{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/wikisource_The_Analysis_of_Mind_Lecture_X/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/wikisource_The_Analysis_of_Mind_Lecture_X","id":"wikisource_The_Analysis_of_Mind_Lecture_X","license":"Public Domain / CC-BY-SA (see source)","rights_basis":"wikisource_site_inclusion_policy","source":"wikisource","source_url":"https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Analysis_of_Mind/Lecture_X","summary":null,"tags":["Headers_applying_DefaultSort_key","Subpages"],"text":"The problem with which we shall be concerned in this lecture is\nthe problem of determining what is the relation called \"meaning.\"\nThe word \"Napoleon,\" we say, \"means\" a certain person. In saying\nthis, we are asserting a relation between the word \"Napoleon\" and\nthe person so designated. It is this relation that we must now\ninvestigate.\n\nLet us first consider what sort of object a word is when\nconsidered simply as a physical thing, apart from its meaning. To\nbegin with, there are many instances of a word, namely all the\ndifferent occasions when it is employed. Thus a word is not\nsomething unique and particular, but a set of occurrences. If we\nconfine ourselves to spoken words, a word has two aspects,\naccording as we regard it from the point of view of the speaker\nor from that of the hearer. From the point of view of the\nspeaker, a single instance of the use of a word consists of a\ncertain set of movements in the throat and mouth, combined with\nbreath. From the point of view of the hearer, a single instance\nof the use of a word consists of a certain series of sounds, each\nbeing approximately represented by a single letter in writing,\nthough in practice a letter may represent several sounds, or\nseveral letters may represent one sound. The connection between\nthe spoken word and the word as it reaches the hearer is causal.\nLet us confine ourselves to the spoken word, which is the more\nimportant for the analysis of what is called \"thought.\" Then we\nmay say that a single instance of the spoken word consists of a\nseries of movements, and the word consists of a whole set of such\nseries, each member of the set being very similar to each other\nmember. That is to say, any two instances of the word \"Napoleon\"\nare very similar, and each instance consists of a series of\nmovements in the mouth.\n\nA single word, accordingly, is by no means simple it is a class\nof similar series of movements (confining ourselves still to the\nspoken word). The degree of similarity required cannot be\nprecisely defined: a man may pronounce the word \"Napoleon\" so\nbadly that it can hardly be determined whether he has really\npronounced it or not. The instances of a word shade off into\nother movements by imperceptible degrees. And exactly analogous\nobservations apply to words heard or written or read. But in what\nhas been said so far we have not even broached the question of\nthe DEFINITION of a word, since \"meaning\" is clearly what\ndistinguishes a word from other sets of similar movements, and\n\"meaning\" remains to be defined.\n\nIt is natural to think of the meaning of a word as something\nconventional. This, however, is only true with great limitations.\nA new word can be added to an existing language by a mere\nconvention, as is done, for instance, with new scientific terms.\nBut the basis of a language is not conventional, either from the\npoint of view of the individual or from that of the community. A\nchild learning to speak is learning habits and associations which\nare just as much determined by the environment as the habit of\nexpecting dogs to bark and cocks to crow. The community that\nspeaks a language has learnt it, and modified it by processes\nalmost all of which are not deliberate, but the results of causes\noperating according to more or less ascertainable laws. If we\ntrace any Indo-European language back far enough, we arrive\nhypothetically (at any rate according to some authorities) at the\nstage when language consisted only of the roots out of which\nsubsequent words have grown. How these roots acquired their\nmeanings is not known, but a conventional origin is clearly just\nas mythical as the social contract by which Hobbes and Rousseau\nsupposed civil government to have been established. We can hardly\nsuppose a parliament of hitherto speechless elders meeting\ntogether and agreeing to call a cow a cow and a wolf a wolf. The\nassociation of words with their meanings must have grown up by\nsome natural process, though at present the nature of the process\nis unknown.\n\nSpoken and written words are, of course, not the only way of\nconveying meaning. A large part of one of Wundt's two vast\nvolumes on language in his \"Volkerpsychologie\" is concerned with\ngesture-language. Ants appear to be able to communicate a certain\namount of information by means of their antennae. Probably\nwriting itself, which we now regard as merely a way of\nrepresenting speech, was originally an independent language, as\nit has remained to this day in China. Writing seems to have\nconsisted originally of pictures, which gradually became\nconventionalized, coming in time to represent syllables, and\nfinally letters on the telephone principle of \"T for Tommy.