Can a rule be followed by one person who has lived all his life in as complete isolation from other human beings as is consistent with his mere physical survival?

This question divides philosophers as sharply today as it did over thirty years ago when, prompted by their reading of Wittgenstein, they first asked it. My aim here is to suggest a way of reconciling the two opposing sides in the current debate. I also hope to explain why it was that Wittgenstein did not concern himself with the complexities I am about to discuss, which none the less are, I believe, at the root of the difficulties we experience when we try to understand what Wittgenstein said about following a rule and to think clearly about this question.

Pre-analytically at least some of our inductions seem to be possessed of rational justification. This comment would apply, for instance, to my present induction, ‘If that climber high on the Flatirons falls he will be killed,’ not to mention such more momentous inductions as, ‘If a full-scale nuclear war breaks out there will be greater destruction than in World War II.’ Notoriously, however, a few Humean reflections seem to strip even the most plausible of our inductions of all possible rational justification, leaving them mere bare psychological faits accomplis: in effect, section V of the Enquiry's ‘Sceptical Solution of these Doubts.’

The solitary language user is again stalking the critical fields of Europe (and America, one should add). This pre-social individual, abstracted from all social and historical context, has been seemingly revived after what many of us saw as a death-blow dealt by Wittgenstein in his analysis of the notion of following a rule, and his related discussions bringing out the impossibilities of a ‘private’ language—what has come to be known as Wittgenstein's ‘private language argument’. Just what a ‘private language’ is has become the issue. Did Wittgenstein show that language-use and rule-following essentially and necessarily involved others, and were therefore necessarily social in character (thus showing that to be human and to be rational was necessarily to be social—as Aristotle had it)? Or did his arguments bear only against the notion of a language which was essentially and necessarily private, one which could not in principle be taught to another?

I shall argue that cinematic images do not have tense: not, at least, in the sense that has been ascribed to them by film theorists. This does not abolish time in cinema, for there can be temporal relations without tense, and temporal relations between cinematic images can indicate temporal relations between events depicted. But the dispensability of tense will require us to rethink our assumptions about what is sometimes called anachrony in cinema: the reordering of story-time by narrative, of which the flashback is the most common example.

The claim that philosophy and its history are two distinct, though interrelated, things would probably seem allmost people who have any idea of what philosophy is, to be so obviously true that it would be foolish or perverse to call it in question. Do we not assume, and rightly, that there is a real distinction between art and the history of art, between science and the history of science? Is there not also a real distinction between philosophy and history of philosophy? Artistic creation and telling the story of the development of the arts through the centuries are clearly not the same thing, though there is an obvious relationship between them. Similarly, the actual process of scientific inquiry and formulating scientific hypotheses and theories is not the same thing as recounting the genesis of such hypotheses and theories. Again, it hardly needs saying that there is a difference between Kant's original creative development of his philosophy and the activity of providing even a sympathetic and illuminating interpretative account of Kant's thought.

In his book, The Principles of Mathematics, the young Bertrand Russell abandoned the common-sense notion that the whole must be greater than its part, and argued that wholes and their parts can be similar, e.g. where both are infinite series, the one being a sub-series of the other. He also rejected the popular view that the idea of an infinite number is self-contradictory, and that an infinite set or collection is an impossibility. In this paper, I intend to re-examine Russell's wisdom in doing both these things, and see if it might not have made more sense, and caused his enterprise fewer problems, if he had simply stuck to our commonplace ideas. To this end, I shall also be considering his treatment of certain paradoxes that he claims can only be resolved by the abandonment of the above notions, as well as certain others which his theories appear to have generated.