In his paper ‘Pretending’ J. L. Austin says that (a) philosophers have exaggerated the scope and distorted the meaning of pretending, and (b) the clarification of this notion has a place in the ‘long-term project of classifying and clarifying all possible ways and varieties of not exactly doing things, which has to be carried through if we are ever to understand properly what doing things is.’

Alfred North Whitehead is rightly considered a Cambridge philosopher. His intellectual life falls into three periods, of which the first (1880-1910) was in Cambridge, the second (1910-1924) in London, and the third (1924-1947) in Cambridge, Mass. But he always saw himself as a Cambridge person, and was a Life Fellow of Trinity College. Moreover, though each of these periods is associated with a different kind of philosophy, some ideas and concerns from the Cambridge period carry right through.

The subject on which I am to address you this evening is one which, though it is of fundamental importance both for philosophy and for practice, cannot but present the gravest difficulties for such treatment as falls within the limits of this occasion. Philosophical problems are always difficult, but those of ultimate metaphysics are in this respect egregious. For the simplifications that are open to the scientific phenomenologist who can rest content with a spatiotemporal world, or to the analyst who concentrates on the objective content with which the human understanding most conspicuously concerns itself, are not open to the metaphysician. He must meet the full complexity of things: not limiting himself to their appearances as objects within human experience, nor to a reflective analysis of their objective content, but taking them as they must be in themselves in order that they may appear as they empirically and reflectively do appear for the special cognitive faculties of man. I ask, therefore, for your patience and attention as I try first of all to lead you into, and then, as I hope, out of, the metaphysical labyrinth. For what I have to describe is something of a metaphysical adventure, or, if you like, a metaphysical ghoststory, in which the ghosts assume such reality as to make the solid things “give up the ghost”—which is just as it should be in a good ghost-story!

Several recent attempts to isolate the fallacy in the view that I am committed to particular moral principles merely by describing a man as having promised seem to me to have erred through excess of zeal. The argument which commits the fallacy is at its most explicit in an article by Professor Searle, and the attempted refutations with which I am concerned fasten upon the first step in his ‘deduction’, which moves from

(1) Jones uttered the words ‘I hereby promise to pay you, Smith, five dollars’

to

(2) Jones promised to pay Smith five dollars

by way of the ‘fact about English usage’ which Searle states as:

(1a) Under certain conditions C anyone who utters the words (sentence) ‘I hereby promise to pay you, Smith, five dollars’ promises to pay Smith five dollars (p. 44).

Philosophers, accounted wise in their generation and even beyond their generation, have enthroned the unchanging and sung the praises of fatality and acquiescence. But there is a voice even more authoritative than that of the sages—the voice of the LifeShaper himself. Perched on the height of the human soul, he has set two watchmen, more sagacious and knowing than the Metaphysicians who weave words “About it and about” in the taverns beneath; their names are Wonder and Surprise. Wonder spies out novelty, and Surprise discerns change. Wonder arises at that which is beyond expectation; Surprise at that which is contrary to expec tation. What could completely surpass expectation save the completely novel? What could so drastically dismantle expectation save the hurricane onset of change?

In ‘Minds, Machines and Gödel’, 1961, J. R. Lucas proposed that Godel's theorem made possible a refutation of mechanism—the thesis that mind is wholly comprehensible as a consistent, rule-governed machine. A sympathetic reading of Lucas's argument might run something as follows: ‘If I am a machine then it will be possible in principle to give a specification of the consistent formal system, L, that represents me. If this formal system were handed to me, I would be able to prove a Gödel sentence, G, which L could not generate—that is, L could not model my proving G. But since I have proved G, L is inadequate as a model of my cognitive process.’

To preach morals is easy, to ground them difficult. I think this saying of Schopenhauer is quite true. In the writings of the moral theorists we meet with ample enthusiasm for the beauty and the loftiness of moral principles. But even the best moral sermons are certainly no substitute for philosophical reasoning. To-day more than ever before we need the soundest foundation for a truly fixed ethics. For, to-day there is not a single affirmation in morals, which is not contradicted by its opposite. Eduard von Hartmann, for instance, could in the beginning of the twentieth century still maintain that the differences of opinion in ethics are concerned

The purpose of this paper is to examine some contentions advanced by B. A. O. Williams in his books Descartes: The Project of Pure Enquiry and Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy. In particular I shall be concerned with the claims he makes about the nature of ethics—namely that it cannot be ‘objective’ or ‘realistic’ and that we may not hope for rational convergence in ethical judgments. My claims will be that Williams's case on these matters is importantly unclear and incomplete and that we lack cogent reasons to accept the conclusions he offers us. But a good deal of scene-setting is necessary before we can pose the questions I wish to address.

There is a common distinction between two aspects of history: history as the object dealt with and history as the way of dealing with the object. Within the “objective” aspect of history one may distinguish between the attempt to define the object as man and the attempt to define it as process. Within the “subjective” aspect there is the prevailing tendency to put forward the nature of the onceptual method as one employing individual concepts.

One of the most influential logicians of the day has assembled and in part rewritten a number of his essays on important questions of logical theory.1 The result is a most impressive book, at once powerful and graceful, and breathing a certain intellectual hauteurr which accords well with its conspicuous property of being intellectually first rate. These are not humble analytical gropings, undertaken by the dim light of an author’s sense of the sensible; but a series of campaigns in abstract metaphysics, directed from the firm ground of mastery of a rigorous and exacting technique. “Those of us who have a taste for desert landscapes” is a phrase of the author’s. With a Roman ruthlessness he makes a solitude in which he can quantify peacefully over lumps of rock.

Among the miscellany of philosophical achievements bequeathed us by the Enlightenment is the account, worked out by Hobbes, Locke, Hume and others, of the conditions for the existence of the kind of civil or commercial association that depends upon contract. The theory of civil association has subsequently exercised the kind of fascination for moral philosophers that a highly successful theory is apt to exercise in any field of enquiry: it has, that is, both inspired later writers and to some extent restricted their horizons.

As ideas and feelings succeeded one another, and heart and head were brought into play, men continued to lay aside their natural wildness; their private connections became ever more intimate as their limits extended. They accustomed themselves to assemble before their huts round a large tree; singing and dancing, the true offspring of love and leisure, became the amusement, or rather the occupation, of men and women thus assembled together with nothing else to do. Each one began to consider the rest, and to wish to be considered in turn; and thus a value came to be attached to public esteem. Whoever sang or danced best, whoever was the handsomest, the strongest, the most dexterous, or the most eloquent, came to be of most consideration; and this was the first step towards inequality, and at the same time towards vice. From these first distinctions arose on the one side vanity and contempt and on the other shame and envy; and the fermentation caused by these heavens ended by producing combinations fatal to innocence and happiness.