte. (Wie etwa im Schachspiel die Partei selbst im Gegensatz zu den Regeln steht.)

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Zur Grammatik rechnet man das, was ein für allemal, im Gegensatz zum späteren Gebrauch, zur Anwendung, festgelegt werden kann. Unter Grammatik verstehen wir die Gesamtheit der Regeln, die ein Zeichensystem beherrschen. (Weit über die Sprachgrammatik hinausgehend). Die hinweisenden Erklärungen, der Gebrauch der Zahlworte, der Übergang von einem Satz zum andern durch Schließen … dies alles gehört zur Grammatik. Die Grammatik ist das allgemeine Gebiet, von dem die übliche Grammatik und die spezielle Logik nur Kapitel sind. Wir nennen sie die „logische Grammatik“. Die hinweisende Erklärung ist nur eine unter den Regeln der Grammatik. Wir werden sehen, dass wir verschiedene Typen, Arten von Regeln zu unterscheiden haben werden. „Diese Farbe ist rot“ und „Zahlen sind 1, 2, 3 …“, sind verschiedene Regeln der Grammatik.  – Augustinus stellt eine Sprache dar, die nur einen Typus von Regeln gibt, nämlich die hinweisende Erklärung. Diese Darstellung ist zu primitiv; in unserer tatsächlichen Sprache gibt es nicht nur diese eine Form der Erklärung. Beispiel des Gebrauchs von synonymen Worten: Wenn man sagt: „Das ist ein Schrank“ und „Das ist ein Kasten“, so haben in diesem Fall die beiden Worte „Kasten“ und „Schrank“ dieselbe Bedeutung, oder: das Wort bedeutet diesen Gegenstand. Dagegen entspricht es nicht dem Sprachgebrauch, zu sagen: die Bedeutung des Wortes ist der Gegenstand. Frege sagt: Die Bedeutung des Wortes ‚Morgenstern‘ ist der Planet Venus (der Gegenstand, auf den das Wort hindeutet). Aber, das Wort deutet nicht, sondern man deutet. Das ist also eine sehr unglückselige Terminologie; wenn ein Komet die Venus zerstörte, würden wir nicht sagen: „Er hat die Bedeutung des Wortes ‚Morgenstern‘ zerstört“. Die Sprache unterscheidet zwischen Bedeutung und Träger. Wir sagen wohl: „Der Träger des Namens N. sitzt auf dem Stuhl, ist verreist, ist gestorben…“, aber nicht: „Die Bedeutung des Namens N. ist verreist, ist gestorben…“ Es gilt die Regel: „Der Träger des Namens N. ist verreist“, heißt genau dasselbe wie „N. ist verreist“. Auf Grund dieser Regel kann man den Ausdruck „Träger“ aus der Sprache eliminieren. Dagegen gibt es keine solche Regel für den Ausdruck „Bedeutung“; es gibt keine Regel, die heißt: „Die Bedeutung des Wortes A ist gleich A“. Die Auffassung, dass die Bedeutung eines Wortes der Gegenstand ist, auf den es deutet, hat dazu geführt, bei jedem Substantiv nach einem Gegenstand zu suchen, der seine Bedeutung wäre. Das war eine Quelle philosophischer Verwirrungen. Man bevölkerte die Welt mit ätherischen Wesen, schattenhaften Begleitern der Substantiva. Man suchte krampfhaft nach einem Etwas, das bezeichnet werden soll, weil man sich immer von dem Schema „Personenname – Träger“ leiten ließ. Man sagte etwa, dass die Wärme ein Ding sei, weil es ja den Körpern mitgeteilt würde, es fließe von einem zum andern. Man sprach von einem „Wärmestoff“. Warum verfielen die Physiker auf diese Auffassung? Sie wäre nicht naheliegend gewesen, wenn es kein Substantiv „die Wärme“ gegeben hätte. Man könnte auch ebenso gut ohne dieses Substantiv auskommen, und es würde der Sprache nicht abgehen, als eben nur die Versuchung, die Hypothese eines Wärmestoffes zu bilden. – Es gibt unzählige solche Fälle: „Die Grippe breitet sich aus“, „Das Licht

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ist eine Substanz“, „Die Pest überschreitet die Grenze“, „Der Tod langt nach den Menschen“ etc. Vieles in der Geschichte der Philosophie erinnert an diese Mythologie der Worte. Man sagt: „die Zeit fließt“. Nun sucht man nach einer Ursache, die die Zeit fließen lässt. Zwischen den Körpern herrschen die Kräfte usw. Man glaubte dann, dass der Gebrauch der Substantiva überall von derselben Art sei. Das ist aber eine sehr rohe Auffassung, denn wenn man ihr nachgeht, kommt man dazu, hinter jedem Substantiv eine Substanz zu suchen. Das Paradigma, das vorschwebt, ist der Gebrauch, den Augustinus im Auge hat: Man erklärt das Substantivum dem Kind, indem man auf den Gegenstand hindeutet. Das ist für körperliche Gegenstände richtig. Man hat aber dieses Paradigma verallgemeinert und damit eine ergiebige Quelle philosophischer Verwirrungen geschaffen. Man könnte die Sprache mit einer Schrift vergleichen, in der Buchstaben zum Bezeichnen von Lauten benützt werden. Sieht man diese Schrift als Sprache zur Beschreibung des Lautbildes an, so könnte jemand sie so missverstehen, als entspräche jedem Buchstaben ein Laut, und als hätten sie nicht auch andere Funktionen; eine davon ist die des Hindeutens auf einen Gegenstand, die hinweisende Erklärung; aber auch da ist die Bedeutung nicht der Gegenstand. Zwei Worte können die gleiche Bedeutung haben. Diesem Fall ist entgegenzusetzen, dass ein Wort zwei verschiedene Bedeutungen haben kann. Beispiel: Man sagt: „Schwarz ist schwarz“. (Wobei „schwarz“ einmal ein Personenname, einmal ein Farbname sein soll.) Man sieht sofort, dass die beiden Worte verschiedenen grammatischen Regeln gehorchen. Die Schwierigkeit ist die, dass doch nur ein Wort da ist, dass das Wort nur einmal vorkommt. Wir unter­ scheiden gewöhnlich Wort und Bedeutung, daher wollen wir unter „Wort“ nur die physischen Zeichen verstehen. Wir reden entweder von einem Wortindividuum oder von einer Worttype. Dann haben wir nicht das Recht, von zwei Wörtern zu reden. Wir müssen also sagen, dass ein Wort verschiedene Grammatiken haben kann. Was soll das heißen? In der Grammatik wird unter „Wort“ gewöhnlich „Worttypus“ verstanden. (Ähnliche Laute, von verschiedenen Personen zu verschiedenen Zeiten ausgesprochen, wobei von geringfügigen Unterschieden bei der Aussprache abgesehen wird.) Analogie im Schachspiel: Könnte man für die Figur des Bauern zwei verschiedene Regelverzeichnisse aufstellen? Wohl nur in dem Sinn, dass man zwei verschiedene Arten des Spiels beschreiben wollte und dass man zum Vergleich die beiden Regelverzeichnisse für die Bauern einander gegenüberstellt. Aber in einem Spiel kann die Figur nicht auf zwei verschiedene Arten gebraucht werden. Die Schwierigkeit hebt sich, wenn wir bemerken, dass wir einfach andere Wörter einführen können; statt „Schwarz ist schwarz“ könnten wir sagen: „Herr Schwarz ist schwarz“, dann ist der eine Ausdruck „Herr Schwarz“. Oder wir könnten sagen: in dem Satz „Schwarz ist schwarz“ ist das eine Wort „Schwarz“, das andere Wort „ist schwarz“. – Davon machen wir auch tatsächlich Gebrauch, wenn wir auf eine Verschiedenheit aufmerksam machen wollen; wenn ich jemanden eklären will, dass ich mit den beiden Worten etwas Verschiedenes meine, so sage ich: „Schau hin! Da geht Herr Schwarz auf und ab, aber doch nicht die Farbe schwarz!“

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Ein anderes Beispiel: „Die Rose ist rot“ und „Zweimal zwei ist vier“. Bedeutet das Wort „ist“ in beiden Fällen dasselbe? Nein; im zweiten Falle heißt es: „ist gleich“, im ersten Falle nicht. Man kann nicht sagen: „Die Rose ist gleich rot“, wohl aber: „Zweimal zwei ist gleich vier“. „Ist“ kann im ersten Falle durch ein Wort ersetzt werden, im andern Falle nicht. Es gelten für diese beiden Fälle verschiedene Substitutionsregeln. Daran merken wir den Unterschied der Bedeutung. Wenn man von der Verschiedenheit der Bedeutung spricht, läuft man Gefahr zu sagen: zwei Worte haben „gefühlsmäßig“ verschiedene Bedeutung. Wir berufen uns nicht auf das Gefühl: wir untersuchen die Grammatik und zeigen, dass dort, wo eine Verschiedenheit der Bedeutung besteht, auch verschiedene Regeln gelten. Wenn sich gleich lautende Worte verschieden substituieren lassen, haben sie verschiedene Bedeutung. Das letzte Beispiel klärt auch eine Frage auf, die manche Logiker irreführte: viele Philosophen glaubten, dass „ist“ immer ein Ausdruck der Identität sei und meinten, dass jedes urteil mit „ist“ eine Gleichsetzung ausdrücke; diese Frage klärt sich von selbst auf; es ist hier nur eine Verwechslung der Kopula „ist“ mit dem Ausdruck der Gleichheit begangen worden. Ein Wort unserer Sprache, das verschiedene Bedeutungen hat, lässt sich durch ein anderes schriftliches substituieren. Der Gebrauch des Wortes „bedeuten“, „Bedeutung“ Wir stellen eine Reihe von Beispielen nebeneinander: 1 ) „Das ist eine Sache von großer Bedeutung“. 2) „X ist ein Mann von Bedeutung“. 3) „Dieser Menschenauflauf hat etwas zu bedeuten“. 4) „Diese Wolke bedeutet Regen“. 5) „In dieser Begebenheit liegt diese und diese Bedeutung“ (Aberglaube). 6) „Im Lichte dieser Erkenntnis gewinnt dieser Vorgang eine ganz neue Bedeutung“. 7) „Diese beiden Worte haben dieselbe Bedeutung“. Kann man in diesen Fällen das Wort „Bedeutung“ durch andere Worte substi­tuieren? 1) „Das ist eine Sache von großer Bedeutung“ = „Das ist eine Sache von großer Wichtigkeit“. 2) „X ist ein Mann von Bedeutung“ = „X ist ein Mann von Rang, Ansehen“. 3) „Dieser Menschenauflauf hat etwas zu bedeuten“ = „Er ist nicht zufällig, es geht etwas vor, er ist ein Symptom für etwas, das sich ergeben kann“. 4) „Diese Wolke bedeutet Regen“ = „Sie ist ein Vorzeichen des Regens, ein Anzeichen im Sinne der Kausalität, zurückgehend auf beobachtete Re­gelmäßigkeit“. 5) „In dieser Begebenheit liegt diese und diese Bedeutung“ = „Der Vorgang ist bedeutsam, aber nicht im kausalen Sinn“. 6) „Im Lichte dieser Erkenntnis gewinnt dieser Vorgang eine ganz neue Bedeutung“ = „Der Vorgang ist ein schlagendes Argument für eine Theorie geworden, hat einen neuen Zusammenhang offenbart“.

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7) „Die zwei Worte haben dieselbe Bedeutung“ = „Sie“ lassen sich durch einander ersetzen. Die Antwort auf die Frage, ob hier „bedeuten“, „Bedeutung“ dasselbe bedeuten, ergibt sich, wenn wir von unserem Kriterium der Ersetzung des Wortes „Bedeutung“ durch ein anderes Wort Gebrauch machen. Hier interessieren wir uns ausschließlich für die letzte Verwendung des Wortes „Bedeutung“. Wir haben hier diejenige „Bedeutung“ im Auge, die der Logiker meint, wenn er von der Bedeutung seiner Zeichen spricht. Wir sagten: Die Worte der Sprache erhalten Bedeutung durch die Regeln, nach denen sie gebraucht werden. Wir fragen dagegen nicht: „Was für ein Ding ist die Bedeutung?“, „Was ‚ist‘ Bedeutung?“, denn diese Frage ist der Ausdruck einer missverständlichen Auffassung des Substantivs „Bedeutung“; sie hebt sich von einem falschen grammatischen Untergrund ab, denn man erwartet dann eine Antwort, die einer hinweisenden Erklärung ähnlich ist. Man ist versucht, nach einem Gegenstand zu suchen, der die Bedeutung „ist“. Das ist der alte Irrtum, dass man durch das Substantiv zum Suchen nach einer Substanz verführt wird. Aber die Bedeutung ist kein „ätherischer Gegenstand“; sie ist nicht die „Seele im Wortleib“, sondern sie ergibt sich aus dem Gebrauch. Wir sagen: „Willst du wissen, was ein Wort bedeutet, dann sieh seinen Gebrauch an!“ Wenn wir jemand die Bedeutung eines Wortes beibringen wollen, dann erklären wir ihm seinen Gebrauch. Was heißt „naiv“? Wenn wir dieses Wort erklären wollen, sagen wir etwa: es heißt soviel wie unerfahren, ohne Misstrauen, unkritisch, nicht angekränkelt etc. Aber das trifft noch nicht genau das, was wir sagen wollen, und wir geben ein Beispiel des Gebrauchs, erzählen etwa eine Anekdote und sagen dann: Dieser Mensch ist also naiv! Wie könnte man erklären, was die Worte „eigentlich“, „vielleicht“, „gar“, „in Gottes Namen“ bedeuten? Da handelt es sich nicht um Namen von Gegenständen, auf die man zeigen kann. Die Bedeutung muss sich aus dem Gebrauch ergeben. Das Wort „Bedeutung“ ist nur die Abkürzung für die Art des Gebrauchs. Mit dem Wort „Bedeutung“ fassen wir die oft unübersehbaren Arten des Gebrauchs zusammen. Wird z.  B. ein Wort im Wandel der Zeit anders gebraucht, so ändert es seine Bedeutung. „Schlecht“ bedeutete ursprünglich „schlicht“. (Noch erhalten in „schlechtweg“.) „Keck“ bedeutete „lebhaft“ („Quecksilber“). Wann ist ein Wort unübersetzbar? Wenn sich in der anderen Sprache kein Wort findet, das in genau derselben Weise gebraucht wird. Es gibt auch eine gradweise Übersetzbarkeit „Esprit“ ist nicht genau mit „Geist“ übersetzbar; „élan“ ist mit „Mut“, „Schwung“; „impetus“ nur näherungsweise übersetzbar. Ebenso ist „Weltanschauung“, „Lied“, „chanson“ nicht genau übersetzbar. Die Wörter werden in zwei Sprachen oft nicht nach genau denselben grammatischen Regeln gebraucht. Wenn der Gebrauch ganz gleich ist, gibt es ganz genaue Übersetzungen. Hier ergibt sich ein Einwand: „Der Gebrauch ist doch nur das Äußerliche, die Bedeutung aber das Innerliche, das unsichtbar dahinter steht“.  – Haben wir ein Mittel, die Bedeutung zu beschreiben, ohne auf den Gebrauch einzugehen? Ist die

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Beschreibung des Gebrauches nur ein Umweg, um zur Bedeutung zu gelangen? Gibt es einen direkten Weg, um dieses Ziel zu erreichen? Wenn man Bedeutung und Gebrauch unterscheiden will, so ist die nächste Frage: Ist in der Bedeutung mehr enthalten als im Gebrauch? Man müsste dann ein Kriterium angeben, in welchem Falle man den Gebrauch des Wortes angeben kann, ohne seine Bedeutung zu verstehen. Wenn ich jemanden den Gebrauch eines Wortes in verschiedenen Fällen gelehrt habe, was muss ich dann noch tun, um ihm die Bedeutung beizubringen? Was fehlt noch? Könnte der Betreffende nicht diesen Gebrauch kennen und ihm verständnislos folgen, wie vielleicht dem Gesang der Vögel? Könnte der Gebrauch nicht etwas Äußerliches bleiben, das man beschreiben kann, aber nicht versteht? Es scheint, als beschrieben die Regeln nur auf rein äußerliche Weise den Gebrauch, dem erst von innen Sinn gegeben werden muss. Könnte man nicht den Gebrauch verständnislos folgen und keinen Sinn damit verbinden? Frege sagt: Nicht die Regeln erzeugen die Bedeutung, sondern die Regeln richten sich nach der Bedeutung. Zuerst hat ein Wort Bedeutung, und dann zeigt es sich, ob die Regeln der Bedeutung folgen. Derjenige, der meint, dass es möglich ist, den Gebrauch zu kennen und ihm dennoch verständnislos zu folgen, denkt sich etwa folgenden Fall: Es sieht jemand Menschen Handlungen ausführen und mit Worten begleiten, die er nicht versteht. Er kommt aber darauf, dass die Laute nach bestimmten Konventionen verwendet werden, die ihm aber nicht verständlich sind; er wüsste nicht, worauf die Zeichen hinauslaufen. Dieser Fall wäre gewiss möglich. Eine Gesellschaft erfindet ein Spiel mit Worten, in dem Worte nach festen Spielregeln verwendet werden. Ein Zuschauer könnte sagen: Ich verstehe das nicht, ist das eine Sprache oder ein Spiel? Er könnte die Regeln genau aus dem Gebrauch abgelesen haben, oder sie wären ihm mitgeteilt worden, und doch verstünde er das Ganze nicht. Die Worte haben hier keine Bedeutung. Hier liegt ein Fall vor, an dem man wohl sieht, dass Worte einen bestimm­ten Gebrauch haben und man doch weit davon entfernt ist, ihre Bedeutung einzusehen. Wir hätten demnach also nicht das Recht, Gebrauch und Bedeutung gleichzusetzen. Hier tritt die interessante Frage auf: Was ist der Unterschied zwischen Sprache und Spiel? Der Beobachter kennt die Regeln, aber er versteht das Ganze nicht; die Worte haben hier keine Bedeutung. Was geht dem Spiel eigentlich ab? Was unter­ scheidet es von der Sprache? Im Spiel haben die Worte nicht den Zusammenhang mit dem Leben, die Verbindung mit den Handlungen, die sie in der Sprache haben. Die Eingliederung, die Einbettung in das Leben ist der Unterschied zwischen Sprache und Spiel. Analoge Situation: Der Lehrer sagt: „Setzt Euch!“ und meint es wirklich. Dann sagt er im Grammatikunterricht: „Setzt Euch“. Was ist der Unterschied? Im ersten Fall setzten sich die Schüler wirklich. Oder: „Kolumbus hat 1492 Amerika entdeckt“, kann als historische Tatsache oder als Beispiel für eine adverbale Bestimmung der Zeit gemeint sein. Die beiden Fälle verhalten sich wie ein Duell zur Fechtübung, wie eine wirkliche Schachpartie zu einer, die der Lehrer dem Schüler als Beispiel zeigt.

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In der Sprache gebrauchen wir die Worte im Ernst (um Befehle zu geben, auf deren Unterlassung wir Strafen setzen etc.). Im Spiel ahmen wir dies bloß nach (Strafen gegen Verstöße gegen die Spielregeln). Aber die Akte des Spieles greifen nicht so tief in das übrige Leben ein; tun sie es, so ist das Spiel nicht mehr Spiel, sondern Ernst geworden (vgl. Schnitzler: Der grüne Kakadu!) Die Sprache hängt mit tausend Fäden mit dem wirklichen Leben zusammen. Die Worte, für sich betrachtet, sind nur ein Spiel. Der Unterschied zwischen Sprache und Spiel ist kein immanenter, d.  h. in der Sprache liegender, sondern er beruht auf der Verbundenheit der Sprache mit dem Leben, mit den übrigen Tätigkeiten des Menschen. Erst wenn man den Gebrauch der Worte im Zusammenhang mit dem Leben sieht und verfolgt, wie die Worte gebraucht werden, entgeht einem das Wesentliche der Bedeutung nicht; man erfasst dann nicht nur den Gebrauch, sondern „versteht“ ihn auch. Jeder Begriff bedarf gewisser Vorbereitungen; dem Spiel fehlt die Eingliederung in das Medium des Lebens. Der Unterschied zwischen Spiel und Sprache ist also kein logischer Unterschied, sondern liegt im Zusammenhang mit dem Leben. Man könnte noch folgenden Einwand betrachten: „Die Bedeutung des Wortes ist die Vorstellung“. (Höfler: „Begriffe sind Vorstellungen von eindeutig bestimmtem Inhalt“.)  – Welche Methode schlagen wir da am besten ein? Es ist nicht ratsam, darauf auszugehen, solche philosophischen Thesen zu widerlegen. Solche Behauptungen in der Philosophie sind nie ganz falsch, sie sind eher halb wahr zu nennen. Dem Philosophen, der eine solche Behauptung aufstellt, schwebt gewöhnlich ein bestimmter Fall vor, für den die These auch stimmt. Der Fehler liegt darin, dass man dieses Paradigma, an das man denkt, vorschnell verallgemeinert. Der Irrtum liegt in der vorschnellen Generalisation (siehe Augustins: Deuten auf einen Gegenstand). Am besten ist es, eine Reihe von Beispielen zu bilden. Wenn man sagt: „Die Bedeutung des Wortes ist seine Vorstellung“, so ist dies gewiss sehr oft richtig. Tatsächlich prüft man die Bedeutung oft dadurch, dass man sich ein Bild vor die Seele ruft. In vielen Fällen stellt man sich bei einem Wort wirklich etwas vor. Auf die Frage „Weißt du, was ein Ringelspiel ist?“, stellt man sich ein Ringelspiel und zwar ein bestimmtes vor. Die Vorstellungen wechseln, die Variabilität der Vorstellungen entspricht dem, was man die Bedeutung nennen würde. – Fragt man eine Reihe von Personen, was sie sich unter „Neapel“ vorstellen, so bekommt man verschiedene Antworten: „den Hafen mit dem Vesuv“, „diesen und diesen Platz“, „diesen Platz auf der Landkarte“, „das „Markttreiben“ etc. Die Vorstellungen sind verschieden. Kann man aber sagen, dass das Wort „Neapel“ verschiedene Bedeutungen hat? Versteht nur derjenige das Wort „Tausendeck“ oder das „Ikosaeder“, der es sich vorstellen kann? Sehr wenige Personen können sich wahrscheinlich wirklich ein Tausendeck oder einen Ikosaeder vorstellen. Bei Worten wie „Lichtwelle“, „Elektron“ ist ein Vorstellungsbild sogar irreführend. Eine Lichtwelle, ein Elektron haben keine Farbe, keine Form. Wie ist es bei den Worten „Besitz“, „Pfandrecht“, „Eigentum“, „Strafgesetzbuch“? Kann man sich dabei etwas vorstellen? (Unter

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„Strafgesetzbuch“ vielleicht ein Buch, aber dasselbe Buch kann man sich auch in anderem Zusammenhang vorstellen.) Man kann sagen, dass Vorstellungen das Aussprechen und Hören gewisser Worte begleiten, dass sie aber in keiner Weise die Bedeutung sind. Zwischen Bild und Bedeutung ist streng zu scheiden. James sagt, dass man bei jedem dieser Worte wie „wenn“, „oder“, „aber“, „und“ etc. ein charakteristisches Erlebnis habe, bei „aber“ z. B. ein anderes als bei „wenn“. Ist das falsch? Sollen wir das leugnen? Wir wollen gewiss zugeben, dass gewisse Gefühle, Empfindungen, Geisteszustände das Aussprechen und Hören gewisser Worte begleiten können; nur wollen wir nicht sagen, dass diese Gefühle, Vorstellungen etc. die Bedeutung des Wortes ausmachen. Jemandem die Bedeutung eines Wortes beizubringen, heißt nicht, ihm einen bestimmten Geisteszustand beizubringen; sich bei einem Wort etwas denken, heißt nicht, sich ein anschauliches Bild zu machen; die Bedeutung erlernt man; aber, was sich in der Seele abspielt, erlernt man nicht. Wäre die Bedeutung des Wortes dieser innere Zustand, dann wüssten wir nie, ob wir uns mit Worten überhaupt verständigen können, weil man nie weiß, wie der Geisteszustand eines andern Menschen ist. Man müsste ihn be­schreiben, und dabei treten dieselben Schwierigkeiten auf, denn die Beschreibung muss wieder mit Worten durchgeführt werden. James hat da Fälle im Auge, bei denen man ganz charakteristische Empfindungen hat. Bei „aber“ fühlen wir gewisse Muskelspannungen, um eine Geste zu machen; das meint wohl James. Auf keinen Fall aber wollen wir diesen Geisteszustand die Bedeutung des Wortes nennen. Man würde da das Beibringen eines Wortes (das einen Geisteszustand hervorrufen soll), als eine Art Medizin auffassen, die einen Seelenzustand hervorruft. Es wäre aber ungewiss, ob sie immer denselben Zustand hervorruft. Wir müssten Beschreibungen geben, die wieder Gefüge von Worten sind. Wie bringt man tatsächlich die Bedeutung der Worte bei? Bei dem Wort „rot“ deuten wir auf ein Muster. Bei dem Wort „aber“ geben wir Beispiele der Anwendung, des Gebrauchs; so verständigen wir uns. Wir müssen also die Behauptung, dass die Bedeutung eines Wortes die Vorstellung sei, einschränken und sagen: nicht alle Wörter haben eine Vorstellung zu ihrer Bedeutung. Bei manchen Worten ist es gewiss der Fall. Wer das Wort „Rose“ mit Verständnis hört oder ausspricht, stellt sich eine Rose vor. Wer von „rot“ spricht, dem schwebt eine rote Farbe vor. Was aber bei dem Wort „rot“ vorgestellt wird, ist nicht die Bedeutung, sondern ein Beispiel des Gebrauchs (siehe Berkeleys Polemik gegen Locke: „Man kann sich kein allgemeines, sondern nur ein bestimmtes Dreieck vorstellen.“) Es ist auch gar nicht wahr, dass man in jedem Fall, in dem man das Wort „rot“ mit Verständnis gebraucht, etwas Rotes vorstellt. Ein rotes Signal bedeutet, dass der Zug halten muss. Muss man sich das vorgestellt haben? Nein. Wir verwenden unzählige Male Worte, ohne sie uns vorgestellt zu haben. Hat man in diesem Falle die Worte ohne Verständnis gebraucht? Muss man sich jedesmal, wenn man „rot“ sagt, etwas Rotes vorstellen? Beispiel: Man sagt: „Bring eine Begonie aus dem Garten!“ Woran merkt der andere, dass eine Blume, die er im Garten sieht, eine Begonie ist? (Wiederzuerkennen). Wie spielt sich dieser Vorgang ab? Da gibt es einen typischen Fall: der Betreffende

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trägt ein Vorstellungsbild der Begonie mit sich herum. Er geht in den Garten, vergleicht sein Vorstellungsbild mit der Blume und sagt sich: Das ist eine Begonie! Ist es nun notwendig, dass, wenn man eine Begonie wieder erkennt, man siesich vor einem Augenblick vorgestellt haben muss? Oder dass man ein Erinne­ rungsbild hat? Eine zweite Möglichkeit ist die folgende: der Betreffende trägt kein solches Bild mit sich herum; er ist nicht imstande, es sich vor die Seele zu rufen; aber in dem Augenblick, in dem er die Begonie sieht, erkennt er sie. Ist da eine Erinnerung notwendig? Einmal früher muss der Betreffende die Vorstellung der Blume gehabt haben. Es könnte drittens aber auch so sein, dass der Betreffende einfach die Disposition erworben hat, dies oder jenes zu erkennen. Wenn ich auf eine rote Wand blicke, sage ich sofort ohne Überlegung „rot“, ohne mir erst eine andere rote Fläche vorgestellt zu haben. Es gibt also drei Möglichkeiten: 1 ) Man erklärt den Namen „Begonie“, indem man eine zeigt. 2) Die Erklärung ist dem Gedächtnis schon entschwunden, aber man trägt ein typi­ sches Bild in sich und vergleicht es mit der wirklichen Blume. 3) Man sagt spontan beim Anblick der Blume: „Das ist eine Begonie“ (z. B. der Gärtner, der täglich damit umgeht.) Muss man dabei ein innerliches Bild haben? Es ist möglich, aber nicht notwendig. Man hat einfach die Disposition, beim Anblick dieser Blume mit diesem Wort zu reagieren. Wenn ein Auto daherkommt, ruft man sofort, ohne inneres Bild: „Achtung, Auto!“ Beim Lesenlernen werden die Buchstaben mechanisiert; zuerst aber geht das Lernen umständlich vor sich. Ebenso ist es mit dem Verständnis der Worte: es ist wahrscheinlich so, dass in der Kindheit die Vorstellungsbilder viel stärker sind, dass sie aber immer mehr mechanisiert werden und dass schließlich nur in einer kleinen Zahl von Fällen die Vorstellung das Wort begleitet. Phantasie- und Vorstellungsbilder charakterisieren nur eine bestimmte Art von Worten, nicht jede Art von Worten. Es gäbe natürlich noch andere Möglichkeiten: man gibt dem Betreffenden ein Muster der Blume, und er sucht an Hand dessen die Blume; oder der Name kann an der Blume durch Zeichen vermerkt sein. Solche Fälle gibt es im praktischen Leben häufig: Pflanzenbestimmung nach einem Buch! – Oder es soll jemand eine bestimmte Sorte Blau in der Farbenhandlung kaufen. Das geht meist überhaupt nicht ohne Muster. Man gebraucht oft Worte, ohne sich dabei etwas vorzustellen, bloß auf Grund von Mustern. Haben diese Worte dann keine Bedeutung? Wir könnten uns z. B. denken, dass die Menschen eine Vorstellung nicht länger als fünf Minuten im Gedächtnis behalten könnten und sie nachher wieder vergäßen. Das könnte ein psychologisches Gesetz sein. Wäre dann eine Verständigung unmöglich? Wie würde eine Sprache unter dieser Bedingung aussehen? Man müsste einfach Muster benützen.

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Man sieht also, dass es nicht richtig ist, zu sagen, dass die Bedeutung eines Wortes die Vorstellung ist, die man beim Hören oder Aussprechen des Wortes hat. Das gilt wohl für eine Arte von Worten, aber nicht für alle; in anderen Fällen können wir Tabellen, Muster u. dgl. gebrauchen. „Die Bedeutung eines Wortes kennen“, hat verschiedene Bedeutungen. Man könnte nun sagen: Vermittelt die Vorstellung, wenn sie auftritt, nicht zwischen dem Wort und der Wirklichkeit? Wenn ich sage: „Hole mir eine Rose!“, habe ich da nicht das Gefühl, dass die Vorstellung der Rose die Lücke zwischen Befehl und Ausführung des Befehls ausfüllt? Ich habe dem Betreffenden doch nur Worte gegeben; er braucht doch eine Verbindung zur Handlung! Unsere Tendenz ist wieder nicht darauf gerichtet, dies zu widerlegen, sondern wir betrachten diesen Fall wieder als einen gewiss möglichen; nur darf auch hier nicht falsch generalisiert werden. Sagt man z. B.: „Stelle dir ein Preußisch-Blau vor!“, so besteht in diesem Fall die Wirklichkeit der Handlung in der Vorstellung. Können wir da sagen, dass die Vorstellung zwischen Befehl und Handlung vermittelt? Nein! Wenn sich der Betreffende Preußisch-Blau nicht vorstellen kann, und ich zeige ihm ein Muster, so dient dieses Muster dazu, die Vorstellung in ihm hervorzurufen. In diesem Falle vermittelt also nicht die Vorstellung zwischen Wirklichkeit und Wort, sondern die Wirklichkeit (das Muster) zwischen Wort und Vorstellung. Es sind also beide Fälle möglich. Oder man erklärt einmal eine Zeichnung durch einen Satz, ein anderes Mal einen Satz durch eine Zeichnung. Es wäre also einseitig, zu sagen, dass die Vorstellung zwischen Wort und Wirklichkeit vermittelt. Nähern wir uns in der Erklärung der Wirklichkeit, wenn wir vom Wort zu einem Muster übergehen? Bei „rot“ nähere ich mich der Wirklichkeit, wenn ich das Muster heranziehe; wenn ich aber eine Geste durch Worte erkläre, entferne ich mich von der Wirklichkeit. „Erklärung“ muss nicht immer eine Annäherung an die Wirklichkeit sein. Hieraus ist eine wichtige Lehre zu ziehen, eine Art These, Maxime, ein Ratschlag (Wir stellen aber keine Behauptungen auf!): „Alles ‚Innere‘ lässt sich durch etwas ‚Äußeres‘ ersetzen.“ In der Logik spielen „innere“ Vorgänge gar keine spezifische Rolle. Glaube, Überzeugung kann ersetzt werden. Für unsere logischen Zwecke ändert sich nichts Wesentliches, wenn man das „Innere“ (Das bei den Philosophen aller Zeiten einen großen Nimbus hat.) durch etwas „Äußeres“ ersetzt. Die Vorstellung lässt sich durch ein gemaltes Bild, das Kopfrechnen durch Rechnen auf dem Papier ersetzen. Es ist nicht einzusehen, warum ein Vorstellungsbild einen Vorzug vor einem gemalten Bild haben sollte. Das heißt, für unsere logischen Zwecke besteht da kein prinzipieller Unterschied. Vergleichen wir die beiden Erklärungsversuche für „Bedeutung“: 1 ) „Die Bedeutung eines Wortes ist der Gegenstand, auf den es deutet“. 2) „Die Bedeutung eines Wortes ist die Vorstellung, die man beim Hören oder Aussprechen des Wortes hat.“

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Warum ist man eigentlich versucht, nach einer solchen Erklärung zu greifen? Erstens weil man den Wunsch hat, ein einer Definition etwas Wichtiges zu bekommen (tatsächlich ist ja die Vorstellung etwas sehr Wichtiges dabei). Zweitens sucht man unter den Substantiven eines, das dem Wort „Bedeutung“ synonym ist, eine substantivische Erklärung. Wenn man aber eine solche Erklärung sucht, so ist es noch am besten zu sagen: „Die Bedeutung eines Wortes ist sein Gebrauch“. Den Gebrauch des Wortes kann man entweder aus der Praxis erlernen oder indem einem die Regeln ausdrücklich genannt werden. Das letztere ist nur in fortgeschrittenem Zustand möglich; in diesem Falle sprechen wir von einer „Erklärung“. Nicht jedes Wort kann man nur aus der Praxis, ohne Angabe der Regeln, ohne Erklärung erlernen. Im Falle der Erlernung der Bedeutung durch Erklärung kann man auch sagen (statt: „Die Bedeutung eines Wortes ist sein Gebrauch“): „Die Bedeutung eines Wortes ist das, was in der Erklärung der Bedeutung erklärt wird und sonst nichts, nichts darüber hinaus“. Das klingt sehr trivial, ist aber sehr wichtig. Es führt uns zu unserer nächsten Frage: Was nennen wir alles Erklärung eines Wortes? Was für Typen der Erklärung gibt es? Es gibt eine Art der Erklärung, die in der Aufzählung (und zwar der vollständigen Aufzählung), in der Angabe einer Liste besteht: „Wochentage sind: Montag, Dienstag …“. Das Wort „Wochentag“ ist wirklich nur eine Abkürzung für die Namen der sechs Tage; man kann das Wort „Wochentag“ eliminieren. Ebenso ist es bei dem Wort „Jahreszeiten“ u. a.. Oder: „Primäre Farben sind: Rot, gelb, grün, blau“. Hier entsteht die Frage: „Ist der Begriff „Urfarbe“ durch diese Aufzählung erklärt? Oder haben rot, grün, gelb, blau eine gemeinsame Eigenschaft, kraft deren ich sie „Urfarben“ nenne?“ Wenn man die analoge Frage bei Gerüchen stellen wollte, müsste man fragen: „Gibt es Urgerüche, und welches sind ihre Eigenschaften?“ Wenn wir verschiedene Gerüche wahrnehmen, können wir bei stetiger Steigerung eines Geruches an einem bestimmten Punkt ein Umschlagen in einen anderen Geruch (und nicht nur eine Intensivierung des ersten) feststellen. – Bei den Farben geht z. B. orange in gelb über. Gelb ist nun eine solche charakteristische Umschlagestelle.  – Nun ist die Frage: „Was ist eigentlich eine Urfarbe?“ Sind die Urfarben durch Aufzählung definiert, oder sind sie durch die Umschlagstellen charakterisiert? Es gibt eben zwei Möglichkeiten: die Erklärung durch Aufzählung und die Erklärung durch Angabe einer gemeinsamen Eigenschaft. Ein anderes Beispiel: „Was ist ein Apostel?“ Soll man da die zwölf Apostel aufzählen oder sagen: „Ein Apostel ist ein Verkünder der Lehre Christi“? Im ersten Fall macht man es unmöglich, dass es einen dreizehnten Apostel geben könnte (den die Geschichte eventuell entdecken könnte). Im zweiten Fall nicht. Man kann hier auch zwei verschiedene Definitionen geben: die Erklärung durch Aufzählung und die Erklärung durch ein gemeinsames Prädikat. Kann man die Planeten erklären, indem man sie aufzählt? „Planeten sind Merkur, Venus …“ Das wäre keine Definition, denn dann könnte man keinen mehr entdecken. (Was aber doch möglich wäre; erst 1930 wurde der Planet Pluto entdeckt;

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hätte man unter „Planeten“ nur die acht bekannten verstanden, dann hätte man diesen nicht mehr hinzurechnen können.) Man könnte in diesem Falle sagen: Gib nicht Beispiele, sondern erkläre den Begriff! Die Erklärung des Begriffes „Planet“ z. B. muss so beschaffen sein, dass sie uns die Möglichkeit lässt, neue Weltkörper auch „Planeten“ zu nennen. Die Aufzählung ist hier nicht die Erklärung. Es besteht ein wesentlicher Unterschied zwischen diesen beiden Arten der Definition: der Erklärung durch Aufzählung und der Erklärung des Begriffes durch Angabe des genus proximum und der differentia spezifica. Der Logiker hat die letztere im Auge. Wenn beide möglich sind, sind es zwei verschiedene Begriffe, auch wenn sie nach ihrem Umfang übereinstimmen sollten. (Wenn es auch nur neun Planeten geben sollte, so wäre doch der durch Aufzählung und der durch Erklärung bestimmte Begriff „Planet“ nicht logisch identisch, auch wenn sie sich empirisch decken sollten.) Auch wenn alles Rote rund wäre, hätte es doch Sinn zu sagen: „Ich habe einen runden Gegenstand gesehen, der blau ist.“ Diese beiden Arten der Erklärung schließen einander nicht aus, aber sie sind logisch nicht identisch, wenn sich auch oft ihr empirischer Umfang deckt. „Bedeutung und Begriff“ Das Wort „Bedeutung“ ist allgemeiner zu verwenden als das Wort „Begriff“. „Aber“ hat wohl eine Bedeutung; wir werden jedoch nicht sagen, es sei ein Begriff. „Napoleon“, „Cäsar“ sind (wie alle Eigennamen) keine Begriffe. Begriffe sind eine besondere Klasse von Bedeutungen. Frege sagt: „Ein Begriff ist dasjenige, was an Prädikatsstelle eines Satzes stehen kann.“ Ich kann nicht sagen: „Ein Ding ist ein Napoleon“. (Wenn man sagt: „Der Mann ist ein Napoleon“, so wird „Napoleon“ schon als Begriff verwendet.) Nun könnten zwei Begriffe wohl denselben Umfang, aber die Prädikate müssen nicht dieselbe Bedeutung haben. Die Planeten [sind] einmal durch Aufzählung, einmal durch ihre Bewegung um die Sonne definiert. Wir können fragen, ob wir eine Aufzählung einen Begriff nennen wollen; nennen wir die Wochentage einen Begriff? Diese Frage ist müßig und kann willkürlich bestimmt werden. Denken wir uns nun Fälle wie: „Was sind Zahlen?“ Antwort: „Zahlen sind: 1, 2, 3 … und so weiter“. „Was sind Farben?“ Antwort: „Farben sind: rot, grün, gelb und so weiter“. Sind das nun Aufzählungen vom Typus wie bei den Wochentagen? Nein; (keine vollständige Aufzählung). Sind es Erklärungen der Begriffe? Nein. Denn, was ist das genus proximum zu „Zahl“, „Farbe“? Als genus proximum zu „Zahl“ können wir nicht „Größe“ angeben, wenn auch manchmal Zahlen nur Angabe von Größen dienen; denn „i“ ist z. B. auch eine Zahl aber keine Größe. Wie sieht hier die Erklärung aus? Die Bedeutung eines Wortes ist das, was in der Erklärung der Bedeutung erklärt wird und nicht mehr; hier erkläre ich eben durch Beispiele, und das ist der ganze Begriff. In den beiden Beispielen ist der Ausdruck „und so weiter“ nicht derselbe. Bei den Zahlen heißt es richtig „und so weiter“, denn man gibt damit eine Gesetzmäßigkeit, die Uroperation, die die Zahlen erzeugt, an: 1+1, 1+1+1,… Bei den Farben heißt „und so weiter“ so viel wie „und Ähnliches, und dergleichen“. Sage ich „Buchstaben sind a, b, c, …“ und so weiter, so bedeutet „und so weiter“ eine Abkürzung für die Aufzählung aller Buchstaben, die man auch vollständig hinschreiben könnte; es ist

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nur ein Surrogat für etwas, was man auch eliminieren könnte. Bei Buchstaben liegt eine Erklärung durch vollständige Aufzählung vor. Wir haben also bisher an Formen der Erklärung gefunden: 1 ) Die Angabe einer Liste, die vollständige Aufzählung. 2) Die Angabe des genus proximum und der differentia spezifica. 3) Beispiele mit „und so weiter“. Sind das alles mögliche Formen? Ein weiteres Beispiel: „Was ist ein Kreis?“ Diese Frage muss genau verstanden werden; entweder versteht man darunter das anschauliche Aussehen, die Gestalt eines Kreise. Ist dies unter „Kreis“ gemeint, so gibt es dafür eine Erklärung in Form der hinweisenden Definition. Meint man den Kreis in der Geometrie, so muss der Begriff so gebildet werden, dass er an bereits bekannte Begriffe anschließt. Die gewöhnliche Definition lautet: „Ein Kreis ist der geometrische Ort aller Punkte, die von einem gegebenen Punkt, dem Mittelpunkt, [den] gleichen Abstand haben.“ Ist diese Erklärung in Ordnung? Wann nennen wir sie in „Ordnung“? Die Geometrie ist ein deduktives System, in dem sich der Aufbau durch Beweise und Definitionen vollzieht. Durch Beweise schreitet man von Satz zu Satz fort, die Voraussetzungen sind wieder zu beweisen und so fort; dieser Weg ist nicht unbeschränkt, die letzten Sätze (die Axiome) sind nicht mehr zu beweisen. Einen Beweis müssen wir auf die Axiome zurückführen; der zu definierende Begriff muss bis auf die Grundbegriffe des Systems zurückgeführt werden. Setzten wir die Kette des Definierens fort, so müssen wir schließlich bei den Grundbegriffen Halt machen. Das Beweisen endet bei den Grundsätzen, das Definieren bei den Grundbegriffen. Hilbert meint mit sechs geometrischen Grundbegriffen auszukommen: Punkt, Gerade, Ebene; kongruent, zwischen, parallel (siehe Schlick, Allgemeine Erkenntnislehre, § 7, über implizite Definition). Das heißt., innerhalb der Geometrie wird nicht mehr erklärt, was ein Punkt, eine Gerade ist. Wir kehren zu unserer Frage zurück, ob die Definition des Kreises: „Ein Kreis ist der geometrische Ort …“ in Ordnung ist oder nicht. Wenn sie in Ordnung ist, so würde das heißen, dass die Begriffe, die zur Erklärung verwendet werden, Grundbegriffe sind, die nicht weiter definiert werden müssen. Die nächste Frage ist hier jedoch: „Was ist ein geometrischer Ort?“. Oder man sagt: „Ein Kreis ist eine Kurve“. Was ist eine Kurve? Solche Begriffe sind sehr schwierig zu definieren. (Mengenlehre ist vorausgesetzt.) Es wäre ein Unding, „Kreis“ mit diesen schwierigen Begriffen zu definieren. Alle diese Erklärungen sind nur Versuche und verfehlen ihr Ziel. Wer das Wort „Kreis“ so zu erklären sucht, dem schwebt der Fall „Ein Schimmel ist ein weißes Pferd“ vor, wo das genus proximum ohne weiteres anzugeben ist. Man sucht da zunächst etwas Übergeordnetes zu „Kreis“, kommt zu „Menge“, „Kurve“, „geometrischer Ort“ usw., merkt aber nicht, dass alle diese Begriffe nicht klar umrissen sind. Sie sind ebenso vague, wie etwa die Worte „Eigenschaft“, „Klasse“, „Linie“ usw., die sehr weite Umrisse haben. Die Versuchung, nach einer solchen Erklärung zu greifen, besteht darin, dass man diese Erklärung einer Erklärung angleichen will, wo wirklich die Angabe des

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genus proximum die Erklärung ist. In diesem Fall kommt man eben in eine Sackgasse. Wie sieht aber die richtige Definition von „Kreis“ aus? Alle Aussagen der Geometrie lassen sich auf dein Grundform, Normalform des Satzes zurückführen, in dem das Wort „Kreis“ vorkommt, nämlich auf den Satz: „Ein Punkt liegt auf einem Kreis“. Sagt man: „Zwei Kreise schneiden einander in zwei Punkten“, so heißt dies, dass es zwei Punkte gibt, die sowohl auf dem einen, wie auf dem andern Kreis liegen. Alle Aussagen über Kreise handeln davon, ob ein Punkt auf einem Kreise liegt oder nicht. Wenn wir den Sinn der Aussage: „Ein Punkt liegt auf einem Kreis“ angeben können, dann verstehen wir auch alle andern Aussagen, in denen von einem Kreis die Rede ist. „Ein Punkt x liegt auf einem Kreis k“, kann so beschrieben werden: „Der Kreis k ist bestimmt durch seinen Mittelpunkt m und seinen Radius r; der Radius r ist kongruent einer gegebenen Strecke ab.“ Dann ist der Sinn der Aussage: „Ein Punkt x liegt auf dem Kreis k“ soviel wie: „Die Strecke mx ist kongruent mit ab.“ (x hat eine verschiedene Grammatik, ist variabel, ab nicht.) In dieser Erklärung treten nur Begriffe auf, die Grundbegriffe sind („kongruent“) oder abgeleitete Begriffe wie „Strecke“. Durch diese Definition wird das Wort „Kreis“ eliminiert (was bei einer richtigen Definition möglich sein muss); man kann den Sinn ausdrücken, ohne noch das Wort „Kreis“ zu verwenden. Eine Definition ist eine Art Übersetzungsregel, eine Anweisung, die uns erlaubt, z. B. aus allen Aussagen, die das Wort „Kreis“ enthalten, dieses Wort zu eliminieren. Wir gehen nicht darauf aus, zu sagen, was eigentlich ein Kreis ist; wir erklären bloß, was es heißt, dass ein Punkt auf einem Kreise liegt oder nicht. Es zeigt sich, dass diese Definition für die Geometrie das leistet, was wir von ihr verlangen. Trotzdem hat man ein Gefühl der Enttäuschung und meint, dass etwas ungesagt geblieben ist. Ist das denn wirklich eine Definition? Woher kommt diese Enttäuschung, was vermisst man an dieser Erklärung? Sie kommt daher, dass man meist anschaulich denkt. Das Wort „Kreis“ z. B. ist doppeldeutig: man bezeichnet sowohl die anschauliche Form, die Kreisgestalt, wie auch den Kreis in der Geometrie, das Kreisgesetz, mit dem Wort „Kreis.“ Diese Unterscheidung darf man nicht außer Acht lassen. Die Definition „Ein Punkt x liegt auf einem Kreis k, wenn die Strecke mx …“ ist eben keine anschauliche Erklärung. Die Frage: „Was ist ein Kreis“, hebt sich auch von einem falschen Hintergrund ab. Man erwartet dann eine Definition wie: „Ein Kreis ist …“ (nach Art: „Ein Schimmel ist ein weißes Pferd.“). In der Analytik gibt man z.  B. die Beschreibung des Kreises auch nur durch die Gleichung x2 + y2 = r2) und ebenso bei anderen Kurven. Die Beschreibung des Aussehens gehört nicht in die Definition. Wir haben dann eben nicht definiert, was „Kreis“ allein, ohne im Zusammenhang des Satzes zu stehen, heißt. Wir haben nur die Verwendung dieses Wortes im Satz definiert. Russell nennt dies eine Gebrauchsdefinition. („Definition in use“). Man stellt ihr oft die explizite Definition gegenüber. „Ein Schimmel ist ein weißes Pferd“, ist eine expli­ zite Definition, d. h., sie erklärt das Wort losgelöst vom Satz. Eine Definition, die so beschaffen ist, dass auf der einen Seite der Definition das zu definierende Zeichen

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isoliert steht und auf der anderen Seite eine Gruppe schon bekannter Zeichen, ist eine explizite Definition. a = (per definitionem) … Z. B.: „Avunculus

=

Bruder der Mutter“

heißt soviel wie

Rechts steht ein Komplex von Zeichen, die bereits eine bekannte Bedeutung besitzen; das ist eine explizite Definition. Bei dem Wort „Kreis“ können wir keine explizite Definition angeben; wir können aber einen Satz angeben, in dem das Wort „Kreis“ vorkommt und zwar in seiner Normalform: „Ein Punkt liegt auf einem Kreise, wenn …“; das ist eine Gebrauchsdefinition. Eine ähnliche Frage: „Was ist Temperatur?“ Der Physiker gerät gewöhnlich in Verlegenheit, wenn man ihm solche Fragen stellt und geht lieber darüber hinweg. Es liegt nahe zu sagen: „Temperatur ist der Wärmezustand oder -grad eines Körpers“. Wir müssen aber dies wieder als leere Worte bezeichnen und sagen: es sieht wohl zunächst so aus, als ob man damit das genus proximum angegeben hätte. Aber ist dies wirklich der Fall? Bei der Erklärung: „Ein Schimmel ist ein weißes Pferd“ haben wir ein klares Beispiel vor uns. „Pferd“ ist genau in der Zoologie definiert; von genus proximum und differentia spezifica kann man nur dort sprechen, wo wirklich eine klare, innere Hierarchie vorliegt. Sagt man aber „Temperatur ist ein Zustand“, so kann man sofort fragen: „Was ist ein Zustand?“ – „Er ist in aufgeregtem Zustand“, „Der Vesuv ist im Zustand der Eruption“ etc. Von „Zustand“ spricht man dort, wo sich etwas in der Zeit verändert, im Gegensatz zu „Eigenschaft“ oder „Tätigkeit“. Begriffe wie „Zustand“, „Eigenschaft“, „Tätigkeit“ sind äußerst vague abgegrenzte Begriffe; Zusammenfassungen auf Grund sehr äußerlicher Ähnlich­ keiten. Unter dem Wort „Eigenschaft“ wird z.  B. sehr viel verstanden: Faulheit, braun, Stabilität der Planeten …, das alles sind „Eigenschaften“. Das ist eine sehr äußerliche oberflächliche Betrachtungsweise; man kann ja so vorgehen; doch dann werden die Begriffe eben sehr vague und haben keine klaren Grenzen. Wenn man präzise sein will, darf man keine Begriffe verwenden, die weite Grenzen haben, also typisch unscharf sind. Wie erklärt man nun tatsächlich das Wort „Temperatur“? Man gibt wieder die Verwendung des Wortes im Satz an. Hier gibt es jedoch schon mehrere Grundformen. Wie erklärt man erstens, was es heißt, dass zwei Körper die „gleiche Temperatur“ haben? Die Erklärung lautet nach Mach: „Zwei Körper haben die gleiche Temperatur, wenn sie, in unmittelbare Berührung gebracht, keine Volumsveränderung anei­ nander hervorrufen“. Das ist eine Gebrauchsdefinition. Wir haben nicht gesagt, was „Temperatur“ für sich, isoliert, ist. Wir haben uns nur bekannter Begriffe bedient, eine Übersetzungsregel gebildet. Das ist vorläufig nur ein Teil der Erklärung des Wortes „Temperatur“, weil es noch andere Satzformen gibt, wo es nicht in dieser Weise gebraucht wird. Wir müssen zweitens erklären, was es heißt, dass ein Körper

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A eine höhere Temperatur als ein Körper B hat. Die Erklärung lautet: „Bei Aneinanderlegung erfährt der Körper A eine Verringerung, der Körper B ein Vergrößerung seines Volumens“. (Hier gibt es schon eine Ausnahme: Wasser). Nun ist drittens noch nicht erklärt, was „Messung der Temperatur“ bedeutet. Dazu muss eine Konvention über den Zusammenhang zwischen der Größe der Volumsveränderung, sowie darüber, was man als 0-Punkt der Zählung betrachten will, getroffen werden und kommt so zu den bekannten physikalischen Erklärungen. Fragt man etwa folgendes: „Dehnt sich ein Körper gleichmäßig aus?“, so muss man erst wissen, was „gleichmäßig“ heißt. Nun besteht die Definition, die uns eine Metrik des Temperaturbegriffes gibt, darin, dass man festsetzt, dass gleich große Volumsänderungen auch gleich große Steigerung der Wärmegrade bedeuten. Man führt hier die Maßzahlen der Temperatur auf die Maßzahlen des Volumens zurück. Es wird erst möglich, die Temperatur zu messen, wenn man das Volumen messen kann. Der Begriff „Temperatur“ ist z. B. viel verwickelter als der Begriff „Kreis“. Bei „Kreis“ genügt zur Erklärung eine Normalform. Die Definition von „Temperatur“ dagegen zerfällt in eine ebenso große Anzahl von Einzelerklärungen, als es Satzformen mit dem Worte „Temperatur“ gibt. Wir haben sie aber damit erklärt, ohne von „Zustand“ oder dergleichen zu sprechen. Machs Erklärung von „Temperatur“ ist nur eine Teilerklärung. Ähnlich ist es bei dem Wort „Masse“: es bildet eine große Verlegenheit für die Physiker; Newton sagte: „Masse ist Volumen mit Dichtigkeit“? Die Erklärung des Wortes „Dichtigkeit“ bedarf des Wortes „Masse“, das ist also ein Zirkel. Andere Physiker (wie Thompson) wollen den Begriff der Masse auf das Gewicht zurückführen; aber Gewicht ist Masse mal Beschleunigung, das ist also wieder ein Zirkel. – Die Frage: „Was ist Masse“ ist eben wieder eine schlecht formulierte Frage. Man muss wieder eine Reihe von Teilerklärungen geben und eine Metrik aufstellen. Wir wollen nur eine Teilerklärung besprechen. Die Teilerklärungen beziehen sich auf die Fragen: „Wann haben zwei Körper die gleiche Masse?“ und „Wann hat ein Körper A eine größere Masse als ein Körper B?“ Was heißt also: „A und B haben die gleiche Masse?“ „A und B haben die gleiche Masse, wenn sie, falls sie mit ­gleichen Geschwindigkeiten aufeinanderprallen, einander nicht überrennen“. Der zweite Schritt ist dann die Erklärung: „Der Körper, der den andern überrennt, hat bei gleicher Geschwindigkeit die größere Masse“ usw. Drittens wird eine Metrik für die Masse vereinbart. Aber wir sagen nicht, so wie z.  B.  Hertz: „Masse ist ein Merkmal eines Körpers“ oder: „Masse ist eine Eigenschaft“ etc. Diese Definitionen sind schlecht; denn was ist ein „Merkmal“, eine „Eigenschaft“? Vergleichen wir die drei Definitionen für „Kreis“, „Temperatur“, „Masse“: Warum führen wir sie als Formen der Erklärung an? Es sind Gebrauchsdefinitionen, keine expliziten Definitionen. Die Gebrauchsdefinition besteht darin, dass man den Sinn des Satzes angibt, in dem der zu erklärende Begriff vorkommt und zwar so angibt, dass die Definition ein Kriterium enthält, nach dem wir entscheiden können, ob der betreffende Sachverhalt vorliegt oder nicht. Ob ein Punkt z. B. auf einem Kreis liegt oder nicht; man muss ein Kriterium haben, nach dem man prüfen kann, welcher Körper höhere Temperatur hat etc.

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Die Definition muss die Angabe eines Kriteriums enthalten. Man erklärt den Begriff innerhalb eines Satzes; man muss angeben, wann ein Satz wahr oder falsch, und das geschieht eben durch die Übersetzungsregeln, die man mit der Definition gibt. Beispiele von Definitionen: „Kraft ist die Ursache der Bewegungsänderung“. „Tod ist die Trennung von Leib und Seele“. Wogegen verstoßen solche Definitionen? Sie enthalten keine Kriterien, nach denen man feststellen kann, ob der in der Definition angegebene Tatbestand vorliegt oder nicht. „Kraft ist die Ursache der Bewegungsänderung“: „Ursache“ ist vague und unklar. Richtig ist, dass man nach einer Kraft dort sucht, wo eine Bewegungsänderung auftritt; aber das ist noch keine Definition für das Wort „Kraft“. „Suche dort, wo eine Bewegungsänderung auftritt, nach einer kausalen Erklärung, du wirst finden, dass ein Umstand in der räumlichen Umgebung es ist, der diese Änderung hervorgerufen hat!“ Das ist eine Maxime für den Forscher, in einer bestimmten Richtung zu suchen, die durch bestimmte Erfahrungen angeregt ist. Aber „Kraft ist die Ursache der Bewegungsänderung“ enthält kein Kriterium; man kann mit dieser Definition z. B. nicht ableiten, dass eine Kraft dreimal so groß ist, wie einer andere. „Tod ist die Trennung von Leib und Seele“: das ist eine theologische Definition. Sie enthält kein Kriterium, auf Grund dessen wir feststellen können, ob ein Mensch tot ist oder nicht. Man müsste die Begriffe „Seele“ und „Trennung“ irgendwie erklä­ ren. Das Wort „Seele“ hat einen schwankenden Sinn, man könnte versuchen, ihn zu präzisieren. (Die Theologie vermeidet dies, um nicht mit der Wissenschaft in Konflikt zu geraten.) „Friede bedeutet Recht vor Gewalt“. Die Definition enthält kein Kriterium zur Feststellung, ob Friede herrscht oder nicht. Was ist „Recht“? – Solche Definitionen sind nicht in Ordnung. Worte wie „Temperatur“, „Masse“ brauchen mehrere Teilerklärungen, und es gibt Worte, bei denen der Sprachgebrauch noch komplizierter und unübersichtlicher ist, und wo der Sinn nicht in einigen Sprachformen dargestellt werden kann. Für viele Zwecke ist es nützlich, eine Unterscheidung zwischen Symptom und Kriterium zu machen. Bei einer Krankheit kann man z. B. von Symptomen sprechen; sie genügen jedoch allein noch nicht, um die Krankheit endgültig festzustellen. Der rote Hals ist ein Symptom für Angina, aber erst das Vorfinden von Bakterien ist ein Kriterium für das Vorhandensein der Krankheit. „Was ist Gold?“: „Ein Metall, das glänzt, gelblich ist …“. Das stimmt, aber man könnte sich doch irren und nach dieser Beschreibung etwas anderes als Gold ansehen; das alles sind nur Symptome. Ein Kriterium dagegen ist die chemische Analyse. „Dieser Mensch ist zornig“: das ist eine Aussage der Psychologie. Symptome sind: Aufregung, Röte, Geschrei… Das kann aber auch Verstellung sein. Was ist hier das Kriterium? Das ist schwer zu beantworten. Wenn der Betreffende später sagt, er sei zornig gewesen, ist das dann ein Kriterium? Bei diesen Aussagen gibt es immer quasi eine Hintertür, einen Unsicherheitskoeffizienten. Es gibt hier immer sehr viele Möglichkeiten. In diesen Fällen haben wir es eben noch zu keiner eindeutigen Begriffsbestimmung gebracht, und es fraglich, ob wir je dazu kommen werden. Man könnte ja z. B. finden, dass ein Mensch, wen er zornig ist, eine bestimmte Blutdruckkurve zeigt oder ähnliches und dann sagen: „Ein Mensch ist zornig, wenn sein Blutdruck …“, und dies nun als Kriterium betrachten. Heute verfügen wir

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z. B. für diesen Fall über kein Kriterium. Daher gibt es hier keine klaren Grenzen. Es gibt also Fälle, wo wir Symptome haben, ohne dass notwendigerweise auch Kriterien bestehen. Der logische Unterschied zwischen Kriterium und Symptom ist der, dass Aussagen, in denen vom Kriterium die Rede ist, Tautologien, Aussagen, in denen von Symptomen die Rede ist, empirische Sätze sind, die wahr oder falsch sein können. „A hat Angina, wenn in seinem Schlund diese und diese Bakterien auftreten“. „In einem Schlund treten diese und diese Bakterien auf“, ist ersetzbar durch: „Er hat Angina“. Wir können also sagen: „A hat Angina, wenn er Angina hat“. Das ist eine Tautologie. Dagegen ist: „Wenn A Angina hat, dann ist sein Schlund gerötet, seine Temperatur erhöht“, eine wahre oder falsche Aussage. Das ist der entscheidende Unterschied zwischen Symptom und Kriterium. In vielen Fällen ist die Grenze zwischen Symptom und Kriterium nicht scharf zu ziehen (so in der Medizin). Fragt man einen Arzt, was er unter der und der Krankheit versteht, so wird es in vielen Fällen zweifelhaft sein, ob das, was er anführt, die Bedeutung eines Symptoms oder eines Kriteriums hat. Die Entwicklung der Medizin hat es mit sich gebracht, dass viele Worte, die Krankheiten bezeichnen, eine andere Bedeutung erhielten. Früher waren Symptome häufig Kriterien für eine Krankheit. Worte wie „Scharlach“, „Masern“, „Tuberkulose“ haben ihre Bedeutung geändert. Ihre Symptome galten früher für Kriterien. Heute besitzen wir für diese Krankheiten durch den bakteriologischen Nachweis andere Kriterien. Bei vielen Krankheitsbildern ist es in der heutigen Medizin nicht klar, ob ihre Beschreibung eine empirische Beschreibung oder eine Definition ist. (Blutgruppenbestimmung!) Umgekehrt sind z. B. im Rechtsleben Kriterien zu Symptomen geworden: Das Geständnis des Angeklagten, früher als Kriterium geltend, daher auch durch Folter erpresst, gilt heute bloß als Symptom; falsche Geständnisse kommen vor. Ebenso ist es in der Psychologie; in vielen Fällen ist die Angabe eines Kriteriums äußerst schwierig. Wann antwortet ein Schüler bei der Prüfung mit Verständnis? Es gibt also oft keine festen Kriterien. Ist das ein Anzeichen für unser mangelhaftes Wissen? Es ist möglich, dass wir in manchen Fällen immer bei Symptomen bleiben müssen. Bei jedem Kriterium könnten wir andere Erfahrungen machen, die uns veranlassen würden, von dem Kriterium abzugehen. Man könnte über ein Kriterium Festsetzungen, Konventionen treffen. Ist es aber ganz und gar eine Sache der Willkür, was man als Kriterium betrachtet? Es ist eine Frage der Konvention, aber diese Konvention muss durch die Erfahrung angeregt sein und sich auch bewähren. In diesem Sinne steht es dahin, ob wir für alle Fälle Erfahrungen finden werden oder nicht. Es gibt ferner Worte, deren Gebrauch viel komplizierter ist, wo man nicht mit der Angabe einiger Grundformen, in denen das Wort verwendet wird, auskommt. Beispiel: Wir fragen: „Was ist ein Fluss?“ Wie könnte man dieses Wort erklären? Sollen wir sagen: „Der Fluss ist die geographische Örtlichkeit, (das Bett, das Tal)“? Das wäre gegen den Sprachgebrauch, denn man könnte z.  B. nicht sagen: „Der Fluss fließt nicht mehr in seinem Bett“. Soll man sagen: „Der Fluss ist die Wassermenge, die da fließt“? Die Menge des Wassers ändert sich aber; man sagt,

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der Fluss führt viel oder wenig Wasser etc. (Man kann aber nicht sagen, dass die Wassermenge viel Wasser führt.) Ist der Fluss der Prozess des Fließens? Dann könnte man nicht sagen, dass er sich staut, gefroren ist etc. In Wirklichkeit erklärt man das Wort „Fluss“, indem man etwas auf einen Fluss zeigt, charakterisierende Gebrauchsanweisungen angibt. Jemand, der das Wort „Fluss“ versteht, muss imstande sein, Redewendungen, in denen dieses Wort vorkommt, richtig zu gebrau­ chen („Münden“, „entspringen“, „träge“, „wasserreich“ etc.) Die Erklärung besteht hier in der Auseinanderlegung des ganzen weitläufigen Sprachgebrauchs. Die hinweisende Definition allein erklärt noch nicht die Bedeutung des Wortes „Fluss“; so könnte das „grün“, „Wasserfläche“, „glitzern“ etc. bedeuten. Das bloße Hinweisen ist also mißverständlich und vieldeutig. Hier ist die hinweisende Definition nur ein Teil der Erklärung. Nur der versteht das Wort „Fluss“, der nicht nur die hinweisende Definition kennt, sondern der auch Redewendungen erlernt hat, in denen dieses Wort vorkommt. Eine Normalform gibt es hier nicht, der Sprachgebrauch ist lose und unübersichtlich, und die Erklärung dieser vielen Sprachformen ist die Erklärung des Wortes „Fluss“. (Auf die Fragen „Muss ich die ganze Anwendung des Wortes „Fluss“ bei einer Erklärung des Wortes angeben, alle Beispiele, in denen es vorkommt?“ und „Was ist hier das Mittel, das von einigen bekannten Beispielen zur weiteren Verwendung führt?“ gehen wir hier noch nicht ein. Siehe später.) Die Sprache arbeitet mit Analogien und Gleichnissen, die von selbst zu neuem Gebrauch führen; es besteht kein logischer Zusammenhang zwischen den Wendungen. Augustinus stellt die Frage: „Was ist Zeit?“ Er wusste sehr wohl, wie man im täglichen Leben das Wort „Zeit“ gebraucht; dennoch konnte er die Frage, nicht beantworten, d. h., er konnte keine explizite Erklärung für das Wort „Zeit“ geben. „Wenn du mich fragst, dann weiß ich es nicht …“ Er machte verschiedene Vorschläge: „Die Zeit ist die Bewegung der Sonne, der Himmelskörper“ etc. Es schien ihm hier Mysterium vorzuliegen, ein dunkles Geheimnis, das zu erkennen der Verstand sich sträubt. Was ist also zu tun, um das Wort „Zeit“ zu erklären? Man muss seinen Gebrauch in verschiedenen Verwendungen angeben. Wie erklärt man z. B. Zeitangaben? Zum Beispiel, das Wort „jetzt“? Es gibt hier vielerlei Möglichkeiten. Man erklärt es einem Kind etwa, indem man sagt: „Hebe die Hand, aber erst, wenn ich ‚jetzt‘ sage!“ Dann lernt das Kind das Verständnis des Wortes „jetzt“. Oder: „Wir sind ‚bald‘ zu Hause“, „Wir sind ‚schon‘ da“, „Erst musst du essen, ‚dann‘ darfst du spielen“; durch die Verbalformen lernt das Kind die Zeitbezeichnung: „Wir sind gekommen“, „Wir werden hingehen“, „Wir haben das gesehen“; ebenso erklären wir „heute“, „gestern“, „morgen“. Zeitangaben: „Stunde“, „Tag“, „Woche“, „Jahr“, die Uhr. „Wie spät ist es?“, „Wann?“, „Jetzt!“ Der Sprache ginge nichts Wesentliches ab, wenn sie nur diese konkreten Ausdrücke für die Zeitangaben, nicht aber das Wort „Zeit“ hätte. Könnte man dann gewisse Tatsachen der Wirklichkeit vielleicht nicht beschreiben? Offenbar doch! Das Wort „Zeit“ müsste in der Sprache nicht vorkommen. Wie das Wort „Spiel“ beim Spiel selbst nicht vorkommen muss, das Wort „Sprache“ nicht im Sprachunterricht etc. Andererseits ist es jedoch praktisch, ein solches Wort in der Sprache zu haben: Wir können typische Fälle des Gebrauchs dieses Wortes anführen: „Ich habe keine

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Zeit“, „Die Zeit drängt“, „Die Zeit ist um“, „In alten Zeiten“, „Lass dir Zeit!“, „Ich gebe dir Zeit“, „Die Zeit ist rasch vergangen!“, „Vertrödle nicht die Zeit!“, „Mit der Zeit wird es an den Tag kommen.“, „Um welche Zeit wirst du kommen?“ usw. Das Wort „Zeit“ bedeutet nicht in allen Fällen genau das gleiche. Es gibt keine explizite Definition dafür, weil der Gebrauch nicht scharf umrissen ist. In unserer Sprache gibt es verschiedene Worte für Zeitbezeichnungen: „Zeit“; „Zeitpunkt“, „Frist“, „Zeitalter“ usw. Augustinus ließ sich von dem Substantiv „die Zeit“ irreführen und fragte nach dem Träger des Wortes „Zeit“. Ähnlich fragte Schopenhauer: „Die Zeit fließt unaufhörlich; welche Macht lässt sie fließen?“ Er wollte das „Wesen“ der Zeit ergründen. Zu dieser Frage wird man dadurch verleitet, dass das Wort „Zeit“ eine gewisse Stimmung auslöst, eine Erinnerung an die Vergänglichkeit, die Unwiederbringlichkeit des Augenblicks. In einem solchen Problem sind verschiedene Bestandteile enthalten; hier z. B. 1. Ein intellektuelles, ein logisches Problem: die Verwunderung darüber, dass man „Zeit“ in verschiedenen Zusammenhängen versteht und doch gestehen muss, dass man nicht sagen kann, was „Zeit“ ist; das Innewerden der Undefinierbarkeit des Wortes „Zeit“. 2. Eine mehr ethische Frage: eine Art Schrecken darüber, dass die Zeit unaufhaltsam verfließt, dass sie uns entgleitet; wie schon die Sprache ihr nicht nachkommt; eine Art Gefühlserschütterung des Menschen, die sich in dieser Frage Luft macht. Also steckt in dieser Frage sowohl ein logisches wie auch ein ethi­ sches Problem; das ist bei philosophischen Fragen häufig der Fall, z. B. auch bei der Frage nach dem Sinn des Lebens, dem Zweck des Menschen in der Welt etc. Wir heben aus diesem Komplex die logische Frage heraus: Wir erklären das Wort „Zeit“, indem wir seinen Gebrauch erklären, durch Angabe von Beispielen der Verwendungsweise. Wir gliedern dieses Wort in verschiedene syntaktische Zusammenhänge ein; wir machen es zum Teil eines Systems von Zeichen und Operationen, und das gibt ihm seinen Sinn. Wer imstande ist, das Wort „Zeit“ in verschiedenen Anwendungen und bei verschiedenen passenden Gelegenheiten zu gebrauchen, weiß eben ganz genau, was Zeit „ist“, und keine Formel kann es ihm klarer machen. Warum ist das Wort „Zeit“ viel schwerer zu erklären, als etwa die Worte „Tisch“ oder „Kreis“? Weil seine Grammatik viel loser und komplizierter ist. Es gibt hier erstens keine hinweisende Erklärung und zweitens genügt es nicht, die Anwendung in einer Satzform zu erklären, sondern man muss die ganze Mannigfaltigkeit des Gebrauchs ausbreiten. Auf die Frage „Was ist Zeit?“ kann man mit keiner expliziten Definition antworten, weil es kein anderes Wort für „Zeit“ gibt, das dieselben Dienste leistet. Und doch sagen wir, dass wir die Bedeutung des Wortes kennen, weil wir imstande sind, es richtig zu verwenden. Wir streben danach, eine begriffliche Erklärung zu geben, wir haben das Gefühl, dass die Angabe der Beispiele als Erklärung nicht genügt, und doch macht gerade sie die Erklärung aus. Man gibt etwa folgende Definitionen von „Zeit“: „Die Zeit ist die Form des Geschehens“, „Die Zeit ist die Möglichkeit der Veränderung“ etc. Sind wir dadurch

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klüger geworden? Man versuche, in einem Satz der Sprache „Zeit“ durch einen dieser Ausdrücke zu ersetzen: „Ich habe keine Form des Geschehens“!! Was veranlasst uns dennoch, nach einer begrifflichen Erklärung zu suchen? Unsere Sprache verwendet das Wort „Zeit“ in loser und unregelmäßiger Weise; wir sehen keine Einheit, kein Prinzip in den verschiedenen Anwendungsweisen und sind deshalb beunruhigt. Der Philosoph will die Verwendungsarten aus einem Prinzip ableiten, die großen Lücken ausfüllen, welche die normale Verwendungsweise offen lässt, und doch sind gerade diese Lücken das Charakteristische für die Bedeutung dieses Wortes. Gäbe es ein zweites Wort, das dieselbe Verwendungsweise hätte, so hätte es auch dieselbe Bedeutung. Auch in den verschiedenen Fremdsprachen deckt sich der Gebrauch des Wortes „Zeit“ nicht vollständig: „Tempus“, „time“, „temps“, „Zeit“ bedeuten nicht genau dasselbe. Es besteht oft nur eine teilweise Kongruenz, eine streckenweise gleiche Verwendungsweise; daher ist auch die Übersetzung nicht immer dieselbe. Man übersetzt auch mit „Frist“, „Zeitpunkt“, „Augenblick“, „Zeitraum“, „Lebensdauer“ etc. Wer glaubt, die ganze Fülle der Anwendungsarten in eine Formel bannen zu können und darin die „wahre Bedeutung“ des Wortes „Zeit“ beschlossen zu sehen, versteht die Situation nicht. Solche Versuche müssen fehlschlagen. Die Definition von „Zeit“ ist so schwierig, wie es sich um ein Nachziehen der außerordentlich verwickelten Konturen des Gebrauchs handelt. Man kann nicht sagen, dass das Wort „Zeit“ undefinierbar ist, weil es keine explizite Definition gibt. Wenn man sich bloß an diese halten würde, gäbe es auch keine Definition für „Temperatur“, „Kreis“ usw. Wir können uns eine Sprache denken, in der solche Probleme nicht auftreten könnten, weil ihre Regeln es verbieten, Substantiva dieser Art zu prägen. Zum Beispiel, gibt es im Chinesischen keine Frage, die lautet: „Was ist eine Fünf?“, weil „fünf“ nicht als Numerale, sondern nur attributiv, in Verbindung mit andern Worten, nur als Beifügung gebraucht werden kann. Im Japanischen hingegen ist seit dem 19. Jahrhundert ein starker Einfluss der europäischen Sprache bemerkbar, der das Japanische weitgehend geändert hat, sodass in der neuen japanischen Philosophie tatsächlich auch solche Probleme wie das obige auftreten. Wann gebraucht man ein Wort in verschiedener Bedeutung? Eine große Anzahl der Irrtümer in der Philosophie beruht darauf, dass die Sprache die Philosophen dazu verführt zu glauben, dass dasselbe Wort immer dieselbe Bedeutung hat. Gewöhnlich entscheidet man nach dem Gefühl, wenn ein Wort in verschiedener Bedeutung gebraucht wird. Nach welchen Normen, Kriterien gehen wir vor, wenn wir sagen, dass ein Wort verschiedene Bedeutungen hat? Wie kann man bei einem Worte zeigen, dass es in verschiedener Bedeutung gebraucht wird? Aus der Erörterung über das Wort „Zeit“ ging hervor: wenn es zwei Worte gibt, die so ge­braucht werden, dass sich ihre Grammatik zum Teil deckt, zum Teil auseinander geht, werden wir sagen, dass die Worte eine ähnliche, aber nicht genau dieselbe Bedeutung haben. Das Charakteristische für die Bedeutung ist die Art, wie das Wort mit anderen Worten zusammengefügt wird, wie damit Sätze gebildet werden. Das heißt, die Bedeutung eines Wortes hängt in solchen Fällen von den Regen des syntaktischen

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Gebrauchs ab. Das sind diejenigen Regeln, die sagen, wie ein Wort mit anderen Worten zusammenzufügen oder nicht zusammenzufügen ist. Diese Regeln sind z. B. erlaubender oder verbietender Art. Wenn wir Wörter wie „Zeit“, „Temperatur“ erklären, beschreiben wir die verschiedenen syntaktischen Konstruktionen dieser Wörter. Wenn dasselbe Wort syntaktisch verschieden verwendet wird, dann hat es verschiedene Bedeutungen. Zum Beispiel, transitive und intransitive Verba: „Ich heile einen Menschen“ und „Die Krankheit heilt“. Im ersten Fall Ergänzung durch ein Akkusativobjekt, im zweiten Fall nicht. Die Bedeutung ist grundverschieden. Oder: „Ich hänge das Bild an die Wand“ und „Das Bild hängt an der Wand“. „Ich warte“ und „Ich warte die Blumen“. „Ich sehe ein Bild“ und „der Blindgeborene sieht jetzt“ (= „hat die Fähigkeit zu sehen“). Ebenso bei „hören“, „riechen“, „schmecken“: a) „Ich schmecke in dieser Speise das Bittere.“ (transitiv); b) „Ich schmecke wieder.“ (nach dem Schnupfen); c) „Diese Speise schmeckt schlecht.“ Das sind drei Konstruktionen, in denen das Wort „schmecken“ jedes Mal eine andere Bedeutung hat. Von einem Verbum kann man verschiedene Komposita ableiten, die verschiedene Bedeutung haben; z. B. von „stehen“: „abstehen“, „aufstehen“, „entstehen“, „verstehen“, „bestehen“, „unterstehen“ etc. Je nach der Konstruktion haben sie verschiedenen Sinn; z.  B. das Wort „bestehen“: „Er besteht die Prüfung“, „Ein Sachverhalt besteht“, „Die Firma besteht seit dreißig Jahren“, „Er besteht auf seinem Recht“, „Das Problem besteht in …“, „Das Haus besteht aus Ziegeln“, „Wie werde ich vor Gott bestehen?“ u. a. Es handelt sich uns hier nicht darum festzustellen, wie man sich ausdrückt. Die Bedeutungen verraten sich nicht sekundär darin, dass man die Worte in verschiedenen Konstruktionen gebraucht, sondern was wir Bedeutung nennen, ist die verschiedene Art des Gebrauchs. Die Bedeutung wird durch die Regeln des Gebrauchs konstituiert. Sind die Regeln verschieden, so resultiert daraus eine verschiedene Bedeutung des Wortes. Eventuell können solche Regeln durch eine weitere Regel ergänzt werden, die besagt, dass zwei Wendungen synonym sind („vergessen auf“ oder „vergessen an“). Nicht alles, was verschieden konstruiert wird, ist verschieden; es kommt darauf an, ob wir es als verschieden gelten lassen oder nicht. Die Sprachwissenschaften gehen mehr auf das Material aus, ordnen nach den Präpositionen usw. Für uns ist ein solcher Unterschied (z. B. verschiedene Präpositionen) hinfällig, wenn wir die Ersatzregel haben; dann haben wir nur verschiedene Ausdrucksweisen derselben Bedeutung. Uns interessiert das logische Problem, die Bedeutung. Vergleichen wir mit einer Figur im Schachspiel: sie erhält ihren Sinn durch die Regeln, die für sie gelten; der Sinn ist durch die Regel definiert. Ändert man die Regeln etwas ab, so verwendet man die Figuren anders. Ähnlich ist ein Wort der Angriffspunkt eines Systems von Regeln. Diese Regeln machen das aus, was wir die Bedeutung nennen. Wenn ein Wort in derselben grammatischen Konstruktion gebraucht wird, hat es dann eine konstante Bedeutung? Was heißt „dieselbe grammatische Konstruktion“? Z. B. „Suche den Schlüssel!“ (den ich liegen gelassen habe) und „Suche eine Zahl!“ (die, um drei vermehrt, 18 ergibt). In beiden Fällen ist „suchen“ mit einem

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Akkusativobjekt verbunden. Die Grammatiker traditioneller Art haben nicht ge­lernt, die Worte so zu gruppieren wie wir; sie kennen nur äußere Einteilungen (Hauptwörter, Eigenschaftswörter etc.) „Schlüssel“ und „Zahl“ gehören verschiedenen Wortarten an (siehe oben: Ein Kriterium dafür, ob ein Wort dieselbe Bedeutung hat oder nicht, sind die Regeln der Ersetzbarkeit. a) „Die Rose ist rot“; b) „Zwei und zwei ist vier“. Man kann sagen: „Zwei und zwei ist gleich vier“, aber nicht, „Die Rose ist gleich rot“.) „Suche den Schlüssel!“ ist ersetzbar durch „Schau dich um, wo der Schlüssel liegt!“, aber „Suche die Zahl!“ ist nicht ersetzbar durch „Schau dich um, wo die Zahl liegt!“, wohl aber durch „Berechne die Zahl!“ Wir haben hier verschiedene Substitutionsregeln, und darin tritt die Verschiedenheit der Bedeutung klar zu Tage. b) Ähnliches Beispiel: „machen“: a) „Einen Sessel machen“; b) „Einen Beweis machen“; c) „Einen Fehler machen“. „Machen“ hat hier verschiedene Bedeutungen, weil es durch verschiedene andere Worte ersetzt werden kann. („Einen Fehler machen“ = „sich irren“; „Einen Beweis machen“ = „beweisen“.) Oder: „Der Fluss fließt“, „Die Wärme fließt“, „Die Zeit fließt“. Man kann sagen: „Die Zeit vergeht“, aber nicht: „Der Fluss vergeht“, „Die Wärme vergeht“. „Der Fluss fließt.“, d. h., ein gewisses Material, das Wasser, bewegt sich. „Die Wärme fließt.“, das bedeutet eine Zustandsänderung. Als man den Ausdruck „Die Wärme fließt“ prägte, dachte man an einen Wärmestoff, ein Material. Hier liegt ursprünglich ein Vergleich vor, der sich später als irreführend erwies. Die beiden Sätze haben nicht genau denselben Sinn. Bei der grammatischen Konstruktion werden wir auch auf die Wortart zu achten haben. Einwand: „Einen Schlüssel machen“, ist ersetzbar durch: „Einen Schlüssel schmieden“; „Einen Sessel machen“ durch „Einen Sessel tischlern“: also dieselbe Konstruktion, dieselbe Wortart, aber verschiedene Ersetzungsregeln!  – Oder: ein Maler kopiert Rubens: a) „nach einer Vorlage kopieren“, b) „nach dem Gedächtnis kopieren“. Hier ist nicht nur das Objekt verschieden, sondern auch das Wort „kopieren“ verschieden verwendet, in verschiedener Konstruktion. Das Wort „kopieren“ hat in jedem Fall [eine] andere Bedeutung. „Einen Schlüssel machen“ und „Einen Tisch machen“, sind einander ähnlicher als „Einen Fehler machen“. „Machen“ kann durch verschiedene Worte substituiert werden, also hätte es verschiedene Bedeutung; aber offenbar ist da nur ein geringfügiger Unterschied. Das hängt vielleicht zusammen mit dem Unterschied zwischen logisch wesentlichen (relevanten) und unwesentlichen Regeln. Logisch relevant ist z.  B. die Regel: „Die doppelte Verneinung ergibt eine Bejahung.“ für die Bedeutung von „nicht“. Dagegen ist: „‚Tisch‘ ist männlich und stark gebogen“ eine grammatische Regel, aber wir haben das Gefühl, dass solche Regeln nichts mit der Bedeutung zu tun haben. Der Satz: „Die grammatischen Regeln konstituieren die Grammatik eines Wortes“ ist nicht richtig. Nicht alle grammatischen Regeln sind beteiligt; manche Regeln haben mit der Bedeutung, mit dem Sinn nichts zu tun. (Art der Biegung, grammatisches Geschlecht, Konjugation etc.) Wir werden den Unterschied schärfer herausarbeiten müssen und die Logik schärfer abgrenzen müssen gegen das, was wir gewöhnlich „Grammatik“ nennen.

