In accepting the invitation of your society to discuss some aspects of the philosophy of science, particularly as they might bear on the problems of an experimental psychologist, I should like from the start to make it very clear that I do not consider myself a philosopher, not even an amateur one. Like most empirical scientists, particularly of the laboratory variety, I usually take it for granted that my world is real and that the things I perceive as existing in it can be investigated by my empirical methods. I seem to get along quite well with this unpremeditated, common-sense realism, and, for the most part, I go along minding my own experimental business. As the psychologists among you may know, however, every once in a while I seem to have to abandon this happy, naive state and let myself get involved in questions about my science, the kinds of questions that are more properly the business of the philosopher of science.

We are all acquainted with persons who seem to have a talent for making things over-complex, persons who invent exceedingly devious explanations for what can be simply explained. Such individuals strike us as hardened violators of Occam's Razor: Entities are not to be multiplied unnecessarily. We shall say briefly that such persons goropise.

The repudiation of propositions as “obscure entities” which is prevalent among logicians and philosophers of “nominalistic” persuasion, is frequently justified by pointing out that no agreement seems ever to have been reached about the identity-condition of propositions. And if we cannot specify, so they argue, under what conditions two sentences express the same proposition, then we use the word “proposition” without any clear meaning. Quine, for example, feels far less uneasy about quantification over class-variables than about quantification over attribute-variables and propositional variables, because there is a clear criterion for deciding whether we are dealing with two classes or with only one class referred to by different predicates: two classes are identical if they have the same membership. And such a criterion of identity is alleged to be lacking for intensions.

Historians, philosophers, and men of affairs frequently raise questions about the “meaning” of history, or of selected segments of history, and frequently disagree about the relative merits of competing interpretations of specific historical periods or of the historical process as a whole. Such discussions are anything but idle. They affect what historians and others say about the past, and, in doing so, they influence the construction of social policies in the present. Indeed, they affect the very quality of a culture. For the view that a group of people hold towards their past is one of the controlling factors in their morals, religion, art, and intellectual pursuits, to say nothing of the sights, sounds, and actual feel of their daily experience.

In a contribution to a symposium on “Causality in the Social Sciences,” Lewis Feuer remarks in passing that “Functionalism, in the form which Malinowski gave it, affirms that culture is an ‘organic unity’; it is the principle that in every culture, each custom, belief, and behavioral form ‘represents an indespensible part within a working whole.’” That culture is an integrated and organic unity is a view found quite often in the writings of Malinowski, though he does not maintain it with full consistency. Sometimes he seems to say that a culture is made up of a number of grand institutions, each of which is an integrated unity, though the totality need not be. But whether affirmed or denied this thesis is not the doctrine, characteristic of almost every attempt made by Malinowski to explain cultural phenomena during the last quarter century of his life, which may be properly called “Malinowskian functionalism.” And that the doctrine cited by Feurer is sometimes formulated in such a way that the term “functional” or some variant is used, as in “culture is a functionally integrated organic unity,” makes no difference to my claim. I am not at all certain that the addition of the word “functionally” does anything for the view in question; it surely makes no difference to its scientific sterility. But that apart, the point I wish to make here is that a good many scholars who make references to Malinowski's functionalism have never bothered to discover just what in the world this is. They have been all too ready to cite the vague programmatic pronouncements in which Malinowski's writings abound, while seemingly oblivious to the fact that with rare exception every major attempt by Malinowski to account systematically for some kind of sociocultural phenomena reveals one and the same pattern of explanation. And it is this pattern alone which may be spoken of as Malinowski's method of functional analysis.

Probability and Frequency. Aristotle frequently used the concept of probability, but apparently he did not make any persistent effort to clarify or analyze it. His description of a fortiori argument in The Topics (115a, 6–14), e.g., depends upon “the more or less likely or probable,” but he does not explore this notion. In The Rhetoric, where he applies himself to a puzzle about probability which the Sophists had advanced (1402a, 5–30), he comes closer to an analysis of probability. Aristotle quotes Agathon,

In a recent paper Copi has argued for the admission of the term “essence” into scientific terminology. His primary reason is that the increasing adequacy of scientific theories is evidence of a gradual approximation to the real essences of things. Copi is aware that the laws of modern science are not to be taken as formulations of essences. But, he claims, “that is an ideal towards which science strives… Centuries hence wiser men will have radically different and more adequate theories, and their notions will be closer approximations than ours to the real essences of things.”

A common type of inductive problem is to predict the nature of an unobserved finite sample of a given population on the basis of an observed finite sample of the same population. More precisely, given a class of events A, we examine a sample Sn having n members, of which mi belong to the class Bi. On the basis of our knowledge that mi/n of Sn have been Bi, we attempt to predict the ratio of members of Bi to members of A in a sample Sr containing r unobserved members of A. This type of inference has been called “predictive inference” by Carnap. It is not necessary to argue that all inductive problems reduce to this form; we merely observe that such problems frequently arise, and that they have practical and theoretical importance. In The Short Run I suggested that this kind of problem could be handled by first determining the long run probability P(A, Bi) of Bi, relative to A (presumably on the basis of the relative frequency Fn(A, Bi) of Bi, to A in the observed sample Sn) and then predicting that the relative frequency of Bi within the unobserved sample Sr (the short run) will approximate P(A, Bi) sufficiently for practical purposes. The foregoing procedure requires a rule of each of two types: a rule for the ascertainment of the values of long run probabilities, and a rule for the application of knowledge of long run probabilities to predictions in the short run. The Short Run was not concerned with the nature and justification of rules of the first type, but rather sought to justify a rule of the second type on the assumption that we already possess knowledge of long run probabilities.

In a recent issue of this journal Dr. Cartwright attempted to defend some views of Professor Quine's by arguing that my criticism [5] of these views was based on “serious misunderstandings of Quine,” “confusions,” and “mistakes.” I shall here attempt to show that in spite of Dr. Cartwright's vigorous characterizations my criticism of Quine was well founded and neither confused nor mistaken. First, I shall briefly discuss the notion of an ideal language.

Rollo Handy's recent discussion of “Personality Factors and Intellectual Production” is interesting and timely. It seems to me that one of the things he is saying is that, since we lack objective criteria for the evaluation of the various philosophies, we may be forced, reluctantly, to judge them, at least partially, on the basis of what type of person produced them. “But since we do not have generally accepted criteria for the worth of philosophic endeavors … we should at least become aware of the possible personality determinants of one's attitude toward philosophy. If certain distinguished philosophers, appearing in a psychological clinic, would be diagnosed as having severe personality disturbances, this is something we should know. The psychologists may be wrong, but then again they may be right. To say that this has no relevance at all to the worth of the philosopher's views seems ostrich-like.”