\" But\nit would seem that writing nowhere began as an attempt to\nrepresent speech it began as a direct pictorial representation of\nwhat was to be expressed. The essence of language lies, not in\nthe use of this or that special means of communication, but in\nthe employment of fixed associations (however these may have\noriginated) in order that something now sensible--a spoken word,\na picture, a gesture, or what not--may call up the \"idea\" of\nsomething else. Whenever this is done, what is now sensible may\nbe called a \"sign\" or \"symbol,\" and that of which it is intended\nto call up the \"idea\" may be called its \"meaning.\" This is a\nrough outline of what constitutes \"meaning.\" But we must fill in\nthe outline in various ways. And, since we are concerned with\nwhat is called \"thought,\" we must pay more attention than we\notherwise should do to the private as opposed to the social use\nof language. Language profoundly affects our thoughts, and it is\nthis aspect of language that is of most importance to us in our\npresent inquiry. We are almost more concerned with the internal\nspeech that is never uttered than we are with the things said out\nloud to other people.\n\nWhen we ask what constitutes meaning, we are not asking what is\nthe meaning of this or that particular word. The word \"Napoleon\"\nmeans a certain individual; but we are asking, not who is the\nindividual meant, but what is the relation of the word to the\nindividual which makes the one mean the other. But just as it is\nuseful to realize the nature of a word as part of the physical\nworld, so it is useful to realize the sort of thing that a word\nmay mean. When we are clear both as to what a word is in its\nphysical aspect, and as to what sort of thing it can mean, we are\nin a better position to discover the relation of the two which is\nmeaning.\n\nThe things that words mean differ more than words do. There are\ndifferent sorts of words, distinguished by the grammarians; and\nthere are logical distinctions, which are connected to some\nextent, though not so closely as was formerly supposed, with the\ngrammatical distinctions of parts of speech. It is easy, however,\nto be misled by grammar, particularly if all the languages we\nknow belong to one family. In some languages, according to some\nauthorities, the distinction of parts of speech does not exist;\nin many languages it is widely different from that to which we\nare accustomed in the Indo-European languages. These facts have\nto be borne in mind if we are to avoid giving metaphysical\nimportance to mere accidents of our own speech.\n\nIn considering what words mean, it is natural to start with\nproper names, and we will again take \"Napoleon\" as our instance.\nWe commonly imagine, when we use a proper name, that we mean one\ndefinite entity, the particular individual who was called\n\"Napoleon.\" But what we know as a person is not simple. There MAY\nbe a single simple ego which was Napoleon, and remained strictly\nidentical from his birth to his death. There is no way of proving\nthat this cannot be the case, but there is also not the slightest\nreason to suppose that it is the case. Napoleon as he was\nempirically known consisted of a series of gradually changing\nappearances: first a squalling baby, then a boy, then a slim and\nbeautiful youth, then a fat and slothful person very\nmagnificently dressed This series of appearances, and various\noccurrences having certain kinds of causal connections with them,\nconstitute Napoleon as empirically known, and therefore are\nNapoleon in so far as he forms part of the experienced world.\nNapoleon is a complicated series of occurrences, bound together\nby causal laws, not, like instances of a word, by similarities.\nFor although a person changes gradually, and presents similar\nappearances on two nearly contemporaneous occasions, it is not\nthese similarities that constitute the person, as appears from\nthe \"Comedy of Errors\" for example.\n\nThus in the case of a proper name, while the word is a set of\nsimilar series of movements, what it means is a series of\noccurrences bound together by causal laws of that special kind\nthat makes the occurrences taken together constitute what we call\none person, or one animal or thing, in case the name applies to\nan animal or thing instead of to a person. Neither the word nor\nwhat it names is one of the ultimate indivisible constituents of\nthe world. In language there is no direct way of designating one\nof the ultimate brief existents that go to make up the\ncollections we call things or persons. If we want to speak of\nsuch existentswhich hardly happens except in philosophy-we have\nto do it by means of some elaborate phrase, such as \"the visual\nsensation which occupied the centre of my field of vision at noon\non January 1, 1919.\" Such ultimate simples I call \"particulars.\"\nParticulars MIGHT have proper names, and no doubt would have if\nlanguage had been invented by scientifically trained observers\nfor purposes of philosophy and logic. But as language was\ninvented for practical ends, particulars have remained one and\nall without a name.\n\nWe are not, in practice, much concerned with the actual\nparticulars that come into our experience in sensation; we are\nconcerned rather with whole systems to which the particulars\nbelong and of which they are signs. What we see makes us say\n\"Hullo, there's Jones,\" and the fact that what we see is a sign\nof Jones (which is the case because it is one of the particulars\nthat make up Jones) is more interesting to us than the actual\nparticular itself. Hence we give the name \"Jones\" to the whole\nset of particulars, but do not trouble to give separate names to\nthe separate particulars that make up the set.