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Ob die verschiedenen Substitutionsregeln logisch wesentlich sind oder nicht, ist nicht mit Sicherheit zu entscheiden. In einem Fall nennen wir eine Regel wesentlich, im andern Fall nicht. Wir werden neben der grammatischen Konstruktion auch auf die Wortart zu achten haben. „Ich suche den Schlüssel“ und „Ich suche die Zahl“: Ein Wort, das in ähnlichen Wortverbindungen gebracht, aber mit Worten verschiedener Wortart verbunden wird, hat verschiedene Bedeutung Beispiel Brentanos: „Ein gesunder Mensch“, „eine gesunde Lebensweise“ (gesund erhaltend), „eine gesunde Gegend“, d. h. gesund machend. Zwei verschiedene Kriterien treten in Konflikt: die Kriterien der Wortart und der Ersetzbarkeit. Wir entscheiden, dass in dem einen Fall die eine Regel zu gelten habe, die andere nicht. Zu Wortarten: französisch „boire“ bei kalten Getränken, „prendre“ bei warmen. „Bestehen“: transitiv: seit, auf, in, vor, aus. Hat „bestehen aus“ immer dieselbe Bedeutung? „Das Haus besteht aus Ziegeln“, „Der Satz besteht aus Subjekt und Prädikat“, „5 besteht aus 2 und 3“, „Dieser Akkord besteht aus drei Tönen“. Wie soll man entscheiden, ob „bestehen“ dieselbe Bedeutung hat oder nicht? Nach unserer früheren Regel hat ein Wort dann verschiedene Bedeutung, wenn die mit ihm verbundenen Satzglieder verschiedenen Wortarten angehören. Daher hat „bestehen“ hier jedes Mal einen anderen Sinn. Ein Haus „besteht“ nicht in demselben Sinn aus Ziegeln, wie ein Akkord aus Tönen „besteht“. Ein Akkord ist nicht so zusammen­ gesetzt, wie ein räumliches Gebilde. „5 besteht aus 2 und 3“ = „5 ist die Summe von 2 und 3.“ Dagegen ist das Haus nicht die Summe seiner Ziegeln; ein Akkord nicht die Summe von drei Tönen. Vortrag von Schlick in Prag: „Über Ganzheit und Gestaltpsychologie“. Die Gestaltpsychologie betont immer, dass das Ganze mehr sei, als die Summe der Teile; „Bild“ sei mehr als die Summe der Farbflecke, die „Melodie“ mehr als die Summe der Töne, sie hat eine gewisse Gestalt: denn man erkennt die Melodie wieder, wenn sie transponiert wird, und jeder Ton anders ist. Schlick: Man muss sagen, was man unter „Summe“ (und „Ganzheit“) versteht, damit diese Behauptung einen klaren Sinn hat. Was ist die Summe der Töne im Gegensatz zum Ganzen der Töne? „Summe“ ist je nach dem Gebiet verschieden gebraucht. In der Arithmetik hat „Summe“ so viele verschiedene Bedeutungen als es Zahlensysteme gibt. Bei Brüchen gelten für „Summe“ andere Regeln als für Kardinalzahlen, ebenso bei reellen und komplexen Zahlen. Ebenso in der Physik: Die „Summe“ zweier Geschwindigkeiten oder zweier Temperaturen muss jedesmal neu definiert werden, und jedesmal hat das Wort „Summe“ eine andere Bedeutung. Was heißt „zu einer Temperatur eine andere addieren“? Je nach der Erklärung hat „Summe“ eine andere Bedeutung. Die Philosophen glauben, sie hätten es bei dem Wort „Summe“ mit einem einheitlichen Begriff zu tun. Die Analyse des Wortes „Summe“ wird also zum Ausgangspunkt einer Kritik solcher philosophischer Behauptungen der Gestaltpsychologie.  – Man muss erst Kriterien für „Ganzheit“ und „Summe“ geben! Ein Einwand gegen die Regel der verschiedenen Wortart: „Der Sessel ist braun“ und „Die Oberfläche des Sessels ist braun“. „Sessel“ und „Oberfläche“ gehören

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verschiedenen Wortarten an, und trotzdem hat „braun“ in beiden Fällen dieselbe Bedeutung. Ebenso hat bei „drei Katzen“, „drei Schläge“, „drei Folgerungen“ das Wort „drei“ dieselbe Bedeutung! Die Regel, dass ein Wort verschieden Bedeutungen hat, wenn es mit Worten verschiedener Wortart verbunden ist, gilt nun für Worte ohne hinweisende oder explizite Definition; nur dort, wo wir eine Gebrauchsdefinition geben müssen! Die richtige Regel lautet also: Ein Wort, dessen Erklärung in der Angabe seiner syntaktischen Verwendung besteht, hat eine verschiedene Bedeutung, je nachdem, in welcher Konstruktion es vorkommt, respektiv, wenn es mit Worten verschiedener Wortart zusammengestellt wird. „Braun“ können wir durch hinweisende Definition erklären, daher ist es nicht notwendig, sowie bei „Zeit“, die verschiedenen syntaktischen Konstruktionen anzugeben; ebenso ist es bei den Zahlen. Wir bringen einem Kinde bei zu zählen, erklären ihm, was wir „Zählprozess“ nennen. Das ist ein Spiel. Dann wird sich ergeben, worauf das Spiel angewendet werden kann, was gezählt werden kann. Da haben wir nicht das Recht zu sagen, dass „drei Katzen“, „drei Donnerschläge“, „drei Folgerungen“ verschiedene Bedeutung haben. „Bestehen“ können wir nur dadurch erklären, dass wir die verschiedenen Konstruktionen angeben. Wo es nicht nötig ist, auf die Syntax einzugehen, gilt das Kriterium nicht. Ein Wort, das in derselben grammatischen Konstruktion vorkommt, kann verschiedene Bedeutung haben. Vorschlag: Es liegt scheinbar dieselbe grammatische Konstruktion vor, aber es ist zweckmäßig, hier von verschiedener grammatischer Konstruktion zu sprechen. Es ist nur notwendig, ein Kriterium zu geben dafür, was wir unter „verschiedener grammatischer Konstruktion“ verstehen. Wir sagten „suchen“ hat deshalb eine verschiedene grammatische Konstruktion, weil „Schlüssel“ und „Zahl“ verschiedenen grammatischen Wortarten angehören. Unser Vorschlag bezieht sich nur auf Worte, deren Bedeutung wesentlich von ihrer syntaktischen Verwendung abhängig ist. Wir haben gesehen, wann ein Wort verschiedene Bedeutungen hat: 1.) Wenn für dieses Wort verschiedene Substitutionsregeln gelten; wenn man a einmal durch b, einmal durch c ersetzen kann. Dieses Kriterium ist aus zwei Gründen nicht allgemein gültig:

a) Es ist abhängig von der zufälligen Ausbildung der Sprache, vom Reichtum der Sprache, ob solche Ersetzungsregeln bestehen. b) Wir sprechen nicht überall dort von einer verschiedenen Bedeutung, wo verschiedene Substitutionsregeln bestehen.

Woran erkennt man im Falle 1.), ob ein Wort verschiedene Bedeutung hat? Beispiel: „gleichzeitig“: Die Relativitätstheorie entstand durch Beseitigung der Schwierigkeiten dieses Wortes; Einstein hat zuerst den wahren Grund der Schwierigkeiten der alten Physik gesehen: dass sie eine logische Schwierigkeit sei. Alle Physiker hatten angenommen, dass es einen verständlichen Sinn habe zu sagen, dass ein Ereignis auf der Erde und auf dem Sirius „gleichzeitig“ stattfinden. Das festzustellen sei nur eine Frage der Technik. Einstein hat zuerst [darauf] aufmerksam gemacht, dass wir verpflichtet sind erst anzugeben, was „gleichzeitig“ in diesem

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Falle bedeutet und zwar dadurch, dass wir ein Kriterium festsetzen, wann zwei Ereignisse als gleich zu gelten haben. „Gleichheit“ hat nur einen klaren Sinn, wenn wir es wie in der Umgangssprache verwenden, wenn beide Ereignisse sich in unmittelbarer räumlicher Nachbarschaft vollziehen. Wenn dagegen die Ereignisse durch kosmische Distanzen getrennt sind, müssen wir erst angeben, was wir mit „gleich“ meinen. Wenn man sagt, „gleich“ hat hier einen klaren Sinn, so müssen wir entgegnen: Die Erklärung muss uns in Stand setzten, die Wahrheit eines Satzes zu prüfen, in welchem das Wort vorkommt. Gleichheit von zwei Ereignissen in verschiedenen Teilen des Weltalls muss so erklärt werden, dass wir im einzelnen Fall feststellen können, ob sie vorliegt. Einstein hat keine neue Theorie der Zeit aufgestellt, sondern die Aufmerksamkeit darauf gelenkt, dass das Wort „gleichzeitig“ zwei verschiedene Bedeutungen hat: a) für den Fall, dass sich zwei Ereignisse an derselben stelle oder in räumlicher Nachbarschaft abspielen; b) an verschiedenen Stellen des Weltalls. E1 A

C

E2 B

Wenn das Ereignis E1 eintritt, geht ein Lichtstrahl nach B, ebenso nach A; wenn das Ereignis E2 eintritt. In der gleichen Entfernung von A und B, in C, denken wir uns einen Beobachter; wenn beide Lichtsignale in C gleichzeitig eintreffen, dann wollen wir sagen, dass die Ereignisse in A und B „gleichzeitig“ stattfanden. Das Wort „gleichzeitig“ ist in beiden Fällen nicht durch verschiedene Worte ersetzbar; die Sprache ist nicht reich genug; trotzdem hat das Wort zwei verschiedene Bedeutungen; das merkt man an den Kriterien, nach denen das Wort verwendet wird. Wenn man dasselbe Wort nach verschiedenen Kriterien gebraucht, hat es verschiedene Bedeutungen. „Gleichzeitig“ in der neuen Bedeutung wird mit Hilfe der alten Bedeutung erklärt. Die Bedeutung von „gleichzeitig“ in der Umgangssprache: Man singt z. B. ein Lied und macht „gleichzeitig“ Tanzbewegungen. In solchen Fällen ist es klar, was „gleichzeitig“ bedeutet. Oder es starten bei einem Wettlauf zwei Läufer „gleich­ zeitig“. Hier brauchen wir keine physikalische Theorie. „Ich nehme zwei Ereignisse gleichzeitig wahr“: Das ist eine Aussage, die kein Problem beinhaltet, die wir alle verstehen. Das ist der ursprüngliche Begriff von „Gleichzeitigkeit“. Die Frage: „Woher weißt du, dass du diese Ereignisse gleichzeitig wahrgenommen hast?“, verstehen wir nicht. Man kann einen eventuellen Irrtum nicht überprüfen, es gibt keine Kontrollmethode. Ich sehe z.  B. bei einer Rakete ein Licht aufblitzen und höre gleich­zeitig einen Knall. Es hat keinen Sinn zu fragen, ob ich mich täuschen könnte, denn es ist eine letzte Konstatierung, dass zwei Erfahrungen „gleichzeitig“ auftreten. Jede wissenschaftliche Beobachtung geht auf die Feststellung einfacher Tatsachen zurück; z. B. das Ausmessen der Länge: Man legt den Meterstab an, ein gewisser Teilstrich fällt mit dem Ende der zu messenden Strecke zusammen; so läuft alles Messen darauf hinaus, Koinzidenzen zu konstatieren. Das Messen besteht aber nicht bloß darin: es erfordert auch Konventionen über den Messprozess; es ist

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nicht nur die Längeneinheit festzusetzen, sondern auch, wann zwei Längen, die sich an verschiedenen Stellen des Raumes befinden, als gleich lang zu gelten haben. Zwei Bleistifte (oder Stäbe) liegen nebeneinander; ihre Spitzen und Anfänge koinzidieren, sie sind also gleich lang. Ich gebe sie auseinander: sind sie noch [gleich] lang? Woher weiß man, dass sich durch die Bewegung die Längen nicht geändert haben? Auch der Maßstab könnte sich verändert haben. „Gleichlang“ ist etwas anderes, wenn beide Gegenstände nebeneinanderliegen oder nicht nebenei­ nander liegen. Der unproblematische Begriff „gleichlang“ liegt dort vor, wo wir durch unmittelbare Wahrnehmung feststellen, dass zwei Längen koinzidieren. Wenn ich die Gegenstände aber auseinander rücke, so muss ich erstens eine Definition geben, was „gleichlang“ dann bedeuten soll (Konvention), und zweitens ist es auf Grund dieser Definition, eine Erfahrungstatsache, ob die Strecken gleich lang sind oder nicht. Die folgende Ansicht ist nicht zu widerlegen: „Diese Bleistifte sind nur dann gleich lang, wenn sie nebeneinander liegen; wenn ich sie wegrücke, werden sie größer, ohne dass ich es merke.“ In der Umgangssprache nennt man zwei Stäbe an zwei verschiedenen Orten dann „gleichlang“, wenn sie, an dieselbe Stelle gebracht, in ihren Anfangs- und Endpunkten koinzidieren. Diese zweite Bedeutung von „gleichlang“ ist auf die erste zurückgeführt. Möglich wäre auch folgender Fall: Jeder Maßstab ändert seine Länge nach irgend einem Gesetz, wenn ich ihn im Raum verschiebe. Ich würde einen Punkt als Mittelpunkt erklären. Die Gegenstände verkleinern sich (nach einem mathematischen Gesetz) umso mehr, je mehr sie sich von diesem Punkt wegbewegen. Auf Grund dieser neuen Definition werden die zwei Bleistifte nicht gleich lang sein, obwohl sie, aneinander gebracht, gleich lang sind. Hermann Weil (Fortsetzer der Einstein’schen Geometrie) hat eine derartige Geometrie aufgestellt, die besagt: Ein Vergleich von Längen ist unmittelbar nicht möglich, für jeden Punkt des Weltalls wird eine neue Skala eingeführt; erst dann kann man vergleichen. Diese Geometrie ist von der üblichen verschieden. Der umgekehrte Fall: Angenommen, wir würden in einer Welt leben, in der Bleistifte und andere Dinge bei Wegbewegungen kleiner würden; dann könnte man auch den zusammengeschrumpften Bleistift noch für gleich lang erklären, weil er angelegt mit dem andern koinzidiert; aber dann würde „gleichlang“ etwas anderes bedeuten. Jedenfalls bedeutet „gleichlang an derselben Stelle“ etwas anderes als „gleichlang an verschiedenen Stellen“. Es sind nicht zwei völlig getrennte Begriffe, die nichts miteinander zu tun haben, sondern der eine geht im speziellen Fall in den andern über. Es bleiben aber auch dann zwei verschiedene logische Gebilde. Ähnlich: „8 ∙ 3 = 24“ und „1/2 + 1/3 = 5/6“; ist „gleich“ hier dasselbe? Nein, wir setzen voraus, dass wir wissen, was „gleich“ bei den Kardinalzahlen bedeutet (diese bilden die Grundlage der Arithmetik.) Dagegen versteht es sich bei gebrochenen Zahlen nicht von selbst, was „Summe von Brüchen“ , was „gleich“ heißt, sondern es muss erst eine neue Definition gegeben werden. a/b = c/d, wenn a.d = b.c. Das ist eine willkürlich Definition, durch welche „gleich“ zwischen Brüchen einen Sinn erhält. Die Gleichheit zwischen zwei Brüchen wird vermöge einer Definition zurückgeführt auf die Gleichheit zwischen Kardinalzahlen. Man darf die

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Definition nicht vereinfachen, indem man als allgemeine Regel aufstellt: a/1 = b/1 wenn a.1 = b.1; 3/1 ist nicht identisch mit 3, sondern der Bruch hat im System der Brüche eine ähnliche Rolle, wie 3 in der Reihe der Kardinalzahlen. Sie werden in verschiedenen Systemen verwendet. Bei Kardinalzahlen wissen wir, was „größer“ oder „kleiner“ ist (in der Zahlenreihe). Aber für „größer“ und „kleiner“ bei positiven, gebrochenen irrationalen, komplexen Zahlen müssen immer neue Definitionen gegeben werden, die den Begriff der höheren Stufe auf den Begriff der nächsttie­ feren Stufe zurückführen. Die Definition der gebrochenen Zahlen z. B. besteht auch darin, dass ich alle Rechenregeln angebe, die für sie gelten. In der heutigen Mathematik sprechen wir nicht von Brüchen, sondern schreiben Zahlenpaare (a, b). Die Zahlenpaare sind ein Angriffspunkt für ein System von Regeln. Die Gesamtheit verleiht ihnen erst die Bedeutung. Man kann sie dann als gebrochene Zahlen verwenden. Nach Einstein ist ein Bleistift in vertikaler Stellung etwas kürzer als in horizontaler Stellung (die Lage zum Schwerefeld ist maßgebend.) „Gleichlang“ ist je nach dem System verschieden: in der Umgangssprache, bei Einstein, bei Weil. Je nach dem System gelten andere Annahmen. Nachdem die neue Festsetzung (über „entfernt“, „gleichzeitig“, „gleichlang“) getroffen ist, lässt sich die alte in die neue einordnen. Die früheren Physiker haben die Übertragung von nah und fern gemacht, ohne eine Festsetzung zu treffen, was „gleichzeitig“ oder „gleichlang“ in diesem Falle bedeuten. Zusammenfassung: Woran erkennt man, dass ein Wort verschiedene Bedeu­ tungen hat? 1) Dass man es einmal durch ein zweites, ein anderesmal durch ein drittes ersetzen kann usf. („Die Rose ist rot.“, aber „2+2 = 4“ heißt „ist gleich“). Das gilt aber nicht allgemein, sondern es hängt a) vom Reichtum der Sprache ab, b) davon, ob man eine solche Substitutionsregel als logisch relevant ansehen will oder nicht. 2) Die Sprache ist nicht reich genug, verschiedene Ausdrücke zu bilden. Worin zeigt sich dann die Verschiedenheit? Z. B. in der verschiedenen Art der Erklärung, bzw. der Kriterien, die man für den verschiedenen Gebrauch anwendet. „Gelb“ erkläre ich: a) Indem ich auf ein Muster zeige und sage: „Diese Farbe ist gelb.“ Das Kriterium ist, dass ich hinschaue und die Farbe mit der Farbe eines Musters oder mit der Erinnerungsvorstellung eines Musters vergleiche. b) „Natriumdämpfe sind gelb.“: Man misst die Wellenlänge des Lichts und definiert: „Gelb sind die Wellenlängen zwischen … und …“. Das ist ein gänzlich verschiedenes Kriterium. Gewöhnlich ist es so, dass diejenigen Gegenstände, die wir als „gelb“ im zweiten Sinn bezeichnen, es auch im ersten Sinne sind; dagegen nicht umgekehrt. Nicht jedes Licht, das wir als „gelb“ bezeichnen, würde ein homogenes Licht sein, meist aber ist es eine Verbindung mehrerer. Es ist sogar

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möglich (bei Farbblindheit oder vorausgegangener Einnahme eines Präparates) zu sagen: „Dies erscheint mir grau, ist aber in Wirklichkeit gelb“, wenn ich gelb durch die physikalischen Kriterien bestimmen lasse. Ich muss af das Kriterium achten, nach welchem ich „gelb“ gebrauche. Ein anderes Beispiel: „längengleich“, „gleichlang“: Wir haben nur ein Wort für „gleichlang“. Um die Verschiedenheit auszudrücken, können wir nicht aus der bekannten Sprache verschiedene Wörter einsetzen, sondern die einzige Möglichkeit ist, dass wir auf die Kriterien zurückgreifen, nach denen wir die Worte verwenden. – Ebenso bei „gleichzeitig“: Ich kann die Zeit in A messen. Unter der „Zeit für A“ verstehe ich die Zeit, die die Uhr in A zeigt, wenn das Ereignis eintritt; die „Zeit für A“ kenne ich, ebenso die „Zeit für B“, aber noch keine für A und B gemeinsame Zeit. Ich kann noch nicht Zeitangaben in A und B vergleichen. Ich brauche eine Synchronisierungsvorschrift, wie ich eine Zeitangabe in A mit einer in B vergleichen kann. Ich werde ein Lichtsignal aussenden und eine bestimmte Verabredung treffen. Wenn wir uns im Raum Uhren verteilt denken und alle von einer Uhr aus synchronisiert, erst dann kommt der Begriff der physikalischen Zeit zustande. Also: Wörter können eine verschiedene Bedeutung auch dann haben, wenn unsere Sprache nicht verschiedene Wortgebilde vorgesehen hat. 3) Zwei Wörter haben verschiedene Bedeutung, wenn sie in verschiedenem syntaktischen Zusammenhang gebraucht werden:

a. in verschiedenen Wortverbindungen, b. in Verbindung mit Worten verschiedener Wortart.

„Gott ist“ hat einen anderen syntaktischen Gebrauch als „Die Rose ist rot“. (Hier folgt ein prädikatives Adjektiv.): Daher andere Bedeutung. Das Wort „ähnlich“ im täglichen Leben können wir steigern: „Zwei Brüder sind einander sehr ähnlich.“ Aber in der Geometrie ist es nicht möglich zu sagen: „Zwei Dreiecke sind einander sehr ähnlich“. Andere Syntax, andere Bedeutung. In der Geometrie kann man sagen: „Eine Figur ist sich selbst ähnlich.“ Dieses Stück ist kongruent mit jenem und dieser gemeinsame Teil ist sich selbst kongruent, folglich gleich. „Gleichlang“ im Sinne der empirischen (physikalischen) Geometrie sind zwei Strecken (Kriterium: Ausmessen mit dem Maßstab). Dieser Begriff ist transitiv: a = b, b = c; daher auch a = c. „Gleichlang“ angewendet in dem System, mit dem wir die Phänomene im Gesichtsraum beschreiben ist (manchmal) nicht transitiv. Ich sehen ach dem Augenmass die Strecke a gleich lang mit der Strecke b und die Strecke b gleichlang mit der Strecke c; ich muss aber nicht die Strecken a und c gleichlang sehen, ich kann sie als ungleichlang sehen. Man hat lange mit Unrecht geglaubt, dass hier ein Irrtum vorliegt. Denn das Kriterium ist hier, dass, wenn ich hinsehe, ich die Strecken gleich lang sehe oder nicht. Da hat es keinen Sinn zu sagen: „Du täuschst dich“, sondern „gleichlang“ hat hier eine etwas andere Syntax, als im Falle der empirischen Geometrie; eben eine nicht transitive. Diese Geometrie des phänomenalen Gesichtsraumes, des Anschauungsraumes, wurde schon in der antiken Skepsis erkannt. Protagoras hat gegen Plato eingewendet, dass es nicht

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wahr sei, dass Kreis und Tangente nur einen Punkt gemeinsam haben, denn sie haben ein kleines Stück gemeinsam (Einwand gegen die Exaktheit der Mathematik.) Später hat Hume in einer Jugendschrift und in unserer Zeit ein dänischer Mathematiker versucht, eine natürliche Geometrie aufzubauen. Letzterer glaubte, dass es sich um eine Eigenschaft der gezeichneten Figuren handle (Papier, Lineal, Bleistift), die dies verursachen. Das ist aber unrichtig. Es handelt sich nicht um Eigenschaften der Materialien, sondern um die Art, wie die Zeichnung gesehen wird: Man hat immer den Eindruck, dass Tangente und Kreis ein kleines Stück zusammengehen. Das ist nicht eine empirische Tatsache, sondern gibt eine Struktureigenschaft des Gesichtsraumes wieder; und diese spiegelt sich wieder in der Grammatik, in der dieser Raum beschrieben wird; wenn ich die Phänomene des Gesichtsraumes beschreibe, muss ich sagen, dass mir ein kleines Stück einer krummen Linie als gerade erscheint. Damit wird abgewichen von der Grammatik der gewöhnlichen Geometrie, bei welcher jeder Teil einer krummen Linie krumm ist. „Parallel“, „gerade“, „gleichlang“, „krumm“, „Berührung“ haben eine andere Grammatik (wenn auch eine sehr ähnliche) im Gesichtsraum, wie die gleichlautenden Wörter unserer Geometrie. Der Gesichtsraum ist ähnlich dem Euklidischen Raum, fällt aber nicht mit ihm zusammen. Was ist ein „Punkt“ im Gesichtsraum (abgesehen von der dritten Dimension)? Ich sehe Farbflächen und Grenzen von Farbflächen. Wo zwei zusammenstoßen, spricht man von einer Linie. Wo a) zwei Linien zusammenstoßen (drei Farbflächen), spreche ich von einem Punkt. b) Wenn ich einen Stern betrachte, sehe ich einen Punkt; das ist nicht eine kleine helle Fläche, denn ich sehe ihn ohne Rand, konturlos. Aber das ist ein Punkt in einem andern Sinn als dem vorhin beschriebenen, wo verschiedene Farbflächen zusammenlaufen. Er hat keinen Umriss, keine geometrische Form, ist wirklich punktuell. Also, es gibt zwei verschiedene Kategorien von Punkten im Gesichtsraum. (Siehe Phänomenologie von Husserl!) [Analogien der Sprache] Als Vorbereitung für einen neuen Typus von Erklärungen diene eine Betrachtung über Analogien in der Sprache: (Nicht erschöpfend behandelt!) Ein Wort, das zunächst in ganz bestimmter Weise und in bestimmtem Zusammenhang verwendet wird, wird oft in einer neuen Verwendung gebraucht; man fühlt, dass sich die Bedeutung geändert hat: „Frucht des Baumes“, „Frucht der Arbeit“, „Frucht des Nachdenkens“; „Korn säen“, „Unglauben säen“. Was man hier gebraucht, ist ein Bild, ein Gleichnis. Bürgert sich der Gebrauch ein, wird er zur stehenden Formel, so spricht man von „übertragener Bedeutung“. Die Sprache schreitet so fort, dass Wörter in neuer Verwendungsweise (auf Grund einer Ähnlichkeit) gebraucht werden und sich so neue Bedeutungen herausbilden. Es ist nicht immer genau festzustellen, wo das Gleichnis noch empfunden wird und wo schon selbständige Bedeutung vorliegt. Den Ausdruck „gesäter Unglaube“ empfinden wir als Gleichnis; bei dem Ausdruck „fruchtloses Beginnen“ dagegen ist das sinnliche Bild verblasst; wir würden hier von einer neuen selbständigen Bedeutung sprechen.

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Man kann zwischen Gleichnis und neuer, übertragener Bedeutung keine scharfe Grenze ziehen. Das eine geht allmählich mit fließender Grenze in das andere über. „Lebende Sprache“, „Welle der Begeisterung“, „Es geht in der Versammlung stürmisch zu“, „In tiefe Trauer versinken“ etc. – Fast alle Bezeichnungen für Geistiges sind aus Wörtern hervorgegangen, die ursprünglich Sinnliches bedeuten. („begreifen“, „erfassen“…) Griechisch („ich weiß“) ist Perfekt von („ich habe gesehen“); „Spaltung des Ich[s]“, „Schichten der Seele“, „Unterbewusstsein“, „Däm­ merzustand“; alle diese Ausdrücke sind ursprünglich in einem bildlichen Sinne gebraucht, den sie dann eingebüsst haben. Sie haben ganz klare, wissenschaftliche Bedeutung angenommen. „Klar“ („klares Wasser“, „klarer Gedanke“, „klare Darstellung“); „verschwommen“ etc. „Seelengrund“ der Mystik: Der „Seelengrund“ ist der Teil des Ich[s], der die gemeinsame Wurzel ist, aus der Wille, Verstand, Gedächtnis der Persönlichkeit entspringen, und der tiefer liegt, als das, was dem wachen Bewusstsein zugänglich ist. Ähnlich: „Fünklein“, „Hülle des Geistes“, „Hafen der Seele“, „Hort der Seele“ usw. Hier kann man verfolgen, wie die Menschen es anfangen, etwas auszudrücken, was in der Sprache noch nicht vorgesehen ist: Ein Prozess der Begriffsbildung, der sich zunächst an Analogien, Gleichnissen entlang tastet. Auf der Tatsache, dass die Sprache aus dem Sinnlichen ins Geistige wächst, beruhen viele Phänomene: Manchmal ist es uns, als ob sich hinter einem Wort ein anderer, tieferer Sinn auftue, man hinter einem Ausdruck eine Reihe anderer fühlte, wie die Obertöne, die den Grundton begleiten. Daher der volle Klang mancher Wörter, das Ahnende, Vieldeutige in ihnen. Hofmannsthal: „Der Zauber der Poesie beruht darauf, dass auch das Gemeine dadurch, das alles doppelt ist“ (ursprünglich und übertragen) „in eine Art zauberhaft leuchtende Atmosphäre getaucht ist“. Bei einer künstlichen Sprache (Esperanto, Sprache der symbolischen Logik) gibt es das nicht. Dass unsere Wörter abgenützt sind, eine Geschichte haben, darauf beruht ihr Zauber, das Suchen und Fliessen der Worte, das Erwecken von Assoziationen, Witze, anmutige Wortspiele u. a. Auf diesen Analogien beruht zum Teil auch der Vorgang des Erlernens der Sprache. Wir brauchen einen Ausdruck nur im ersten Teil seines Gebrauches kennen zu lernen, dann verstehen wir ihn auch in anderer Verbindung, ohne dass er uns noch einmal erklärt zu werden braucht. Man spricht von der Seele eines Menschen. Wenn man sagt: „Die Bedeutung ist die Seele des Wortes“, so ist das in der üblichen Bedeutung nicht vorgesehen; dennoch versteht man, was gemeint ist. Ein „Algebrist“ hieß zu Beginn der Neuzeit einer, der es verstand, gebrochene Zahlen auf gemeinsamen Nenner zu bringen und umgekehrt. Cervantes nennt einen Arzt so, der gebrochene Knochen ganz macht. Unsere Sprache bringt in Analogie zu einer schon vorhandenen neue Sprachformen hervor. Wie stark Analogien sind, kommt uns erst zum Bewusstsein, wenn wir vor philosophischen Schwierigkeiten stehen; denn ein großer Teil derselben geht darauf zurück, dass wir ein Bild oder eine Analogie ernst nehmen, durchführen und dann ins Leere geraten. Die philosophischen Probleme sind Fragen, mit denen sich der praktische Mensch überhaupt nicht beschäftigt. Wir sind über die Mehrdeutigkeit der Wörter beunruhigt, es entsteht ein philosophisches

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Problem. Für den Benützer der Ausdrücke tritt es nicht auf. Der Wortausdruck dieser Probleme ist eigentümlich und unterscheidet sich von dem technischer und anderer Probleme: Es ist ein Ausdruck der Beunruhigung, des Staunens: „Wie ist das möglich?“ So wie ein Kind zum Zeichen der Unklarheit mit „Warum?“ fragt. Augustinus: „Wie ist es möglich, dass die Zeit zu messen?“ Die Vergangenheit ist nicht mehr vorhanden, die Zukunft noch nicht, die Gegenwart ist ein Punkt. Ihm schwebt das Bild eines Streifens vor, der unaufhaltsam vorüber gleitet. Wie kann man an ein laufendes Band einen Maßstab anlegen? Augustinus hat sich in falscher Analogie festgefahren, indem er Zeitmessung wie Raummessung ansah. Die Zeitmessung geht so vor sich, dass wir periodische Naturerscheinungen auswählen und per definitionem als „gleichzeitig“ erklären; die Beschreibung der Zeitmessung und die der Raummessung sind völlig verschieden. Augustinus wurde durch Ausdrücke wie: „Messung“, „Strecke“, „Länge“, „gleich“, „länger“, „kürzer“ irregeführt. Er sah nicht auf die Vorgänge, sondern auf die Sprache. Die Sprache tritt zwischen uns und die Dinge; der Philosoph erblickt die Dinge durch dieses Medium hindurch und sieht plötzlich alles zauberhaft verändert. Das philosophische Problem entsteht so, dass man einem Gleichnis folgt, das in der Sprache verkörpert ist: „Zeitstrecke“. Alle Ausdrücke der räumlichen Messung überträgt man auf die Zeit. Beide haben viele Analogien, aber das Problem des Augustinus besteht darin, dass er Ähnlichkeit für Identität hält. Er meint, die Zeit messe man so, wie man den Raum misst. Typen der Erklärung Wir sagten: „Die Bedeutung ist das, was in der Erklärung eines Wortes erklärt wird.“ (Das klingt trivial, ist aber sehr wichtig, weil wir die „Erklärung der Bedeutung“ mit weniger Vorurteilen ansehen, als die „Bedeutung“ allein.) Solche Erklärungen können folgende Formen haben: 1 ) Die Form einer vollständigen Aufzählung („Urfarben sind: rot, grün, gelb, blau“). 2) Man gibt eine Beispielsreihe mit „und so weiter“ an. 3) Man gibt das genus proximum und die differentia specifica an. 4) Man gibt eine Gebrauchsdefinition: a) Die Definition wird durch eine feste Formel wiedergegeben (wie die Formel für den Preis in der Geometrie.) b) Man gibt die Definition, indem man den Gebrauch erklärt, durch Angabe von Beispielen der Verwendungsweise (z. B. für „Zeit“). (a) ist also die Angabe für die Regel, für den Gebrauch, (b) besteht in der Angabe einer Reihe von Beispielen, bis derjenige, dem das Wort erklärt wird, es praktisch versteht. Man kann die „Zeit“ durch keine feste Formel erklären; es treten auch immer neue Wendungen in der Sprache auf, die man dann durch die Ähnlichkeit mit anderen erklärt (Tragweite der Ähnlichkeit in unserer Sprache!) Wir besprechen eine weitere Art von Begriffen, bei denen die Ähnlichkeit bereits für die Begriffsbildung maßgebend ist. Beispiel: „Was ist ein Spiel?“ Wenn wir gefragt werden, würden wir sagen: „Tennis, Kartenspiele, das Schachspiel usw.“ Wir würden also Beispiele anführen, in der Erwartung, dass der andere nun den Sinn des Wortes versteht, also es richtig zu gebrauchen weiß Dagegen könnte man

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sagen, dass das keine Definition sei, die doch das Gemeinsame an den Beispielen angeben soll. Man könnte also sagen: „Spiel ist eine Tätigkeit, die man zum Vergnügen ausübt“. Wenn man aber Z. B. nur ungern Tennis, Karten, Schach … spielt? Oder man sagt: „Zu jedem Spiel gehören Partner“. Dann wäre aber z. B. ein Geduldspiel kein Spiel. Oder: „Ein Spiel geht nach bestimmten Regeln vor sich“. Ein Kind spielt aber auch, wenn es den Ball zum Vergnügen ohne Regel in die Luft wirft. Andererseits halten wir uns beim Lesen, Schreiben etc. an Regeln, betrachten aber den Lesenden doch nicht als einen Spielenden. Man könnte sagen: „Beim Spielen kann man gewinnen und verlieren“. Ist aber eine Wette ein Spiel? Jeder Definitionsversuch versagt also; jeder gibt nur ein Stück des Sinnes des Wortes „Spiel“ an. Man könnte den Einwand erheben: „Wenn man ein Wort nicht klar erklä­ren kann, so hat es überhaupt keine Bedeutung“. Denken wir uns nun aber, wir hätten für das Wort „Spiel“ eine Definition gewonnen: Sind wir dann sicher, dass diese Definition auch für alle Fälle in der Zukunft genügen wird? Was soll man in dem Fall tun, dass man etwas ein „Spiel“ nennt, das nicht unter unsere Definition fällt? Solche Betrachtungen lassen uns einsehen, wie verfehlt es ist zu behaupten, dass alle Begriffe scharf und eindeutig definiert werden können. Der Grund ist der, dass der Sprachgebrauch einer Analogie folgt; der Sprachgebrauch verwendet das Wort nach einer Analogie mit gewissen Paradigmen. Wir geben nur Beispiele und lassen den Begriff des Wortes so weit reichen, wie die Ähnlichkeit mit diesen Beispielen reicht. Was hier „Ähnlichkeit“ heißt, ist absicht­lich nicht gesagt. Es ist jedem überlassen, zu sagen, was man noch als ein „Spiel“ ansehen will und was nicht; es gibt immer Grenzfälle, wo es unsicher wird, ob wir etwas noch ein Spiel nennen wollen. Ob z. B. das, was man beim Militär „Kriegsspiel“ nennt, noch dazu zu rechnen ist oder nicht u.  ä.; hier werden die Meinungen sicher auseinander gehen; hier läuft der Begriff des Spieles ins Ungewisse. Es handelt sich nur darum, ob diese Tätigkeit eine genügend große Ähnlichkeit mit dem besitzt, was wir sonst „Spiel“ nennen. Hier kommen wir zu folgender Frage: Darf die Logik solche unscharfen Gebilde noch als „Begriffe“ auffassen? Müssen wir nicht exakte Strenge fordern? Muss der Logiker nicht immer darauf dringen, in solchen Fällen scharfe Grenzen zu ziehen? Frege sagt, dass der Begriff scharf begrenzt sein muss; in seinem Sinn ist es unmöglich, von solchen nur begriffsartigen Gebilden, wie z. B. das Wort „Spiel“ genaue Gesetze aufzustellen. Die Logik kann sie nicht als Begriffe anerkennen. – Wer aber so denkt, dem schweben gewisse falsche Definitionen vor, wie: „Planeten sind: Venus, Mars …“ Das ist überall dort der Fall, wo Definition durch Beispiele vorliegt. Warum sollten wir nicht eine Reihe von Beispielen mit dem Zusatz „und so weiter“ als Begriff gelten lassen? Die Bedeutung ist das, was in der Erklärung eines Wortes erklärt wird und nicht mehr. Das Wort hat keine andere Bedeutung, als die, die ihm in der Erklärung zugeschrieben wird. Es muss daher alles in der Erklärung enthalten sein, was die Bedeutung ausmacht. Wir haben dabei nichts verschwiegen; wir nennen etwas derartiges eben eine Erklärung. Sagt man: Eine solche Erklärung setzt dem Begriff keine scharfe Grenze, so antworten wir: Er hat eben keine scharfen Grenzen. Eine Abgrenzung ist auch nicht praktisch; es ist besser, die Grenzen offen

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zu lassen. Wir können nicht früher schon sehen, welche Verwendungsweise ein Begriff zukünftig einmal haben wird. Gerade durch das Offenlassen der Grenzen gewinnt z. B. das Wort „Spiel“ eine Schmiegsamkeit und Anwendungsfähigkeit im Gebrauch, von der es bei Festsetzung von starren Grenzen weit entfernt wäre. Man könnte fragen: Deutet diese Ähnlichkeit der verschiedenen Bedeutungen eines und desselben Wortes nicht auf eine verborgene gemeinsame Eigenschaft aller dieser Bedeutungen hin? Nein, denn sie sind sowohl ähnlich wie unähnlich. (1 und 2 haben Ähnlichkeit, 2 und 3 auch, aber 1 und 3 müssen keine Gemeinsamkeit haben etc.) Man könnte sagen: Die „Spiele“ bilden eine Familie, deren Glieder eine Familienähnlichkeit haben; einige haben dieselben Augen, die andern dieselbe Gangart etc. Diese Ähnlichkeiten überdecken sich manchmal, aber sie müssen nicht alle eine gemeinsame Eigenschaft haben. Das Wort „Spiel“ bezeichnet also nicht einen „Begriff“ Freges, sondern eine Begriffsfamilie: Wir wollen damit sagen, dass zwei einander nahe Glieder Gemeinsamkeiten haben, während entferntere nichts miteinander gemeinsam haben müssen. Wir wollen damit nicht alle scharfen Begriffe über Bord werfen, uns nur gegen ein Vorurteil zur Wehr setzen, dass die unscharf umgrenzten Begriffe keine Begriffe seien. Wir bekämpfen nun noch zwei Einwände: 1) „Bei der Begriffsfamilie müssen je zwei Glieder etwas gemeinsam haben.“ 2) „Es ist nicht von Beispielen auszugehen, sondern von Kriterien.“ Wir wollen sehen, ob dies zutrifft und gehen zu diesem Zweck weiter: Wir betrachten nun das Wort „Zahl“. Den Begriff „Anzahl“ (= Kardinalzahl) wird man fest umrissen nennen, wenn es auch unendlich viele Kardinalzahlen gibt, weil es für sie scharf umrissene Gesetze gibt (die Axiome der Arithmetik). Man glaubt nun, dass dieser Begriff schrittweise ausgedehnt wird, erst durch Hinzufügung der negativen Zahlen, der reellen, rationalen etc. Man glaubt also, dass der Begriff der Kardinalzahlen ausgedehnt wird; das ist aber nicht der Fall. Der Begriff der Kardinalzahlen ist nicht unvollständig, ist keiner Ergänzung bedürftig; (das könnte man z. B. nur von den positiven Zahlen sagen, denn die Zahl +2 ist nicht die Anzahl 2. Man kann nicht sagen: „Ich habe +2 Gäste eingeladen“; das Zeichen +2 wird anders verwendet, als das Zeichen 2). In der Mathematik werden die Zahlen genau aufgebaut. Erst werden die Kardinalzahlen definiert, dann die ganzen Zahlen, indem man Paare von Kardinalzahlen definiert, dann wieder die rationalen Zahlen aus Paaren von ganzen Zahlen usw. Wir haben da verschiedene Ebenen, die vollkommen für sich geschlossen sind und übereinander liegen. Ihr Zusammenhang ist nun der, das gewisse Individuen in der einen Ebene gewissen Individuen in der andern Ebene so entsprechen, dass sie gleichsam dieselbe Rolle spielen. Es gilt für sie dasselbe Rechengesetz, aber jedes der Gebilde gehört einem andern Kalkül an; sie sind logisch voneinander zu unterscheiden. Die falsche Auffassung ist die, dass der Begriff der Kardinalzahlen so erweitert wird: etwa so, wie man von dem Begriff „Katze“ zum Begriff „Raubtier“ und dann zum Begriff „Säugetier“ kommt (durch Abstraktion; d. h., hier immer durch Fallenlassen einiger Merkmale).

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Die richtige Auffassung ist aber die: Man kann das gesamte System der Zahlen auf verschiedenen Ebenen abbilden, wobei immer ein Teil der Regeln derselbe bleibt. Die Zuordnung ist dreifacher Art: 1.) ein-eindeutig, 2.) ähnlich, 3.) isomorph. Wir konstruieren Kalküle mit immer größerer Multiplizität;

Die Rechenregeln für die positiven Zahlen z. B. sind nur analog, nicht identisch mit denen der Kardinalzahlen. „3 – 5“ ist bei den Kardinalzahlen verboten, gegen die Rechenregeln; in der Arithmetik der ganzen Zahlen dagegen ist es erlaubt. „3 : 5“ ist bei den ganzen Zahlen unerlaubt, im Bereiche der rationalen Zahlen aber erlaubt. Die Regeln sind für jedes System verschieden. Beim Übergang von dem einen in ein anderes System bleibt immer ein Teil der Regeln in Kraft, während andere Regeln durch neue ersetzt werden. Es bilden also die Kardinalzahlen nicht einen Teil des Systems der ganzen Zahlen: Beide stellen für sich vollständige Systeme dar, die ganz getrennt sind. Es gibt so viel verschiedene Zahlenarten als es verschiedene Kalküle gibt. Erst der Kalkül bestimmt den Begriff der Zahl. Es wird z. B. erst durch die Arithmetik der rationalen Zahlen erklärt, was wir eine rationale Zahl nennen. Eine rationale Zahl stellt also den Angriffspunkt gewisser Regeln dar. Es handelt sich also um die Konstruktion einer Reihe von Systemen, deren jedes eine größere Multiplizität besitzt als das vorhergehende. Nennen wir alle diese Gebilde „Zahlen“, so weisen wir auf eine Analogie hin; eine Analogie aber gibt einem Begriff keine scharfe Grenze. Es gibt also wirklich Fälle, wo man fragen kann, ob man etwas noch eine Zahl nennen soll oder nicht. Die Kardinalzahlen können nach der Größe geordnet werden, die rationalen Zahlen nicht mehr; bei den komplexen Zahlen kann man von „größer“ oder „kleiner“ nicht sprechen, hier hört also der Begriff der Anordnung überhaupt auf. Bei den überkomplexen Zahlen ist die Multiplikation nicht mehr kommutativ usw. Kurz, was man „Zahl“ nennt, entfernt sich immer mehr vom Vorbild der Kardinalzahlen. Die Elemente einer abstrakten Gruppe nennt man nicht mehr eine „Zahl“. (Obwohl Speiser von einer „Gruppenzahl“ sprechen will; der Vorschlag hat sich aber nicht durchgesetzt.) Könnte man nicht die Gebilde der mathematischen Logik auch „Zahlen“ nennen? Gewiss! Aber wir tun es nicht; wir legen kein Gewicht mehr auf die Analogie: Die Unähnlichkeit ist zu groß. Hat das Wort „Punkt“ in verschiedenen Geometrien dieselbe Bedeutung? Nein! Die Aussagen der zweidimensionalen Geometrien sind nicht die gleichen, wie die der mehrdimensionalen. Das Wort „Punkt“ ist in der mehrdimensionalen Geometrie Angriffspunkt eines reicheren Kalküls. Wenn man nun meint, dass es doch etwas

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Gemeinsames gibt, so wird man sich darüber klar, wenn man die verschiedenen Geometrien weiter verfolgt und nun zu n-dimensionalen Geometrien übergeht: In der projektiven Geometrie z. B. (die den Winkel und die Strecke überhaupt nicht kennt, sondern nur Lagen) oder in der Riemannschen Geometrie können durch zwei Punkte mehrere Geraden gelegt werden. Ebenso ist in der Topologie der Punkt d etwas ganz anderes. Würde man den Durchschnitt von dem, was „Punkt“ hier überall bedeutet, bilden wollen, so würde man sehen, dass dieser Durchschnitt leer ist; damit ist nun gezeigt, wo das Wort „Punkt“ noch gemeinsame Regeln hat (in zwei verwandten Geometrien nämlich) und wo gar keine mehr (in zwei entfernteren Geometrien). Fragt man nun nach der Bedeutung des Wortes „Punkt“, so ist darauf nur zu antworten, dass dieses Wort eigentlich nur in einer bestimmten Geometrie einen klaren Sinn hat. Es gibt so viele Punktbegriffe als es Geometrien gibt. Um die Bedeutung des Wortes „Punkt“ anzugeben, kann man also nur auf verschiedene Geometrien hinweisen. Solche Fragen wie: „Was ist eine Zahl?“, „Was ist ein Punkt?“, sind Fragen von der Art wie: „Was ist Arithmetik?“, „Was ist Geometrie?“. Der Begriff des Kalküls der Mathematik ist ein fließender. Wenn man sagt, es sei ein neuer Zweig der Arithmetik gefunden worden (z. B. die transfinite Arithmetik von Cantor), so tut man dies auf Grund einer Analogie. Wir erklären den Begriff der Arithmetik auch tatsächlich so, dass wir auf einen bestimmten Kalkül, auf Beispiele hinweisen. Die Frage: „Was ist Mathematik überhaupt?“, würden wir als unklar abweisen. Mann kann nur beispielsweise auf verschiedene typische Kalküle der Mathematik hinweisen. Die Frage von Russsell: „Was ist das spezifische Merkmal der mathematischen Sätze?“, sehen wir als ein falsch gestellte Frage an. Unser Begriff der „Mathematik“ ist von nichts anderem angeregt als von den Beispielen, die wir dafür anführen können; es gibt hier keine Kriterien, auf die wir uns berufen können. Zwischen den verschiedenen Bedeutungen des Wortes „Punkt“ braucht keinerlei Gemeinsamkeit mehr zu bestehen. „Punkt“ in der zweidimensionalen Geometrie und „Punkt“ in der Topologie haben ganz verschiedene Axiome. Nahe beieinander liegende Glieder haben etwas Gemeinsames, entfernte nichts. Der allmähliche Übergang von einem Glied zum andern wird durch Zwischenglieder vermittelt. Das Gemeinsame ist das Anschauliche, die Art der Verbildlichung; diese ist in allen Fällen dieselbe; sie geht aber nicht in das System der Geometrie ein. Sie ist so wie die Illustration in einem Roman. Diese Vagueheit des Begriffes „Punkt“ besteht sowohl in der Sprache als auch in der Wissenschaft; denn es sind Begriffe, die lediglich nach Analogie verwendet werden (kein genus proximum, keine differentia specifica und keine scharfe Definition). Auch die Zahl ist nicht wesentlich für die Mathematik; es gibt Gebiete der Mathematik, die zahlenfremd sind, wie die projektive Geometrie. Soll man diese Disziplin noch zur Mathematik rechnen? Ähnliche Fälle: Klasse, Relation, Eigenschaft, Funktion. Auch an den Begriff „Satz“ lassen sich ähnliche Betrachtungsweisen knüpfen: „Was ist ein Satz?“ Die herkömmliche Grammatik unterscheidet: Aussagesatz, Befehlssatz, Wunschsatz, Fragesatz; aber ein Satz, der in einem historischen Bericht

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oder in einem Roman steht, ist nicht ein „Satz“ in demselben Sinn; ebenso wie Behauptungen, die man vertreten will oder Annahmen, die man macht. Hier sind nicht psychologische Unterschiede, sondern Unterschiede in der Grammatik, die objektiv fassbar sind, z. B.: a) historischer Satz, b) Satz in einem historischen Roman. (a) ist eine Behauptung, (b) nicht. (a) ist ein Erfahrungssatz, (b) nicht. Im ersten Falle gibt es eine Verifikation des Satzes, im andern Fall nicht. Der eine Fall zeigt also gewisse Züge, die der andere nicht hat. Das Wort „Satz“ bezeichnet ebenso eine Begriffsfamilie, wie die Worte „Zahl“ oder „Punkt“. Die verschiedenartigsten Begriffe fallen darunter; es ist also ein Sammelname für ganz heterogene Gebilde. Wenn man unter „Satz“ bloß eine formale Reihe von Worten versteht (mit Subjekt und Prädikat), dann sind alle Sätze gleich. In der Logik hingegen verstehen wir unter „Satz“ nicht den Satz im sprachgrammatischen Sinn; wenn wir in der Logik von einem „Satz“ sprechen, so haben wir dabei alle Regeln, die für ein solches Gebilde gelten, im Auge und nicht nur die sprachgrammatische Beschaffenheit eines Satzes. Wenn wir einen Satz aus einem Roman mit einem historischen Satz vergleichen, so werden die beiden Sätze durch die Gesamtheit der Regeln verschieden definiert, wenn sie auch in manchem übereinstimmen, und die Bedeutungen sich zum Teil decken. Auch wenn wir von erdichteten Sätzen absehen und nur auf die Sätze der Wissenschaft achten, finden wir die allergrößten Unterschiede. Zum Beispiel, „Napoleon starb am 5. Mai 1821.“ Oder „Jeder Winkel im Halbkreis ist ein rechter.“ Oder der Satz von der Erhaltung der Energie oder der Satz des Widerspruchs in der Logik. Sind das Sätze im selben Sinn? Wir können große Verschiedenheit in der Grammatik dieser Sätze konstatieren, wenn sie auch viele Analogien aufweisen. Das Wort „Satz“ bezeichnet [nicht] grammatisch homogene Gruppen von Gebilden, sondern viele verschiedenartige grammatische Gebilde, zwischen denen große Ähnlichkeiten bestehen, Gemeinsamkeiten, die sich auf alle Sätze beziehen. Die Ähnlichkeit besteht in folgendem: 1) In allen Fällen kann ich an den Sätzen die logischen Operationen vollführen, kann sie bejahen, verneinen, mit „und“, „oder“, „wenn“ etc. verbinden, Schlüsse aus ihnen ziehen usf. 2) Allen Sätzen (auch den Sätzen der Dichtung, Wunsch-, Befehlssätzen etc.) ist gemeinsam, dass sie einen bestimmten Satzrhythmus, eine bestimmte Satzmelodie haben. Liest man den Satz von rückwärts nach vorn, so macht er nicht mehr den Eindruck eines Satzes, weil der Rhythmus verloren ging. Wir sprechen deswegen auch von unsinnigen Sätzen. Wir bezeichnen also nicht jede Aneinanderreihung von Worten als Satz. Ein Kriterium ist die eigentümliche Verkettung der Worte, die man als Satz fühlt. Unsere Frage nach dem „Satz“ ist anders gestellt als die Frage des Sprachgrammatikers. Ein Satz ist nur ein Satz in einer Sprache, d. h., er muss mit andern Sätzen in Verbindung stehen, um über seine Bedeutung Aussagen machen zu können. Die Worte, die im Satz vorkommen, müssen gegeben werden, und diese Erklärungen müssen in das ganze grammatische System mit aufgenommen werden. (So wie die

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Bewegung einer Schachfigur auf dem Spielbrett nur ein Zug eines Spieles ist, wenn eine Konvention getroffen wurde und bekannt ist.) Auch das Wort „Beweis“ in der Mathematik hat eine solche Vagueheit, ist ein unklarer Begriff, eine Begriffsfamilie. Man kann diesen Begriff nicht scharf fassen, man muss Beispiele erbringen, um zu zeigen, dass man einen Beweis versteht. Man kann nur sämtliche Arten aufzählen, um zu sagen, was ein Beweis ist: direkter Beweis, indirekter Beweis, Beweis durch Induktion usf. Wir wollen das Wort „Beweis“ nicht so definieren, dass es durch eine Disjunktion der heute üblichen Beweise definiert wird, so dass neue Möglichkeiten offen bleiben; in der Mathematik kann ein neuer Beweis entdeckt werden etc. Zum Beispiel, in der Arithmetik: (a+b)2 = a2+2ab+b2. Der Beweis beruht darauf, dass man nach Paradigmen vorgeht: a2 = a mal a; (a+b)2 = (a+b) mal (a+b); (assoziatives Gesetz, kommutatives Gesetz). Der Beweis besteht in einer Kette von Gleichungen, wobei man zu jedem Schritt dieses Überganges durch ein Paradigma berechtigt ist, an das man sich halten kann. Ganz anders ist der Induktionsbeweis: Der Satz folgt nicht nach den logischen Regeln des Schließens, sondern erst, wenn ich die Festsetzungen treffe, dass ich dies als Beweis anerkennen will. Der eigentliche Beweis besteht in einer Reihe von Formeln; am Schluss kommt die zu beweisende Formel heraus. Der Unterschied gegenüber anderen Beweisen besteht darin, dass die zu beweisende Formel im Beweis selbst vorkommt. (1+k)n nk gilt für jede natürliche, positive Zahl n. Das gilt für die Zahl l; wenn der Beweis für n gilt, gilt er für n+l, daher gilt er für alle Zahlen. Der Beweis durch Induktion bedarf einer Festsetzung, dass man sie als Beweis ansehen will. Es ist ein Irrtum zu meinen, dass wir da nach den logischen Gesetzen schließen. In der Mathematik treten an die Stelle von Schlüssen der Logik, die sich auf Sätze beziehen, Regeln, der Umformung von Formeln, also nur Analogie! Es gibt keinen gemeinsamen Nenner. Nach logischen Gesetzen kann man nie einen allgemeinen Satz induktiv beweisen. Immer sind spezielle neue Typen von Beweisen nötig. Kalkül: Addieren und Multiplizieren ist ein Kalkül. Ein Dreieck aus drei Bestimmungsstücken zu konstruieren, ist auch ein Kalkül. Ebenso die Schlussformen der traditionellen Logik (Aristoteles). Wir sprechen von einem Kalkül dort, wo wir gewisse Operationen nach gewissen Regeln anstellen und zu gewissen Resul­ taten kommen. [Definitionen] Gibt es eine Definition des Wortes „Definition“? Kann man die „Definition“ definieren? Muss nicht jede Definition der „Definition“ in einen Zirkel verfallen? Muss derjenige, der „Definition“ definieren will, nicht schon wissen, was eine Definition ist? In der Begriffsschrift ist das Schema einer Definition: a = per definitionem b, Def. = ”

”

Bef.

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Im Ausdruck scheint das zu erklärende Zeichen vorzukommen. In der Wirklichkeit löst sich die Schwierigkeit dadurch auf, dass wir das Wort „Definition“ durch Beispiele erklären. Z. B.: Was ist eine Primzahl? „Eine Primzahl ist eine Zahl, die nur durch 1 und sich selbst teilbar ist“. Du wusstest früher nicht, was eine Primzahl ist, jetzt weißt Du, es! – Das ist eine Definition. Die Meinung, dass bei der Definition der „Definition“ ein Zirkel unvermeidlich ist, beruht auf einer zu engen Auffassung der Erklärung, welche nur die explizite Definition gelten lässt (wie bei der „Primzahl“). Der Begriff der Erklärung ist ein fließender. Wenn wir einem Kind „Zucker“ sagen und darauf hinweisen, so ist das nicht eine Erklärung in dem Sinn wie eine Erklärung in Form einer artikulierten Definition. Ist der Begriff der „hinweisenden Erklärung“ eine Unterart von „Erklärung“, ein Unterbegriff des allgemeinen Begriffes „Erklärung“? Z.  B.: a) Katze-Raubtier-­ Säugetier-Wirbeltier-Tier.b) rationale Zahl-ganze Zahl-natürliche Zahl-Zahl. Was zeigt diese Gegenüberstellung? In (a) eine allmähliche Erweiterung des Begriffes, die man als Abstrahierung bezeichnet, und durch die man zu den Allgemeinbegriffen gelangt. Von diesen kann man durch Hinzufügung wieder zu den speziellen Begriffen gelangen. Der Allgemeinbegriff ist inhaltsärmer, hat aber größeren Umfang. In (b) bei den Zahlen ist es anders: Was eine natürliche Zahl ist, kann nicht durch Abstrahieren gezeigt werden, sondern nur aus dem Kalkül, der für diese Zahlen gilt. Die Regeln beziehen sich auf den Terminus „natürliche Zahl“ als Ganzes. „Natürliche Zahl“ ist kein zusammengesetzter Begriff, d.  h., in der Erklärung des Begriffes „natürliche Zahl“ wird nicht der Begriff der „Zahl“ vorausgesetzt. (In der Erklärung des Begriffes „Wirbeltier“ wird dagegen der Begriff „Tier“ vorausgesetzt.) Das Wort „natürliche Zahl“ bildet eine grammatische Einheit. Hier täuscht uns die Sprache, indem sie den Anschein erweckt, als ob es sich bei „natürlicher Zahl“, „ganzer Zahl“ etc. um Allgemeinbegriffe handle, die durch ein Attribut näher bestimmt werden, während doch nur für die ganze Wortverbindung Regeln eingeführt sind. Man denke sich z.  B. auf einem Schachbrett jedes Feld wieder in vier Felder geteilt (schwarz und weiß), so dass 84 zusammen ein Schachfeld ergeben. Jemand könnte nun glauben, jedes Schachfeld sein aus vier Feldern zusammengesetzt. Wir müssen ihn erinnern, dass sich die Regeln auf solche vier Felder zusammen beziehen. „Ttransfinite Kardinalzahl“ ist nicht eine spezielle Art von Kardinalzahl, wie ein „stummer Diener“ nicht eine spezielle Art von Diener ist. Man kann „stummer Diener“ doppelt verstehen: a) als Zusammensetzung, b) als ein Begriff. Was ist der Unterschied? Man muss zwischen echter und scheinbarer Zusammensetzung unterscheiden und zwischen wirklichem und scheinbarem Attribut. „Erklärung“ ist kein solcher Begriff, dass durch Hinzufügung von „hinweisend“ ein Teil der Erklärungen ausgeschieden wird, und man so zu einem speziellen

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Begriff der Erklärung kommt, sondern der Begriff „hinweisende Erklärung“ ist ein Begriff, der durch Analogie gebildet wird und kein Unterbegriff zu „Erklärung“ ist. (Wobei noch zu erklären ist, was man unter „Unterbegriff“ versteht.) Ein „unbewusster Wunsch“ (von dem man in der Psychoanalyse spricht), ist nicht eine spezielle Art von Wunsch, dem ein Merkmal abgeht, das der Bewusstheit, sondern er ist ein ganz selbständiges Gebilde, das mit dem, was wir sonst „Wunsch“ nennen, nur eine geringe Ähnlichkeit hat. Wir dürfen nicht in bewusste und unbewusste Wünsche einteilen! Oder: Das Possesivpronomen „mein“ hat nicht den Sinn einer Determination. „Mein Schmerz“ ist nicht eine besondere Art von Schmerz, sondern „mein Schmerz“ und „sein Schmerz“ stehen logisch auf verschiedener Stufe. Dagegen steht „Schmerz des A“, „Schmerz des B“, „Schmerz des C“ … logisch auf gleicher Stufe; ebenso bedeutet der Begriff „Zahl“ so viele selbständige Gebilde als es verschiedene Zahlarten gibt. Die verschiedenen Zahlarten sind nicht nähere Bestimmungen des Begriffes „Zahl“. Sind „sinnvoller Satz“ und „Erfahrungssatz“ Unterbegriffe von „Satz“? Es wurden in der Philosophie sehr viele Missverständnisse dadurch hervorgerufen, dass man glaubte, es handle sich um Unterbegriffe von Sätzen. Da die Erfahrungssätze von Gegenständen handeln, glaubte man, dass auch die Sätze der Logik, der Mathematik von Gegenständen handeln müssten; um ihnen Gegenstände zuzuweisen, erfand man ein Reich idealer Gegenstände. Man meinte, dass sich ein Erfahrungssatz auf Erfahrungsgegenstände beziehe, ein Satz der Logik auf ideale Gegenstände. Dieser Parallelismus wurde dadurch vorgetäuscht, dass man in naiver Weise meinte, einen Begriff von „Satz“ vor sich zu haben, und dass er sich auf Gegenstände beziehe und jede Art von Sätzen auf eine andere Art von Gegenständen. Darin glaubte man die verschiedenen Satzarten unterscheiden zu können. Es verhält sich aber mit den Erfahrungssätzen ganz anders. Die Erfahrungssätze handeln nicht von der Erfahrung und die andern Sätze von andern Gebilden, etwa den idealen (Zahl, geometrische Figur etc.). Ein Erfahrungssatz unterscheidet sich von einem andern Satz nicht durch seinen Inhalt, sondern durch die Art seines ­Funktionierens. (So wie sich „mein Schmerz“ und „sein Schmerz“ nicht durch den Besitzer unterscheidet!) [Was heißt „Versuchen“] Eine weitere Reihe von Beispielen: Wir gehen nun von einem Verbum aus, z.  B. von dem Verbum „versuchen“: Hat dieses Wort eine oder verschiedene Bedeutungen? In verschiedenen grammatischen Konstruktionen bedeutet es etwas anderes. Wir müssen zwischen Mehrdeutigkeit und Begriffsfamilie unterscheiden. „Bank“: a) Sitzbank und Kreditanstalt: zwei gänzlich verschiedene Begriffe. b) der andere Fall ist der, dass ein Wort in einer Reihe von Fällen in analogen, verwandten Bedeutungen gebraucht wird. 1) Die Hand ist mir gebunden; ich versuche sie zu befreien, indem ich an meinem Mantel zerre.

