Philosophy, according to a prominent conception of its nature and method, consists primarily of conceptual or linguistic analysis. Because the relations between concepts are logical, and because the propositions which express them are necessary, philosophy is taken to be an a priori activity.

Jonathan Glover and I, while not in such deep disagreement about the ethics of killing as to make all communication impossible, still disagree enough to make sustained confrontation worthwhile. (Very briefly, Glover is a utilitarian, while I am not.) At minimum, such confrontation should make it clear what are the most fundamental issues at stake in ethical arguments about various kinds of killing.

Freud seems to have been torn between a literary and a scientific model for his enterprises. On the one hand he stresses the scientific nature of his researches to an extent which makes the suspicious reader wonder whether he protests too much. On the other hand it is well known that he regarded many writers, though predominantly Shakespeare, as anticipating his findings on the unconscious. In one famous passage in the Introductory Lectures on Psycho-analysis he places his discovery of the unconscious on a par with the discoveries of Darwin and Copernicus in their effect upon man's picture of himself. He is justified, of course, and if we add Marx to this triumvirate we add a figure even closer to Freud in claiming a scientific status for his work, a scientific status which is, to the uncommitted, dubious. Theodore Mischel argues that Freud increasingly construes neurotic behaviour upon the model of ordinary intentional behaviour and, though he continued to show interest in the view that the unconscious impulses which are repressed are physiological in nature, this ideal of a reduction of the psychological to the physiological became a less active ingredient in his published work as his collaboration with Fliess receded into the past. So although he may have paid lip service to some form of psycho-physical identity, believing that mental phenomena are ultimately no more or less than physical happenings in the neurones of the brain, in mature Freud this seems to have been an idly spinning wheel. Roy Schafer has recently pointed out that many of Freud's followers use the concepts of natural science (force, energy and discharge, etc.), whilst simultaneously retaining traces of anthropomorphism in their metapsychology. For instance Heinz Hartmann emphasizes the concept of a ‘higher organizing function’ which resists formulation in the mechanistic metapsychology he favours. Similar difficulties obtrude in the work of Waelder and Kohut. The significance of these conflicts leads Schafer to frame basic Freudian insights in terms of the theory of action, stressing the manner in which an action may be described in differing ways and thus allowing us to present the fact that a patient's behaviour may both tell and not tell us of his deepest anxieties. Yet curiously Schafer denies that freedom plays any part in his account whereas we would have expected a concept so central to agency to have an equally central role in any recasting of psycho-analysis in terms of the theory of action.

My chief aim here is to achieve a clearer understanding of what it means to say that people perceive that something is the case. I shall assume that to gain such an understanding it will be sufficient to exhibit the logical form of such perception sentences in terms of predicates, quantifiers, and variables. I shall thus attempt to uncover the most important presuppositions housed in our saying that a person perceives that something is so, with a view to making these presuppositions explicit in the exhibition of logical form. To facilitate my discovery of these presuppositions I shall first try to clarify what it means to say that a non-human animal believes that something is so; for it will be my contention that sentences expressing animal belief share some of the main logical features of sentences expressing what one perceives to be the case.

Happiness requires something in its own nature, or in ours, to give it influence, and to determine our desire of it and approbation of pursuing it (Richard Price, Review of the Principal Questions in Morals, Ch. 1, Sec. 1).

I. It is a necessary condition of the truth of ‘I raised my arm’ that my arm rose; but it is not a sufficient condition. Is there some further necessary condition which, when conjoined with the condition that my arm rose, does give a sufficient condition of the truth of ‘I raised my arm’?

Recent philosophy of religion, particularly neo-Wittgensteinian philosophy of religion, has reminded philosophers that there is more to religion than belief and, indeed, that there is more to religious belief than mere belief. D. Z. Phillips is among those who have made a contribution here. He has emphasized how religious belief is very different from the kind of belief that amounts to holding a hypothesis, even a God-hypothesis. However, perhaps because of his non-cognitivist tendencies, Phillips, unlike Kierkegaard to whom he often appeals, has failed to bring into relief another quintessential fact about belief in God, namely that it is for the believer an entered relationship with God. We do well to appreciate that belief in God is not identical with making a truth claim. But if the essential core of religious belief is construed as an attitudinal or affective response, as non-cognitivists tend to construe it, an important conceptual dimension of religious faith will all but be overlooked, as, paradoxically it seems it has been by the philosophical approach that strives to describe the religious ‘form of life’ in its own terms. In what follows I shall endeavour to bring into relief what I take to be an essential dimension of religious belief, one which presupposes that religious belief is an entered relationship for the believer. This I shall do by pursuing a contrast which, I think, at once clarifies and makes undeniable religious belief's essential nature as a relationship to God.

