The essays collected in this volume, appearing between the years 1939 and 1958, include all of the late Professor J. L. Austin's published papers, and in addition two unpublished papers, ‘The Meaning of a Word’ (1940) and ‘Unfair to Facts’ (1954), as well as an unscripted talk, ‘Performative Utterances’, given in the Third Programme of the B.B.C. in 1956. The editors, J. O. Urmson and G. J. Warnock, have performed a real service in making these papers available in one volume; for the cumulative impact of the method Austin pursued in doing philosophy, and the questions this method raises, can be felt and appreciated more fully when a considerable assemblage of illustrative papers is brought together. The debt Austin owes to the tradition to which G. E. Moore and Wittgenstein contributed is quite clear, and the divergences from them are equally clear. In reviewing the contents of the ten articles in this volume I shall try to single out what is unique about his contribution, in particular what features of his procedure, falling as it does under the general classification ‘linguistic analysis’, were so distinctive as to win for it the attention accorded to a new departure.

Soviet philosophy has no great reputation in the Western philosophical world. Physicists, mathematicians, geographers and geomorphologists, medical scientists and men working in certain branches of history and linguistics have found it profitable to follow the researches of their Soviet counterparts; philosophers have not. Academician Mitin, it is true, told the Soviet Academy of Sciences early in 1943 that ’philosophy has been raised to an unparalleled level in the Soviet Union, making the U.S.S.R. a country of high philosophical culture. Many problems which are being argued by outstanding philosophers abroad have been solved here on the basis of dialectical materialism.”1 To most non-Communists, Mitin's claim

The Golden Rule has received remarkably little philosophical discussion. No book has ever been written on it, and articles devoted to it have been exceedingly few, and usually not very searching. It is usually mentioned, where it is mentioned at all, only in passing, and most of these passing remarks have either been false, trite, or misleading, though some of them, as we shall see, have certainly been interesting enough. Considering its obvious importance and its almost universal acceptance, this dearth of philosophical discussion is unfortunate, and also somewhat surprising. One of the things I hope to show about it, though only incidentally, is that there are problems connected with it of the utmost subtlety, worthy of the attention of even the most minute philosophers

Since the war there has been a revival of interest in the idea of justice and its relation to law. The main contributions have come from the side of jurisprudence among which may be mentioned Sir Carleton Kemp Allen, Aspects of Justice (1958); Potter, The Quest of Justice (1951); Friedmann, Legal Theory (1944); Stone, Province and Function of Law (1947); Paton, Textbook of Jurisprudence (1946); Goodhart, English Law and the Moral Law (1953); H. L. Hart, The Concept of Law (1962); E. Dowrick, Justice According to English Common Lawyers (1961); there have also appeared English translations of important continental contributions, such as the translation by Campbell of Del Vecchio's Justice (1935); by C. D. Broad of Axel Hägerströms's Inquiries into the Nature of Law and Morals (1953) and the work by Alf Ross On Law and Justice (1958).

The late John Austin's William James Lectures1 might well have borne the subtitle ‘In Pursuit of a Vanishing Distinction’. Although the chase is remorseless, glimpses of the quarry become increasingly equivocal and the hunter is left empty-handed at last. It is hard to know what has gone awry. Has the wrong game been pursued—and in the wrong direction?

People unacquainted with moral philosophy suppose that its business is to tell us the difference between right and wrong. Many moral philosophers, unfortunately, seem to agree with them, to the extent, at any rate, of taking it for granted that there is some one divison of actions into two classes, which division is of some especial or even unique significance. Actions, they have supposed, are either right or wrong. If they are right, then they must and ought to be done, and to do them is our duty. If they are wrong, then they must not and ought not to be done, and it is our duty not to do them. If we do what is right, and do this because it is right, and not just because it suits us, then we have performed a morally good action, and we deserve praise or commendation. If we have done something which is wrong, then we have performed a morally bad action, and deserveblame, and possibly punishment. Finally, a man manifests his moral goodness by performing, from a sense of duty, those actions which belong to the first class, and omitting those which belong to the second class; since there are no other ways in which actions may be classified morally, he has ample oppo tunity for exercising his talents, and the morally good man, or the conscientious man, or the dutiful man, becomes the archetype of what a man ought to be.

