The title of my paper is intended to represent a glimpse and a project rather than the profession of an achievement. I must, therefore, make explicit at least a certain disclaimer and mark a certain delimitation. I write primarily as a simple pupil of Aquinas, as one, however, who, perhaps precisely as such, has learned a sympathy with certain later and apparently dissimilar thinkers, and in particular with Wittgenstein. Further, the Wittgenstein whom I want to consider here is the later Wittgenstein of the Philosophical Investigations.

My intention, therefore, is to suggest certain analogies between the thought of one whom I consider to be my principal tutor and that of another with whom, I think, Aquinas would have recognised an elective affinity. And since my argument will at least at times be somewhat intricate, I want to begin by providing an Ariadne-thread to facilitate the passage through the possible labyrinth. My contention will be that the conceptions of language held by both Wittgenstein and Aquinas can best be understood as expressions of their conception of what it is to be a man, that their respective conceptions of man turn out to be fascinatingly convergent, but that nevertheless their conceptions of language present a striking, albeit complementary, contrast. Or, put in slightly different form, the idea I want to suggest is that whereas the conceptions of language held by both thinkers should be seen as aspects and consequences of a markedly similar conception of man, these conceptions of language nevertheless present contrasting characteristics.

I shall begin, then, by trying to state my understanding of the main features of Wittgenstein’s conception of language as expressed in the Philosophical Investigations.

‘Communism is the solution to the riddle of history, and knows itself to be such—Marx, 1844.

Whether marxism poses for itself solutions to the riddles of history, or whether, more narrowly, it is a science of social formations and their transformation, or some combination of the two—these are central issues of contemporary marxist theory. They are focussed in the debate over the work of Althusser, and over the ‘neo-hegelianism’ of the earlier Lukacs, Goldmann, the Frankfurt School and others (for present purposes I shall collectively describe this latter position as Critical Theory). It is in this context that the old disputes over the relation between the earlier and the later work of Marx remain so important, for they have implications for the orientation, scope and purchase of the tradition as a whole.

Reflexion on these issues is prompted by two recent collections of marxist essays. Whilst Herbert Marcuse’s Studies in Critical Philosophy (New Left Books, £3.25) provides for the English reader essential material for the assessment of the claims of critical theory, Paul Walton and Andrew Gamble’s From Alienation to Surplus Value (Sheed & Ward, £5.50) is an attempt to establish the unity of ‘the total Marx’, without falling back on the critical theory tradition. In both texts, however, there are surprisingly similar lacunae and areas of fuzziness, especially over the definition and analysis of human needs. This is a concept basic to the marxist tradition but one which has rarely been satisfactorily investigated, or its crucial and awkward significance grasped (Mascolo, Meszaros, and Kolakowski not withstanding). It is on this question, and the related ones of the objectivity and universality of marxist theory, that I shall concentrate.

Going to a performance of any opera anywhere—well, almost any opera and almost anywhere, not Lucia di Lammermoor, not Glyndebourne—is for me an entrance upon an occasion. An entrance I may make at each performance. An occasion not to be experienced by those who sit amidst contraptions which without a by-your-leave or a letter of introduction thrust the entire chorus and orchestra of La Scala into one’s withdrawing room, and which are yet quite unable to bring Parsifal’s heavenly voices descending from the ceiling.

This sense of occasion belongs not nearly so much as is popularly believed—by those, for example, who covered the great concrete staircase of the Metropolitan at Lincoln Center with rich red cloth—with chandeliers and plush of a vanishing past, but rather is to be discerned in a common expectation of audience and players and singers. ‘It does me good to come here’, said my mother during the interval of a recent Covent Garden performance, T don’t often see so many people looking cheerful. It is not what television suggests to me that the world is like these days’.

Not that opera is to be thought escapist. Contrariwise. The 19th Century convention, for example, of a plot moving along by quick melodramatic incident, like falling in love or shooting a man down, with, before and after the incident, extended arias of comment and interpretation, seems to me not a whit artificial but exactly like the processes of my ordinary living.

A strict ascetic mystic belonging to a religious reform movement in the heady atmosphere of counter-reformation Spain; a writer of treatises on the techniques of contemplative and mystical prayer; esoteric, strict, demanding, even dry and humourless—strange for a close intimate of the great Teresa, so human, witty and compassionate—but undoubtedly at the same time a man consumed by the love of God. This is most probably the image conjured up by the name of John of the Cross.

And yet he is also well known, even famous, for his poems—you will find them tucked in at the back of Professor Allison Peers’ magisterial presentation and translation of the Complete Works, though you will also find them published in the Penguin Classics series. What sort of poet is he? A real poet, or one of those religious versifiers who present their ideas on the life of prayer in this superficial, yet attractive, form for the sake of their simpler listeners? There were many of these to be found in 16th Century Spain.

A real poet many will claim; but those who take this side of him seriously and acclaim him as one of the peninsula’s greatest poets are more likely to be found amongst the unreligious, the secular, students of Spanish literature than amongst those who follow his doctrine.

John of the Cross was indeed a poet of stature, together with being most of the other things mentioned; but not many people have attempted to present this so that it can be seen as a whole, so that we can get what he has left to posterity in perspective.

The Belfast experiment by Mother Teresa’s sisters is over. Suddenly, and to most people unexpectedly, they departed in September, 1973 leaving behind some work completed, some incomplete or merely projected and many friendships bruised by their sudden departure.

The Missionary Sisters of Charity, to give them their proper name, came to Belfast with almost equal suddeness and unexpected by most people. About two years ago Mother Teresa expressed a desire to visit Belfast to see for herself what was happening and to try to help. It was by no means clear what she could do but she had in mind to create some ecumenical project by which she believed that the love of God might soften the antagonism there. She was advised by a number of people that what she had in mind was not possible. This was not simply a counsel of despair; it was advice based upon bitter experience. Already a dedicated community worker who had patiently and courageously worked in Cyprus for the Reconciliation of Greek and Turkish Cypriots had declared that Belfast was not right even for that kind of experiment.

Mother Teresa, however, was told that she should come to Belfast because her coming would give some encouragement to people who badly needed it. She came on a flying visit on a Saturday afternoon and on Sunday morning attended Mass in the church of Corpus Christi in Ballymurphy. The people at once took her to their hearts and into their homes.