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2) Die Hand ist mir gebunden, und ich versuche, sie zu befreien, indem ich trachte, den Knoten der Stricke aufzulösen und etwa nachdenke, wie das zu tun ist. 3) Ich versuche, einen schweren Körper zu heben, indem ich meine Muskeln anstrenge. 4) Ebenso, mit Hilfe eines Krans. 5) Ich versuche mich einen bestimmten Gedanken zu konzentrieren. 6) Ich versuche eine Zeichnung a) als ebene Figur, b) als Würfel zu sehen. 7) Ich versuche ein Vexierbild aufzulösen. 8) Ich versuche, mich auf eine vergessenes Wort zu besinnen: a) ich strenge mein Gedächtnis an, b) Ich versuche memotechnische Kunstgriffe. 9) Ich versuche, ein Rätsel aufzulösen. 10) Ich sehe, dass ein anderer Mensch seine Ohren bewegt und versuche, das Gleiche zu tun: Ich bewege die in der Nähe gelegenen Muskelpartien in der Hoffnung, dass das Ohr sich von selbst bewegen wird. 11) Ich versuche, eine geometrische Konstruktion aufzulösen, indem ich verschiedene Konstruktionen probiere und darüber nachdenke. 12) Ich versuche einzuschlafen. Wir stellen diese verschiedenen Beispiele einander gegenüber, nicht um zu zeigen, dass sie etwas Gemeinsames haben, sondern um zu zeigen, dass sie nichts Gemeinsames haben. Einwand: Die Handlungen sind nicht gleich, aber das Versuchen ist allen gemeinsam. Versuchen heißt, auf ein bestimmtes Ziel eingestellt sein und darauf hinzuarbeiten, wobei ein Gefühl der Unsicherheit empfunden werden kann. Ist es aber wirklich wahr, dass ein ganz bestimmtes, bewusstes Eingestelltsein auf ein Ziel jede Handlung begleiten, die man als „versuchen“ bezeichnet? Ist das ein Zustand, der die Handlung begleitet? Man könnte fragen, worin das Bewusstsein des Versuchens besteht. Nehmen wir diesen Zustand während der ganzen Handlung wahr? Muss man, wenn man nicht sicher ist, wie man eine Quadratwurzel zieht und es an einer Zahl versucht, immer an das Resultat denken oder an das, was man da tun? Nein! Man denkt doch eigentlich bei jedem Schritt der Rechnung an das, was man gerade jetzt tut und nicht daran, dass man die Wurzel aus einer bestimmten Zahl zieht. Also ist das offenbar nicht ein Bewusstseinszustand, ein Gefühl, das die ganze Rechnung begleitet. Wird man aber gefragt, was man tut, so antwortet man: Die Wurzel ausrechnen. Diese Antwort gibt man aber erst, wenn man gefragt wird oder man denkt vielleicht am Anfang der Rechnung daran, vielleicht aber auch nicht. Man kann wahrheitsgemäß nur sagen, dass man bei den einzelnen Schritten der Rechnung gerade nur an das denkt, was man eben macht. Oder: Man versucht, einen Knoten in einer Schnur aufzulösen. Muss man während der Fingerbewegung an diese Auflösung denken, auf das Ziel eingestellt sein? Ich kann das doch auch rein mechanisch tun und dabei an etwas anderes denken. Dennoch sagt man auf die Frage, was man tue, dass man einen Knoten auflöst. Man versucht oft Dinge zu tun, ohne dass sich die Gedanken ausdrücklich damit beschäftigen. Soll man sagen, dass da kein „versuchen“ vorliegt? Setzt das Versuchen ein Bewusstsein voraus? Wenn die Ameise den Hügel hinaufzuklettern

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versucht, oder wenn der Hund versucht, den Hasen einzuholen, setzt das auch ein Bewusstsein voraus? Oder ist das Versuchen eine Art Spannung, die die Handlung begleitet? Beim Versuch, einzuschlafen, wäre das das beste Mittel, die Wirkung zu verhindern! Das Versuchen besteht darin, dass man Vorbereitungen trifft (man löscht das Licht, hält Geräusche fern, nimmt seine Schlafstellung ein, lenkt seine Gedanken ab …). Es ist nicht ein gleich bleibender Zustand, der das ganze Versuchen begleitet (wie eine Wärmeempfindung), sondern eine Vielzahl von Erscheinungen, etwas über die Zeit hin Ausgebreitetes, was das Versuchen ausmacht. Vergegenwärtigt man sich die Reihe von Beispielen, so sieht man, dass sie nicht Gemeinsames haben und auch, dass kein gleich bleibender Geisteszustand die Handlungen begleiten muss. Es kann ja der Fall sein, dass eine Einstellung, ein Erlebnis die ganze Handlung begleitet, muss aber nicht sein. Unsere Sprache bezeichnet dies alles als „versuchen“ auf Grund einer gewissen Ähnlichkeit; sie fasst eben verschiedenes zusammen. Der Grund mag sein, dass wir in allen diesen Fällen ähnliche Redewendungen gebrauchen: Wir sprechen von Gelingen und Misslingen eines Versuchs. Man bezeichnet mit dem Wort „Versuch“ einen gemeinsamen Bestandteil aller dieser Beispiele, und wir müssen das Wort „versuchen“ gleichsam als Index ansehen, der zu einem Verbum hinzutritt. Damit ist eigentlich nur etwas über die Art der Konstruktion des Wortes gesagt, nämlich, dass es immer mit einem andern Verbum auftritt. Ist aber „versuchen“ etwas, was wir logisch einen Begriff nennen? Sind klar abgrenzbare Kriterien vorhanden? Wir sprechen zunächst von „versuchen“ nur dort, wo eine Schwierigkeit vorliegt. „Versuchen“ ist kein sichtbarer Vorgang in dem Sinn wie z. B. das Schreiben. Man kann nicht beobachten, dass jemand versucht, ein regelmäßiges Fünfeck zu konstruieren. In diesem Fall ist das Kriterium, dass ein Versuch vorliegt, die Aussage des andern: „Ich versuche, ein Fünfeck zu konstruieren“. Wenn man einen andern fragt, ob er Schmerzen hat, so ist dies ein ganz persönliches Datum, das nur dem Erlebnis dieser einen Person entspricht. So ist es aber nicht bei „versuchen“; es ist kein sichtbarer Vorgang, auch nicht für mich selbst. Ich sehe wohl, was ich tue, aber ich kann das „Versuchen“ nicht wahrnehmen wie etwa einen Schmerz. Das Problemhafte der Situation liegt darin, dass wir ein Wort „versuchen“ haben und nun glauben, dass wir in allen Versuchen ein gemeinsames Element finden können, welches aufzuzeigen uns aber nicht gelingt. „Versuchen“ ist kein gleich bleibender Zustand, etwas Amorphes (wie das Wärmegefühl), eine Spannung oder dergleichen, die die Handlung begleitet, sondern es kann eine Vielzahl von Vorgängen sein, etwas über die Zeit hin Ausgebreitetes. Es ist kein einheitlicher Prozess im Bewusstsein oder ein Gefühl, sondern es erstreckt sich über die Zeit in den verschiedensten Zusammenhängen, zerfällt in verschiedene einzelne Teilvorgänge. Es ist mit „versuchen“ ähnlich bestellt wie mit dem Verbum „verstehen“: Auch hier ist man versucht zu meinen, dass ein Geisteszustand die gehörten Worte (die ich verstehen soll) begleitet, ein Prozess, der der Wortreihe entlangläuft. „Verstehen“

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braucht aber nichts dergleichen zu sein, sondern entspricht einer Mannigfaltigkeit: Man muss, wenn man verstanden hat, imstande sein, Schlüsse aus dem Satz zu ziehen, einen Befehl auszuführen, in bestimmter Weise zu reagieren, in eine andere Sprache zu übersetzen, eine Zeichnung anzufertigen etc. Die Bedeutung des Wortes „verstehen“ entspricht also einer Mannigfaltigkeit von Vorgängen. Das ergibt sich aus den verschiedenen Kriterien, die wir anwenden, wenn wir uns überzeugen wollen, dass ein Mensch „versteht“. Ich kann nicht in den Menschen hineinschauen, um zu sehen, ob er verstanden hat, sondern ich stelle ihn auf die Probe, indem ich ihn alles Mögliche ausführen lasse, um mich zu überzeugen, dass er verstanden hat. Das Verstehen entspricht also einer Reihe, einer Gesamtheit von Vorgängen, die sich in der Zeit abwickeln. Ähnlich ist es bei „versuchen“. Das Versuchen ist nicht etwas Charakteristisches, das die Handlungen begleitet, nicht etwas mit dem inneren oder äußeren Blick Feststellbares, kein Datum des Bewusstseins, das man beobachten kann, das eine gewisse Zeit besteht. Was „versuchen“ heißt, wissen wir [, wenn wir] die verschiedenen Kriterien beobachten, die wir anwenden, wenn wir von „versuchen“ sprechen. Dazu gehört alles Mögliche, das in das Leben und Handeln eingebettet ist, alles, was vor- und nachher vorgeht, die Fragen und Antworten … und erst alles das zusammen ergibt den Aspekt, den wir mit „versuchen“ bezeichnen. Also haben die „Versuche“ nichts eindeutig-Gemeinsames. Man kann auch in ganz unklarer Weise etwas versuchen, ohne noch klar sagen zu können, was man versucht, was herauskommen wird (z. B. in der Wissenschaft). Ein Kind „versucht“ schon zu stehen, ohne noch eine Vorstellung zu haben, was es will oder einmal können wird. Wenn wir feststellen, dass wir im Sprachgebrauch verschiedene Begriffe ganz vague verwenden, so lassen sich doch oft aus diesen Begriffsfamilien einzelne scharfe Begriffsgruppen herauskristallisieren (bewusstes Ziel oder nicht, in der Gegenwart oder nur in der Vergangenheit gebraucht etc.). Oder das Wort „suchen“ (nach etwas suchen oder etwas suchen): Kann man nur „suchen“, wenn man eine bestimmte Methode des Suchens hat oder kann man auch ohne Methode des Suchens hat oder kann man auch ohne Methode „suchen“? Muss man das, was man sucht, beschreiben können oder gibt es auch ein „suchen“ nach etwas, das man nicht beschreiben kann? (Das hängt alles mit dem zusammen, was man „Frage“ oder „Problem“ nennt.) Zusammenfassung: 1 ) Ich versuche, einen schweren Stein mit Hilfe meiner Muskelkraft zu heben. 2) Ich versuche, einen schweren Stein mit Hilfe von Instrumenten zu heben. In (1) und (2) ist „versuchen“ ganz verschieden. (1) kann man einen „direkten“ Versuch nennen, (2) einen „indirekten“ Versuch. Bei (1) gibt es eine endgültige Vergeblichkeit des Versuchens (in einem bestimmten Augenblick kann ich nicht mehr). In (2) könnte ich von dem Versuch zurücktreten, ohne das ich alle Möglichkeiten erschöpft habe. Aber das ist ein anderes „vergebliches Versuchen“, als wenn ich vergeblich versuchen würde, ein Rätsel zu lösen; im ersten Fall ist das Aufgeben des vergeblichen Versuchens definitiv; ich trete zurück. Im zweiten Fall trete ich auch zurück, doch

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kann ich mir denken, dass mir der Versuch gelungen wäre, wenn ich länger versucht hätte. Oder: 1) Ich versuche, etwas zu tun, wobei ich auf das Ziel des Versuchs eingestellt bin, mit Bewusstsein versuche. 2) Ich versuche, einen Knoten aufzulösen, während meine Gedanken mit andern Dingen beschäftigt sind; ich versuche es ganz mechanisch. Befragt, antworte ich: „Ich versuche, den Knoten aufzulösen“. Oder: Versuche an verschiedenen Menschen und Lebewesen: a) Ich befrage jemanden, der rechnet, was er macht; er antwortet, er versuche, dieses mathematische Problem zu lösen. Ich kann aus der bloßen Beobachtung nicht entnehmen, was er „versucht“ und bin auf Befragen angewiesen. b) Gegenstück: Eine Ameise versucht, auf einen Baum zu klettern; hier ist das Kriterium des Versuchens ganz anders. (Die Ameise hat keinen bewussten Willen.) „Versuchen“ wird also in verschiedener, wenn auch verwandter Weise gebraucht. Fragt man, was das Gleich an diesen verschiedenen Verwendungsweisen ist, so ist das eine falsch gestellte Frage. Der Fragende tut, also ob einem Wort immer eine gemeinsame Bedeutung zukommen müsse, während eine Untersuchung wie die unsrige zeigt, dass viele Worte in unserer Sprache in verschiedener, verwandter Weise gebraucht werden. Es ist nichts Gemeinsames zu entdecken, weil es nichts Gemeinsames gibt. Ein Wort wie „versuchen“ wird von der Sprache nach Analogie vergeben. Wo uns der Gebrauch gewisse Ähnlichkeiten zu haben scheint, gebrau­ chen wir dieses Wort, wo nicht, geben wir es auf. Wir wollen uns auch von dem Vorurteil frei machen, als ob es eine ganz spezifische Klasse von psychischen Akten gäbe, die man als „wollen“ bezeichnet. Das Wort „wollen“ ist in seiner Bestimmtheit ebenso fragwürdig, wie das Wort „versuchen“. Wir wollen unsere Aufmerksamkeit auf die Verschiedenheit der Begriffe bezüglich der Exaktheit lenken und nicht so tun, als ob alles exakt oder alles unexakt wäre. Durch Russell und speziell durch Whitehead ist in die Philosophie ein Streben nach absoluter Strenge und Exaktheit gekommen; Whitehead will für jedes Wort eine logische Formel angeben (mit Hilfe des Klassen- oder Relationskalküls). Dieses Streben ist der ärgste Feind der wirklichen Exaktheit, und diese Versuche sind auch vielfach fehlgeschlagen. Wir sollen daraus die Lehre ziehen, dass wir nicht von vornherein für jedes Wort eine scharfe, exakte Erklärung geben sollen. Die Exaktheit besteht darin, den scharf umrissenen Gebrauch von dem wahren Gebrauch des Wortes zu trennen, beide nebeneinander zu stellen. Wir dürfen nicht so tun, als läge in allen Fällen exakte Bedeutung vor. [Der Begriff „Suchen“] Ein noch wichtigerer Begriff als „versuchen“ ist der Begriff „suchen“: Was heißt eigentlich „suchen“? Was kann „suchen“ alles sein? Wir stellen einige charakteris­ tische Fälle nebeneinander: a) Ich suchen den Schilling in meiner Börse, b) einen Gegenstand im Raum. Hätte es aber Sinn zu sagen, „ich suche den Schilling im dreidimensionalen eukli­ dischen Weltraum“? (b) erscheint zunächst wie eine Erweiterung von (a), nur viel schwieriger (Ich suche zunächst in der Börse, dann im Zimmer, dann im Raum…).

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In der Tat ist aber das erste eine Aufgabe, das zweite nicht, denn in (a) weiß ich, was ich zu tun habe, in (b) nicht. Ich kann „im Raum“ suchen, aber ich kann nicht „den Raum“ durchsuchen (und zwar nicht, weil ich es nicht kann, sondern weil es nichts heißt). In der Mathematik gibt es eine Vermutung: Das Goldbachsche Gesetz behauptet, dass sich jede gerade Zahl in die Summe von Primzahlen zerlegen lässt (außer 2). Wenn man zwei ungerade Primzahlen addiert, erhält man eine gerade Zahl. (20 = 17+3 oder 7+13). Dies ist eine bis heute unbewiesene Vermutung. Man kann nur sagen: Durchsuchen wir alle geraden Zahlen bis 100 auf das Stimmen des Gesetzes hin! Aber nicht durchsuchen wir „alle“ geraden Zahlen! Die Zahlenreihe ist unendlich. Durch„suchen“ kann man nur einen begrenzten Zahlenraum, wenn auch einen noch so großen. Das hat logisch Sinn. Aber „alle“ Zahlen zu durchsuchen, ist nicht empirisch unmöglich, sondern logisch vollkommen unmöglich. Kann man nach einem sechsten Sinn suchen? Man zögert nicht, von einem sechs­ten Sinn zu sprechen, obwohl wir das Wort nicht definiert haben. Es muss einen guten Sinn haben. Kann man nach etwas „suchen“, was nicht existiert? (Man kann nicht nach einem runden Viereck suchen, denn das ist logisch unmöglich, wohl aber könnte man nach einem gläsernen Berg suchen. Ich kann den Schilling in meiner Börse suchen, wenn er nicht existiert.) Kann ich nach etwas suchen, was aus logischen Gründen nicht existiert? Z. B. nach der Drei-Teilung eines Winkels (mit Zirkel und Lineal ist das unmöglich). Ein neuer Sinn: Die Haut hätte etwa einen chemischen Sinn (außer den Tast- und Temperaturempfindungen). Kann ich nach einer neuen Art von Erfahrung „suchen“? (Analog Hören, Sehen etc.). Ich könnte plötzlich einen neuen Sinn bekommen, aber man kann nicht danach „suchen“. Setzt der Begriff des „Suchens“ voraus, dass ich das, was ich suche, vorher beschreiben kann oder dass mich doch eine entfernte Analogie leiten muss? Ferner: Kann ich nach etwas suchen, ohne eine Methode des Suchens zu haben? Kann man sich vorher überlegen, wie ein neuer Sinn aussieht? Man muss da auseinander halten: das psychologische Korrelat das Ansprechens eines Sinnesorganes (das, was in dem betreffenden Sinnesorgan, in den Nerven vor sich geht) und die Erfahrungen, die man hat. Ein Blindgeborener könnte wohl auf Grund seiner physiologischen Kenntnisse wissen, dass andere Menschen einen Apparat besitzen, die Augen, die durch Licht erregt werden. Er könnte den Fall für sich theoretisch konstruieren, dass seine Augen durch Licht erregt würden. Würde das heißen, dass er sich die Erfahrung des Sehens konstruiert hat? Man nur in dem Sinn nach einem neuen Sinn „suchen“, als man allerlei unterneh­ men kann, um vielleicht eine neue Art von Erfahrung zu machen. Soll man das noch „suchen“ nennen? Wenn ich nach einem Schilling suche, tue ich etwas. Wenn ich nach einem neuen Sinn suche, was habe ich da zu tun? Was ich tun kann, besteht darin, dass ich z.  B. sehe, wie ein anderer Mensch die Ohren bewegt, und ich versuche, es ihm gleich zu tun. Die Innervation habe ich nicht gefunden. Ich setze die Muskelpartien in der Umgebung des Ohrs in Bewegung, mach Grimassen, in der Erwartung, dass

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durch all dies sich das Ohr einmal von selbst bewegt. In diesem Sinn des Probierens könnte man nach einem neuen Sinn suchen; man tut etwa folgendes: Man setzt sich in einen Lift, lässt ihn plötzlich halten und beobachtet, ob das der Anlass ist, dass eine neue Art der Erfahrung auftaucht. Kann man das „versuchen“ nennen? Man kann es versuchen, wenn man eine Anleitung dazu erhält. Mann kann nicht versuchen, den Puls schneller schlagen zu lassen etc., weil man keinen Angriffspunkt für sein Tun hat. Ebenso ist es mit dem „Suchen“ nach einem sechsten Sinn. In diesem Beispiel sondern sich zwei Bedeutungen von „suchen“ voneinander ab: 1) Man „sucht“ Erfahrungen zu machen, die man bisher noch nicht kannte. Man begibt sich in verschiedene Situationen und wartet ab, ob diese Situationen in mir eine neue Art der Erfahrung hervorrufen. In dieser Bedeutung kann man nach einem neuen Sinn „suchen“. 2) Ich habe keinen Weg, der durch einen Raum hindurch mich zu dem gesuchten Gegenstand führt; in dieser Bedeutung kann man nach einem neuen Sinn nicht „suchen“. „Suchen“ kann man nur dort, wo es einen Weg des Suchens gibt. „Suchen“ kann man nur systematisch, nicht ins Blaue hinein. Ist das richtig? Kann man nach einer Farbe „suchen“? Gewiss. Ich habe z. B. ein bestimmtes Blau gesehen; ich komme in die Farbenhandlung, Tuchhandlung, um einen Stoff in dieser Farbe zu kaufen. Ich sehe verschiedene Muster vor mir und sage plötzlich: „Diese Farbe ist es!“ Wie geht dieses Wiedererkennen vor sich? Man sucht vor einem Schaltbrett und will eine bestimmte Klingel ertönen lassen. Man versucht alle Taster, bis die richtige Glocke läutet; man probiert planlos herum. Ist das beim Erkennen der Farbe auch so? Sehe ich verschiedene Farbmuster an, bis es plötzlich einschnappt: „Das ist die richtige Farbe!“? Nein. Bei einem Tasterbrett habe ich keine Ahnung, in welcher Richtung ich suchen soll. Bei dem Suchen der Farbe kenne ich den Weg. Wenn man mir ein Farbmuster zeigt, weiß ich, in welcher Richtung ich weiter suchen soll, ob die gesuchte Farbe heller oder dünkler ist etc. Das Erkennen einer Farbe ist kein einfacher Vergleich, obwohl es in manchen Punkten einem Vergleich ähnlich ist. Gesetzt, ich kenne den Weg nicht, der zur Farbe führt, ich könnte dem andern nicht die Ähnlichkeit der Farbe beschreiben: Hätte ich noch eine Möglichkeit, nach der Farbe zu suchen? Nur in einem andern Sinn; im eigentlichen Sinn könnte ich die Farbe nicht „suchen“, selbst dann nicht, wenn ich sie beim Ansehen zufällig wiedererkannte. Wenn ich eine Farbe gesehen habe, und sie mir vorschwebt, kenne ich den Weg, der zur Farbe führt. Kann man nach einem Geruch „suchen“? Bei irgend einem Geruch fällt mir eine Erinnerung au der Kindheit ein. Ich erkenne ihn wieder, kann aber nicht angeben, durch welche Variationen der bekannten Gerüche man zu ihm gelangen könnte. Kann ich einen Geruch suchen? Ja, wenn ich den Ort des Geruchs im Geruchsraum kenne, d. h., wenn ich weiß, auf welche Weise, durch welche Variation von Gerüchen man zu ihm gelangen kann (es ist heute eine schwebende Frage der Psychologie, ob

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es Urgerüche gibt. Versuche, Urgerüche auf einem Oktaeder wie Urfarben anzuordnen: blumig, fruchtig, harzig, brenzlich usw.). Gesetzt, es gäbe Urgerüche, es ließen sich aus ihnen alle andern Gerüche zusammensetzen: Dann könnte man nach einem Geruch „suchen“, wenn man weiß, welche anderen Gerüche ihn zusammensetzen. Wenn aber plötzlich eine Erinnerung an einen solchen Geruch kommt, könnte man nicht systematisch „suchen“. Wenn man mir verschiedene Essenzen vorlegte, und ich auf eine stieße und sagte: „Das ist der gesuchte Geruch“, wäre das nicht ein „Suchen“? Ist das, was ich finde, der Geruch oder die Essenz? Ich habe dann nicht den Geruch entdeckt, sondern die Substanz, die diesen Geruch hat. Denn ich habe nicht im Raum der Gerüche gesucht, sondern im wirklichen Raum der Substanzen! Dieser Unterschied wird noch klarer an folgendem Beispiel: Man tastet seine Hand nach einer schmerzenden Stelle ab. Man sucht im Tastraum, aber nicht im schmerzenden Raum. Man findet nicht den Schmerz, sondern des Stelle des Schmerzes. Man sagt: „Ich habe die Stelle gefunden, wo es wehtut“, und nicht: „Ich habe den Schmerz gefunden“. Folglich habe ich ihn auch nicht gesucht. Das Tasten ist kein Suchen nach dem Schmerz. „Versuchen“, eine Erscheinung hervorzubringen, heißt nicht, die Erscheinung „suchen“. Das Drehen einer elektrischen Maschine ist nicht das Suchen nach einem Funken; das Probieren auf einem Tasterbrett ist nicht das Suchen nach einem Klang. Versuchen, den Schmerz hervorzubringen, heißt nicht, den Schmerz „suchen“. Ich kann einige Versuche machen, um den Schmerz hervorzurufen. Ebenso beim Geruch: Ich rieche an einer Reihe von Parfums. Ich tue verschiedenes, um mir den Geruch zu verschaffen, aber ich kann nicht sagen, ich „suche“ den Geruch, außer, wenn ich den Weg kenne. Analoges könnte man sich im Falle der Farbe denken: Ich sehe verschiedene Farbmuster an, bis mich plötzlich die Erinnerung an eine Farbe überkommt. Aber, das ist kein „Suchen“ nach dieser Farbe. Wenn ich schwarzen Kaffee trinke, um mich zu stimulieren und mir ein Einfall kommt, so ist das Einnehmen des Kaffees nicht das „Suchen“ nach diesem Einfall. (Es ist vielleicht die kausale Ursache dafür, dass mir der Einfall kommt; man kann verschiedenes tun, was kausal eine neue Erfahrung hervorruft; das nennt man aber nicht z.  B. einen neuen Sinn „suchen“. In den angeführten Fällen tue ich Verschiedenes, was eine bestimmte Wirkung hervorrufen kann, aber mein Tun ist kein „suchen“, wenn auch der Vorgang des „Findens“ dadurch veranlasst wird. Es scheint, als müssten wir sagen: Wo man nur den Kausalhebel betätigt, um eine Wirkung hervorzurufen, da kann man nicht von „suchen“ sprechen. Andererseits sagt man von dem Trinker, dass er „das Vergessen sucht“, vom Lebensmüden, dass er den „Tod sucht“. Die Frage, was „suchen“ ist, verwirrt uns, weil wir beim Gebrauche dieses Wortes zwei ganz verschiedenen Analogien folgen. Man kann beides „suchen“ nennen, aber man muss die beiden Fälle unterscheiden. In vielen Fällen nennen wir das eine „suchen“ und schließen das andere aus; in andern Fällen umgekehrt. Wir sagen nicht, dass man „suchen“ nur in dem einen Sinn gebrauchen dürfe, aber wir müssen eben die beiden Fälle genau un­terscheiden.

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Wenn man im Gedächtnis nach einem Wort „sucht“, so ist das weder ein „Suchen“ im ersten, noch im zweiten Sinn (nach dem verlegten Schlüssel oder nach einem Einfall mittels schwarzen Kaffees), sondern wieder eine andere Art von „suchen“. Jedenfalls liegt etwas wie „suchen“ vor, wenn man seine Gedanken in eine bestimm­te Richtung lenkt, ein Wort nach dem anderen verwirft usw. Es ist ähnlich, wie das „Suchen“ nach einem Gegenstand, den man verlegt hat. Aber man kann sagen: „Ich habe das ganze Zimmer durchsucht“, nicht aber: „Ich habe mein ganzes Gedächtnis durchsucht“. Der Raum, der Umfang des Gedächtnisses, ist weder fest begrenzt, noch unendlich. Es gibt beim Gedächtnis kein „Zu-Ende-suchen“. Zum Beispiel, das Wiederfinden eines Wortes: Ich habe mich bemüht, dass es mir einfällt, gebe es auf, später fällt es mir ein, ein Klang ruft es hervor usw. Das ist wieder ein eigener, spezifischer Typus des „Suchens“. James: Gibt es wirklich so viele Bewusstseinszustände der Leere als es verges­ sene Namen gibt? Sind diese „leeren“ Bewusstseinszustände voneinander verschieden? Es ist wohl so, dass, wenn man nichts von einem Wort weiß, nicht einmal einen „Rhythmus“, einen Klang etc., man wohl auch nicht von erlebnismäßiger Verschiedenheit sprechen [kann]. Kann man nur dort suchen, wo man vorher beschreiben kann, was man sucht? Oder auch dort, wo man das nicht vorher beschreiben kann? Was bedeutet „suchen“ auf Grund einer Methode oder nach einer Methode oder eine Methode „suchen“? Das „Suchen“, das dem „Entdecken“ entspricht, ist ein anderes „Suchen“ als das, welches dem „Finden“ entspricht. Man kann einen sechsten Sinn entdecken, aber nicht ihn „suchen“ oder „finden“. Wir haben also verschiedene Arten des „Suchens“ betrachtet; um zu zeigen, dass das Wort „suchen“ ein Sammelname für Verschiedenes ist, das in mehrfacher Weise miteinander verwandt ist. Die verschiedenen philosophischen Unklarheiten ergeben sich so, das man die einzelnen Typen innerhalb der Wortfamilie „suchen“ nicht unterscheidet und das Verständnis, vielmehr das Unverständnis dessen, was man eine „Frage“ oder ein „Problem“ nennt, hängt mit der Unklarheit über die verschiedenen Bedeutungen des Wortes „suchen“ zusammen. Definitionen wie: „Unter‚suchen‘ verstehen wir dies und dies …“, stehen wir mit Skepsis gegenüber; man könnte wieder auf neue Verwendungsweisen des Wortes „suchen“ stoßen; man [kann] ja z. B. auch nicht endgültig sagen, was eine „Zahl“ ist. Wir haben zwei Arten von „suchen“ unterschieden: 1) Systematisch „suchen“. 2) Probieren. Man kann allerlei tun und sehen, ob es eine Wirkung nach sich zieht, z. B. schwarzen Kaffee trinken und dann sehen, ob nicht ein Einfall kommt. Das nennt man aber nicht, nach diesem Einfall „suchen“. Wir kommen jetzt zu einer anderen wichtigen Unterscheidung: Das Charakteristische an „Suchen“ in vielen Fällen ist, dass man die Begebenheit des „Findens“ in allen Details beschreiben kann, ehe sie sich zugetragen hat. Das macht das Finden aber nicht überflüssig. Man sucht z. B. einen Mörder. Aber, wenn auch ein Hellseher genau alle Begebenheiten des Findens vorhersagen kann, so kommt

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das doch nicht dem tatsächlichen Auffinden des Mörders gleich. Man könnte nicht wissen, ob die Prophezeiungen des Hellsehers stimmen. Oder man kann, wenn man ein bestimmtes Haus, einen Baum im Garten sucht, diese Gegenstände vorher genau beschreiben. Auch wenn man nach dem theoretischen Zusammenhang eines Gesetzes sucht, könnte man diesen Zusammenhang vorher in allen Einzelheiten aufstellen und dann suchen, ob er besteht. Ein Naturforscher sucht nach einem Gesetz und findet es. Wie ist es aber, wenn man etwa nachdenkt, nach einem Worte ringt, nach dem richtigen Ausdruck des Gedankens sucht? Soll man auch hier sagen, dass man die Begebenheit des Findens des Ausdrucks in allen Einzelheiten beschreiben kann, ehe man den Ausdruck definiert hat? Hier ist die Situation eine andere. Hier kann man die Begebenheit des Findens nicht genau beschreiben. Denn könnte man den Ausdruck in allen Einzelheiten beschreiben, dann hätte man ihn ja schon. Andererseits schwebt einem dabei etwas vor; es kann sein, dass einem der Anfang eines Satzes, der Rhythmus der Periode im Ohr liegt, ein anschauliches Bild vorschwebt oder dass man den Satz in einer andern Sprache kennt, dass man eine Geste macht (oder machen möchte), bei der einem plötzlich der richtige Ausdruck einfällt etc. Dies alles kann man das „Suchen nach einem richtigen Ausdruck eines Gedankens“ nennen. Es sieht also so aus, als suche man nach einem Gegenstand, der uns durch seine Beschreibung bekannt wäre, doch nur unvollkommen bekannt. So wie man sagt: „Suche einen Menschen mit schwarzen Haaren, blauen Augen, diesen und diesen Gesichtszügen!“. Aber diese unvollständige Beschreibung des Ausdrucks kann nicht vollständig werden, denn wäre sie es, dann hätte man den Ausdruck schon; das könnte man schon „Finden des Gedankens“ nennen. Wir finden also wieder zwei typische Unterschiede im Gebrauch des Wortes „suchen“: 1) Der eine Fall ist dadurch charakterisiert, dass man genau beschreiben kann, was man sucht. 2) Der andere Fall ist dadurch charakterisiert, dass die genaue Bezeichnung des Gesuchten schon das Finden ist. Im zweiten Fall schwebt etwas Unbestimmtes vor; in dem Maße als es einer größeren Klarheit weicht, nähert man sich dem Gesuchten und erreicht es schließlich, sobald man es genau in allen Details angeben kann. Dem „Suchen“ nach dem richtigen Ausdruck eines Gedankens ähnlich ist das „Suchen“ nach der richtigen Lösung mathematischer Probleme, zu der man noch keinen Weg kennt. Bei diesem „Suchen“ sind wieder drei typische Fälle zu unterscheiden: 1 ) Man sucht nach einer typischen Methode, entlang eines Weges. 2) Man sucht ohne Weg, ohne Methode; man probiert aufs Geratewohl. 3) Man sucht den Weg, die Methode. Ad (1): Man sucht die Lösung einer quadratischen Gleichung, indem man sich einer Formel bedient, ad (2): Man sucht die Lösung einer quadratischen Gleichung so, dass man aufs Geratewohl eine Zahl nach der andern einsetzt und nachsieht, ob die

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Lösung stimmt: man probiert, ad (3): Man kennt die allgemeine Lösung einer quadratischen Gleichung nicht, sucht aber nach einer allgemeinen Lösung für diese Gleichungen. (So sind die Mathematiker auch tatsächlich auf die Lösung solcher Gleichungen gekommen.) Die zweite Art des „Suchens“ lässt man gewöhnlich nicht als „Suchen“ im ma­thematischen Sinne gelten; die erste Art könnte man schon als „mathematisches Suchen“ bezeichnen, aber es ist eher die Lösung einer Rechenaufgabe und kein mathematisches Problem. Bei der dritten Art allein handelt es sich um ein eigentliches mathematisches Problem; man sucht nach der Methode. An diesem Typus können wir uns die Art aller mathematischen Probleme vergegenwärtigen. Ähnlich ist z. B. die Situation für das „Suchen“ eines Beweises des Goldbachschen Satzes. Man hat keine feste Methode, man kann auch nicht wahllos probieren, denn es ist nicht möglich, alle Zahlen zu untersuchen. Hier liegt also ein „Suchen“ nach der dritten Art vor. Nun entsteht aber die Frage: Kann man eigentlich genau beschreiben, was man in diesem Falle „sucht“? Ein anderes Beispiel, um den Fall genauer zu analysieren: Ein Schüler sucht nach der genauen mathematischen Konstruktion des regelmäßigen Fünfecks. Worin besteht hier das „Suchen“? Wenn man ihm sagt, er solle in einen Kreis fünf Punkte so einzeichnen, dass ihr Abstand gleich lang ist, so hat man damit das Ziel des Suchens nicht angegeben. Wenn das Problem darin bestünde, so könnte auch durch Probieren einmal darauf kommen. Der Ausdruck „gleichlang“ muss erläutert werden. Heißt dies: den Zirkel ansetzen und dieselbe Strecke fünfmal auftragen? Dann wäre es nicht schwierig. Andererseits wird jeder sagen, dass damit das geometrische Problem nicht gelöst ist und dass es bei der Konstruktion auf die Genauigkeit nicht ankommt. Auch eine ungenaue Konstruktion kann richtig sein (mit freier Hand gemacht z. B.). Man sieht daraus, dass die Konstruktion eines Fünfecks mit dem Begriff einer Figur, deren Seiten sich beim Nachmessen als gleich lang erweisen, nichts zu tun hat. In Wahrheit liegen hier zwei ganz verschiedene Begriffe eines Fünfecks vor, die wenig gemeinsam haben; das eine ist ein gemessenes Fünfeck, eine empirische Figur, das andere ein konstruiertes Fünfeck, eine Figur im Sinne der konstruktiven Geometrie. Das Problem besteht nicht darin, eine Figur zu zeichnen, deren Seiten sich, mit dem Zirkel gemessen, als gleich lang erweisen, sondern man sucht ein Verfahren der Konstruktion. Das ist aber noch nicht klar, denn was soll man in einem solchen Fall unter einem „Verfahren“ verstehen? Analoges gilt für den Goldbachschen Satz: Was soll man in diesem Falle unter „Beweis“ verstehen? Man weiß, was der Satz sagt und sucht nach einem „Beweis“. Der Irrtum rührt daher, dass man einen Beweis für eine bestimmte Folge von logischen Schlüssen hält. Das stimmt aber nicht. Es gibt ganz verschiedene Schlussweisen, die man „Beweis“ nennt. Da es möglich ist, dass man Beweise führt, die wir uns heute noch nicht vorstellen können. So können wir auch nicht angeben, was man unter einem „Beweis“ für den Goldbachschen Satz verstehen soll. Auch das, was man Schließen nennt, ist nicht einheitlich; man kann für die Bedeutung des Wortes „Schluss“ nur Repräsentanten anführen, aber keine gemeinsamen Eigenschaften. Zum Beispiel, „Das ist rot, also ist es nicht blau.“, kann man

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nicht nach dem logischen Schlusskalkül beweisen. Andererseits können noch neue Schlüsse möglich sein. Das Charakteristische am „Suchen“ in der Mathematik ist, dass eine Beschreibung des Gesuchten schon das Gefundene wäre. Das kann man so ausdrücken: Solange man die Konstruktion des Fünfecks noch nicht gefunden hat, hat man wohl einen Begriff der Konstruktion des Fünfecks, aber einen solchen, der das „Suchen“ noch nicht ermöglicht, noch keine Mittel an die Hand gibt, keinen Weg zeigt, wie man suchen soll. Es scheint, als bestimme der Begriff einen Raum, in dem wir zu suchen haben, als gäbe es eine Möglichkeit zu suchen, und es läge nur in unserer Ungeschicklichkeit, dass wir das Gesuchte nicht gleich finden. In Wirklichkeit aber ist der Raum nur scheinbar der, in dem sich das Gesuchte befindet; denn beim Suchen nach der Konstruktion des regelmäßigen Siebenecks könnte man auch glauben, dass es einen Raum gibt, in dem man suchen könnte. Das ist aber nicht der Fall, denn es gibt diese Konstruktion überhaupt nicht, und zwar aus logischen Gründen. Es lässt sich beweisen, nicht nur empirisch, sondern streng logisch, dass es keine Konstruktion des regelmäßigen Siebenecks gibt. Es könnte sich hier ein Einwand erheben: Wir sagten, dass, wenn man auch einen Begriff des regelmäßigen Fünfecks habe, dieser noch nicht zum „Suchen“ verhilft. Wie ist aber das „Suchen“ dann möglich? Der Mathematiker „sucht“ doch tatsächlich, und wenn er sucht, dann muss er wissen, was er sucht. Wenn man das Ziel des Suchens nicht angeben kann, kann man dann noch „suchen“? Es schwebt uns ein gewisser Begriff der Fünfeckkonstruktion vor, wenn man weiß, was eine Konstruktion in der Mathematik ist. Es schwebt uns vor: a) das gesehene Fünfeck, b) die Konstruktion eines Fünfecks (wie man ein Sechseck konstruiert). Was tut der Mathematiker, wenn er nach der Konstruktion eines regelmäßigen Fünfecks sucht? Der Mathematiker geht nach Analogien vor und zwar leiten ihn zwei Analogien: 1) Er denkt an die ihm bekannten Konstruktionen anderer regulärer Figuren und sucht dazu analog die Konstruktion des Fünfecks. 2) Es schwebt ihm die Figur vor, deren Seiten tatsächlich gleich lang sind. Der Zusammenhang zwischen diesen beiden Analogien, der einen aus der Sphäre der bisher bekannten Geometrie und der andern mit einer Figur, ist ein außermathe­ matischer, d. h., er kommt nur mit Hilfe der Zeicheninstrumente zustande (des starren Zirkels und des starren Lineals). Hätten wir es in der Welt nur mit Flüssigkeiten oder Gasen zu tun, so könnten wir einen Kalkül ersinnen, der die Form unserer Geometrie hat. Das abstrakte Problem der Konstruktion des regulären Fünfecks hätte nichts mit den tatsächlich herstellbaren Gebilden dieser Welt zu tun; wir könnten es nicht modellieren usw. Es ist außermathematischer und kein mathematischer Gesichtspunkt, der uns bei diesen Versuchen leitet. Man kann sagen: Die Frage in der Mathematik gibt dem „Suchen“ kein Ziel, sondern nur eine bestimmte Richtung. Man sagt nicht: Ich will dorthin gehen, sondern: Ich will in dieser Richtung weiter konstruieren. Es sind Analogien, Ähnlichkeiten mit bereits bekannten Verfahrensweisen, die den Mathematiker bei seinem Tun leiten.

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Woher weiß man dann, ob das Ziel erreicht ist oder nicht? Ist es so, dass man vorher das Ziel angeben kann und hinterher vergleicht und sagt, dass es erreicht ist, oder ist es so, dass man nachher eine Analyse anstellt und sagt, was da geschehen ist? Können wir ein Kriterium angeben, dass das Ziel erreicht ist oder eines, dass es nicht erreicht ist? Kann man z. B. einen Winkel konstruktiv (nicht empirisch) mit Zirkel und Lineal in drei Teile teilen? Nein; ein solches Verfahren gibt es nicht. Das Altertum hat uns drei angeblich unlösbare Probleme hinterlassen: 1) Die Quadratur des Zirkels, d. h., dass man mit Zirkel und Lineal ein Quadrat konstruieren soll, das mit einem Kreis flächengleich ist. 2) Die Konstruktion eines Würfels, der ein doppelt so großes Volumen hat, wie ein anderer (Konstruktion von 3 2 ). 3) Problem der Trisektion eines Winkels. Dieses letzte Problem sei unser Beispiel: Hatten die alten Mathematiker schon Kriterien dafür, ob sie das Ziel erreichten oder nicht? Woher weiß man, ob das Ziel erreicht ist oder nicht? Muss man vorher Kriterien haben? Das Problem der Dreiteilung eins Winkels wurde überhaupt erst angreifbar, als man aus der Sprache der gewöhnlichen Euklidischen Geometrie heraustrat und als man dieses Problem in den Aspekt der modernen Algebra eingliederte. Die analy­ tische Geometrie gibt arithmetische Repräsentanten für geometrische Gebilde (Lage eines Punktes im Koordinatensystem). Man kann jedem Operationsschritt in der analytischen Geometrie einen in der Arithmetik entsprechen lassen. Man untersucht z.  B. die Verbindung zweier Punkte durch eine Linie, in der Arithmetik das Verhältnis zweier Zahlenpaare, die eine lineare Gleichung angeben, einen Kreis, mit einem bestimmten Radius um einen Punkt gelegt, zwei Kreise, die zum Schnitt gebracht werden, d. h., zwei quadratische Gleichungen lösen etc. Kurz, den verschiedenen Konstruktionsschritten in der Geometrie lassen sich gewisse Operationsschritte in der Arithmetik zuordnen. Der Inbegriff dessen, was man in der Geometrie mit Zirkel und Lineal konstruiert, entspricht in der Arithmetik einem bestimmten Kreis von arithmetischen Operationen. Man hat also dem in der Geometrie Konstruierbaren einen Bereich in der Algebra entsprechen lassen. Ersteres ist eine Art Projektion auf die Arithmetik. Während aber in der Geometrie der Bereich der Konstruktion alles war, was man kannte, man also in der Euklidischen Geometrie kein Merkmal hatte, um zwischen Konstruierbarem und Nicht-­ Konstruierbarem zu unterscheiden, hatte man in der Arithmetik ein Mittel gefunden, um dies zu unterscheiden, denn die Arithmetik ist von viel größerer Multiplizität als die Geometrie, d. h., es gibt einen Bereich in der Arithmetik, dem kein Bereich in der Geometrie entspricht. So hat man also das Problem aus der bisherigen Ebene herausgedreht, ist von der Geometrie in den Bereich der Arithmetik übergegangen. Das Problem liegt jetzt in einem andern Kalkül. In diesem kann man fragen, ob ein gewisses Gebilde konstruierbar ist oder nicht, nach Kriterien für die Konstruierbarkeit suchen. Der Konstruierbarkeit eines regelmäßigen Siebenecks z. B. entspricht die Lösung einer Gleichung siebenten Grades, die sich auf die Lösung einer quadratischen Gleichung

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zurückführen lässt; ist die Gleichung nicht in dieser Weise reduktibel, dann sieht man, dass diese Konstruktion nicht erreichbar ist. Die alten Mathematiker ahnten nichts davon, wie die Kriterien aussehen, die angeben, ob die Konstruierbarkeit erreichbar ist oder nicht. Sie wurden erst mit der Abbildung der Geometrie auf die Arithmetik entdeckt. Solange man nur die Sprache der Euklidischen Geometrie spricht, kann man weder von der Erreichung noch Nicht-Erreichung eines Zieles der Konstruierbarkeit sprechen, weil es hier kein Kriterium dafür gibt. Man wusste damals wohl schon, was man eine Erreichung des Zieles der Konstruierbarkeit nennen wolle, in dem Sinne, als man wusste, welche Konstruktion man als richtig ansprechen würde. Man konnte wohl im Einzelfall entscheiden, ob die Konstruktion richtig sei oder nicht. Man hatte also nur ein Mittel, die Ungelöstheit zu entscheiden, nicht aber die Unlösbarkeit. Dieses Mittel besitzt man erst jetzt. Jemand sucht die Konstruktion des regelmäßigen Siebenecks; er sucht aber nicht danach, ob man eine Gleichung siebenten Grades durch eine quadratische Gleichung auflösen kann oder nicht. Wir können ihn nur Schritt für Schritt dazu bringen, dass er eine Reihe von Übergängen macht; wir können ihn einen Weg führen, durch den allmählich das Ziel verlegt wird, bis es zum Schluss völlig entschwindet, man es aufgibt. Man führt einen gewissen Beweis und sagt, dass dieser Beweis die Wirkung habe, dass man in dieser Richtung nicht weiter sucht, dieses Suchen einstellt. In der Mathematik ist nicht zwangsläufig alles von vornherein entschieden. Man kann sich überlegen, ob man neue Festsetzungen akzeptieren will oder nicht, aber nicht dazu gezwungen werden. In dem Sinn macht also der Beweis der Unlösbarkeit die Dreiteilung des Winkels nicht sinnlos; man kann weiter nach ihr suchen, wenn man die Zuordnung der Geometrie zur Arithmetik nicht gelten lassen will. Es ist nicht eine Kette von Deduktionen, die zu einem bestimmten Resultat führt, sondern dass diese Kette in Schritten besteht, die man mit Freiheit tun muss. Der Unterschied zwischen einem mathematischen Problem und einer mathematischen Rechenaufgabe liegt darin, dass die letztere nach einer bestimmten, vorgegebenen Methode zu lösen ist, sich in einem bestimmten System einordnet. Zum Beispiel, liegen die gewöhnlichen Multiplikationen in einem System: „Wie viel ist 456 mal 631?“ Solche Fragen und Antworten sind unbegrenzt; nach der Antwort suchen, heißt hier gewisse Regeln benützen. Ebenso bilden die Buchstabenrechnung, die elementare Geometrie usw. je ein in sich geschlos­ senes System. Man kann z. B. fragen: „Ist sin x = tg x . cos x?“ Diese Frage lässt sich nach den Regeln der elementaren Trigonometrie beantworten. Anders ist es mit der Frage: „Ist sin x = x/1! – x3/3! + x5/5! – …?“ (unendliche Reihe. In der höheren Mathematik sind Funktionen definiert durch konvergente unendliche Reihen, in der elementaren Geometrie durch das Verhältnis zweier Seiten eines Dreiecks.) Vergleichen wir die beiden Fragen, so sehen wir, das ein Schüler die erste Frage beantworten kann, die zweite nicht. Das liegt nicht daran, dass die elementare Trigonometrie in sich unvollständig, nach einer Richtung hin offen, und die Analysis

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ihre Fortsetzung wäre, sondern dass ein gänzlich anderes System vorliegt, d. h., sin der elementaren Trigonometrie und sin der höheren Trigonometrie sind verschiedene Begriffe. Wenn man die beiden identifiziert, heißt das nicht, dass sie logisch identisch sind; es liegt nur ein Isomorphismus vor wie zwischen Kardinalzahlen und den reellen Zahlen. Sie entsprechen einander, fallen aber nicht zusammen. Wenn man einem Schüler die Frage vorlegt, ob sin x = der unendlichen Reihe ist, kann er sie nicht nur nicht beantworten, er versteht nicht einmal den Sinn der Frage, und zwar nicht, weil er ein schlechter Mathematiker ist, sondern weil die Frage noch gar nichts heißt, weil sie einem andern System angehört. Man kann sich in der Ebene des einen Systems noch so weit bewegen, ohne zu einem Satz des andern Systems zu gelangen. Fragen haben nur Sinn innerhalb dieses einen Systems. Man kann nicht etwa durch logische Fortsetzung, durch Ausdehnung von einem System zum andern gelangen, so wenig, wie man vom gewöhnlichen Rechnen zur höheren Mathematik gelangen kann (z. B. von den Kardinalzahlen zu den irrationalen Zahlen oder der Mengenlehre). Es ist irrtümlich, zu sagen, dass die eine Frage schwieriger wäre als die andere. Die Fragen unterscheiden sich nicht durch den Grad der Schwierigkeit. Es handelt sich nicht darum, ob der Schüler die Frage lösen kann oder nicht, um die Feststellung seiner Fähigkeit, sie zu lösen, sondern es handelt sich um logische Unterschiede zwischen den Fragen, darum, ob im Kalkül selbst diese Frage und die Möglichkeit ihrer Beantwortung vorgesehen und enthalten ist. Die großen mathematischen Probleme werden, wenn überhaupt, durch die Konstruktion von neuen Kalkülen gelöst. Sie sind daher Anregungen zur Schaffung solcher Kalküle. Würde aus all dem nicht das Paradoxon folgen, dass es in der Mathematik kein schweres Problem gibt (denn das, was schwer ist, ist noch kein Problem)? Es folgt daraus nur, dass es Probleme in verschiedenem Sinne gibt: Erstens klar umrissene Fragen und zweitens Anregungen, irgendetwas zu finden, einen Kalkül, der das und das leistet und mit dem und dem gewisse Analogien hat. Ein Beispiel zur Erläuterung: Das Schachspiel, wie wir es übernommen haben, ist ursprünglich eine Stilisierung der tatsächlichen Art der Kriegsführung (in Indien). Die Art, wie man zur Zeit der Erfindung des Spieles in Indien kämpfte, was maßgebend für Eigenart und Anordnung des Schachspiels. Türme, die nur gerade gehen können, sind die Kriegselephanten; das Rössel entspricht der leichten Kavallerie; die Bauern sind das Fußvolk; der König greift nicht aktiv ein, kann sich nicht bewegen; die Königin entspricht dem Großvezier. Man stelle sich nun z. B. folgendes Problem vor: Es soll ein Brettspiel erfunden werden, dessen Struktur in gewisser Weise der Taktik der Punischen Kriege nachgebildet ist. Das Spiel soll auf einem Schachbrett vor sich gehen. Jeder Partner soll acht Steine haben; von den weißen Steinen sollen zwei durch größere Bewegungsfreiheit ausgezeichnet sein (die Konsuln), von den schwarzen Steinen einer (der Feldherr). Diesen Bedingungen hat das Spiel zu genügen. Das ist eine Aufgabe ganz anderer Art als die, herauszufinden, wie Weiß im Schachspiel unter gewissen Bedingungen gewinnen kann. Das letztere ist eine

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Schachaufgabe, nach vorgegebenen Regeln zu lösen. Die zweite Aufgabe aber verlangt, etwas zu schaffen, ein Spiel, das man noch gar nicht kennt. Dem analog ist die Lage bei gewissen Problemen in der Mathematik Es müsste erst ein Stück neue Mathematik erfunden werden, ehe man das Problem formulieren kann. (Es wird vielleicht verschiedene Spiele geben, die alle als Lösungen der Aufgabe angesehen werden können.) Das Problem, wie Weiß in einem Spiel, das noch nicht erfunden ist, in zwanzig Zügen gewinnen kann, wäre analog den Problemen der Mathematik und nicht einer Rechenaufgabe. Wir müssen uns von dem Vorurteil frei machen, dass die Frage von vornherein klar sei, und wir nur durch Ungeschicklichkeit die Lösung nicht finden können. Es kann ja zwischen uns und der Lösung ein noch unbekannter Kalkül liegen, und unsere Sache kann es sein, diesen Kalkül erst zu finden. Man wird irregeführt durch den Gedanken, dass die Lösung schon vorhanden, nur versteckt ist. Wir folgen hier einer falschen Analogie zu „suchen“ nach einem Gegenstand; etwas, das versteckt ist, das man finden kann, muss schon vorher genau zu beschreiben sein. Die Unmöglichkeit, zu finden, kann eine praktische sein (ein Gegenstand kann so gut versteckt sein, dass man ihn nicht finden kann; „Suche das Osterei!“; man kann da den Vorgang des Findens genau beschreiben.) oder eine logische (z. B.: „Suche das versteckte Gesetz, nach welchem die Primzahlen angeordnet sind!“). Diese Frage hat noch keinen Sinn, denn es ist nicht sicher, dass es ein solches Gesetz gibt. Man weiß auch nicht einmal, was alles hier ein „Gesetz“ genannt werden kann. In Wirklichkeit ist es so: Die mathematische Entdeckung bestimmt erst den Sinn der Aufgabe, d.  h., erst nachdem man die Fünfeckskonstruktion entdeckt hat, kann man genau angeben, was man gesucht hat; erst wenn man das Gesetz der Primzahlenverteilung gefunden hat, weiß man, worin die Aufgabe bestanden hat. Kann man etwas suchen, das es gar nicht gibt? Man kann gewiss ein eingebildetes Ding suchen; aber dann kann man beschreiben, was man sucht. Wenn es jedoch das, was man „sucht“, aus logischen Gründen nicht gibt (Dreiteilung des Winkels, Quadratur des Kreises), kann man dann noch danach „suchen“? Sagt man, dass man nicht könne, so kann man dem entgegenhalten, dass die Mathematiker 2000 Jahre nach der Quadratur des Kreises oder der Dreiteilung des Winkels gesucht haben. Wie kann man aber nach etwas „suchen“, das logisch unmöglich ist? Macht das „logisch unmöglich“ nicht auch das „suchen“ unmöglich? Wie kann man logisch nicht zusammenpassende Begriffe zusammenstellen und sinnvoll nach der Möglichkeit ihrer Zusammenstellung fragen? Wir wollen nicht behaupten, dass man hier nicht „suchen“ kann. Die Mathematiker haben doch allerlei Versuche gemacht, haben in verschiedenen Richtungen gesucht; wenn man will, kann man dieses Probieren auch ein „Suchen“ nennen, diese einzelnen Schritte, die von einzelnen Analogien geleitet werden. Wie sollen wir aber auf den Einwand: „Nur was möglich ist, lässt sich suchen!“ antworten? Man kann diesem Einwand mit einer andern Frage begegnen: Kann man nicht fragen: „Ist 25 mal 25 gleich 738“? Gewiss kann man so fragen, und doch ist es logisch unmöglich, dass diese Gleichung stimmt. Ich kann mir zwar ausmalen, wie es wäre, wenn Körper nicht zu Boden fielen, Wasser brennen würde etc., aber ich kann mir nicht ausmalen, wie es wäre, wenn 25

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mal 25 = 738 wäre. Wie kommt es dann aber, dass man die Frage überhaupt auf­ werfen und sie verstehen kann? Muss man hier nicht fragen, ob man nicht das das Unmögliche einen Augenblick lang als möglich betrachten kann? Wir werden dadurch irregeführt, dass wir diese Gleichung als das Bestehen eines Sachverhaltes auffassen (25 mal 25 = 625 beschreibt einen bestehenden Sachverhalt, 25 mal 25  =  738 einen unmöglichen Sachverhalt.) So ist es aber nicht; denn die Gleichung ist kein Satz. Ein Satz beschreibt einen Sachverhalt und diesen kann man nur verstehen, wenn man ihn sich ausmalen kann. Die Gleichung verstehen, heißt nicht, sich ein Bild eines Sachverhaltes machen, sondern die Frage hat den Sinn, den die Methode der Prüfung ihr gibt. Man kontrolliert die Gleichung, indem man nachrechnet. Man fasst sie nicht als arithmetischen Sachverhalt auf, den man sich ausmalen kann, sondern man sagt: „Ich werde nachrechnen und sehen, ob es stimmt!“ Man konfrontiert die Gleichung mit den mathematischen Regeln. Man kann nicht fragen: „Ist der Sachverhalt so und so?“ Die Philosophie hat sehr viel unter dem Irrtum gelitten, dass man die mathematischen Sätze mit andern Sätzen vergleichen wollte. Wenn man aber sagt: Die mathematischen Sätze sind mit den empirischen Sätzen vergleichbar, sie unterscheiden sich nur durch den Gegenstand, indem die mathematischen Sätze vom ideellen Sein, die empirischen Sätze von der Erfahrungswelt handeln, – so liegt eine große Unklarheit über die Grammatik der mathematischen Sätze vor; denn die Sätze der Mathematik beschreiben nicht. Ein Lehrbuch der Physik, der Geschichte etc. enthält nur Zeichen, die von etwas anderem handeln; ein Lehrbuch der Mathematik dagegen enthält nur Zeichen, die von nichts anderem, als von den Zeichen selbst handeln. Geschichte kann man machen, und Geschichte kann man schreiben. Mathematik aber kann man nur machen, aber nicht schreiben. Kann man also nach etwas „suchen“, das es nicht gibt? (Nach der Dreiteilung des Winkels z. B.)? Die Frage hat den Sinn, den die Methode der Prüfung ihr gibt. Es gibt logisch zwei verschiedene Arten von Fragen: Erstens: „Ist die Straße 625 oder 635 Meter lang?“ Zweitens: „Ist 25 mal 25 = 625 oder 635?“ Dementsprechend gibt es auch zwei Arten des Versuchens: Erstens: Ich versuche, die Torte in sieben Teile zu teilen. Zweitens: Ich versuche, einen Kreis mit Zirkel und Lineal in sieben Teile zu teilen. Über „finden“, „erfinden“, „entdecken“ Ist „finden“ soviel wie „entdecken“? Wie verhalten sich diese beiden Begriffe zueinander? Dem „Finden“ entspricht ein „Suchen“. Nach dem gewöhnlichen Sprachgebrauch spricht man von „finden“ dort, wo man etwas verloren, verlegt, vergessen hat. Dort überall gibt es ein „Suchen“. Dagegen sagt man, dass Amerika, die Röntgenstrahlen, die analytische Geometrie „entdeckt“ wurden, ohne dass von einem „Suchen“ spricht. Kann man hier „suchen“? „Suchen“ und „Finden“ gehören zusammen. Was entspricht dem „Entdecken“? Manchmal eine Art Forschen, das aus Anregungen hervorgegangen ist. Eine mathematische Entdeckung wird z. B. durch vorangegangene Forschung, ein Probieren, Tasten, geleitet durch Analogien, vorbereitet.

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Manchmal wieder wird das Entdecken durch keine vorangehenden Phasen eingeleitet; der Einfall ist plötzlich und ganz neu. Unsere Sprache verwendet also die Ausdrücke „finden“, „erfinden“, „entdecken“ verschieden. „Amerika wurde entdeckt“, „Das Schießpulver wurde erfunden“. „Finden“ kann man nur Tatsachen. Beim „Erfinden“ schafft man etwas Neues, beim „Entdecken“ besteht das Entdeckte schon. Nicht nur Dinge werden entdeckt, auch Zusammenhänge, Gesetzmäßigkeiten. (Mond  – Ebbe und Flut, die Keplerschen Gesetze. Das Schachspiel wurde erfunden.) Wie ist es bei mathematischen Gebilden? Wurden die imaginären Zahlen „entdeckt“ oder „erfunden“? Man kann beides sagen; aber die Ausdrucksweise, dass man sie „entdeckt“ habe, kann die irrtümliche Empfindung hervorrufen, dass diese Zahlen schon vorhanden gewesen seien, ehe ein Mathematiker an sie gedacht habe. (Als ob es ein Platonisches Reich der Zahlen geben würde.) Man könnte glauben, dass die Mathematiker ein Zahlenreich „entdeckt“ hätten, wie Kolumbus Amerika „entdeckt“ hat. Wurden die Zahlen „erfunden“? Welcher Art ist die Existenz der Zahlen überhaupt? (Darüber hat Frege viel geschrieben.) Primitive Völker zählen nur bis fünf. Wurden unsere weiteren Zahlen „erfunden“ oder „entdeckt“? Was heißt das: Eine neue Zahlenart „entdecken“, „erfinden“? Gedankenexperiment: Wir denken uns einen Volksstamm, der mit den vier Grundrechnungsarten schon vertraut ist, ebenso mit den Dezimalzahlen. Die Existenz periodischer Dezimalbrüche wäre ihm zufälligerweise unbekannt geblie­ ben. Diese Menschen würden also 1:3 immer in der Weise dividieren, dass sie eine gewisse Anzahl Dezimalstellen entwickeln und z. B. bei fünf Stellen Halt machen und dies nun das Ergebnis der Rechnung nennen. (Wie ein Volksschüler dies rechnet.) Die Frage „Welche Ziffern kommen dann?“ hätte sich noch niemand gestellt. Nun könnt einmal einer die Entdeckung machen, dass man immer weiter dividieren kann, dass also das Resultat aus unendlich vielen Dreiern besteht… Welcher Art wäre diese Entdeckung? Man könnte sagen, dass demjenigen ein Zug an der Rechnung aufgefallen ist, der den andern entgangen war: die Wiederkehr des Restes. Das ist aber irreführend ausgedrückt. Denn auch dem, der bemerkt hätte, dass der erste Rest gleich dem Dividenden ist, hätte nicht die Periodizität auffallen müssen; er hätte nicht auf den Gedanken kommen müssen, dass die Rechnung so weiter geht. Wir sind nun versucht zu sagen: Wer den periodischen Dezimalbruch entdeckt, sieht die Division anders an, als derjenige, der ihn nicht kennt. Seine Aufmerksamkeit ist in eine andere Richtung gelenkt. Das wäre aber zu psychologisch ausgedrückt. Die Entdeckung der Periode ist in Wirklichkeit die Konstruktion, die Erfindung eines neuen Kalküls. 1:3 = 0,3 ist nicht von der Art wie 1:2 = 0,5. Vielmehr entsprechen sich: „1:2 = 0,5, bleibt unten Rest 0“ und: „1:3 = 0,3, bleibt unten Rest 1“. Dagegen ist 0,3 nicht in dem Sinn Resultat der Division, wie 0,5. Denn die Zahl 0,5 war uns vor der Division bekannt. 0,3 aber ist losgelöst von der Division eine Zahl, die erst durch den neuen Kalkül definiert ist, eine Abkürzung für die periodische Division. In diesem Sinne ist die Entdeckung einer neuen Art von Zahlen die Entdeckung eines neuen Kalküls. Man sieht es einer Frage zunächst nicht an, ob sie einem Kalkül oder System angehört oder nicht. Ein Problem, eine Frage gehört einem bestimmten Sachgebiet

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an, ist „einschlägig“, wenn es sich nur in Termini dieses Sachgebietes formulieren lässt. Es kommt nicht darauf an, ob in einer Frage nur einschlägige Termini verwendet werden, sondern ob sie scharf formuliert ist oder bloß eine Anregung zu einer Untersuchung ist. Dem Wortausdruck einer Frage allein kann man noch nicht ablesen, ob die Frage einem System angehört; es kommt auf den Weg der Verifikation an, ob wir im Besitz einer solchen Theorie sind. Einschlägige Fragen zerfallen dann in klar umrissene Fragen und in Probleme. Keine Erfahrungstatsache kann die Sätze der Arithmetik widerlegen; würden aber die Sätze der Arithmetik nicht auf die Erfahrungstatsachen passen, dann würden wir eben eine andere Arithmetik verwenden; so wenig es nur eine Geometrie gibt, so wenig gibt es auch nur eine Arithmetik; welche Arithmetik wir in der Wirklichkeit verwenden, ist durch Zweckmäßigkeitsgründe reguliert. Es hängt mit der Frage zusammen, inwieweit die Regeln der Logik und Mathematik will­ kürlich sind. Wir kehren zu unserem Beispiel von der Periodiziät der Brüche zurück. Die Entdeckung der Periodizität ist also die Erfindung eines neuen Kalküls. Wir dürfen nicht glauben, dass die periodische Division eine spezielle Art der Division ist; sie ist vielmehr ein neuer Kalkül, der mit der gewöhnlichen Division nur eine Ähnlichkeit hat. Man könnte die periodische Division auch in folgender Form schrei­ben: 1:3 = 0,3 Man könnte sagen, dass die Division mit den Unterstreichungen nicht dieselbe Rechnungsart wie die Division ohne Unterstreichungen sei, weil die eine etwas anderes leistet, als die andere. Man treibt da mit den Zeichen etwas ganz Neues. Gerade so wie die Zahlen 0,3 und 0,3 verschiedene Zahlensymbole sind, so ist auch eine Division, von der innerhalb des Kalküls gesagt ist, dass der Rest wiederkehrt, und dass es so weitergeht, eine Division anderer Art als die gewöhnliche Division. Bei der gewöhnlichen Division hängt es von meiner Auffassung ab, ob man das unendliche Weiterschreiten schon entdeckt hat oder nicht. In dem Kalkül mit den Unterstreichungen dagegen ist diese Entdeckung schon gemacht und wird durch die Unterstreichung eben gerade hervorgehoben. In diesem Sinne kann man sagen, dass hier zwei verschiedene Kalküle vorliegen. Wenn man beide Kalküle kennt, kann man natürlich leicht einen Übergang vollziehen. Für den, der den Kalkül der periodischen Division nicht kennt, wäre er eine „Entdeckung“. Wer die periodischen Dezimalzahlen entdeckt hat, hat einen neuen Kalkül entdeckt. Hätte es aber einen Sinn zu sagen, dass dieser Kalkül schon vor seiner Entdeckung da war? Es hätte nur Sinn zu sagen: In der üblichen Arithmetik war die Anregung zur Bildung dieses neuen Kalküls schon gegeben. Der Kalkül hat aber nicht präexistiert; wir haben ihn nicht „entdeckt“ in dem Sinne, wie Kolumbus Amerika entdeckte. Wir werden uns eher entschließen zu sagen, dass dieser Kalkül „erfunden“ wurde, da dies deutlicher ist. Ein anderes Beispiel: In der modernen symbolischen Logik beschäftigt man sich mit Begriffen, durch welche Sätze (Aussagen) miteinander verbunden sind. Solche Worte nennt man die logischen Partikeln oder logischen Konstanten. (Es sind dies: „nicht“ (Negation), „und“ (Konjunktion), „oder“ (Disjunktion), „wenn“ (Impli­ kation), „entweder-oder“ (ausschließend).

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Die Logik hat sich nun die Aufgabe gestellt, herauszufinden, ob man einige dieser Partikel mit Hilfe der übrigen definieren kann. Russell und Whitehead haben gezeigt, dass man mit zwei logischen Konstanten auskommen kann, d. h., dass man alle andern logischen Partikel mit Hilfe dieser beiden definieren kann. Es sind dies die Negation und die Disjunktion. Die Konjunktion p und q ist p/q oder p; die Implikation p>q (wenn p, so q) ist p oder q.) Der amerikanische Logiker Sheffer hat mit einer einzigen Konstanten das Auskommen gefunden, nämlich mit der „Unverträglichkeit“, p/q. Diese „Unver­ träglichkeit“ bedeutet dabei folgendes: nicht p oder nicht q, d.  h., nicht beides zusammen. Wenn das eine wahr ist, dann muss das andere falsch sein; es gilt entweder p oder es gilt q. Es können nicht beide zugleich wahr sein. Sheffer hat gezeigt, dass man alle andern Partikel durch das eine Grundzeichen, die „Unverträglichkeit“ definieren kann. Wir stellen nun die Frage: In welchem Sinne ist es eine Entdeckung, dass man in der Logik mit einer einzigen Konstanten auskommen kann? Was hat Sheffer eigentlich entdeckt? Stellen wir uns vor, dass Russell und Frege ihre Axiome zufällig von Anfang an in der Form der verneinten Disjunktion (wie Sheffer) geschrieben, dass ihnen das aber nicht weiter aufgefallen wäre, und sie geglaubt hätten, dass sie zwei Konstanten benötigen; nehmen wir nun an, dass ein anderer diese Formeln ansieht und bemerkt, was Frege und Russell entgangen war: dass er aus ihrer Struktur abliest, dass man mit nur einer Konstanten auskommen kann. Was hat dieser Mensch nun entdeckt? Man könnte sagen: Er hat ein neues System in das alten hineingesehen. Entscheidend ist aber seine Auffassung; solange man das neue ­System nicht sieht, hat man es eben nicht. Hätte Frege zufällig alles in dieser Form geschrieben, dann würden wir nicht sagen, dass er dieses neue System entdeckt hätte. Von Sheffer würden wir sagen, er habe das neue System entdeckt, wenn er auch kein eigenes Zeichen dafür eingeführt hätte. Es kommt nicht darauf an, welches Zeichen man einführt, sondern darauf, wie man das Zeichen sieht, d. h., welche Struktur man hineinsieht. Bei Sheffer war nicht die Definition die Entdeckung. Man könnte ja die Definition geben, dass man p oder q mit p/q bezeichnen will. Das bedeutet noch nicht, dass man die Einsicht besitzt, dass man mit einer logischen Konstanten auskommen kann. Die Definition allein hat noch nicht das Wesen der Entdeckung, nämlich, dass man dieselbe Struktur der logischen Sätze auf eine neue Weise sieht. Man könnte solche Formeln lesen, sie auch verstehen und doch nicht merken, dass in ihnen ein neues System steckt; denn scheinbar hat sich an den Urzeichen (Disjunktion und Negation) nichts geändert. Ebenso hätte man auch immer weiter dividieren können, ohne die Periodizität zu sehen. Die Entdeckung ist nicht die Definition, sondern das Sehen einer neuen Struktur, eines neuen Aspektes. Kann man nun nach einem neuen Aspekt suchen? Kann man z. B. nach der periodischen Division oder nach der logischen Struktur, auf der die Entdeckung Sheffers beruht, suchen? Dass etwas in einer bestimmten Weise angesehen werden kann, sieht man erst, wenn es so angesehen wird. Dass ein neuer Aspekt möglich ist, sieht man erst, wenn er schon vorhanden ist.

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Man könnte da nun meinen, dass z.  B.  Sheffers Entdeckung nicht in Zeichen darzustellen ist, sondern in eine Art „innerem Sehen“ bestehe; heißt aber: „Ich mache dich aufmerksam, dass bei dieser Division der Rest gleich dem Dividenden ist“, dass derjenige, der die Wiederkehr nicht bemerkte, die Division nicht verstanden hatte? Nein. Man kann auch ohne diese Aspekte die Division oder einen logischen Satz verstehen, nur ist einem noch etwas entgangen. Will man nun z.  B. die Wiederkehr des Restes bei der Division, die Struktur eines Satzes etc. augenfällig machen, dann führt man eben ein neues Zeichen ein. Nun sieht man das neue System. Man könnte sagen: Ist das nicht eine rein äußerliche Betrachtungsweise? Es kommt doch auf die Art der Auffassung der Zeichen an, und das ist etwas Geistiges! Aber wir dürfen das Äußerliche nicht verachten! Denken wir an unsere Betrachtung über die „Bedeutung“: Beim Aussprechen von „rot“ muss man sich nicht einen Gegenstand vor die Seele rufen. Selbst wenn ich mir rot vorstelle, könnte ich mir die Vorstellung durch ein rotes Farbmuster ersetzt denken. Für die Logik haben die Vorstellungen keine wesentliche Monopolstellung. Man kann in der Logik alles „Innere“ durch etwas „Äußeres“ ersetzen (das Vorstellungsbild durch das gemalte Bild). Ebenso kann man das, was man „Aufmerksam sein“, „Richten der Aufmerksamkeit“, „Betrachtungsweise“ etc. nennt, durch ein Betonen, Hervorheben an unseren Zeichen ersetzen. Die Division mit Unterstreichungen leistet etwas anderes als die Division ohne Unterstreichungen. Könnte man das nicht ausdehnen und sagen: Man hätte Zahlen multiplizieren können ohne je auf den Spezialfall zu kommen, dass man eine Zahl mit sich selbst multiplizieren kann? Die Schaffung von „x2“ ist das Zeichen dafür, dass man auf diesen Spezialfall aufmerksam geworden ist. Man hätte die Multiplikation „x mal x“ ausführen ­können, ohne dieses System zu sehen. Ein Volksschüler könnte sie ausführen, ohne je auf die Idee zu kommen, dass hier ein ins Unendliche fortsetzbares System vorliegt: x2, x3, x4 ,… Diese Schreibweise ist der Ausdruck der Entdeckung dieses Systems. Die Mathematik enthält eine Unzahl von Systemen: keines von allen kann durch bloß mechanische Ableitung aus den andern gewonnen werden, und in diesem Sinne ist die Mathematik nicht analytisch. Die Entwicklung der Mathematik ist diskontinuierlich, sprunghaft; soweit man in einem Kalkül auch geht, man kommt dadurch nie zu einem andern Kalkül. Die Mathematik entwickelt sich nicht durch logische Operationen, sondern durch neue Theorien. Diese Ansicht ist abweichend von der alten Tradition. Für gewöhnlich betrachtet man die Mathematik entweder als analytische oder als synthetische Disziplin. Man meint entweder, dass die Axiome Erkenntniswert hätten (Kant) oder dass in der Mathematik eines aus dem andern durch Ableitung, also analytisch gewonnen werde. Die Mathematik ist aber tatsächlich nicht synthetisch in dem Sinn, dass ihre Formeln etwas beschreiben, wirklich etwas aussagen, aber auch nicht analytisch in dem Sinn, dass ihre Sätze aus Deduktionen folgen, wie die Gegner Kants gemeint haben. Diese abgebrauchten Ausdrücke sind auf die Mathematik überhaupt nicht gut anwendbar. In der Mathematik gilt noch ein anderes Element: Hier gibt es in der Tat so etwas wie ein „Entdecken“, nämlich ein stetes Entdecken neuer Systeme, neuer Aspekte. Die Mathematik ist insofern analytisch als alles, was aus den Axiomen hervorgeht,

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mit unerbittlicher Notwendigkeit aus ihnen folgt. Die Axiome beschreiben aber nur ein System. (Z. B. die vier Grundrechnungsarten; die periodische Division ist darin schon nicht mehr enthalten.) Das Entdecken neuer Aspekte aber ist kein analy­ tisches Schließen, doch auch nicht das, was Kant an der Mathematik „synthetisch“ genannt hat (dass sie unumstößlich sichere neue Erkenntnisse liefere). Unsere Ansicht lässt sich in keinen traditionellen Rahmen fassen und führt zu einer völlig neuen Philosophie der Mathematik. Wir würden vor gewissen Missverständnissen sicher sein, wenn wir in der Mathematik besser von „finden“ als von „entdecken“ sprechen würden; jeder kann sich beliebig für einen dieser Ausdrücke entscheiden, nur muss man sich bewusst sein, dass das „Entdeckte“ nicht schon vorher bestand. Spricht man von „finden“, so kommt man weniger leicht zu einer metaphysischen Auffassung der Mathematik. Begriff der „Frage“, des „Problems“ Die Mannigfaltigkeit des Wortes „suchen“ entspricht eine Mannigfaltigkeit der Worte „Frage“, „Aufgabe“, „Untersuchung“, „Problem“. Wie hängen die Begriffe „Frage“ und „suchen“ zusammen? Wäre es richtig zu sagen, dass eine Frage eine Aufforderung zum „suchen“ ist? Offenbar nicht. Frage ich: „Wo ist mein Schlüssel“ oder stelle ich eine wissenschaftliche Frage, so sind das keine Aufforderungen zum Suchen. Setzt die Beantwortung der Frage ein Suchen voraus? Was kann auf eine Frage alles zur Antwort kommen? Z. B. ein Satz: „Wie spät ist es?“ „Es ist zehn Uhr.“ Aber nicht immer werden Fragen durch Aussagen beantwortet. Es gibt auch rhetorische Fragen; man kleidet oft einen Befehl in die Form einer Frage: „Willst du wohl hinausgehen?“, oder man erwartet auf die Frage keine Aussage als Antwort, sondern einen Befehl: „Was ist gefällig?“ Kann man eine Frage bejahen oder verneinen, wie einen Satz? Man fragt z. B.: „Warst du gestern nicht zu Hause?“ Diese Fragen unterscheiden sich bloß in einer subjektiven Weise. Man legt in die Frage schon hinein, welche Antwort man erwartet. Normalerweise wird auch niemand eine Tautologie als Aussage aussprechen, wohl aber als Frage: „Regnet es oder regnet es nicht?“ Wir können sagen: Für eine gewisse Klasse von Fragen ist es charakteristisch, dass p? = p? Trifft dies aber für alle Fragen zu? Als Antwort auf eine Frage kann ein Satz, Befehl etc. stehen, und schon danach man gewisse Arten von Fragen unter­ scheiden. Die Frage: „Was wünschst du dir?“, kann in doppeltem Sinn als Frage aufgefasst werden: als Aussage der Psychologie (man antwortet also mit einer Beschreibung) oder als Ausdruck eines Wunsches (die Antwort ist also ein Wunschsatz). Dagegen soll auf die Frage: „Wann ist ein Mensch tot?“ als Antwort eine Definition oder ein Kriterium folgen; ebenso ist auf die Frage: „Wann sind zwei Farben gleich?“, die Antwort ein Kriterium. Sollen wir dies alles „Fragen“ im selben Sinn nennen oder je nach der Antwort eine Unterscheidung der Fragen treffen? Das kommt ganz auf den Zweck an. Wenn man will, so kann man die Klasse der Fragen noch weiter in gewisse Subklassen bringen.

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Sollen wir sagen, dass zwei Fragen sich durch die Antworten, die man auf sie gibt, unterscheiden? Das heißt, wann sind zwei Fragen eigentlich verschieden und wann fragen sie nach demselben? Sind zwei Fragen dann verschieden, wenn sie durch zwei verschiedene Sätze beantwortet werden? Also: Unterscheiden sich Fragen durch ihre Antworten oder durch noch etwas anderes? Frage ich z. B.: „In welchem Jahr ist Napoleon gestorben?“, und es wird darauf gesagt: „Im Jahre 1821“, so ist das eine Antwort auf diese Frage; dieser letzte Satz kann aber auch eine Antwort auf eine andere Frage sein, auf die Frage z. B., was sich in diesem Zeitraum ereignet hat. Wir sagen besser, zwei Fragen unterscheiden sich insofern, als sich die Wortlaute der Fragen unterscheiden und wenn das nicht genügt, so durch die weitere Erklärung, die man gibt; denn wir wissen, dass man dieselben Worte in verschiedener Weise interpretieren kann (z. B. bei: „Was wünschst du dir?“) Woher wissen wir, welche Antwort auf eine Frage zutreffend ist? Wie passen Frage und Antwort zusammen? Woran erkennt man, dass ein bestimmter Satz eine Antwort auf eine bestimmte Frage ist? Es wird immer zwischen „Wortfrage“ und „Satzfrage“ unterschieden. Eine „Satzfrage“ ist eine solche, die mit „ja“ oder „nein“ beantwortet wird. Die „Wortfrage“ aber ist eine solche, die mit einem bestimmten Wort beantwortet werden muss, z. B. „Wer war der Vater des Darius?“ oder: „Bei welcher Temperatur schmilzt Wachs?“ Das Zusammenpassen von Fragen und Antworten sehen wir schon daran, dass wir zwischen den Fragen einen Unterschied feststellen müssen. Wenn wir z. B. eine Satzfrage aufwerfen wie: „Ist Gold das schwerste Metall?“ so ist es klar, dass die Antwort nur „ja“ oder „nein“ lauten kann. Die Antwort in diesem Falle durch die Frage schon vorgezeichnet. Wie aber ist es bei einer Wortfrage? Wenn man z. B. fragt: „Was ist die Ursache der gegenwärtigen Depression?“ oder: „Was ist die Ursache des Krebses?“, ist dann auch hier die Antwort selbst schon vorgezeichnet oder wenigstens die Art der Antwort? Oder anders gesagt: Ist es denk­bar, dass es Fragen gibt, bei denen man noch nicht einmal weiß, wie die Antwort aussehen wird? Wann versteht man eine Frage? Soll man sagen, dass man eine Frage nur dann versteht, wenn man eine Methode der Beantwortung angeben kann? Man kann eine Frage verstehen, ohne die Antwort zu kennen; die natürliche Art zu fragen ist die, dass man nach dem fragt, was man nicht weiß. Es gibt auch Fragen, die durch Definitionen, also Festsetzungen, beantwortet werden; da muss man keine Methode der Beantwortung kennen. In der Mathematik stellt man oft Fragen, bei welchen man keinen Weg der Beantwortung kennt, z. B.: „Stimmt der Goldbachsche Satz oder nicht?“ oder „Ist der Goldbachsche Satz von den heutigen Axiomen der Mathematik unabhängig oder nicht?“. Das heißt, „Ist er mit den bisherigen Mitteln ableitbar oder nicht, entscheidbar oder nicht?“ Das alles können wir natürlich „Fragen“ nennen, wenn wir wollen. Bei solchen Fragen ist man sich nicht klar, wonach man fragt und lässt sie doch als sinnvolle Fragen zu; solche Fragen sind die Anregung zur Aufstellung eines neuen Kalküls.