The problem of ‘individuals’ is an age-old philosophical concern, but from time to time in the history of thought it is a problem which becomes acute. In our day the far-reaching advances in science—in physics and chemistry, in biology and bio-chemistry, in neurology and psychology—have made the philosophical attention to the problem of ‘individuals’ a matter of urgency. Yet, with some notableexceptions, philosophers have so far been displaying singularly little interest in the problem.

In recent years, political scientists have talked a great deal about the proper definition of their subject, and of how the ‘field’ of the political scientist is best distinguished from that of other social scientists. One proposal that is frequently made is that political science might quite properly be defined as the study of power, its forms, its sources, its distribution, its modes of exercise, its effects. The general justification for this proposal is, of course, that political activity itself appears to be connected very intimately with power: it is often said that political activity is a struggle for power; that constitutions and other political institutions are methods of defining and regularising the distribution and the exercise of power, and so on. Since there seems to be some sense in which one can say that, within the wider area of social life, the political field is that which has some special connection with power, it may seem plausible then to suggest that the study of politics focusses upon the study of power.

The late Professor J. L. Austin was a man of the highest character and considerable intellectual ability. Those who heard him lecture testify that he made a strong and deep impression. He seemed to be completely master of his subject, his mind moved with great rapidity and he manifested a rare integrity of spirit. His death in early middle age is not only mourned by his colleagues; it is one of those events that make a deep gash, causing people to wonder why things are sometimes arranged so perversely in this world. He had so much to give.

Throughout the history of philosophy there has been a sustained interest in the concepts of knowledge, truth and meaning; interest in the concepts of error, falsity and nonsense, on the other hand, has been intermittent and spasmodic. Error, for example, has suffered at the expense of knowledge to such an extent that sometimes its very existence has been denied, or it has been explained away as being merely the absence of or privation of knowledge; many theories of truth are so constructed that no place can be found for falsity, and theories about what constitutes making sense pay, on the whole, little heed to what constitutes nonsense. In this paper I hope to do something to redress the balance so far as error is concerned. My remarks are prompted by the hope that, just as we may best understand health through the study of disease, so a consideration of error or failure may throw light on knowledge or success. It is clearly not very informative to say of error, falsity and nonsense that they are merely the absence of knowledge, truth and sense; indeed it is just as laconic as a proposed medical definition of disease as the absence of health.

It would be, at this hour of the day, supererogatory to argue the pre-eminence of Locke's influence on eighteenth-century thought. But though this claim has been made often enough,1 and has often enough been shown to be true, it has not been shown for aesthetics. I believe it to be true of aesthetics as well, but that the fact has gone unremarked, because the line of influence here is not so overt as in the case of, say, political theory or epistemology. It is, rather, oblique and devious; that the influence is there at all is, even, paradoxical.

In Recent years noncognitivist ethical theories have been supported by an argument which has come to be widely accepted among moral philosophers.1 According to this argument, an ethical term like ‘good’ has both a commending function and a describing function, but between these functions there is the important difference that the commending function alone is invariant while the describing function varies greatly. For many and different things may be called good—hammers, sunsets, paintings, missionaries, cannibals—but despite these differences in the descriptive criteria for applying the word to objects, ‘good’ retains a common meaning in all these uses, for in each case the word is being used to commend. The conclusion drawn, then, is that because of its being the sole invariant or common feature of every use of ‘good’, the commendatory function rather than the varying descriptive function must be the primary meaning of ‘good’. I shall refer to this as the commendatory invariance argument

In an essay on ‘The Notion of Cause’ reprinted in Mysticism and Logic (and which constituted the presidential address to the Aristotelian Society in the year 1912) Russell argued ‘that the word ‘cause” is so inextricably bound up with misleading associations as to make its complete extrusion from the philosophical vocabulary desirable’.1 His argument here to the effect that ‘cause’ is not a central concept in science, as philosophers have thought it, is reminiscent of Norman Campbell's statement in Physics: The Elements (1920) and in What is Science? (1921).

