Although there may be many questions about the meaning of life that will ultimately prove intractable, I think that there are some questions that can be answered. Furthermore, I think that progress towards answering them can be made through work that has and will be done in moral philosophy. In support of this I shall articulate a set of questions that I think are often at issue when people ask about the meaningfulness of life. These questions give rise to a set of conditions that a fully adequate answer must satisfy. Among other things, these conditions explain why a familiar theological answer to the meaningfulness of life seems so attractive. However, they also create problems for this answer, as well as for an answer that has appeared attractive to a number of contemporary philosophers, that the meaning of life is created by the choices that people make and the desires that they have. I shall suggest that work in moral philosophy may provide an answer that falls between these two camps – that a moral life is a meaningful life. I shall sketch a theory of morality that satisfies the conditions that have been set out. H this sketch can be filled out, then a moral life will be at least part of what can make a life meaningful. Whether this account of the moral life leaves out anything important for the meaningfulness of life will be the subject of some concluding remarks.

While not paramount among Kant scholars, issues in the philosophy of mathematics have maintained a position of importance in writings about Kant’s philosophy, and recent years have witnessed a rejuvenation of interest and real progress in interpreting his views on the nature of mathematics. My hope here is to contribute to this recent progress by expanding upon the general tacks taken by Jaakko Hintikka concerning Kant’s writings on geometry.

Let me begin by making a vile suggestion: Kant did not have a philosophy of mathematics. When Kant was writing about mathematics, essentially he was reporting the views of others. The texts provide sufficient evidence to make this suggestion plausible. Generally, when Kant writes about mathematics in his mature works, he does so in order to illustrate or argue for a philosophical point. There are important references to mathematical method in the preface to the 1787 edition of Critique of Pure Reason; however, Kant’s purpose is to describe those basic features of a method that he intended to incorporate in his theory of philosophical method: ‘our new method of thought, namely, that we can know a priori of things only what we ourselves put into them.’ Indeed, Kant makes it clear in this preface that he thought there to be no extant problems to be solved in mathematical methodology; such was the state of the science, he thought. It was for this reason that Kant felt some confidence in borrowing from this method to improve the state of metaphysics; it is also for this reason that one should not expect to find Kant engaging in basic research in mathematical methodology. Similarly, the material on syntheticity added to the second edition Introduction to Critique of Pure Reason occurs in the context of a discussion of the syntheticity of metaphysical principles; that the propositions of both disciplines are synthetic a priori lends credence to the extrapolation of some features from the mathematical method for use in developing a metaphysics. Many writers find a philosophy of mathematics in the ‘Transcendental Aesthetic’; it is clear, however, that in this section his concern is to support his theory of the nature of space, time, and sensation. What is said about geometry, for example, is restricted to those of its features relevant to the subjectivity of space. The other major discussion of mathematics and its method is found in the section, ‘Doctrine of Method.’ Here we find Kant’s fullest account of the mathematical method and of constructions. It must be borne in mind, though, that his purpose is to argue against views that the proper methods of mathematics and metaphysics (philosophy generally) are identical, that the disciplines differ in subject matter alone. The result of the discussion is not a theory of mathematical method, but an account of the method proper to the philosopher.2 Kant simply is mentioning certain features of mathematical method sufficient to support the claim that the philosopher cannot incorporate it lock, stock, and barrel.’ In short, we do not find a systematic theory of mathematics or its method described by Kant in the first Critique, nor do we find discussions of mathematics other than in contexts where philosophical positions are being developed. This holds for Kant’s other works, too.

An account of desire as a species of belief may owe its appeal to the details of its proposal as to precisely what sort of beliefs desires are to be identified with, and its downfall may be due to those details it does provide. For example, it may be proposed that the desire that α is in fact the belief that it ought to be that α, or is morally good or desirable that it should be the case that α. Here the appeal might be that of forging a link between the holding of a moral belief and the acknowledgment that one has a reason for acting a certain way; and the shortcoming of the suggestion is its evident implausibility: even if the ‘necessity’ direction could be established, having a desire hardly seems sufficient for the holding of any such belief. Again: it might be proposed, perhaps simply to bring some order into the realm of propositional attitudes by reducing some to others, that the belief with which we should identify a’s desire that α is a’s belief that he will or would be happy if α. This proposed identification can be seen to be incorrect by consideration of examples such as the following, due to J. Gosling. An aging and ailing parent might forego numerous pleasures in order that his children should reap the benefits of his saving and have a good start in life – perhaps by receiving an expensive education – after his impending death. Oearly he may want that they should so benefit even if he does not believe in an after-death existence in which he might come to know of, and so take pleasure in, his children’s subsequent well-being. So his wanting that they should prosper cannot consist in his believing that he will be happy if/when they do, since he has no expectation of even being in existence in that eventuality. As Gosling puts it, there is a clear difference (illustrable with far less dramatic examples than this one) between thinking that something’s coming about will bring one pleasure, on the one hand, and viewing the prospect of its coming about with pleasure, on the other.