In recent years the doctrine that God exists in a timeless eternity has achieved something of the status of philosophical heterodoxy, if not of downright heresy. The arguments against the idea of God's timeless eternity come from two sources. The first of these is Professor Kneale's paper ‘Time and Eternity in Theology’ (Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 61, 1960–61) in which, alluding to the famous definition of eternity by Boethius as ‘the complete possession of eternal life at once’ Professor Kneale confesses ‘I can attach no meaning to the word “life” unless I am allowed to suppose that what has life acts… life must at least involve some incidents in time and if, like Boethius, we suppose the life in question to be intelligent, then it must involve also awareness of the passage of time’ (p. 99).

Thales believed that everything is water:

A far from foolish thesis when you think

That your best vintage claret, Indian ink,

The knees of politicians, Pharaoh's daughter

The brains of all the nincompoops who court her,

The mouse, the tiger and the bobolink

(One must perhaps except the kitchen sink)

Are all, white-coated analysts report, a

Good seventy-five per centum aqua pura.

In any case, Creation's primal stuff,

The mixture for the Eternal Cook's plum duff,

Is likelier to be something that can cure a

Thirst, or the smell that emanates from barges,

Than a barn dance of low electric charges.

I want to discuss a view of punishment which stresses its ‘expressive’ character and seeks in that its justification. While I shall label this view ‘expressionism’, I should warn that most theorists who express an ‘expressionist’ view do not present it as an exhaustive account, but rather claim to be highlighting an aspect that tends to be neglected within the rationalist framework common to retributivism and utilitarianism. Among contemporary writings I shall focus on Joel Feinberg's article, ‘The Expressive Function of Punishment’ in The Monist 49, No. 4 (1965). While I accept that ‘expression’ usefully sums up much of what underlies punitive practices, I shall urge that the term conceals a variety of more or less amalgamated ingredients which need to be disentangled for critical inspection. I shall argue that under those aspects, punishment's justification continues to be elusive. I do not imagine that these arguments will deter my more punitive colleagues from continuing to seek such justification, but I hope they will search elsewhere. Feinberg writes:

Punishment is a conventional device for the expression of attitudes of resentment and indignation, and of judgments of disapproval and reprobation, either on the part of the punishing authority himself or of those ‘in whose name’ the punishment is inflicted. Punishment, in short, has a symbolic significance largely missing from other kinds of penalties.

Philosophers have often claimed that the requirements of morality have an absolute and categorical status. Other values may be relative to the agent's ends, other imperatives hypothetical on his desires: their requirements must be justified by relating the action enjoined to the attainment of those ends or desires, and can be avoided by being shown to be incompatible with them. But the requirements of morality bind us whatever our ends or desires might be: they are not to be justified by reference to anything beyond themselves; they cannot be avoided by being shown to be incompatatible with our existing purposes. Other values and imperatives may be determined—be given their status as values or imperatives—by our own prior purposes and desires: but those of morality themselves determine which purposes or desires we may or may not pursue. For convenient reference I label this the Absolutist view.

It verges on the platitudinous to say that Wittgenstein's own treatment of the question of a private language has been almost lost to view under mountains of commentary in the last twenty years—so much so, that no one with a concern for his own health would try to arrive at a verdict on the question by first mastering the available discussion. But a general acquaintance with the commentaries indicates that opinion on the matter can be roughly divided into two categories: that of the Old Orthodoxy (both defenders and attackers of Wittgenstein are included), most recently represented by Robert Fogelin in his book Wittgenstein; and that of what may be termed the New Guardians of the Wittgenstein Tradition, apparently based in Oxford and headed by Anthony Kenny, who in his book Wittgenstein has proposed a new account of the argument of Philosophical Investigations §§256–271. The important difference between the old and new orthodoxies will be considered later.