Even in scientific usage there are terms that we believe we understand and when we try to pinpoint what they refer to we notice that these terms do not have a precise meaning. This applies, in linguistics, to the term Indo-European. Mostly, when used as an adjective, it seems to apply to those languages that derive, hypothetically, from a disappeared idiom which some scholars for nearly two hundred years have been trying to reconstruct. Thus, it is said that Sanskrit, Greek and Latin are Indo-European languages. When this epithet is applied to French it causes surprise. From a comparative viewpoint, French is usually seen as a Romance language and only Romance languages taken together or, better said, Latin from which they derive, seem to merit the epithet. When used as a noun, “Indo-European” may designate the disappeared language itself. But serious scholars give it a precision in this case like commun in French, proto in English or Ur- in German. Does this imply that we may designate as Indo-European the sum of the individual languages of this family, whether they still exist or have disappeared? One may indeed take a chance and do it, but not without startling or even shocking one's public.

Up until today, the term linguistics has never figured in the title of any chair in the Collège de France. However, those having a rapport with language have not been lacking, among them those of “language and literature,” “history and philology” of various cultures, philology, although it does not study language itself, having recourse to it. There are four personalities to be kept in mind in the twentieth century: Abbé Rousselot, whose teaching of phonetics, although briefly, left a permanent mark on his listeners; Mario Roques, who gave a course in the “Histoire du vocabulaire français” from 1937 to 1946; Roland Barthes, who rendered “Sémiologie littéraire” illustrious from 1976 to 1980; and M. Zemb, who two years ago was the first linguist in the modern sense to enter the Collège, with a chair of “Grammaire et pensée allemandes.”

My work is concerned mainly with an abstract subject: the problem of human knowledge and, in particular, of scientific knowledge.

I am an optimist. I am an optimist in a world where among the intelligentsia it has become a strict rule that one must be a pessimist if one wants to be “in”. But I do believe that our age is not so bad as is generally maintained; I do believe that it is better and more beautiful than its reputation. A quarter of a century ago, I gave a lecture, the title of which sounds today even more provocative than it did then: “The History of our Time: An Optimist's View”.

With the earliest known reference to angling with a fly dating from the Chou Dynasty, more than 2,300 years ago, it should come as no surprise that when asked to justify their passionate devotion to fly fishing, many anglers will refer to the rich and venerable literature the sport has generated. Ranging from Plutarch's references to Nile fishing in the Life of Antonius, to Pliny the Elder's Historia Naturalis, to the fifteenth century classic, Dame Julian Berner's The Treatyse of Fysshynge wyth an Angle, to the sport's bible, the 17th century The Compleat Angler by Izaak Walton, to literary treatments in the work of authors such as John Donne, Gerard Manley Hopkins, William Butler Yeats, Ezra Pound and Ernest Hemingway, the wealth of literature devoted to fly fishing appears to be out of proportion to what is, ultimately, just a way of seducing an animal with a brain the size of a pea into inhaling a hook upon which some feathers, furs and tinsels have been lashed. What then, one may legitimately ask, is it about this sport that creates fanatical devotion on the part of its practitioners, who tend to regard it with such zeal and passion as is commonly reserved for art and religion?

The question of what is philosophy, leads, it would seem, inevitably to diverse and conflicting, if not at times contradictory, answers. It is not only a matter of different philosophic perspectives, but also of fundamentally opposed conceptions of philosophy. Varying philosophic intentions and aims underlie what is taken to be the nature of philosophy and disagreement abounds. Philosophies then tend to differ not so much in terms of what they disagree about but what they consider philosophically sound and important. Phenomenology may share some concerns about basic philosophic problems, like intentionality, with ordinary language philosophy. But they diverge again sharply about the question of what philosophy should accomplish for, and what difference it makes to, human knowledge and understanding. The one sees intentionality as the pervasive structure of human consciousness and reality, and the other sees it as simply part of the various ways in which the uses of language can explain, and thus do away with, philosophical questions on perplexity. This difference about what philosophy should accomplish, its purpose, is not resolvable. It is what on each approach must be considered the very nature of philosophy and its primary task.

The most ordinary events astonish only those who think about them. What can be more natural than two people talking? They are from the same country, they speak the same language, they understand one another. They have things to say to each other and they say them. Anyone who would try to question such evident truisms would be seen as attempting to be a spinner of paradoxes. And yet…

First of all is it as natural as it appears that two people should stop and speak? To an impartial observer of the behavior of one's peers this would not seem to be the case. Most of the people we rub elbows with daily—in the street, in the subway, on a beach, in a hotel or even in the apartment building where we have lived for ten years—are people whom we do not accost and to whom we never speak. In order for people to speak to one another, certain circumstances must exist; there must be a ritual of introduction and a mutual consent that often occurs only after a certain resistance has been overcome. There are important differences to be observed in this respect among different peoples and, within the same nation, among people of different classes. But in every case dialogue is preceded by a preparatory phase of prudent observation, reserve and mistrust during which the partners size one another up and seek to situate themselves in relation to each other.

“The ships that invented regions were directed toward the West”, announced Juan de Castellanos in 1587 in his Elegías dedicated to Christopher Columbus, and at the beginning of the 16th century Hernán Pérez de Oliva wrote a Historia de la invención de las Indias. The use of the word invention when speaking of the discovery of America may seem to be a semantic confusion or poetic license, viewed from the contemporary perspective of a discipline with well-defined limits, such as geography, since we usually understand invention as the transformation of things by man's intervention, while discovery is finding something that already existed so as to make it known to others.

There are, it is said nowadays, “Renaissances,” in order to emphasize the diversity of expressions in this period of civilization and because of the concern for restoring the originality of the historical situations experienced at that time by the peoples of Europe. It is true that from the fourteenth to the fifteenth centuries, the Renaissance touched many areas in order to provide a response to challenges of the times. But even though these responses were varied, the world view was the same.