The World as I Found It (82 page)

That is Russell's assumption, injected Wittgenstein. It is not mine.

Though, I might add, broke in Russell, that Mr. Wittgenstein has always shown a marked antipathy for anyone who would presume to summarize, much less comment on, his work.

Moore was insistent. Will you both kindly let me finish? Please, let us all
try
today to dispense with old squabbles. Or shall I yield to you, Dr. Russell?

No, no, said Russell, feeling he had won his point. Please do continue.

They started and stopped, but they didn't get far. The telephone rang, the solicitor again. And when that was done, they got sidetracked with terminology and other wrangles that shot another hour, until Mrs. Bride brought them tea.

Then from outside came a clatter. Looking out, Russell saw Max raising a large wooden ladder, preparing to fix a section of loose gutter on the back of the house. Moore, meanwhile, was saying to Wittgenstein:

I recall when Ramsey visited you — oh, my, this must have been seven or eight years ago, when you were still in Trattenbach. Anyhow, you told Ramsey that the point of the
Tractatus
, for all its talk of logic and language, was actually
ethical
. Now, I thought this was an intriguing thing to say. After all, you say little in the book — at least directly — about ethics.

To discern, said Wittgenstein. To discern clearly. This, as I see it, is an essentially ethical pursuit. But, you see, it was what I did
not
say in the book that seemed to me the most implicitly ethical.

Moore was nodding, compressing his hands excitedly. Oh, absolutely. That was exactly my point. Your comment made me quite read the book again. And it struck me as being most curious, as if all your labors in logic were such that, by establishing what you
could
speak about intelligibly, you might isolate what you
could not
. Which, as I gather from Ramsey, you felt was more important anyway, this being the ethical and mystical part.

Moore folded his hands, then continued:

I hope I am not getting too personal. I don't mean to get sidetracked into the history of the work and what you felt about it later. But — but I gather that by then, a good four years after completing the book, you were rather disenchanted with the whole enterprise. In the book, you said your propositions were like a ladder that one must ascend in order to climb beyond them. At which point, you said, the logical climber would view the world aright and would finally see that your propositions were nonsensical.

If he was not too dizzy, remarked Russell wryly.

Moore ignored this and continued. But, as I say, when you spoke to Ramsey in Trattenbach — well, I gather you were by then rather
disdainful
— if that is not too strong a word — of your earlier thinking.

Foreign
, corrected Wittgenstein distractedly. That would be a better word for how my early thinking struck me. Already by that time, some of the book's aspirations were growing
foreign
to me.

Moore nodded as this sunk in, then charged off again, saying, But I recall, Mr. Wittgenstein, that you told Ramsey that you wanted nothing that needed to be reached by a ladder. You said that you were looking for something far more humble, a village and not a vast metropolis, or something to that effect. Oh, I remember Ramsey saying he had a terrible time yanking answers out of you. Moore glanced up at the ceiling, a reaching look. You know, I just now recall Ramsey mentioning a friend of yours! A large, rough-looking, happy-go-lucky fellow. That would have been
Max
, I guess?

Wittgenstein compressed his lips. Yes, it must have been. He nodded. Yes, they did meet.

Russell, meanwhile, was noticeably distracted. For twenty minutes now he'd been glancing out the window. Looking around, Moore saw Max grappling with the gutter from the top rung of the ladder.

Oh my, said Moore, turning to Wittgenstein. I hope he doesn't fall. Is he all right there, do you think?

He's fine, said Wittgenstein brusquely. Now — Wittgenstein took a breath — as for your question about Ramsey. The point is that it was then difficult for me to think about the book. I felt like a leftover season, with no weather that would have me or even carry me away. Wittgenstein thought for a moment about this, then added, You see, I was losing faith in the usefulness of an attempt to find the
last word
about language. Formerly, I was under the illusion — the common illusion — that there must be a key, or keys, to this puzzle. I was captive to the illusion that, because there is a prior order to the world, there must be an
essence
to language — that my inquiries would yield a unified and utterly simple solution of the purest crystal. Much of this problem, I think, can be traced to this …
scientific
craving, this craving for
generality
that seems to permeate our thinking. And the point is, we are philosophers, not scientists. Science is not our affair at all. Like me, Russell, you've taught young children. But consider how children acquire language. Consider, for instance, the way a child finds it almost impossible to believe that a word could have two entirely different meanings. But watching children, you see that, even when a word is used according to its so-called intended meaning, it is often used entirely differently in different contexts. Words are not that precise and scientific. On the contrary, words are very approximate and indeed often need our help, as when we emphatically
point
and say, I mean
that
broom — that broom over
there
.