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Wir haben also zwei Kategorien von Fragen unterschieden: die „Satzfragen“, die man mit „ja“ oder „nein“ beantwortet; bei diesen enthält die Frage schon die Form der Antwort in sich. Wie aber steht es bei den „Wortfragen“? Hängt die Sinnhaftigkeit unserer Fragen von der Erfahrung ab, in der Weise, dass bei gewissen Erfahrungen unsere Fragen sinnvoll werden und bei andern nicht? Es ist eher so, dass der Sinn unserer Fragen einzig und allein von ihrer logischen Struktur abhängt und nicht von der Beschaffenheit der Welt; eine sinnvolle Frage kann durch die Entdeckung einer neuen Tatsache nicht sinnlos werden; auch wird eine sinnlose Frage durch die Entdeckung eines neuen Sachverhaltes nicht sinnvoll. Die Sinnhaftigkeit einer Frage hängt nur von der Annahme ab, nicht aber von der Wahrheit oder Falschheit dieser Annahme. Wir sehen auch an gewissen Beispielen, dass nicht auf alle Fragen eine Antwort überhaupt möglich ist. Wenn ich z. B. frage: „Wie ist das Leben auf der Erde entstanden?“, und es sich dann herausstellt, dass es überhaupt nicht „entstanden“ ist, sondern von andern Planeten stammt und durch Strahlungsdruck auf die Erde gekommen ist, so hängt diese Frage von der Beantwortung einer andern Frage ab, nämlich, ob das Leben überhaupt entstanden ist. Können wir nachweisen, dass das nicht der Fall ist, so muss man die zweite Frage wieder zurückziehen. Es gibt Fragen, die sinnvoll und prinzipiell lösbar sind und Fragen, die sinnlos und prinzipiell unlösbar sind, und Fragen, die sinnvoll und prinzipiell unlösbar sind. (Letzteres deshalb, weil die Frage immer den Sinn hat, den die Methode der Prüfung ihr gibt; dennoch kann eine solche Frage prinzipiell unlösbar sein; z.  B. ist die Frage, ob 25 mal 25 = 628 ist, eine sinnvolle Frage.) Kann man den Wortlaut jeder Frage verneinen? Kann man ihr ein „nicht“ hinzufügen? Nicht immer. „Hat es gestern geregnet?“ und „Hat es gestern nicht geregnet?“ sind zwei Fragen mit völlig gleichem Sinn und unterscheiden sich höchstens in psychologischer Hinsicht. Man kann aber nicht sagen: „Wo ist der Mann dort nicht?“ oder „Wann gehst du heute nichts ins Bett?“ Wohl aber kann man sagen: „Was soll ich heute nicht tun?“ Es ist also nicht richtig zu sagen, dass die Fragen p? und p? identisch sind. Manchmal geht eine Frage durch die Verneinung in die entgegengesetzte Frage über, manchmal kann man eine Frage überhaupt nicht sinnvoll verneinen. Zum Beispiel, hat die Frage: „Wann ist Cäsar nicht gestorben?“, nur dann einen Sinn, wenn man nur eine begrenzte Möglichkeit ausschließen will; angesichts der Unendlichkeit der Zeit ist eine solche Frage sinnlos. Es gibt also drei Arten von Fragen: 1 ) Fragen, die sich nicht verneinen lassen. („Wann ist Cäsar nicht gestorben?“) 2) Fragen, die sich verneinen lassen, aber dann einen andern Sinn annehmen. 3) Fragen, deren Sinn durch Verneinung ungeändert bleibt. Worauf beruht dieser Unterschied hinsichtlich der Verneinbarkeit der Fragen? Hängt diese Einteilung mit der traditionellen Einteilung der Grammatik zusammen? Eigentlich schon; wir haben schon zwischen Wort- und Satzfragen unterschieden. Die Satzfragen kann man auch verneinen, und ihr Sinn bleibt durch die Verneinung

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unverändert: „Hat es geregnet?“ oder „Hat es nicht geregnet?“ Die Beispiele für die beiden ersten Typen von Fragen dagegen sind Wortfragen: „Was soll ich tun?“, „Was soll ich nicht tun?“ Wieso hat man nun bei den Wortfragen zwei Möglichkeiten? Wovon hängt es ab, ob man eine dieser Fragen verneinen oder nicht verneinen kann? Die übliche Grammatik geht an dem Unterschied, dass sich gewisse Wortfragen verneinen lassen und gewisse nicht, achtlos vorüber. Wir wollen nun untersuchen, welches der Unterschied ist, der zwischen diesen beiden Arten von Wortfragen besteht. Bei einer Mordtat wird man z.  B. fragen: „Wer ist der Mörder?“ Beim Lesen eines Kriminalromans kann man dagegen fragen: „Wer ist der Mörder nicht?“, weil man hier nur eine beschränkte Anzahl von Personen kennt, zwischen denen man die Wahl hat. Es gibt Regeln mit so zahlreichen Ausnahmen, dass man fragt: „Was soll man als Regeln und was als Ausnahme auffassen? Z.  B. beim Wort „Mut“: Viele Worte werden davon als Masculina abgeleitet (der Hochmut, der Kleinmut, der Übermut etc.) und viele wieder als Feminina (die Anmut, die Großmut, die Wehmut etc.). Wenn man nun eine Regel aufstellen sollte, welchen von den beiden Fällen man als Ausnahme betrachten will, so sieht man, dass ein praktischer Gesichtspunkt maßgebend ist. Ist dies nun vielleicht auch bei der Überlegung der Fall, wann man eine Frage in der positiven und wann in der negativen Form stellen soll oder liegt da ein prinzipieller Unterschied vor? Die Frage: „Wann hat dieses Ereignis nicht stattgefunden?“, hat nur einen Sinn, wenn eine begrenzte Zahl von Möglichkeiten ausgeschlossen werden soll. Man kann aber nicht durch Ausschluss aller Möglichkeiten (angesichts der Unendlichkeit der Zeit) den Zeitpunkt determinieren. In vielen Fällen wird der Unterschied zwischen der ersten und zweiten Frage ein praktischer sein. Man wird normalerweise nicht fragen: „Wann kommst du nicht?“, sondern „Wann kommst du?“. Wenn eine aufzählbare Anzahl von Fällen vorliegt, dann besteht zwischen den beiden Fragen ein praktischer Unterschied. Aber bei Vorliegen einer unendlichen Anzahl von Fällen oder Möglichkeiten ist der Unterschied ein prinzipieller (also, wenn man keine Liste der Fälle anführen kann, die verboten sind.) Was ist nun der Unterschied zwischen Satzfrage und Wortfrage? Ist dieser Unterschied auch nur ein praktischer? Ein Beispiel, wo der Unterschied zwischen Satz- und Wortfrage wegfällt: „An welchem Tag der nächsten Woche kommst du?“ Diese Frage lässt sich eine Disjunktion von Satzfragen auflösen: „Kommst du Sonntag oder Montag oder Dienstag oder …?“ Geht das aber immer? Carnap sagt in Der logische Aufbau der Welt: „Im streng logischen Sinn besteht eine Fragestellung darin, dass eine Aussage gegeben ist, und die Aufgabe gestellt wird, entweder diese Frage selbst oder ihre Negation als wahr festzustellen.“ Das ist bei Carnap die Definition der Frage. Sie ist aber viel zu eng, denn sie gilt nur für ein beschränktes Gebiet von Fragen. Sie gilt z. B. nicht für die Frage: „Welche Ursache hat diese Naturerscheinung?“

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Carnap hätte recht, wenn man jede Wortfrage in eine Satzfrage auflösen könnte, denn nur da liegt eine Aussage vor; das ist aber nicht der Fall. Bei Vorliegen einer endlichen Anzahl von Möglichkeiten kann man immer eine Disjunktion dieser Möglichkeiten bilden, so dass Carnap recht hat, nicht aber bei einer Frage, die unendliche Möglichkeiten betrifft. Eine solche Frage ist aber nicht sinnlos. „Wie alte ist die Erde?“, „Wie weit sind die Fixsterne entfernt?“ fragte man schon, ehe man die Entfernungen kannte. Carnap dachte, eine Frage sei nur dann legitim, wenn sie sich auf eine Frage von einer Normalform zurückführen lasse, für die das Kriterium gilt, dass jede Wortfrage sich in eine endliche Disjunktion von Fragen auflösen lässt. Sollen wir dies auch sagen? „Wie konstruiert man ein regelmäßiges Fünfeck?“, „Was ist die Ursache des Krebses?“ sind sinnvolle Fragen, die man jedoch in keine Disjunktion auflösen kann. Man kann von keiner wie immer gearteten Disjunktion sagen, dass sie vollständig sei. Carnap hat hier offenbar nicht recht. Bei einer Satzfrage verhält es sich so, wie Carnap sagt; es liegt ein Satz vor, und es ist zu entscheiden, ob er wahr oder falsch ist; sein Wahrheitswert ist offen gelassen, ist zu entscheiden. Anders ist es bei der Wortfrage; sie ist gleichsam ein Blankett, und die Antwort darauf ist die Ausfüllung dieses Blanketts. Je nach dem, welches Wort die Leerstelle ausfüllen kann, wird die Frage mit dem entsprechenden Fragewort eingeleitet. „Wann ist Napoleon gestorben?“ „Im Jahre …“. „Wo ist Napoleon gestorben“ – „In …“. In modernen Grammatiken nennt man die Satzfragen auch „Entscheidungsfragen“ und die Wortfragen „Ergänzungsfragen“; das illustriert gut das oben Gesagte. Es gibt zwei Auffassungen über die Sprache. Carnap meint, man könne ein vollkommen klares mathematisches System in der Sprache aufbauen; es könne alles genau und endgültig reglementiert ausgedrückt werden. Er schlägt eine bestimmte Sprachform vor: Wir sollen unsere Symbole in einer ganz bestimmten, scharf abgegrenzten Weise gebrauchen. Dagegen sagt Waismann: Man kann dies ja tun, wenn man sich einen bestimm­ ten Zweck gesetzt hat. Ist dies aber nicht der Fall, so hat es keinen Reiz, solche Reformen durchzuführen, denn man hat kein regulatives Prinzip, nach dem man beurteilen kann, ob sie eine Verbesserung darstellen oder nicht. Es ist nicht angezeigt, die Vagueheit der Sprache um jeden Preis zu bekämpfen. Die Vagueheit ist unaufhebbar, weil immer wieder neue Fälle auftreten, so dass dieses Ziel nur auf beschränkten Gebieten, aber nie ganz allgemein zu erreichen ist. In der Elastizität unserer Sprache, in der Vagueheit gewisser Begriffe liegt ein großer Vorteil (wie bei „Zahl“, „Zeit“ etc.), da wir die verschiedenen Dinge damit bezeichnen können. Eine starre Definition würde das verhindern. Eine scharfe Abgrenzung der Begriffe ist nur für einen bestimmten Zweck wünschenswert. Wenn ein Psychologe ein Buch über die Spiele der Tiere schreibt, wird es für ihn praktisch sein, zu umgrenzen, was er unter „Spiel“ versteht. Carnap ist der Ansicht, dass es an sich schon ein Gutes sei, die Sprache zu reformieren. Waismann dagegen meint, dass es vom Untersuchungszweck abhänge, wie wir unsere Begriffsbildung einrichten. Zum Beispiel, wird in der projektiven Geometrie alles unendlich Ferne als Gerade aufgefasst, in der Funktionentheorie als

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Punkt. Hier liegt eine Präzisierung des Begriffes „unendlich fern“, aber in verschiedenen Richtungen vor, als Gerade oder als Punkt, je nach dem konkreten Ziel, das man vor sich hat. Carnap macht sehr pedantische Vorschläge zu einer Reformierung der Grammatik, ohne einen bestimmten positiven Zweck damit zu verfolgen; er neigt dazu, einen Index verborum prohibitorum aufzustellen, während Waismann sagt, dass wir uns nicht zur Gouvernante der Sprache aufwerfen sollen. Man kann sprechen, wie man will, nur muss man in jedem Fall imstande sein anzugeben, was man meint; Kriterien, die die Grammatik klar machen. Man soll keine Universalsprache konstruieren wollen, die für alle möglichen Zwecke der Zukunft vorsorgen soll. Ein Beispiel für dieVagueheit gewisser Begriffe: das Wort „alle“. „Ich habe alle Tage besetzt“ und „Alle Kinder in dieser Klasse haben die Prüfung bestanden“. Im ersten Satz ist „alle“ eine Abkürzung für die Wochentage. Im zweiten Fall kann man aus dem Katalog ablesen, dass 27 Kinder die Prüfung bestanden haben; daraus kann ich aber nicht ersehen, dass das alle Kinder der Klasse sind. Das Spezielle, das durch „alle“ ausgedrückt wird, geht bei der Übersetzung in eine Konjunktion von Einzelfällen verloren. „Alle“ drückt etwas Spezielles aus, was man durch Einzelsätze nicht wiedergeben kann. Das Äquivalent der Aussage: „Alle Schüler dieser Klasse haben die Prüfung bestanden“, ist die Aufzählung der Sätze „A hat sie bestanden“, „B hat sie bestanden“ usw., plus der Aussage, dass das alle Schüler sind. „Alle“ ist vieldeutig. In „Alle Farben“, „alle Urfarben“, „alle reellen Zahlen“, „alle Zahlen“ hat es immer eine andere Bedeutung. Dem Passus „in streng logischem Sinn“ muss man immer mit Misstrauen begegnen; er ist eigentlich ein vollkommener Nonsens. Man soll ihn wie ein Alarmsignal: „Achtung, hier ist etwas nicht in Ordnung!“ betrachten. Ein Fehler, gerade bei ­diesen einfachen Dingen, pflanzt sich leicht fort und führt dann anderswo zu einer dogmatischen Haltung. Was für Arten von Fragen gibt es? Man kann sie einteilen nach der Antwort; aber sind zwei Fragen dann verschieden, wenn auf sie die gleiche Antwort kommt? Nein! Denn dieselbe Antwort kann auf ganz verschiedene Fragen kommen. „Der Schlüssel liegt auf dem Tisch“, kann Antwort auf die Frage: „Wo liegt der Schlüssel?“ und auf die Frage: „Was liegt auf dem Tisch?“ sein. Allerdings ist der Satzton verschieden. Was kann auf eine Frage alles zur Antwort kommen? Ein Satz (oder ein Wort als Abkürzung für einen Satz); eine Definition (Wenn z. B. ein Kind fragt: „Was ist ein Lexikon?“, Sokrates fragte: „Was ist Gerechtigkeit?“); ein Befehl („Was ist gefällig?“); ein Wunschsatz („Was wünschst du dir?“) oder auch eine Handlung („Wo ist der Roller?“ Das Kind zeigt hin.). „Wie ist das Leben entstanden?“ Muss auf diese Frage ein Satz zur Antwort kommen? Eine Abhandlung soll als Satz gelten. Ist es denn sicher, dass das Leben überhaupt entstanden ist? Wen sich die Voraussetzung als falsch erweist, dann fällt die Frage überhaupt weg, wie z. B. bei der Frage nach der Summe einer unendlichen Reihe. Das führt uns zur Frage: „Hat jede Frage einen Satz zur Voraussetzung?“ Die Frage: „Warum ist er nicht gekommen?“, setzt den Satz voraus: „Er ist nicht gekommen. Wortfragen setzen in vielen Fällen einen Satz voraus; es trifft aber doch nicht für alle Fälle zu. „Ist das Bild schön?“, „Wie viel Uhr ist es?“, setzt keinen Satz

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voraus. Aus diesen Überlegungen ersehen wir, wie kompliziert die Begriffsbildungen tatsächlich liegen und wie ungenau schablonisierend die üblichen logischen Einteilungen sind. Man könnte auf eine Frage auch mit einer Gegenfrage antworten, z. B.: „Was ist die Summe einer unendlichen Reihe?“ Darauf könnte man sagen: „Was verstehst du unter ‚Summe einer unendlichen Reihe‘? Du musst erst eine Definition der Summe für unendlich viele Zahlen geben. Dann werden wir sehen, dass hier keine Summe vorliegt.“ Man beantwortet also die Frage nicht, sondern bringt den andern dazu, die Frage zurückzuziehen. Man macht ihn auf die unrichtigen Voraussetzungen aufmerksam und schafft so die Frage ganz weg. Manchmal haben Fragen auch noch eine andere Funktion; es gibt rhetorische Fragen, oder eine Frage kann auch ein Ausruf des Staunens, der Bewunderung sein: „Wie schön ist es hier!“ Frage, Aufforderung, Ausruf gehen überhaupt ineinander über. Das äußere Anzeichen dafür ist, dass man Frage und Ausruf durch die doppelte Interpunktion verbinden kann. Wie unterscheidet sich eine Frage von einem Befehl? Wie lernt ein Kind eigentlich den Sinn einer Frage verstehen? Ich kann einem Kind einen Apfel zeigen und fragen: „Was ist das?“ oder ich kann hinzeigen und sagen: „Sage mir, was das ist!“ Es gibt einen spezifischen Tonfall des Fragens. Entscheidet aber dieser Tonfall immer? Bei einem polizeilichen Verhör hat z. B. die Frage sehr oft den Ton eines Befehls: „Wie heißen Sie?“, „Was tun Sie da?“ Eine Frage hat überhaupt immer etwas Imperatorisches an sich: „Wie heißt das?“ = „Sage mir, wie das heißt!“ Man kann eine Frage wohl als Aufforderung, eine Antwort zu geben, bezeichnen; in diesem Sinn haben Frage und Befehl etwas Gemeinsames. Wodurch unterschieden sich Frage und Aufforderung dann voneinander? Die typische Frage ist theoretisch; der Befehl gehört in die Sphäre der Praxis. Kann man aus einem Befehl auf einen andern schließen? „Setzt Euch!“ Aus dem Sinn dieses Befehls kann man auf einen andern Befehl schließen, d. h., deduzieren: „A soll sich setzten, B soll sich setzen …“. Befehle können einander auch widersprechen. Können Fragen einander widersprechen? „Warum ist er gekommen?“ und „Warum ist er nicht gekommen?“ Man würde eher sagen, dass die Sätze, die die Voraussetzungen der Fragen sind, einander widersprechen. Kann man von einer Frage auf eine andere Frage schließen? Ein solches System besteht zwischen den Fragen nicht, sondern nur zwischen den Antworten auf diese Fragen. Man kann daher ein deduktives System von Normen aufstellen, aber nicht ein deduktives System von Fragen. „Wo war deine Familie gestern?“  – „In Neuwaldegg.“ „Also warst du in Neuwaldegg?“ – „Drehen sich alle Planeten um die Sonne?“ – Man kann wohl die Frage stellen: „Regnet es oder regnet es nicht?“ Das ist sogar ein Beispiel für eine präzisierte Frage. Dagegen kann man nicht sagen: „Setz dich oder setz dich nicht!“ Hier haben wir einen deutlich fassbaren Unterschied zwischen der Grammatik der Frage und der Grammatik des Befehls. Bei Fragen und Befehlen kann man nicht von wahr und falsch sprechen, sondern nur von sinnvoll oder nicht sinnvoll, und daher kann man nicht im selben Sinn von „schließen“ aus einer Frage oder einem Befehl sprechen, wie vom „schließen“ aus einem Satz auf einen andern.

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Wie passen Frage und Antwort eigentlich zusammen? Worin besteht der Zusammenhang zwischen Frage und Antwort? Könnte man sich nicht irren in dem Sinn, dass man sich nicht klar ist, ob etwas die Antwort auf eine Frage ist? Zwei Fälle haben wir schon besprochen: Bei einer Satzfrage ist die Antwort schon in der Frage vorgezeichnet; bis auf eine fehlende Bestimmung, nämlich der des Wahrheitswertes. Auf die Frage: „Hast du gestern einen Ausflug gemacht?“, ist die Antwort: „Ich habe gestern (k)einen Ausflug gemacht.“, aber bei einer Wortfrage: „Wann ist Napoleon gestorben?“, nennen wir jeden Satz die Antwort auf diese Frage, der die Ausfüllung der Leerstelle des Blanketts darstellt. Hier ist der Zusammenhang zwischen Frage und Antwort klar. Frageworte wie „Wer?“, „Wessen?“, „Wem?“,… präzisieren sogar die Art der leer gelassenen Stelle. Ist es aber immer so einfach? Wenn Augustinus fragt: „Wie ist es überhaupt möglich, die Zeit zu messen?“, zeichnet da auch die Frage die Antwort bereits vor? Wissen wir denn, was darauf überhaupt eine passende Antwort wäre? Hier besteht die Antwort nicht im Ausfüllen eines vorgelegten Blanketts; hier ist die Form der Antwort in der Frage nicht vorgezeichnet, ist offen gelassen; daher könnte man sich vielleicht auch täuschen und etwas für eine Antwort halten, was gar nicht zur Frage passt. Unter den passenden Antworten ist dann erst noch zwischen den richtigen und falschen Antworten zu unterschieden. Wann erkennt man, was eine passende Antwort ist, wann kann man sich darin nicht täuschen? Bei Fragen wie: „Wie kann man die Zeit messen?“, sieht man nicht gleich, worin die Schwierigkeit der Frage besteht. Man könnte meinen, ein Verfahren beschreiben zu müssen, wie die Zeit zu messen sei; aber der Fragesteller wäre vielleicht mit der Angabe einer Methode der ­Zeitmessung als Antwort auf seine Frage nicht befriedigt. Er sträubt sich vielleicht auch gegen eine richtige Erklärung und sagt, dass dies nicht die „Antwort“ auf seine Frage sei, dass er etwas anderes wollte. Es sieht dann so aus, als ob das eigentliche Problem ungelöst geblieben wäre; aber wir geben keine begriffliche Definition, keine Zurückführung auf andere Begriffe, sondern wir zeigen den richtigen grammatischen Gebrauch des Wortes „Zeit“ in Sätzen. Welcher Art ist überhaupt die Frage nach der Beziehung zwischen Frage und Antwort? Ist dies eine Frage nach einer Erfahrungstatsache oder nach einer Festsetzung? Ist diese Beziehung immer von neuem abzuleiten, oder kann man sie aus allgemeinen Regeln ableiten? Es ist häufig so, dass man die richtige Antwort auf eine Frage gar nicht als „Antwort“ empfindet. Antwortet man auf die Frage: „Was ist ein Kreis?“, mit: „Ein Punkt liegt auf einem Kreise,…“, so ist es für den Fragesteller nicht leicht, gleich zu sehen, dass diese Antwort zu seiner Frage passt. In gewissem Sinn wird die Frage auch gar nicht „beantwortet“, sondern es wird nur der Vorschlag gemacht, die Frage abzuändern; die Fragestellung wird korrigiert. Und dies wird mit Recht nicht als Antwort auf die ursprüngliche Frage angesehen. Auf solche Fragen kann man keine direkte „Antwort“ geben. Sie machen vorerst eine Art Auseinandersetzung notwendig, die den Blick auf die Schwierigkeit der Fragestellung lenken und den Fragesteller gleichsam

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konvertieren und ihn befähigen soll, von der alten zu einer neuen Fragestellung überzugehen. Erst, wenn der Fragesteller vorbereitet ist und ihm die geistigen Voraussetzungen der Frage bewusst geworden sind, kann man ihn zu der neuen Fragestellung veranlassen. Dies ist ein außerordentlich wichtiger Prozess in der Geistesgeschichte; damit hängen die Fragen nach den geometrischen Grundbegriffen zusammen. Euklid fragte noch: „Was ist ein Punkt, eine Ebene, eine Gerade?“, und suchte diese Begriffe zu definieren. Heute sagt man: In einem axiomatischen System sind die Axiome die Definitionen der Grundbegriffe. Punkt, Gerade, Ebene sind durch die Gesamtheit der Axiome der Geometrie definiert. Dies würde man früher nicht als Antwort auf die Frage nach den Grundbegriffen der Geometrie erwartet haben, und viele wollen es auch heute nicht als Antwort gelten lassen und halten es für eine Umgehung des Problems (Frege und andere). Kepler fragte z. B.: „Warum haben die Planeten gerade diesen und diesen Abstand von der Sonne?“ Er war überzeugt, dass ein tiefes mathematisches Gesetz zugrunde liegen müsse, ein Mysterium, ein Geheimnis der Schöpfung. Diese Frage ist aber aus dem Fragevorrat der heutigen Wissenschaft eliminiert worden, denn man weiß jetzt, dass es eine Vielzahl solcher Systeme gibt und ferner, dass sie sich in einem Entwicklungszustand befinden und die einzelnen Sterne nicht immer den gleichen Abstand hatten etc. Die heutige Antwort auf diese Frage würde in einer Angabe der Geschichte des Sonnensystems bestehen. Man würde es ablehnen, die Entfernung der Planeten als eine Art „Seins-Gesetz“ hinzustellen und die richtige Frage müsste etwa lauten: „Wie hat sich diese Entfernung auf Grund der früheren Konstellationen herausgebildet?“ Wir können in gewissen Fällen einsehen, dass eine Frage sinnlos ist. Die Frage nach der Definition von Punkt, Gerade, Ebene würde man jedoch nicht als sinnlos auffassen, wenn sie auch nie die erwartete Antwort fand, nämlich eine explizite Erklärung; sie hat aber in einem ganz anderen, unerwarteten Sinn eine Antwort gefunden (nämlich, dass die Gesamtheit der Axiome die Definition der Grundbegriffe ist.) Was geht in solchen Fällen vor sich? Es ändert sich gleichsam die Richtung der Frage, und daher wird die gegebene Antwort zunächst nicht als Antwort auf die Frage empfunden. Erst der Übergang zu einer neuen Einstellung führt uns dann dazu, die Antwort doch zu akzeptieren. Das Wesentliche ist, dass wir auf solche Fragen wie: „Was ist die Zeit?“, nicht mit einer Definition antworten können, sondern dass wir dem Fragesteller klar machen, dass er von einer zu engen Bedeutung des Wortes „Erklärung“ ausgeht; mit Hilfe von Erwägungen und Überlegungen müssen wir ihn dazu bringen, dass er freiwillig und mit seinem Einverständnis dazu veranlasst wird, von seiner Fragestellung abzugehen und seine Frage anders zu formulieren. [Über „sinnlose“ Fragen] Wann ist eine Frage sinnlos? Es kommt darauf an, was wir als Kriterium der Sinnlosigkeit einer Frage gelten lassen wollen. Es gibt da viele verschiedene Kriterien, die sich wohl nicht scharf abgrenzen lassen, so dass wir willkürlich eine Grenze ziehen müssten. Wir tun jedenfalls gut daran, nicht von vornherein

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anzunehmen, dass die sinnlosen Fragen schon einen objektiv abgegrenzten Bereich bilden. Auf jeden Fall sind solche Fragen sinnlos, bei welchen schon die Zusam­ menstellung der Worte, also die Formulierung der Frage einen Verstoß gegen die logische Grammatik bildet: „Ist blau ebenso identisch wie Musik?“ Aber bei Fragen wie: „Ist eine Aussage über die Zukunft heute schon wahr?“, sieht man nicht mehr so leicht, dass ein Verstoß gegen die Grammatik vorliegt. Die Worte „wahr“ und „falsch“ vertragen keine zeitliche Determinierung. Dem Ausdruck „Es ist wahr, dass …“ kann man keine Zeitbestimmung hinzufügen (Fehler von Lukasiewicz). Oder: „Wie kann man einen Winkel in einen Teil teilen?“ Diese Frage ist sinnlos, weil sie gegen die Grammatik des Wortes „Teil“ verstößt. Man muss bei allen diesen Untersuchungen immer bedenken, dass die Worte „sinnlos“ und „Unsinn“ in vielen verschiedenen Bedeutungen gebraucht werden können. Man bezeichnet auch oft Fragen als „sinnlos“, die korrekterweise nur als überflüssig oder unberechtigt bezeichnet werden sollten. „Ist zwei mal zwei vier?“ – „Frag‘ keinen Unsinn!“ Diese Frage ist aber logisch nicht sinnlos. „Bin ich bei Bewusstsein?“ – diese Frage ist im logischen Sinn offenbar sinnlos. „Träume ich oder wache ich?“ dagegen ist sinnvoll. Wir haben also eine vorläufige Antwort auf die Frage gegeben, wann eine Frage sinnlos ist: Wenn die Wortverbindung, die die Frage darstellt, den Regeln der logischen Grammatik zuwider läuft. Man kann dies oft erst nach eingehender Untersuchung sehen. Wann versteht man eine Frage? Mögliche Antworten: „Man versteht eine Frage, wenn man imstande ist, den Weg zu ihrer Beantwortung anzugeben“. Das ist aber zu eng gefasst. „Wie ist die Konstruktion eines regelmäßigen Fünfecks?“ Das ist eine sinnvolle Frage, und ich kann sie verstehen, ohne den Weg zur Beantwortung angeben zu können. „Man versteht eine Frage, wenn man angeben kann, wie eine mögliche Antwort aussehen müsste“. Das ist auch zu eng. Man versteht z. B. die Frage, wie alt die Erde sei, und kann eine mögliche Antwort angeben („800 Millionen Jahre“.) Man versteht aber auch die Frage, wie die Grundbegriffe der Geometrie oder die Zahlen oder die Zeit zu definieren seien und kann doch keine mögliche Antwort darauf geben. Es schwebt eine Art begrifflicher Erklärung vor. Es gibt eine Phase, in der man die Frage wohl versteht, aber doch keine Antwort darauf geben kann. Dieser zweite Vorschlag ist also auch nicht einwandfrei. „Kann man unendliche Mengen hinsichtlich ihres Umfanges vergleichen?“ Diese Frage verstehen wir nicht, denn es kommen darin Begriffe vor, die wir nicht kennen; es ist eine Frage nach einem Begriffssystem, das uns unbekannt ist. Versteht man dann die Frage überhaupt nicht? Nein. Auch Cantor (dem Schöpfer dieses Systems) schwebte zunächst etwas Unbestimmtes vor. Man muss auch Grade des Verstehens, ein allmähliches Fortschreiten der begriff­ lichen Klärung unterscheiden. Ein Bild „verstehen“ kann verschiedenes heißen. „Musik verstehen“ ist bei verschiedenen Personen etwas ganz Verschiedenes. Es gibt verschiedene Tiefen des Verstehens. Zwischen Nicht-Verstehen und Verstehen gibt es viele mögliche Grade. Ähnliches kann man auch von einer Frage sagen.

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Ein dritter Vorschlag: „Eine Frage versteht man dann, wenn man die Bedeutung der einzelnen Worte kennt, aus welchen die Frage gebildet ist.“ Man kann aber ein Wort in verschiedenen Zusammenhängen gebrauchen, die verschiedene Bedeutung haben; und die Bedeutung eines Wortes verstehen, heißt, es in einem bestimmten Zusammenhang zu verstehen. „Was spielt sich im Innern eines Elektrons ab?“ Die Worte scheint man zu verstehen, aber die Frage nicht. „Im Innern“ müsste man erst von neuem erklären. Daraus kann man nur schließen, dass man die Frage erst verstanden hat, wenn man die spezifische Bedeutung der Worte in der Frage kennt. Dann versteht man aber auch die Frage! Es ergibt also einen Zirkel, wenn man sagt, dass man die Frage versteht, wenn man die Bedeutung der sie bildenden Worte versteht. Wann versteht man also eine Frage? Wie stellt man fest, ob jemand eine Frage verstanden hat? Man lässt ihn die Frage mit andern Worten wiederholen, man lässt die einzelnen darin vorkommenden Ausdrücke erläutern; man sieht zu, ob er eine Antwort weiß (wenigstens eine mögliche Antwort) usw. Kurz, wir verwenden zur Feststellung, ob jemand eine Frage verstanden hat, nicht ein Kriterium, sondern viele und dieser Vielzahl entspricht eine Vielzahl der Bedeutung des Ausdrucks „eine Frage verstehen“. Wenn wir alle verschiedenen Proben anstellen, so geben diese in ihrer Gesamtheit uns die Gewähr, dass die Frage verstanden wurde. In manchen Fällen kann jemand eine mögliche Antwort geben, aber nicht sagen, auf welchem Wege sich die Frage entscheiden lässt; in manchen Fällen weiß er auch das. Es gibt eben verschiedene Grade des Verstehens. Besser gesagt: Wir haben für uns, was man „verstehen“ einer Frage nennt, verschiedene Symptome, aber wir haben kein eindeutiges ­Kriterium dafür; und dadurch spaltet sich der einheitliche Begriff des „Verstehens“ in gewisse Arten des Verstehens auf. So wie man eine Frage in verschiedenen Graden verstehen kann, so kann eine Frage auch in verschiedenen Graden der Klarheit gestellt sein. Zum Beispiel,: „Hat der Patient Typhus?“ Das ist eine klare Frage; die Antwort ist der bakteriologische Befund. Wenn der Arzt den Patienten beobachtet, und es den Eindruck macht, als ob er große Schmerzen habe, und ist dies auch anzunehmen, und der Patient sagt trotzdem, dass er keine Schmerzen habe, und er hat bisher immer die Wahrheit gesprochen: Wenn man nun fragt: „Hat er Schmerzen oder nicht?“  – was soll da als Kriterium gelten? Die Aussage des Patienten, sein Aussehen, seine Reaktion? Der Beantwortung der Frage muss hier eine Erklärung des Sinnes vorangehen. Sie zerfällt in zwei Fragen: a) Was ist das Kriterium dafür, dass der Patient Schmerz hat? b) Hat der Patient wirklich Schmerz? Das heißt, sind die Bedingungen für unser Kriterium erfüllt? Die erste Frage ist eine grammatische Frage, die von uns durch Festsetzungen beantwortet wird; die zweite Frage ist eine Frage der Erfahrung. Solange die grammatische Vorfrage nicht beantwortet ist, hat die zweite Frage keinen klaren Sinn, ist aber auch nicht sinnlos. Die Frage, „Hat der Patient wirklich Schmerzen, ja oder nein?“ führt uns irre. Die Frage setzt voraus, dass wir wissen, was es heißt, dass jemand anderer Schmerzen hat. Man kennt aber Schmerzen nur von sich selbst, nicht von andern. Man glaubt, wenn man nur Worte hört, so müsse sich dabei auch etwas denken lassen; ein Tatbestand kann aber für den einen eindeutig sein, für den

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andern nicht. Einer solchen Frage muss also erst die Klärung des Sinns vorangehen. Sie zerfällt in eine grammatische Vorfrage und in eine sachliche Frage, die erst beantwortet werden kann, wenn die Vorfrage beantwortet ist. Beispiel: „Bin ich heute noch derselbe Mensch, der ich gestern war?“ Hier ist die Vorfrage: „Was heißt hier ‚derselbe‘?“ Was ist das Kriterium für „derselbe“? Derselbe Leib? Derselbe Gemütszustand? Oder: „Bin ich noch derselbe Mensch, der ich als Kind war?“ „Ist eine Kirche, die halb abgebrannt und wieder aufgebaut wurde, dieselbe Kirche?“ Vorfrage: „Wann sollen wir von ‚derselben‘ Kirche sprechen?“ In diesen Fällen liegen also sozusagen halbklare Fragen vor; sie sind nicht sinnlos, aber nicht vollständig klar; sie bedürfen einer Erläuterung. „Ist der menschliche Geist unendlich?“ So fragten die Scholastiker. Heißt das, dass er imstande ist, unendlich viele Schlüsse zu ziehen, unendlich zu definieren usw.? „Ist der Raum Euklidisch oder nicht-Euklidisch?“ An sich ist er weder das eine noch das andere. Der Raum ist ja kein Ding, an dem man gewisse Eigenschaften ablesen kann. Es ist nur eine Aussage über eine Struktur, ein Verhalten, und es muss erst präzisiert werden, welches dieses Verhalten ist. Es kommt oft darauf an, in welchem Sinn man eine Frage interpretiert. Ob die Lagerungsgesetze der starren Körper die der Euklidischen Geometrie sind, ist eine Interpretation. Ich könnte aber auch nach Lagerungsgesetzen für Gerade, die durch Lichtstrahlen dargestellt werden, fragen. Das eine Gesetz der Euklidischen Geometrie könnte stimmen, das andere nicht. Statt durch Lichtstrahlen könnte ich die Geraden auch durch Trägheitsbahnen darstellen lassen. Diese könnten wieder andere Gesetze haben als die Lichtstrahlen. Man muss eben zuerst definieren, was man unter „Raum“ versteht. Oder: „Ist der menschliche Wille frei?“ (Die Lieblingsfrage der Metaphysiker.) Die Frage ist außerordentlich unklar. Die Begriffe „Wille“, „frei“ müssten erst erläutert werden. Ist die Frage präzisiert, dann hört sie auf, eine Frage zu sein. Oder: „Liegt es im Wesen des Denkens, dass es ausdrückbar ist?“ Die Frage bedarf einer Erläuterung; was heißt „im Wesen des Denkens“? Was heißt „ausdrückbar“? – Descartes fragte: „Was bin ich eigentlich?“ Was ist das Ich? Solche Fragen sind nicht sinnlos, absurd. Es kann ja z. B. die Definition schon vorausgesetzt sein, und die Frage bedeutet dann: „Welche Eigenschaften hat das Ich?“ Oder: „Was ist das Licht?“ Vorfrage: „Wie ist das Licht definiert?“ Dann kann man fragen: „Welchen Prozess stellt das Licht dar?“ Es könnte eine sachliche Entdeckung sein, dass das Licht aus Wellen besteht. Dann kann man sagen: Wo Lichtstrahlen im Sinne unserer Kriterien vorhanden sind, spielen sich die und die Vorgänge ab. „Licht ist Bewegung.“ ist doch keine Definition. Wärme ist z. B. eine ungeordnete Molekularbewegung, z. B. als Strahlenfeld ein Wellenvorgang. Das sind zwei verschiedene Beschreibungen, Aussagen (nicht Definitionen). „Wärme“ wird durch Gebrauchsdefinition definiert: Wanderungen im Körper sind anders als Wanderungen im Raum. Wanderung im Körper: Ausgleich von Molekulargeschwindigkeiten. Wanderung im Raum: Aussendung von Strahlen. – Später kann man die Begriffsbildung nach dem Stande der Wissenschaft abändern.

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Oder: „Ist es heute wahr, dass es morgen regnen wird?“ Wenn ich die Frage auffasse als die Frage: „Weiß ich schon heute, dass es morgen regnen wird?“, dann hat sie einen Sinn. Eine Frage ist sinnlos, wenn die Grammatik der Worte bereits feststeht, und wenn die Fragebildung einen Verstoß gegen diese vorliegende Grammatik enthält. In vielen Fällen steht aber diese Grammatik noch gar nicht fest, und man kann daher noch nicht entscheiden, ob die Frage sinnlos ist oder nicht. Die meisten philosophischen Fragen sind nicht sinnlos, weil sich ja meist ein Sinn damit verbinden lässt. Unsere Beispiele zeigen, dass auf eine Frage nicht immer ein Satz zur Antwort kommen muss; bisweilen muss man ganz anders vorgehen, um eine Frage aus der Welt zu schaffen. Oft hängt die Beantwortung der Frage von der Beantwortung der grammatischen Vorfrage ab. „Sind alle Erinnerungen untreu?“ ist nur sinnlos, wenn man nicht vorher sagt, was man unter „untreuer Erinnerung“ versteht. Mit der Bezeichnung „sinnlos“ sollten wir etwas zurückhaltend sein. Man kann ja dem Wortausdruck einer Frage immer Sinn verleihen, wenn man ihn nur entsprechend interpretiert. (Z.  B. sogar einer Frage wie: „Täuscht uns die Erinnerung immer?“ Man muss nur sagen, was man hier unter „immer“ versteht.) Es besteht eigentlich immer die Möglichkeit, einer Frage Sinn zu verleihen; man kann nicht von vornherein eine Klasse von „sinnlosen“ Fragen unterscheiden. „Sinnlos“ wird die Frage nur dann, wenn derjenige, der sie ausspricht, sich weigert, die darin auftretenden Worte zu erklären oder dies für prinzipiell ausgeschlossen angibt. Auch die Frage, ob eine Aussage über die Zukunft schon jetzt wahr oder falsch ist, könnte man zur Not so interpretieren, dass sie sinnvoll wird. Es ist besser, zwischen klaren, weniger oder halb-klaren und unklaren Fragen zu unterscheiden. Es gibt also eine Anzahl von Fragen, die unklar sind, welche aber dadurch geklärt werden können, dass man ihren Sinn genau erläutert. In vielen Fällen muss eine Art Besinnung auf den eigentlichen Inhalt der Frage eintreten. Welcher Natur sind die Fragen, die in der Geschichte der Philosophie so häufig und typisch sind? Wir haben gesehen, dass die Gebilde, die man als „Fragen“ zusammenfasst, logisch durchaus heterogen sind; dies soll nun an dem Beispiel der sogenannten „philosophischen Fragen“ erläutert werden; wir wollen eine Anzahl davon herausgreifen und sehen, ob sie überhaupt in etwas übereinstimmen. Z.  B. fragte Zenon: „Wie ist Bewegung überhaupt möglich?“  – Die Eleaten meinten, dass es in der Welt so etwas wie Bewegung überhaupt nicht geben könne (siehe Argument vom fliegenden Pfeil!) und dass der Begriff der Bewegung mit einem inneren Widerspruch behaftet sei. Tausend Jahre später fragte Augustinus, wie es überhaupt möglich sei, die Zeit zu messen? Wieder nach tausend Jahren fragte Descartes: „Wie ist es überhaupt möglich, dass die Seele auf den Körper wirkt?“ (Die Seele ist räumlich, der Körper ist ausgedehnt, wie können also diese beiden Substanzen in Verbindung treten?) Kant fragte: „Wie ist Mathematik überhaupt möglich?“ Die Mathematik stammt doch aus dem Geiste und passt doch so gut auf die Erfahrungswelt!

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Oder z. B. das Problem des Idealismus oder der Realität der Außenwelt: „Wie ist es überhaupt möglich, dass wir von Gegenständen sprechen, da wir streng genommen doch nur von unseren Erfahrungen sprechen können?“ „Wie ist es möglich, im Denken etwas zu meinen?“ Das Denken ist doch auch Wirklichkeit; wie kann die Wirklichkeit über sich hinausgreifen und auf etwas hinzielen, das vielleicht gar nicht wirklich ist? Wie kann Erlebnis über etwas hinaus greifen, was jenseits des Erlebnisses ist? Bradley hat in unseren Tagen etwa folgende Frage aufgeworfen: „Wie ist es überhaupt möglich, dass es eine Beziehung gibt?“ Denn, wenn eine Beziehung vorliegt, so besteht der Sachverhalt aus drei Teilen: Die Elemente der Beziehung müssen ja mit der Beziehung auch wieder verknüpft sein; man sucht also bei Bradley nach einer Art Mörtel, der die Elemente mit der Relation verbindet: A mit R und B mit R (und nicht A und B durch R!); das geht aber dann weiter ad infinitum. „Wie sind dann also Relationen möglich?“ Was ist also eine Reihe von philosophischen Fragestellungen, die den verschiedenen Zeitaltern entnommen sind. Wir wollen sie vergleichen und sehen, welcher Art diese Fragestellungen sind. Handelt es sich hier um klar formulierte Fragen? Handelt es sich um gegenständ­ liche, also Tatsachenfragen? Im ersten Augenblick scheint es uns so zu sein. Sieht man aber näher zu, so bemerkt man, dass es Fragen nach dem Sprachgebrauch sind. Es ist der erste, aber auch der schwerste Schritt in der Philosophie, sich von der gegenständlichen Einstellung dieser Frage abzukehren und den Blick in eine andere Richtung zu wenden. Es sieht so aus, als würden sich solche Fragen (wie: ob man denn die Zeit messen könne) auf Eigenschaften der Wirklichkeit beziehen. Man muss vorerst auf den Ton horchen, in dem diese Fragen gestellt sind. „Wie ist es möglich …?“, fragen wir nur, wenn uns die Tatsachen ungereimt erscheinen, wenn sie uns verwundern, erstaunen. Wir gebrauchen ja unsere Frageworte auf die mannigfachste Art; wir würden am besten sagen, dass diese Art Fragen primär der Ausdruck einer Art geistigen Unwohlseins sind. Sähe man plötzlich einen Menschen im Zimmer vor sich in der Luft schweben, so würde man sicher auch ausrufen: „Wie ist das möglich?“ Aus dieser Art Fragen spricht eine tiefe Unruhe, eine geistige Erschütterung, ein Nichtverstehenkönnen. Beim Philosophieren kommt man bald an einen Punkt, wo alles zu verschwimmen beginnt, fremd, merkwürdig, nie gesehen erscheint und die alltäglichsten Dinge zum Problem werden. Eine Stimmung dieser Art spricht aus den zitierten Fragen. Ebenso spricht ein Ton der Beunruhigung aus der Frage von Frege: „Was ist eigentlich eine Zahl?“ Dieser Verbindung wird erst nachträglich die Form, der Wortausdruck einer Frage verliehen. Wir sind schon davor bewahrt, diese Fragen nach dem Muster wissenschaftlicher Fragen lösen zu wollen, da wir schon die logische Art der Frage betrachtet haben. Nehmen wir zunächst die Frage des Zenon vor: Wir müssen nicht nach einer Antwort suchen, sondern erst sehen, was es heißt, dass sich ein Körper bewegt, was es heißt, dass ein Körper ruht. Dann sehen wir, dass die Ausdrücke „Bewegung“ und „Ruhe“ nur in Bezug auf ein Zeitintervall einen Sinn haben. Das Argument des Zenon aber geht dahin, dass etwas, das sich in einem bestimmten Augenblick an

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einer bestimmten Stelle befindet, ruht. Daraus geht aber noch nichts hervor. In einen Zeitpunkt kann man nichts über Ruhe oder Bewegung aussagen, nur in einem, wenn auch noch so kleinen, Zeitintervall. Die Frage trägt also so lange den Schein einer gegenständlichen Sprache an sich, als wir nicht sehen, dass sie nur das magische Bild im Dunstkreis unserer Sprache ist, hervorgerufen durch den Nebel, durch welchen wir oft unsere Begriffe betrachten. Der Philosoph betrachtet die Dinge durch das Medium der Sprache, und dieses Medium bewirkt verschiedene Arten der Lichtbrechung. So folgt der Philosoph oft gewissen Analogien, wird durch be­ stimmte Gefühle irregeführt und sieht die Dinge nun in einem merkwürdigen Licht. Wir schaffen diese geistige Unruhe dadurch aus der Welt, dass wir auf den Herd dieser Unruhe zurückgehen; er liegt in unseren Begriffen; wir müssen also auf die Begriffe zurückgehen und durch ihre Klärung ihren Sinn und dann den Sinn der Frage feststellen, und auf diese Weise die geistige Unruhe beseitigen. So gehen wir bei jedem dieser Probleme vor. Wir sehen, dass diese Fragen letzten Endes aus einer geistigen Unklarheit hervorwachsen, und wir können nichts anderes tun, als den gesamten geistigen Denkbezirk, dem diese Frage angehört, zu untersuchen; ist dieser Denkbezirk geklärt, dann verschwindet die Frage; sie ist aber nicht im gewöhnlichen Sinn beantwortet, sondern wir haben durch tiefere Konstitution unserer Begriffe den Anlass, der zur Entstehung dieser Frage geführt hat, entfernt. Unsere Methode geht eigentlich darauf aus, die Fragen zu verflüchtigen. Um eine philosophische Frage aufzulösen, lenken wir den Blick des Fragenden in eine andere Richtung: aus der Welt der Tatsachen in die Welt der Begriffe. Wir beantworten die Frage nicht, sondern bringen den Fragenden auf andere Gedanken; das Ziel wird also verlegt, bis es schließlich entschwindet. Das Wesentliche an diesem Vorgang ist, der einen zur andern Fragerichtung führt und zwar mit einem Einverständnis. Einen Menschen, der die Änderung der Fragerichtung nicht mitma­ chen will, können wir nicht dazu zwingen. Wir können nur den geistigen Gesichtskreis des Fragers erweitern, Vorurteile auflockern, seinen Blick in eine andere Richtung lenken, aber das alles muss freiwillig geschehen. In der Mathematik gibt es sehr typische Beispiele dieser Art. Wenn man z. B. fragt, wie es möglich ist, einen Winkel mit Zirkel und Lineal in drei gleiche Teile zu teilen, so können wir diese Frage nicht direkt beantworten. Wir machen dem Frager erst klar, dass man jedem Problem in der Geometrie ein Problem in der Mathematik zuordnen kann. Hier sucht man eigentlich nach Zerlegung einer bestimm­ten Gleichung. Dann verändert man weiter das Ziel, solange, bis bei dem Unmöglichkeitsbeweis, den Winkel dreizuteilen, das Ziel der Frage ganz entschwunden ist. Man sieht dann nämlich, dass man in einem bestimmten Kalkül diese Frage gar nicht stellen kann. Wir gehen nicht in gerader Richtung auf das Problem zu, denn sonst würde es wie eine Fata-Morgana vor uns zurückweichen. Wir gehen erst zu anderen Fragen über, und das Wesentliche dabei ist, dass sich der Fragesteller bei diesem Übergang solange führen lässt, bis das ursprüngliche Ziel entschwindet. Hier ist jeder Dogmatik entgegenzutreten; wir wollen die Frage nicht verbieten und etwa sagen: „Das darfst du nicht fragen!“, sondern wir wollen den Horizont aufklären, so dass

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der Fragesteller freiwillig seinen Blickrichtung ändert, freiwillig seine ursprüngliche Frage aufgibt. Die philosophischen Fragen sind aber nur zum Teil sprach-intellektuell verur­ sacht, also durch logische Analyse aus der Welt zu schaffen. Zum Teil entspringen sie psychologischen Ursachen, bestimmten Lebensgefühlen und Einstellungen, und dieses letztere Moment entgeht leicht unserer Untersuchung. Dass z. B. Augustinus nicht nach einem andern Begriff, sondern gerade nach dem der „Zeit“ fragte, hat sicher auch den Grund, dass die Vergänglichkeit der Zeit gewisse Stimmungen hervorruft. Soweit aber diese Probleme intellektueller Natur sind, werden sie durch unsere Methode aus der Welt geschafft. Der Irrtum hat auch psychologische Gründe, und wir könnten uns damit befassen, diese Gründe aufzudecken. Es gibt jedoch noch etwas anderes, das einer solchen Frage gleichsam ihren Klang, ihr seelisches Gewicht verleiht. Zum Beispiel, ist die Art der Problemstellung, die Richtung, der Stil auch noch von weittragender Bedeutung. Das wussten auch schon die alten Philosophen. So sagte z. B. Augustinus, dass in dem Versuch, etwas auszudrücken, was nicht sagbar ist, auch eine bestimmte ethische Haltung liege. Auch Wittgenstein hat Aussagen in dieser Richtung zu formulieren versucht, von denen er wusste, dass sie der Logik widersprechen; aber es „liegt im Herzen“, darüber zu sprechen. Ein bedeutender Philosoph bleibt auch dann bedeutend, wenn man jeden seiner Sätze als unsinnig erklären würde; die Größe lässt sich nicht logisch einfangen, und es bleibt stets noch etwas, das sich logisch nicht erfassen lässt. Wir müssen zeigen, was einer gänzlich anderen Sphäre angehört, was nichts mit Wissenschaft und Logik zu tun hat. Bei allen bedeutenden Denkern ist, soweit sie bedeutend waren, etwas in ihrem System enthalten, das der Auflösung durch die Analyse noch widersteht; das Große an solchen Philosophen war das Menschliche und nicht das, was sie in ihrer Lehre, in ihrem System ausdrückten. Die Lehren und Systeme können nur als Anzeichen dafür angesehen werden, und darin liegt ihr Wert. Frühere Philosophen (bis Schopenhauer inbegriffen) haben noch das gute Recht gehabt, metaphysische Systeme aufzubauen. Dies war dem damaligen Lebensgefühl und Stand der Wissenschaft angepasst. Heute aber ist das nicht mehr gestattet; es ist schlechtes Epigonentum, und die Philosophen, die solche Systeme auch heute noch aufbauen wollen, schleppen nur das erstarrte Gebäude früherer Denkarten mit sich und sind tief unehrlich. Heute besteht die einzige Art zu philosophieren darin, genau, ehrlich und streng zu sein. Deswegen ist das, was man den Geist nennt, nicht aus der Welt gegangen; es hat nur andere Formen angenommen. Der Geist hat mehr Möglichkeiten; nur die Möglichkeit, metaphysische Bücher zu schreiben, ist weggefallen. Diese Ansicht beinhaltet keineswegs einen Unglauben an die Manifestation des Geistes. [Name und Träger] Wir haben also gesagt, dass philosophische Probleme in gewissem Sinn durch eine Untersuchung der Grammatik aus der Welt geschafft werden. Hier erhebt sich aber eine große Schwierigkeit: Wie kommen wir eigentlich zu den grammatischen

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Regeln? Woher wissen wir, welche grammatischen Regeln für ein bestimmtes Wort gültig sind? Können wir alle diese Regeln angeben? Sind diese Regeln feste? Wir müssen unsere Aufmerksamkeit auf die Vagueheit der Sprache lenken. Wie erfahren wir z. B. die Bedeutung des Namens einer Persönlichkeit, die unter uns lebt? Es gibt eine hinweisende Erklärung; man kann auf die betreffende Person hindeuten und sagen: „Das ist A.“ Aber, gibt es auch im Falle von „Moses“ eine hinweisende Erklärung? Offenbar nicht; was bedeutet dann das Wort „Moses“? Wir geben davon eine Beschreibung, eine begriffliche Charakterisierung. Zum Beispiel: „Das ist der Mann, der die zehn Gebote Gottes empfangen hat“ oder: „Das ist der Mann, der Gott im brennenden Dornbusch sah“ etc. Russell nennt diese eine „Description“. Eine solche wäre z. B. auch: „Der letzte Einwohner von Wien“, „Das letzte Mammut, das in Europa gelebt hat“ etc. Russell sagt, der Name „Moses“ stehe für eine solche Description, aber für welche? Können wir da gleich eine angeben? Man könnte sagen, dass Moses derjenige ist, der von der ägyptischen Königstochter aus dem Nil gefischt wurde; dann ist aber der Satz: „Moses wurde von der ägyptischen Königstochter aus dem Nil gefischt“, eine Tautologie. Hingegen ist der Satz, dass Moses die Israeliten aus Ägypten geführt habe, eine Aussage. Eine hinweisende Erklärung kann man nur von jetzt lebenden Personen geben; eine Description von jetzt lebenden und von gewesenen Personen. Man kann Moses auch den Mann nennen, von dem alles das gilt, was die Bibel sagt. Wenn dieser Mann nicht Moses geheißen hätte, so wäre der Satz „Moses ist Moses“ eine Aussage; im früheren Fall jedoch wäre er unsinnig. Hat man viele solcher Definitionen vorliegen, so ist man nicht sofort bereit, eine davon herauszugreifen und zu sagen, welches die Definition sein soll; man wird sich schwankend verhalten; was soll nun die Grammatik von solchen Worten sagen? Soll sie sie etwa verbieten? Würde man z. B. auch sagen wollen, dass Moses existiert habe, wenn fast alles, was die Bibel von ihm sagt, wahr wäre, dieser Mann selbst aber nicht Moses geheißen hätte? Offenbar schon. Wenn aber alles das falsch wäre, und es doch einen Mann mit diesem Namen „Moses“ gegeben hätte, würden wir die Definition offen lassen müssen. Jedenfalls gebrauchen wir diese Worte und wissen, was wir damit sagen wollen. Wenn wir die Bedeutung das nennen, was auf die Frage nach der Bedeutung zur Antwort kommt, dann können wir mit Recht die Bedeutung solcher Worte wie „Moses“ u. ä. eine schwankende nennen; wenn wir uns in der Philosophie dafür interessieren, welche Regeln für die Bedeutung eines Wortes gelten, so müsste man in diesem Fall einsehen, dass man keine bestimmten Regeln angeben kann; aber auch das ist ein Resultat. Wenn wir nicht eindeutig sagen können, was die Bedeutung des Wortes „Moses“ ist, so können wir auch nicht eindeutig sagen, welche Sätze über Moses in die Geschichte eingehen können, d. h., welche davon Aussagen und welche Tautologien sind. Bei historischen Personen ist keine Eindeutigkeit der Definition zu erreichen. Würde man z. B. die gesamte Biographie als Definition verwenden, so könnte man überhaupt keine Aussage mehr machen, denn alle Sätze der Geschichte würden dann Tautologien werden. Eine andere Möglichkeit wäre die, zu sagen, dass alle Sätze, in denen das Wort „Moses“ vorkommt, dieselbe Bedeutung haben, wenngleich

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man dieses Wort in jedem dieser Sätze durch verschiedene Beschreibungen ersetzen kann. Diese Aussage ist wohl jene, die man rein gefühlsmäßig zuerst macht. Aber, wir haben im Anfang unserer Betrachtungen sehr wohl zwischen Träger eines Namens und Bedeutung eines Namens unterschieden. „Der Träger des Namens ‚Hans‘ sitzt im Sessel.“, aber nicht: „Die Bedeutung des Namens ‚Hans‘sitzt im Sessel.“ Also sind alle diese Worte doch nicht dieselben. Dies kann man nur meinen, wenn man „Träger“ und „Bedeutung“ verwechselt. Der Träger des Namens ist in allen diesen Fällen derselbe; die logische Bedeutung aber ist eine verschiedene. In der Geschichte hat ein Eigenname von vornherein viele verschiedene Bedeutungen. Man kann natürlich die Bedeutung dann präzisieren, indem man auf eine bestimmte Definition zurückgeht. Es hängt von dem System von Sätzen ab, in dem man sich bewegt, ob etwas eine Erkenntnis oder eine Definition ist. Wir sehen die Vieldeutigkeit solcher Begriffe, die es mit sich bringt, dass man nach dem, was man unter der Bedeutung eines Wortes versteht, einen Satz als Erkenntnis ansehen wird oder als bloße Definition. Derselbe Satz kann also für den einen eine Erkenntnis darstellen und für den andern eine bloße Definition sein. Ebenso relativ ist es, wie die Frage zu beantworten ist, was man in der Geometrie ein Axiom und was einen Lehrsatz nennt; man wird erst später darauf aufmerksam, dass die Grenze zwischen Lehrsatz und Axiom relativ ist und desgleichen ist sie es zwischen historischer Erkenntnis und historischer Definition. Der „Träger“ des Namens „Moses“ ist ersetzbar durch „Moses“; man kann als den Träger des Namens „Moses“ nicht separat definieren. Davon zu unterscheiden aber ist die „Bedeutung des Namens ‚Moses‘“. Diese variiert je nach der dafür gegebenen Beschreibung. Wenn z. B. die Bedeutung des Wortes „Moses“ auf zwei verschiedene Arten definiert ist, woher weiß ich dann, dass es sich in beiden Fällen um denselben Mann handelt, dass also der Träger in beiden Fällen derselbe ist? Dasselbe Problem ist das, wie man (z. B. in Kriminalfällen) die Identität einer Person in verschiedenen Fällen und zu verschiedenen Zeiten ihres Auftretens feststellt; es handelt sich dabei um eine Tatsachenfrage. Man kann so vorgehen, dass man die Spur dieser Person zurückverfolgt. Das Kriterium der Identität einer Person ist Kontinuität in ­raum-­zeitlichem Sinn. Wir denken bei einem Eigennamen vorerst immer an einen Träger und vergessen darüber, dass dabei verschiedene begriffliche Bedeutungen vorliegen können. [Ist die Grammatik eindeutig fixiert?] Wir können noch ähnliche solcher Fragen aufwerfen: „Was ist ein Apostel?“ Ist dieses Wort durch eine Aufzählung oder durch eine begriffliche Charakterisierung definiert? Wir können da in verschiedener Weise verfahren. Weitere Beispiele solcher Worte sind: „Was ist ein Philosoph?“, „Was ist Leben?“, „Was ist Kultur?“, „Was ist Strafe?“ etc. Man könnte da zur Auffassung kommen, dass unter den vielen Definitionen eine die wahre sein müsse. Man kann aber in diesem Sinn nicht nach einer „wahren“ Definition suchen. Man sucht wohl oft, z.  B. in der Ästhetik, nach der wahren Definition des „Schönen“. Ist so etwas sinnvoll? Es ist nur dann sinnvoll, wenn man ein Kriterium für diese bestimmte Definition findet, das dem allgemeinen

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Sprachgebrauch entspricht. In diesem Sinn kann man wohl nach der „wahren“ Definition suchen, nämlich nach der Definition, die das wiedergibt, was man im allgemeinen Sprachgebrauch mit diesem Wort meint. Man kann aber nicht nach einer präzisen, engen Bedeutung von Begriffen fragen, wie sie z.  B. in der Philosophie vorkommen. So ist es ein ungereimtes Unternehmen, nach der Definition des Wortes „Erkenntnis“ zu fragen, also eine Definition, was wahre Erkenntnisse sind, dogmatisch herausgreifen. Solche Beispiele lehren folgendes: derselbe Gebrauch eines Wortes kann durch verschiedene Regelsysteme gedeckt werden. Die Bedeutung eines Wortes kann man an zwei Arten verstehen lernen: erstens intuitiv aus dem Gebrauch, aus der Praxis (so wie man Spiele vom Zusehen erlernen kann) und zweitens durch Erlernen der Regeln, die dafür gelten. Der Übergang von der Sprachpraxis zur Grammatik wird nicht eindeutig sein, d. h., dieselbe Sprachpraxis kann unter verschiedene grammatische Regeln gebracht werden. Vergleichen wir damit z. B. den „Rechtsgebrauch“ und das „kodifizierte Recht“; es kommt zwischen diesen immer zu Diskrepanzen, ebenso wie zwischen Sprachgebrauch und nachträglich systematisierter Grammatik. Der Sprachgebrauch fixiert die Grammatik noch nicht eindeutig; d.  h., die Verwendung der Worte kann nach ihrer Verwendung im täglichen Leben nach verschiedenen Regelsystemen dargestellt werden. Beispiele lehren, dass wir in vielen Fällen die Grammatik in verschiedener Weise konstruieren können, dass der Sprachgebrauch eine gewisse Freiheit in der Verwendungsweise der Worte gestattet. Dazu kommt noch, dass die Sprache ständig im Fluss ist. Worte werden oft per Analogiam in ein anderes Gebiet übertragen, in einem anderen Zusammenhang gebraucht und erhalten so eine neue Bedeutung. Die Sprache ist ständig in Bewegung, sie wächst nach verschiedenen Richtungen. Der Grammatiker der Sprache hätte dieselbe Aufgabe, wie ein Maler: Die Bewegung in einem ruhenden Bilde festzuhalten. Es liegen also zwei Schwierigkeiten vor: erstens sind die Regeln der Grammatik oft nicht klar aufzufinden, weil der Gebrauch, den wir vor uns haben, mit verschiedenen Regeln vereinbar ist; zweitens entstehen neben den alten immerfort jüngere Bedeutungen der Worte. Sollen wir nun den Sprachgebrauch klar nachzeichnen, eine Art historisches Porträt der Sprache geben? Das wäre wohl ein Stück Sprachgeschichte, aber zur Lösung philosophischer Probleme nicht sehr nützlich. Oder sollen wir eine Verwendungsweise der Worte herausgreifen und nur diese gelten lassen? Das wäre dogmatisch. Wenn wir beide Möglichkeiten verschmähen, sieht es so aus, als ob sich die Aufgabe der Philosophie verflüchtige. Unsere Methode scheint vorauszusetzen, dass wir klare Regeln angeben können. Was ist also in dieser Situation zu tun? Dies ist ein ernstes Problem. [Modelle der Sprache] Es soll ein Beispiel erörtert werden, das auf dieses Vorgehen Licht wirft: Frege hat von der Arithmetik gesagt, dass sie ein Spiel mit bloßen Zeichen sei; es fehle dabei gerade das Wichtigste, nämlich der Ausdruck eines Gedankens. Die Arithmetik sei wie ein Schachspiel und gehe damit des Sinnes verlustig. Was sie zur Wissenschaft erhebt, der Sinn der Zeichen, geht verloren. Auf den Bedeutungsgehalt kommt es an.

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In dieser Kritik von Frege ist etwas richtig und etwas unrichtig. Wir könnten auch einen andern Standpunkt einnehmen und sagen: Lassen wir diese Frage, ob die Arithmetik ein Spiel ist oder nicht, ganz beiseite. Eines ist jedenfalls klar: dass die Arithmetik mit einem Spiel Ähnlichkeit hat, denn sonst wäre niemand darauf gekommen, die Arithmetik ein Spiel zu nennen. Untersuchen wir nun einmal das Spiel. Denken wir uns eine rein formale Arithmetik und setzen wir dieses Spiel neben die eigentliche Arithmetik, ohne Stellung zu nehmen. Wenn wir also diese beiden Beschreibungen nebeneinander setzen, wird sich ergeben, inwieweit Frege recht hat. Von diesem Standpunkt aus betrachten wir auch die Sprache, nicht dogmatisch. Wir behaupten nicht, dass die Sprache immer nach festen Regeln zu gebrauchen sei; wir entwerfen ein Bild, eine Art Modell, das wir der wirklichen Sprache an die Seite stellen. Der Vorteil an dieser Methode ist, dass wir die Eigenschaften dieses Modelles völlig in unserer Gewalt haben, da es ja unser Modell ist. Wir gehen nicht darauf aus, den wirklichen, unendlich verwickelten Sprachgebrauch nachzuzeichnen. Wir erheben auch nicht auf Vollständigkeit der Beschreibung Anspruch. Auf der einen Seite haben wir das schwankende, flukturierende Bild der Sprache vor uns, auf der andern Seite einen klaren Fall, für den wir die Regeln in der Hand haben und klare, rationale Gesetze konstruieren können: Wir behaupten nun nicht, dass die wirkliche Sprache diesem Bild entspricht, sondern wir vergleichen sie nur mit verschiedenen solchen grammatischen Bildern und überlassen dem andern die Entscheidung, inwieweit diese Modelle mit der wirklichen Sprache Ähnlichkeit besitzen. Wir konstruieren einen Idealfall, um ein übersichtliches Schema aufstellen zu können, mit dem wir die Sprache vergleichen; einen Aspekt gleichsam, der nichts behauptet, also auch nicht falsch ist. Können wir alle Regeln angeben, die ein bestimmtes Wort betreffen? Wir können wohl sagen, dass wir alle Regeln kennen, die in einem Regelverzeichnis (das wir z. B. konstruiert haben) stehen. Aber, ob wir alle Regeln überhaupt kennen, die für den Gebrauch unserer Sprache existieren, können wir nie sagen. Dies ist nicht zu entscheiden, weil sich ständig neue Verwendungsarten der Worte herausbilden, und wir auch nicht alle alten überblicken können. – So müsste die Antwort lauten, wenn die Frage auftaucht, ob man die Regeln der Sprache wirklich vollständig aufstellen kann. Können wir die vollständige Grammatik angeben? Sofern es sich um die wirkliche Sprache handelt, gibt es dafür keine Garantie. Erst wenn wir die Sprache mit einem solchen rationalen Bild vergleichen, können wir von Vollständigkeit oder Unvollständigkeit sprechen. Wir stellen Regelverzeichnisse auf, die der wirklichen Sprache stückweise parallel laufen und die dazu dienen, die Schwierigkeiten zu beseitigen. Wir brauchen dabei nicht zu sagen: „Das ist die richtige Grammatik eines Wortes“ oder: „Eigentlich sollte dieses Wort so und so gebraucht werden.“ etc. Das wäre gefährlich, denn man wäre versucht, die Wirklichkeit danach einzurichten. Beispiel, das davon handelt, inwiefern die geometrische Gestalt eines Körpers mit den Wahrnehmungsbildern des Körpers zusammenhängt. (Und inwiefern man, wie z. B. Berkeley, sagen kann, dass ein Körper nur eine Klasse von Aspekten sei (Mach, Idealisten)). Die Form eines Körpers können wir beschreiben, indem wir

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seine Aspekte von verschiedenen Punkten des Raumes aus angeben. Dieses Bild wird sich ändern, wenn sich die Lage des Blickpunktes im Raum verschiebt. Man betrachtet z.  B. einen Würfel: Man denke sich von einem Blickpunkt zu den Würfelkanten Sehstrahlen gezogen. Eine Glasplatte wird in den Strahlengang gestellt und mit den Sehstrahlen zum Schnitt gebracht. Es entsteht so auf der Glasplatte die Umrisslinie des Würfels. Diese Figur ist das perspektivische Bild des Würfels von 0 aus. Wir denken uns nun in diese Bildebene ein Koordinatensystem eingelegt, dann ist die Umrisslinie durch eine mathematische Gleichung gegeben; es besteht die funktionelle Abhängigkeit (uv) = 0. Wenn das Bild im Raum wandert, wird sich auch die Gleichung der Umrisslinie ändern. Die Funktion (uv) wird dann noch abhängig sein von der Lage der Koordinaten x, y, z. (u und v sind die Koordinaten der Bildebene, auf die das Bild des Würfels projiziert wird; x, y, z ist ein System von drei Koordinaten im Raum.) F (x,y,z; u,v) = 0. Wenn man nun in diese Gleichung von fünf Variablen für x, y, z ganz bestimmte Werte einsetzt, erhält man nur mehr eine Gleichung der Umrisslinie. Die allgemeine Funktion spezialisiert sich also, sooft man für die Variablen x, y, z bestimmte Werte einsetzt. Dass wir einem Körper ein solches bestimmtes System von Umrisslinien zuordnen, also seinen Aspekt konstituieren können, ist nur eine Erfahrungstatsache. Ebenso kann man umgekehrt durch ein Gesetz, das den Wechsel der Aspekte angibt, das konstituieren, was wir die Gestalt des Körpers nennen. Man kann von der gewöhnlichen Gestaltbeschreibung eines Körpers zu einer Beschreibung seines Aspektes übergehen. Das ist nichts anderes als eine Umformung der Grammatik; das ist bloß eine Transformation in das andere. Statt zu sagen: „Das ist ein geometrischer Würfel“ kann man auch sagen: „Das ist ein Körper, dessen Aspekte so und so aussehen.“ Dies sind vollständig äquivalente Aussagen. Umgekehrt kann man ein Gesetz, das mir verschiedene perspektivische Bilder zeigt, in die Aussage transformieren: „Das ist ein Würfel in der und der Lage.“ Die Beschreibungen: „Von diesem Körper gibt es diese und diese Aspekte an den und den Stellen“ und: „Da ist ein Würfel in der und der Lage“, sind völlig äquivalent. Dies liegt auch den idealistischen Aussagen zugrunde, die einen Körper als aus Sinneswahrnehmungen zusammengesetzt beschreiben. Wir fragen uns: haben wir durch dieses Verfahren den Sinn der Aussage: „Dort liegt ein Würfel“ richtig wiedergegeben? Bedeutet diese Aussage nichts weiter als: „Wenn ich mich an die vorher bezeichnete Raumstelle begebe, werde ich ein Bild von der und der Größe und Form sehen“? Ist das, was ich sehe, durch solche Aspektvergleichungen wiedergegeben? Was angegeben wird, ist der ideale Fall; wir konstruieren ein grammatisches Bild. (Wir leiten rein mathematisch verschiedene Aspekte ab, begeben uns an verschiedene Stellen des Raumes und vergleichen die Gesichtsbilder mit den abgeleiteten Aspekten. Dies ist die Verifikation für den Satz: „Dort liegt ein Würfel.“) Inwieweit ist der Sinn des wirklichen Satzes: „Dort liegt ein Würfel“ richtig wiedergegeben? Das Bild ist eine Art rationale Konstruktion, die nicht die Wirklichkeit darstellt, sondern nur eine gewisse Ähnlichkeit mit ihr besitzt.

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Unsere Methode ist hier erstens zu einseitig, zweitens stimmt sie nicht mit der Wirklichkeit überein. Wir konstatieren die Wahrheit des Satzes „Dort ist ein Würfel“ nicht so, dass wir uns an verschiedene Stellen des Raumes begeben und unsere Wahrnehmungen mit den konstruierten Aspekten vergleichen, sondern man wirft für gewöhnlich einen Blick hin und sagt: „Das ist ein Würfel“. Die Psychologie gibt über die Entstehung der Wahrnehmungen Auskunft. Dass wir den Würfel dreidimensional, plastisch sehen, beruht auf dem Zusammenwirken vieler Faktoren: der Schrägstellung der Augenachsen, der Akkommodation der Linse etc.; der Erinnerung, dass dies ein wohlbekannter Körper ist (gegenüber einem, den wir noch nicht gesehen haben) usw. Auf all dies haben wir aber keine Rücksicht genommen. Unter all den Anzeichen, dass dort ein Würfel ist, spielt auch das eine Rolle, dass wir verschiedene perspektivische Bilder von ihm sehen, wenn wir den Ort wechseln. Dieses eine Anzeichen haben wir herausgegriffen. Das ist also eine einseitige Betrachtungsweise. Aber selbst, wenn wir diese durchführen, stimmt es noch nicht, denn das Wahrnehmungsbild wird ja nicht mit der mathematisch konstruierten Umrisslinie verglichen! Wenn ich sage: „Dort steht ein Sessel“, so konstruiere ich doch nicht die Aspektzeichnung und vergleiche die Wahrnehmung damit! Unser Verfahren ist, selbst, wenn wir uns nur auf unsere Gesichtswahrnehmungen einstellen, nicht zu­treffend. Auch haben wir noch nicht berücksichtigt, dass wir uns noch durch Betasten, durch Bewegungsgefühle in den Gelenken überzeugen können; dass unsere Wahrnehmungen von andern Personen bestätigt werden. Wie verifiziert man die Aussage: „Das ist ein Würfel“? Wie kommen wir darauf, dass dies ein Würfel ist? Es wirkt da eine Unzahl von verschiedenen Faktoren mit, und es ist schwer, klar und scharf anzugeben, wie der Prozess der Verifikation aussieht (Einfluss der Tiefenwahrnehmung, Muskelgefühle, Konvergenz der Augenachsen usw. usw.) Es ist schwer, weil wir für Muskelgefühle keine Maßstäbe haben. Trotzdem sind sie von Bedeutung: Wenn wir eine Mücke vor und einen Vogel über uns haben, so haben wir ein Gefühl in den Augen, das uns sagt: „Der Gegenstand ist knapp vor uns oder nicht“. Die Wirklichkeit ist meist sehr diffus und schwer zu fassen; daher ist es sehr einseitig, ein vereinfachtes künstliches System an die Stelle der Wirklichkeit setzen zu wollen. Alles, was von den Philosophen von Berkeley bis Russell über das Problem der Körper, das Erfassen der Wirklichkeit gesagt wurde, war einseitig. Wir wollen uns aber keiner Täuschung über die Kompliziertheit der wirklichen Verifikation hingeben. Deshalb verliert unser Verfahren den Wert nicht. Was wir beschrieben haben, ist eine gewisse Stilisierung der Wirklichkeit; es ist ein Spiel in seiner ausgebildeten Form. Wir behaupten nicht, dass die Wirklichkeit ihm genau entspricht. Wir konstruieren absichtlich Modelle, bei denen es genaue Vorhersagen und genaue Verifikationen dieser Vorhersagen gibt. Wir geben präzise Beschrei­ bungen; wir sehen aber, dass man in der Wirklichkeit nicht so verfährt, dass die Wirklichkeit nicht so ist: Wir wollen die wirkliche Wahrnehmung nur unter dem Aspekt der Ähnlichkeit betrachten. (Dadurch, dass wir hier von einem Aspekt sprechen, treten wir der Wirklichkeit nicht zu nahe.) Wir gaben hier ein Beispiel dafür, wie man ein grammatisches Bild der Wirklichkeit gegenüberstellt. (Die Wirklichkeit

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ist schwer fassbar, hat verwickelte Verifikationen; das Modell ermöglicht klare Vorhersagen, klare Verifikationen.) Z. B. ist unsere Methode der ähnlich, die Boltzmann vorgeschlagen hat. Er entwarf ein Modell für die Maxwellschen Gleichungen, ohne den Anspruch zu erheben, dass es in allen Punkten übereinstimmen müsse. Er bewirkte dadurch eine Art Reinlicherhaltung seiner Erklärungen. Bei diesem Vorgehen ist nicht immer die Versuchung vorhanden, die Wirklichkeit sozusagen zu fälschen. Das Modell ist da, und es wird sich zeigen, inwieweit es der Wirklichkeit entspricht. Entspricht es nicht mehr, so macht dies weiter nichts, solange man sich klar bleibt, dass es sich nur um ein Modell handelt. Wir gehen ebenso vor. Wir geben ein Boltzmannsches Modell der wirklichen Sprache, ohne die Prätension, dass es mit der wirklichen Sprache übereinstimmen muss. Das ist der Sinn, in dem wir sagen: Wir haben kein System (das mit anderen übereinstimmen oder nicht übereinstimmen kann), sondern wir geben nur eine Methode an. Das ist der Sinn, in dem wir die Sprache beschreiben wollen. Wir geben grammatische Systeme, die für die Sprachgrammatik nicht eindeutig festgelegt sind. Darum können wir sagen, dass unsere grammatischen Systeme nur ein Aspekt der wirklichen Sprache sind. Wir wollen viele Modelle angeben, sie um die wirkliche Sprache gruppieren, so dass wir unsere Sprache auf dem Hintergrund anderer möglicher Sprachen sehen können. Man kann ein Wort oder Zeichen auf verschiedene Art definieren und dadurch werden verschiedene Begriffe geschaffen. (Eigentlich kann man „Begriffe“ nur solche Wortdeutungen nennen, die an Prädikatsstelle in einem Satz stehen können.) Gibt es an sich eine ausgezeichnete Definition? Nein; denn welche Merkmale „we­sentlich“ zu nennen sind, ist nichts Absolutes, sondern etwas Relatives und zwar abhängig davon, welchem Zwecke die Definition, die diese Merkmale enthält, dienen soll. Zum Beispiel, ist „Gold“ für die Zwecke des Physikers (Elektronenbau), des Chemikers (Reaktion), des Juweliers (spezifisches Gewicht, Farbe) verschieden zu definieren. Die verschiedenen Eigenschaften koexistieren, aber die Definitionen sind logisch verschieden gebildet. Das Wort „Gold“ hat einen Träger, aber verschiedene Bedeutungen. „Blei“ war in der Chemie immer nur in einer ganz bestimmten Art bekannt (durch chemische Reaktion, spezifisches Gewicht festgelegt). Nun hat sich herausgestellt, dass es verschiedene Arten von Blei gibt, die sich zwar nicht chemisch, wohl aber physikalisch unterscheiden. Für den Chemiker ist „Blei“ eine Mischung verschiedener Bleisorten, der Physiker unterscheidet „Blei a“ und „Blei b“ („Isotropie“). Für den Chemiker liegt also nur eine Bedeutung des Wortes „Blei“ vor, für den Physiker aber verschiedene Bedeutungen. „Blei“ im chemischen Sinn ist die Disjunktion von „Blei“ im physikalischen Sinn. Alle Definitionen von „Gold“ sind an sich gleichberechtigt; es ist nur eine empirische Tatsache, dass die Substanzen, die unter die eine Definition fallen, auch unter die andern Definitionen fallen. Das heißt, es ist möglich, dass Erfahrungen auftreten, wonach die Substanzen unter die eine Definition fallen, jedoch nicht unter die andere. Das ist bei „Blei“ geschehen. Der Physiker definiert „Blei“ als einen Stoff mit dem und dem Atomgewicht; der Chemiker als einen Stoff mit diesen und diesen Eigenschaften.