\n\nPassing on from proper names, we come next to general names, such\nas \"man,\" \"cat,\" \"triangle.\" A word such as \"man\" means a whole\nclass of such collections of particulars as have proper names.\nThe several members of the class are assembled together in virtue\nof some similarity or common property. All men resemble each\nother in certain important respects; hence we want a word which\nshall be equally applicable to all of them. We only give proper\nnames to the individuals of a species when they differ inter se\nin practically important respects. In other cases we do not do\nthis. A poker, for instance, is just a poker; we do not call one\n\"John\" and another \"Peter.\"\n\nThere is a large class of words, such as \"eating,\" \"walking,\"\n\"speaking,\" which mean a set of similar occurrences. Two\ninstances of walking have the same name because they resemble\neach other, whereas two instances of Jones have the same name\nbecause they are causally connected. In practice, however, it is\ndifficult to make any precise distinction between a word such as\n\"walking\" and a general name such as \"man.\" One instance of\nwalking cannot be concentrated into an instant: it is a process\nin time, in which there is a causal connection between the\nearlier and later parts, as between the earlier and later parts\nof Jones. Thus an instance of walking differs from an instance of\nman solely by the fact that it has a shorter life. There is a\nnotion that an instance of walking, as compared with Jones, is\nunsubstantial, but this seems to be a mistake. We think that\nJones walks, and that there could not be any walking unless there\nwere somebody like Jones to perform the walking. But it is\nequally true that there could be no Jones unless there were\nsomething like walking for him to do. The notion that actions are\nperformed by an agent is liable to the same kind of criticism as\nthe notion that thinking needs a subject or ego, which we\nrejected in Lecture I. To say that it is Jones who is walking is\nmerely to say that the walking in question is part of the whole\nseries of occurrences which is Jones. There is no LOGICAL\nimpossibility in walking occurring as an isolated phenomenon, not\nforming part of any such series as we call a \"person.\"\n\nWe may therefore class with \"eating,\" \"walking,\" \"speaking\" words\nsuch as \"rain,\" \"sunrise,\" \"lightning,\" which do not denote what\nwould commonly be called actions. These words illustrate,\nincidentally, how little we can trust to the grammatical\ndistinction of parts of speech, since the substantive \"rain\" and\nthe verb \"to rain\" denote precisely the same class of\nmeteorological occurrences. The distinction between the class of\nobjects denoted by such a word and the class of objects denoted\nby a general name such as \"man,\" \"vegetable,\" or \"planet,\" is\nthat the sort of object which is an instance of (say) \"lightning\"\nis much simpler than (say) an individual man. (I am speaking of\nlightning as a sensible phenomenon, not as it is described in\nphysics.) The distinction is one of degree, not of kind. But\nthere is, from the point of view of ordinary thought, a great\ndifference between a process which, like a flash of lightning,\ncan be wholly comprised within one specious present and a process\nwhich, like the life of a man, has to be pieced together by\nobservation and memory and the apprehension of causal\nconnections. We may say broadly, therefore, that a word of the\nkind we have been discussing denotes a set of similar\noccurrences, each (as a rule) much more brief and less complex\nthan a person or thing. Words themselves, as we have seen, are\nsets of similar occurrences of this kind. Thus there is more\nlogical affinity between a word and what it means in the case of\nwords of our present sort than in any other case.\n\nThere is no very great difference between such words as we have\njust been considering and words denoting qualities, such as\n\"white\" or \"round.\" The chief difference is that words of this\nlatter sort do not denote processes, however brief, but static\nfeatures of the world. Snow falls, and is white; the falling is a\nprocess, the whiteness is not. Whether there is a universal,\ncalled \"whiteness,\" or whether white things are to be defined as\nthose having a certain kind of similarity to a standard thing,\nsay freshly fallen snow, is a question which need not concern us,\nand which I believe to be strictly insoluble. For our purposes,\nwe may take the word \"white\" as denoting a certain set of similar\nparticulars or collections of particulars, the similarity being\nin respect of a static quality, not of a process.\n\nFrom the logical point of view, a very important class of words\nare those that express relations, such as \"in,\" \"above,\"\n\"before,\" \"greater,\" and so on. The meaning of one of these words\ndiffers very fundamentally from the meaning of one of any of our\nprevious classes, being more abstract and logically simpler than\nany of them. If our business were logic, we should have to spend\nmuch time on these words. But as it is psychology that concerns\nus, we will merely note their special character and pass on,\nsince the logical classification of words is not our main\nbusiness.