I shall discuss what I have chosen to call the phenomenon of ‘intellectual robotry’. Intellectual robotry is a disease which is manifested in various different ways by some intellectuals, though not by all. (I suffer from it myself so this is one of the reasons why I have written this paper. Writing is, one hopes, sometimes a form of therapy.) What do I mean by ‘intellectual robotry’? I mean, among other things, a habitual indulgence in clever words for their own sake (what I shall later refer to as a pathology of words), a fixation about the potency of arguments and a sort of involved commitment to certain fashionable ideologies. One of the main characteristics of intellectual robotry is that the practitioner of it invariably loses sight of the person he is talking to, or allegedly talking to. He, the intellectual, is intent on pursuing his own momentum of metaphysical or ideological or political or whatever talk because he believes he has something rather important to say, but as he talks—you can almost see it in his or her eyes—he is no longer talking to a person.

How, in pursuit of ontological neutrality, should one talk about values? I propose to say: there are values. Those three words do nothing to define within what kind of conception of a world values are at home.1 I take it that the ‘realist’ must have more to say about values and their world (just as a mathematical Platonist does not simply say ‘There are numbers’). I recognize that an ‘anti-realist’ may prefer to talk of value-terms (perhaps with a blind eye to values not so labelled); I ask him to wait and see whether taking the linguistic turn is the only way to put values in their place (also whether values deserve to be singled out for relegation).

[Colour is king in our innate quality space, but undistinguished in cosmic circles.] Most philosophers would agree with at least the second half of Quine's dictum. It is indeed on the general view wrong to believe that, as qualities, colours are extra-mentally actual in even the humblest role. Mind-independent material things have on the general view powers to cause sensations of red or blue, but if, in [sensations of red or blue], [red] and [blue] name qualities, we are not to believe that these qualities are possessed by things causing the sensations. My first thesis, defended in section 2, is that partly because we do count colours as eminent among qualities, we would on reflection want it to be true that some things have such qualities when they are not perceived. It would therefore be sad subsequently to discover the wrongness of believing that this is how things are. My second thesis, defended in sections 3 and 4, is that there is in fact no danger as yet of this kind of disappointment. So far, the philosophers have not shown that, if we believe that colour qualities exist as contents of experience, we ought not also to believe that things have these qualities when they are not perceived. One might of course deny that colour qualities exist even as contents of experience, so that the desire for them to be mind-independently exemplified evaporates on the realization that it lacks an intelligible object. Our pre-scientific concept of red, according to Armstrong, is, apart from being the concept of something falling under a determinable, [all blank or gap].

Hintikka has said this about questions: ‘The questioner asks his listener to supply a certain item of information, to make him know a certain thing’.1 Now this certainly seems to capture our intuitions about one kind of enquiry, a kind which I call market-place enquiry. That is, it seems to capture the speaker's aims when, in typical situations, he addresses a question to another person. But there are many uses of interrogative sentences, even some questioning uses, which Hintikka's account will not fit. It will not fit so-called rhetorical questions nor, in a perfectly straight way, the questions with which quizzing schoolteachers seek to discover what their pupils know and do not know. Above all, it will not fit those questions with which philosophers and others are wont to preface their solitary enquiries. I call these Cartesian enquiries after their most devoted practitioner; but it should be noted that Cartesian enquiries, as I understand them, may be quite mundane. I shall be engaged in one if, alone in my house, I wonder whether the post has come and go and look. Because there is no one to ask I have to find out on my own. Contrariwise, market-place enquiries, although they are often mundane may be momentous.

Utilitarians believe that personal decisions and public policies should be made so as to maximize the public good, or, as Jeremy Bentham put it, to produce the greatest good of the greatest number. Bentham identified the public good with the maximization of happiness, and believed that many traditional practices were inimical to the production of happiness. So in the name of maximizing the public good, Bentham advocated, for example, extending the franchise, reforming the criminal code and re-designing prisons. People's prejudices and traditional habits of thought must yield in the face of utilitarian-inspired reforms.

The Humean legacy in moral philosophy has given rise to the following familiar divergence of views:

1. Moral questions are questions of feeling. Rational discussion can occur given the acceptance of unreasoned commitments to values or principles, but it must not be thought that these values or principles can themselves be justified rationally. Moral disagreements may be resolved through persuasion, but it is appropriate for rational persons to be permanently irreconcilable in their moral views.

2. Moral questions are questions of fact and/or logic. They are therefore in principle resolvable through rational discussion, like any other questions of fact and/or logic. The idea that rational persons should be permanently unable to agree on moral questions, despite indefinitely lengthy discussion and enquiry, is unintelligible.

The whole numbers and the chemical elements vary discretely: 5 is the next number to 4 and there is no number between them; silver is next to gold in the atomic table and there is no element between them. On the other hand, colours vary continuously: between red and yellow there is another colour, orange, between orange and yellow there is another colour, and so on. Between any two colours, no matter how close, there is an intermediate colour–indeed, an infinite number of intermediate colours. A surface may change gradually over time from red to yellow, assuming all the colours in between. Or again, a surface may be red at one edge and yellow at the other, changing gradually (over space) and assuming all the colours in between.

In discussing Disembodied Persons we need to confront two problems:

A. Under what conditions would we consider that a person was present in the absence of the normal bodily cues?

B. Could such circumstances arise?

The first question may be regarded as epistemic and the second as metaphysical.

When we inquire into the nature of works of art we can see at a glance that there is a good deal of evidence against aesthetic idealism, the view that artworks are, in the final analysis, imaginary objects in the minds of their creators. We believe, for instance, that the National Gallery not only contingently but in some sense necessarily weighs more than merely the sum of the empty building, the people in it, and the assorted fixtures. This sum must also include the weight of canvases, the oils on them, carved stone and marble, and so on, all of which add up to substantially more than nothing, which is at least the approximate weight of imaginary things. We know that it takes considerably more than a verbal utterance or acoustical blast to transport an artwork, and we also know that a visit to the gallery is not going to amount to an afternoon spent with wax figures of unicorns, flying horses, present and bald kings of France or, for that matter, talking teapots. In short, intuition protests against the idealist theory that if works of art are imaginary objects, they cannot be the things we go to see in the gallery; and if they are imaginary objects then, like a waxen Peter Pan, they are surely not art. Mellon and Meinong simply have different kinds of collections.

The starting in 1960 of the British Journal of Aesthetics was a courageous act. In those days people liked to call aesthetics a ‘dreary’ intellectual region, and high-flying philosophers seldom descended into it. But when in the decade that followed new philosophy departments were created and old ones expanded, aesthetics took up some of the spare capacity. Courses were laid on, and books and articles appeared which could match the quality of work in better established branches of philosophy like ethics and epistemology. The question now is whether the lean years which have begun will eat up the fat years of the sixties and seventies. As courses are cut and vacancies left unfilled, aesthetics is likely to be the first branch of philosophy to suffer.