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Es kann zwischen den Definitionen Äquivalenz bestehen, doch auf einmal löst sich ein Begriff in eine Reihe anderer Begriffe auf, und es wird zweckmäßig, statte einem mehrere Begriffe zu konstituieren (auf Grund der neuen Erfahrungen.) Ein Wort (Begriff) ist ein Instrument, mit dem man in der Wissenschaft arbeitet, und es ist selbstverständlich, dass sich mit dem Fortschreiten der Wissenschaft die Worte (Begriffe) ändern können. Das unbedingte Festhalten an Worten oder Begriffen in der traditionellen Bedeutung würde wie ein Hemmschuh wirken. „Jemand ist ein zweiter Cicero“: Hier ist aus dem Eigennamen ein Gattungsname geworden. Das Kriterium der Identität bei Personennamen ist die raum-zeitliche Kontinuität. Wenn man ein anderes Kriterium wählt (z. B. Beredsamkeit), so wird aus dem Eigennamen ein Gattungsname. „Das ist ein Herkules.“ etc. Ähnliches Beispiel: „Das ist auch ein Cis“: Das Kriterium der Identität ist hier die Übereinstimmung in der Tonhöhe, aber nicht Gleichheit in Raum und Zeit. Im letzteren Fall. (Wenn z. B. verschiedene Personen denselben Ton zur selben Zeit im selben Raum gehört haben) wäre dann der Tonname als Eigenname verwendet. Die Bedeutung ist kein Stück Natur oder Wirklichkeit; sie ist nicht unabhängig von uns da, sondern sie ist immer ein logisches Gebilde, das wir selbst auf verschiedenste Weise erzeugen. Das Laboratorium, in dem diese Begriffe (Worte) erzeugt werden, ist die logische Grammatik. Durch derartige Betrachtungen lernen wir, dass das, was wir „logische Kategorien“ nennen, nur eine Möglichkeit neben vielen anderen darstellt. Wir gewinnen dadurch einen Überblick über die ungeheure Mannigfaltigkeit, die vielen Möglichkeiten. Solange wir nur unsere Sprache betrachten, neigen wir zu metaphysischen Vorurteilen. (Wir meinen z.  B., dass es in jeder Sprache Bejahung und Verneinung, Haupt- und Eigenschaftsworte, Sätze von der und der Art, den Begriff des „Ich“ etc. geben muss. Es wäre aber leicht möglich, eine Sprache ohne Substantiva, ohne das Wort „ich“ usw. zu verwenden.) Die Sprache ist der Wirklichkeit angepasst, aber sie gibt der Wirklichkeit noch eine gewisse Freiheit (es gibt ja auch verschiedene Sprachen; flektierende, aglutinierende, wo das Verbum vorherrscht etc.) In der Sprache verkörpert sich immer eine gewisse Art der Auffassung. Durch die Wirklichkeit allein ist die Sprache noch nicht determiniert, sondern auch durch den Geist, der die Wirklichkeit sieht. Wir wollen das System der Variationsmöglichkeiten ausbreiten, ohne Rücksicht auf historische Sprachen zu nehmen, um so einen weiteren Blick zu erhalten und uns von Vorurteilen freizumachen. Rekapitulation unseres Gedankenganges: Wir gingen davon aus, dass der Sprachpraxis das Normensystem gegenübersteht, das in der Grammatik kodifiziert ist; aber der Sprachgebrauch, den wir in der Kindheit lernen, legt das Normensystem noch nicht eindeutig fest, sondern es können verschiedene Regelsysteme mit der Sprachpraxis vereinbar sein. (Unsere Beispiele: „Moses“, „Apostel“ etc.) Nun entstand die Frage: Da doch der Sprachgebrauch schwankt, was wollen wir tun, wenn wir ein grammatisches Abbild der Sprache konstruieren wollen? Wir erwidern: Wir wollen den Sprachgebrauch gar nicht in einzelne genaue Regeln fassen; dies ist in vielen Fällen ein hoffnungsloses Unternehmen. Anstatt dessen konstruieren wir Modelle, die wir mit der Wirklichkeit vergleichen (siehe Boltzmannsche

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Modelle!). Wir erheben dabei gar nicht den Anspruch, dass diese Modelle mit der Wirklichkeit übereinstimmen. Das ändert den Ton unserer Untersuchungen. Die Beunruhigung weicht, wir haben es nicht mehr nötig zu fragen, was der „wahre Sinn“ eines Wortes ist, was das „Wesen“ der Wahrheit, der Kraft, der Elektrizität, was das „Psychische“ ist etc. Solche Ausdrücke verlieren ihren Zauber, den Nimbus, den sie in den Augen der Philosophen hatten. In der Vergangenheit waren die philosophischen Bestrebungen vor allem darauf gerichtet, den „wahren Sinn“ solcher Worte zu finden. Wir suchen gar nicht danach. Wir beschreiben einfach die Verwendungsweise derartiger Worte, wie „wahr“, „wirklich“, „psychisch“ etc., wohl wissend, dass man auch andere (engere, weitere) Verwendungsweisen angeben kann. Wir konstruieren, sozusagen auf Vorrat, eine Vielzahl grammatischer Bilder und bieten sie zur Verwendung an; aber wir sprechen keiner grammatischen Bedeutung das Monopolrecht zu. Das wäre eine absolutis­ tische Haltung, die wohl menschlich zu verstehen, aber sehr gefahrvoll ist und verwirrend wirkt. Durch unsere Modellmethode werden wir die Suggestivfrage los, was denn der „wahre Sinn“ eines Wortes sei. Wir bieten statt dessen verschiedene grammatische Bilder, ohne zu behaupten, dass eines davon die „wahre“ Bedeutung sei. Damit hängt wieder etwas sehr wichtiges zusammen. Wenn die Sprache ein Begriff im Sinne der elementaren Arithmetik wäre, dann könnte man von festen Grenzen dieses Begriffes sprechen. Wenn es auch keine endliche Anzahl der elementaren Multiplikationen z.  B. gibt; man kann aber die „Multiplikation“ einen fest begrenzten Begriff nennen, im Gegensatz zu Arithmetik oder Mathematik, deren Begriffe fließend sind, wie der Begriff des Kalküls. Ebenso ist der Begriff der Sprache ein fließender (Wortsprache, Gebärdensprache, Bildersprache, Zeichen etc.). Dies erlaubt uns, unsere Freiheit auszunützen und verschiedene Sprachspiele zu erfinden. Wir beleuchten das unbeschränkte Gewoge der Sprache, indem wir ihm fest umrissene Gebilde gegenüberstellen und sie mit der Sprache selbst vergleichen. Wir können uns z.  B. einen Volksstamm denken, dessen Sprache nur aus Befehlen besteht, (um Menschen an bestimmte Orte zu dirigieren). Wenn man sagt, es gehöre zum Wesen der Sprache, dass es „wahr“ und „falsch“ in ihr gibt, so könnten wir ein Sprachspiel erfinden, das nur aus Befehlen besteht; es hat doch mit einer fremden Sprache Ähnlichkeit. Was sollen wir noch „Sprache“ nennen? Man könnte sich ein Volk denken, dessen Zahlenreihe so aussieht: „1, 2, 3, viele“. Auch wir haben keine vollkommene Zahlenreihe, nur eine kompliziertere. Wir sehen, dass unsere Reihe der natürlichen Zahlen kein ausgezeichnetes, uns von Gott geschenktes Gebilde ist. Dies soll uns vor Irrwegen behüten. Wenn wir nur unsere Sprache betrachten, dann werden wir leicht zu allerlei dogmatischen Behauptungen verleitet. Stellen wir sie aber in verwandte Sprachspiele hinein, so versetzten wir sie in ihre natürliche Umgebung und dann fallen alle Vorurteile weg. Es ist so, als ob wir mit dem Eingeständnis, dass das Spiel der Sprache nur ähnlich sei, zugegeben hätten, dass wir das ursprüngliche Problem nicht gelöst, sondern nur ein ihm ähnliches geklärt hätten. Es handelt sich aber nicht darum, dass ich ein Phänomen erklären wollte und ein anderes erklärt habe, sondern darum, dass ich die

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Beunruhigung dadurch beseitige, dass ich mehrere ähnliche Fälle einander gegenüberstelle und das scheinbar Einzigartige durch diese Betrachtungsweise zum Verschwinden bringe. [Methode der „morphologischen Beschreibungen“] Wenn wir eine Erscheinung in der physikalischen Welt für einzig halten und ihr deshalb vielleicht eine metaphysische Bedeutung beilegen (die Erde als einzigartiger Himmelskörper!), so verschwindet das Einzigartige, wenn wir auch andere Himmelskörper entdecken und sie mit der Erde vergleichen; es verliert seinen Vorrang. Diese Betrachtungsweise hat z.  B. auch Ähnlichkeit mit Goethes Betrach­ tungsweise über die Metamorphose der Pflanzen. Darwin meinte, dass Pflanzen und Tiere sich aus einfacheren Formen entwickelten. Er kannte gewissermaßen nur eine Schema der Entwicklung, das Schema der Zeit. Heute ist die Neigung sehr stark, überall dort, wo man Ähnlichkeiten entdeckt, das Schema der Entwicklung des einen aus dem andern anzulegen. Von den Märchen in der Südsee nimmt man an, dass sie von Insel zu Insel gewandert seien und sich auseinander entwickelt hätten; als ob sie sich nicht auch unabhängig voneinander entwickeln könnten! Diese Annahme des Entwicklungsschemas hängt vielleicht mit dem Kausalschema zusammen. Die Ursache geht voraus. Goethes Betrachtungsweise war anders: Er sagte, dass alle Organe der Pflanzen metamorphisierte Blätter seien; er wollte aber damit nicht sagen, dass sie sich zeitlich aus Blättern entwickelt hätten, sondern er wollte eine rein morphologische Beschreibung der Pflanzenformen geben (Wurzelblätter, Laubblätter, Kelchblätter, Blütenblätter, Staubgefässe, Stempel usw.), die eine Art neben die andere stellen und einen allmählichen, stufenförmigen Übergang zeigen. Er wollte die Mannig­ faltigkeit der Pflanzenformen von einem Zentralpunkt, von ihrer inneren Ähnlich­ keit der Pflanzenformen, von einem Zentralpunkt her, betrachten, aber keine Entwicklungslehre im zeitlichen Sinne geben. Auch wir wollen bei der Betrachtung der Sprache so vorgehen; die heutige Sprachwissenschaft verfährt mehr im Sinne Darwins, sucht nach zeitlichen Entwicklungsreihen. Wir wollen Sprache und Sprachfunktionen im Sinne Goethes nebeneinander stellen, ihre verschiedenen Arten und Beziehungen betrachten und sehen, nach welchen verschieden Richtungen wir dann fortsetzen können. Wir stellen eine Sprachform mit ihrer ganzen Umgebung zusammen und betrachten unsere Sprache auf dem Hintergrunde ähnlicher und verwandter Systeme, wodurch die Beunruhigung verschwindet. Wir wollen nicht sagen, dass die Darwinsche Theorie nicht richtig sei; aber wir konstatieren, dass ein gewisser Hang zur Verwendung des Entwicklungsschemas vorhanden ist, der gewöhnlich über die Tatsachen hinausgeht. Die Juristen fragen z. B.: „Welchen Zweck hat die Strafe?“ Antwort: „Sühne, Abschreckung, Erziehung, Besserung“. Hat es eine Zeit gegeben, wo einer dieser Zwecke allein vorhanden war? War etwa „Strafe“ und „Sühne“ einmal dasselbe Wort? Nein! Die Strafe hat immer alle diese Funktionen gleichzeitig gehabt. Wir werden daher nicht sagen,

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dass die Strafe nur einen Zweck allein gehabt habe, außer, wenn Tatsachen bekannt würden, dass sie nur eine Funktion gehabt habe. Es liegt in allem eine Art Stil, eine gewisse Betonung; die meisten Menschen haben z. B. beim Spaziergang die Gewohnheit, nicht an einem beliebigen, sondern einem ganz bestimmten Punkt umzukehren; in der Architektur gibt es verschiedene Stile der Abgrenzung, ebenso im Kunstgewerbe. (Der Abschluss einer Decke wird einmal durch einen Saum, dann durch Fransen betont etc.) Auch in der Wissenschaft gibt es so etwas wie einen Stil. Fragt man z. B., wie die Welt eigentlich angefangen habe, und man antwortet, Gott habe sie geschaffen, so zeigt dies einen gewissen Stil, eine Art der Betonung des Anfangs, eines fixen Punktes. Bisweilen will man den Anfang in einen gewissen Nebel tauchen. (Das Planetensystem sei aus dem Urnebel entstanden; das ist die Projektion des Gedankennebels gewisser Menschen! Ein „Urnebel“ ist keine Erklärung, weil die Multiplizität unseres Planetensystems immer die gleiche gewesen sein muss.) Am besten ist es, weder die eine noch die andere Art des Anfangs zu betonen, sondern zu zeigen, was man wirklich weiß, zu sagen: „Unser Wissen reicht von da bis da!“ Warum sollten wir nur dann befriedigt sein, wenn alle heutigen Formen aus einer einzigen Wurzel entsprungen wären?! Es ist nur eine Hypothese, dass alle Lebensformen sich au einer einzigen Urform entwickelt haben müssen. Es kann richtig sein, ist aber nicht die einzige Art, die Dinge aufzufassen. Diese Behauptung ist eine Vermischung von Tatsachenforschung und Stil, eine gewisse Tendenz, die Dinge aufzufassen. [Frage des Sokrates] An keinem Punkt in der Philosophie zeigt sich dieser Irrtum (nach der Bedeutung eines Wortes suchen zu wollen), so deutlich, wie in der Frage des Sokrates: „Was ist Erkenntnis?“ In den Dialogen Platons geben die Schüler die verschiedensten Antworten auf diese Frage. (Der Schuster habe Erkenntnis von den Schuhen, der Flötenspieler von der Musik usw.) Sokrates lehnte aber die Aufzählung der Arten der Erkenntnis ab, weil er nach dem „Wesen“ der Erkenntnis gefragt habe, das ein gemeinsamer Bestandteil aller einzelnen Arten sein müsse. Wenn er fragte: „Was ist gut?“, so wollte er nicht von einem guten Redner, Läufer, Werkzeug hören. Er fragte nach dem allen Arbeiten Gemeinsamen. Wir meinen dagegen, dass gerade das, was die Schüler taten, das einzig richtige war: die Aufzählung der Verwendungsarten des Wortes, die Angabe von Beispielen. Man könnte glauben, das wir die Beispiele in Ermangelung eines Bessern geben; aber wir verwenden das Wort „Erkenntnis“ ja auch nur in konkreten Fällen und wollen es auch in Zukunft nur in bestimmten Fällen verwenden. Erst, wenn wir gelernt haben, das Wort „Erkenntnis“ in bestimmten [Sinn] zu verstehen, wissen wir, was Erkenntnis ist. („Die Erkenntnis unserer organischen Entwicklung ist noch sehr lückenhaft.“, „Diese beiden Sätze sprechen dieselbe Erkenntnis aus.“ usw.) Warum sollte das Wesen der Erkenntnis schwerer zu verstehen sein, als das des Wortes „Stuhl“? Nur darum, weil es in reicherer, aber auch loserer Weise ge­braucht wird.

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Bei Platon kann man das Entstehen des Nimbus um die Allgemeinbegriffe deut­ lich verfolgen. Er fragte z.  B.: „Was ist Schönheit?“ „Schön ist eine Statue des Phidias aus Elfenbein“, „Schön ist ein Gedicht, ein Jüngling“ usw. „Was ist Schönheit?“ Das, was allen gemeinsam ist. Ein Ding ist darum schön, weil es an der Idee der Schönheit teilhat, und es ist umso schöner, je mehr es an der Idee teilhat. Die Idee ist gleichsam die Essenz, der reine Wein, der in den einzelnen Gegenständen schon mit Wasser vermischt ist. Aus dieser Annahme ergibt sich die Tendenz, nach der reinen Idee zu suchen, sie zu isolieren, rein zu gewinnen. (Platon meinte etwa: Wenn schon diese Statue so schön ist, wie schön muss dann erst die Schönheit selbst sein!) Was ist eigentlich der psychologische Grund dafür, dass wir so sehr versucht sind, immer nach der „wahren Bedeutung“ der Worte zu suchen? Nicht nur die Verführung durch die Sprache allein, der metaphysische Klang, der in den Worten mitschwingt, ist daran schuld; ein Teil des Grundes ist auch der, dass eine eigentümliche Verschiebung der Bedeutung vor sich geht. Ursprünglich bedeutete z. B. das Wort „Welt“ etwas sehr Großes im räumlichen Sinn, etwas im Raum, nicht den Raum. Das Wort leitet seine Seele davon ab, das es etwas Ungeheures bezeichnet. Dieses Wort „Welt“ wird dann gleichsam sublimiert; man flüchtet die Seele des Wortes, die Größe der Welt auf etwas anderes hin, auf den Raum oder gar auf das Logische. Was ursprünglich als „Welt“ gegolten hat, ist trivial geworden; man rettet den Nimbus des Wortes, indem man es auf ein anderes Gebiet verlegt; man spricht von der Größe des Raumes statt der Gebilde. Wie geht aber dieser Wandel vor sich? Hier kann ein eigenartiges Phänomen vorliegen. Man kann versuchen, es so zu betrachten: Wenn man z. B. längere Zeit auf ein sich drehendes Rad und dann auf ein Tapetenmuster blickt, so hat man noch weiter das Gefühl, als ob sich etwas drehen würde. Man könnte von einer Bewegung oder Ortsveränderung sprechen, das ist aber nicht richtig. Es liegt vielmehr eine eigentümliche neue Erfahrung vor, die zwischen Ruhe und Bewegung steht und gleichsam von beiden etwas gemeinsam hat; es ist aber keine Sinnestäuschung. Dieses Beispiel macht uns auf ähnliche Fälle aufmerksam, bei denen ebenfalls eine solche Verschiebung vor sich ging, wie bei „Wahrheit“, „Wirklichkeit“, „Notwendigkeit“ etc. Bei Philosophen werden oft gewöhnliche Worte mit einer besonderen Art der Betonung ausgesprochen. („Sorge“ bei Heidegger, „Angst“ bei Kierkegaard, „Wille“ bei Schopenhauer). Es geht ein psychologischer Wandel mit ihnen vor; im täglichen Leben werden sie trivial verwendet, erfahren dann eine Sublimierung und werden in das Metaphysische geflüchtet. Der Nimbus der Worte wird dann unantastbar und treibt uns oft dazu, über die Grammatik hinausgreifen, nach dem, was hinter der Grammatik liegt, was der Gefühlslage in uns entspricht. Man möchte die Wichtigkeit des Wortes erhalten und nicht das Substrat; die Seele des Wortes und nicht nur die Bedeutung im gewöhnlichen Sinn. zu machen. [Gehen die Regeln aus der Bedeutung hervor?] Wir haben gesagt: Die Verwendung eines Wortes macht seine Bedeutung aus, oder auch: Die Bedeutung ist durch die Regeln des Gebrauches konstituiert. Wir

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sagen also gewissermaßen: „Gib mir die Regeln an, dann erzeuge ich die Bedeutung!“ Die Bedeutung wird gewissermaßen synthetisch hergestellt. Das Laboratorium, wo diese geschieht, ist die Grammatik. Die Bedeutung wird nach den verschiedenen Dimensionen hin abgewandelt. Man könnte gegen dieses Prinzip, das wir ausführlich begründet haben, einen Einwand erheben: Wir haben gesagt, dass das Wort „rot“ noch keineswegs durch eine hinweisende Definition erklärt ist, dass noch viele weitere Bestimmungen hinzukommen müssen. Es handelt sich immer um eine Vielzahl von Regeln, die zusammen die Bedeutung des Wortes „rot“ erzeugen. Man könnte nun meinen, dass es etwa natürlicher wäre, zu sagen, dass die Regeln aus der Bedeutung hervorgehen. Es liegt z. B. in der Bedeutung des Wortes „rufen“, dass ich jemanden rufe; dass ich ein Akkusativobjekt brauche, d. h., wer den Sinn des Wortes „rufen“ versteht, dem ist diese Regel etwas Selbstverständliches. Wer dagegen nur die logischen Regeln kennt, dem bleiben sie etwas Äußerliches. Er versteht nicht, warum die Regeln nur so lauten und nicht anders. Er sieht keinen inneren Zusammenhang. Diesen sieht erst derjenige, dem die Bedeutung schon einleuchtet. Müssen wir also nicht Frege recht geben, der sagt: „Die Regeln gehen aus der Bedeutung hervor?“ Frege erörtert diese Frage in Grundgesetze der Arithmetik gemäß seiner formalen Auffassung der Arithmetik. Die Arithmetik ist ein höheres Schachspiel, dessen Figuren die Zahlzeichen sind. Frege gelangt zu dem Resultat, dass die Regeln nur solange willkürlich sind, als man dem Zeichen noch keine Bedeutung gegeben hat. Hat man dies aber einmal getan, dann folgen die Regeln aus der Bedeutung. Die Regeln, die man gibt, müssen der Bedeutung konform sein. In unserem Problem der Farbnamen handelt es sich um dasselbe. Schwebt nicht die Bedeutung als etwas Primitives vor und werden die Regeln nicht durch Analyse aus dieser Bedeutung heraus geholt? Wir stehen also vor der Frage: Ergeben sich hier die Regeln durch eine Analyse aus der Bedeutung oder folgt die Bedeutung durch Synthese aus den Regeln? Frege sagt: Die Regeln folgen aus der Bedeutung. Aber, die erste Frage ist hier die: Woraus kann eine Regel folgen? Aus einer anderen Regel! Z. B. folgt die Regel: „Drei darf man nicht durch 0 dividieren“ aus der allgemeinen Regel: „Keine Zahl darf man durch 0 dividieren“. Oder die Regel: „Das Wort ‚Mensch‘ wird groß geschrieben.“ folgt aus der allgemeinen Regel: „Jedes Hauptwort wird groß geschrieben“. Was soll aber heißen, dass die Regeln aus der Bedeutung folgen? Was heißt hier „folgen“? Jedenfalls nicht das, was es im alltäglichen Sinn heißt. Frege hat nicht das Bedürfnis, dies genau zu erklären, und doch kommt alles darauf an. Es ist merkwürdig, dass dies einem so subtilen Denker wie Frege entgehen konnte. Was veranlasst zu der Annahme, dass die Regeln in der Bedeutung enthalten sind, aus ihr hervorgehen? Wenn man Worte beliebig aneinander reiht, so ergibt sich meist kein Sinn. Woran liegt dies? An der Bedeutung der Worte. Damit Worte einen Gedanken ausdrücken, müssen sie sinngemäß aneinander gereiht werden. Das Gesetz der Wortfügung scheint durch die Bedeutung bestimmt zu sein. Daher kommt man zu der Ansicht, dass sich die Regeln nach der Bedeutung der Worte richten.

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Diesen Gedanken Freges können wir durch ein Bild veranschaulichen: Man denke sich gläserne Körper (Würfel, Pyramiden etc.) vollkommen unsichtbar im Raum, nur je eine quadratische Fläche (z. B. die Grundfläche der Pyramide) soll rot bemalt sein. Diese ebenen Figuren nun lassen sich aber nicht beliebig aneinander fügen, denn die unsichtbaren Körper verhindern es. Das Gesetz der möglichen Lagerungen ist durch die Gestalt jener unsichtbaren Körper bestimmt. Den Farbflächen entsprechen nun die sichtbaren Worte, den gläsernen Körpern die Bedeutung. Es ist uns, als ob hinter dem Wort wie ein unsichtbarer Körper, die Bedeutung stünde, welche die Wortkombinationen bestimmt. Die grammatischen Regeln erscheinen uns in dieser Auffassung als Beschreibung der Bedeutung. Dies hat wahrscheinlich Frege vorgeschwebt, als er sagte, dass die Regeln aus der Bedeutung folgen. Aber, dieses Gleichnis irrt: Und zwar ist der Gedanke falsch daran, dass die Geometrie eines Körpers in dem Körper liegt oder dass die Gesetzte der möglichen Lagerungen im Körper enthalten sind. In Wirklichkeit entsprechen den Gesetzen der möglichen Lagerungen nicht die Körper, sondern wieder die Regeln, die für den Körper gelten. (Man muss hier zwischen Körper und Form unterscheiden; man scheint hier von Körpern zu sprechen, obwohl man doch nur von der Form spricht.) Man könnte dies deutlicher machen, indem man fragt: Wovon handelt die Geometrie? Von den Körpern selbst? Also von den Holzmodellen? Kann man aus diesen die Regeln der Geometrie herausholen, als ob sie latent darin enthalten wären? Manchmal erscheint es uns ja so, als ob man die Regeln da herausläse. Oder handelt die Arithmetik über die Zahlen 1, 2, 3, 4 usw.? Spricht sie wahre Sätze über die Zahlen aus? Die Arithmetik sagt z. B.: „1 + 1 = 2“; das ist keine Aussage über 1 oder 2, sondern über die Regeln der Verwendung dieser Zahlen. Ebenso ist es in der Geometrie; sie handelt nicht etwa von Würfeln als Körpern, sondern über die Würfelform. Es liegt sehr nahe, die Grammatik der Aussage „Der Würfel hat 12 gleichlange Kanten“ mit der Grammatik der Aussage „Dieser Holzwürfel hat 12 gleichlange Kanten“ zu verwechseln. Der letztere Satz ist eine empirische Aussage, und man könnte meinen, dass der erste Satz von den „idealen“ geometrischen Würfeln handle, von einer Art ätherischem Würfel: In Wirklichkeit aber spricht man hier nicht vom Würfelkörper, sondern von der Würfelform und gibt dafür Regeln an, die aus der Würfeldefinition folgen; diese Sätze der Geometrie sind Festsetzungen. Es scheint nur so, als ob die Geometrie von einem Reich idealere Figuren handle. Man meint, dass das geometrische mit dem empirischen Gebilde auf einer Ebene stehe und merkt nicht, dass wir in einem Fall von der Wirklichkeit reden, im anderen Fall von einer Form. Man glaubt außer von den Holz- oder Glaswürfeln auch noch von den geometrischen Würfeln sprechen zu können; außer von den wirklichen Geraden auch von einer geometrischen Geraden. Es scheint, als ob die Sätze der Geometrie in irgend einer amorphen Form im Würfelkörper enthalten seien, und dass man sie aus dem Würfelkörper herausholen könne. Wir wollen überlegen: Welche Rolle spielen eigentlich Zeichnungen in einem geometrischen Lehrbruch? Welche Funktion haben sie? Man will z. B. den Satz des Thales beweisen, dass jeder Winkel im Halbkreis ein rechter ist: Gleichen Schenkeln

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liegen gleiche Winkel gegenüber. AD und DC sind gleiche Schenkel; Radien. Daher sind die Winkel α und ά und die Winkel β und β́ gleich; die Winkelsumme beträgt 180°; ά und β sind zusammen ebenso groß wie α und β, also 90°. Nun könnte man sagen: Ich sehe wohl, dass dieser Satz für diese Figur bewiesen ist; stimmt es aber auch für alle andern Figuren? Die Antwort darauf wäre vor allem, dass dieser Satz schon für diese Figur nicht stimmt (wenn man präzise nachmessen würde): Ist aber dadurch der Beweis entwertet? Setzt der Beweis voraus, dass man ganz exakt zeichnet? Nein! Man kann auch an nicht exakten Zeichnungen mit absoluter Strenge einen mathematischen Beweis führen. Der Satz gibt ja nicht für die Gebilde auf der Tafel, auf dem Papier. Jeleslev weist darauf hin, dass für die Figuren, die man zeichnet, eine andere Geometrie gilt, die „natürliche“ Geometrie, von der schon Protagoras spricht. Welche Bedeutung hat dann eine Figur in der Geometrie? Welchen Zweck erfüllt sie? Gibt man, wenn man eine Figur zeichnet, ein Beispiel für die Anwendung des Lehrsatzes? Was tut man, wenn man eine Figur zeichnet? Man „veranschaulicht“, würde man sagen. Wie aber ist diese Veranschaulichung möglich? Was hat die Veranschaulichung mit dem Satz zu tun, wenn sie ihn meint? Was heißt es, wenn man sagt, dass eine Figur eine andere meint? Wie ist dies zu formulieren? Man könnte sagen: Die Figur, die wir hier zeichnen, wird als Teil einer anderen Notation (Ausdrucksweise) gebraucht. Unsere Figuren sind selbst Teile der Darstellung, Symbole, mit denen wir kalkulieren. Die Figuren sind eine Übersetzung aus der Wortsprache in die Sprache der Zeichnung. In einer Landkarte treten z.  B. viele Zeichen auf, deren Bedeutung man kennen muss (†  =  Kirche, o = Marktflecken etc.). Es gibt also eine Reihe konventioneller Zeichen, die jeder Kartenkundige zu lesen weiß. Dasselbe gilt in der Geometrie: Z. B. -----------------bedeutet eine gerade Linie. Die Zeichnung ist die Übersetzung des Wortes „Gerade“ in die Zeichensprache; von Ungenauigkeiten sehen wir ab; ebenso ist es bei „Halbkreis“ etc. Wir operieren mit diesen Strichen, Punkten, Bögen nach gewissen Regeln, und diese Regeln sind es, die diesen Gebilden ihre Bedeutung verleihen; erst, indem ich diese Gebilde als Angriffspunkte eines Kalküls auffasse, erhalten sie ihren Sinn. Man kann ja auch ein und dieselbe geometrische Figur ganz verschieden interpretieren, je nach den Regeln, die man für ihre Bedeutung angibt; man kann z. B. die nebenstehende Figur körperlich sehen (als Würfel) oder auch als ebenes Ornament; das geht nicht aus dem Bild selbst hervor, sondern aus der Art, wie es interpretiert wird. Oder wenn man folgende Figur in gewöhnlichem Aspekt betrachtet, so sieht man sie für eine Gerade mit zwei sich schneidenden Geraden an; steht diese Figur aber in einem Lehrbuch der nicht-­ Euklidischen Geometrie, so sieht man ganz andere Regeln in sie hinein. Die Figur ist also kein Objekt, sondern ein Sinnträger, ein Ausdruck, den ich in die Sprache der Figuren übersetzen und aus dieser Sprache wieder zurück in die Wortsprache übersetzen kann; daher kommt es auf die Exaktheit der Zeichnung nicht an.

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Man ist also versucht zu sagen, dass man aus der Figur den Satz herausholen könne; aber steckt er denn darin? Nein; ich kann ihn erst herausholen, wenn ich für die Figur schon gewisse Regeln angegeben habe; dann aber ist die Figur selbst schon artikuliert, Träger einer Bedeutung, und man hat nur ein Zeichengebilde in ein anderes übertragen. Wenn ich jemandem die Regeln für die Geometrie des Würfels ohne Zeichnung erklären wollte, so wäre das sehr kompliziert. Zeige ich ihm aber einen Würfel, so wird ihm mit einem Schlage alles klar: Das Modell des Würfels erlaubt eben, die Regeln in übersichtlicher Weise zu zeigen. Wir überschauen die Regeln sofort, wenn wir ein Modell vor uns haben. Aber, es wäre falsch zu glauben, dass man aus dem würfelförmigen Stück Holz die Normen der Geometrie des Würfels heraus­ holen kann. Aus der Figur kann man keine Regeln herausholen; sie ist nur der Ausdruck der Regeln, die man für sie aufgestellt hat. Es ist also irrig zu glauben, dass die Geometrie von Körpern in diesen Körpern liegt. Die Körper sind nur die Repräsentanten, der Ausdruck für die Regeln, die von den Körperformen gelten. Es sieht nur auf dem ersten Blick so aus, als könnte man die Regeln aus etwas, das selbst noch nicht normenhaft ist, herausholen, also die Regeln der Geometrie aus den Körpern, die Regeln der Grammatik aus der Bedeutung der Worte. Aber, wir sehen uns immer in der Erwartung getäuscht, die Regeln aus etwas ableiten zu können, das noch nicht die Regel ist, etwa aus etwas Amorphen, Ätherischen… Man kann die Gesetzmäßigkeit für die Anordnung der möglichen Fügungen der Flächen im Raum aus der Geometrie der Körper ableiten, nicht aber aus den Körpern selbst. Regeln folgen immer wieder nur aus Regeln. (Eine Zeichnung, ein Modell kann uns aber zur Aufstellung von Regeln anregen.) Man könnte auch zwischen reiner und empirischer Anschauung unterscheiden: Als „reine Anschauung“ könnte man vielleicht diejenige betrachten, bei der man Regeln, Kalküle in die betrachteten Gebilde mit hineinsieht, bei der man das gegebene Material deutet, interpretiert. In diesem Sinne könnte man den Ausdruck „reine Anschauung“ wohl gelten lassen. Die mathematische Gleichung für den Würfel ist keine Übersetzung der Zeichnung in eine andere Zeichensprache; bei der mathematischen Gleichung ist etwas verloren gegangen: sie ist nicht mehr Ausdruck der Form, sondern nur des Verhältnisses des Volumens zur Kante. Frege sagt, dass jedes Zeichen „ein Zeichen von etwas“ sein müsse: Für Frege steht die Alternative so: Entweder haben wir es bei den Figuren auf der Tafel nur mit den Gebilden aus kohlensaurem Kalk (Kreide) zu tun oder die Zeichen müssen etwas bedeuten, von etwas handeln und wären es auch nicht die Gebilde in Raum und Zeit, sondern ideale Gebilde. Frege glaubt an die objektive Existenz der Zahlen, unabhängig vom Menschen; er meint, dass die Zahlen auch existieren würden, wenn es keine Menschen gäbe; wer dies bestreite, würde sagen, dass die Zahlen vom Vorhandensein des Menschen abhingen. Nur weil es die Zahlen als ideale arithmetische Gegenstände gibt, haben unsere Zahlzeichen Bedeutung.

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Frege hat aber übersehen, dass es eine dritte Möglichkeit gibt: Der König im Schachspiel ist nicht das Holzklötzchen und nicht ein ideales Gebilde, sondern der Angriffspunkt der Regeln, die für ihn gelten. Die Formalisten (Heine u. a.) haben sich immer darauf berufen, dass die Zahlen existieren, solange die Zeichen auf dem Papier existieren; dagegen hat Frege mit Recht Stellung genommen; aber seine Auffassung führt hinwiederum zu einer Art platonischer, metaphysischer Auffassung der Zahlen. Die Zahl 5 ist gewiss nicht das Zeichen; die Existenz einer Zahl folgt nicht aus der Existenz eines Zeichens; aber, wir haben kein Recht und keinen Anlass zu glauben, das es ein Reich von objektiven, idealen Zahlen gibt. (Schuld an diesem Irrtum ist die Sucht, zu substantivieren, für jede Bedeutung einen Träger zu suchen.) Die Bedeutung einer Zahl, eines Beistrichs etc. erschöpft sich in der Funktion, die dieses Zeichen haben. Die Bedeutung folgt aus den Regeln. Wir werden später noch zu besprechen haben, ob die Regeln der Grammatik ganz willkürlich sind, in dem Sinne, dass dabei auf die Wirklichkeit gar kein Bezug genommen wird, oder ob bei ihrer Aufstellung doch eine Führung durch die Wirklichkeit besteht. Aber aus der Betrachtung der Wirklichkeit allein, z.  B. aus reiner Psychologie, kann man solche Probleme nicht lösen; sie hängen mit der Struktur der Sprache zusammen. Es besteht ein tiefer Zusammenhang zwischen Sprachtypen (oder Struktoren) und Weltbildern; das hat schon Nietzsche gesehen. Er machte darauf aufmerksam, dass die griechische, deutsche, die indogermanischen Sprachen dieselben philosophischen Probleme nahe legen, und dass z. B. ein Mohammedaner die Welt ganz anders sieht. „Die Menschen werden solange an einen Gott glauben, als sie an die Grammatik glauben.“ (Lichtenberg: „Alle Philosophie ist Berichtigung des Sprachgebrauches“.) Die Bedeutung eines Wortes geht aus allen Regeln hervor, die von diesem Wort gelten. Die Regeln folgen nicht aus der Bedeutung, sondern sie erzeugen die Bedeutung des Wortes. Die Bedeutung wird erst durch alle Regeln konstituiert. Wenn man die Regeln ändert, ändert sich auch die Bedeutung.

15.5  Friedrich Waismann: Skizze zu den Leitgedanken D.15 (Schlick-Nachlass) Alle Erkenntnis ist mitteilbar. Die Mitteilung der Erkenntnis erfolgt in Sätzen. Das Wesen eines Dinges lässt sich nicht mitteilen. (Was rot ist oder worin die Freude besteht, lässt sich nicht sagen. Wer dergleichen nie erlebt hat, weiss nicht, was diese Worte bedeuten.) Das blosse Erleben ist noch kein Erkennen. Die Erkenntnis fängt erst dort an, wo etwas gedacht oder ausgesprochen oder mitgeteilt wird. Der sprachlich formulierte Gedanke ist der Satz. Nicht jeder Satz teilt eine Erkenntnis mit. Erkenntnis wohnt nur jenen Sätzen inne, die einen Sinn ausdrücken.

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Der Sinn des Satzes ist das Bestehen oder Nichtbestehen eines Sachverhalts. Der Satz bezieht sich auf einen Sachverhalt; er stellt ihn dar. (Der Sinn ist nicht der Sachverhalt; sonst hätten p und ~p denselben Sinn.) Das bestehen eines Sachverhalts heist auch ein positiver Tatbestand, das Nichtbestehen ein negativer Tatbestand. Die Wirklichkeit ist bestimmt durch das Bestehen und Nichtbestehen von Sachverhalten. Der Satz wird mit der Wirklichkeit verglichen. Der Satz ist wahr, wenn sein Sinn übereinstimmt mit der Wirklichkeit; andernfalls ist er falsch. (Der positive Satz ist wahr, wenn der von ihm gemeinte Sachverhalt besteht; falsch wenn er nicht besteht. Der negative Satz ist wahr, wenn der von ihm gemeinte Sachverhalt nicht besteht; falsch wenn er besteht.) Wahr oder falsch ist weder der Sinn noch der Sachverhalt, sondern der Satz. Wahr oder falsch ist schon der einzelne Satz, nicht erst ein System von Sätze. Die Wahrheit kann auch nicht in der Widerspruchslosigkeit der Sätze bestehen. Die Widerspruchslosigkeit ist zwar eine notwendige aber keine hinreichende Bedingung für die Wahrheit. (Von mehreren in sich widerspruchsfreien physikalischen Theorien kann doch nur eine wahr sein.) Wahrheit und Falschheit heißen die Wahrheitswerte eines Satzes. Ein Sachverhalt besteht oder er besteht nicht. Ein Mittelding gibt es nicht. Dem entspricht, dass ein Satz entweder wahr oder falsch ist. Die Wahrscheinlichkeit stellt keinen Übergang zwischen wahr und falsch dar. Wahrscheinlich ist nicht der Satz, sondern unser Wissen um die Wahrheit eines Satzes. (Unser Wissen um die Wahrheit ist verschiedener Abstufungen fähig, und dies ist die Grundlage der Wahrscheinlichkeit.) Nur der Satz hat Sinn. Nur der Satz ist wahr oder falsch. Nur der Satz ist verneinbar. Das Wort hat keinen Sinn. Das Wort ist nicht wahr oder falsch. Das Wort ist nicht verneinbar. (Der Satz hat eine Richtung; das Wort nicht. Der Satz gleicht einem Pfeil, das Wort einem Punkt.) Die Verneinung verkehrt den Sinn des Satzes. Die Verneinung ist ein logischer Operator, der aus dem Sinn eines gegebenen Satzes einen neuen Sinn erzeugt. Der Verneinung entspricht nichts in der Wirklichkeit. Das Wort „nein“ vertritt keinen Gegenstand. (Die Sätze „p“ und „~p“ haben entgegengesetzten Sinn, aber es entspricht ihnen ein und derselbe Sachverhalt.) Auch der negative Satz teilt uns etwas mit. Zur vollständigen Formulierung unseres Wissens von der Wirklichkeit sind sowohl positive wie negative Sätze nötig. (Aus dem Bestehen eines Sachverhalts kann man im allgemeinen nicht auf das Nichtbestehen eines andern schließen.) Entbehrlich wären die negativen Sätze nur dann, wenn wir alle wahren positiven Sätze kannten und außerdem wüssten, dass es alle Sätze sind. Das Verständnis des negativen Satzes setzt das des positiven voraus und umgekehrt.

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Positive und negative Sätze sind logisch gleichberechtigt. Es ist gleichgültig, welche von beiden wir durch ein besonderes Kennzeichen (Negation, Affirmation) hervorheben. Es ändert nichts am Sinn eines Satzes, wenn man noch hinzufügt, dass er wahr ist. Also hat das (Frege-Russellsche) Behauptungszeichen keine logische Bedeutung. Der Satz muss schon einen Sinn haben; das Behauptungszeichen kann ihm nicht erst den Sinn geben, denn es behauptet ja gerade den Sinn; es deutet nur an, dass der Behauptende den Satz für wahr hält; und der Glaube gehört in die Psychologie. „Annahmen“ im Sinne Meinongs – die weder Aussagen noch Begriffe sind – gibt es nicht. Das Logische am Urteil ist dasjenige am Urteil, wovon seine Wahrheit oder Falschheit abhängt. Derselbe Gedanke kann sich psychologisch in gänzlich verschiedenen Urteilsakten repräsentieren. Der Urteilsakt ist etwas einmaliges. Fällen zwei Personen dasselbe Urteil, so sind die Urteilsakte verschieden. Gemeinsam ist dasjenige, wovon die Wahrheit des Urteils abhängt. Das Logische ist nicht vom Psychischen begleitet; es repräsentiert sich in ihm. Wahr sein bedeutet nicht: für wahr gehalten werden. Im Satz drückt sich der Gedanke sinnlich wahrnehmbar aus. Das sinnlich wahr­ nehmbare am Satz ist das Satzzeichen. Der Satz ist das Satzzeichen in seiner logischen Funktion, d. h. in seiner Beziehung zum Sachverhalt. (Zwei Sätze sind also verschieden, wenn ihre Satzzeichen verschieden sind. Verschiedene Sätze können denselben Sinn haben.) Eine Aussage verifizieren heißt: ihre Wahrheit oder Falschheit feststellen. Wer einen Satz ausspricht, der muss wissen, unter welchen Bedingungen er den Satz wahr oder falsch nennt; vermag er das nicht anzugeben, so weiß er auch nicht, was er gesagt hat. Den Sinn eines Satzes verstehen, heißt wissen, wie es sich verhält, wenn der Satz wahr ist. Man kann ihn aber verstehen, ohne zu wissen, ob er wahr ist. Um sich den Sinn eines Satzes zu vergegenwärtigen, muss man sich das Verfahren klar machen, das zur Feststellung seiner Wahrheit führt. Kennt man dieses Verfahren nicht, so kann man auch den Sinn des Satzes nicht verstehen. Ein Satz kann nicht mehr sagen, als was durch die Methode der Verifikation fest­ gestellt wird. Wenn ich sage: mein Freund ist zornig, und dies dadurch feststelle, dass er ein bestimmtes Verhalten zeigt, so meine ich damit auch nur, dass er dieses Verhalten zeigt. Und wenn ich mehr meine, so kann ich nicht angeben, worin dieses mehr besteht. Ein Satz sagt nur, was er sagt und nichts darüber hinaus. Der Sinn des Satzes ist die Methode seiner Verifikation. Die Methode der Verifikation ist nicht der Weg, nicht das Mittel, sondern der Sinn selbst. Der Satz enthält schon die Methode seiner Verifikation; sie kann ihm nicht nachträglich hinzugefügt werden. Nach einer Methode der Verifikation kann man nicht suchen. Sind zwei Methoden der Verifikation logisch äquivalent, so entspricht ihnen derselbe Sinn.

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Eine Aussage ist sinnvoll heißt: sie kann verifiziert werden. Die Eigenschaft „sinnvoll“ charakterisiert alle diejenigen Sätze, die fähig sind, eine Erkenntnis mitzuteilen. Nur dem sinnvollen Satz entspricht eine Tatsache. Ob eine Tatsache vorliegt, hängt davon ab, ob der Satz, der diese Tatsache be­schreibt, einen Sinn hat. Liegt die Sprache fest, so ist damit auch schon bestimmt, ob eine Aussage Sinn hat oder nicht. Die Erfahrung kann darüber nicht entscheiden. (Die Erfahrung kann ja nur lehren, ob ein Satz wahr ist, dazu muss man aber bereits wissen, was der Satz bedeutet.) Bestimme ich, unter welchen Bedingungen ein Satz wahr oder falsch sein soll, so bestimme ich damit den Sinn des Satzes. Eine Aussage die nicht endgültig verifiziert werden kann, ist überhaupt nicht verifizierbar. (Können wir bei einem Satz immer wieder zweifeln, ob er wahr ist, so hat er keinen Sinn. Der absolute Zweifel ist unberechtigt, sofern er sinnvolle Sätze bezweifeln will.) Sind zwei Sätze unter denselben Bedingungen wahr oder falsch, so haben sie denselben Sinn, auch wenn sie psychologisch uns als verschieden erscheinen. („Caesar ist tot und Brutus lebt“, „Caesar ist tot, aber Brutus lebt“ haben denselben Sinn.) Ist eine Methode der Verifikation nicht denkbar, so hat die Aussage keinen Sinn. („Der Raum hat sich vergrößert“, „Die Zeit ist stillgestanden“, „Die Zukunft ist früher als die Vergangenheit“ sind solche Scheinsätze.) Ein Wort hat Bedeutung nur im Zusammenhang des Satzes. Um sich die Bedeutung eines Wortes zu vergegenwärtigen, muss man auf den Sinn der Sätze achten, in welchen es vorkommt. Ein Wort hat nur dann Bedeutung, wenn der Sinn des Satzes von diesem Wort abhängt. Ändert das Weglassen des Wortes nichts an dem Sinn eines Satzes, so bedeutet es nichts. Überflüssige Zeichen sind bedeutungslos. Wenn jemand vor jedem Satz sagen wollte, „es scheint, dass…“, so hätte er an dem Sinn seiner Aussagen nichts geändert, und das heißt: die Frage, ob alles Schein ist, was wir wahrnehmen, ist sinnlos. Die Aussage: Die Körper ziehen einander stets und notwendig zu, sagt nicht mehr aus als die Aussage: Die Körper ziehen einander stets an. (Beide Sätze sind unter denselben Bedingungen wahr bzw. falsch.) Das heißt, dass die Worte „notwendig“, „müssen“, „unbedingt“ in diesem Zusammenhang nichts bedeuten. Die Erfahrung lehrt nur was ist, nicht, was sein muss. Die Notwendigkeit kann man nicht erfahren. Alle Notwendigkeit ist logische Notwendigkeit. Außerhalb der Logik ist nichts notwendig. Zwischen den Ereignissen besteht kein logischer Zusammenhang. Selbst, wenn alles, was wir erleben, von dem Gefühl einer inneren Notwendigkeit (eines Zwangs) begleitet wäre, so hätte doch die Beschreibung dieser Erlebnisse nichts mit Notwendigkeit im logischen Sinn zu tun. Erleben der Notwendigkeit bedeutet nicht: Notwendigkeit des Erlebten. Auch den Naturgesetzen wohnt kein Notwendigkeit inne; auch die Naturgesetze beschreiben nur, was geschieht, nicht, was geschehen muss.

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Zwei Worte bestimmen in ihrer Bedeutung überein, wenn sie, füreinander einge­ setzt, den betr. Sätzen denselben Sinn verleihen. Werden zwei Sätze wesentlich verschiedene Weise verifiziert, so haben sie verschiedenen Sinn. Den Zorn eines anderen Menschen stelle ich anders fest als meinen eigenen Zorn. (Das Verfahren der Verifikation ist verschieden. Nur meinen eigenen Zorn kann ich erleben, den des andern nicht.) Dann muss aber das Wort „Zorn“ in beiden Sätzen etwas verschiedenes bedeuten. (Es sind logisch verschiedene Symbole.) Wer eine Frage stellt, der muss wissen, wie die Antwort lauten kann. Vermag er nicht das anzugeben, so weiß er auch nicht, wonach er gefragt hat. Fragen unter­ scheiden sich durch ihre Antworten. Ist eine Antwort undenkbar, so ist auch die Frage nicht möglich. Unlösbare Fragen gibt es nicht. Die Erkenntnis hat keine Schranke. Hypothesen sind Vermutungen. Es sind also Sätze, deren Wahrheit noch nicht bekannt ist. Ein sinnloser Satz kann auch keine Hypothese sein. Man kann nur vermuten, was man wissen kann, und worüber man nicht wissen kann, darüber ist auch keine Hypothese möglich. Metaphysisch sind alle Behauptungen, die nicht verifizierbar sind. Die Lösung der metaphysischen Fragen besteht darin, dass man ihre Unsinnigkeit durchschaut. Es bleibt dann keine Frage, und dies ist die Antwort. Die großen Systeme der Metaphysik haben wohl eine Bedeutung als Ausdruck eines Lebensgefühls; aber sie sind nie eine Erkenntnis. [Handschrift, nachträglich: Die Bedeutung eines Wortes kann nicht durch einen einfachen Hinweis gegeben werden – es müssen immer mehrere Sachverhalte aufgezeigt werden; denen der Gegenstand gemeinsam ist, welcher die Wortbedeutung bildet.]

Kapitel 16

Waismanns Wiener Zeit. Ein historisch-­philosophischer Bericht Philipp Leon Bauer

Zusammenfassung Der Mathematiker und Philosoph Friedrich Waismann (1896–1959) ist bekannt dafür, dass er in den 1920er- und 1930er-Jahren zum Gesprächspartner des Philosophen Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889–1951) wurde und dessen Werk Tractatus logico-philosophicus im Zuge eines Buches darstellen sollte. Jedoch summieren sich seit einigen Jahren die Arbeiten, welche Waismann für weitaus mehr als nur einen Gesprächspartner Wittgensteins charakterisieren. Bücher wie Friedrich Waismann-Causality and Logical Positivism (2011) oder Friedrich Waismann. The Open Texture of Analytic Philosophy (2019) verdeutlichen Waismann als selbstständigen Philosophen sowie seine Bedeutung für die Entwicklung des Wiener Kreises. Das steigende philosophische Interesse an Waismann ist der Grund dafür, ihn als wichtigen Vertreter der analytischen Philosophie und analytischen Wissenschaftstheorie historisch eingehender zu betrachten. Der vorliegende historisch-­philosophische Bericht verdeutlicht eine komprimierte Darstellung von Waismanns Leben in Wien. Vor allem die Zeit vor der Berufung seines Mentors und Förderers Moritz Schlick (1882–1936) an die Universität Wien 1922, lag bis heute weitgehend im Dunkeln. In dem Bericht wird auf diese Zeit ein besonderes Augenmerk gelegt, aber auch Waismanns Leben im Exil wird kurz beleuchtet. Der Bericht beruht auf meiner Masterarbeit Friedrich Waismann. Eine historisch-­ philosophische Betrachtung (2019), in welcher auch erstmals Waismanns Studienzeit von 1917 bis 1922 detailliert rekonstruiert wurde. Darüber hinaus wurde der Bericht mit meinen neuen historischen Forschungsergebnissen ergänzt. Schlüsselwörter  Friedrich Waismann · Ludwig Wittgenstein · Logischer Empirismus · Wiener Kreis · Logik · Syntax · Philosophie der Mathematik

P. L. Bauer (*) Institute Vienna Circle, University of Vienna, Vienna, Österreich E-Mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_16

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16.1 Friedrich Waismann Friedrich Waismann wurde als einziger Sohn von Clara und Leopold Waismann am 21. März 1896 in Wien geboren. Seine Eltern, welche mosaischen Glaubens waren, stammten ursprünglich nicht aus Wien.1 Clara Waismann wurde als Chane Ziene Barach-Schwarz in Brody geboren und war die (uneheliche) Tochter von Markus Schwarz und Diene Barach.2 Im Zuge der Ersten Teilung Polen-Litauens annektierte 1772 die Habsbur‑ germonarchie Galizien. In diesem sogenannten Kronland lag die bekannte Handelsstadt Brody und war Galiziens zweitgrößte Stadt nach Lemberg. Brody nahm mit ihrem hohen Anteil an jüdischer Bevölkerung nicht nur eine besondere Stellung innerhalb der Donaumonarchie ein, sondern war auch ein geistiges und kulturelles Zentrum des ost- und mitteleuropäischen Judentums. Im Laufe der Jahre erfuhr Brody wiederholt Wellen der Abwanderung seitens der Bevölkerung. Jedoch die stärkste Welle gab es in den beiden letzten Jahrzehnten des 19. Jahrhunderts, in denen vor allem die jüdische Bürgerschaft emigrierte. Die Gründe der Abwanderung waren vielschichtig. Neben diversen wirtschaftlichen und sozialen Hintergründen trug auch der Ausbau des Eisenbahnnetzes dazu bei, da man mittels der Eisenbahn wesentlich leichter nach Lemberg, Krakau oder Wien gelangte (Kuzmany 2011, 13, 73 f., 104–111, 125, 328 f.). Clara und ihre Familie mussten auf ähnlichem Wege nach Wien gekommen sein, denn die Gräber der Familie befinden sich alle auf dem Jüdischen Friedhof am Zentralfriedhof in Wien. Claras Vater, Markus Schwarz, wurde bereits 1879 in Wien beigesetzt.3 Leopold Waismann wurde als Lipa Waismann in Odessa geboren und war der Sohn von Dawid und Slata Waismann. Er übte den Beruf als Metalldreher, später Metallwarenerzeuger, und Kaufmann aus. Am 7. April 1895 schloss Leopold Waismann die Ehe mit Clara in einem jüdischen Tempel in Wien.4 Die Frage nach der Staatsangehörigkeit von Friedrich Waismann ist nicht klar zu beantworten. In dem Buch Friedrich Waismann-Causality and Logical Positivism (2011) meinte Brian McGuinness, dass Friedrich Waismann aufgrund der russischen Nationalität seines Vaters in Wien als Ausländer galt (McGuinness 2011a, 9). Max und Hedi Lieberman, Verwandte von Friedrichs späterer Ehefrau Hermine, konnten wenig deutliche Aussagen bezüglich seiner Staatsangehörigkeit treffen, nahmen aber an, dass die Familie Waismann nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg  Archiv der Israelitischen Kultusgemeinde Wien (IKG) [Geburtsbuch]. Geburtsort von Friedrich Waismann: Eisengasse Nr. 30 in Wien (IX). Diese Gasse wurde 1930 in „Wilhelm-Exner-Gasse“ (1090 Wien) umbenannt (Autengruber 2020, 116, 332).  Anm.: Der Autor bedankt sich bei den Mitarbeiterinnen und Mitarbeitern des Archivs der Israelitischen Kultusgemeinde Wien für die hilfreiche Unterstützung der Forschung. 2  IKG [Geburtsbuch, Trauungsbuch, Sterbebuch]. 3  IKG [Sterbebuch].  Siehe auch: Zentralfriedhof Wien (I. Tor: Gruppe 7, Reihe 4, Grab 31; Gruppe 50, Reihe 47, Grab 78). 4  IKG [Geburtsbuch, Trauungsbuch]. 1

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staatenlos war (Lieberman und Lieberman 2011, 19). Meine Forschung konnte Irregularitäten in diversen Formularen feststellen. Während in seinen Schulzeugnissen stets „Niederösterreich“ als Vaterland eingetragen wurde,5 waren die Angaben bei der Staatsbürgerschaft in den Studienblättern („Nationale“) oftmals unterschiedlich.6 Meine Vermutung lautet, dass die Familie Waismann bereits während des Ersten Weltkrieges Probleme mit ihrer Staatenzugehörigkeit hatte. Des Weiteren nehme ich an, dass Friedrich Waismann aufgrund der Abstammung seiner Mutter zunächst österreichischer Staatsbürger war, die Staatsbürgerschaft jedoch während des Krieges verlor oder nicht mehr nachweisen konnte. Die Gründe dafür waren höchstwahrscheinlich die russischen Kriegshandlungen in Galizien (besonders in Ostgalizien) und die damit verbundene Besetzung 1914. Trotz der Rückeroberung 1915 wurde Galizien nicht wieder vollständig in die Habsburgermonarchie eingegliedert und als Feindesland betrachtet. Zusätzlich wurde eine eindeutige Staatenzugehörigkeit der Familie Waismann durch den Zusammenbruch der Monarchie sowie durch den polnischen Unabhängigkeitskrieg 1918/1919 erschwert (Schuster 2004, 532–545). Liebermans Vermutung bezüglich der staatenlosen Familie erscheint somit zu einem gewissen Teil plausibel. Im Laufe der Zeit erhielt Friedrich Waismann (wieder) die österreichische Staatsbürgerschaft, was aus einem Eintrag seiner Trauung 1929 deutlich hervorgeht.7

16.1.1 Schulzeit Nach dem Besuch der Volksschule ging Friedrich Waismann ab 1907/1908 in das Maximiliangymnasium8 in Wien. Nach Durchsicht seiner Schulzeugnisse war Waismann kein herausragender Schüler. Waismann schien in den Fächern

 Archiv des Gymnasiums Wasagasse Wien. Schulzeugnisse von Friedrich Waismann, Hauptka‑ taloge 1907–1911.  Anm.: Der Autor bedankt sich bei der Leitung des Gymnasiums, Direktor Johannes Bauer, für die Erlaubnis der Forschung. Ein besonderer Dank richtet sich an Renate Mercsanits für ihre Unterstützung im Archiv. 6  Archiv der Universität Wien. „Nationale“ von Friedrich Waismann, 1917/1918–1922.  1917/1918: Staatsbürgerschaft „Russland“.  1918 und 1918/1919: Staatsbürgerschaft „Ukraine (Odessa)“.  1919 und 1920: Staatsbürgerschaft „Deutsch-Österreich“.  1920/1921 und 1921: Staatsbürgerschaft „Russland“.  1921/1922 und 1922: Staatsbürgerschaft „Deutsch-Österreich“.  Anm.: Der Autor bedankt sich bei den Mitarbeiterinnen und Mitarbeitern des Archivs der Universität Wien für die hilfreiche Unterstützung der Forschung. 7  IKG [Trauungsbuch]. 8  Das damalige Maximiliangymnasium (IX.  Wien) ist das heutige Gymnasium Wasagasse (1090 Wien). 5

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„Zeichnen“ und bis zur dritten Klasse „Deutsche Sprache“ gut gewesen zu sein. Andere Tendenzen zu bestimmten Schulfächern lassen sich nicht herauslesen. Vor allem das Schulzeugnis der vierten Klasse enthält überwiegend schlechte Noten.9 In seinem Curriculum Vitae 1936 schrieb Waismann, dass er nach der vierten Klasse die Schule verlassen hatte und das Gymnasialstudium privat fortsetzte.10 In Friedrich Waismann-Causality and Logical Positivism (2011) wurde versucht, Gründe für Waismanns Abgang von der Schule zu finden. McGuinness lieferte folgenden Erklärungsversuch: The boy’s later schooldays fell into the period of the First World War and it is natural to suppose that this what led to his leaving the Gymnasium and studying at home, thus avoiding also the higher fees that a foreigner had to pay. (McGuinness 2011a, 9)

Max Lieberman schrieb wiederum an McGuinness: My own conclusion is therefore that his lack of Austrian citizenship was not the reason for his leaving the gymnasium. It is, however, possible that, since tuition fees for foreign citizens (or non-citizens) were higher, the continued study at the gymnasium was too costly for the Waismann family. Also, […], FW [Friedrich Waismann], inherently, resisted the ‘bureaucratic aspect’ of the public education system and may well have preferred the ‘externist’ route to the Matura. (Lieberman und Lieberman 2011, 19)

Zunächst ist festzuhalten, dass Waismann von 1907 bis 1911 das Gymnasium besuchte und es somit nicht aufgrund des Ersten Weltkrieges (1914–1918) verließ. Auch Waismanns fehlende Staatsbürgerschaft war nicht der Grund für seinen damaligen Schulabgang. Ebenfalls bin ich der Meinung, dass der Abgang nicht aus Kostengründen geschah, denn von insgesamt acht Semestern musste die Familie Waismann das Schulgeld für nur zwei Semester bezahlen. Für sechs Semester war die Familie vom Schulgeld befreit.11 Meines Erachtens waren es vorwiegend Waismanns allgemein schlechte schulische Leistungen, welche den Schulabgang veranlassten. Er erhielt auch im Jahreszeugnis der vierten Klasse im Fach Mathematik die Benotung „nicht genügend“. Die Abmeldung von der Schule erfolgte am 17. September 1911.12 Trotz dieser Schwierigkeiten legte Waismann sechs Jahre später, am 16. Oktober 1917, die Reifeprüfung erfolgreich am Elisabethgymnasium13 ab und schrieb sich noch im selben Jahr an der Universität Wien ein (Abb. 16.1 und 16.2).

  Archiv des Gymnasiums Wasagasse Wien. Schulzeugnisse von Friedrich Waismann, Hauptkataloge 1907–1911. 10  Archiv der Universität Wien. „Rigorosenakt“ von Friedrich Waismann, S. 004. 11   Archiv des Gymnasiums Wasagasse Wien. Schulzeugnisse von Friedrich Waismann, Hauptkataloge 1907–1911. 12   Archiv des Gymnasiums Wasagasse Wien. Schulzeugnisse von Friedrich Waismann, Hauptkataloge  1907–1911. 13  Archiv der Universität Wien. „Rigorosenakt“ von Friedrich Waismann, S.  004. Das damalige Elisabethgymnasium (V. Wien) ist das heutige Rainergymnasium (1050 Wien). 9

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Abb. 16.1  Schulzeugnis: Friedrich Waismann (1. Klasse). (Quelle: Archiv des Gymnasiums Wasagasse)

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Abb. 16.2  Schulzeugnis: Friedrich Waismann (4. Klasse). (Quelle: Archiv des Gymnasiums Wasagasse)

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16.1.2 Studium Im Alter von 21 Jahren schrieb sich Waismann im Wintersemester 1917 als ordentlicher Hörer der philosophischen Fakultät an der Universität Wien ein. Eine Analyse der Studienblätter zeigt, dass die meisten Vorlesungen, welche Waismann inskribierte, zum Bereich der Mathematik zählten, gefolgt von Physik, Philosophie, Pädagogik, Astronomie, Chemie und Geologie (Abb. 16.3).14 Der Name des deutschen Mathematikers Philipp Furtwängler (1869–1940) ist als häufigster Eintrag in den Studienblättern zu finden, am zweithäufigsten der des Geometers Gustav Kohn (1859–1921), nachfolgend Wilhelm Wirtinger (1865–1945) und Gustav Escherich (1849–1935). Für ein Seminar bei dem Mathematiker und Philosophen Hans Hahn (1879–1934) inskribierte Waismann gegen Ende seines Studiums 1921. Er schrieb sich ebenfalls für Hahns Lehrveranstaltungen in den darauffolgenden Semestern ein15 und wurde Jahre später Instruktor am Mathematischen Institut bei Hahn.16 In der Physik belegte Waismann im Laufe seines Studiums einige Lehrveranstaltungen von Gustav Jäger (1865–1938), gefolgt von Franz Exner (1849–1926), Fritz Kohlrausch (1884–1953) und Ernst Lecher (1856–1926). Es sind auch zwei Lehrveranstaltungen des Physikers Hans Thirring (1888–1976) zu verzeichnen. Laut Studienblättern kam Waismann erstmals durch Adolf Stöhr (1855–1921),17 welcher sich besonders für Logik und Psychologie interessierte, mit der universitären Philosophie in Kontakt. Stöhr sorgte damals für eine gewisse Kontinuität einer wissenschaftlichen und sprachkritischen Philosophie an der Universität (Stadler 2015, 45). Neben Stöhr sind auch Einträge über die Philosophen Robert Reininger (1869–1955)18 und Alois Höfler (1853–1922)19 zu lesen. Während Reininger sich mit Immanuel Kant (1724–1804), erkenntnistheoretischen sowie ethischen Fragen auseinandersetzte, wurde Höfler entscheidend von den Philosophen und Psychologen Alexius Meinong (1853–1920) und Franz Brentano (1838–1917) beeinflusst (Jahn 2001, 182  f., 342). Mit einem Schüler Brentanos, Kasimierz Twardowski (1866–1938), gründete Höfler 1888 die Philosophische Gesellschaft an der

 Archiv der Universität Wien. „Nationale“ von Friedrich Waismann.   Waismann inskribierte bei Hans Hahn folgende Lehrveranstaltungen: 1921: „Seminar“; 1921/1922: „Ergänzungen zur Differential- u. Integralrechnung“; 1922: „Natürl. Geometrie“. 16  Archiv der Universität Wien. „Rigorosenakt“ von Friedrich Waismann, S. 005. Waismann war zwei Semester lang als Instruktor am Mathematischen Institut bei Hans Hahn tätig. 17  Waismann inskribierte bei Adolf Stöhr folgende Lehrveranstaltungen: 1918: „Arbeiten aus Philosophie und Psychologie“; 1919: „Logik“. 18  Waismann inskribierte bei Robert Reininger folgende Lehrveranstaltungen: 1918: „Besprechung philosophischer Werke“; 1921: „Nietzsche als Philosoph“; 1922: „Kant“. 19  Waismann inskribierte bei Alois Höfler folgende Lehrveranstaltungen: 1919: „Realistischer, humanistischer und philosoph.-propäd. Unterricht“; 1919/1920: „Pädagogisches Seminar (Vorträge und Besprechungen über das Ganze der Schulreform)“; 1919/1920: „Schopenhauers Philosophie“. 14 15

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Abb. 16.3  „Nationale“: Friedrich Waismann. Wintersemester 1917/1918. (Quelle: Archiv der Universität Wien. „Nationale“, Folien-Nr. 273)

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Universität Wien, in welcher nicht nur Vorträge gehalten, sondern auch Debatten geführt wurden (Limbeck-Lilienau und Stadler 2015, 52–55). In dieser Gesellschaft hielt auch Waismann einige Jahre später zwei Vorträge. Einen Vortrag anlässlich des Todes seines späteren Mentors und Förderers Moritz Schlick (1882–1936), einen anderen über die logische Analyse: 23. Oktober 1936. Zum Gedächtnis Moritz Schlicks: Friedrich Waismann: Schlick als Philosoph. […] 4. Juni 1937. Dr. Friedrich Waismann: Was ist logische Analyse?20

Waismanns Einschreibungen für philosophische Lehrveranstaltungen hielten sich im Vergleich zu den mathematischen Lehrveranstaltungen jedoch deutlich in Grenzen. Die Studienblätter von Waismann stehen in Übereinstimmung mit seinen eigenen Angaben. Er schrieb am 10. November 1936 in seinem Curriculum Vitae: Insbesondere besuchte ich die Vorlesungen resp. Praktika der Professoren Becke, Escherich, Furtwängler, Hahn, Höfler, Jäger, Kohlrausch, Kohn, Lecher, Oppenheim, Reininger, Schlenk, Stöhr, Suess, Thirring, Wirtinger.21

Die Analyse der Studienblätter ergab, dass Waismann von 1917 bis 1922 zum größten Teil Mathematik studierte. In diesen Jahren wurde er hauptsächlich von dem wichtigen Vertreter der Wiener zahlentheoretischen Schule, Philipp Furt‑ wängler, geprägt. Oft wird in Fachliteratur Waismanns Studium bei Hahn und Thirring hervorgehoben, welches jedoch in der betrachteten Periode deutlich zu relativieren ist. Die Analyse zeigt nicht nur Waismanns damalige Interessen im Studium, sondern es werden auch die intellektuellen Einflüsse auf ihn ersichtlich (Abb. 16.4).

16.2 Waismann und der Wiener Kreis Im Jahr 1922 kam der deutsche Physiker und Philosoph Moritz Schlick an die Universität Wien. Schlicks Berufung übte einen großen Effekt auf das Leben Wais manns aus. Er hob diese in seinem Curriculum Vitae folgend hervor: Als Prof. Schlick 1922 nach Wien berufen wurde, fasste ich den Entschluss, mich mit logischen und erkenntnistheoretischen Fragen zu beschäftigen.22

 50 Jahre Philosophische Gesellschaft an der Universität Wien 1888–1938, Verlag der Philosophischen Gesellschaft an der Universität Wien, S. 42 [Robert Reininger (Hg.)].  Anm.: Friedrich Waismanns Artikel „Was ist logische Analyse?“ erschien in der  Zeitschrift Erkenntnis 8 1939/1940. 21  Archiv der Universität Wien. „Rigorosenakt“ von Friedrich Waismann, S. 004. 22  Archiv der Universität Wien. „Rigorosenakt“ von Friedrich Waismann, S. 004. 20

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Abb. 16.4  Auswertung der Studienblätter von Friedrich Waismann vertikal: Namen der Dozenten; horizontal: Anzahl der Lehreinheiten. (Quelle: Archiv der Universität Wien. „Nationale“: Friedrich Waismann. 1917–1922)

Die Berufung Schlicks kann als Wendepunkt in Waismanns Leben betrachtet werden. Das zeigt sich auch im Kontext seiner Studienblätter, dass er sich für philosophische Vorlesungen bis 1922 wenig interessierte. Schlick organisierte bereits sehr früh Diskussionsrunden im Zuge seiner Lehrveranstaltungen, an denen Waismann bereits teilnahm. Im Jahr 1924 schlugen Waismann und Herbert Feigl (1902–1988), ein weiterer Schüler Schlicks, regelmäßige Treffen zur Besprechung diverser wissenschaftlich-philosophischer Themen vor (Stadler 2015, 45, 501 f.). Schlick nahm diesen Vorschlag an und setzte die Idee um. Mit diesen philosophischen Diskussionsrunden, welche ganz im Zeichen des Logischen Empirismus standen, wurde der Grundstein für den bekannten Wiener Kreis gelegt. Hans Hahn und der Mathematiker Kurt Reidemeister (1893–1971) spielten in dieser Entwicklungsphase des Wiener Kreises eine bedeutende Rolle. Hahn lenkte die Aufmerksamkeit des Kreises auf die Logik und Reidemeister auf das Werk Tractatus logico-philosophicus (Tractatus) von Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889–1951) (Stadler 2015, 46–47, 590). Es kam innerhalb des Kreises zu einer intensiven Aus‑ einandersetzung mit dem Tractatus. Karl Menger (1902–1985), welcher von Hahn und Schlick im Herbst 1927 zur Teilnahme an dem Kreis eingeladen wurde, erinnerte sich, dass Hahn dem Tractatus skeptisch gegenüberstand. Seit der

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Veröffentlichung von Russells grundlegenden Schriften, sah Hahn den Tractatus jedoch später als wahrscheinlich wichtigsten Beitrag zur Philosophie an (Menger 1988, 12–13). Auch Schlicks Interesse am Tractatus wuchs und er schrieb 1924 einen Brief an Wittgenstein bezüglich eines persönlichen Kennenlernens. Trotz freundlichen Briefwechsels gelang kein Treffen mit dem vielbeschäftigten Wittgenstein (McGuinness 2015, 13–14). Zu einem Treffen kam es erst 1927, an welchem Schlick und das Psychologenpaar Karl (1879–1963) und Charlotte (1893–1974) Bühler teilnahmen. Später nahmen auch Rudolf Carnap (1891–1970), Herbert Feigl und Maria Kasper (1904–1989) an den Gesprächen teil. Darüber hinaus führten nur Schlick und Wittgenstein miteinander zahlreiche Gespräche (Stadler 2015, 227–229). Auf Anregung von Karl Menger gelang es Waismann und Feigl, Wittgenstein für den Besuch eines Vortrages des holländischen Mathematikers L.E.J.  Brouwer (1881–1966) über Wissenschaft, Mathematik und Sprache im Jahr 1928 einzuladen (Stadler 2015, 209 f., 228). Brouwer hielt den ersten Gastvortrag am 10. März 1928 über „Wissenschaft, Mathematik und Sprache“23 und den zweiten vier Tage später mit dem Titel „Die Struktur des Kontinuums“.24 Anfang des Jahres 1929 entschloss sich Wittgenstein, eine längere Zeit in Cambridge zu verbringen. Seine Gespräche wollte er künftig nur mehr mit Schlick und Waismann führen (Stadler 2015, 225–230). Schlick schloss sich Wittgensteins Ansicht, die Philosophie als Sprachkritik zu betrachten, an. Die intensive Beschäftigung mit dem Tractatus und die Gespräche mit Wittgenstein in den 1920er-Jahren schlagen sich in Schlicks Artikel „Die Wende der Philosophie“, in welchem er die Philosophie als logische Analyse der Sprache sieht, deutlich nieder. Waismann sollte Wittgensteins Werk Tractatus im Zuge eines Buches darstellen. Schlicks Bewunderung für Wittgenstein schlug auf Wais‑ mann über.