\n\nWe will consider next the question what is implied by saying that\na person \"understands\" a word, in the sense in which one\nunderstands a word in one's own language, but not in a language\nof which one is ignorant. We may say that a person understands a\nword when (a) suitable circumstances make him use it, (b) the\nhearing of it causes suitable behaviour in him. We may call these\ntwo active and passive understanding respectively. Dogs often\nhave passive understanding of some words, but not active\nunderstanding, since they cannot use words.\n\nIt is not necessary, in order that a man should \"understand\" a\nword, that he should \"know what it means,\" in the sense of being\nable to say \"this word means so-and-so.\" Understanding words does\nnot consist in knowing their dictionary definitions, or in being\nable to specify the objects to which they are appropriate. Such\nunderstanding as this may belong to lexicographers and students,\nbut not to ordinary mortals in ordinary life. Understanding\nlanguage is more like understanding cricket: it is a matter of\nhabits, acquired in oneself and rightly presumed in others. To\nsay that a word has a meaning is not to say that those who use\nthe word correctly have ever thought out what the meaning is: the\nuse of the word comes first, and the meaning is to be distilled\nout of it by observation and analysis. Moreover, the meaning of a\nword is not absolutely definite: there is always a greater or\nless degree of vagueness. The meaning is an area, like a target:\nit may have a bull's eye, but the outlying parts of the target\nare still more or less within the meaning, in a gradually\ndiminishing degree as we travel further from the bull's eye. As\nlanguage grows more precise, there is less and less of the target\noutside the bull's eye, and the bull's eye itself grows smaller\nand smaller; but the bull's eye never shrinks to a point, and\nthere is always a doubtful region, however small, surrounding\nit.\n\nA word is used \"correctly\" when the average hearer will be\naffected by it in the way intended. This is a psychological, not\na literary, definition of \"correctness.\" The literary definition\nwould substitute, for the average hearer, a person of high\neducation living a long time ago; the purpose of this definition\nis to make it difficult to speak or write correctly.\n\nThe relation of a word to its meaning is of the nature of a\ncausal law governing our use of the word and our actions when we\nhear it used. There is no more reason why a person who uses a\nword correctly should be able to tell what it means than there is\nwhy a planet which is moving correctly should know Kepler's laws.\n\nTo illustrate what is meant by \"understanding\" words and\nsentences, let us take instances of various situations.\n\nSuppose you are walking in London with an absent-minded friend,\nand while crossing a street you say, \"Look out, there's a motor\ncoming.\" He will glance round and jump aside without the need of\nany \"mental\" intermediary. There need be no \"ideas,\" but only a\nstiffening of the muscles, followed quickly by action. He\n\"understands\" the words, because he does the right thing. Such\n\"understanding\" may be taken to belong to the nerves and brain,\nbeing habits which they have acquired while the language was\nbeing learnt. Thus understanding in this sense may be reduced to\nmere physiological causal laws.\n\nIf you say the same thing to a Frenchman with a slight knowledge\nof English he will go through some inner speech which may be\nrepresented by \"Que dit-il? Ah, oui, une automobile!\" After this,\nthe rest follows as with the Englishman. Watson would contend\nthat the inner speech must be incipiently pronounced; we should\nargue that it MIGHT be merely imaged. But this point is not\nimportant in the present connection.\n\nIf you say the same thing to a child who does not yet know the\nword \"motor,\" but does know the other words you are using, you\nproduce a feeling of anxiety and doubt you will have to point and\nsay, \"There, that's a motor.\" After that the child will roughly\nunderstand the word \"motor,\" though he may include trains and\nsteam-rollers If this is the first time the child has heard the\nword \"motor,\" he may for a long time continue to recall this\nscene when he hears the word.\n\nSo far we have found four ways of understanding words:\n\n(1) On suitable occasions you use the word properly.\n\n(2) When you hear it you act appropriately.\n\n(3) You associate the word with another word (say in a different\nlanguage) which has the appropriate effect on behaviour.\n\n(4) When the word is being first learnt, you may associate it\nwith an object, which is what it \"means,\" or a representative of\nvarious objects that it \"means.\"\n\nIn the fourth case, the word acquires, through association, some\nof the same causal efficacy as the object. The word \"motor\" can\nmake you leap aside, just as the motor can, but it cannot break\nyour bones. The effects which a word can share with its object\nare those which proceed according to laws other than the general\nlaws of physics, i.e. those which, according to our terminology,\ninvolve vital movements as opposed to merely mechanical\nmovements. The effects of a word that we understand are always\nmnemic phenomena in the sense explained in Lecture IV, in so far\nas they are identical with, or similar to, the effects which the\nobject itself might have.