Descartes thought he could suppose he was the victim of massive deception in regard to the external world. In fact he undertakes the supposing of it.

Seated comfortably by his fire, Descartes imagines a remote possibility. Perhaps he is just a mind in the clutches of a deceiving demon. If Descartes is this man lounging here in his dressing gown, he is not vastly deceived; but if he is that mind, he is deceived indeed. The two possibilities are taken to be experientially indiscernible; and Descartes is assuming that the contents of his beliefs and the senses of his claims remain the same in either case. Thus, for example, whether he is this man or that mind, he believes he has two hands. But, and this is crucial, his belief is false if he is that mind, and true if he is this man. We begin to see what is required of cartesian semantics, and cartesian theories of the content of belief.

Since his article, ‘Outline for a Decision Procedure in Ethics,’ John Rawls has advocated a coherentist moral epistemology according to which moral and political theories are justified on the basis of their coherence with our other beliefs, both moral and nonmoral (1951: 56, 61). A moral theory which is maximally coherent with our other beliefs is in a state which Rawls calls ‘reflective equilibrium’ (1971: 20). In A Theory of Justice Rawls advanced two principles of justice and claimed that they are in reflective equilibrium. He defended this claim by appeal to a hypothetical contract; he argued that parties in a position satisfying certain informational and motivational criteria, which he called ‘the original position,’ would choose the following two principles of justice to govern the basic structure of their society.

The standard argument for the incompatibility of determinism and moral responsibility employs the following two premises:

1. A person is morally responsible for what he has done only if he could have done otherwise:

2. A person could have done otherwise only if his action was not causally determined.

While premise two has been the focus of an enormous amount of controversy, premise one until recently has remained virtually unchallenged. However, since Harry Frankfurt’s provocative paper in 1969, premise one, which he dubbed the principle of alternate possibilities (henceforth referred to as PAP), has begun to attract its share of the debate. Frankfurt argued that PAP is false and that its falsity undermines the position of those who assert the incompatibility of determinism and moral responsibility. Two previous papers I wrote were devoted in part to showing that Frankfurt’s argument is ineffective; one of those papers also argued that, while PAP is indeed false as it stands (though for reasons entirely different from those advanced by Frankfurt), if it is appropriately supplemented, it can continue to serve its traditional role in the determinism-responsibility debate.

Recently Saul Kripke has drawn attention to a puzzle about belief and proper names, a puzzle of which philosophers have been aware for a long time, but which has never been completely resolved. Kripke gives a new, bilingual illustration of the puzzle:1 Pierre, while living in his native France, learns much about the city of London, which he calls ‘Londres,’ and comes to believe something which he would express in French with the words, ‘Londres est jolie.’ Using standard principle of translation, it seems correct for us to say, ‘Pierre believes that London is pretty.’ Suppose however that Pierre learns English, travels to London, learns that the name of the city he is in is ‘London,’ and sincerely and comprehendingly asserts, ‘London is not pretty.’ On the basis of his assertion, it seems correct for us to say, ‘Pierre believes that London is not pretty.’ But suppose he does not realize that ‘Londres’ is also a name for the city he is in, so he retains the belief which he would express with the French words, ‘Londres est jolie.’ Then, by the same principles of translation as before, it seems that we are still justified in saying, ‘Pierre believes that London is pretty.’ But now we have attributed to Pierre contradictory beliefs, and that does not seem acceptable, since Pierre has committed no logical oversight.

Kripke believes that this is the same puzzle as one that arises in older, monolingual examples, such as that used by Quine: suppose Tom believes that Cicero denounced Cataline. Since ‘Tully’ is another name for Cicero, it seems acceptable to paraphrase his belief and say, ‘Tom believes that Tully denounced Cataline.’ But suppose Tom does not realize that Cicero and Tully are the same person, and suppose, in fact, that he sincerely and comprehendingly asserts, ‘Tully did not denounce Cataline.’ Then it also seems acceptable to say, on the basis of Tom’s assertion, ‘Tom believes that Tully did not denounce Cataline.’ But now we have attributed to Tom contradictory beliefs, and, as in the Pierre example, that does not seem acceptable.