16.2.1 

Der klare Denker und Wittgenstein

Im Jahr 1929 trat der Wiener Kreis zum einen durch den Kongress „Die 1. Tagung für Erkenntnistheorie der exakten Wissenschaften“, zum anderen durch die Programmschrift Wissenschaftliche Weltauffassung in die Öffentlichkeit.   Komitee zur Veranstaltung von Gastvorträgen ausländischer Gelehrter der exakten Wissenschaften, Erster Gastvortrag. Sonderdruck aus den Monatsheften für Mathematik und Physik, XXXVI.  Band, 1. Heft. Wien 1929 [L.E.J.  Brouwer: Wissenschaft, Mathematik und Sprache]. 24   Komitee zur Veranstaltung von Gastvorträgen ausländischer Gelehrter der exakten Wissenschaften, Zweiter Gastvortrag. Im Selbstverlag des Komitees zur Veranstaltung von Gastvorträgen ausländischer Gelehrter der exakten Wissenschaften, Wien 1930 [L.E.J. Brouwer: Die Struktur des Kontinuums]. 23

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Bei dem Kongress hielt Waismann den Vortrag „Logische Analyse des Wahrscheinlichkeitsbegriffs“ und in der Programmschrift war er für die Zusam‑ menfassung des Tractatus verantwortlich (Stadler 2015, 158–160). In der Programmschrift wurde Waismann mit seinem Artikel „Die Natur des Reduzibilitätsaxioms“ und dem geplanten Buch Logik, Sprache, Philosophie (LSP) mit dem Untertitel „Kritik der Philosophie durch die Logik“ angeführt (Verein Ernst Mach 2012, 57). In LSP sollte Waismann den Tractatus in eine andere Form bringen: […] Diese Schrift ist im wesentlichen eine Darstellung der Gedanken von Wittgenstein […]. Was an ihr neu ist und worauf es ihr wesentlich ankommt, ist die logische Anordnung und Gliederung dieser Gedanken. Inhalt:

I. Logik (Sinn, Bedeutung, Wahrheit. Wahrheitsfunktionen. Wesen der Lo‑ gik). II. Sprache (Analyse der Aussagen. Atomsätze. Logische Abbildung. Grenzen der Sprache). III. Philosophie (Anwendung der Ergebnisse auf Probleme der Philosophie). (Verein Ernst Mach 2012, 57) Aufgrund der Aufforderung von Moritz Schlick, kam es zu einer engen Zusammenarbeit zwischen Waismann und Wittgenstein. Während der zahlreichen Treffen im Jahr 1931 diktierte Wittgenstein Waismann seine Überlegungen und Anregungen, welche der Fertigstellung des geplanten Buches LSP dienten. Briefen zufolge empfand Waismann die enge Zusammenarbeit mit Wittgenstein als schwierig, da er viele seiner Ansichten und Aussagen zurücknahm und revidierte (Manninen 2011, 243–265). Die intensive Zusammenarbeit blieb auch von Waismanns Verwandten nicht unbemerkt: Whenever LW [Ludwig Wittgenstein] visited Vienna, FW [Friedrich Waismann], […], was lost to his family during LW’s stay in Vienna. being fully absorbed in his meetings with LW. (Lieberman und Lieberman 2011, 20)

Erst 1934 stand Waismann kurz vor der Fertigstellung des Buches LSP, obwohl man Carnaps Tagebucheinträgen entnehmen kann, dass bereits früher mit einer Fertigstellung gerechnet wurde (Manninen 2011, 250). Wittgenstein war erneut unzufrieden mit jener Version. Waismann brachte zwar Verständnis gegenüber Wittgenstein auf, jedoch verteidigte er seine Version des Buches (Manninen 2011, 261–263). In einem Brief an Menger hielt Waismann die Situation folgendermaßen fest: Er war mit Inhalt u[nd] Form der Darstellung zwar einverstanden (er nannte sie eine „wertvolle Arbeit“), beschwor aber Schlick u[nd] mich, das Buch in dieser Form nicht zu veröffentlichen, da seiner Meinung nach das Buch ungeheuer gewinnen würde, wenn es einen ganz anderen Weg einschlagen würde. […] (Waismann, zitiert nach: Manninen 2011, 263)

Weiters:

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[…] Kurz, ich wehrte mich heftig gegen diesen Vorschlag. Schließlich bat ich Schlick, meine Sache gegen W[ittgenstein] zu vertreten, da ich mit ihm nicht verhandeln wollte. Schlick ließ sich durch W[ittgenstein] umstimmen, ich kam damals mitten in der Nacht zu S[chlick], wo auch W[ittgenstein] war, u[nd] beide baten mich, ich möge doch eine Umarbeitung in diesem Sinne versuchen. […] (Waismann, zitiert nach: Manninen 2011, 263)

Schlussendlich willigte Waismann ein und begann seine Version erneut zu überarbeiten. Er setzte sich abermals einer schwierigen Zusammenarbeit mit Wittgenstein aus und traf sich mit ihm mehrmals 1934 sowie im April 1935 (Manninen 2011, 263 f.). Waismann beschreibt die Zusammenarbeit wie folgt: Er hat ja die wunderbare Gabe, die Dinge immer wieder wie zum erstenmal zu sehen. Aber es zeigt sich doch, meine ich, wie schwer eine gemeinsame Arbeit ist, da er eben immer wieder der Eingebung des Augenblicks folgt und das niederreißt, was er vorher entworfen hat. (Waismann, zitiert nach: McGuinness 2015, 26)

Waismann erhielt während dieser Zeit Einblick in Wittgensteins Notizbücher, sowohl in das Material für die späteren Philosophischen Bemerkungen und Philosophische Grammatik, als auch in die aufgezeichneten Diktate von Schlick, welcher zahlreiche Gespräche mit Wittgenstein führte. Waismanns Artikel „Über den Begriff der Identität“ 1936 löste einen nicht nachvollziehbaren Plagiatsvorwurf von Seiten Wittgensteins aus und es kam zu einem Bruch der Zusammenarbeit zwischen Waismann und Wittgenstein (Baker und McGuinness 1976, 651–653 f.). Waismann setzte die Bearbeitung des LSP fort und konnte das Buch schließlich 1939 fertigstellen, jedoch wurde es erst posthum veröffentlicht. Schlick, welcher 1936 ermordet wurde, schrieb bereits Jahre zuvor eine Vorrede zu LSP (Baker und McGuinness 1976, 650–662).

16.2.2  Waismann als Schlüsselfigur Friedrich Waismann wurde 1924 wissenschaftliche Hilfskraft von Moritz Schlick (Stadler 2015, 48) und ab Oktober 1929 erhielt er den Posten als Seminarbibliothekar am philosophischen Institut.25 Trotz dieser beiden Anstellungen war Waismann weiter als Nachhilfelehrer und als Vortragender an der Wiener Volkshochschule tätig. Waismann begann seine Lehrtätigkeit an den Wiener Volkshochschulen bereits 1921 und übte sie bis 1935 aus. Er unterrichtete überwiegend Mathematik, aber hielt auch Lehrveranstaltungen zur Physik und Kurse zur Philosophie. Im Bereich der Mathematik hielt Waismann etliche Einheiten zur Geometrie ab und im Bereich der Physik zu Einsteins Relativitätstheorie.26 Zur Philosophie fanden lediglich zwei  Archiv der Universität Wien. „Personalakt“ von Friedrich Waismann, S. 018.  Waismann hielt folgende Einheiten zu Einsteins Relativitätstheorie: „Einführung in Einsteins Lehren: Spezielle Relativitätstheorie“ (Wintersemester 1923/1924); „Einführung in Einsteins Theorie“ (Wintersemester 1925/1926); „Einführung in Einsteins Relativitätstheorie“ (Sommer‑ semester 1926); (Stadler 2015, 332–333). 25 26

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Kurse 1924 und 1926 statt27 (Stadler 2015, 332–333). Neben diesen Verpflichtungen brachte Waismann die Zeit auf und vertrat Wittgensteins Überlegungen auch bei internationalen Kongressen. Im September 1930 hielt er bei einer zweitägigen Tagung einen Vortrag über „Das Wesen der Mathematik. Der Standpunkt Wittgensteins“ in Königsberg. Die Tagung fokussierte sich auf die Grundlagendebatte in der Mathematik und in der Quantenmechanik (Stadler 2015, 167  f.). In dem Artikel „Tagung für Erkenntnislehre der exakten Wissenschaften in Königsberg“ reflektierte Hans Reichenbach (1891–1953) Waismanns Präsentation: […] Die eigenartigen Auffassungen WITTGENSTEINS, nach welchen die logischen Schwierigkeiten im wesentlichen auf einem Mißverständnis der Sprache beruhen, konnte F.  WAISMANN wesentlich klarer herausstellen, als dies in WITTGENSTEINS Veröffentlichungen geschehen ist. (Reichenbach 1930, 1093–1094)

Die Zeitschrift Erkenntnis 2 (1931) bezog sich zwar auf diesen Kongress, jedoch wurde Waismanns Vortrag darin nicht abgedruckt, da die Herausgeber das abgeschickte Manuskript nicht erhalten hatten (McGuinness 2015, 19–20 f.). Nach meiner Analyse der Protokolle des Wiener Kreises geht deutlich hervor, dass Waismann sich sehr aktiv an den Treffen des Wiener Kreises beteiligte und sich intensiv mit mathematischen Themen und Wittgensteins Philosophie auseinandersetzte (Stadler 2015, 81–150). Bei diesen Treffen wurde auch Waismanns Manuskript „Thesen“ behandelt (Stadler 2015, 105–108). Diese „Thesen“ waren ein Versuch, gewisse Grundsätze des Tractatus zu überarbeiten. Im Laufe der Zeit kam es auch innerhalb des Wiener Kreises zu hitzigen Debatten, welche die verschiedenen Sichtweisen von Schlick, Waismann und Wittgenstein gegenüber Otto Neurath (1882–1945), Carnap und Hahn sichtbar werden ließen. Ein Beispiel dafür ist die Protokollsatzdebatte. Carnap vertrat die Sichtweise, Protokollsätze beschreiben unmittelbar beobachtbare empirische Vorgänge. Neurath ergänzte, dass Protokollsätze als vermeintlich fehlerhaft anzusehen sind. Schlick fasste wiederum jenen Standpunkt als Bedrohung für den Empirismus auf (Limbeck-Lilienau und Stadler 2015, 222–224). Darüber hinaus nahm Neurath eine kritische Haltung gegenüber der Zusammenarbeit zwischen Waismann und Wittgenstein im Laufe der Zeit ein (Manninen 2011, 248–250). Die Debatte über den Physikalismus, in welcher Carnap und Neurath die Ansicht vertraten, dass sämtliche Aussagen in eine physikalische Sprache übersetzt werden können, ist ein weiteres Beispiel für die Heterogenität des Kreises (Limbeck-­ Lilienau und Stadler 2015, 227–230). Im Zusammenhang des Physikalismus beschuldigte Wittgenstein Carnap 1932 eines Plagiats.28 Carnap wies den Vorwurf  Waismann hielt folgende Kurse zur Philosophie: „Philosophische Probleme der Mathematik und Physik“ (Wintersemester 1924/1925); „Probleme der modernen Philosophie (Moderne Auffas‑ sungen in der Logik, Naturgesetz und Zufall usw.)“ (Wintersemester 1926/1927); (Stadler 2015, 332–333). 28  Brief von Wittgenstein an Carnap, 20. August 1932.  Archives of Scientific Philosophy. Signatur: RC 102-78-03 [https://www.doi.org/; Document-DOI: 10.48666/808328]. 27

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zurück und bemühte sich, das Missverständnis mit Wittgenstein zu klären, jedoch blieben seine Bemühungen erfolglos. Im Herbst 1932 hatten Carnap und Wittgenstein den letzten direkten Kontakt (Stadler 2015, 231–234). Trotz dieser inhaltlichen sowie persönlichen Differenzen mancher Wiener Kreis Mitglieder mit Wittgenstein, hatte dies keinen Einfluss auf Waismanns angesehene Rolle im Wiener Kreis. Carnap und Waismann standen in engem Kontakt zueinander. Das geht vor allem aus Carnaps Tagebucheinträgen29 deutlich hervor  (Damböck 2022). Der enge Kontakt ist Mitte bis Ende der zwanziger Jahre ersichtlich, wobei 1927 ein sehr intensiver Austausch zwischen den beiden stattfand. In diesem Jahr erhielt auch Waismann Manuskripte zur Durchsicht von Carnap.30 Ab 1931 nahmen die Treffen zwischen Carnap und Waismann an Intensität und Regelmäßigkeit ab. Dies ist ei‑ nerseits auf Carnaps Berufung an die Universität Prag (1931) und andererseits auf Waismanns intensive Beschäftigung mit Wittgensteins Philosophie zurückzu‑ führen. Carnap notierte zum Teil die besprochenen Themen mit Waismann in seinem Tagebuch. Neben Physik, Mathematik, Logik, Sprache, Religion und Politik, sprachen sie auch über die Treffen mit Wittgenstein (Damböck 2022) sowie später über den Streit zwischen Waismann und Wittgenstein, welcher deren gemeinsame Arbeit schlussendlich beendete.31 Wenn sie über Politik redeten, geschah dies oftmals mit Neurath. Carnap hielt auch fest, dass Waismann scheinbar nicht mit Leichtigkeit Vorträge hielt32 (Damböck 2022, 338, 466)  und unter Schreib‑ blockaden litt.33 Carnaps Tagebucheinträge und Briefe liefern auch einen Einblick in das Privatleben von Waismann und stellen somit eine wichtige Primärquelle dar. So halten sie den Tod von Clara Waismann, seine plötzliche Hochzeit sowie die Erwartung seines Kindes fest. An dieser Stelle muss angemerkt werden, dass Carnaps Einträge bezüglich Waismanns Privatleben stets korrekt waren. Zu wissen, dass Carnap bei seinen Einträgen sehr gewissenhaft vorging, ist für weitere historische Rekonstruktionen relevant. Aus den Tagebüchern ist auch der regelmäßige Kontakt zwischen Neurath und Waismann Ende der zwanziger Jahre erkennbar. Weiters geht aus den Einträgen  Es handelt sich hier auch um unveröffentlichte Tagebucheinträge und Briefe von Rudolf Carnap. Der Autor wird folglich dieses Material mit „Unveröffentlichtes Material, Rudolf Carnap Tagebücher 1936–1952“ und „Unveröffentlichtes Material, Rudolf Carnap Briefe“ im Falle eines Verweises betiteln.  29

Anm.: An dieser Stelle bedankt sich der Autor bei Christian Damböck (Leiter der Forschungsprojekte „Carnap in Context II: (Dis)continuities“ und „Carnap in Context III: ‚practical‘ philosophy in the US“) für die Bereitstellung dieser Materialien. 30  Unveröffentlichtes Material, Rudolf Carnap Briefe. Rudolf Carnap an Moritz Schlick,  11. November 1927. 31  Unveröffentlichtes Material, Rudolf Carnap Tagebücher 1936–1952, 27.VIII.1937. 32   14.VI.1927; 6.V.1930. 33  Unveröffentlichtes Material, Rudolf Carnap Briefe. Moritz Schlick an Rudolf Carnap, 29. Jänner 1928.

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hervor, dass Waismann gewisse Bedenken gegenüber politischen Themen wie beispielsweise dem Marxismus und dem Sozialismus hatte  (Damböck 2022, 345, 449).34 Dadurch lässt sich am Beginn der 30er-Jahre ein distanziertes Verhältnis zwischen Neurath und ihm feststellen.35 Trotz dieser Distanzierung brach der Kontakt zwischen den beiden im späteren Exil nicht ab. Waismann stand auch in gutem Kontakt zu Menger, welcher den Debatten des Wiener Kreises über die Jahre kritisch gegenüberstand (Stadler 2015, 201–202). Waismann wurde in das Mathematische Kolloquium eingeladen, welches Menger aufgrund verschiedener Standpunkte zum Wiener Kreis 1928 organsierte. Am 5. Juni 1935 hielt Waismann den Vortrag „Bemerkungen von Freges und Russells Definition der Zahl“ im Mathematischen Kolloquium (Nr.  90). In dem Buch Ergebnisse eines Mathematischen Kolloquiums, in welchem die Aufzeichnungen dieser Treffen veröffentlicht wurden, ist kein Bericht über seinen Vortrag vorhanden. Es ist lediglich eine Anmerkung auf die anschließende Diskussion mit Kurt Gödel (1906–1978), Alfred Tarski (1901–1983) und Menger zu lesen (Dierker und Sigmund 1998, 86, 333). Trotz der intensiven Auseinandersetzung mit LSP, standen für Waismann auch andere Aufgaben auf der Agenda. Unter anderem zählte es zu seinen Aufgaben, inoffizielle Proseminare für Schlick abzuhalten. Waismann schreibt in seinem Curriculum Vitae: Vom Herbst 1929 bis Juni 1936, während 14 Semester leitete ich das Philosophische Proseminar des Herrn Prof. Schlick vollkommen selbständig.36

Da Waismann nicht die formalen Voraussetzungen erfüllte, an der Universität zu lehren, hielt er inoffiziell die Proseminare für Schlick ab. Seine Leitung der Proseminare macht auch Schlicks großes Vertrauen gegenüber Waismann deutlich. Carl Gustav Hempel (1905–1997) schrieb über das Proseminar von Waismann am 15.12.1929 folgendes: […] Schließlich wird das Schlicksche „Proseminar“ von Waismann abgehalten. Ich bin froh, durch Zufall davon gehört zu haben, denn gerade bei Waismann scheint man sehr viel über die Wittgensteinsche Auffassung der Logik lernen zu können. Im Seminar finde ich Waismann ganz wesentlich angenehmer als damals in Prag. Seine Vorsicht in der Argumentation und die straffe Art, wie er den Gang der Diskussion fördert, gefallen mir sehr. (Hempel, zitiert nach: Manninen 2011, 244)

Die bisherigen Betrachtungen verdeutlichen Waismanns bedeutende Funktion innerhalb des Wiener Kreises. Auch die Schriftstellerin Hilde Spiel (1911–1990), welche unter anderem Philosophie bei Schlick studierte, hob in ihren Büchern oftmals Waismann hervor und bezeichnete ihn als Schlicks geistigen Erben (Spiel

  24.VII.1927. Ebenso: 24.I.1930.  Unveröffentlichtes Material, Rudolf Carnap Briefe. Otto Neurath an Rudolf Carnap, 1. September 1930. 36  Archiv der Universität Wien. „Rigorosenakt“ von Friedrich Waismann, S. 004. 34 35

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1991, 273 f.).37 In Bezug auf Waismanns Engagement und Kooperationsgedanken, ist Hilde Spiel zuzustimmen.

16.2.3 Die Familie Waismann Friedrich Waismann wuchs als Einzelkind in einem kleinen familiären Umfeld auf. Das war einerseits dem Umstand geschuldet, dass sowohl seine Mutter Clara als auch sein Vater Leopold selbst in kleinen Familien aufgewachsen waren und andererseits, dass beide Elternteile ursprünglich nicht aus Wien stammten. Waismanns Großmutter Diene Barach starb im damals hohen Alter von 85 Jahren. Sie wurde 1921 zu Joachim Chajem Bezalel Barach-Kurzer und Max Barach beigesetzt. Max Barach erlag im Alter von 34 Jahren einer schweren Krankheit im Jahre 1898 und Joachim Barach-Kurzer verstarb fünf Jahre darauf.38 Waismanns Vater Leopold war allem Anschein nach das einzige Kind von Dawid und Slata Waismann.39 Meine Forschung lieferte keine näheren Ergebnisse bezüglich weiterer Familienhintergründe, jedoch aufgrund meiner Untersuchungen diverser Dokumente, denke ich, dass Dawid und Slata Waismann nicht in Wien lebten. Krankheitsbedingt endete Clara Waismanns Leben im Frühjahr 1929. Friedrich kümmerte sich um die Beerdigung und ließ seine Mutter zu ihrem Vater Markus Schwarz beisetzen.40 Leopold Waismann, welcher später die aus Stanislau stammende Reisel Weidler41 heiratete, verstarb 1931 und wurde zu Clara beigesetzt.42 Friedrich Waismann heiratete am 30. Juni 1929 Hermine Antscherl43 und sie bekamen einige Jahre später einen Sohn  (Damböck 2022, 691), Thomas Waismann. HIER eine Fußnote "46" einfügen, siehe unten44  Hermine Antscherl, eine Bankbeamtin, war die Tochter von Josef und Jeannette (Netty) Antscherl. Josef Antscherl und sein Bruder Prof. Moritz Antscherl waren Lehrer der israelitischen Kultusgemeinde in Wien. Waismann, welcher sich selbst wenig über Religion äußerte, heiratete in eine gläubige Familie ein. Hermine hatte auch drei Schwestern: Flora, Helene und Malwine. Vor allem Malwine ist an dieser Stelle besonders hervorzuheben.  Siehe auch: (Spiel 1988, 145) und (Spiel 1989, 121).  IKG [Sterbebuch]. Siehe auch: Zentralfriedhof Wien. 39  IKG [Geburtsbuch, Trauungsbuch]. 40  IKG [Sterbebuch]. Siehe auch: Zentralfriedhof Wien. 41  Stammbaum von Reisel Waismann (geb. Weidler) [https://www.geni.com/people/ReiselWaismann/6000000032336023095; Zugriff: 26.07.2021]. 42  IKG [Sterbebuch]. Siehe auch: Zentralfriedhof Wien. 43  IKG [Trauungsbuch]. Siehe Fn. 44 2.VII.1935. 44  IKG [Trauungsbuch, Sterbebuch].  Siehe auch: Zentralfriedhof Wien (IV. Tor: Gruppe 12, Reihe 23, Grab 60; Gruppe 16a, Reihe 5, Gräber 4 und 5). 37 38

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Malwine Antscherl studierte Mathematik und Physik an der Universität Wien. Sie dissertierte mit Über zwei projektiv auf einander bezogene Kegelschnittsysteme und ihre Bedeutung für die singularitätenfreie Kurve 4. Ordnung bei Gustav Escherich und Philipp Furtwängler. Ihre Dissertationsprüfung schloss sie bei Adolf Stöhr und Robert Reininger ab. Antscherl beendete ihr Studium 191445 und wurde Lehrerin in der Kleinen Sperlgasse bzw. an der sogenannten „Sperlschule“ in Wien (Brosch 2012, 57, 59, 73). Vor diesem Hintergrund ist anzunehmen, dass Waismann fruchtbare Gespräche mit seiner Schwägerin über Mathematik und Philosophie führte.

16.3 Waismann im Exil Am 10. Februar 1936 teilte die Verwaltungsstelle der Wiener Hochschulen dem Dekanat der philosophischen Fakultät der Universität Wien folgendes mit: Laut Erlaß des Bundesministeriums für Unterricht vom 29. Jänner 1936, Zl. 2818/I-1, ist von einer weiteren Verwendung des Dr. [sic] Friedrich Waismann, welcher seit dem Jahre 1930 als Bibliothekar am philosophischen Institut der Wiener Universität tätig ist, in dieser Eigenschaft abzusehen.46

Schlicks Bemühung, Waismanns Entlassung zu verhindern, blieb erfolglos. Das Bundesministerium für Unterricht schrieb am 19. März 1936 an das Dekanat: Das Dekanat wird ersucht, dem ordentlichen Professor Dr. Moritz Schlick zu eröffnen, dass sich das Bundesministerium für Unterricht nicht bestimmt findet, eine weitere Verwendung des Friedrich Waismann am philosophischen Institut – in welcher Eigenschaft immer – zu gestatten, und dass es dem genannten Professor überlassen bleibt, sich für die Betrauung einer anderen geeigneten Person mit den Funktionen eines Bibliothekars zu entscheiden oder auf einen solchen gänzlich zu verzichten, in welch letzterem Falle die bezügliche h.o. Präliminarpost gestrichen würde.47

Es ist nicht auszuschließen, dass die Entlassung bereits politisch motiviert war, denn wenig später verlor auch die Jüdin Amalie Rosenblüth (1892–1979) ihre Stelle als Bibliothekarin am Institut für Philosophie. Für Waismann waren es lediglich formale Gründe, dass er seine Arbeitsstelle verloren hatte (Taschwer 2015, 186). Zu dieser Zeit ahnte Waismann noch nichts von den folgenden politischen Ereignissen durch den Nationalsozialismus. Am 22. Juni 1936 wurde Waismanns Mentor und Förderer Schlick von einem ehemaligen Schüler, Johann Nelböck (1903–1954), auf der Philosophenstiege in der Universität Wien erschossen (Sigmund 2015, 258–261, 287–291). Mit Schlicks Tod wurde auch eine erneute Beziehung zwischen Waismann und Wittgenstein so gut wie undenkbar, da Schlick als bindendes Glied zwischen diesen  Archiv der Universität Wien. „Rigorosenakt“ von Malwine Antscherl.  Archiv der Universität Wien. „Personalakt“ von Friedrich Waismann, S. 10. 47  Archiv der Universität Wien. „Personalakt“ von Friedrich Waismann, S. 12. 45 46

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beiden Philosophen fungiert hatte. Durch die Geschehnisse wurde Waismann klar, dass der Abschluss seines Doktoratsstudiums drängt. Die Aufsätze „Logische Analyse des Wahrscheinlichkeitsbegriffs“ und „Über den Begriff der Identität“ fasste Waismann unter dem Titel Logische Analyse des Wahrscheinlichkeitsbegriffs zusammen und reichte seine Dissertation nun bei den Professoren Robert Reininger und Richard Meister ein.48 Waismann schloss somit sein Doktoratsstudium noch rechtzeitig ab, denn nach dem Anschluss von Österreich an das nationalsozialistische Deutschland 1938, wäre eine Promotion für ihn als Jude so gut wie unmöglich gewesen.

16.3.1 Wien – Cambridge – Oxford Nach Waismanns Entlassung als Bibliothekar 1936, nach der Ermordung seines Förderers Schlick 1936 und des stärker werdenden Antisemitismus, musste er sich im Ausland nach einer Arbeitsstelle bemühen. Im Herbst 1937 ging Waismann nach Cambridge (UK), wo er Vorträge hielt. Wittgenstein verließ ein Jahr zuvor Cambridge und befand sich zu dieser Zeit in Norwegen. Waismann blieb aufgrund der politischen Lage in Österreich ein weiteres Semester in Cambridge und holte seine Frau Hermine und seinen Sohn Thomas nach England (McGuinness 2011a, 12–13). Über Wittgensteins Rückkehr nach Cambridge 1938 wurde unterschiedlich berichtet. Einerseits erinnerte sich Karl Popper (1902–1994), dass sich Wittgenstein und Waismann aufgrund ihrer vorherigen Differenzen nicht mehr trafen (Stadler 2015, 275), andererseits behauptete Brian McGuinness, dass es sehr wohl Treffen zwischen ihnen gab, aber daraus keine erneute Beziehung entstand (McGuinness 2011a, 12–13). Entscheidend ist, dass Waismann und Wittgenstein ihre gemeinsame Arbeit nicht wieder aufnahmen. Waismann besaß ein fertiges Manuskript von LSP, jedoch verhinderte der Anschluss eine Veröffentlichung. Daraufhin wandte sich Waismann an Neurath, um einen Verlag in Holland zu finden. Neurath gelang es, den Verlag Stockum und Zoon für eine Veröffentlichung des Buches in deutscher Sprache zu überzeugen. Waismann schrieb an den Verlag Kegan Paul bezüglich einer Veröffentlichung des Buches in englischer Sprache. Dieser willigte ein, aber nur unter der Bedingung der zeitgleichen Veröffentlichung mit dem holländischen Verlag. Aufgrund von Komplikationen verzögerte sich die Veröffentlichung. Zum einen gab es Probleme auf Seiten des holländischen Verlages und zum anderen überarbeitete Waismann fortlaufend den Text. Mit dem Einmarsch der deutschen Truppen in Holland war schlussendlich keine Publikation mehr möglich (Baker und McGuinness 1976, 655–659). Sein Werk erschien erst posthum 1965 mit dem Titel The Principles of Linguistic Philosophy und wurde von Rom Harré herausgegeben. Die deutsche Version, herausgegeben von Gordon Baker und Brian McGuinness,

48

 Archiv der Universität Wien. „Rigorosenakt“ von Friedrich Waismann, S. 002–003.

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erschien 1976 unter dem Titel Logik, Sprache, Philosophie. Obwohl an dieser Stelle hervorgehoben werden muss, dass Waismann bereits 1938 den Titel „Logik, Sprache, Philosophie“ in „Sprache und Philosophie“ ändern wollte (McGuinness 2011b, 17–18). Die Manuskripte und Typoskripte zu LSP dienten Waismann als Fundament für seine späteren veröffentlichten Artikel. Nachdem Waismann den erhofften Lehrstuhl von G.E.  Moore in Cambridge nicht bekam, nahm er ein Angebot in Oxford an. Hingegen zu Cambridge, waren seine Vorlesungen sowie Artikel in Oxford sehr renommiert. In einer Sitzung der Oxford Essay Society (The Socratic Club) 1947 schwor Waismann dem Positivismus ab und sprach sich für die Klarheit als ausreichendes aufrührerisches Motiv aus (McGuinness 2011a, 12–15).

16.3.2 Schmerz und Isolation Waismann konnte zwar einige Erfolge in Oxford feiern, jedoch war sein Privatleben geprägt von Schicksalsschlägen. Seine Stiefmutter, Reisel Waismann (auch Weissmann), wurde am 5. Juni 1942 in den polnischen Ort Izbica deportiert und ermordet.49 Hermine Waismann hatte zu dieser Zeit noch zwei Schwestern, Helene und Malwine, denn ihre Schwester Flora starb bereits sehr früh an den Folgen einer langen schweren Erkrankung 1921.50 Helene Engel (geb. Antscherl) wurde am 15. Mai 1942 ebenfalls nach Izbica gebracht und ermordet. Malwine Antscherl wurde am 20. August 1942  in das Konzentrationslager Theresienstadt und am 12. Oktober 1944 nach Auschwitz deportiert und getötet.51 Hermine war die einzige Überlebende ihrer Familie. Vermutlich nahm sie sich aufgrund dieser Tatsache das Leben in England 1943.52 Waismann blieb mit seinem Sohn Thomas in Oxford. In den Briefen von 1945 bis 1947 an Hermines Nichte, beschrieb Waismann den schwierigen Aufbau persönlicher Beziehungen und die schweren ökonomischen Folgen des Krieges (Lieberman und Lieberman 2011, 19–23). Wenige Jahre später wählte auch Waismanns Sohn den Freitod in diesem Spannungsfeld zwischen Trauer und Isolation. Ab diesem Zeitpunkt war Waismann der einzig Hinterbliebene der Familie. Laut Lieberman, spielte Waismann mit dem Gedanken nach Amerika zu emigrieren, verwarf diese Idee jedoch wieder, da er in Oxford mehr Zeit für seine Arbeiten hätte, aufgrund der wenig verpflichtenden Lehrtätigkeit (Lieberman und Lieberman 2011, 21–23).

 IKG. Ebenso: https://www.doew.at [Zugriff: 26.07.2021].  Todesanzeige von Flora Diamant (Antscherl)  [https://www.geni.com/people/Flora-Diamant/6000000015739397664; Zugriff: 26.07.2021]. 51  IKG. Ebenso: https://www.doew.at [Zugriff: 26.07.2021]. Ebenso: (Brosch 2012, 73). 52  IKG. 49 50

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Friedrich Waismann wurde im Jahr 1955 Fellow der British Academy und starb am 4. November 1959 in Oxford (Stadler 2015, 506). Was bleibt sind seine Schriften, welche mit Klarheit brillieren, und sein zutreffender Satz: Was in Worte gefaßt wird, stirbt, was in Werke gefaßt wird, lebt. (Waismann 2008b, 214)

16.3.3 

Stammbaum Waismann & Antscherl

Die folgende Grafik zeigt die genealogischen Daten der Familie Waismann sowie der Familie Antscherl. Das Symbol „ “ bedeutet, dass die beiden Personen verheiratet waren. Das Symbol „↕“ bedeutet, dass die Personen Geschwister waren. Das Symbol „(!)“ bedeutet, dass es eine Abweichung zwischen den Archivunterlagen der Israelitischen Kultusgemeinde Wien (IKG) und der Inschrift des Grabsteines am Jüdischen Friedhof (Zentralfriedhof) Wien gab. Das Symbol „?“ bedeutet, dass die Daten  bzw. der Familienstand mir nicht ausreichend gesichert bekannt sind (Abb. 16.5).

Abb. 16.5  Genealogie Familie Waismann und Familie Antscherl (!) Clara Waismann: Nach Inschrift des Grabsteines am Jüdischen Friedhof verstarb Clara Waismann im Alter von 60 Jahren. (Quellen: Archiv IKG; Dokumentationsarchiv des österreichischen Widerstandes (https://www. doew.at/); „geni.com“ (https://www.geni.com/family-­tree/html/start); Jüdischer Friedhof am Zentralfriedhof Wien; Rudolf Carnap Tagebücher  1920–1935 (Band 2), herausgegeben von Christian Damböck)

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16.4  Waismanns Wiener Publikationen Friedrich Waismann war bekannt dafür, dass er seine Vorträge und Schriften stets klar und deutlich formulierte. Neben seiner Arbeit an LSP verfasste er hauptsächlich Aufsätze und das Buch Einführung in das mathematische Denken (EMD), welches sein einzig publiziertes Buch zu Lebzeiten war.

16.4.1 

Überblick

Waismanns erster Aufsatz „Die Natur des Reduzibilitätsaxioms“ wurde im Jahre 1928 in den Monatsheften für Mathematik und Physik veröffentlicht und kann als Resultat von Wittgensteins Einfluss auf ihn betrachtet werden. Im Text setzt sich Waismann kritisch mit der Einführung des Reduzibilitätsaxioms in dem Werk Principia Mathematica von Bertrand Russell (1872–1970) und Alfred N. Whitehead (1861–1947) auseinander. Neben Wittgensteins Einfluss, setzte auch Carnap einen Impuls für den Beweis im Text (Waismann 2008a, 27–30). Im Jahr 1929 hielt Waismann im Zuge der Prager Tagung für Erkenntnislehre der exakten Wissenschaft den Vortrag „Logische Analyse des Wahrscheinlichkeitsbegriffs“ (Stadler 2015, 158–160). Der gleichnamige Aufsatz, welcher erstmals das Verifikationsprinzip enthält, wurde 1930/1931 in der Zeitschrift Erkenntnis 1 veröffentlicht (Baker und McGuinness 1976, 649). Waismann argumentiert, dass die Wahrscheinlichkeitslehre einen Teil der Logik darstellt. Seine Idee der logischen Nähe, welche eine bestimmte logische Beziehung zwischen verschiedenen Aussagen graduell beschreibt, nahm nach der Philosophin Maria Carla Galavotti großen Einfluss auf Carnaps Konzept der induktiven Logik (Galavotti 2005, 163, 171). In „Über den Begriff der Identität“ geht Waismann der Frage nach, ob die Identität eine Relation zwischen Gegenständen ist. Der Aufsatz erschien 1936  in Erkenntnis 6 und war der Auslöser für Wittgensteins Plagiatsvorwurf, welcher schlussendlich zur Auflösung der gemeinsamen Arbeit führte (Waismann 2008c, 54–63). Wie bereits in diesem Bericht erwähnt, wurden die Aufsätze „Logische Analyse des Wahrscheinlichkeitsbegriffs“ und „Über den Begriff der Identität“ unter dem Titel Logische Analyse des Wahrscheinlichkeitsbegriffs zusammengefasst und bei Robert Reininger und Richard Meister als Dissertation eingereicht. Reininger schrieb am 17. November 1936 als Beurteilung (Abb. 16.6):53 Beide Arbeiten zeichnen sich durch strenge Gedankenführung & stilistische Klarheit aus. Sie beweisen, gleichgültig, wie man sich zu dieser oder jener These stellen mag, einwandfrei die volle wissenschaftliche Reife des Verfassers. Ihrer Approbation steht nichts im Wege.54

53 54

 Archiv der Universität Wien. „Rigorosenakt“ von Friedrich Waismann, S. 002–003.  Archiv der Universität Wien. „Rigorosenakt“ von Friedrich Waismann, S. 003.

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Abb. 16.6  Beurteilung von Waismanns Dissertation. (Quelle: Archiv der Universität Wien. „Rigorosenakt“: Friedrich Waismann, S. 003)

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In Erkenntnis 7 erschien „Ist die Logik eine deduktive Theorie?“ 1937/1938 und darf noch zu Waismanns Wiener Zeit gezählt werden. Nach Waismann ist die Logik ein Ausdruck einer Schlussregel und die Axiome der Logik sind Teile von Schlussregeln. Die Logik ist nach Waismann keine Theorie, welche von wahren axiomatischen Sätzen weitere Wahrheiten generiert (Waismann 2008d, 64–72). Den Vortrag „Ist die Logik eine deduktive Theorie?“ hielt Waismann am vierten internationalen Kongress für Einheit der Wissenschaft (14.-19. Juli 1938) in Cambridge (UK) und ergänzend dazu „Ist die Logik eine deduktive Wissenschaft?“ (Stadler 2015, 193–195). In der Zeitschrift Synthese wurde anlässlich der Ermordung Moritz Schlicks 1936 Waismanns Aufsatz „De beteekenis van Moritz Schlick voor de wijsbegeerte“ im selben Jahr veröffentlicht. Wie bereits aus dem Titel hervorgeht, setzt sich Waismann mit Schlicks Bedeutung für die Philosophie und dessen Bezug zur Sprache auseinander (Waismann 1936, 361–370). Der Aufsatz überschneidet sich inhaltlich mit Waismanns Vorwort in dem Buch Moritz Schlick. Gesammelte Aufsätze 1926–1936, welches er zum Gedenken an Schlick 1938 in Wien herausgegeben hat. Das Vorwort basiert auf Waismanns Vortrag „Schlick als Philosoph“, welchen er bereits 1936  in der Philosophischen Gesellschaft hielt.55 Waismann schafft nicht nur Schlicks Werdegang und wissenschaftliche Leistungen treffend zu beschreiben, sondern gibt auch einen Einblick in die philosophische Beziehung von Schlick und Wittgenstein (Waismann 1938, VII–XXXI).

16.4.2 

Waismanns Buch

Im Jahr 1936 erschien Waismanns Buch EMD mit einem Vorwort von Karl Menger. EMD zeigt deutlich, dass Waismann sowohl Mathematiker als auch Philosoph war. Das Buch stellt eine wichtige historische Momentaufnahme des Grundlagenstreits zwischen Logizismus, Formalismus und Intuitionismus dar. Im Gegensatz zur Programmschrift des Wiener Kreises steht EMD dem Logizismus entgegen. Waismanns philosophische Standpunkte stehen klar unter dem Einfluss von Wittgenstein. Er vertritt in diesem Buch auch den Konventionalismus, wobei der Schwerpunkt auf der Betonung von Festsetzungen sowohl sprachlicher als auch logischer Regeln liegt. Ebenfalls wird im Nachwort auf die Vorlesung „Elementarmathematik vom höheren Standpunkt aus“ von Felix Klein (1849–1925) sowie auf das Buch Theorie und Anwendung der unendlichen Reihen56 von Konrad Knopp (1882–1957) als wichtige Quellen verwiesen (Waismann 2012, 72–86, 162–168).

 50 Jahre Philosophische Gesellschaft an der Universität Wien 1888–1938, Verlag der  Philosophischen Gesellschaft an der Universität Wien, S. 42 [Robert Reininger (Hg.)]. 56  Dieses Buch wurde in folgenden Jahren herausgegeben: 1921, 1923, 1931, 1947, 1964. Der Autor dieses Berichts bezieht sich auf die fünfte Auflage 1964. 55

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Meines Erachtens wurde Knopps Buch im Kontext mit Waismanns EMD in der Fachliteratur zu wenig Beachtung geschenkt. Dies ist insofern verwunderlich, da einige Kritikpunkte in EMD zu Knopps Überlegungen in Verbindung gebracht werden können wie beispielsweise die Verwendung des Wortes „Erweiterung“ im Zusammenhang zwischen den verschiedenen Zahlenarten. Knopp schreibt: Enthält aber das System S außer den obengenannten noch andere Elemente, so werden wir sagen, S umfasse das System der rationalen Zahlen, es sei eine Erweiterung desselben. […] (Knopp 1964, 12)

Während Knopp die rationalen Zahlen als eine Erweiterung der natürlichen Zahlen sieht, denken Wittgenstein und Waismann hingegen, dass man von einem System zu einem neuen System übergeht. In EMD führt Waismann folgendes Beispiel an: […] Aber schon der Sprachgebrauch enthält Hinweise, daß zwischen Anzahlen und positiven Zahlen wohl zu unterscheiden ist. Wenn ich sage, daß ich drei Gäste eingeladen habe, so kann ich hierin das Zahlwort „drei“ durch jedes andere ersetzen; aber nicht durch das Zeichen „+3“, weil es sonst auch Sinn haben müßte, von der Einladung von -3 Gästen zu reden. „3“ und „+3“ haben sozusagen eine verschiedene logische Grammatik; […] (Waismann 2012, 31)

Waismann unterscheidet somit streng zwischen der natürlichen Zahl „5“, der gan5 zen Zahl „+5“ und der rationalen Zahl „ “. Diese Zahlen sind nach ihm nicht 1 identisch, sie sind Gegenstand verschiedener Kalküle. Gleiches gilt für die jeweiligen Rechenoperationen der verschiedenen Zahlenarten. Für Waismann liegt jedes System auf einer anderen Ebene, wobei unlösbare Rechnungen von einer Ebene auf eine andere Ebene projiziert und entsprechend gelöst werden. Dieser Auffassung nach, wird beispielsweise eine unlösbare Rechnung der natürlichen Zahlen nicht durch Hinzunahme der negativen Zahlen gelöst, sondern es wird die Aufgabe in das System der ganzen Zahlen übertragen und in diesem System gelöst (Waismann 2012, 32, 44–45). Bei einer Gegenüberstellung der natürlichen Zahlen und der positiven ganzen Zahlen, sind die Zahlen bei entsprechender Zuordnung für Waismann eineindeutig, ähnlich und isomorph (Waismann 2012, 32). Darstellung in EMD: 1

2

3

4 …

↓

↓

↓

↓

+1

+2

+3

+4 …

Aufgrund dieser Zuordnung erscheint für Waismann das eine System als treue Kopie des anderen (Waismann 2012, 31–32). Diese Kritik am Erweiterungsbegriff findet sich bereits in den Gesprächen mit Wittgenstein 1929, in denen Wittgenstein folgendes sagt:

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Nein, so verhält es sich nicht, sondern wir sind durchaus zu einem neuen System übergegangen, welches das alte nicht mehr enthält, sondern einen Teil besitzt, der genau dieselbe Struktur besitzt wie das alte System. Einfache Beispiele sind: die natürlichen Zahlen und die ganzen Zahlen. Die natürlichen Zahlen sind ja nicht identisch mit den positiven Zahlen, so daß man etwa von plus zwei Soldaten sprechen könnte, so wie man von zwei Soldaten spricht, sondern wir haben hier etwas völlig Neues vor uns. (Wittgenstein, in: McGuinness 2015, 35 f.)

Weiters: Man muß sich aber wohl vor Augen halten, daß es unmöglich ist, von dem einen System durch bloße Ausdehnung zu dem anderen überzugehen; daß eine Frage, die Sinn hat in dem zweiten System, deswegen noch keinen Sinn zu haben braucht in dem ersten. Das neue System ist keine Vervollständigung des alten. Das alte System hat keine offenen Stellen. (Wittgenstein, in: McGuinness 2015, 36)

In „Über das Wesen der Mathematik“ (1930) stößt man auf die gleichen Gedanken. Waismann schreibt: Daraus folgt: Ein System kann nicht erweitert werden. Die negativen Zahlen z. B. sind nicht eine Ergänzung der natürlichen Zahlen. Natürliche Zahlen, rationale Zahlen  – d.s. nicht verschiedene Subklassen eines Bereiches der Zahlen, sondern man bezeichnet ihr Wesen am besten, wenn man sagt: verschiedene Kapitelüberschriften der Grammatik. Die Zahlenarten sind gleichsam verschiedene Wortarten, d.  h. Wortarten, die einer verschiedenen Syntax gehorchen. Zwischen diesen verschiedenen syntaktischen Regeln bestehen Ähnlichkeiten, und deshalb bezeichnen wir sie alle als Zahlen. […] Wo es so aussieht, als hätte man das System erweitert, ist man in Wahrheit zu einem System höherer Multiplizität aufgestiegen. (Waismann 1982, 166–167)

Ein weiteres Beispiel ist Knopps Ansicht der Lückenhaftigkeit von Zahlenarten: Die ganzen Zahlen bilden eine erste grobe Einteilung in Fächer; die rationalen Zahlen füllen diese Fächer wie mit feinem Sande aus, der aber für den schärferen Blick notwendig noch Lücken lassen muß. Diese nun auszufüllen, wird unsere nächste Aufgabe sein. (Knopp 1964, 13)

In den Gesprächen mit Waismann 1929 führte Wittgenstein den Gedanken an, dass ein mathematisches System völlig in sich abgeschlossen und nicht unvollständig sei (McGuinness 2015, 34–36). Diese Ansicht änderte Wittgenstein auch nicht. In Philosophische Bemerkungen (1930) hält er fest: Wo jetzt ein Zusammenhang bekannt ist, der früher nicht bekannt war, dort war früher nicht eine offene Stelle, eine Unvollständigkeit, die jetzt ausgefüllt ist! […] Ich habe also gesagt: Die Mathematik hat keine offenen Stellen. Das widerspricht der gewöhnlichen Auffassung. (Wittgenstein 1981, 187)

Waismanns und Wittgensteins Kritiken an der Verwendung des Wortes „Erweiterung“ in Bezug auf die Zahlenarten sowie der Ansicht von Zwischengliedern in diesen Zahlenarten scheinen plausibel zu sein.

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5 Aus syntaktischer Sicht gehören die Zeichen „3“, „+3“, oder „5“, „+5“ und „ “ ‑ 1 unterschiedlichen formalen Systemen an.57 Der Ausdruck „3  =  PLUS_SPI 3“ ist keine wohlgeformte Formel, da Gleichungen nur innerhalb der jeweiligen Zahlenbereiche korrekt gebildet werden können. Dabei müssen aber bestimmte Voraussetzungen getroffen werden, wie die Formregeln (Angabe der Grundzeichen, wohlgeformte Formel etc.). Beispielsweise, dass der Ausdruck „3 = PLUS_SPI 3“ in beiden Kalkülen nicht wohlgeformt ist, liegt nur am Aufbau der Kalküle. Die eineindeutige Zuordnung der natürlichen Zahlen zu den positiven ganzen Zahlen, schließt die natürlichen Zahlen als Teilbereich in die ganzen Zahlen ein. Die eineindeutige Zuordnung gilt auch für die arithmetischen Relationen und Operationen. Fasst man jedoch die eineindeutige Zuordnung von den natürlichen Zahlen zu den positiven ganzen Zahlen als Übersetzung von der einen Sprache in eine andere Sprache auf, dann bildet der Term „8 − 9“ einen kritischen Fall.58 Sowohl dieser Term als auch die Gleichung „8 − 9 = x“ sind relativ zur Syntax der natürlichen Zahlen, nicht wohlgeformt. Die Syntax der natürlichen Zahlen könnte man so aufbauen, dass die Zeichenkette „8 − 9“ nicht zur Syntax gehört. Man könnte den Aufbau der Syntax so festsetzen, dass der Term „a − b“ kein Term ist, wenn „b“ gleich oder größer „a“ ist.59 Ebenfalls ist es möglich, dass die Gleichung „8 − 9 = x“ einen wohlgeformten Ausdruck bildet. Wenn nämlich „a“ und „b“ beliebige (auch zusammengesetzte) Terme sind, dann ist auch „a − b“ ein Term. Wenn „a“, „b“, „c“ Terme sind, dann ist „a − b = c“ eine Gleichung. Setzt man in der Gleichung „8 − 9 = x“ für den Term „x“ eine beliebig natürliche Zahl ein, wird es keine Einsetzung geben, welche die Gleichung wahr macht. Daraus folgt, dass es keine Übersetzung in die positiven ganzen Zahlen gibt, welche diese Gleichung wahr macht. Ebenso lässt sich die Gleichung „(+8) − (+9) = −1“ aus dem Bereich der ganzen Zahlen nicht in den Bereich der natürlichen Zahlen zurückübersetzen. Das Zeichen „−1“ ist kein Bestandteil der Syntax der natürlichen Zahlen, sondern Bestandteil der Syntax der ganzen Zahlen. In diesem Fall gibt es keine eineindeutige Zuordnung zu irgendeiner natürlichen Zahl. Es ist auch möglich, den gesamten Bereich der ganzen Zahlen so zu axiomatisieren, sodass der Ausdruck „(+8) − (+9) = −1“ ein Theorem ist. Die entsprechende

 Die Syntax einer Sprache gibt die Zeichen an, welche in einer Sprache vorkommen. Für die Bildung und Umformung von Zeichenketten gibt es Regeln, Formationsregeln bzw. Transformationsregeln. Mit diesen Regeln wird die Syntax einer Sprache festgelegt und die Bildung von sogenannten wohlgeformten Formeln bestimmt. Das daraus entstehende System ist der Kalkül. 58  Diese Überlegungen beruhen auf einer Unterhaltung mit Ingolf Max (Universität Leipzig). An dieser Stelle möchte sich der Autor für die konstruktive Diskussion bedanken! 59  Die Bedingung bei der Subtraktion „a  −  b“ im Bereich der natürlichen Zahlen ist, dass der Minuend „a“ größer sein muss als der Subtrahend „b“. Wird die Zahl Null bei den natürlichen Zahlen miteinbezogen, muss der Minuend größer-gleich dem Subtrahenden sein. 57

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eineindeutige Übersetzung muss jedoch als Voraussetzung gelten. Die Gleichung G ist im System der natürlichen Zahlen genau dann ein Theorem, wenn die eineindeutige Übersetzung G′ im Bereich der ganzen Zahlen ein Theorem ist. Die eineindeutige Übersetzung von „(+8)  −  (+9)  =  −1“ hat keinen entsprechenden Ausdruck, weder im Bereich der natürlichen Zahlen noch gibt es ein solches Theorem im Bereich der positiven ganzen Zahlen. Somit ist Waismanns strenge Zuordnung zwischen den natürlichen und positiven ganzen Zahlen in EMD kritisch zu sehen. Der Ausdruck „8 − 9 = −1“ ist weder im Bereich der natürlichen Zahlen noch im Bereich der positiven ganzen Zahlen „(+8) − (+9) = −1“ wohlgeformt. Ebenso ist interessant, wie Knopp den Zahlbegriff bestimmt. Er legt den Zahlbegriff mittels charakteristischer Eigenschaften fest und betont dabei die Willkürlichkeit bei diesem Vorgehen (Knopp 1964, 12, 401–402). Somit beschreibt Knopp einerseits den Zahlbegriff, andererseits lässt er gewissen Raum, um Veränderungen zuzulassen. In EMD fallen unter den Begriff „Zahl“ beispielsweise die natürlichen Zahlen, die ganzen Zahlen und so weiter. Aufgrund ihrer Ähnlichkeiten bilden die einzelnen Begriffe eine sogenannte „Familie“ (Waismann 2012, 162–163). Den Begriff „Zahl“ reflektieren Waismann und Wittgenstein bereits in früheren Texten sowie Gesprächen (z.  B. „Über das Wesen der Mathematik“ (Waismann 1982, 157–167), „Was in Königsberg zu sagen wäre“ (McGuinness 2015, 102–103)). Das Wort „Familienähnlichkeiten“ liest man bei Wittgenstein unter anderem in Das Blaue Buch (BlB) 1933/1934 (Wittgenstein 1989, 37), worauf Waismann allem Anschein nach zurückgriff, da die aufgezählten Eigenschaften einer „Familie“ in EMD und in BlB gleich sind (Waismann 2012, 163). Einige Jahre später reflektierte Wittgenstein in den Philosophischen Unter‑ suchungen (PU § 67) dieses Thema erneut: Ich kann diese Ähnlichkeiten nicht besser charakterisieren als durch das Wort „Familienähnlichkeiten“; denn so übergreifen und kreuzen sich die verschiedenen Ähnlichkeiten, die zwischen den Gliedern einer Familie bestehen: […] Und ich werde sagen: die >Spiele< bilden eine Familie. Und ebenso bilden z.  B. die Zahlenarten eine Familie. Warum nennen wir etwas „Zahl“? Nun etwa, weil es eine – direkte – Verwandtschaft mit manchem hat, was man bisher Zahl genannt hat; und dadurch, kann man sagen, erhält so eine indirekte Verwandtschaft zu anderem, was wir auch so nennen. Und wir dehnen unseren Begriff der Zahl aus, wie wir beim Spinnen eines Fadens Faser an Faser drehen. […] (Wittgenstein 2014, 278)

Weiters in den PU § 68: […] Denn ich kann so dem Begriff >Zahl< feste Grenzen geben, d. h. das Wort „Zahl“ zur Bezeichnung eines fest begrenzten Begriffs gebrauchen, aber ich kann es auch so ge‑ brauchen, daß der Umfang des Begriffs nicht durch eine Grenze abgeschlossen ist. […] (Wittgenstein 2014, 278–279)

Demnach ist der Begriff „Zahl“ für Wittgenstein zwar in bestimmten Fällen fixiert, aber nicht in allen Fällen.

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Literatur Autengruber, Peter. 2020. Lexikon der Wiener Straßennamen, 11., überarb. Aufl. Wien: Wundergarten . Baker, Gordon Park, und Brian McGuinness. 1976. Nachwort. In Logik, Sprache, Philosophie, (Hrsg.) Gordon P. Baker und Brian McGuinness, 647–662. Stuttgart: Philipp Reclam Jun. Brosch, Markus. 2012. Jüdische Kinder und LehrerInnen zwischen Hoffnung, Ausgrenzung und Deportation. VS/HS Kleine Sperlgasse 2a, 1938–1941. Universität Wien: Diplomarbeit. Damböck, Christian (Hrsg.) 2022. Rudolf Carnap. Tagebücher. Band 2, 1920–1935. Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag. Dierker, Egbert, und Karl Sigmund, Hrsg. 1998. Karl Menger. Ergebnisse eines Mathematischen Kolloquiums. Wien: Springer. Galavotti, Maria Carla. 2005. Philosophical Introduction To Probability. Stanford: CSLI. Jahn, Bruno, Hrsg. 2001. Biographische Enzyklopädie deutschsprachiger Philosophen. München: K.G. Saur. Knopp, Konrad. 1964. Theorie und Anwendung der unendlichen Reihen, 5. Aufl. Berlin/Göttingen/ Heidelberg/New York: Springer. Kuzmany, Börries. 2011. Brody. Eine galizische Grenzstadt im langen 19. Jahrhundert. Wien/ Köln/Weimar: Böhlau Verlag. Lieberman, Max, und Hedi Lieberman. 2011. The Exile and His Family. In Friedrich Waismann-­ Causality and Logical Positivism, Hrsg. Brian McGuinness, 19–23. Dordrecht/Heidelberg/ London/New York: Springer. Limbeck-Lilienau, Christoph, und Friedrich Stadler. 2015. Der Wiener Kreis. Texte und Bilder zum Logischen Empirismus. Wien: LIT Verlag. Manninen, Juha. 2011. Waismann’s Testimony of Wittgenstein’s Fresh Starts in 1931–35. In Friedrich Waismann-Causality and Logical Positivism, Hrsg. Brian McGuinness, 243–265. Dordrecht/Heidelberg/London/New York: Springer. McGuinness, Brian. 2011a. Waismann: The Wandering Scholar. In Friedrich Waismann-Causality and Logical Positivism, Hrsg. Brian McGuinness, 9–16. Dordrecht/Heidelberg/London/New York: Springer. ———. 2011b. Waismann’s Big Book. In Friedrich Waismann-Causality and Logical Positivism, Hrsg. Brian McGuinness, 17–18. Dordrecht/Heidelberg/London/New York: Springer. ——— (Hrsg.). 2015. Wittgenstein und der Wiener Kreis, Werkausgabe Bd. 3. Berlin: Suhrkamp. Menger, Karl. 1988. Einleitung. In Hans Hahn: Empirismus, Logik, Mathematik, Hrsg. Brian McGuinness. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp. Reichenbach, Hans. 1930. Tagung für Erkenntnislehre der exakten Wissenschaften in Königsberg. Naturwissenschaften 18(50): 1093–1094. https://link-­springer-­com.uaccess.univie.ac.at/content/pdf/10.1007%2FBF01492524.pdf. Zugegriffen am 11.02.2019. Schuster, Frank Michael. 2004. Das multikulturelle Galizien. Die Entstehung eines Mythos während des Ersten Weltkrieges. Jewish History Quarterly 212 (4): 532–545. Sigmund, Karl. 2015. Sie nannten sich Der Wiener Kreis: Exaktes Denken am Rand des Untergangs. Wiesbaden: Springer. Spiel, Hilde. 1988. Glanz und Untergang. Wien 1866–1938. Wien: Kremayr & Scheriau. ———. 1989. Die hellen und die finsteren Zeiten. München: Paul List Verlag. ———. 1991. Die Dämonie der Gemütlichkeit. Glossen zur Zeit und andere Prosa. München: Paul List Verlag. Stadler, Friedrich. 2015. Der Wiener Kreis. Ursprung, Entwicklung und Wirkung des Logischen Empirismus im Kontext. Switzerland: Springer. Taschwer, Klaus. 2015. Hochburg des Antisemitismus. Der Niedergang der Universität Wien im 20. Jahrhundert. Wien: Czernin. Verein Ernst Mach. 2012. Wissenschaftliche Weltauffassung. Der Wiener Kreis. In Wissenschaftliche Weltauffassung. Der Wiener Kreis. Herausgegeben vom Verein Ernst Mach (1929), Hrsg. Friedrich Stadler und Thomas Uebel, 11–74. Wien: Springer.

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Waismann, Friedrich. 1936. De beteekenis van Moritz Schlick voor de wijsbegeerte. Synthese 1(12): 361–370. Dordrecht/Holland: Springer. https://www.jstor.org/stable/20113464. Zugegriffen am 18.11.2021. ———. 1938. Vorwort. In Moritz Schlick. Gesammelte Aufsätze 1926–1936, VII–XXXI. Wien: Gerold & Co. ———. 1982. Über das Wesen der Mathematik. In Lectures on the Philosophy of Mathematics, Hrsg.Wolfgang Grassl, 157–167. Amsterdam: Rodopi. ———. 2008a. Die Natur des Reduzibilitätsaxioms. In Friedrich Waismann. Was ist logische Analyse? Hrsg. Kai Buchholz, 27–30. Hamburg: EVA. ———. 2008b. Wie ich die Philosophie sehe. In Friedrich Waismann. Was ist logische Analyse? Hrsg. Kai Buchholz, 165–215. Hamburg: EVA. ———. 2008c. Über den Begriff der Identität. In Friedrich Waismann. Was ist logische Analyse? Hrsg. Kai Buchholz, 54–63. Hamburg: EVA. ———. 2008d. Ist die Logik eine deduktive Theorie? In Friedrich Waismann. Was ist logische Analyse? Hrsg. Kai Buchholz, 64–72. Hamburg: EVA. ———. 2012. Einführung in das mathematische Denken. Die Begriffsbildung der modernen Mathematik, 5. Aufl., Hrsg. Heinz Jörg Claus. Vorwort: Albrecht Beutelspacher. Darmstadt: WBG . Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1981. Philosophische Bemerkungen, Hrsg. Rush Rhees. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Wissenschaft 336. [Basil Blackwell, Oxford 1964]. ———. 1989. Das Blaue Buch. Eine Philosophische Betrachtung, Hrsg. Rush Rhees. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp. [Werkausgabe Band 5, Erste Auflage 1989; Basil Blackwell, Oxford 1958; Übersetzung des Blue Book und der Ergänzung der Philosophischen Betrachtung aus dem Brown Book von Petra von Morstein]. ———. 2014. Tractatus logico-philosophicus. Tagebücher 1914–1916. Philosophische Untersuchungen. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Wissenschaft 501. [Werkausgabe Band 1, 21. Auflage].

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Unveröffentlichte Quellen FWF-Projekt „Carnap in Context II: (Dis) continuities“ (P 31716): Unveröffentlichtes Material: Rudolf Carnap Briefe. Briefe von Rudolf Carnap. Erlaubte Einsicht durch Christian Damböck (Leiter des Forschungsprojektes „Carnap in Context II: (Dis)continuities“). Das FWF-Projekt „Carnap in Context II: (Dis) continuities“ steht in Verbindung mit dem FWF-Projekt „The Carnap/Neurath – Correspondence“ (P 30377) unter der Leitung von Johannes Friedl. FWF-Projekt „Carnap in Context III: ‘practical’ philosophy in the US“ (P 34887): Unveröffentlichtes Material: Rudolf Carnap Tagebücher 1936–1952. Tagebücher von Rudolf Carnap. Erlaubte Einsicht durch Christian Damböck (Leiter des Forschungsprojektes „Carnap in Context III: ‘practical’ philosophy in the US“).

Kapitel 17

Wittgenstein und Rothschild Die zwei bekanntesten und reichsten Familien der Habsburgermonarchie Roman Sandgruber

Zusammenfassung  Im Jahr 1910 gab es in Wien und Niederösterreich, damals zusammen ein Kronland, 929 Personen, die ein Jahreseinkommen von mehr als 100.000 Kronen versteuerten. Sie bezahlten dafür weniger als 5 Prozent an Einkommenssteuer. Eine Person ragt dabei heraus: Albert Frh. v. Rothschild. Er als Einzelperson versteuerte 1910 ein Jahreseinkommen von 25,6 Mio. Kronen. Das ist mehr als sieben Mal so viel wie die nächsten im Ranking. Ein Familienverband ragt unter diesen knapp 1000 „Millionären“ heraus: Insgesamt elf Mitglieder der Familie Wittgenstein sind unter den 929 Spitzenverdienern zu finden, auch wenn sie es zusammen gerechnet nur auf ein Jahreseinkommen von etwa fünf Mio. Kronen brachten, damit zusammen nur knapp ein Fünftel dessen, was Albert Rothschild als Einzelner verdiente. Rothschild war ein Monolith, er stand ganz allein. Die Wittgenstein waren ein Familiennetzwerk mit höchst unterschiedlichen Sozialprofilen: Karl Wittgenstein (1847–1913, im Jahr 1910 1.349.750 Kronen Jahreseinkommen) und seine beiden Brüder Paul (1842–1928, 140.180 Kronen) und Ludwig (1845–1925, 687.055 Kronen), seine Schwestern bzw. deren Ehemänner Klara (1850–1935, 194.040 Kronen), Emilie „Milly“, verh. Brücke (1853–1939, 122.414 Kronen), Hermine Fanny Josephine, verh. Oser (1844–1933, 113.664 Kronen), Lydia, verh. Siebert (1851–1920, 115.038 Kronen) und Bertha, verh. Kupelwieser (1848–1909, 728.902 Kronen), dazu drei bereits selbständig versteuernde Kinder von Karl Wittgenstein: Helene Gabriele, genannt Lenka, verh. Salzer (1879–1956, 315.429 Kronen), Paul (1887–1961/251.522 Kronen), der „einarmige“ Pianist und der Philosoph Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889–1951, 237.308 Kronen). Untersucht werden in dem Aufsatz die höchst unterschiedlichen Sozialprofile, Verhaltensweisen und Schicksale dieser elf Angehörigen der Wittgenstein-Familie und deren Übereinstimmung, aber auch scharfer Kontrast zur Familie Rothschild, R. Sandgruber (*) Institut für Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte, Johannes Kepler University Linz, Linz, Österreich E-Mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_17

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bei der sich im Jahr 1910 alles auf eine einzige Person konzentrierte: auf Albert, den im Jahr 1910 nach allgemeiner Meinung und auch nach den statistischen Daten als reichster Mann Europas galt. Die beiden Zentralfiguren der beiden Familien, Karl Wittgenstein, der Vater des berühmten Philosophen, und Albert Rothschild, der mächtige Bankier, waren beide keine Montanisten, nicht einmal Industrielle. Sie waren Kapitalisten, die die bedeutendsten Hüttenkonzerne des Reichs beherrschten und das mächtige Eisenkartell dirigierten. Albert Rothschild war ein, wenn auch wenig gläubiger Jude geblieben, bei den Wittgensteins vereinigten sich in der großen Familie fünf verschiedene Bekenntnisse: jüdisch, katholisch, evangelisch AB, evangelisch HC und zuletzt auch ohne Bekenntnis. Die Rothschilds waren in den Adel aufgestiegen, die Wittgensteins verweigerten aber jeden Adelstitel. Wittgenstein förderte moderne Maler, heimische Architekten und progressive Musiker, die Rothschilds kauften alte Meister, liebten leichte Musik und holten die Architekten aus Frankreich etc. Schlüsselwörter  Ludwig Wittgenstein · Albert Rothschild · Habsburgermonarchie · Sozialprofile · Europa 1910 · Kapitalismus · Adel · Kunstförderung · Wien um 1900 · Wittgenstein und seine Familie · Rothschild-Dynastie Im Jahr 1910 gab es in Wien und Niederösterreich, damals zusammen ein Kronland, 929 Personen, die ein Jahreseinkommen von mehr als 100.000 Kronen versteuerten. Dieses oberste Zehntelpromille der Einwohner von Wien und Niederösterreich verdiente 6,4 Prozent aller Einkommen. 90 Prozent dieser höchsten Einkommens‑ steuerzahler waren männlich, 10 Prozent von altem Adel, 60 Prozent jüdischer Herkunft. Geht man vom Religionsbekenntnis aus, so halbiert sich dieser Prozentsatz auf 35 Prozent mosaisch. 42 Prozent dieser Millionäre waren katholisch, 18 Prozent evangelisch AB und 1,7 Prozent evangelisch HB. Fast ein Drittel der Katholiken waren Konvertiten (Sandgruber 2013, 2018). Eine Person ragt aus dieser Menge heraus: Albert Frh. v. Rothschild. Die Rothschilds waren zwar ein international vernetzter Familienverband, aber Albert als Einzelperson versteuerte 1910 ein Jahreseinkommen von 25,6 Mio. Kronen. Das war mehr als fünfmal so viel wie der Nächste im Ranking. Die Habsburger laufen zwar außer Konkurrenz, weil es für sie nahezu unmöglich ist, ihre Privateinkommen von der öffentlichen Funktion zu trennen, und weil sie auch von der Einkommens‑ steuer befreit waren. Aber an das Einkommen von Albert Rothschild kam auch der Kaiser bei weitem nicht heran. Neben Albert Rothschild als Einzelperson fällt ein Familienverband auf: die Familie Wittgenstein. Insgesamt elf Mitglieder dieser Familie waren unter den 929 Wiener Spitzenverdienern von 1910 vertreten, auch wenn sie es zusammen nur auf ein Jahreseinkommen von etwa fünf Mio. Kronen brachten, damit nur auf etwa ein Fünftel dessen, was Albert Rothschild für sich allein versteuerte. Entstanden war diese Finanzmacht der Rothschilds einerseits durch eine fortlaufende Akkumulation der Vermögen über mehr als ein Jahrhundert hinweg, andererseits durch die zufällige Konzentration auf eine einzige Person, nachdem Alberts Brüder Ferdinand und

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Nathaniel kinderlos verstorben waren und ihr Erbe großteils an Albert zurückgefallen war. Albert Baron Rothschild war ein Monolith. Er stand ganz allein. Die Wittgenstein hingegen waren ein großer Familienverband mit höchst unterschiedlichen Sozialprofilen: Den Kern bildeten die Geschwister von Karl Wittgenstein, die im Jahr 1910 alle zu den Wiener Einkommensmillionären gehörten. Karl Wittgenstein (1847–1913) mit 1.349.750 Kronen Jahreseinkommen, seine beiden Brüder Paul (1842–1928) mit 140.180 Kronen und Ludwig (1845–1925) mit 687.055 Kronen, und seine Schwestern bzw. deren Ehemänner Klara (1850–1935) mit 194.040 Kronen, Emilie „Milly“, verh. Brücke (1853–1939) mit 122.414 Kronen, Hermine Fanny Josephine, verh. Oser (1844–1933) mit 113.664 Kronen, Lydia, verh. Siebert (1851–1920) mit 115.038 Kronen und Bertha, verh. Kupelwieser (1848–1909) mit 728.902 Kronen. Dazu kamen drei 1910 bereits selbständig versteuernde Kinder von Karl Wittgenstein: Helene Gabriele, genannt Lenka, verheiratete Salzer (1879–1956) mit 315.429 Kronen, Paul (1887–1961), der später als „einarmiger“ Pianist bekannt wurde mit 251.522 Kronen und der später als Philosoph berühmt geworden Ludwig (1889–1951) mit 237.308 Kronen (Janik und Veigl 1998; Janik und Toulmin 1998; Bramann und Moran 1979–80, 107 ff.; Waugh 2010). Das große Vermögen der Wittgenstein geht bereits auf Karl Wittgensteins Vater Hermann Christian W. (1802–1878) und seine Mutter Franziska, eine geborene Figdor (1814–1890) zurück. Hermann Christians Vater Moses Meier war Gutsverwalter bei den Grafen Sayn-Wittgenstein in Laasphe, Westfalen, und hatte dort den Namen Wittgenstein angenommen. Hermann W. konvertierte 1839 anlässlich seiner Hochzeit mit Fanny Figdor als bereits wohlhabender Wollhändler in Leipzig zur evangelischen Konfession A.B. Später wechselte er zu evangelisch H.B.  Im Jahr 1851 übersiedelte die Familie nach Vösendorf bei Wien und 1859 weiter direkt nach Wien. Hermann brachte es mit Immobiliengeschäften, Holzhandel und als Generalpächter der Esterházy’schen Domänen zu einem großen Vermögen, das alle seine elf Kinder zu Millionären machte. Karl Wittgenstein konnte darauf aufbauen, obwohl er es liebte, sich als Selfmademan zu stilisieren.

17.1 Die Netzwerke der Familien Die Familie Rothschild war ein eigenes, abgeschlossenes Reich. Niemand in Österreich hatte zu ihr Zutritt. Es gab keine verwandtschaftlichen Verbindungen mit dem österreichischen Judentum und mit den Spitzen der österreichischen Gesellschaft. Es gab auch keine privaten freundschaftlichen oder gesellschaftlichen Beziehungen mit der österreichischen Feudal- und Finanzaristokratie. Selbst mit der Familie Ephrussi, die in die Familie der französischen Rothschild eingeheiratet hatte und über Albert Rothschilds Gattin Bettina mit den Ephrussis verschwägert war, gab es in Wien keine Kontakte. Die Rothschilds heirateten Rothschilds. Das war die Regel.

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Die Wittgensteins hingegen waren eine offene Familie, die mit dem Wiener Großbürgertum vielfach verschwägert und verbunden war. Karl Wittgensteins Schwester Emilie, „Milly“ genannt, war mit dem k.k. Oberlandesgerichtsrat Dr. Theodor von Brücke, dem Sohn des berühmten Physiologen Franz Theodor Brücke verheiratet. Theodor Brückes hohes Einkommen, das er im Jahr 1910 versteuerte, stammte nicht von ihm, sondern von den Wertpapieren und sonstigen Vermögen seiner Gattin. Ähnlich war es bei Josef Siebert, k.u.k. General der Kavallerie, der mit Lydia Wittgenstein verheiratet war. Auch der Professor der chemischen Technologie anorganischer Stoffe an der Technischen Hochschule Wien Dr. Johann Oser war von auswärts in die Familie gekommen. Er hatte im Jahre 1876 die Lehrkanzel an der Technischen Hochschule übernommen, war 1886/1887 Rektor und wurde 1901 pensioniert. Als Sohn eines Försters, mit Ausbildung an der Forstakademie in Mariabrunn, an der Technischen Hochschule und an den Universitäten Wien und Paris war er durch die Heirat mit der um 15 Jahre jüngeren Josefine Wittgenstein, einer Schwester von Karl Wittgenstein und Tante des Philosophen Ludwig Wittgenstein (Tante Fini) zu Geld gekommen. Eine Wissenschaftsgröße war er nicht. Karl Kraus schrieb über den alten Oser, der noch immer Vorlesungen hielt, er denke bei seinem Namen nicht an das Polytechnikum, sondern an die Poliklinik: „Diese Männer, die der österreichischen chemischen Industrie die Wege zeigen sollen, humpeln mühselig, meist mit einer Verspätung von zehn Jahren, dem technischen Fortschritt nach“, was sicher ungerecht war oder vielleicht sogar einer Verwechslung entsprang (Karl Kraus, Die Fackel Nr. 31/17, 1900). Denn unter Osers Leitung wurde immerhin über die Propylenoxyddarstellung, die Alkoholgärung und die Gallussäure gearbeitet, von ihm stammt auch ein einst weitverbreiteter Ofen zur Elementaranalyse. Nicht mehr am Leben war im Jahr 1910  Heinrich Emil Franz (1839–1884), der Gatte von Anna Wittgenstein (1840–1896). Er war der Sohn des reformierten Superintendenten Gottfried Franz (1829–1873) und k.k. Landesgerichtsrat und Mitglied des Reformierten Ober‑ kirchenrates. Auch Marie Wittgenstein (1841–1931), die mit dem Eisenhändler Moritz Pott (1839–1902) verheiratet war, war 1910 bereits verwitwet. Das Paar hinterließ keine Kinder. Clothilde Wittgenstein (1854–1937), die jüngste Schwester von Karl Wittgenstein und Tante von Ludwig Wittgenstein verstarb als vereinsamte Morphinistin in Paris. Selbstverständlich zählten auch die Kinder und Schwiegerkinder des Witt‑ genstein-Clans zu den Einkommensmillionären. Der Beamte Dr. Max Salzer war mit Karl Wittgensteins Tochter Helene verheiratet. Die Salzers stammten aus dem Siebenbürgener Luthertum. Um die Jahrhundertwende war Max Salzer als Ministerialconcipist in der Dienstklasse IX mit einem Jahresgehalt von 2800 bis 3000 Kronen, einer Aktivitätszulage von 1000 Kronen und einer vorläufigen Pensionsaussicht nach zehnjähriger Dienstzeit auf 1200 Kronen in den Staatsdienst eingetreten. 1906 wurde er zum Ministerial-Vicesekretär und 1910 zum Ministerialsekretär befördert, wurde 1913 Sektionsrat und 1916 Regierungsrat. 1910 betrug sein Beamteneinkommen 6000 bis 7000 Kronen im Jahr. Aber sein 1910 versteuertes Jahreseinkommen betrug 315.429 Kronen. Es stammte aus dem Wittgensteinvermögen. 1924 ging er als Sektionschef in Pension. Nach seinem

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Rückzug aus dem Amt sollte er die Finanzen und Realitäten der Familie Wittgenstein verwalten. Doch bald ließen seine geistigen Fähigkeiten merklich nach, worauf man ihn nur mehr pro forma seine Aufgaben erledigen ließ, ohne seine Ratschläge zu beachten (Waugh 2010, 63). Einen herausragenden kulturellen, wirtschaftlichen oder wissenschaftlichen Fußabdruck hat er nirgendwo hinterlassen.