\n\nSo far, all the uses of words that we have considered can be\naccounted for on the lines of behaviourism.\n\nBut so far we have only considered what may be called the\n\"demonstrative\" use of language, to point out some feature in the\npresent environment. This is only one of the ways in which\nlanguage may be used. There are also its narrative and\nimaginative uses, as in history and novels. Let us take as an\ninstance the telling of some remembered event.\n\nWe spoke a moment ago of a child who hears the word \"motor\" for\nthe first time when crossing a street along which a motor-car is\napproaching. On a later occasion, we will suppose, the child\nremembers the incident and relates it to someone else. In this\ncase, both the active and passive understanding of words is\ndifferent from what it is when words are used demonstratively.\nThe child is not seeing a motor, but only remembering one; the\nhearer does not look round in expectation of seeing a motor\ncoming, but \"understands\" that a motor came at some earlier time.\nThe whole of this occurrence is much more difficult to account\nfor on behaviourist lines. It is clear that, in so far as the\nchild is genuinely remembering, he has a picture of the past\noccurrence, and his words are chosen so as to describe the\npicture; and in so far as the hearer is genuinely apprehending\nwhat is said, the hearer is acquiring a picture more or less like\nthat of the child. It is true that this process may be telescoped\nthrough the operation of the word-habit. The child may not\ngenuinely remember the incident, but only have the habit of the\nappropriate words, as in the case of a poem which we know by\nheart, though we cannot remember learning it. And the hearer also\nmay only pay attention to the words, and not call up any\ncorresponding picture. But it is, nevertheless, the possibility\nof a memory-image in the child and an imagination-image in the\nhearer that makes the essence of the narrative \"meaning\" of the\nwords. In so far as this is absent, the words are mere counters,\ncapable of meaning, but not at the moment possessing it.\n\nYet this might perhaps be regarded as something of an\noverstatement. The words alone, without the use of images, may\ncause appropriate emotions and appropriate behaviour. The words\nhave been used in an environment which produced certain\nemotions;. by a telescoped process, the words alone are now\ncapable of producing similar emotions. On these lines it might be\nsought to show that images are unnecessary. I do not believe,\nhowever, that we could account on these lines for the entirely\ndifferent response produced by a narrative and by a description\nof present facts. Images, as contrasted with sensations, are the\nresponse expected during a narrative; it is understood that\npresent action is not called for. Thus it seems that we must\nmaintain our distinction words used demonstratively describe and\nare intended to lead to sensations, while the same words used in\nnarrative describe and are only intended to lead to images.\n\nWe have thus, in addition to our four previous ways in which\nwords can mean, two new ways, namely the way of memory and the\nway of imagination. That is to say:\n\n(5) Words may be used to describe or recall a memory-image: to\ndescribe it when it already exists, or to recall it when the\nwords exist as a habit and are known to be descriptive of some\npast experience.\n\n(6) Words may be used to describe or create an imagination-image:\nto describe it, for example, in the case of a poet or novelist,\nor to create it in the ordinary case for giving information-though, in the latter case, it is intended that the imagination-image, when created, shall be accompanied by belief\nthat something of the sort occurred.\n\nThese two ways of using words, including their occurrence in\ninner speech, may be spoken of together as the use of words in\n\"thinking.\" If we are right, the use of words in thinking\ndepends, at least in its origin, upon images, and cannot be fully\ndealt with on behaviourist lines. And this is really the most\nessential function of words, namely that, originally through\ntheir connection with images, they bring us into touch with what\nis remote in time or space. When they operate without the medium\nof images, this seems to be a telescoped process. Thus the\nproblem of the meaning of words is brought into connection with\nthe problem of the meaning of images.\n\nTo understand the function that words perform in what is called\n\"thinking,\" we must understand both the causes and the effects of\ntheir occurrence. The causes of the occurrence of words require\nsomewhat different treatment according as the object designated\nby the word is sensibly present or absent. When the object is\npresent, it may itself be taken as the cause of the word, through\nassociation. But when it is absent there is more difficulty in\nobtaining a behaviourist theory of the occurrence of the word.