So we are necessarily delving beneath the surface of the ostensible meaning of a word, brushing off the dust and accretions of the years — the full burden of memory and association — to reveal its grammar. By
grammar
, incidentally, I mean the way a word is
used
in a particular context. And consider all the different ways we use words. Play acting. Telling a story. Guessing a riddle. Describing a pain. There are countless ways in which we use language. These activities — the speaking of a language — I call
forms of life
. But within those forms, there is almost limitless variety and shades of distinction.

Ah! said Moore. Then you do, in your way, still find yourself looking for the essences that you say you rejected. Universals, of a kind.

Wittgenstein wrinkled his nose, then replied, The essences within the ordinary, if you like. Or essences beneath the surfaces of our ordinary language. But again the point is that these essences are always shifting beneath our feet. And you see, even as philosophers, I believe, we are mostly unconscious of these nuances. Using language is like riding a bicycle: we don't think about how we do it, we simply do it. At the same time, language is so natural that much escapes us, and it leads us, as philosophers, into a great many confusions. This, then, was part of the slow change in my thinking. And it was this, I think, that made it so difficult for me to respond to Ramsey's questions …

Despite his effort to give the impression of deep and serious attention to the
Viva
, Russell was finding himself distracted by what was happening outside, especially when Lily walked past the window.

The little tease was doing it on purpose! thought Russell. She must have known he was inside, watching her as she looked up at Max. But that was all Russell saw. One peep and the show closed: Lily walked out of sight. And the maddening thing was, Russell could sense her there, the minx. Standing by the side of the house, she was clearly tormenting Max, who was now staring down at her from the ladder. God, will you look at him, Russell thought. Just like one of Pavlov's dogs — the salivary chime.

At the same time, Russell sensed the rising annoyance of his colleagues, who, though facing away from the window, were well aware of his distraction. Trying to rouse himself and forget the girl, Russell then took the offensive, saying to Wittgenstein:

Well, being a philosopher who prefers simplicity, I must say, Mr. Wittgenstein, that your new work creates countless problems in its sheer, and I might say undisciplined,
variety
. Enormous problems, in fact. What can we apprehend when each sentence — each word and expression — must be identified and explained? That's not philosophy, that's a laborious taxonomy.

Wittgenstein immediately felt Russell's pressing the attack. He pressed back, saying, My aim is not to seek ease or neatness. And, again, I think you're dazzled by that search for a mathematical
essence
— for the tics and conventions of formal
elegance
. As I say, language will not be tied up in this neat, formal way. This was part of Ramsey's problem … Here Wittgenstein visibly hesitated, then came out with it. Do not misunderstand me, I greatly respected Ramsey. Ramsey was tremendously useful in helping me to clarify my thinking. But if you'll pardon me for saying so, I would describe Ramsey as a
bourgeois
thinker.

Moore slapped his knee, incensed at this slight of his brilliant protégé, dead the year before at the age of twenty-six. Russell was insulted on general principle, knowing, in effect, that Wittgenstein was saying the same of them.

I beg your pardon, remonstrated Moore. But I take deep offense at your remark about Ramsey. In fact, I find your statement extraordinarily patronizing and insulting. Especially when I think of the pains that Ramsey took to
clarify
your work.

Now wait, protested Wittgenstein. Just now I said as much. Digging his grave deeper, the candidate then explained, By
bourgeois
I mean that Ramsey wanted to tidy up the affairs of a particular philosophical and intellectual community. He didn't want to reflect for long on the
essence
of a problem, or its manifold difficulties. What Ramsey really wanted was for these problems to go away — to be declared trivial and laid to one side. But, you see, I do not think the philosopher should belong to
any
community.