17.2 Albert Rothschild und Karl Wittgenstein Albert Rothschild und Karl Wittgenstein waren sich so ähnlich und waren doch so verschieden. Sie waren um 1900 unbestritten die zwei bedeutendsten Vertreter der Eisenindustrie der Habsburgermonarchie. Albert Rothschild und Karl Wittgenstein waren beide keine Montanisten, nicht einmal Industrielle. Sie waren Kapitalisten, die die bedeutendsten Hüttenkonzerne des Reichs beherrschten und das mächtige Eisenkartell dirigierten. Albert Rothschild dirigierte ein riesiges Industrieimperium aus unterschiedlichen Branchen, deren wichtigstes Stück Witkowitz war, das im Reigen der großen Eisenhütten der Habsburgermonarchie von den Wirtschafts‑ historikern immer ein bisschen unterschätzt wird, nicht zuletzt deswegen, weil es keine Aktiengesellschaft und daher nicht publikationspflichtig war. Von seinem Witkowitzer Generaldirektor Paul Kupelwieser wurde Albert Rothschild als begab‑ ter Mann charakterisiert, der sich einer Reihe von mit Liebe und Geschick betriebenen Beschäftigungen hingab, aber kein Interesse für die ererbten industriellen Einrichtungen hatte, die im Besitz seines Hauses waren (Kupelwieser 1918, 125 f.). Ob da nicht ein bisschen auch die Ehrsucht des Paul Kupelwieser im Spiel war, der sich die Erfolge selber anstecken wollte? Denn die Geschichte von Witkowitz unter Albert Rothschilds Zeit war eine wirkliche Erfolgsgeschichte: Zählte das Werk zu Anselms Zeiten in den 1860er-Jahren nur etwa 1200 Beschäftigte und als Kupelwieser 1876 als Generaldirektor einstieg, etwa 2400, so hatte sich diese Zahl bis zu Alberts Tod 1911 mehr als versiebenfacht. Karl Wittgenstein stilisierte sich in seiner Selbstsicht als Selfmademan, der mit mehreren genialen Schachzügen zum Herrn der böhmischen Eisenindustrie aufge‑ stiegen sei, obwohl er natürlich nicht klein angefangen hatte, sondern bereits in eine Millionärsfamilie hineingeboren war. Doch in der Eisenindustrie war er ein Einsteiger: Karl Wittgenstein verließ nach Abschluss des Gymnasiums als Achtzehnjähriger das Elternhaus und erreichte 1865 mit einem gefälschten Pass Amerika, wo er zwei Jahre in verschiedensten Stellungen, u. a. als Nachhilfelehrer, Kellner, Schiffssteuermann, arbeitete. Tief geprägt, wohl auch von der harten Arbeit, kehrte er nach Wien zurück, besuchte in Wien Vorlesungen am Polytechnischen Institut, praktizierte in der Maschinenfabrik der Staatseisenbahngesellschaft, bis ihn Paul Kupelwieser 1872 in das Walzwerk nach Teplitz/Teplice holte, wo er 1877 als Generaldirektor nachfolgte. Dort gründete er 1884 mit der Rudolfshütte das größte Feinblech-Walzwerk der Monarchie. 1880 war es ihm zudem gelungen, die Lizenz für das Thomas-Verfahren zur Verhüttung des phosphorhaltigen Roheisens für Böhmen zu erwerben. 1884 konnte er mithilfe seiner Freunde und mit dem eigenen

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Geld die Aktienmehrheit der Böhmischen Montan-Gesellschaft erringen. Es folgten die Übernahme der Prager-Eisenindustrie-Gesellschaft (PEG) und der Erwerb der Aktienmehrheit der St. Egydyer Eisen- und Stahl-Industrie-Gesellschaft im Jahre 1890. Die Übernahme der Mehrheit der Oesterreichisch-Alpinen Montangesellschaft (OAMG) im Jahre 1897 mit Unterstützung durch die Böhmische und die Niederösterreichische Escompte-Gesellschaft und mit elf seiner besten Freunde als Strohmännern, darunter Max Feilchenfeld, Isidor Weinberger, Karl von Wessely, Karl und Otto Wolfrum, Karl und Paul Kupelwieser sowie Wilhelm Kestranek, brachte ihn auf den Höhepunkt seiner Macht. In der OAMG übernahm Guido Hell von Heldenwerth die Position des Generaldirektors und Anton Ritter von Kerpely jene des Stellvertreters. Sie leiteten um die Jahrhundertwende die technische und organisatorische Umgestaltung der OAMG mit einer Konzentration des Betriebes auf Donawitz und der Auflassung der Kärntner Betriebe ein. Doch bereits 1898 gab Wittgenstein alle seine öffentlichen Positionen auf und zog sich völlig ins Privatleben zurück, das er zum Teil in Wien und zum Teil in seiner Landvilla in Hochreith, Gemeinde Rohr am Gebirge, in Niederösterreich verbrachte. 1906 an Krebs erkrankt, starb er am 20. Jänner 1913. Karl Menger schätzte Wittgensteins Vermögen 1913 auf 200 Mio. Kronen (Waugh 2010, 30). Eine persönliche Begegnung zwischen Karl Wittgenstein und Albert Rothschild ist nicht dokumentiert. Gemocht haben sie sich sicher nicht. Zu groß waren die Unterschiede: Im persönlichen Werdegang, im Führungsstil, im Kunstverständnis, in der Weltsicht. Rothschild sah in Wittgenstein einen Aufsteiger und Neureichen, Wittgenstein in Rothschild einen saturierten Bankier und Banausen. Rothschild überließ die Exekutive ganz seinen Beamten. Neben Wittgenstein hingegen blieb wenig Luft zum Leben. Seine Entschlusskraft war gewaltig. Karl Wittgenstein, schreibt Georg Günther, habe seine Freunde, die ihm ihr Vertrauen schenkten, zu reichen Männern gemacht, ohne dass sie sich selbst zu bemühen brauchten (Günther 1936, 59). Im Umfeld von Rothschild hingegen wurde niemand wirklich reich. Rothschild mache keine Geschäfte mit Wittgenstein, wurde beschieden, als Karl Wittgenstein bei Rothschild wegen des Kaufs der Böhmischen Montangesellschaft vorsprach (zit. n. Gruber 2011, 43; Kupelwieser 1918). Ähnlich war es, als die Vertreter Kupelwiesers bei Albert Rothschild wegen des Verkaufs der Festetics-­ Wälder vorsprechen wollten. Albert ließ sie warten. So kam Kupelwieser zu den Wäldern in Lunz am See. Zu Albert Rothschilds Ableben im Jahr 1911 listete die Neue Freie Presse mehrere hundert Kondolenzadressen auf. Wittgenstein war nicht darunter. Ein Zufall oder Versehen der Zeitung wird das kaum gewesen sein. Albert Rothschild und Karl Wittgenstein waren die größten Kapitalisten des Wiener Fin de Siècle. Aber ihre Sozialprofile könnten unterschiedlicher nicht sein: Karl Wittgenstein war nicht nur selber ein Förderer der modernen Künste und Wissenschaften, sondern auch der Vater berühmter Kinder, des Philosophen Ludwig, des Aufsehen erregenden Pianisten Paul und weiterer kulturell hervortretender Kinder. Albert Rothschild hatte zwar viele Hobbies, von der Jagd über die Astronomie bis zur Photographie, aber nirgendwo entstand Großes. Sein Kunstgeschmack war rückwärtsgewandt. Auch Alberts hatte begabte Kinder, die aber kulturell nicht weiter auffällig wurden, weil sie zu früh starben oder aus ihren

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Begabungen nicht wirklich etwas machten: Georg, der älteste der Söhne, erkrankte nach seiner Promotion zum Doktor der Philosophie in Cambridge und musste sein ganzes weiteres Leben bis 1934 in Heilanstalten verbringen. Alfons, der nächste der Söhne, hatte drei große Hobbies, die mit dem griechischen „philo“ charakterisiert werden können: die Philohippie, die Philologie und die Philatelie. Louis, der Albert als Chef des Hauses nachfolgte, hatte nur zwei wirkliche Interesse: Polo und Jagd. Eugen liebte schöne Frauen und die schönen Künste: Als Kunsthistoriker war er nicht unbegabt. Als Wagnerfan besuchte er regelmäßig die Bayreuther Festspile, als Mann war er mit zwei der schönsten Frauen seiner Zeit verheiratet. Die Rothschilds waren seit 1817 geadelt, seit 1822/1823 Barone, seit 1887 sogar hoffähig. Sie waren geadelt und lebten wie der Hochadel, aber doch in strenger Distanz. Karl Wittgenstein lehnte eine Nobilitierung immer ab, lebte aber ebenfalls ganz im Stile des Adels: mit Palais, Salon, Hauslehrern, Kunstsammlung, Hausmusik, Landsitzen. Die Geschwister und Kinder Karl Wittgensteins hatten unterschiedliche Ambitionen: Der Philosoph Ludwig Wittgenstein wollte nicht nur keine adeligen Allüren, sondern auch keinen Reichtum. Seine Schwester Margaret hingegen erwarb aus dem Eigentum des abtrünnigen Habsburgers Johann Orth, der 1911 offiziell für tot erklärt worden war, 1913 die Gmundner Villa Toscana. Von ihrer Tante Klara Wittgenstein, der Schwester Karl Wittgensteins, die 1935 unverheiratet verstarb und die ihr immer noch respektables Vermögen ihrer Adoptivtochter Lydia Oser vermachte, heißt es: „Clara Wittgenstein führte eine aristokratische Hofhaltung, wurde respektvoll mit Baronin angesprochen“ (Rauch-Höphffner 2001, 3). Sie wurde von der Bevölkerung bis zu ihrem Tod als „Kaiserin von Laxenburg“ bezeichnet. Das war recht typisch österreichisch. Denn nach 1918 waren in Österreich eigentlich alle Adelstitel abgeschafft. Klara hatte aber auch vorher nie einen besessen. Es trifft zwar nicht zu, dass jüdische Millionäre hinsichtlich Orden diskriminiert worden wären  – ihr Anteil unter den Trägern des Franz Joseph- und des Eiserne Krone-Ordens entspricht mit 59,6 bzw. 58,7 Prozent ziemlich genau dem Anteil an den Millionären insgesamt. Aber es fällt auf, dass eine Reihe von wirklich prominenten Spitzenverdienern unter den Ausgezeichneten fehlen: etwa Karl Wittgenstein oder Moriz Benedikt. Nikolaus Dumba, der große Kunstförderer, lehnte Orden entschieden ab. Zu Eitelberger meinte er: „Viel lieber nichts als etwa das Comturkreuz des Franz Josefs Ordens, was mich geradezu verletzen würde, wenn ich sehe, dass ein Albert Rothschild, der seine Stellung und Pflichten nie gekannt und erfüllt, das Comturkreuz des Leopoldsordens kriegt ….“ (zit. n. Springer 1979, 540). Albert Rothschild besaß zwei hohe Orden, neben dem Leopoldsorden auch das Komturkreuz des Ordens der Eisernen Krone. In einem Brief an Kurt Hahn, den berühmten Pädagogen und Gründer des Erziehungsheimes von Salem, legte Margaret Wittgenstein-Stonborough ihre Sicht auf den Adel dar. Sie setzte das Überlegenheitsgefühl des Modernitätsgewinners und Aufsteigers Karl Wittgenstein der Erstarrung der Modernitätsverlierer gegenüber, die sie in den Grafen Schönborn-Buchheim verkörpert sah: die einen, die ihren Aufstieg ihren eigenen Fähigkeiten verdankten, die anderen, die, vom Erbe lebend, in Dekadence verfallen.

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Leider sind sie, wie der größte Teil des Adels in Österreich, nicht mit ihrer Zeit gegangen. Sie leben abseits von dem wirklichen Leben der heutigen Menschen … Sexuelle Bedürfnisse und die daraus entstehenden Verhältnisse und Complikationen spielen (auch in der Conversation) eine ungeheure Rolle. Beinahe die einzige, wenn man von der des Geldes absieht. Das Geld spielt aber dort nie wie in gesunden Milieus die Rolle eines Abfallprodukts einer schönen und beglückenden Arbeit, sondern die einer notwendigen Sache, die man sich jetzt eigentlich nur durch unanständige Mittel verschaffen kann, durch Ehe oder durch das Verwerten seines Namens bei irgendwelchen nicht immer reinlichen Unternehmen. (Margaret St.W. an Kurt Hahn, 31.01.1929, zit. n. Prokop 2003, 186 f.)

Alle österreichischen Rothschilds waren im Judentum verblieben, wenn auch als wenig gläubige und nur gelegentlich praktizierende Juden. Bei den Wittgensteins hingegen vereinigten sich in der großen Familie fünf verschiedene religiöse Bekenntnisse: jüdisch, katholisch, evangelisch AB, evangelisch HC und ohne Bekenntnis. Die Rothschilds waren jüdisch, aber in den Adel aufgestiegen, die Wittgensteins waren konvertiert, verweigerten aber jeden Adelstitel. Margaret Wittgenstein-Stonborough, selber katholisch, kritisierte das Religi‑ onsverständnis des katholischen Adels: Viele zögen es vor, den leicht zu befolgenden Geboten der Kirche zu gehorchen, dem Einhalten des Fleischverbots an Freitagen oder dem Messbesuch an Sonntagen, sich über die eigentlichen Gebote aber hinwegzusetzen, „so dass ihnen der Ehebruch, der Betrug, die Lüge wie ein Spaß, aber das Versäumen der Messe wie ein Verbrechen erscheint“ (Prokop 2003, 186 f.). Wittgenstein förderte moderne Maler, heimische Architekten und progressive Musiker, die Rothschilds kauften alte Meister, liebten leichte Musik und holten die Architekten ihrer Schlösser vorwiegend aus Frankreich (die Literatur zu den Wittgensteins ist überreich: Sandgruber 2013, 84  ff., 114, 142  f., 162, 165, 178; Bramann und Moran 1979, 107 ff.; Waugh 2010; Immler 2011, 232 f.; Prokop 2003; Greiner 2018). Karl Wittgenstein trat nur selten als Bauherr auf, und wenn, dann mit den mordernsten Architekten und Künstlern, beim Jagdhaus am Hochreith ebenso wie beim Hotel der Poldihütte in Nordböhmen. Die Rothschilds bauten unentwegt, aber nie mit architektonisch herausragenden Beispielen oder zukunftsweisenden Architekten. Karl Wittgenstein förderte die Errichtung der Sezession und liebte den Jugendstil, die drei Brüder Albert, Ferdinand und Nathaniel Rothschild bevorzugten Neorenaissance und Neorokoko. Frauen spielten im Rothschild-Kosmos eine untergeordnete Rolle, und das schon seit dem Testament des Gründers Mayer Amschel. In Wien gab es mit kurzen Ausnahmen keine Rothschild-Frauen. Salomons wenig geliebte Gattin lebte in Frankfurt, seine geliebte Tochter Betty in Paris. Anselms vier Töchter verbrachten nur wenige Monate ihres gesamten Lebens in Wien. Nathaniel war homosexuell, Ferdinands junge Frau und Cousine Evelina starb bei der Entbindung des ersten Kinds. Alberts Frau Bettina starb im Alter von 33 Jahren an Brustkrebs. Von Alberts fünf Söhnen war nur einer verheiratet, wenn man die späte Hochzeit des alten Louis im amerikanischen Exil einmal ausklammert. Alberts einzige überlebende Tochter Valentine trat wegen ihrer sprachlichen Beeinträchtigung wenig in die Öffentlichkeit.

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Bei den Wittgensteins hingegen spielten Frauen kulturell und sozial eine sehr zentrale Rolle. Sowohl Alberts wie Karls Leben war von tragischen Schicksalsschlägen gekenn‑ zeichnet: Der Selbstmord seines jüngsten Sohns Oskar und die lebenslange Absonderung des geisteskranken ältesten Sohnes Georg traf Albert schwer, ebenso die Behinderung seiner Tochter. Er starb als gebrochener Mann. Dass drei Söhne von Karl Wittgenstein: Johannes (1902), Rudolf (1904) und Konrad „Kurt“ (1918), durch Selbstmord endeten, wird nicht nur mit dem autoritären Vater, sondern auch mit ihrer wahrscheinlichen Homosexualität erklärt. Dass auch Ludwig Wittgenstein homosexuell war, hatte zuerst sein Biograph William Warren Bartley 1973 auf Grund von Aussagen anonymer Freunde Wittgensteins und zweier in Geheimschrift verfasster Tagebücher öffentlich gemacht. (Waugh 2010, 58 f., 74 f., 191 f.) Eine der Fragen der Wirtschaftsgeschichte ist, ob wirtschaftlicher Erfolg und wirtschaftliche Macht auf besonders starke Netzwerke rückführbar sind. Die Rothschilds konnten auf ihr Familiennetzwerk vertrauen. Freundschaften mit anderen Kapitalisten spielten eine geringe Rolle. In Witkowitz gab es kein Aktionärsnetzwerk. Die 100 Kuxen dieser altmodischen Vorform einer Aktien‑ gesellschaft wurden zur Hälfte von Albert Rothschild und die andere Hälfte von verschiedenen Mitgliedern der Familie Gutmann gehalten. Durch die Zersplitterung bei Gutmann war Albert Rothschild mit seinen 50 Kuxen meist der Alleinentscheider. Karl Wittgensteins wirtschaftlicher Einfluss war hingegen durch ein ausgedehntes Netzwerk von Freunden abgesichert. Seine Freunde trafen sich in zahlreichen Vorstands- und Verwaltungsratssitzen. Für Rothschild hingegen waren familiäre Netzwerke deutlich wichtiger als wirtschaftliche Netzwerke, wie sie etwa anhand der Zahl der Aufsichtsratsmandate gemessen wurden. (Eigner 1997, hat Aufsichtsrats- und Vorstandsnetzwerke für Österreich untersucht, Windolf 2011, 135–162, jüngst für Deutschland). Die Rothschilds spendeten viel. Nathaniel Rothschilds Stiftung für Nervenkranke im Jahr 1902 war mit 20 Millionen Kronen die wohl größte Einzelspende, die in Österreich jemals gemacht wurde. Albert Rothschild hingegen hatte den Ruf, bei weitem nicht so spendenfreudig zu sein wie sein Bruder Nathaniel. In sein 1909 abgefasstes Testament hatte er eine sarkastisch anmutende Begründung schreiben lassen, warum er so viel weniger gebe als sein Bruder: In Anbetracht des Umstandes, dass ich eine zahlreiche Familie habe und dass vermöge der gesetzlichen Vorschriften ohnehin ein sehr erheblicher Betrag aus meinem Nachlass wohltätigen Anstalten zufließt, kann ich das von meinem verewigten Bruder Nathaniel in hochherziger Weise gegebene Beispiel nur in geringerem Maße befolgen und muss mir in dieser Beziehung eine gewisse Beschränkung auferlegen. Ich spreche jedoch den Wunsch aus, dass ein Betrag von Kronen 2,000.000 zu wohltätigen Zwecken verwendet werde, und zwar 1,7 Mio. Kronen für Wien und 300.000 Kronen für Budapest. (Sandgruber 2018, 338)

Angesichts der insgesamt mehr als 22 Millionen, die Nathaniel in seinem Testament für wohltätige Zwecke bestimmt hatte, müssen Alberts zwei Millionen zweifellos recht klein erscheinen, zumal sein Vermögen mindestens dreimal so hoch eingeschätzt wurde wie jenes von Nathaniel. Eine Gesamtrechnung aller Spenden Nathaniels ist unmöglich. Auch bei Albert ist eine Bilanz unmöglich, Wie viel er

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zeitlebens für wohltätige Zwecke aufgewendet hat, für notleidende Künstler, für das Kunstgewerbemuseum, für die Dotierung der Sternwarte, für ein jüdisches Waisenhaus, für den Bettina-Pavillon, für eine Frauen- und Nervenklinik, zur Erweiterung des Allgemeinen Krankenhauses und zur Vergrößerung des Jüdischen Krankenhauses und für unzählige kleinere Anlässe, wird sich als Summe nicht berechnen lassen. „Man schätzt“, schrieb die jüdische Zeitschrift Ost und West, „die von ihm zu allgemeinen Zwecken errichteten Stiftungen auf beiläufig 35 Millionen Kronen.“ Unberechenbar sei, was er im Verborgenen ausgab (Albert Freiherr von Rothschild 1911, 221; Sandgruber 2018, 339 f.). Aber man muss die 35 Millionen im Vergleich zu seinem Lebenseinkommen sehen, da eine Milliarde bei weitem überstieg, und zu seinen hinterlassenen Vermögen, die 1911 mit 700 Millionen Kronen bewertet wurden. Auch die Wittgenstein spendeten viel. Sie nahmen dafür keinen Adelstitel, keine Orden, waren selbst über die Dankesbriefe pikiert. 1913 erbte Ludwig Wittgenstein seinen Anteil an dem beträchtlichen Vermögen seines Vaters: Im Juni 1914 verteilte er davon insgesamt 100.000 Kronen an fünf verschiedene Künstler, an Rainer Maria Rilke, Else Lasker-Schüler, Albert Ehrenstein, Carl Dallago und Georg Trakl. Trakl hat die für ihn unermesslich hohe Summe angeblich nie behoben. Er soll es nicht gewagt haben, das vornehme Bankgebäude zu betreten. Und dann kam der Krieg. Trakl starb bereits am 3. November 1914 in einem Krakauer Garnisonsspital. Albert Rothschild und Karl Wittgenstein erlebten den Krieg nicht mehr. Die Söhne zogen in den Krieg. Alphons und Eugen Rothschild an der Front, Louis an der Heimatfront. Eugen trug eine Beinverletzung davon, alle erhielten sie hohe Auszeichnungen. Auch von den Wittgensteins wurde der Kriegsausbruch nahezu euphorisch begrüßt: Ludwig Wittgenstein gab eine große Summe für ein Geschütz und meldete sich als Freiwilliger. Paul, später als „einarmiger Pianist“ weltberühmt, hatte gleich nach Kriegsbeginn an der russischen Front einen Arm verloren. Konrad erschoss sich 1918 an der italienischen Front. Ludwig geriet in italienische Gefangenschaft. Noch während der Kriegsgefangenschaft entschied er sich, sein gewaltiges Vermögen unter seinen Geschwistern aufzuteilen und Dorfschullehrer zu werden (Waugh 2010, 165 ff., 181 ff.). Immer wieder geht es bei Ludwig Wittgenstein um die Frage, ob es möglich sei, zugleich reich und ein guter Mensch zu sein. Ende August 1919 ging er zu seiner Bank und erklärte, dass er sein Geld nicht mehr haben wolle und die Absicht habe, sich von seinem gesamten Vermögen zu befreien. Der Bankdirektor, die Familie, die Finanzberater, alle waren entsetzt. Ludwig beschloss, sein Vermögen seinen drei Geschwistern Paul, Hermine und Helene zu schenken (Waugh 2010, 183). Aber warum den ohnehin überreichen Geschwistern? Wittgensteins Argumentation klingt zynisch bis skurril: Geld verderbe den Menschen, und da seine Geschwister schon so viel davon hätten, könnten sie, wie er sagte, kaum noch mehr verdorben werden (Waugh 2010, 183 f.). Die Wittgenstein entwickelten eine eigentümliche Beziehung zum Geld: Margaret Wittgenstein war politisch eine Gegnerin der Bolschewisten, aber eine Befürworterin der neuen sozialistischen Republik: „Ich habe in den letzten zwei Jahren so viel erlebt, gesehen, gehört + gelesen + die Folge davon ist, dass ich, die

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immer schon rote Tendenzen hatte, nun noch viel röter geworden bin.“ (Waugh 2010, 180). Sie träumte sehnsüchtig von einem Leben ganz ohne Geld. In ihrem Tagebuch wünschte sie sich einen Schicksalsschlag, der sie von ihrem Geld befreie (Waugh 2010, 90). Hermine Wittgenstein hingegen versuchte auf philosophische Weise zwischen „ethischem“ und „bürgerlichem“ Geld zu unterscheiden. Beide Familien, sowohl die Rothschild wie die Wittgenstein, sind vom Nationalsozialismus vernichtet worden. Ihre riesigen Vermögen sind untergegangen und geraubt worden. Ihre großen Palais auf der Wieden wurden nach dem Ende des Krieges demoliert. Aber von den Wittgensteins ist zumindest ein riesiges geistiges Erbe geblieben, das man nicht vernichten kann: das Schrifttum, das sie verfasst haben, die Kunstwerke, die sie gesponsert haben, die Architektur, die sie beauftragt haben, die Künstler, die sie gefördert haben. Von den Wiener Rothschilds hingegen ist wissenschaftlich und kulturell wenig Bleibendes geschaffen worden, wie die Ausstellung im jüdischen Museum beweist. Nur ein riesiges Krokodil, das sie von einer Jagdreise in den Sudan mitgebracht und dem Naturhistorischen Museum überlassen haben, wird ausgestellt (Kohlbauer und Juncker 2021). Eugen Rothschild hat seine Studie zu Tizian, zu der er das Zeug gehabt hätte, nie vollendet. Die mathematisch-­astronomischen Interessen, die die Wiener Rothschilds hatten, haben der Wiener Astronomie zwar zu großen Erfolgen verholfen. Aber gedankt wurde es wenig. Der Name auf dem Eingang zu dem 1885 von Albert Freiherr von Rothschild gestifteten Coudé-Fernrohr mit 38  cm Öffnung und 25  m Brennweite, der 1938 herausgemeißelt wurde, wurde von der Universität auch nach 1945 nicht wieder ergänzt. Es gibt kein einziges Kunstwerk und nicht einmal ein Produkt des heute so gefeierten Kunsthandwerks des Fin de Siècle, das mit den Rothschilds in eine nähere Beziehung gesetzt werden könnte: nicht etwas Vergleichbares wie das Gebäude der Wiener Secession, das von Karl Wittgenstein gesponsert wurde, nicht die großartigen Art Deco-Schöpfungen von Josef Hoffmann, die Wittgenstein beauftragte, auch kein Klimtporträt oder sonst ein modernes Gemälde, das mit den Wiener Rothschilds in Zusammenhanggebracht werden könnte, und auch kein Wiener Schriftsteller oder Musiker der Moderne, der von ihnen gefördert wurde. Die österreichischen Rothschilds sind wirklich untergegangen.

Literatur Albert Freiherr von Rothschild. 1911. Ost und West: Illustrierte Monatsschrift für modernes Judentum 11(3): 221–224. Bramann, Jorn K., and John Moran. 1979–80. Karl Wittgenstein, business tycoon and art patron. The Austrian History Yearbook XV–XVI: 107 ff. Eigner, Peter. 1997. Die Konzentration der Entscheidungsmacht. Die personellen Verflechtungen zwischen den Wiener Großbanken und Industriegesellschaften, 1885–1940. Diss. Wien. Greiner, Margret. 2018. Margaret Stonborough-Wittgenstein. Grande Dame der Wiener Moderne. Wien: K&S. Gruber, Veronika. 2011. Die Familie Kupelwieser und Lunz am See. Wien: Univ., Dipl.-Arb.

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Günther, Georg. 1936. Lebenserinnerungen. Wien: Selbstverlag des Autors. Immler, Nicole L. 2011. Das Familiengedächtnis der Wittgensteins. Zu verführerischen Lesarten von (auto-) biographischen Texten. Bielefeld: Transcript-Verl. Janik, Allan, und Stephen Toulmin. 1998. Wittgensteins Wien. Aus dem Amerikanischen von Reinhard Merkel. Wien: Döcker. Janik, Allan, and Hans Veigl. 1998. Wittgenstein in Wien: ein biographischer Streifzug durch die Stadt und ihre Geschichte. Wien: Springer. Kohlbauer, Gabriele, und Tom Juncker, (Hrsg.). 2021. Die Wiener Rothschilds. Ein Krimi. Katalog. Wien: Amalthea. Kraus, Karl. 1900. Die Fackel, 31:17. Kupelwieser, Paul. 1918. Aus den Erinnerungen eines alten Österreichers. Wien: Gerold. Prokop, Ursula. 2003. Margaret Stonborough-Wittgenstein. Bauherrin, Intellektuelle, Mäzenin. Wien: Böhlau. Rauch-Höphffner, Herbert. 2001. Ludwig Wittgenstein und Laxenburg. Kulturstein. Zeitung des Kulturvereins Alt-Laxenburg 52. Sandgruber, Roman. 2013. Traumzeit für Millionäre. Die 929 reichsten Wienerinnen und Wiener im Jahr 1910. Wien: Molden. ———. 2018. Rothschild. Glanz und Untergang des Wiener Welthauses. Wien: Molden. Springer, Elisabeth. 1979. Geschichte und Kulturleben der Wiener Ringstraße. Wiesbaden: Steiner. Waugh, Alexander. 2010. Das Haus Wittgenstein. Die Geschichte einer ungewöhnlichen Familie, 3. Aufl. Frankfurt: Fischer-Taschenbuch-Verl. Windolf, Paul. 2011. The German-Jewish Economic Elite (1900–1933). Zeitschrift für Unternehmensgeschichte 56: 135–162.

Part II

General Part

Chapter 18

Bringing Happiness: Otto Neurath and the Debates on War Economy, Socialization and Social Economy Günther Sandner

Abstract  Political economy was a core area of Otto Neurath’s work. His economic works are closely linked to the other intellectual fields in which he was active (e.g. philosophy of science, visual education). The essay traces the development of Neurath’s theory of war economy and his socialization theory on the one hand, and looks at his attempts to implement these concepts on the other. It concludes by asking to what extent Neurath’s contributions can contribute to a discussion on the future of socialism? Keywords  Happiness · War economy · Socialization · Social economy · Otto Neurath · Political economy · Vienna Circle · Socialism

18.1 Idiosyncratic Economics Otto Neurath (1882–1945) is widely accepted as both an important thinker in philosophy of science and an inventor in the field of picture language and graphic communication. The energetic Austrian scholar was not only the one who developed the so-called Vienna Method of pictorial statistics and Isotype (together with Marie Reidemeister, Gerd Arntz and others), the (unofficial) leader of the left wing of the Vienna Circle, and the “big locomotive” (Rudolf Carnap) of the unity of science

FWF – Austrian Science Fund: Isotype. Origin, development, and legacy (P 31500). G. Sandner (*) Institute Vienna Circle, University of Vienna, Vienna, Austria e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_18

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movement1; in fact, he was much more than that. There was a time before Isotype and the Vienna Circle when Neurath was first and foremost an economist. His high intellectual profile as a social scientist was, without a doubt, one of the reasons why Neurath was such an important member of the Vienna Circle. Within the circle’s scientific spectrum, he filled a social-scientific vacuum which almost nobody had done before. A glance at his list of publications demonstrates the relevance (and for a long time also the dominance) of his writings on sociology and, especially, economics. In all these publications, he developed his own individual approach that was widely known among contemporaries but found only few supporters. Most of his economic ideas were beyond the mainstream of then-current approaches in political economy – to say nothing of today’s. Neurath favored a planned economy beyond capitalism and he persistently criticized the insufficiency of the market economy as the dominant economic system, and monetary calculation as its major technical instrument. Instead, he proposed both an economy-in-kind and calculation-­ in-­kind based upon social engineering. Above all, he focused on a concept that aroused suspicion among many intellectuals and economists, and combined it with political economy: human happiness (Stuchlik 2010). In his view, it was not entrepreneurial profit and individual competition but the collective need for happiness that could move a future economy. Neurath’s political economy aroused opposition in different sections of the day’s discourse on political economy. Whereas scholars and intellectuals such as Max Weber, Ludwig von Mises and, a little later, Friedrich August von Hayek criticized his economic thinking from a more or less liberal perspective (Uebel 2019), there were even many socialist and Marxist scholars and intellectuals who rejected the ideas of the Austrian economist. Although they differed in some respects, the well-­ known scholars in the first group of opponents agreed that there simply is no rational economic calculation in the absence of money and the profit motive. Without a market in goods and means of production, they maintained, no rational economics is possible at all. On the other side, socialist and Marxist critics included Karl Kautsky (1932, 167–177, 279–285), Benedict Kautsky (1926), Helene Bauer (1923), Käthe Leichter (1923) and Wilhelm Ellenbogen (1921, 15). They put forth a number of arguments against Neurath, but one they all had in common was, more or less explicitly, a doctrinal and rather dogmatic one. They declared that Neurath’s political economy was simply not at all in accordance with Marxism and Marxist political economy. At least to a certain extent, they most probably were right in this respect. Until today, however, some scholars have investigated Otto Neurath’s idiosyncratic economics.2 As already mentioned, it was the time period until Neurath’s late thirties in which the vast majority of his publications addressed different topics of  On Otto Neurath and philosophy of science, cf. among many others: Stadler (2015, 340–352), Uebel (2000), and Nemeth (1981). On picture language/Isotype cf. Burke, Kindel, and Walker (2013). Sandner (2014) wrote the first intellectual and political biography, Cat and Tuboly (2019) published a multi-faceted update of research on Neurath. 2  The most comprehensive approaches: Uebel (2004); Nemeth, Schmitz, and Uebel (2007). 1

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political economy and the social sciences. The keywords that characterize this period (from about 1909 until the mid-1920s) are: war economy, socialization and social economy (“Gemeinwirtschaft”). What exactly do they mean and how do they correlate to each other? Can the economist Neurath be strictly separated from both the philosopher of science and the visual educator? In what way was the work of the political economist consistent with that of the apolitical social engineer? To what extent is Neurath’s political economy relevant to current debates on the economic order and different ways of life—or, to put it simply, the future world community we want to live in?

18.2 The Making of a Political Economist – Early Influences and Developments Questions of economics and social reform were ever-present in the life of young Otto Neurath, who grew up in an intellectual household. His father was a well-­ known, unorthodox economist who only late in his life became a professor of political economy and statistics at one of Vienna’s universities (University of Natural Resources and Life Sciences). He doubtlessly strongly influenced his son. In fact, however, there are both contrasts and parallels between their economic ideas. Wilhelm Neurath (1840–1901) analyzed a number of failures and malfunctions of the market economy of his day.3 What Wilhelm Neurath favored was a system of pan-cartelism that surmounted the “crisis of overproduction” (Uebel 1995, 92–99) which resulted from contradicting requests for the producers in the economy: on one hand, to increase the production of goods and thus pay off the loans they had taken out to finance it, and, on the other hand, to reduce production because of a subsequent drop in the prices of what they sold. He criticized the fact that the traditional economy regulated production independently of need but rather only in accordance with profit expectations. Inefficiency on the part of the producers and unemployment and shortages among consumers are the unsatisfactory results. Therefore, he advocated the institutionalization of cartels, the cooperation of organizations such as trade unions and producers’ associations that could organize rational economic calculation and solve the problem of overproduction. Institutions such as these, however, also played a role in Otto Neurath’s plans for an economic transformation. Wilhelm Neurath analyzed capitalism as a system of periodic crisis. This was, in a way, in accordance with Marxism. Although he was a pronounced critic of capitalism, he was neither a socialist nor a Marxist. For instance, in contrast to Marxists, he did not share the conviction that the intensifying economic crisis of ‘late capitalism’ would necessarily result in revolution and, in the end, a classless, communist society.  His most important publications: Neurath (1892) and (1903).

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As Thomas Uebel (1995) put it, Otto Neurath inherited a set of problems from his father – e.g. to find an explanation for the periodic crises of unemployment and overproduction and to relate them to the workings and the structure of the money market – but he did not follow the solutions put forward by him. He followed his father, however, in rejecting profitability as political economy’s reference point and both father and son took a primarily technical approach to the solution of economic and social problems. Additionally, they agreed that a much more productive economic order was possible in principle. Otto Neurath stressed on several occasions the influence his father exerted on him.4 Like his father, he criticized the existing economic system that legitimizes the destruction of goods not sold on the market while the remaining wants and needs of the lower classes were not satisfied. Nevertheless, despite the adoration for his father, he also stressed the differences between his father’s approach and his own. In many respects, Otto Neurath as an economist was also a follower of Joseph Popper-Lynkeus (1838–1921). Popper was one of his father’s friends, a radical utopian who postulated a “Universal Nutrition Army Service” which meant obligatory social service for everybody to satisfy the needs of all (Popper-Lynkeus 1912). Otto Neurath was deeply influenced by social reform-oriented ideas and concepts such as these. Later, he repeatedly came back to Popper’s ideas and even wrote an admiring (although not uncritical) article on the occasion of Popper’s 80th birthday (Neurath 1918/1981). Beside Popper’s intellectual breadth, he appreciated those elements in Popper’s theories that were similar to his own: the use of military instruments for pacifist purposes, the rejection of monetary calculation and the advocacy of calculation in kind, the existence of an economic plan, and the distribution of work and consumer goods by a central administrative unit. Obviously, they both pursued a scientifically based utopia in which human happiness would be realized (Neurath 1918/1981, 134–35). A year after the publication of the article and at the beginning of socialization in Bavaria in spring 1919, Neurath sent a telegram from Munich to Popper in which he announced enthusiastically that his (Popper’s) ideas will be put into practice: “Your work is becoming reality because we are proceeding toward total socialization” (Weissel 1976, 231). Popper’s ideas, however, were different in some respects from Neurath’s since he was definitely not a follower of ‘total socialization’ (Belke 1978, 163–196). Under these circumstances, however, it was no surprise that the young Otto Neurath started to study economic history. He had begun with philosophy and mathematics at the University of Vienna in 1902 but only 1 year later he went to Berlin and focused his studies on the social sciences. The reason was that he had met German sociologist Ferdinand Tönnies at the summer university in Salzburg. Tönnies’ influence on Neurath was private and personal as well as intellectual. Neurath knew Tönnies’ key work “Community and Civil Society” (Tönnies

 Otto Neurath to Ferdinand Tönnies, December 1905 and June 25, 1906 (Schleswig-Holsteinische Landesbibliothek, Tönnies Papers). Erklärung Dr. Otto Neurath vor der Bayerischen Sozialisierungskommission, March 26, 1919 (Bavarian State Archives, BayHStA, MHIG 5491). 4

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1887/2001).5 The German sociologist’s intellectual influence on Neurath, however, has never been investigated systematically. In fact, he was not only his surrogate father from 1903 onwards but also an intellectual and moral authority to him. Additionally, Tönnies arranged a number of contacts to German scholars, intellectuals, editors of journals and newspapers, etc. The period in which Neurath wrote for Ferdinand Avenarius’ Der Kunstwart and became acquainted with his long-time friend Wolfgang Schumann (who was Avenarius’ stepson), for instance, was a result of Tönnies’ personal interventions. Although he seemed to judge the young Viennese sometimes a bit ironically, he repeatedly supported his ambitions.6 Additionally, Tönnies’ political profile as a moderate socialist seems to have decisively influenced young Neurath.7 Tönnies strongly recommended that Neurath go to Berlin, he introduced him to important scholars and he told him which courses and seminars at the university he should attend. The seminars of Gustav Schmoller, Eduard Meyer, Friedrich Paulsen, Carl Ballod (another social utopian who influenced Neurath) were among them. Eventually he earned his doctorate with Eduard Meyer and Gustav Schmoller in 1906. His dissertation was entitled “Zur römischen Social- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte” (On Roman social and economic history), the first part of which was published as “On the Conceptions in Antiquity of Trade, Commerce and Agriculture” in the journal Jahrbücher für Nationalökonomie und Statistik. It was a detailed investigation of Cicero’s text De officiis. Neurath, however, not only analyzed Cicero’s text but also wrote a history of its reception and interpretation. Above all, he tried to explain the reasons for different ways of reading Cicero in different historical periods. In the end, he anticipated a sort of “critique of ideology” (Uebel 2004, 22). The second part of his dissertation entitled “Der Kriegskunst als Teil der Erwerbskunst; mit specieller Berücksichtigung der Steuer” (The art of war as a part of the art of occupation with special consideration of taxes). Gustav Schmoller and Eduard Meyer wrote critical examination reports. They both were deeply impressed by the first part but demonstrated critical distance with respect to the second. Meyer, for instance, was not enthused about the “cosmopolitan ideals of the author” and Schmoller complained that Neurath was simply unable to omit any of his innumerable ideas. He portrayed the author – seemingly with sympathy – as an immoderate reader. Moreover, he identified characteristics and eventually summarized them – in a rather abrupt and unmotivated manner for today’s reader – as typical qualities of

 Cf. Otto Neurath to Ferdinand Tönnies (probably 1909).  Cf. Ferdinand Tönnies to Friedrich Paulsen, March 6, 1904 (In Klose, Jacoby, and Fischer 1961, 375). 7  Otto Neurath to Ferdinand Tönnies, February 26, 1906. 5 6

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the Jewish race.8 This episode demonstrates clearly that Neurath was confronted very early with anti-Semitism. It was probably not the first and definitely not the last time. In sum, the years in Berlin marked a period of decisive scholarly, philosophical and political development in Neurath’s life. Despite the fact that he surmounted several hardships such as poverty, hunger, the stress of work and serious illness (most probably because of malnutrition) and that he was anything but delighted by the city of Berlin (in general, he missed Austrian Gemütlichkeit), it was not only the intellectual climate of Vienna but also that of the German capital that essentially formed young Otto Neurath.9 Neurath came back to Vienna in 1906. Soon after his 1-year military service (1906–07) he became a teacher of political economy at the New Vienna Business School. It might be surprising that a man with great scholarly and scientific ambitions chose the option of school teaching instead of starting a university career. One of the reasons may be that his private life changed—Otto Neurath married his long-­ time girlfriend Anna Schapire in 1907. They apparently waited until he had a steady income, and the initially part-time labor contract with the business school fulfilled this prerequisite, at least in part. Anna Schapire was about 5 years older than Neurath and worked as a freelancer. She translated books from several languages (Polish, Russian, English and French) into German, wrote on literature (Tolstoy, Hebbel) as well as on political issues (social policy, women’s rights) and was also active as a novelist and lyric poet. Her intellectual and political influence on Neurath was previously underestimated (Sandner 2014a, b, 34–42; Sandner 2017). She finished her dissertation the same year Neurath did (1906) on “Arbeiterschutz und Parteien im deutschen Reichstag” (The protection of workers and the political parties in the German Reichstag) at the University of Bern with August Oncken.10 Above all, Anna Schapire was a representative of turn-of-the-century feminism. When Otto Neurath wrote in 1903 that peace, social reform and women’s rights (the so-called Frauenfrage) were today’s most important political issues (Neurath 1903/1998, 5), it was obviously because of the influence of Anna Schapire, who was much more involved in these debates than he was. Eventually they worked together, co-edited an introductory economics textbook and a translation of Galton’s Hereditary Genius (Galton 1910). In 1911, Anna

 Eduard Meyer and Gustav Schmoller (Humboldt University Berlin, University Archives, UAHUB, Philosophische Fakultät 418, Promotion, Otto Neurath). According to Schmoller Neurath’s text was “verunziert durch stylistische Flüchtigkeiten, durch unnötige Abirrungen von der Sache, durch die Unfähigkeit, irgend welchen Einfall zu unterdrücken”. Additionally, Schmoller wrote about Neurath: „Sohn eines Gelehrten, mit jüdischen Rasseneigenschaften, ist er ein Bücherverschlinger und Arbeiter, wie ich kaum je einem begegnete.“ 9  Neurath often wrote negatively about the city of Berlin, cf. Otto Neurath to Ferdinand Tönnies, October 13, 1903. 10  Cf. Oncken’s rather critical report on Schapire’s study (University of Bern, University Archives, UAB, BB 5.10.1906, Nr. VIII, 305). 8

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Schapire died from the consequences of the birth of their son Paul. She was only 34 years old. Besides Schapire, it was also his acquaintance with Ellen Key that raised his awareness of the issue of women’s rights (Sandner 2014a, b, 28–34; 37–42). Already as a pupil, Neurath got in touch with the famous Swedish reform pedagogue and successful writer. Their correspondence and intellectual exchange lasted for many years. The role of women in contemporary society and questions of sexual relations and marriage but also social and educational issues and the idea of human happiness appeared on their agenda.11 The intellectual debates between Key and Neurath, however, were characterized by a growing distance over the years. Neurath rejected Key’s arguments with increasing regularity – for instance, because of her individualism  – and the former juvenile admirer became more and more a fundamental critic. Nevertheless, she may have persistently influenced him due to her focus on human happiness and her pedagogical ability to reach masses of people (Sandner 2014a, b, 40–41). At the New Vienna Business School, however, he started as an ambitious and innovative teacher with only a few teaching hours, but fulfilling his obligations continuously took up more and more of his time. More classes, more hours, more time to spend. Nevertheless, he did not drop his academic plans. He consistently reflected on his habilitation in which he wanted to study war economy from the perspective of moral philosophy, and participated in several intellectual circles such as the (retrospectively called) “first Vienna Circle” or “proto-circle” with Philipp Frank, Hans Hahn and others (Haller 1986; Stadler 2015; Uebel 2000). The philosophically informed political economist Otto Neurath was still in the making.

18.3 The Teacher of War Economy Following the second part of his dissertation, Neurath published a large number of articles, essays and booklets on war economy from 1909 onwards. Among these publications was his monograph on “Antique History of Economy” (1909). It was a much-noticed book that gained Neurath a good reputation as an expert in the history of economics. Moreover, the book (in its revised edition of 1918) resulted in his first (but not last) appearance in contemporary fiction. German writer and pacifist Leonard Frank mentioned Neurath’s book – though without referring to its author by name – in his successful novel Brother and Sister that was published in Germany in 1929 and shortly thereafter translated into English (Frank 1941, 41). Already in 1910 Neurath published a comprehensive analysis of war economy in the annual report of the New Vienna Business School (Neurath 1910/2004). In it, he criticized the fact that (the discipline of) political economy had previously paid insufficient attention to the question of war. The existing scholarly interest

 Letters Otto Neurath to Ellen Key (National Library of Sweden, Stockholm, Papers Ellen Key).

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definitely does not correspond to the actual importance of the subject, he was convinced. In his view, it was primarily the influence and the hegemony of the theoreticians of free trade that prevented a broader and much-needed discussion of war economy in the scholarly community. During his studies, he frequently dealt with views of authors of Antiquity who wrote on war economy. He realized that their views differed from those of contemporary economists and learned that war does not only necessarily result in economic disaster and social misery. In contrast, under certain circumstances, he often noted, war could even stimulate the economy. In the books and essays by the authors of Greek and Roman Antiquity, war was judged not only negatively; it was also, for instance, seen as a means of income. The crucial question, however, was the following: How to estimate not only single issues but the total effects of war on the economy (Neurath 1910/2004, 160)? In Neurath’s view, giving an answer to this question was the main task of the new discipline of war economy. For Neurath, in general, even economic theories were fallible phenomena because they are always related to the concrete historical conditions. He put it as follows: “As English economic conditions led the English thinkers to the theory of free trade, so German circumstances led List and some of his contemporaries to the theory of protective customs” (Neurath 1910/2004, 160). In an overall perspective, however, even mainstream economic liberalism dominated only during a short period. Thus, he was convinced that even an influential theory like that could disappear in the near future as many other theoretical approaches had before. Neurath put forth arguments such as these when he left Berlin and came back to Vienna in 1906. In the time of his military service (1906–1907), he participated in seminars at the University of Vienna as a postdoctoral researcher – together with future friends and opponents such as Otto Bauer and Ludwig Mises. In his autobiography, Mises had especially positive memories of the seminar taught by economist Eugen Böhm Bawerk. In discussions and debates, however, the instructor seems to have been a very liberal seminar leader – in any case, much too liberal in Mises’ eyes. The influential economist described the seminar’s discursive atmosphere as follows: Böhm was a brilliant seminar leader. He considered himself more of a chairman than a teacher, and would enter into the debate on occasion. Unfortunately, babblers sometimes abused the freedom to speak that was allowed participants. Especially disruptive was the nonsense that Otto Neurath asserted with fanatical force. The sharper wielding of a chairman’s upper hand could have often proven beneficial, but Böhm wanted no part in this (Mises 1978/2009, 32).

As both a historical and philosophical thinker, Neurath defined the subject matter of economics in Aristotelian terms. He put wealth within the meaning of well-being, discussed real income in terms of an economy in kind, and focused on use value instead of exchange value. This was, in any case, a rather peculiar approach. In general, he followed neither the Austrian (theoretical) nor the German (historical) school. In a way, he was a mediator between these approaches. On the one hand, he was convinced that there was an obvious use for historical studies. In ancient times, as he frequently reiterated, authors followed a more sophisticated approach that

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recognized different possible economic results of war. The possible function of war as a means of subsistence (Cicero) was just one of them. In addition, however, he often quoted concrete historical examples in which war did not destroy the national economy but rather resulted in a number of positive economic effects such as the American Civil War or the Napoleonic Wars had demonstrated. On the other hand, however, Neurath systematized his observations into a theoretical model of war economy which was based upon calculation in kind, economy in kind, planning and scientific expertise, and especially on statistics. Therefore, in sum, he used and practiced both historical investigations and theoretical analyses. In his view, the two approaches need to be combined if progress in political economy was to be achieved. Moreover, Neurath’s approach included a promising message for the future. If the successful elements of war economy were put into practice, the main problems of the existing economic order in peacetime could be solved. Neurath was convinced that the experiences of war economy are the key to a peaceful future in which the negative effects of capitalism such as exploitation, social inequality, unemployment and misery can be prevented. In many respects, the debates on war economy secured Neurath’s reputation as a serious expert, although his particular approach was strongly disputed. In later days, Neurath presented the fact that he belonged neither to the Austrian nor to the German school of economics as an explanation of why he did not have a successful career as an academic economist. Belonging to one of the dominant schools, he contended, was a necessary precondition for career success that he had never fulfilled.12 How did Neurath’s strong interest in issues of peace and the social question mesh with his activities in war economy? He often suggested that economic crises in times of war were rather mild in comparison to the economic crises of peace. War always releases capacities that are restricted in peacetime, and even the state intervenes stronger in wartime than in peacetime economic crises. Neurath put it as follows: “In general it is, in peacetime, left to the stock exchange and the banks to find help somehow, but in wartime, when the state has to fight for its survival, it also interferes more energetically with economic freedom. It can be noticed again and again that in wartime there is no hesitation to use any measure that might help to keep the mechanism going” (Neurath 1910/2004, 189). No doubt, he was not worried about the possible loss of economic freedom but he strongly favored the consistent use of measures that could prevent economic crises. Neurath, however, never denied the damage done by war, the “great destruction of productive energies and their diversion for purposes of war.” But in times of war, nevertheless, there was also much better utilization of energies. In sum, the advantages of war economy were relative ones in comparison to the prewar peace economy. He pointed out that “we live in an economic order in which the devastations of war are not exceedingly damaging and can even be a kind of salvation.” And he continued:

 Erklärung Dr. Otto Neurath vor der Bayerischen Sozialisierungskommission, March 26, 1919 (BayHStA, MHIG 5491). 12

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The fact that war itself is not the main cause of this upturn raises the question: could not the same or even a better result be achieved in a peaceful way? If a reform was possible which allowed for unrestricted production and consumption, then war would become a greater curse than it is today – and then perhaps it would be avoided more often. The best success therefore may possibly be achieved by struggling not directly against war, but instead against certain deficiencies of our economic order which have the effect of reducing the horror of war and increasing its advantages (Neurath 1910/2004, 194).

This was Neurath’s conclusion already in 1910 and it remained the core of his theory on war economy. It can easily be seen that, especially in the closing paragraph, he was active in recent debates on peace and war (cf. Kraeutler, Oesch, and Sandner 2011). In contrast to many peace initiatives, however, he was convinced that the economic order was the key to a peaceful society. It was not so much permanent agitation against the cruelty of war but concise critique of the hegemonic economic order that was necessary. Nevertheless, he stressed the fact that he had always been a “fundamental opponent” of war as such.13 In his many essays on war economy, Neurath not only delivered some answers to problems of political economy in general. He also aimed to design a new research program. He documented known facts and relations, analyzed historical sources and eventually raised a number of open questions. His sympathies are obvious for today’s readers—for instance, that he favored the “turning away from extreme economic liberalism” (Neurath 1910/2004, 179). Nevertheless, he insisted on his role as an apolitical expert. But was he really apolitical? Neurath analyzed war economy not only historically but also with the help of his own empirical observations. When he noticed that there was an opportunity to study war economy at present and empirically, he did not hesitate. In autumn of 1912, the first of the two Balkan Wars began. The Carnegie Endowment for International Peace (founded in 1910 by American industrialist Andrew Carnegie) announced fellowships and organized a scientific committee that planned to evaluate the Balkan Wars from various perspectives. The aims of the committee were strongly pacifist on one hand but, nevertheless, purely scientific on the other. According to the Endowment’s ideas, lessons should be learned to prevent future wars. This attitude meshed perfectly with Neurath’s approach cf. Sandner 2013; Sandner 2016). Within the overall scientific program, the question of war economy played an important role. Not least because of his lectures and publications on war economy, Otto Neurath got the opportunity to travel in the Balkan region. He did not quit his job as a teacher; rather, he made these trips mostly during the summer holidays. The results of his many stays in belligerent countries and beyond were not only his scientific contributions to the Carnegie reports but also – and perhaps more importantly – a large number of articles, essays and booklets on the Balkan Wars. Above all he wrote a series of articles in the specialist journal Der österreichische Volkswirt (The Austrian Economist). His theory on war economy developed further and was still in the making.  Erklärung Dr. Otto Neurath vor der Bayerischen Sozialisierungskommission, March 26, 1919 (BayHStA, MHIG 5491). He would be „immer ein grundsätzlicher Gegner des Krieges gewesen.“ 13

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Neurath repeatedly expressed the opinion that well-organized agrarian economies without large land holdings such as those in Serbia and Bulgaria are much better equipped to cope with war than both semi-feudal and industrialized nations. Free peasants, relatively equal distribution of land, well-functioning communities (such as the family or the village community), the development of cooperatives and the fact that, in times of recruitment and mobilization, there are always family members staying at home and cultivating the soil were the most important explanatory factors in his view. In this context, he focused on the case of Serbia, where traditional forms of agriculture were dominant. War mobilization meant that many agricultural workers go to war, but Neurath observed that the Serbian social system was able to replace absent workers with family members and other farm workers from the community within a system of cooperatives. The traditional Serbian Zadruga (extended family) provided for collectively working the land by means of (even modern forms of) the institution of the cooperative, which was also important in terms of education. It was a traditional system of reciprocal help, which, in his view, supported his theory of war economy. In addition to many other publications, he wrote a small book entitled “Serbia’s Successes in the Balkan War. An Economic and Social Study” in 1912 (Neurath 1912/2004). His sources were discussions with leading Serb politicians, information from civil servants, bank managers and merchants in Serbia and Austria-­ Hungary, communication with statesmen of the Monarchy, Serbian as well as non-Serbian publications, and especially the Austro-Hungarian and German consular reports (Neurath 1912/2004, 201). He presented statistical data demonstrating that the Serbian harvest of 1912 was not much worse than that of 1911 despite the fact that a war was going on (Neurath 1912/2004, 203). In his view, the cooperatives had enhanced economic stability and increased the fighting strength of the country. Thus, the war’s damaging effects on agriculture were considerably reduced by the Serbian agrarian constitution and community organization, and the country’s food supply remained relatively independent of foreign countries during the war. For Neurath, however, the Serbian success was not only an economic question but also one of political structure. His analysis was that the Serbs formed a “primitive agrarian democracy” (Neurath 1912/2004, 202). Another aspect of his publication was no less remarkable. Especially in his articles on Serbian war economy, Neurath was a sharp critic of Austro-Hungarian foreign policy. He repeatedly criticized the anti-Serbian mood he observed in his homeland, the anti-Serbian articles in the press as well as the pessimistic (or propagandistic) disparagement of the Serbian economy by politicians and officials. He was convinced that false reports that announced an economic decline in Serbia would finally result in a problematic situation. He blamed Austrian politicians and the press for having been overcome by a sort of anti-Serbian mood, which blocked their view of the actual political and, most of all, economic situation. In contrast, he strongly advocated policies of economic cooperation between Serbia and the Austro-Hungarian Empire (Neurath 1912/1998). Although he was never close to the battlefields, he always recognized that it was “likely that a great number of atrocities were committed” and he pointed to the “low

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level of development” of the ethnic groups involved (Neurath 1912/2004, 226). It was obvious, however, that Neurath was not only pro-Serbian but also anti-­Albanian. He stressed the role of Serbia, Bulgaria, and Greece as cultural pioneers in the region that had a richer tradition of education and democracy (which he ascribed to the Orthodox Church) than the Albanians in particular (Neurath 1912/2004, 227). Nevertheless, he was completely aware that warfare and especially atrocities were not only attributable to official military formations but also to numerous gangs on more or less all sides. “In the Balkan war the gangs were active, supported, as probably before, by the governments of the Balkan states, by the provision of arms, ammunitions and officers”, he wrote. He added: Official circles in Serbia, Bulgaria and Greece blamed them for all the cruelties which were suffered by non-combatants. Reliable people claim that regular troops also occasionally took part in the killing of non-combatants (Neurath 1912/2004, 227).

In this time, he summarized, on the basis of his empirical experiences, his research studies in a short programmatic essay entitled “War Economy as a Separate Discipline” (1913). Again, he focused on the unique features of war economy—for instance that, in contrast to a “normal” economic crisis, a war crisis supervenes suddenly and hits all parts of the economy at once. He was convinced that only this fact needs a special theory. “I would like to suggest the name Theory of War Economy,” he put it (Neurath 1913/1973, 127). He thought that, in the end, however, the further development of war economy would contribute to a considerable scientific improvement of the total discipline of political economy. In August 1914, Neurath experienced the war personally once again. He was called up for military service and initially deployed on the Eastern front. According to his own description, he became an economic referee or consultant of the Jewish community of Radziwillow (today Ukraine), where he gained some practical economic experience (Wilhelm 1921, 28). Due to his scientific activities in war economy but also because of some technical inventions, he also received some military decorations (Sandner 2014a, b, 81). In April 1916, however, he was commandeered into the newly founded Scientific Committee of War Economy in Vienna and became one of its ten group leaders. His group included, among other prominent intellectuals, Social Democrat Otto Bauer, and this meeting would one day play a role. In a way, Neurath the expert on war economy was the mastermind of the scientific committee. But his definite role in its foundation remains unclear. The committee was mostly occupied with the documentation, systematization and analysis of economic activities and developments in the war. Its aim was to write a kind of economic history of the war: a military staff (Generalstabswerk) of war economy (Sandner 2014a, b, 85–91). At the head of each group was usually a reserve officer. The task of Neurath’s group was general war economy and the economy of the army. Another group leader was none other than Othmar Spann. What would later be outright hostility between those two intellectuals was already nascent then. Anyway, even at that time, they differed in many respects. In contrast to Neurath, Spann was a radical warmonger from the beginning. Moreover, they had different ideas about how the scientific

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committee should work. Was it primarily a center for documentation (Spann) or a research institute (Neurath)? After the proclamation of the Austrian Republic in November 1918, the short history of the committee came to an end. Ironically, it was only Neurath and Spann to whom Julius Deutsch, the Social Democratic Secretary of War, delegated the organization of the closure of the scientific committee and determination of the destination of its by then considerable collections. Spann, however, later sympathized with Fascism and was very active in academic politics, especially in a pressure group that aimed to prevent any appointments of Jews, Marxists and Liberals as professors at the University of Vienna (Taschwer 2015, 128–132). In retrospect, however, Neurath stressed the fact that the scientific committee had always been “a powerless institution”.14 The story of the institutionalization of Neurath’s war economy, however, was not over yet since in Germany another institution came into being: the Museum for War Economy in Leipzig (Sandner 2014a, b, 91–99). Its history lasted from 1916 to 1923. The driving force behind its establishment was the Chamber of Economy in Saxony. Moreover, there was scientific support. Ferdinand Schmid, a German theoretician on war economy, criticized in an article in the German Journal of Social Science (Zeitschrift für Sozialwissenschaft) the ignorance of war economy among the scientific community and political decision makers (Schmid n.d.).15 In this context, he explicitly recommended the writings of Otto Neurath. From 1917 onwards, Neurath became first a scientific consultant to the new museum and then its scientific manager and finally its director. During that time, he remained team leader in the scientific committee in Austria and obviously aimed to achieve what we call today synergy effects. The only special exhibition the museum organized was on Weltblockade und Kriegswirtschaft (world blockade and war economy). It opened in August 1918 and demonstrated the economic and social consequences of British war policies, especially the economic blockade of Germany. The exhibition focused on several instruments that aimed to compensate for shortages of food, metals, etc. and exhibited concrete examples of substitutes or surrogates (Ersatzstoffe). Ultimately, the exhibition aimed to help Germany achieve a state of economic autarchy and self-­ sufficiency. In this context, there appeared several ideas and concepts of Neurath’s sociology, such as the standard of living (Lebenslagen), that were central to the museum’s definition of itself as an institution. According to the message of the museum’s booklet, the efficiency of economic instruments could be defined by their ability to influence food, clothing, housing, reading, theatergoing, work and illness and all the other things that have to do with the standard of living. Although published anonymously, the text obviously represented Neurath’s idea of economy and was most probably written by him (Das Deutsche Kriegswirtschaftsmuseum 1918).

 „ein machtloser Faktor“. Erklärung Dr. Otto Neurath vor Sozialisierungskommission, March 26, 1919 (BayHStA, MHIG 5491). 15  Schmid also published the book Kriegswirtschaftslehre (1915). 14

der

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The museum’s overall aim was to demonstrate the process of transformation of an economy at peace to a war economy. Additionally, it was meant to answer the question of how a stable peace economy could be organized when the war is over. During World War I, however, Neurath continued working to enhance his academic reputation. Becoming a university professor, however, required a so-called habilitation he had failed to achieve until then. At that time, the University of Heidelberg seemed to be the right place. With the help of the German economist Eberhard Gothein—whom he praised in a letter to Tönnies—he successfully attained his habilitation which was based upon his numerous articles and essays on war economy.16 His habilitation lecture was on “War Economy, Administrative Economy, Economy in Kind” (Neurath 1917a/1919). This paper mainly consisted of substantial conceptual and terminological reflections, and discussed the meaning of the respective terms and concepts, their differences and their interrelations. His obvious sympathy for a planned economy, however, was not made that clear. Nevertheless, Neurath was rather isolated in the debates on war economy. Many economists and social scientists rejected his approach. One was Franz Eulenburg, who wrote several articles that focused on the relation between war and economy. The economist not only criticized single elements of Neurath’s theory but also strongly rejected the approach of “war economy as a separate discipline” as such. In his view, war economy was nothing but a transformation of a particular economic system and therefore could not be the subject of a newly-founded academic discipline.17 Other critics such as Max Weber and Ludwig Mises did not discuss Neurath’s publications in detail but nevertheless unquestionably demonstrated their fundamental disagreement with his basic arguments (Mises 1922/1932, 100; Mises 1920, 102).18 Only a few scholars such as Rudolf Goldscheid seemed to support his theory. The leading Austrian sociologist, monist and peace activist obviously favored the concept of war economy though without explicitly mentioning Neurath. For Goldscheid, the possible economic benefits of war may not be used as an argument for defending war. In contrast, they represented a convincing argument against the very economic order that existed before the war. In this sense, the war was, in the end, “a master of peace” (Goldscheid 1915, 2),19 which was definitely not far from Neurath’s conclusion. Even Neurath’s later cooperation with Goldscheid in the peace movement demonstrates clearly that they took a similar approach (Sandner 2014a, b, 83–84). Although Neurath always stressed the fact that he was an apolitical expert and a social engineer, his economic approach was definitely not value-free in terms of politics. In contrast, it put forth both strong oppositions (e.g. against free trade, the money economy, the market etc.) and claims: War economy was a planned economy

 Otto Neurath to Ferdinand Tönnies, June 28, 1917.  Franz Eulenburg formulated his critique of Neurath in two articles (1916/17 and 1918). For a discussion of Neurath’s war economy see also Pircher (1999). 18  Max Weber explicitly followed Eulenburg. Cf. Baumgarten (1964, 160–161)). 19  “So wird uns der Krieg zum fortwährenden Lehrmeister des Friedens werden”. 16 17

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that included centrally planned production and distribution. An apolitical program, however, does not sound like that. Although the precise accompanying political program followed a little later, it was already clear that Neurath’s political economy, when put into practice, would obviously mean the end of the existing capitalist class society. This message, however, came to a head in the following years.

18.4 A Life of Action: Total Socialization At the end of the First World War, there was one idea that was being discussed by most participants in the political debate: Socialization. In the eyes of many people (and not only political leftists) the traditional market economy was responsible for both the symptoms of economic crises (including unemployment, social inequality etc.) and the humanitarian disaster of the world war. Even most intellectuals were convinced that the postwar society needed a new economic order. What should it be like? The resulting ideas, however, differed in many respects. Especially in this time, Otto Neurath was convinced that both national and international conditions were favorable for socialization and he reiterated that it was questionable whether such an opportunity would ever recur. The official representatives of both the Austrian Ministry of War (of which the aforementioned scientific committee soon became a part) and the War Museum in Leipzig may have had no idea about the economic and political plans of their outstanding expert of war economy and private lecturer (Privatdozent) Otto Neurath. Most probably, they were extremely surprised if not shocked when they realized in 1918–19 that Neurath’s plans for Austria’s and Germany’s future concurred primarily with those of the political left. Towards the end of the Great War, left-wing theoreticians had put forward the concept of ‘war socialism’ (Krüger 1997). Many leftists were enthusiastic about the manifestations of socialism they believed to see while the war was going on. In general, the followers of war socialism were convinced that the war had sufficiently demonstrated that a centrally planned economy was better equipped to handle economic problems than the market ever was. While the market almost regularly produces shortages even of essential goods such as food, housing and health, a planned economy secured the provision of the population and guaranteed sufficient production of goods and their just distribution. The different socialist concepts of war socialism and Neurath’s theory of war economy were not exactly the same. They agreed, however, in many essential respects. With his theory of war economy in the background, Otto Neurath was able to develop a detailed plan for socialization. He did it in many lectures and publications in the following months. He wrote, for instance, articles under a pseudonym that appeared in the supplement of the journal Der Kunstwart (where he had found an ally in his friend Wolfgang Schumann), and also published many articles in other journals (Fonsow 1919), booklets and even books. That it was none other than Austrian economist Otto Neurath who became one of the most important voices in Germany’s debates on socialization is, nevertheless,

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remarkable. There are several reasons for this. First, he was already a well-known, albeit controversial, expert— for instance, as an author published in the highly reputable journal “Archive for Social Science and Social Policy”. One of its editors, Edgar Jaffé (co-editors were Max Weber and Werner Sombart) introduced him to Bavarian Prime Minister Kurt Eisner. It is remarkable how Neurath described the transition of his self-image, and justified the shift from apolitical expert to political activist. He put it as follows: The hesitations and vacillations of those called upon to act, the advice of my friends and sundry accidental circumstances, finally moved me, after much reflection, to conclude my life of contemplation and to begin one of action, to help to introduce an administrative economy that will bring happiness (Neurath 1919/1973a, 124).

Two opportunities to realize the envisioned life of action and to put his economic theory into practice soon followed in postwar Germany. In both cases, however, he ultimately failed. The first one was in Saxony, where a socialist parliamentary majority and a socialist government ran the country. He proposed a plan for total socialization in a very hopeful way. Together with Social Democratic journalist Hermann Kranold and his friend Wolfgang Schumann, they promoted their ideas not only to politicians but also directly to the working class. The Kranold-Neurath-Schumann Plan (February 11, 1919) was a “Plan for Socialization” which included 21 draft proposals that were to be passed by the provincial legislature, which never actually happened (Neurath 1919; Kranold 1919). In sum, it was more or less only Neurath’s plan. He presented his ideas of total socialization in discussion meetings with workers in Chemnitz, where he also demonstrated a certain distance to Soviet politics in Russia. He cynically answered a pro-Soviet question from the audience at one of his speeches that he would never want to realize happiness with the help of mass executions (Neurath 1919, 101). The government of Saxony and its prime minister, Social Democrat Georg Gradnauer, however, were not convinced to implement the Kranold-Neurath-Schumann Plan for socialization.20 Thus, it was not industrialized Saxony but a conservative and largely rural federal state that started to put Neurath’s total socialization into practice: Bavaria (Sandner 2020). Initially there was a promising plan: the simultaneous total socialization of industrial Saxony and agricultural Bavaria. After Gradnauer refused total socialization in Saxony, however, only the peasant region seemed to remain. After the assassination of independent socialist Prime Minister Kurt Eisner on February 21, 1919, a coalition government (Social Democrats, independent Socialists but also Conservatives) under Social Democrat Josef Hoffmann ran the state. With the help of Edgar Jaffé and independent Socialist Minister of Trade Josef Simon, the new Bavarian government appointed Neurath as president of the newly-­ established Central Economic Office on March 31, 1919. This office was responsible for socialization of Bavaria but was also subordinated to the Ministry of Trade. 20

 Another opponent was Sussmann (1919).

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Neurath was a civil servant and not a politician. His strategy to socialize the country, however, seemed to be effective. With his cleverness and remarkable social skills, he found allies in many sectors and even in the agrarian party in the person of anti-­ Socialist politician Sebastian Schlittenbauer (Sandner 2014a, b, 125). The first actions of Neurath’s office addressed coal mining, hydraulic energy and the power industry. Further plans had to do with the banking sector and the press. Political developments, however, were incalculable. Only a few days after Neurath’s appointment on April 7, 1919 a short-lived Soviet Republic was proclaimed and soon replaced by another one. Prime Minister Josef Hoffmann (SPD) formed an exile government in the city of Bamberg. Soon the political and economic troubles in Munich escalated. After the violent end of the second (communist) Soviet Republic brought about by regular German military troops but also radical right-­ wing corps of volunteers, the exiled government returned to Munich (Mitchell 1965, 318–331). Many representatives of the revolutionary period were arrested or executed. Neurath initially was accused of high treason and finally sentenced to serve a year and a half in prison in July 1919. His lawyers, however, achieved a stay of imprisonment. Now it became clear that he had a number of influential friends in the Austrian government as many official political interventions from Vienna followed. Besides Ludo Moritz Hartmann, the Austrian ambassador to Germany, it was primarily Prime Minister Karl Renner and Foreign Secretary Otto Bauer who wanted Neurath to be turned over to Austria. The political and diplomatic controversies including many twists and turns lasted until February 1920 when Neurath eventually came back to Vienna after having promised never to campaign against the Bavarian government again (Sandner 2014a, b, 138–143). With the help of Neurath, Bavaria was the only German federal state that started up total socialization. Nevertheless, the available time was much too short to achieve any of the expected economic and social aims. His term of office lasted only a few weeks and all measures of socialization were violently ended soon after they had started. Otto Neurath was never a sympathizer of the Soviet Republic or of communism. Nevertheless, he tried to continue his activities for socialization under a series of governments including the second Soviet Republic conducted by the Communists. Even some of his friends and well-wishers such as Otto Bauer criticized his attitude as an apolitical social engineer.21 In April 1919, however, Neurath was still convinced that “the era of free exchange economy is ending while that of administrative economy is beginning; that money economy will dissolve to give way a thoroughly organized economy in kind” (Neurath 1919/1973a, 123–124). What was the particular character of Neurath’s theory on socialization? In a way, he stuck to his war economy and only renamed it. He continued with his critique of the “traditional economy,” but now obviously from a socialist perspective (Neurath 1920/2004, 378–379). Although he remained in his role as a scholar and social

21

 Stellungnahme Otto Bauers zu Otto Neurath 30 June 1919 (BayHStA, MJu 18589).

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engineer, he linked his concept of total socialization repeatedly with socialism. In his view, socialization meant abolishing the traditional economic order and substituting for it a fully planned economy, an economy for and by the people. He put it as follows: “The aim of socialization is to produce and distribute the final product socialistically” (Neurath 1920/2004, 377). On the relation between socialization and socialism, he added the following: “Of a complete realization of socialism, however, one can generally speak only when both the socialist distribution and the planned administration of production takes place through society” (Neurath 1919/1973b, 137). It is important to note that he developed his approach to socialization in close coordination with economic and political developments. He secured confidence in his expertise by a number of publications he wrote, played the part of a social engineering consultant and adviser, gained his own experiences as a high-ranking public official in Munich and based upon these experiences, finally, further developed his approach to socialization. At the center of his concept of socialization stood a plan that was developed and implemented by a decisive central body with the help of universal statistics. In contrast to many socialist economists, his understanding of socialization was a radical one. Socialization can only be realized in total since there simply was no socialization in parts. “In the proper sense of the word”, he pointed out, “one can only speak of socialization of the economy as a whole, that is of its planned transformation” (Neurath 1919/1973b, 137). Additionally, in his plan, socialization could also be realized in one federal state or country alone. Moreover, he thought that (already existing) co-operatives, cartels, banks, mixed firms, trade unions, consumers’ associations, chambers of commerce, chambers of agriculture and other large organizations alongside the state could be used as agents of socialization (Neurath 1919/1973b, 138). The time was ripe for a fully socialized economy and there was no need to wait and see what the others were doing. Thus, Neurath was not only oriented on theoretical design but also on practical testing. There was, however, another characteristic element of Neurath’s socialization plan, which made it different from many others. As already mentioned, his future economy was an economy in kind. In sum, it was nothing but the end of the capitalist system whose main elements  – money and the market  – simply disappeared. Neurath was convinced that “any complete planned economy ultimately amounts to an economy in kind. To socialize therefore means to further an economy in kind” (Neurath 1919/1973b, 145). In this planned economy the social problems of the capitalist economy such as unemployment, shortage of essential goods, homelessness etc. will be removed. Nevertheless, he was an opponent of bloated bureaucratic structures. In a transformed economy according to his concept “(e)verything becomes transparent and controllable” (Neurath 1919/1973b, 142). His socialization model did not require an authoritarian state. However, there were a number of tensions with individual liberties such as legally binding obligations of individuals to work, although with a guaranteed allocation of income.

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Neurath’s conception of politics and democracy rigorously distinguished between economic and political councils (Neurath 1920/2004, 390–392). According to Neurath, the power of workers was not that decisive in the factory but in the economy as a whole. Socialization needs to be controlled by economic councils of a higher order, which are independent of local politics and interests of individual firms. Therefore, he drafted a democratically elected but hierarchically structured economic council system whose tasks were to exert control and ensure discipline and cohesion of the economic system. To prevent bureaucratization, sluggishness and apathy from setting in, he proposed the periodic change of elected representatives. With respect to the social and political transformation in the future, however, Neurath was convinced that equal rights for different ways of life and lifestyles were gaining ground. He saw a “fully developed cultural existence for different nationalities within the same association” as a promising way of life in the future (Neurath 1917b/1973, 133; Sandner 2005, 280–283). Within a socialized economy, however, a far greater multiplicity of ways of life would be possible. He put it as follows: “If society so desires, a six-hour day for the war injured and elderly can run alongside an eight-hour day for average workers” (Neurath 1919/1973b, 145). In the end, the aim of socialization was not only full utilization of economic potential but also the construction (Aufbau) of a community-oriented economy and society (Neurath 1920/2004, 384). These ideas remained very much alive when he left Munich and came back to Vienna in February 1920.

18.5 The Rocky Road to Socialism Back in Vienna, Otto Neurath was extremely busy and tried to define his new role in the Austrian republic and its capital Vienna in which the Social Democratic party won a large majority in the first elections in 1919 onwards. It was the beginning of Red Vienna (Gruber 1991; Rabinbach 1983). Neurath’s wife Olga (Hahn), whom he had married in 1912, complained in a letter to their friend, art historian Franz Roh, that her husband was in danger of overexerting himself. He bustled from appointment to appointment and from meeting to meeting. He seemed to have had no time to relax at the height of the big city’s summer heat.22 Robert Musil noted in his diary about the “Kathederstreithengst”, a scholarly man full of intellectual belligerence (Musil 1919/1983, 429). After some activities in the working class educational movement in which he organized schools and training sessions for members of the works councils in early summer of 1920, the Research Institute of Social Economy (Forschungsinstitut für

 Olga Neurath to Franz Roh 24 July (1920) (Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles, Franz Roh Papers). 22

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Gemeinwirtschaft) was founded. Among the institute’s main tasks was support of the Austrian commission for socialization. Socialization, however, had already failed more or less at this time. In October 1919, Otto Bauer, who was deeply disappointed politically, resigned the chairmanship of the commission. One year later, in autumn 1920, the SDAP lost the general elections and switched from being a member of a coalition government to permanent opposition. As a result, the short period of socialization was finally over (Gerlich 1980; Weissel 1976). Thus, the foundation of the Research Institute of Social Economy was, in a way, only a compensation for real socialization. Although the commission in which the political parties were equally represented (including those that were against socialization!) was instituted to organize certain measures to socialize the economy, it failed to do so. There was simply no political consensus. Especially the Christian Social party prevented every parliamentary attempt at expropriation, without which almost no socialization was possible. In the end, the social economy existed only in very small parts of the economy. The so-called “gemeinwirtschaftliche Betriebe” (enterprises of social economy) were former enterprises and factories of the Austrian Army in a district of the city of Vienna. Economically, they were insignificant. In a way, Neurath always approached economic problems as technical problems. In the time of the Balkan Wars and World War I, at least in terms of political economy, he was obviously not a liberal but he was not a Marxist either. Nevertheless, he seemed to become a Marxist after the end of the Great War, but his Marxism or his interpretation of the Marxist theory of economy was widely opposed by most Marxist political economists. The non-Marxist elements of Neurath’s political economy not only included rejection of the labor theory of value (Freudenthal 1989; Sandner 2014b). In fact, Neurath focused on the reorganization of social production and not on the expropriation of the means of production. The political programs of both social democracies in Germany and Austria were not in accordance with his conception of a moneyless economy in kind, his radical approach to socialization, and his reading of Marx in particular. Many socialists smiled at his insistence on human happiness and his interpretation of Marxism as “Social Epicureanism” (Neurath 1928/1973, 289). As a whole, Neurath’s radical economic ideas were rather isolated in the workers’ movement. Neurath rejected Social Democrat Wilhelm Ellenbogen’s point of view that the small sector of the social economy that included only a couple of enterprises represented the “embryos of socialization”. Ellenbogen in turn polemicized against “theoreticians of total socialization” (Ellenbogen 1922, 4) without mentioning anyone’s name, but this remark had only one possible addressee. For Neurath, previous socialization in Austria was nothing but rhetoric. He was convinced that the enterprises of social economy were rather social-capitalist than socialized enterprises (Neurath 1922a). In the early 1920s, Neurath continued to give intense thought to possible ways to implement socialization. Since he neither was part of the Social Democratic mainstream discourse nor in favor of the Bolshevist way, he needed to search for new approaches. His favorite theory then was guild socialism. He adopted the theoretical approach of British social scientist G.D.H. Cole who was one of the founders of

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modern guild socialism (Sandner 2014a, 156–162). In his typically idiosyncratic mode of thinking, he combined several theoretical elements of guild socialism, even rejected some elements of Cole’s approach and linked his own individual approach with his theory of total socialization (Neurath 1922b). In his view, the concept of guild socialism that advocated the organization of employees according to branches provided a theoretical model that included economic self-administration and political participation. Thus, political democracy was complemented by economic democracy (Adler 1926/1982). Neurath paraphrased it as “democracy between enemies” versus “democracy between friends” (Neurath 1926). Was this the democratic way to socialism? A practical attempt to realize social economy was the postwar settlement movement in Vienna that was founded as a self-help organization to ameliorate the shortage of food and housing. In early 1921, Neurath became one of its most important representatives (Sandner 2014a, b, 165–176; Frei 1991). In this matter, he coordinated a network of associations that were active in this field. In October of that year, he and others founded the Austrian Association for Settlement and Allotment with no fewer than 50,000 members and became its general secretary. Additionally, a guild organization was founded, which represented more than 250,000 members. On a small scale, however, the settlement movement did indeed represent a sort of social economy. Every settler who got a house in the settlement “paid” for it with his work on behalf of the community. The heyday of the settlement movement, which was temporarily supported by the Social Democratic party, lasted only a few years. Towards the mid-1920s, however, the housing policy of Red Vienna turned from settlement to council housing in the form of large housing projects. Settlements became less and less important (Sandner 2014a, b, 165–176). Neurath’s most important educational project in Red Vienna was the Social and Economic Museum, which followed more or less directly from the settlement movement. The settlement’s association organized a big exhibition in 1923, which formed the basis for the new museum. Otto Neurath was its first and only director from its foundation in 1925 to its closure in 1934. As director of an innovative social museum that developed a new visual language, Neurath became increasingly well-known internationally. Considering the fact that in the years of fascism, he had to start anew as a political immigrant in the Netherlands and in England, his fame proved to be extremely important. Carefully considered, however, there is a clear programmatic link between the socializer and the visual educator.23 Since total socialization had failed, it became obvious that the people, and especially members of the working class, needed to be educated. Despite a certain distance to Max Adler’s concept of making new men (Neurath 1925/1981), even Neurath was convinced that, in a way, education could create socialists (Sandner 2014a, b, 160). The activities of his Social and Economic Museum  – visualizing social and economic facts and interrelationships  – was an important instrument to achieve this goal. Additionally, he was also active in many

23

 Nemeth (2019) examines this relation in detail.