\nThe language-habit consists not merely in the use of words\ndemonstratively, but also in their use to express narrative or\ndesire. Professor Watson, in his account of the acquisition of\nthe language-habit, pays very little attention to the use of\nwords in narrative and desire. He says (\"Behavior,\" pp. 329-330):\n\n\"The stimulus (object) to which the child often responds, a box,\ne.g. by movements such as opening and closing and putting objects\ninto it, may serve to illustrate our argument. The nurse,\nobserving that the child reacts with his hands, feet, etc., to\nthe box, begins to say 'box' when the child is handed the box,\n'open box' when the child opens it, 'close box' when he closes\nit, and 'put doll in box ' when that act is executed. This is\nrepeated over and over again. In the process of time it comes\nabout that without any other stimulus than that of the box which\noriginally called out the bodily habits, he begins to say 'box'\nwhen he sees it, 'open box' when he opens it, etc. The visible\nbox now becomes a stimulus capable of releasing either the bodily\nhabits or the word-habit, i.e. development has brought about two\nthings\u00a0: (1) a series of functional connections among arcs which\nrun from visual receptor to muscles of throat, and (2) a series\nof already earlier connected arcs which run from the same\nreceptor to the bodily muscles.... The object meets the child's\nvision. He runs to it and tries to reach it and says 'box.'...\nFinally the word is uttered without the movement of going towards\nthe box being executed.... Habits are formed of going to the box\nwhen the arms are full of toys. The child has been taught to\ndeposit them there. When his arms are laden with toys and no box\nis there, the word-habit arises and he calls 'box'; it is handed\nto him, and he opens it and deposits the toys therein. This\nroughly marks what we would call the genesis of a true\nlanguage-habit.\"(pp. 329-330).\n\nWe need not linger over what is said in the above passage as to\nthe use of the word \"box\" in the presence of the box. But as to\nits use in the absence of the box, there is only one brief\nsentence, namely: \"When his arms are laden with toys and no box\nis there, the word-habit arises and he calls 'box.' \" This is\ninadequate as it stands, since the habit has been to use the word\nwhen the box is present, and we have to explain its extension to\ncases in which the box is absent.\n\nHaving admitted images, we may say that the word \"box,\" in the\nabsence of the box, is caused by an image of the box. This may or\nmay not be true--in fact, it is true in some cases but not in\nothers. Even, however, if it were true in all cases, it would\nonly slightly shift our problem: we should now have to ask what\ncauses an image of the box to arise. We might be inclined to say\nthat desire for the box is the cause. But when this view is\ninvestigated, it is found that it compels us to suppose that the\nbox can be desired without the child's having either an image of\nthe box or the word \"box.\" This will require a theory of desire\nwhich may be, and I think is, in the main true, but which removes\ndesire from among things that actually occur, and makes it merely\na convenient fiction, like force in mechanics. With such a view,\ndesire is no longer a true cause, but merely a short way of\ndescribing certain processes.\n\nIn order to explain the occurrence of either the word or the\nimage in the absence of the box, we have to assume that there is\nsomething, either in the environment or in our own sensations,\nwhich has frequently occurred at about the same time as the word\n\"box.\" One of the laws which distinguish psychology (or\nnerve-physiology?) from physics is the law that, when two things\nhave frequently existed in close temporal contiguity, either\ncomes in time to cause the other. This is the basis both of\nhabit and of association. Thus, in our case, the arms full of\ntoys have frequently been followed quickly by the box, and the\nbox in turn by the word \"box.\" The box itself is subject to\nphysical laws, and does not tend to be caused by the arms full of\ntoys, however often it may in the past have followed them--always\nprovided that, in the case in question, its physical position is\nsuch that voluntary movements cannot lead to it. But the word\n\"box\" and the image of the box are subject to the law of habit;\nhence it is possible for either to be caused by the arms full of\ntoys. And we may lay it down generally that, whenever we use a\nword, either aloud or in inner speech, there is some sensation or\nimage (either of which may be itself a word) which has frequently\noccurred at about the same time as the word, and now, through\nhabit, causes the word. It follows that the law of habit is\nadequate to account for the use of words in the absence of their\nobjects; moreover, it would be adequate even without introducing\nimages. Although, therefore, images seem undeniable, we cannot\nderive an additional argument in their favour from the use of\nwords, which could, theoretically, be explained without\nintroducing images.\n\nWhen we understand a word, there is a reciprocal association\nbetween it and the images of what it \"means.\" Images may cause us\nto use words which mean them, and these words, heard or read, may\nin turn cause the appropriate images. Thus speech is a means of\nproducing in our hearers the images which are in us. Also, by a\ntelescoped process, words come in time to produce directly the\neffects which would have been produced by the images with which\nthey were associated. The general law of telescoped processes is\nthat, if A causes B and B causes C, it will happen in time that A\nwill cause C directly, without the intermediary of B. This is a\ncharacteristic of psychological and neural causation. In virtue\nof this law, the effects of images upon our actions come to be\nproduced by words, even when the words do not call up appropriate\nimages. The more familiar we are with words, the more our\n\"thinking\" goes on in words instead of images. We may, for\nexample, be able to describe a person's appearance correctly\nwithout having at any time had any image of him, provided, when\nwe saw him, we thought of words which fitted him; the words alone\nmay remain with us as a habit, and enable us to speak as if we\ncould recall a visual image of the man. In this and other ways\nthe understanding of a word often comes to be quite free from\nimagery; but in first learning the use of language it would seem\nthat imagery always plays a very important part.