This book was reconstructed by G. J. Warnock from notes Professor J. L. Austin prepared for a course of lectures he first gave in Oxford in Trinity Term, 1947, under the title ‘Problems of Philosophy’. The title was changed to ‘Sense and Sensibilia’ the following year. Mr Warnock deserves to be commended for a piece of work which must have been as difficult as its result is excellent. It is a considerable feat of sympathetic identification to have achieved the kind of continuity and order of thought as well as the stylistic continuity found in the book from the sketchy lecture notes a practised lecturer like Austin would need. Mr Warnock assures the reader in his Foreword that ‘…in all points of substance (and in many points of phraseology) his argument was the argument which this book contains’, and there can be no doubt whatever that Austin's thoughts have been recorded meticulously and with admirable clarity.

Mill holds a metaphysical theory about the nature of things which is of the sensationalist or phenomenalist variety, and which he derives admittedly from the idealism of Berkeley. This metaphysical theory is introduced into a discussion in which he is attempting something different, namely, to offer a rival psychological account to Hamilton's intuitionist one of how it is that men possess that familiar but complex conception, Nature or the external world. It will be convenient to consider his psychological theory first.

Professor Hayek'S book is a massive contribution to the persistent question of the limits of state action. It runs counter to prevailing notions about the role of government in economic and social matters to such an extent that a common reaction to its publication has been to simply shrug it off as eccentric or antediluvian. But the rarity of any fundamental discussion of our political ideals and the assumptions of our social policy ought of itself to ensure a wide welcome for a work that constitutes a formidable challenge to accepted standards in this realm. Unfortunately, opinions about its value are likely to continue along established lines.

‘After it, the philosophy of perception cannot be discussed in ways it usually was discussed before.’ This is said about Sense and Sensibilia by Mr Bernard Williams in an article, ‘J. L. Austin's philosophy’, published in the Oxford Magazine of 6 December 1962. It is not quite clear what Mr Williams means by the remark. It might be understood as an endorsement of Austin's insistence that philosophers have lapsed into crudity and error through their neglect of distinctions marked by the rich variety of linguistic expressions in ordinary use. But Mr Williams himself in his article makes some effective criticisms of Austin's opinion that ordinary language is a reservoir of philosophically significant distinctions, and points out also that Austin's own practice in these lectures did not exhibit any close connection between his survey of the variety of the uses of such words as ‘look’, ‘seem’, ‘appear’, and his criticism of theories of perception.

In a paper entitled ‘Saints and Heroes’1 Professor J. O. Urmson has criticised ‘the trichotomy of duties, indifferent actions, and wrongdoing’ (p. 215), commonly found in moral philosophy, on the ground that it fails to cover an important class of actions, of which saintly and heroic actions are ‘conspicuous” but by no means the only examples. I am inclined to think that this trichotomy is defensible, and that at least it deserves a much longer run for its money than Urmson gives it. The form in which he presents it, however, makes it more implausible than it need be and this is perhaps the main reason why he finds it so indefensible.

It is generally agreed that at least those who suffer from severe mental subnormality, like idiots, are not responsible for the antisocial actions that they may commit. Even Lady Wootton agrees that in the case of idiots and imbeciles ‘the defect is so great that no dispute is likely to arise, either as to the reality of the handicap or as to its effect in impairing capacity to conform to expected standards’.1 This passage, incidentally, contradicts some of her other views, e.g. the view that we can never make judgments about people's capacity.