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other institutions offering working class education, not least of all in the workers’ university (Arbeiterhochschule) that stood at the pinnacle of the educational organizations of the Social Democratic party. At a later time, however, Neurath looked back upon this political and economic period, and even admitted to certain errors, especially with respect to the war economy.24 The former certainty of a socialist future did not exist anymore. According to his wife Marie, he had become more and more of a liberal.25 This may be right only in parts, though he was not that optimistic any more that a new, non-capitalist economic order would arise. In fact, he never completely changed his mind; his basic ideas and convictions remained. Even in the 1940s, he demanded “international planning for freedom” and was still convinced that democratic planning, individual liberties and pluralism were no contradictions at all (Neurath 1942/1973). In his view, they were mutually dependent. Planning for freedom was still a possible alternative that enabled mutual understanding, tolerance and happiness in a future world community. Hence there was still a utopia beyond “the painful market society of the past” but also “against dictatorial planning based on totalitarian fascism” (Neurath 1945/2004, 548).

18.6 Otto Neurath and the Future of Socialism After the end of the politically and ideologically bipolar world – one consisting of the communist Eastern bloc on one hand and the capitalist West on the other – the idea of socialism as an alternative political project for a future society has almost disappeared. What could remain of the socialist idea? Is there a core worth remembering, and can there be any future at all for socialism? Among many others, Axel Honneth has tried to give an answer. Historically, socialist theory was closely linked to the era of industrialization, which makes it difficult to adapt it to the twenty-first century, in his view. According to Honneth, the one-dimensional focus on the economy, the enclosed and determinist conception of history (including a definite prognosis) and, hence, the presentation of the proletariat as the one and only revolutionary subject are in need of revision. Instead, he presented a conception of socialism open for experimental testing and non-determinist developments that focused on the idea of social liberty as both an economically and politically key category (Honneth 2015). Although Otto Neurath did not follow Honneth’s critique in all respects and despite some fundamental philosophical differences between them, it is remarkable that he anticipated some element of this particular critique as a socialist after World War I. At the end of his book “Total Socialisation,” there is a short but remarkable paragraph on “economic tolerance” (Neurath 1919/2004, 402–403). In it, Neurath  Otto Neurath to Josef Frank, October 9, 1945 (Papers Otto and Marie Neurath, Austrian National Library, HAD 1219). 25  Marie Neurath, An was ich mich erinnere. Erzählt und aufgeschrieben von Henk Mulder. (Wiener Kreis Archief, Haarlem/NL, 370 L. 15). 24

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declares that the breakdown of the free market economy could result in a new civilization. Nevertheless, he emphasized the fact that even a socialized economy “can only then be of real duration if it respects human beings in their variety and does not enforce new subjugation” (Neurath 1919/2004, 402). In his view, the very idea of a future world revolution necessarily had “a tyrannical trait”. Consequently, even a “socialist tyranny” is a possible prospect, though one, it needs to be said, that he decidedly rejected. In his view, socialization must be joined by tolerance and, in the end, it must bring liberation. What does this mean? Neurath was convinced that not all future civilizations should be organized according to the same pattern, and that there could easily be different theoretical and national manifestations of socialism (even contradictory ones!). He declared that it would be possible to unite the three main movements for a socialist future which were, in his view, socialism, solidarism (co-operative or guild socialism), and a new communism (which was the communal settlement movement that did not have much to do with the Communist parties of that time). Nevertheless, he summarized that “only through deliberate contractual organization can such a union of different components be established” (Neurath 1919/2004, 402). For Neurath, obviously, history was still in the making. Moreover, he anticipated some crucial problems of later socialist states and societies such as over-bureaucratization and a strong tendency towards tyranny and repression, and he always remained skeptical about if not hostile towards the Bolshevists. He also pointed out that more aggressive class struggle “alienates a great number of ‘non-­ capitalists’, civil servants, doctors, technicians, etc., who would otherwise like to join the socialist movement” (Neurath 1919/2004, 403) and thereby participate in a peaceful socialist transformation. Neurath, however, did more than that. In one of his essays for the Austrian socialist journal Der Kampf, he addressed the issue of ecological sustainability and differentiated between “socialist utility calculation and capitalist profit calculation” (Neurath 1925/2004).26 He pointed out that whereas capitalist money calculation is only precise in terms of money sums, it gives no information on the real wealth of people. Socialist utility calculation, in contrast, “is concerned (…) with the interest of the social whole and the welfare of all of its members with regard to housing, food clothing, health, entertainment, etc.” Remarkably, this essay includes a fundamental critique not only of a profit-oriented economy but also—and more radically—of the concept of homo economicus as such. Moreover, it criticized the ignorance about natural resources (“capitalism engages in over-exploitation without any care”; “for capitalism” … “savings would mean a loss of profit”) and pleaded for the acceptance of their finiteness. Instead, he proposed a sustainable economy that enabled human happiness, which he put as follows: “In a socialist economy the goal is the maximum of happiness and quality of life for everyone, of utility, and because of this the calculation of utility, happiness and quality of life makes sense” (Neurath 1925/2004, 471). And how does the following phrase sound to us? “Even

 Among the many contributions on Neurath’s role in the development of ecological economics, see O’Neill and Uebel (2015). 26

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destroyed cattle may be replaced after a couple of years, whereas it needs a long time to afforest vast areas and thus to change the climate – and how short a time a forest and a certain climate may be destroyed!” He added: “Perhaps civil liberty is of a similar character” (Neurath 1942/1973, 427–428). In Neurath’s later reflections on planning, the ideas of liberty, plurality and democracy played a decisive role. He envisioned a future world community as a multiplicity of big and small states in the beginning and not as one comprehensive world empire. In his view, the future world community was one that was based upon tolerance and plurality in which various social orders and ways of life co-existed, connected by modern humanism and a social lingua franca. In accordance with a widespread political mood, Neurath saw future societies after the Second World War as standing on the verge of a “Planning Revolution” that was comparable to the Industrial Revolution (Neurath 1942/1973, 422). For him, international and national planning was primarily a measure against unhappiness. On the other hand, he maintained that planning as such was not useful and good because there were always different ways of planning and even dictatorial planning exercised by fascist regimes. The task of the social engineers, however, was to help to find out which planning programs are efficient in producing happiness. But could there really be alternative ways of planning that included pluralism, tolerance and liberty? For Neurath, the idea of planning, (visual) education, and the development and quality of democracy are closely related since he was convinced that “planning in a democracy will presumably be based on far reaching but simple information and education” (Neurath 1942/1973, 427). He was also convinced that, in future democracies, education and deliberation in a scientifically sound field will play a decisive role, especially after the war when many democratic governments would be opting for planning. He felt certain that people “may be educated by this kind of organization for planning in spheres where it creates social security for all and sundry (Neurath 1944/2004, 544).” In accordance with his philosophical standpoint, he was against using univocal historical predictions as the basis of social action. The anticipated pluralism may lead to an orchestration of different statements, whereas many things remain open to choice and decision—in science as in daily life. “Democratic education” he put it, “accepts form the beginning that there must be differences of opinion based on commonly known facts (Neurath 1996, 251).” It seems obvious that there was no contradiction among the philosopher of science, the visual educator and the political economist. In all of his roles, Otto Neurath thought of different possible future ways to achieve human happiness since, in his eyes, history was not determined but contingent.

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References Adler, Max. 1926/1982. Politische oder soziale Demokratie. Ein Beitrag zur sozialistischen Erziehung. Repr. Wien: Verlag der Freunde der Tribüne. Bauer, Helene. 1923. Geld, Sozialismus und Otto Neurath. Der Kampf 16: 195–202. Baumgarten, Eduard, ed. 1964. Max Weber. Werk und Person. Tübingen: Mohr. Belke, Ingrid. 1978. Die sozialreformerischen Ideen von Josef Popper-Lynkeus. Tübingen: Mohr. Burke, Christopher, Eric Kindle, and Sue Walker, eds. 2013. Isotype. Design and Contexts 1925–1971. London: Hypen Press. Cat, Jordi, and Adam Tamas Tuboly, eds. 2019. Neurath Reconsidered. New Sources and Perspectives. Cham: Springer. Das Deutsche Wirtschaftsmuseum (Ed.). 1918. Das Deutsche Wirtschaftsmuseum (Veröffentlichungen des Deutschen Wirtschaftsmuseums zu Leipzig), Heft 3, Leipzig Ellenbogen, Wilhelm. 1921. Sozialisierung in Österreich. Wien: Wiener Volksbuchhandlung. ———. 1922. Der Zentralverband für Gemeinwirtschaft. Der Betriebsrat 2 (1): 4. Eulenberg, Franz. 1916/17. “Zur Theorie der Kriegswirtschaft.” Archiv für Sozialwissenschaft und Sozialpolitik 43: 349–358. ———. 1918. Die wissenschaftliche Behandlung der Kriegswirtschaft. Archiv für Sozialwissenschaft und Sozialpolitik 44: 775–785. Fonsow (Otto Neurath). 1919. “Zur Sozialisierung der Wirtschaft I-IV“, Wirtschaft und Lebensordnung. Blätter des Deutschen Wirtschaftsmuseums: 1/1, 2–4; 1/2, 9–11; 1/3, 21–22; 1/5, 34–37. Frank, Leonhard. 1941. Brother and Sister. London: Peter Davis. Frei, Alfred Georg. 1991. Die Arbeiterbewegung und die “Graswurzeln” am Beispiel der Wiener Wohnungspolitik 1919–1934. Wien: Braumüller. Freudenthal, Gideon. 1989. Otto Neurath: From Authoritarian Liberalism to Empiricism. In Knowledge and Politics, ed. Marcelo Dasca and Ora Gruengard, 207–240. Boulder: Westview Press. Galton, Francis. 1910. Genie und Vererbung. Autorisierte Übersetzung von Otto Neurath und Anna Schapire-Neurath. Leipzig: Klinkhardt. Gerlich, Rudolf. 1980. Die gescheiterte Alternative. Sozialisierung in Österreich nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg. Wien: Braumüller. Goldscheid, Rudolf. 1915. Das große Wunder. Arbeiter-Zeitung: December 22: 1–2. Gruber, Helmut. 1991. Red Vienna. Experiment in working class culture, 1919-1934. New York/ Oxford: Oxford University Press. Haller, Rudolf. 1986. Der erste Wiener Kreis. In Fragen zu Wittgenstein und Aufsätze zur österreichischen Philosophie, ed. Rudolf Haller, 89–170. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Honneth, Axel. 2015. Die Idee des Sozialismus. Versuch einer Aktualisierung. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Kautsky, Benedict. 1926. Review: Otto Neurath, Wirtschaftsplan und Naturalrechnung. Die Gesellschaft 3: 92–96. Kautsky, Karl. 1932. Die proletarische Revolution und ihr Programm. 3rd ed. Stuttgart, Berlin: Dietz. Klose, Olaf, Eduard Georg Jacoby, and Irma Fischer, eds. 1961. Ferdinand Tönnies – Friedrich Paulsen. Briefwechsel 1876–1908. Kiel: Ferdinand Hirt. Kraeutler, Hadwig, Corinna Oesch, and Günther Sandner. 2011. Otto Neurath’s ‘Encyclopedia of the World War’: A Contextualisation. In Friedrich Waismann. Causality and Logical Positivism (Vienna Circle Yearbook), ed. Brian McGuinness, 267–295. Dordrecht, Heidelberg, London: Springer. Kranold, Herman. 1919. Einleitung. In Die Sozialisierung Sachsens. Drei Vorträge, ed. Otto Neurath, 3–6. Chemnitz: Verlag des Arbeiter- und Soldatenrats im Industriebezirk Chemnitz. Krüger, Dieter. 1997. Kriegssozialismus: Die Auseinandersetzungen der Nationalökonomen mit der Kriegswirtschaft. In Der Erste Weltkrieg, ed. Wolfgang Michalka, 506–529. Weyarn: Seehamer.

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Leichter, Käthe. 1923. Review Otto Neurath, Gildensozialismus, Klassenkampf, Vollsozialisierung. Der Kampf 16: 119–120. Mises, Ludwig von. 1920. Die Wirtschaftsrechnung im sozialistischen Gemeinwesen. Archiv für Sozialwissenschaft und Sozialpolitik 47: 86–121. ———. 1922/1932. Die Gemeinwirtschaft. Untersuchungen über den Sozialismus. 2nd revised ed. Jena: Fischer. ———. 1978/2009. Memoirs, Ludwig-von-Mises-Institute, (https://mises.org/library/memoirs, 20.11.2015). Mitchell, Allan. 1965. Revolution in Bavaria. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Musil, Robert. 1919/20/1983. Tagebücher. Reinbek: Rowohlt. Nemeth, Elisabeth. 1981. Otto Neurath und der Wiener Kreis. Revolutionäre Wissenschaftlichkeit als politischer Anspruch. Frankfurt/M: Campus. ———. 2019. Visualizing Relations in Society and Economics. Otto Neurath’s Isotype-Method Against the Background of his Economic Thought. In Neurath Reconsidered. New Sources and Perspectives, ed. Jordi Cat and Adam Tamas Tuboly, 117–140. Cham: Springer. Nemeth, Elisabeth, Stefan W. Schmitz, and Thomas E. Uebel, eds. 2007. Otto Neurath’s Economics in Context (Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook). Dordrecht: Springer. Neurath, Otto. 1903/1988. “Sozialwissenschaftliches von den Ferial-Hochschulkursen in Salzburg.” In Otto Neurath, Gesammelte ökonomische, soziologische und sozialpolitische Schriften (1), eds. Rudolf Haller and Ulf Höfer, 1–7. Repr. Wien: Hölder-Pichler-Tempsky. ———. 1910/2004. War Economy. In Otto Neurath. Economic Writings. Selections 1904–1945, ed. Thomas E. Uebel and Robert S. Cohen, 153–199. Dordrecht: Springer. ———. 1912/2004. “Serbia’s Successes in the Balkan War. An Economic and Social Study.” In Otto Neurath. Economic Writings. Selections 1904–1945, eds. Thomas E. Uebel, and Robert S. Cohen, 200–234. Dordrecht: Springer. ———. 1912/1998. “Österreich-Ungarns Balkanpolitik.” In Otto Neurath. Gesammelte ökonomische, soziologische und sozialpolitische Schriften, (2), eds. Rudolf Haller and Ulf Höfer, 14–30. Repr. Wien: Hölder-Pichler-Tempsky. ———. 1913/1973. The theory of war economy as a separate discipline. In Otto Neurath. Empiricism and sociology, ed. Marie Neurath and Robert S. Cohen, 125–130. Dordrecht: Reidel. ———. 1917a/1919. “Kriegswirtschaft, Verwaltungswirtschaft, Naturalwirtschaft”. In Durch die Kriegswirtschaft zur Naturalwirtschaft, ed. Otto Neurath. München: Callwey, 147-151. ———. 1917b/1973. “The converse Taylor system. Reflections on the selection of the fittest.” In Otto Neurath. Empiricism and Sociology, eds. Marie Neurath and Robert S. Cohen, 130–134, Dordrecht: Reidel. ———. 1918/1981. Josef Popper-Lynkeus, seine Bedeutung als Zeitgenosse. In Otto Neurath. Gesammelte philosophische und methodologische Schriften, ed. Rudolf Haller and Heiner Rutte, vol. 1, 131–136. Repr. Wien: Hölder-Pichler-Tempsky. ———. 1919. Die Sozialisierung Sachsens. Drei Vorträge. Chemnitz: Verlag des Arbeiter- und Soldatenrats im Industriebezirk Chemnitz. ———. 1919/1973a. “Preface through war economy to economy in kind.” In Otto Neurath. Empiricism and Sociology, eds. Marie Neurath and Robert S. Cohen, 123–124 Dordrecht: Reidel. ———. 1919/1973b. “Character and course of socialization.” In Otto Neurath. Empiricism and Sociology, eds. Marie Neurath and Robert S. Cohen, 135–150, Dordrecht: Reidel. ———. 1920/2004. Total Socialization. Of the two stages of the future economy. In Otto Neurath. Economic Writings. Selections 1904-1945, ed. Thomas E.  Uebel and Robert S.  Cohen, 371–404. Dordrecht: Springer. ———. 1922a. Gildensozialismus, Klassenkampf, Vollsozialisierung. Dresden: Kaden & Comp. ———. 1922b. Vollsozialisierung und gemeinwirtschaftliche Anstalten. Der Kampf 15: 54–60. ———. 1925/1981. “Review M.  Adler, Neue Menschen”. In Otto Neurath. Gesammelte philosophische und methodologische Schriften (Band 1), eds. Rudolf Haller and Heiner Rutter, 219–220. Repr. Wien: Hölder-Pichler-Tempsky. ———. 1925/2004. “Socialist Utility Calculation and Capitalist Profit Calculation.” In Otto Neurath. Economic Writings. Selections 1904–1945, eds. Thomas E.  Uebel, and Robert S. Cohen, 466–472. Dordrecht: Springer.

18  Bringing Happiness: Otto Neurath and the Debates on War Economy, Socialization… 593 ———. 1926. Demokratie unter Feinden. Arbeit und Wirtschaft 20: 814–816. ———. 1928/1973. Personal life and class struggle. In Otto Neurath. Empiricism and Sociology, ed. Marie Neurath and Robert S. Cohen, 249–298. Dordrecht: Reidel. ———. 1942/1973. International planning for freedom. In Otto Neurath. Empiricism and Sociology, ed. Marie Neurath and Robert S. Cohen, 422–440. Repr. Dordrecht: Reidel. ———. 1944/2004. Ways of life in a world community. In Otto Neurath. Economic Writings. Selections 1904–1945, ed. Thomas E. Uebel and Robert S. Cohen, 539–545. Repr. Dordrecht: Springer. ———. 1945/2004. Review of F.A.  Hayek, The Road to Serfdom. In Otto Neurath. Economic Writings. Selections 1904–1945, ed. Thomas E. Uebel and Robert S. Cohen, 546–548. Repr. Dordrecht: Springer. ———. 1996. Visual Education. Humanisation versus Popularisation. In Encyclopedia and Utopia. The Life and Work of Otto Neurath, ed. Friedrich Stadler and Elisabeth Nemeth, 245–335. Dordrecht: Kluwer. Neurath, Wilhelm. 1892. Die wahren Ursachen der Überproductionskrisen sowie der Erwerbsund Arbeitslosigkeit. Ein Beitrag zur Lösung der socialen Frage. Wien: Manz. ———. 1903. Elemente der Volkswirtschaftslehre. 4th ed. Wien: Manz. O’Neill, John, and Thomas Uebel. 2015. Analytical Philosophy and Ecological Economics. In Handbook of Ecological Economics, ed. Juan Martinez-Alier and Roldan Muradian, 48–73. Cheltenham: Elgar. Pircher, Wolfgang. 1999. Der Krieg der Vernunft. Bemerkungen zur ‘Kriegswirtschaftslehre’ von Otto Neurath. In Otto Neurath. Rationalität, Planung Vielfalt, ed. Elisabeth Nemeth and Richard Heinrich, 96–122. Wien/Oldenbourg/Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Popper-Lynkeus, Joseph. 1912. Die allgemeine Nährpflicht als Lösung der sozialen Frage. Dresden: Reissner. Rabinbach, Anson. 1983. The Crisis of Austrian Socialism. From Red Vienna to Civil War, 1927–1934. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sandner, Günther. 2005. Nations without Nationalism. The Austro-Marxist Discourse on Multiculturalism. Journal of Language and Politics 4 (2): 273–291. ———. 2013. ‘Was Menschenkraft zu leisten vermag’. Otto Neurath und die Kriegswirtschaftslehre. In Frontwechsel. Österreich-Ungarns ‘Großer Krieg’ im Vergleich, ed. Wolfram Dornik, Julia Walleczek-Fritz, and Stefan Wedrac, 377–397. Wien/Köln/Weimar: Böhlau. ———. 2014a. Otto Neurath. Eine politische Biographie. Wien: Zsolnay. ———. 2014b. Political Polyphony. Otto Neurath and Politics Reconsidered. In European Philosophy of Science – Philosophy of Science in Europe and the Viennese Heritage, ed. Maria Carla Galavotti, Elisabeth Nemeth, and Friedrich Stadler, 211–222. Dordrecht/Heidelberg/ New York/London: Springer. ———. 2016. Deviationist perceptions. Leon Trotsky and Otto Neurath on the Balkan Wars. In The Balkan wars from contemporary perception to historical memory, ed. Katrin Boeckh and Sabine Rutar, 197–215. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. ———. 2017. Anna Schapire: ein intellektuelles Porträt. In Rosa und Anna Schapire. Sozialgeschichte, Kunstgeschichte und Feminismus um 1900, ed. Burcu Dogramaci and Günther Sandner, 119–141. Berlin: AvivA. ———. 2020. Der Gesellschaftstechniker und die Revolution. Otto Neurath in München. In Wissenschaft, Macht, Politik. Die Münchner Revolution und Räterepublik als Experimentierfeld gesellschaftspolitischer Theorien, ed. Annette Meyer and Julia Schreiner, 38–53. Göttingen. Wallstein. Schmid, Ferdinand. n.d. Das Deutsche Kriegswirtschaftsmuseum und seine Bedeutung für die Wirtschaftswirtschaft. Zeitschrift für Sozialwissenschaft: Sonder-Abdruck n.d.: 207–220. ———. 1915. Kriegswirtschaftslehre. Leipzig: Veit. Stadler, Friedrich. 2015. The Vienna Circle. Studies in the Origins, Development, and Influence of Logical Empiricism. Vienna: Springer. Stuchlik, Joshua. 2010. Felicotology: Neurath’s Naturalization of Ethics. HOPOS: The Journal of the International Society for the History of Philosophy of Science 1 (2): 183–208.

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Sussmann, Arthur. 1919. Wider das Sozialisierungs-Experiment von Kranold, Dr. Neurath und Schumann. Chemnitz: Selbstverlag des Verfassers. Taschwer, Klaus. 2015. Hochburg des Antisemitismus. Der Niedergang der Universität Wien im 20. Jahrhundert. Wien: Czernin. Tönnies, Ferdinand. 1887/2001. Community and Civil Society. Edited and translated by Jose Harris. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Uebel, Thomas. 1995. Otto Neurath’s Idealist Inheritance: The Social and Economic Thought of Wilhelm Neurath. Synthese 103: 87–121. ———. 2000. Vernunftkritik und Wissenschaft. Otto Neurath und der erste Wiener Kreis. Vienna/ New York: Springer. ———. 2004. Introduction: Neurath’s Economics in Critical Context. In Otto Neurath. Economic Writings. Selections 1904–1945, ed. Thomas E. Uebel and Robert S. Cohen, 1–108. Dordrecht: Springer. ———. 2019. Rationality and Pseudo-Rationality in Political Economy: Neurath, Mises, Weber. In Neurath Reconsidered. New Sources and Perspectives, ed. Jordi Cat and Adam Tamas Tuboly, 197–215. Cham: Springer. Weissel, Erwin. 1976. Die Ohnmacht des Sieges. Arbeiterschaft und Sozialisierung nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg in Österreich. Wien: Europa-Verlag. Wilhelm, Karl (Otto Neurath). 1921. Jüdische Planwirtschaft in Palästina. Ein gesellschaftstechnisches Gutachten. Berlin: Weltverlag.

Part III

Reviews

Chapter 19

Review Essay: Jan Tinbergen and the Rise of Technocracy.  Erwin Dekker, Jan Tinbergen (1903–1994) and the Rise of Economic Expertise. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2021, xxii+465 pp., ISBN: 9781108856546 Alexander Linsbichler

Writing a captivating book about a bureaucrat and his statistical modelling techniques is impossible? Erwin Dekker’s biography of Jan Tinbergen proves otherwise. As he has done before, Dekker tells the history of economic thought and methodology as part and parcel of general intellectual and cultural history.1 Nevertheless, he never downplays or neglects the analysis of inner-scientific problem situations. Drawing on rich archival material and conversations with Tinbergen’s family, students, and colleagues, Dekker vividly introduces us to an extraordinary personality and career. Tinbergen of course was so much more than a Dutch bureaucrat and Nobel Prize winning econometrician.2 He became a key figure in transforming the discipline of economics. Perhaps even more sweeping – and reaching far beyond academia – is Tinbergen’s re-invention of the role played by economists in the modern nation state and in the international community. Ultimately, he spearheaded a shift in the public notion of how malleable “the economy” is by conscious policy efforts  – or so Dekker convincingly exhibits  and critically discusses. Anybody reflecting on the proper role of scientific experts in democratic societies, may want to pick up Dekker’s entertaining and thought-provoking study. Many of Tinbergen’s technical contributions to economics are used as standard tools by economists and policy makers today. Having said that, Dekker’s biography

 See e.g. Dekker (2016a, b).  Together with Ragnar Frisch, Tinbergen received the Prize in Economic Sciences in Memory of Alfred Nobel when it was awarded for the very first time in 1969. He was envisaged as a candidate for the Peace Prize too. Remarkably, Jan’s brother Nikolaas Tinbergen obtained the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 1973 for his work in ethology. 1 2

A. Linsbichler (*) Department of Philosophy and Department of Economics, University of Vienna, Vienna, Austria e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_19

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and arguably most readers are more interested in the broader institutional and intellectual reforms which Tinbergen successfully promoted by word and deed. Suitably for the intended non-specialist readership, when Dekker introduces economic concepts and ideas, he often elucidates them using illustrative analogies. Moreover, he treats theoretically and practically complicated situations, such as business cycle research in the 1940s, with historical sensitivity. Many sides of arguments are presented fairly, and Dekker avoids boasting with (supposed) wisdom of hindsight. The first of four parts of the book delineates Tinbergen’s formative years. Brought up in a progressive bourgeois family in The Hague, he joined the Social-Democratic Labour Party (SDAP), the social-democratic student club SDSC, and particularly relished his time in the socialist youth movement AJC. The ‘spirited socialism’ AJC instilled is not unfamiliar to regular readers of the Vienna Circle Yearbook. AJC reinforced not so much political convictions in a narrow sense as a way of life comparable to the scientific world conception.3 On a deeply personal level, Tinbergen adopted hopefulness for the future of mankind. Primary means for realizing the bright prospects would be scientific methods, rational organization of personal and social life, education, and an extreme work ethos, especially by the gifted.4 Tinbergen felt a sense of obligation to deliver scientific results for the betterment of humanity; and his conscientiousness was amplified by his influential mentor at university, Paul Ehrenfest. Dekker suggests that the main motive for the suicide of the latter was that he did not think he could crucially contribute to scientific progress anymore. In any case, Tinbergen mastered an ineffable workload and retained AJC’s virtue of abstention throughout his life. He never drank alcohol, smoked, or owned a car. The rare occasions on which he indulged in chocolate milk caused a stir among his colleagues. To Tinbergen, luxury was suspicious, and he repeatedly complained about excessive salary. Formally, Tinbergen studied physics, not economics. Already during his study years, Tinbergen vitally contributed to many internal debates of the Dutch left. For instance, he alienated some fellow socialists with his scepticism towards unions. Since their success in securing higher wages leads to unemployment, they do not act in the general interest of the workers. Tinbergen suggested that increased productivity should rather be broadly distributed by reducing working hours for everybody and possibly by implementing a universal basic income. In the early 1930s at the latest, Tinbergen renounced full socialization of the means of production. At least initially, private property would merely be subjected to coordination and ‘rationalization’ in the plans for labour developed in Belgium, the Netherlands, and other countries. Tinbergen was among the main architects of the statistical underpinnings and the overall conception of the Dutch plan. The bulk of the Dutch left promoted the Plan of Labor as the rational means to halt the rise of fascism; and there was indeed at least one crucial difference to planned industry  For the scientific world conception’s partial roots in youth movements, see e.g. Damböck et al. (2022). 4  Among the secondary means exercised and advocated by AJC is censorship of movies and books that might “misguide” adolescents. 3

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organisation in most fascist corporate states. The Dutch Plan of Labor included worker’s representatives and so-called public interest representatives in each sector. Still, some democratic left and classically liberal critics worried where fighting fascist fire with fire would lead. Dekker provides ample room for considerations of social democratic criticism of the Plan of Labor, without condemning Tinbergen’s rationale. For instance, a close friend of Tinbergen’s, Ed van Cleeff, argued: if the state controls entire sectors of production, if parliamentary influence is reduced and substituted by appointed experts, if the entire economy is coordinated toward one goal, “it really begins to appear somewhat like national-socialist methods”.5 He voiced particular concerns regarding instances in which, also contrary to Tinbergen’s intentions, propaganda instead of scientific argument was used to promote the plan. Van Cleef feared that emotionally mobilising appeals to ‘the people’ as a homogeneous unity would, in the long run, undermine the wholesome pluralism at the fundament of Dutch society. The Dutch planning efforts certainly did trigger a milestone in the discipline of economics. At the 1935 meeting of the Econometric Society, Tinbergen presented the first ever comprehensive macroeconomic model. Its 18 equations and 18 variables were designed to capture the fundamental structure of the full Dutch economy. In 1936, Tinbergen specified the coefficients of the equations, using statistical estimations based on historical data. Part II delves into Tinbergen’s roles in business cycle research and in the reconstruction of the political system of the Netherlands after the World War. In the 1930s, the League of Nations funded and organized research to understand the Great Depression and prevent similar catastrophes in the future. In this pursuit, Tinbergen among other things drew on his earlier Dutch model to build a model of the full US economy from 1919 to 1932. The new model employed seventy variables, 48 equations, and 27 sources for historical data, not to mention endless hours of calculating estimated additional data. The entire approach faced various criticisms from several sides, among them also John Maynard Keynes. He spotted the problem not in particular inadequacies though. Tinbergen might likely acknowledge all of those, but “engage ten more [human] computers and drown his sorrows in arithmetic” as a remedy.6 Given Tinbergen’s scientific and moral ethos, one could entrust him with such “black magic” methods. Yet, in lesser hands, they could become dangerous.7 Keynes’ disapproval might be surprising in light of Lawrence Klein’s and other Keynesians’ later turn towards statistical models and finetuning – very much in Tinbergen’s spirit. Defence came from an unexpected side as well. Austrian economist Gottfried Haberler, who authored the seminal but entirely “theoretical” Prosperity and Depression, also commissioned by the League of Nations, interceded: with this type of econometric analysis, it is indeed “easy to get nonsense

 Letter from van Cleeff to Tinbergen 24/08/1935 (as cited in Dekker 2021, 120).  John Maynard Keynes, “Professor Tinbergen’s method,” 1939 (as cited in Dekker 2021, 186). 7  Tinbergen and Keynes, “On a Method of Statistical Business-Cycle Research. A Comment,” 1940 (as cited in Dekker 2021, 187). 5 6

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or spurious correlations [...] but one can guard oneself against them and I think Tinbergen is critical enough”.8 War time brought forth another characteristic of Tinbergen’s research agenda. According to Tinbergen, the economy can and at least for some purposes should be studied separately from social factors and ethical convictions. In this spirit, he explicitly stated that the Third Reich’s business cycle policies were basically sound. After the World War, Tinbergen was pivotal in shaping and bringing to life the institutional structure of political decision-making processes in the Netherlands. In 1953, he held 23 official functions, many influential and involving considerable workload, for instance in the Dutch Central Bank or as director of the Central Planning Board (CPB). Until today, the Netherlands take Tinbergen’s conception to heart that experts and politicians should constantly be in close contact, in formal committees and institutions as well as in more informal spaces. The more Tinbergen became occupied with implementing policies, the clearer his novel conception of economic science emerged. Contrary to traditional academics, the primary goal was not any more to find out what the dynamics of the existing systems are, but how to build an optimal, stable economic order. Although conceptual tools to deal with dynamic systems were created around that time as well, Tinbergen saw “no use to study an essentially indeterminate system”.9 Until the mid-twentieth century, the political economist deemed himself at the mercy of the invisible hand or the productive forces; he sought to study civilization. Reinforcing earlier trends which Dekker identifies in the German Historical School, Tinbergen’s work marks a turning point in the perceived relation between the economy and the scientist. As Dekker (2021, 13) puts it, “Tinbergen is never primarily concerned with how to explain the world; the goal is always to improve it.” As a legacy of this development, most modern political ideologies – fascism, socialism, neo-­liberalism, social democracy, arguably one might add climate protectionism  – envision the economy as a system that can be actively designed and (re-)constructed at will. Displaying his competence as culturally aware economist and historian, Dekker concludes part II with another episode which is superficially concerned with the history of modelling techniques but may have much broader implications for democratic politics and their epistemological presuppositions. Such inferences are often somewhat speculative, but Dekker (with rare exceptions) does not insinuate otherwise. Dekker reflects upon the criticism Morgenstern and Lucas levelled against the type of macroeconomic modelling of which Tinbergen was a main proponent. One practical upshot of the criticisms confounds Tinbergen’s ambitions to deduce a plan of an “optimal” social order from his models. One of the problems is the non-­ reflexivity of his models, i.e. they do not capture that citizens will typically adjust their behaviour according to expected policy changes. The scientist Tinbergen did not follow the standard path of so-called microfoundations and rational

 Letter from Gottfried Haberler to Arthur Loveday 20/04/1938 (as cited in Dekker 2021, 178).  The quote is from Tinbergen’s political and scientific fellow traveller Jan Goudriaan (see Dekker 2021, 223). 8 9

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expectations in the wake of the Lucas critique, perhaps rightly so. The political advocate and bureaucrat Tinbergen, however, reacted by partly agreeing with Morgenstern, Lucas, Hayek, and others in more fervently championing policies based on clear, transparent, and stable rules. Yet, Tinbergen endorsed the sentiment according to which the public should be able to foresee policies in advance with a caveat only. The caveat might be particularly interesting for readers of the Institute Vienna Circle Yearbook because it indicates why Tinbergen hardly cooperated with Neurath, not even when the latter also lived in The Hague.10 The two fellow teetotallers indeed shared a scientific world view, a socialist political stance, and a life-long dedication to economic planning. Tinbergen even wrote an at least superficially friendly review of Neurath’s Was bedeutet rationale Wirtschaftsbetrachtung? (Tinbergen 1936). Even so, in the spirit of Viennese Late Enlightenment, Neurath’s numerous educational efforts including picture language (ISOTYPE), the use of Basic English, and innovative museum pedagogy aimed to trigger public debate and emancipate laypeople. Tinbergen did reach out to wider audiences as well, certainly avowing them a (limited) voice in the choice of policy goals. Having said that though, the primary addressees of a Tinbergean economist are the functionaries of the state. Ironically, even fellow experts often accused Tinbergen’s policy papers of being much too technical and inaccessible. Part III describes Tinbergen’s turn to international politics from the 1950s onwards. Deeply moved by the absolute poverty he witnessed on his first trip to Asia, he gradually shifted the primary focus of his efforts. Instead of perfecting the welfare state in the Netherlands, he dedicated his time and energy to an improved understanding between East and West, to world peace, and to developing countries. While Tinbergen continued inventing new modelling ideas for development economics, he first and foremost became an activist and diplomate. He raised public awareness, championed plan-based development aid, and promoted international free trade – again cooperating with Haberler.11 Accordingly, Tinbergen in the 1960s published less in scientific journals and much more in magazines and reports of international development organizations. Eclectically switching between different theories of development, Tinbergen’s main contributions consist of administrative techniques and institutional set-ups for coordination and planning. Aiming to emulate the Dutch Central Planning Board CPB, he advised international institutions and developing countries to create  Tinbergen was much more eager to meet another member of the Vienna Circle, Karl Menger, to exchange ideas about mathematical economics (see Dekker 2021, 70). 11  Dekker stresses that, just like in the 1930s in the Netherlands, Tinbergen’s emphasis on planning is not to be confused with full socialization of the means of production. He encouraged planning experts to listen to and cooperate with local entrepreneurs and state officials, on whom the success of any plan depended. Overall, Tinbergean development policy remains a top-down endeavour though. Tinbergen himself lived up to the highest standards of integrity, hoping that elites in general could serve as role models and advisors. They would help an often morally and intellectually misguided public to overcome its prejudices, misconceptions, and narrow self-interest  - so Tinbergen’s aspiration. 10

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institutional spaces for development experts. Tinbergen also trained his students to that effect, preparing them for a role in a planning institute in a developing country. Some of Tinbergen’s proposals and practices faced harsh criticism.12 For some commenters, Tinbergen’s vision was too radically globalist. Reminiscent of his time in internationalist and pacifist youth movements, Tinbergen advocated a world government. In international parliaments, just like in ideal national parliaments, not only elected representatives but also appointed experts should have voting rights. This proposed erosion of democracy predictably met objections. Likewise, Tinbergen’s involvements with less than democratic or free states were questioned. Yet, he remained constructive even in the face of harshest personal attacks. He consistently defended his relations with representatives from regimes including Soviet Russia, Franco’s Spain, Sukarno’s and Suharto’s Indonesia, and Ceausescu’s Romania: as a scientist it was his duty to engage in conversations with everyone.13 In the scientific and in the political arena, Tinbergen always endorsed forging a synthesis (not a compromise!) of the best aspects of different positions. He even partly conciliated positions as antithetical as Marxism and Böhm-Bawerkean marginalism. One of Tinbergen’s productive mediation strategies will be recognized by readers of this Yearbook as an approach Rudolf Carnap and Felix Kaufmann often used to mitigate or dissolve philosophical disputes: explication. Once the meaning of certain terms (e.g. ‘value’) in a contentious statement is clarified, two separate statements supersede a perceived opposition.14 Tinbergen also transformed contentious general statements into open research questions by quantifying them and by shifting attention to the coefficients. Instead of a stalemate between truth or falsity of the general claim, both parties could join forces to study for which values of the coefficients the explicated version of the statement holds. The briefer part IV covers the final decades of Tinbergen’s life and reflects on the limits of expertise. In previous parts, Dekker applaudably interwove an account of Tinbergen’s personal life, an appraisal of his influence on science and society, and discussions of some of Tinbergen’s main ideas. Now Dekker’s style turns more excursive, and some readers might want to learn more about Tinbergen’s activities in the later part of his life.15 Insightfully as usual, Dekker reports how the late Tinbergen became increasingly occupied with two connected topics he had

 For more contemporary criticisms of some forms of overly plan-based and paternalistic development aid, see e.g. Easterly (2013) and De Soto (2000). 13  Among the many developing countries for which Tinbergen worked as an expert, Dekker chooses Turkey for a detailed case study. 14  For the varied and sometimes ambiguous use of standard terms of economics, see e.g. Machlup (1963/1991). 15  Dekker’s research on Tinbergen continues in the project Jan Tinbergen: The Thinker at Erasmus University Rotterdam. 12

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addressed throughout his life: quantification and measurement.16 His efforts to extend quantifiability and measurability to more fields yielded mixed results though. Quantitative and unique theories of justice and sustainability as advocated by Tinbergen gained only limited acceptance. Even the Netherlands soon abandoned the use of objective scales of job difficulty to bindingly determine “just” wages. In a notable and slightly more successful venture, Tinbergen anticipated experimental economics – albeit with the ideal of directly measuring utility. This specific objective ceased to be the core of experimental economics since then, perhaps fortunately so. The merits of some of Tinbergen’s individual theories and projects notwithstanding, Dekker unearths Tinbergen’s lasting impact on our social order. Today, climate scientists, geneticists, immunologists, epidemiologists, and computer scientists may stand at similar institutional crossroads as economists did in the 1930s. How purely scientific, how applied, and how politicized will these scientific disciplines become in the next decades? Who will fund them? Who will read their scientific papers, newspaper articles, or policy reports? Who will watch their podcasts or YouTube clips? Societal decision-making still faces the challenge to reconcile scientific expertise with the egalitarian basis of democracy.17 The events of recent years raised world-­ wide awareness for this problem. How democratic and how technocratic shall we organize states and international organizations in the twenty-first century? An informed debate certainly benefits from Dekker’s balanced account of Tinbergen’s suggested solutions to the problem. Numerous reports compiled by Dekker suggest that everybody became a tad nobler in the company of the hopeful, idealist, virtuous, and proficient “humanist saint” Tinbergen.18 Intellectual elites sometimes indeed inspire and lead by example. Yet, one may be legitimately anxious about an assumption that proficiency in econometrics or molecular biology or philosophy implies moral superiority.19 Defenders of liberal democracy ought to underscore that not all great scientists are humanist saints. Even if we granted moral elitism for the sake of argument, what is more (and more fundamental): technocratic plans require that relevant knowledge to solve a social problem is attainable and that experts agree on a solution.20 Good, ambitious intentions are no guarantee at all for desirable outcomes. At least some roads to hell are paved with good intentions.  Echoing Wittgenstein and Carnap, Tinbergen acknowledged that beyond the “measurable”, there would always remain something scientifically inaccessible – the “imponderable” (see e.g. Dekker 2021, 103–104). 17  See e.g. Szasz (2001), Nordin (2017), Nichols (2017), Linsbichler and da Cunha (2022), Levy and Peart (2017), Koppl (2018), Kitcher (2011), Holton (1993), Friedman (2019), Caplan (2007), Brennan (2016). 18  Paul Samuelson, “Homage to Jan Tinbergen,” 2004 (as cited in Dekker 2021, 418). See also Dekker (2021, 420). 19  For the extreme case of non-benevolent or even malevolent superintelligence, see Bostrom (2014). 20  For a classic and a contemporary exposition why these assumptions often fail, see Hayek (1945) and Reiss (2020) respectively. 16

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References Bostrom, Nick. 2014. Superintelligence. Paths, Dangers, Strategies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brennan, Jason. 2016. Against Democracy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Caplan, Bryan. 2007. The Myth of the Rational Voter. Why Democracies Choose Bad Policies. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Damböck, Christian, Günther Sandner, and Meike Werner, eds. 2022. Logical Empiricism, Life Reform, and the German Youth Movement/Logischer Empirismus, Lebensreform und die deutsche Jugendbewegung. Cham: Springer. De Soto, Hernando. 2000. The Mystery of Capital: Why Capitalism Triumphs in the West and Fails Everywhere Else. New York: Basic Books. Dekker, Erwin. 2016a. The Viennese Students of Civilization: The Meaning and Context of Austrian Economics Reconsidered. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2016b. Left luggage: Finding the relevant context of Austrian Economics. The Review of Austrian Economics 29 (2): 103–119. ———. 2021. Jan Tinbergen (1903–1994) and the Rise of Economic Expertise. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Easterly, William. 2013. The Tyranny of Experts. Economists, Dictators, and the Forgotten Rights of the Poor. New York: Basic Books. Friedman, Jeffrey. 2019. Power Without Knowledge: A Critique of Technocracy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hayek, Friedrich August. 1945. The Use of Knowledge in Society. American Economic Review 35 (4): 519–530. Holton, Gerald. 1993. Science and Anti-Science. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Kitcher, Philip. 2011. Science in a Democratic Society. Amherst: Prometheus Books. Koppl, Roger. 2018. Expert Failure. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Levy, David M., and Sandra J. Peart. 2017. Escape from Democracy. The Role of Experts and the Public in Economic Policy. New York: Cambridge University Press. Linsbichler, Alexander, and Ivan Ferreira da Cunha. 2022. Otto Neurath's Scientific Utopianism Revisited  - A Refined Model for Utopias in Thought Experiments. Journal for General Philosophy of Science, forthcoming. Machlup, Fritz. 1963/1991. Economic Semantics. 2nd ed. New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers. Nichols, Tom. 2017. The Death of Expertise: The Campaign Against Knowledge and Why it Matters. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Nordin, Ingemar. 2017. Using knowledge: On the rationality of science, technology, and medicine. Lanham: Lexington Books. Reiss, Julian. 2020. Why Do Experts Disagree? Critical Review 32: 218–241. Szasz, Thomas. 2001. Pharmacracy. Medicine and Politics in America. Westport: Praeger. Tinbergen, Jan. 1936. Review of Otto Neurath’s was bedeutet rationale Wirtschaftsbetrachtung? Archiv für mathematische Wirtschafts- und Sozialforschung 2: 139–140.

Chapter 20

Review:

A. W. Carus, Michael Friedman, Wolfgang Kienzler, Alan Richardson, and Sven Schlotter (Eds.), Rudolf Carnap: Early Writings. The Collected Works of Rudolf Carnap, Volume 1. Oxford University Press 2019, 528 pp., ISBN: 9780198748403 Lois Marie Rendl

This first volume of The Collected Works of Rudolf Carnap includes Carnap’s published writings from 1921 when he submitted his dissertation Der Raum (Space) in Jena to Bruno Bauch to 1926 the year he completed his habilitation in Vienna under Moritz Schlick. It thereby documents Carnap’s early writings during his formative years that culminated in his first major publication Der logische Aufbau der Welt (The Logical Structure of the World) which appeared in 1928 and will be included in the second volume. Fourteen volumes are planned in total. In his foreword Richard Creath, the general editor, states that the series will include “all of the books and papers Carnap authorized for publication in his lifetime.” (viii) All texts are printed in their original German version with an English translation on the facing-page and supplemented by informative editorial notes, that analyse, discuss and contextualise Carnap’s arguments and refer to relevant literature. The editorial notes also include Carnap’s own later marginal notes in the published versions of the texts. In the introduction A.W.  Carus and Michael Friedman give a survey of Carnap’s early development that provides the philosophical, scientific, and cultural context of the edited texts and shows how they relate to each other. The introduction and the editorial notes highlight “the various influences on the early Carnap – of his teachers Frege and Bauch, of Russell, Ostwald, and Mach, of Husserl, of neo-Kantians such as Vaihinger, Cassirer, and Natorp, and of many others”.

L. M. Rendl (*) Institute Vienna Circle, University of Vienna, Vienna, Austria e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0_20

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Apart from the philosophical writings the volume also contains a political circular letter from 1918 where Carnap advocates the foundation of a league of nations. This letter was to be followed by an article about Germany’s defeat in the war, which remained unpublished, where Carnap considered the responsibility of “academics and intellectuals” for the outbreak of the war against the background of his engagement in the German Youth Movement and his experience as a soldier in World War I. (xxv) He identifies their “indifference toward political life“ as their „share in Germany’s guilt” and therefore demands their “political involvement”, meaning “political” in a very broad sense. (xxv) This broad sense of politics implies that every activity “that has some connection with the public social life of people”, that means e.g. education as well as scientific research, belongs to politics. (xxvi) This conviction that science belongs to politics and that academics and intellectuals should involve themselves politically is still noticeable in the preface to the Aufbau and the manifesto of the Vienna Circle Wissenschaftliche Weltauffassung. Apart from the political circular letter that represents “Carnap’s utopian conception of the role of knowledge and ideas in society”, Carus and Friedman distinguish two groups of writings, those that develop “a conception of a system of science or system of knowledge” and those that belong to “the Aufbau project”. (xxiii) As for Carnap, a system of knowledge requires “logically consistent foundations and systematic construction of concepts”. This raises the question how “the relation between sense experience and mathematical formalism [can] be conceived of as logical”. (xxvii, cf. xxx, xxxvii) Carnap found the solution of this problem in the conventionalism of Poincaré and Hugo Dingler. (xxvii-xxviii) This was first discussed by Carnap in 1920  in his unpublished “master’s-level dissertation on the philosophical significance of the problem of the ‘Foundation of Geometry’” in the light of Einstein’s relativity theory. (xxviii) Carnap disagreed with Dingler on the application of the principle of simplicity. (xxviii-xxix) The discussion is documented in this volume in a review of Dingler’s Physik und Hypothese under the title Who Forces Laws of Nature to Hold? (1921), in the dissertation Space: A Contribution to the Theory of Science (1922) and in the paper On the Task of Physics and the Application of the Principle of Maximal Simplicity (1923). While Carnap assumes a “pure geometry” or “intuitive space” in 1920/1921 and “explains the ‘intuition’ involved in intuitive space in terms of Husserlian, essential insight’” in his dissertation these concessions to Kantianism and phenomenology were consequently abandoned “in favor of a thoroughgoing extension of logical construction right down to the basis of the system.” (xxxi-xxxii, cf. xxxiii-xxxix) Another problem that Carnap concerned in this respect and that he originally proposed as a subject for his dissertation is the “axiomatization of relativistic space-­ time kinematics”. Carnap finished an unpublished typescript of this axiom system in 1924 that is summarized in the paper On the Dependence of the Properties of Space and those of Time (1925). (xxx) Closely related to Carnap’s “project of a ‘system of the sciences’ […] was “the idea of developing a ‘total system of all concepts’”. (xxxv) The main obstacle of constructing a total system of concepts that presented itself to Carnap was how it was possible to construct „reality” on the basis

20  Review: A. W. Carus, Michael Friedman, Wolfgang Kienzler, Alan Richardson…

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of “the ‘chaos’ of our immediately present sensations”. (xxxv) In ThreeDimensionality of Space and Causality (1924), the initial draft of which was written in early 1922, Carnap calls the choice of stipulations necessary to construct reality out of the immediately present sensations with reference to the neo-Kantian Hans Vaihinger fictions. (xxxv-xxxvi) But it was the reading of Russell’s Our Knowledge of the External World in the winter of 1921/1922 that gave him “the idea that the way to extend genuine knowledge was not by analysis of experience but by construction, gathering similar experiences into equivalence classes and using these in place of the qualities – essentially the procedure of ‘quasi-analysis’ familiar from the Aufbau.” (xxxvi-xxxvii) Carnap began to see the Aufbau project  – the ‘structural theory of the object of knowledge’ [Strukturtheorie des Erkenntnisgegenstandes]  – as an application of a more general discipline, the ‘study of structures’ [Ordnungslehre]. But the ‘rational reconstruction’ of knowledge […] was not only a matter of this abstract study of structures; it was complemented by the ‘study of science [Wissenschaftslehre]’ the analysis of existing knowledge to determine its internal workings and to see how these fit into various possible structures. (xxxix-xl)

The pamphlet Physical Concept Formation (1926) “conveys a clear picture of Carnap’s overall conception of rational reconstruction in the brief period between the time he had arrived at the (more or less) final form of the Aufbau and his encounter with the Tractatus when he moved to Vienna the following year (1926).” (xli) The edition is very carefully worked and its principles clearly stated. The translations and editorial notes were prepared by some of the most distinguished and recognized Carnap scholars and represent the latest state of research. The only thing that might be regretted is that important unpublished writings such as Germany’s Defeat and Carnap’s master’s-level dissertation Foundations of Geometry that are referred to in the introduction and the editorial notes are not included. A complementary edition project of Carnap’s diaries, correspondence and unpublished writings is however under way at the Institute Vienna Circle, to make these texts available. The early writings made accessible in this volume reveal the intellectual and cultural preconditions of Carnap’s development in the Vienna period and the unfolding of his Aufbau project. It is an essential and invaluable resource for the study of the early Carnap and a promising beginning for this series.

Index

A Abel, Günther, 99 Adler, Max, 587 Ambrose, Alice, 230, 305 Anscombe, Elizabeth, 36 Antscherl, Jeannette, 537 Antscherl, Josef, 537 Antscherl, Malwine, 538, 540 Apollinaire, Guillaume, 50 Aristotle, 76 Augustine, 94, 145 Awodey, Steve, 119, 171 Ayer, A.J., 124 B Bachmann, Ingeborg, 91, 92 Baghramian, Maria, 182 Baker, Gordon, 4, 11, 112, 237, 249, 252, 262–264, 271, 279, 533, 539, 542 Ballod, Carl, 571 Barach, Diene, 522, 537 Barach, Max, 537 Barach-Kurzer, Joachim Chajem Bezalel, 537 Bartley, William, 90, 561 Bauch, Bruno, 605 Bauer, Helene, 568 Bauer, Otto, 574, 578, 583, 586 Bauer, Philipp Leon, 24, 521–548 Baum, Wilhelm, 38, 39, 401, 402, 416, 466, 471 Bavink, Bernhard, 16

Beckett, Samuel, 41 Belke, Ingrid, 570 Benedikt, Moriz, 559 Bergmann, Gustav, 304 Bernhard, Thomas, 95, 96 Bieler, Max, 46 Binder, Thomas, 7 Black, Max, 68 Blank, Andreas, 227 Blumberg, Albert, 159 Böhm Bawerk, Eugen, 574, 602 Boltzmann, Ludwig, 6, 61 Boncompagni, Anna, 219 Bonnet, Christian, 5, 150, 153 Bostrom, Nick, 603 Bourdieu, Pierre, 94 Bradley, Raymond, 79, 227, 496 Brahms, Johannes, 94 Braithwaite, Richard, 220, 230, 305 Bramann, Jorn K., 555, 560 Brennan, Jason, 603 Brenner, Anastasios, 5 Brentano, Franz, 151, 283, 284, 344, 349, 527 Brouwer, L.E.J., 9, 113, 131, 341, 531 Brücke, Emilie von, 553, 555 Brücke, Franz Theodor, 556 Brücke, Theodor von, 556 Bruegel, Pieter, 77 Brusotti, Marco, 144 Budiansky, Stephen, 5 Bühler, Charlotte, 12, 531 Bühler, Karl, 12, 531

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 F. Stadler (ed.), Wittgenstein and the Vienna Circle, Vienna Circle Institute Yearbook 28, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-07789-0

609

610 Burke, Chris, 568 Burrows, John, 253 Busch, Wilhelm, 10 C Caplan, Bryan, 603 Carnap, Rudolf, 5, 7, 17, 128, 131, 161, 271, 332–335, 531, 535, 536, 541, 561, 567, 605–607 Carr, H. Wildon, 56 Carus, A.W., 5, 7, 119, 171, 605–607 Cassirer, Ernst, 130, 131, 142, 605 Cat, Jordi, 5, 22, 120, 568 Cavell, Stanley, 40, 202 Chassériau, Théodore, 189 Cicero, 506, 571, 575 Cleeff, Ed van, 599 Cole, G.D.H., 586, 587 Cometti, Jean-Pierre, 39 Conant, James, 147 Coxeter, Donald, 230 Creath, Richard, 5, 24, 161–176, 605 Cunha, Ivan Ferreira da, 603

Index Eccles, W., 51 Eder, Maciej, 247, 250, 253 Edmonds, David, 5, 93, 157 Ehrenfest, Paul, 598 Ehrenstein, Albert, 562 Eidinow, John, 93 Einstein, Albert, 7, 111, 123, 130, 447–450, 533, 606 Eisner, Kurt, 582 Ellenbogen, Wilhelm, 568, 586 Engel, Helene, 540 Engelmann, Mauro, 11, 12, 68, 147, 187, 202 Engelmann, Paul, 37, 54, 143 Epicur, 138 Erbacher, Christian, 36–38 Escherich, Gustav, 527, 529, 538 Eulenburg, Franz, 580 Exner, Franz, 527

D Dahms, Hans-Joachim, 5 Dallago, Carl, 562 Damböck, Christian, 5, 10, 22, 535–537, 541, 598 Darwin, Charles, 508 Dastur, François, 143 Dawson, John L., Jr., 182 De Soto, Hernando, 602 Dekker, Erwin, 597–604 Deutsch, Julius, 579 Dewey, John, 344, 365 Diamant, Flora, 540 Diamond, Cora, 99, 147, 169, 170, 183, 185, 197, 202, 229 Dierker, Egbert, 536 Dingler, Hugo, 606 Dostoevsky, Fyodor, 51 Drury, J.O.C., 40 Du Bois-Reymond, Emil, 141 Dudris Baldrich, Raimundo, 11 Duhem, Pierre, 111 Dumba, Nikolaus, 559

F Fabian, Reinhard, 260, 262, 269 Feigl, Herbert, 4, 7, 9, 10, 12, 15, 120, 132, 133, 138, 275, 293, 530, 531 Feilchenfeld, Max, 558 Feldman, Carol, 99 Ferrari, Massimo, 5, 24, 127–157 Ficker, Ludwig von, 44, 146, 147 Fieandt, Kai von, 304 Findley, J.N., 62 Fisette, Denis, 5, 7 Floyd, Juliet, 24, 179–204 Frank, Josef, 588 Frank, Leonard, 573 Frank, Philipp, 5, 7, 11, 110, 302, 573 Franz, Gottfried, 556 Franz, Heinrich Emil, 556 Freadman, Richard, 92, 93, 96 Fréchette, Guillaume, 7 Frege, Gottlob, 6, 10, 14, 39, 47, 54, 58, 59, 67–71, 74–76, 80, 83, 84, 113, 114, 119, 132, 136, 144, 197, 201, 204, 210, 238, 279, 318, 336, 343, 353 Frei, Alfred Georg, 587 Freudenthal, Gideon, 586 Friedl, Johannes, 5, 11, 22 Friedman, Michael, 5, 142, 603, 605–607 Frisch, Ragnar, 597 Furtwängler, Philipp, 527, 529, 538

E Eagleton, Terry, 40, 92, 96, 104 Easterly, William, 602

G Galavotti, Maria Carla, 214–216, 542 Galton, Francis, 572

Index

611

Gargani, Aldo, 143 Giere, Ronald, 5 Glock, Hans Johann, 144, 368, 468 Gödel, Kurt, 4, 5, 12, 19, 24, 118, 171, 179–204, 536 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 244, 508 Goldfarb, Warren, 197 Goldscheid, Rudolf, 580 Gomperz, Heinrich, 7, 15 Gothein, Eberhard, 580 Gradnauer, Georg, 582 Greiner, Margret, 560 Groag, Jonas, 285 Gruber, Helmut, 558, 585 Günther, Georg, 558 Gürth (Lieutenant), 45 Haberler, Gottfried, 599–601

Hoffmann, Dieter, 137 Hoffmann, Josef, 563, 582, 583 Höfler, Alois, 291, 429, 527, 529 Hollitscher, Walter, 302 Holton, Gerald, 603 Honneth, Axel, 588 Hrachovec, Herbert, 105 Hume, David, 452 Humphries, Carl, 41 Husserl, Edmund, 270, 283, 360, 404–406, 605

H Hacker, P.M.S., 11, 112, 115, 133 Haeckel, Ernst, 140, 141 Hahn, Hans, 5, 7, 8, 11, 12, 15–17, 19–21, 110, 111, 113, 114, 116–121, 212, 213, 219, 220, 341, 527, 529–531, 534 Hahn, Kurt, 559, 560, 573, 585 Hahn-Neurath, Olga, 585 Halais, Emmanuel, 144 Halbwachs, Maurice, 89, 90, 99 Haller, Rudolf, 4, 5, 11, 110, 112, 133, 166, 573 Hänsel, Ludwig, 54, 64, 65, 98, 101 Hardcastle, Gary, 5 Harré, Rom, 539 Hartmann, Ludo Moritz, 583 Hayek, Friedrich August von, 104, 568, 601, 603 Hebbel, Friedrich, 572 Hegselmann, Rainer, 5 Heidegger, Martin, 84, 142, 143, 259, 510 Heidelberger, Michael, 5 Hell von Heldenwerth, Guido, 558 Hempel, Carl Gustav, 4, 122, 216, 270, 303, 536 Herrmann, Rosalie, 98 Hertz, Heinrich, 134 Hessenberg, Gerhard, 123 Hide, Øystein, 92 Hilbert, David, 14, 131, 132, 171, 194, 335, 435 Hintikka, Jaakko, 162–165, 167–169, 171, 172, 175, 230 Hintikka, Merrill B., 226 Hitler, Adolf, 98

J Jaffé, Edgar, 582 Jahn, Bruno, 527 James, William, 122, 147, 182, 185, 196, 203 Janik, Allan, 4, 11, 41, 58, 90, 129, 144, 147, 555 Jarman, Derek, 40, 92 Juhos, Béla, 7 Juncker, Tom, 563

I Immler, Nicole, 23, 87–106 Iven, Matthias, 25, 129–131, 135, 137, 149, 248, 249, 252, 262

K Kanamori, Ahikiro, 182, 183, 185, 187, 192, 193, 195, 196, 200 Kant, Immanuel, 60 Kasper, Maria, 12, 531 Kaufmann, Felix, ,–17, 15, 19–21, 522 Kautsky, Benedict, 568 Kautsky, Karl, 568 Keicher, Peter, 248, 249 Keppler, Angela, 99 Kestemont, Mike, 253 Kestranek, Wilhelm, 558 Key, Ellen, 573 Keynes, John Maynard, 40, 42, 209, 225, 599 Kienzler, Wolfgang, 605–607 Kierkegaard, Søren, 84, 94, 128, 142–145, 148, 158, 159, 510 Kindle, Eric, 568 Kitcher, Philip, 603 Klagge, James C., 23, 53–65, 93, 98, 100 Klein, Felix, 544 Klein, Lawrence, 599 Knopp, Konrad, 546, 548 Kohlbauer, Gabriele, 563

612 Köhler, Wolfgang, 293 Kohlrausch, Fritz, 527, 529 Kohn, Gustav, 527, 529 Koppl, Roger, 603 Kraeutler, Hadwig, 576 Kranold, Hermann, 582 Kraus, Karl, 60, 94, 556 Kroß, Matthias, 99 Krüger, Dieter, 581 Kupelwieser, Bertha, 555 Kupelwieser, Karl, 558 Kupelwieser, Paul, 557, 558 Kuusela, Oskari, 186 L Labor, Josef, 45 Lasker-Schüler, Else, 562 Laugier, Sandra, 186 Lecher, Ernst, 527, 529 Lee, Desmond, 42, 58 Leibniz, G.W., 56, 58, 76, 113, 135, 154 Leichter, Käthe, 568 Levine, James, 183, 188, 193 Levy, David M., 603 Lieberman, Hedi, 522 Lieberman, Max, 522, 524 Limbeck-Lilienau, Christoph, 5, 6, 130, 149, 163, 219, 529, 534 Linsbichler, Alexander, 5, 597–604 Littlewood, J.E., 58 Lobo, Tea, 46 Loos, Adolf, 44, 259 Lopokova, Lydia, 40 Loveday, Arthur, 600 M Mach, Ernst, 5–7, 113, 122, 256 Machlup, Fritz, 602 Macho, Thomas, 94 Maddalena, Giovanni, 6 Mahler, Gustav, 94 Makovec, Dejan, 24 Malcolm, Norman, 40, 55, 58, 143, 227, 228 Manninen, Juha, 24, 248, 249, 252, 262–265, 269–519, 532–534, 536 Marchetti, Sarin, 182 Marini, Sergio, 143 Mauthner, Fritz, 58, 59 McGuinness, Brian, 4, 9, 11, 24, 39, 40, 50, 81, 90, 92, 101, 115–117, 123, 127, 130, 134, 135, 144, 147, 202, 210, 211, 219, 237, 270, 300, 522, 524, 531, 533, 534, 539, 540, 542, 546, 548

Index Meinong, Alexius, 527 Meister, Richard, 297, 304, 539, 542, 554, 560 Menger, Karl, 7, 9, 11, 12, 15, 19, 113, 117, 118, 133, 134, 153, 294, 295, 298, 302, 313, 530–532, 536, 544, 558, 601 Mercsanits, Renate, 523 Methlagl, Walter, 94, 103 Meyer, Eduard, 571, 572 Miles, Thomas, 143 Misak, Cheryl, 6, 24, 123, 209–220 Mises, Ludwig von, 568, 574, 580 Mitchell, Allan, 583 Monk, Ray, 4, 39–41, 47, 89, 90, 93, 153 Montague, C.E., 50 Moore, George Edward, 37, 39, 40, 42, 57, 58, 61, 62, 71, 73, 79, 145, 151, 188, 201, 202, 210, 217, 226, 540 Moran, John, 555, 560 Mormann, Thomas, 138 Morrell, Ottoline, 181, 199, 224 Morris, Katherine, 6, 112 Mühlhölzer, Felix, 189, 195 Mulder, Henk, 8, 11, 588 Musil, Robert, 585 N Napoleon Bonaparte, 274, 351, 352, 355, 434, 459, 484, 487, 490, 575 Natorp, Paul, 605 Nedo, Michael, 11, 41, 103 Neider, Heinrich, 112, 131, 164–167, 170, 173–176, 295, 297, 298, 301–305, 307 Nelböck, Johann, 538 Nemeth, Elisabeth, 5, 153, 568, 587 Neuber, Matthias, 5 Neumann, W.G., 15, 16 Neurath, Marie, 588 Neurath, Otto, 5, 7, 17, 110, 164, 269, 271, 276, 279, 534, 536, 567–590 Neurath, Wilhelm, 569 Newman, Max, 212 Ní Dhúill, Caitríona, 88, 106 Nichols, Tom, 603 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 45, 70, 137–140, 144, 259, 515, 527 Nordin, Ingemar, 603 Nordmann, Alfred, 98 O Oakes, Michael, 24, 247–266 Oesch, Corinna, 576 Ogden, C.K., 40, 49, 54, 61, 63, 65, 73, 81, 134, 211

Index Oncken, August, 572 O’Neill, John, 589 Orth, Johann, 559 Oser, Johann, 556 Ostwald, Wilhelm, 137, 140, 605 P Padilla Galvéz, Jesús, 11 Padovani, Flavia, 5 Pascal, Fania, 91 Paulsen, Friedrich, 571 Peano, Giuseppe, 132, 343 Pears, David, 81, 115, 127 Peart, Sandra J., 603 Peirce, Charles Sanders, 6 Perloff, Marjorie, 23, 35–50 Pichler, Alois, 24, 39, 247–266 Pihlström, Sami, 6, 182 Pinsent, David, 38, 41–44, 54, 225 Pircher, Wolfgang, 580 Planck, Max, 137, 140 Plato, 187, 273, 381, 451 Plessner, Helmuth, 102 Poincaré, Henri, 111, 341, 342, 606 Popper, Karl, 7, 93, 301, 539 Popper-Lynkeus, Joseph, 570 Pott, Moritz, 556 Potter, Michael, 24, 223–232 Preston, John, 6 Prokop, Ursula, 560 Proust, Marcel, 42 Psillos, Stathis, 216 Q Quine, Willard Van Orman, 123, 172 R Rabinbach, Anson, 585 Ramharter, Esther, 5, 152 Ramsey, Frank P., 10, 12, 14, 15, 24, 39, 54, 57, 58, 61, 62, 114, 123, 209–220, 228, 231, 232 Ranchetti, Michele, 11, 103 Rand, Rose, 4, 16, 17, 19, 25–28, 249, 250, 252, 261–265, 278, 279, 293, 303, 304, 406, 452 Rathenau, Walter, 137 Rauch-Höphffner, Herbert, 559 Read, Herbert, 50 Reichenbach, Hans, 7, 123, 130, 131, 213, 270, 385, 534

613 Reidemeister, Kurt, 11, 15, 113, 530, 567 Reininger, Robert, 527, 529, 538, 539, 542, 544 Rendl, Lois Marie, 605–607 Renner, Karl, 583 Resnick, Lawrence, 227 Respinger, Marguerite, 41, 89, 103 Rey, Abel, 111 Rhees, Rush, 36–38, 97, 237, 300 Richards, Ben, 40, 41 Richardson, Alan, 5, 167, 605–607 Rickert, Heinrich, 151 Ricketts, Thomas, 5, 202 Rilke, Rainer Maria, 44, 562 Ripley, Joan, 89 Ritter von Kerpely, Anton, 558 Roh, Franz, 585 Romizi, Donata, 5 Rosenblüth, Amalie, 538 Roth (Captain), 45 Rothhaupt, Josef, 54, 61, 277 Rothschild, Albert Frh. von, 554, 555, 557–563 Rothschild, Alphonse, 562 Rothschild, Anselm, 557 Rothschild, Bettina, 555 Rothschild, Eugen, 562, 563 Rothschild, Ferdinand, 560 Rothschild, Georg, 570 Rothschild, Louis, 562 Rothschild, Nathaniel, 560, 561 Rothschild, Oskar, 561 Rothschild, Valentine, 560 Rüggemeier, Anne, 89, 104 Russell, Bertrand, 24, 39, 40, 42, 46, 53, 67, 68, 113, 131, 136, 148, 217, 542 Rutte, Heiner, 112, 166 Rybicki, Jan, 253 S Salzer, Helene, 553, 555 Salzer, Max, 556 Samuelson, Paul A., 603 Sandgruber, Roman, 25, 553–563 Sandner, Günther, 5, 567–590 Sassoon, Siegfried, 50 Schächter, Josef, 12, 19, 154 Schapire-Neurath, Anna, 572–573, 591, 593 Scheler, Max, 151 Schiemer, Georg, 5 Schiller, Friedrich, 139, 140, 142 Schilpp, Paul Arthur, 193 Schlick, Blanche, 168

614 Schlick, Moritz, 4, 5, 7, 17, 41, 110, 128, 162, 165, 212, 248, 249, 256, 263, 264, 269, 300, 304, 529, 532, 533, 535, 538, 544 Schlittenbauer, Sebastian, 583 Schlotter, Sven, 605–607 Schmid, Ferdinand, 579 Schmoller, Gustav, 571, 572 Scholz, Heinrich, 132, 133 Schönbaumsfeld, Genia, 143, 144 Schopenhauer, Arthur, 6, 39, 48, 79, 83, 94, 137–139, 144, 145, 150, 442, 498, 510 Schrödinger, Erwin, 16 Schroeder, Severin, 144 Schulte, Joachim, 24, 219, 235–245, 249, 259, 262, 263, 278 Schumann, Wolfgang, 571, 581, 582 Schwarz, Markus, 522, 537 Schwarz, Werner M., 6 Shapiro, Stewart, 24 Sheffer, H.M., 203, 481 Shieh, Sanford, 76, 179, 181, 187, 197, 199 Shusterman, Richard, 92 Siebert, Lydia, 553, 555, 556 Siegetsleitner, Anne, 5 Siemens, Werner, 140 Sigmund, Karl, 5, 153, 163, 180, 536, 538 Silesius, Angelus, 148 Simon, Josef, 582 Skinner, Francis, 40, 41, 54 Sluga, Hans, 11, 23, 67–84 Socrates, 153 Somavilla, Ilse, 37, 39, 41, 97, 101, 102 Sombart, Werner, 582 Soysal, Zeynep, 179 Spann, Othmar, 578, 579 Spencer, Herbert, 138, 150 Spengler, Oswald, 6, 144, 419 Spiel, Hilde, 536, 537 Spinoza, 39, 83, 382 Spitaler, Georg, 6 Sraffa, Piero, 6, 144 Stadler, Friedrich, 3–28, 121, 130, 140, 149, 163, 179, 182, 279, 527, 529–536, 539, 541, 542, 544, 568, 573 Steinhardt, Käthe, 292, 406 Stenius, Erik, 68 Stern, David G., 4, 11, 39, 92, 129, 162–164, 166, 168–170, 175, 219, 452 Stern-Gillet, Suzanne, 150 Stockert, Marie, 98 Stöhr, Adolf, 527, 538 Stöltzner, Michael, 5 Stonborough-Wittgenstein, Margaret, 12, 37, 97, 100, 158, 212, 266, 559–560, 563

Index Sussmann, Arthur, 582 Szabados, Béla, 100, 101 Szasz, Thomas, 603 Szeltner, Sarah Anna, 88 T Takagi, Shunichi, 225 Tarski, Alfred, 16, 117, 118, 121, 171, 183, 194, 301, 302, 536 Taschwer, Klaus, 538, 579 Thirring, Hans, 527, 529 Tinbergen, Jan, 597–604 Tinbergen, Nikolaas, 597 Tizian, 563 Tolstoy, Leo, 43, 94, 572 Tönnies, Ferdinand, 570–572, 580 Toulmin, Stephen, 11, 41, 58, 90, 129, 144, 147, 555 Trakl, Georg, 44, 45, 562 Travis, Charles, 204 Tuboly, Adam, 5, 22, 120, 568 Turing, Alan, 204 Twardowski, Kasimierz, 527 U Uebel, Thomas, 5–8, 10, 11, 23, 111–124, 162, 164–170, 175, 568–571, 573, 589 V Vaihinger, Hans, 605, 607 Van de Velde-Schlick, Barbara F.B., 134 Van Heijenoort, Jean, 119, 126, 172, 205 Von der Pfordten, Dietmar, 156 W Wagner, Pierre, 5 Waismann, Clara, 522, 535, 537, 541 Waismann, Dawid, 522, 537 Waismann, Friedrich, 4, 9, 17, 76, 111, 130, 131, 135, 236, 248, 256, 263, 264, 315–519, 522–530, 532, 533, 536–539, 541–543 Waismann, Hermine, 540 Waismann, Leopold, 522, 537 Waismann, Reisel, 537, 540 Waismann, Slata, 522, 537 Waismann, Thomas, 537 Walker, Sue, 568 Wang, Hao, 200 Watson, John B., 344 Watson, Julia, 89, 104

Index Watson, William, 288 Waugh, Alexander, 89, 96, 555, 557, 558, 560–563 Weber, Max, 568, 580, 582 Weidtmann, Niels, 6, 182 Weinberger, Isidor, 558 Weininger, Otto, 6, 62, 93, 94, 144 Weissel, Erwin, 570, 586 Wessely, Karl von, 558 Weyl, Hermann, 13, 16 Whitehead, Alfred North, 39, 182, 183, 185, 224, 332, 472, 481, 542 Wiggins, David, 186 Wikidal, Elke, 6 Wilhelm, Karl, 594 Winch, Peter, 38 Wirtinger, Wilhelm, 527, 529 Wittgenstein, Anna, 556 Wittgenstein, Clothilde, 556 Wittgenstein, Franziska, 555 Wittgenstein, Hermann Christian, 555 Wittgenstein, Hermine, 88, 90, 96, 97, 99, 100, 105, 563 Wittgenstein, Johannes, 561

615 Wittgenstein, Josefine, 556 Wittgenstein, Karl, 89, 553–563 Wittgenstein, Klara, 559 Wittgenstein, Kurt Konrad, 561 Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 4, 7, 9, 39, 41, 50, 87–93, 95–101, 103, 105, 113, 136, 161, 248, 256, 261, 264, 270, 274, 530, 532, 556, 559, 561, 562 Wittgenstein, Marie, 556 Wittgenstein, Moses, 275 Wittgenstein, Paul, 44, 89 Wittgenstein, Rudolf, 561 Wolfrum, Karl, 558 Wolfrum, Otto, 558 Woolf, Virginia, 94, 96 Wright, Georg Henrik von, 36, 38, 68, 127, 211, 248, 249, 300 Wrinch, Dorothy, 58 Wundt, Wilhelm, 138 Z Zalabardo, José, 68, 184, 197 Zilsel, Edgar, 7, 94, 301