\n\nImages as well as words may be said to have \"meaning\"; indeed,\nthe meaning of images seems more primitive than the meaning of\nwords. What we call (say) an image of St. Paul's may be said to\n\"mean\" St. Paul's. But it is not at all easy to say exactly what\nconstitutes the meaning of an image. A memory-image of a\nparticular occurrence, when accompanied by a memory-belief, may\nbe said to mean the occurrence of which it is an image. But most\nactual images do not have this degree of definiteness. If we call\nup an image of a dog, we are very likely to have a vague image,\nwhich is not representative of some one special dog, but of dogs\nin general. When we call up an image of a friend's face, we are\nnot likely to reproduce the expression he had on some one\nparticular occasion, but rather a compromise expression derived\nfrom many occasions. And there is hardly any limit to the\nvagueness of which images are capable. In such cases, the meaning\nof the image, if defined by relation to the prototype, is vague:\nthere is not one definite prototype, but a number, none of which\nis copied exactly.\n\nThere is, however, another way of approaching the meaning of\nimages, namely through their causal efficacy. What is called an\nimage \"of\" some definite object, say St. Paul's, has some of the\neffects which the object would have. This applies especially to\nthe effects that depend upon association. The emotional effects,\nalso, are often similar: images may stimulate desire almost as\nstrongly as do the objects they represent. And conversely desire\nmay cause images: a hungry man will have images of food, and so\non. In all these ways the causal laws concerning images are\nconnected with the causal laws concerning the objects which the\nimages \"mean.\" An image may thus come to fulfil the function of a\ngeneral idea. The vague image of a dog, which we spoke of a\nmoment ago, will have effects which are only connected with dogs\nin general, not the more special effects which would be produced\nby some dogs but not by others. Berkeley and Hume, in their\nattack on general ideas, do not allow for the vagueness of\nimages: they assume that every image has the definiteness that a\nphysical object would have This is not the case, and a vague\nimage may well have a meaning which is general.\n\nIn order to define the \"meaning\" of an image, we have to take\naccount both of its resemblance to one or more prototypes, and of\nits causal efficacy. If there were such a thing as a pure\nimagination-image, without any prototype whatever, it would be\ndestitute of meaning. But according to Hume's principle, the\nsimple elements in an image, at least, are derived from\nprototypes-except possibly in very rare exceptional cases. Often,\nin such instances as our image of a friend's face or of a\nnondescript dog, an image is not derived from one prototype, but\nfrom many; when this happens, the image is vague, and blurs the\nfeatures in which the various prototypes differ. To arrive at the\nmeaning of the image in such a case, we observe that there are\ncertain respects, notably associations, in which the effects of\nimages resemble those of their prototypes. If we find, in a given\ncase, that our vague image, say, of a nondescript dog, has those\nassociative effects which all dogs would have, but not those\nbelonging to any special dog or kind of dog, we may say that our\nimage means \"dog\" in general. If it has all the associations\nappropriate to spaniels but no others, we shall say it means\n\"spaniel\"; while if it has all the associations appropriate to\none particular dog, it will mean that dog, however vague it may\nbe as a picture. The meaning of an image, according to this\nanalysis, is constituted by a combination of likeness and\nassociations. It is not a sharp or definite conception, and in\nmany cases it will be impossible to decide with any certainty\nwhat an image means. I think this lies in the nature of things,\nand not in defective analysis.\n\nWe may give somewhat more precision to the above account of the\nmeaning of images, and extend it to meaning in general. We find\nsometimes that, IN MNEMIC CAUSATION, an image or word, as\nstimulus, has the same effect (or very nearly the same effect) as\nwould belong to some object, say, a certain dog. In that case we\nsay that the image or word means that object. In other cases the\nmnemic effects are not all those of one object, but only those\nshared by objects of a certain kind, e.g. by all dogs. In this\ncase the meaning of the image or word is general: it means the\nwhole kind. Generality and particularity are a matter of degree.