Although common sense and literature support the possibility of moral dilemmas, many traditional and contemporary philosophers deny this possibility because of several arguments. Probably the strongest argument against the possibility of moral dilemmas can be called the argument from ought and ought not. Various versions of this argument have been presented by McConnell, Hare, and Conee. Its basic form can be outlined as follows.

1. If any agent is in any moral dilemma, then that agent ought to adopt each of two alternatives but cannot adopt both.

2. If any agent ought to adopt any alternative, but that agent cannot adopt that alternative together with another alternative, then that agent ought not not to adopt that other alternative.

3. Therefore, if any agent is in any moral dilemma, then that agent both ought and ought not to adopt each alternative.

4. It is not possible that any agent both ought and ought not to adopt any alternative.

5. Therefore, it is not possible for any agent to be in any moral dilemma.

Do persons from disadvantaged backgrounds deserve as much blame for their immoral or criminal acts as persons who have had all the advantages? Many liberals feel inclined to say ‘no.’ After all, there is a high correlation between criminal activity and a disadvantaged background; indeed, it might fairly be said that poverty breeds crime. Taken in its most obvious direction, however, this line of argument has dangerous deterministic implications. The price of diminished blame is diminished responsibility. We absolve the disadvantaged by portraying them as persons with a diminished capacity for free action. In the extreme case, we view them as victims of circumstance, utterly unable to act other than they do. Thus is born the demeaning parentalism of the worst sort of liberal social worker.

Still, there is something correct in the liberal impulse to deny or diminish blame in at least many of these cases for something like the reason that the liberal offers. The task of this paper is to explain what is right about it. More generally, I want to show how we can take a person’s background into account in judging her for her acts without falling into total or partial determinism. In other words, my task is to establish that diminished blame is compatible with full freedom and responsibility. Roughly, I shall argue that we cannot blame someone for her acts if they are permitted or required by moral conclusions that are rational for someone in her position to reach.

Self-regarding acts are frequently classified as non-moral; even more frequently, they are assumed to have less moral weight than parallel other-regarding acts. I argue briefly against the first claim, and at greater length against the second. Our intuitions about the lesser moral weight of self-regarding acts arise from imperfectly recognized, and morally relevant, differences between acts which are ordinarily described in misleadingly parallel phrases. ‘Love of self,’ for instance, and ‘love of another’ are not symmetrical attitudes, in spite of the symmetrical grammar. More obviously, one cannot steal from, lie to, nor force oneself in the same way one can do these things to others. I conclude, therefore, that difference in moral weight never stems merely from a difference in the person concerned (myself or another), but rather from differences between the actions themselves; furthermore, that whatever it is wrong to do to a willing other, it is wrong to do to oneself.

In ‘Rationality and Revolution’ Nancy Holmstrom addresses an issue that has gained considerable currency among social and political theorists. She asks what insight, if any, Marxists might glean from rational choice accounts of radical working class collective action. The purpose of this comment is to argue that Holmstrom’s unfavorable estimation of rational choice accounts is ill-conceived.

Holmstrom raises two basic objections to rational choice explanations of working class collective action. First, she contends that such accounts are limited, inadequate or incomplete and indicates several manifestations of this purported deficiency. Second, Holmstrom alleges that rational choice accounts are ideologically suspect and, as such, fundamentally at odds with Marxist explanations of revolutionary action. Holmstrom appears to believe that this second line of criticism ‘follows’ (309, 318) in some sense upon the first. H so, it would be sufficient to establish the error of her initial line of argument. Because neither of her criticisms can withstand scrutiny, however, independent reasons will be advanced for rejecting each.

In a recent paper, Peter March proposes to sort out the traditional sorites paradox by distinguishing two senses of ‘resemble.’ The paradox is generated in this way: we have the inference

• (a) A is the same colour as B

• (b) B is the same colour as C

Hence,

• (c) A is the same colour as C

while also having

• (d) A is not the same colour as C

In a recent article in this journal, Roberts (1984) suggests a semantic method for distinguishing ambiguity and generality, a method which is intended to avoid the problems that others such as Zwicky and Sadock (1975), Hintikka (1973), and McCawley (1980) have found in making such a decision. Roberts claims that his test derives its validity from the observation that an ambiguous expression has a disjunction of meanings, whereas a general expression has but one meaning (which might be disjunctive).

Arnold Zwicky and Jerrold Sadock (1987) object to my test for distinguishing ambiguity from generality (unspecifiedness) by offering a counterexample and general criticisms about the use of intuitions in the test. Though I disagree with their criticisms, their paper has helped me to become aware of the unclarity of my earlier paper in regard to generality.