\nIf two particulars differ sufficiently little, their mnemic\neffects will be the same; therefore no image or word can mean the\none as opposed to the other; this sets a bound to the\nparticularity of meaning. On the other hand, the mnemic effects\nof a number of sufficiently dissimilar objects will have nothing\ndiscoverable in common; hence a word which aims at complete\ngenerality, such as \"entity\" for example, will have to be devoid\nof mnemic effects, and therefore of meaning. In practice, this is\nnot the case: such words have VERBAL associations, the learning\nof which constitutes the study of metaphysics.\n\nThe meaning of a word, unlike that of an image, is wholly\nconstituted by mnemic causal laws, and not in any degree by\nlikeness (except in exceptional cases). The word \"dog\" bears no\nresemblance to a dog, but its effects, like those of an image of\na dog, resemble the effects of an actual dog in certain respects.\nIt is much easier to say definitely what a word means than what\nan image means, since words, however they originated, have been\nframed in later times for the purpose of having meaning, and men\nhave been engaged for ages in giving increased precision to the\nmeanings of words. But although it is easier to say what a word\nmeans than what an image means, the relation which constitutes\nmeaning is much the same in both cases. A word, like an image,\nhas the same associations as its meaning has. In addition to\nother associations, it is associated with images of its meaning,\nso that the word tends to call up the image and the image tends\nto call up the word., But this association is not essential to\nthe intelligent use of words. If a word has the right\nassociations with other objects, we shall be able to use it\ncorrectly, and understand its use by others, even if it evokes no\nimage. The theoretical understanding of words involves only the\npower of associating them correctly with other words; the\npractical understanding involves associations with other bodily\nmovements.\n\nThe use of words is, of course, primarily social, for the purpose\nof suggesting to others ideas which we entertain or at least wish\nthem to entertain. But the aspect of words that specially\nconcerns us is their power of promoting our own thought. Almost\nall higher intellectual activity is a matter of words, to the\nnearly total exclusion of everything else. The advantages of\nwords for purposes of thought are so great that I should never\nend if I were to enumerate them. But a few of them deserve to be\nmentioned.\n\nIn the first place, there is no difficulty in producing a word,\nwhereas an image cannot always be brought into existence at will,\nand when it comes it often contains much irrelevant detail. In\nthe second place, much of our thinking is concerned with abstract\nmatters which do not readily lend themselves to imagery, and are\napt to be falsely conceived if we insist upon finding images that\nmay be supposed to represent them. The word is always concrete\nand sensible, however abstract its meaning may be, and thus by\nthe help of words we are able to dwell on abstractions in a way\nwhich would otherwise be impossible. In the third place, two\ninstances of the same word are so similar that neither has\nassociations not capable of being shared by the other. Two\ninstances of the word \"dog\" are much more alike than (say) a pug\nand a great dane; hence the word \"dog\" makes it much easier to\nthink about dogs in general. When a number of objects have a\ncommon property which is important but not obvious, the invention\nof a name for the common property helps us to remember it and to\nthink of the whole set of objects that possess it. But it is\nunnecessary to prolong the catalogue of the uses of language in\nthought.\n\nAt the same time, it is possible to conduct rudimentary thought\nby means of images, and it is important, sometimes, to check\npurely verbal thought by reference to what it means. In\nphilosophy especially the tyranny of traditional words is\ndangerous, and we have to be on our guard against assuming that\ngrammar is the key to metaphysics, or that the structure of a\nsentence corresponds at all accurately with the structure of the\nfact that it asserts. Sayce maintained that all European\nphilosophy since Aristotle has been dominated by the fact that\nthe philosophers spoke Indo-European languages, and therefore\nsupposed the world, like the sentences they were used to,\nnecessarily divisible into subjects and predicates. When we come\nto the consideration of truth and falsehood, we shall see how\nnecessary it is to avoid assuming too close a parallelism between\nfacts and the sentences which assert them. Against such errors,\nthe only safeguard is to be able, once in a way, to discard words\nfor a moment and contemplate facts more directly through images.\nMost serious advances in philosophic thought result from some\nsuch comparatively direct contemplation of facts. But the outcome\nhas to be expressed in words if it is to be communicable. Those\nwho have a relatively direct vision of facts are often incapable\nof translating their vision into words, while those who possess\nthe words have usually lost the vision. It is partly for this\nreason that the highest philosophical capacity is so rare: it\nrequires a combination of vision with abstract words which is\nhard to achieve, and too quickly lost in the few who have for a\nmoment achieved it.\n\n{{reflist|1|refs=","title":"The Analysis of Mind/Lecture X","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":7492}