Oh, come on! scoffed Moore, losing all patience. And what, pray, will
you
be, Wittgenstein, when you ally yourself with the Cambridge academic community? And what makes you so sure there is such tremendous regulated orthodoxy in our thinking? This is incredible! Moore dropped his arms and looked at Russell. You act as if we're an intellectual church order or something! As if we all subscribe to the same creed!

Oh, no, said Russell with a blazing look. What the candidate
means
, is that we don't subscribe to
his
creed — whatever
that
is.

But Wittgenstein wasn't budging. Nodding fiercely, he put both his examiners on notice then:

There is community. There is community, and there are
many
shared values and assumptions. True, I share many of these essential values, but you both know me well enough to realize that, even if you
should
admit me to the company of philosophical doctors, much less to Trinity … Moving his arms in his agitation, Wittgenstein seemed, for a moment, to hover in the air, whirling like a dervish before he continued. Even if you
should
do this, I will never be a part of your community, nor of anybody's community. Not that I won't bear your community my most sincere goodwill. But Cambridge will never own me, nor will philosophy, nor the church, nor the country, nor the various charities. Oh, I might, I suppose, have dedicated my life to the glory of God. And of course I have tried as much — fruitlessly. But to say that
this
was my intent would be chicanery — I mean it would be misunderstood. And so you might say, Russell, that what I am doing is not doing philosophy at all. So, you might say, humanly speaking, that I am
completely outside the fold
. I do not entirely deny it. Clearly, I do not understand the values and aspirations of this age, insofar as it has any that
I
can discern, with its fatuous science and pathetic delusions of progress. But then I freely admit I am narrow. But understand this — if I should do your community
any
good, however unlikely that seems, it will be as an outsider.
That
much is clear.

It was as if the entire room were suddenly covered with broken glass: Moore and Russell sat there mutely, not knowing which way to move to avoid the shards. But even now Russell was torn in his attention: Lily was at the foot of the ladder, talking to Max. And then there came a knock — Mrs. Bride was waiting outside with their lunch.

When Russell next looked outside, Lily was gone and Max was coming down off the ladder. Then Max started around the side of the house.

Oh, my, said Russell, pulling out his watch. I see it's already one-thirty. Why don't we break here for lunch? If you'll excuse me a few minutes, I'd like to place a call. Shall we resume around two, then?

And before they could even give their assent, Russell was out the door. There was uneasiness then when Russell left them. In silence, they began eating. Several minutes passed, then Wittgenstein said to Moore, I hope you at least understand my point about Ramsey.

I will
respect
your opinion, said Moore measuredly, pausing in midstream over his soup. That is not to say I agree with it.

Silence and sandwiches, a desultory chewing. Wittgenstein went to stand by the window. Max was gone, but Wittgenstein had caught a glimpse of him and the girl — enough to see what was in store. He found it oddly distancing to stand there helpless before this feeling that was developing in him, in the midst of this other colloquy. Granted, Wittgenstein was not comfortable with what would certainly happen next, with the sex part. But this was nothing new. For Max, there had been other women — other “falls,” and still more painful falls for the women he contemptuously discarded once soiled. Even this, Wittgenstein could accept. What he absolutely could not accept was Max's hypocrisy in stormily disavowing any interest in the girl — the idea that he could so baldly lie about it.

How was it possible, wondered Wittgenstein, that a basically good and sincere man could act without any apparent consistency, saying one thing and blithely doing another? Wittgenstein stared out the window with wonderment and a feeling of dislocation. Did words deserve the primacy we gave them? Were
words
“moral” in the same sense that
actions
were? We say, thought Wittgenstein, that Max had not “meant” to sin, saying this in the way we might say that Max had not meant to lie. But of course this revealed problems hidden in the grammar of the word “meant.” There was, for instance, the question of whether Max was using “meant” to designate an intended action — what he had meant to
do
— in the same sense that he might have said that this, after all, was what he had meant to
say
. Worse, we would likely be using “meant” once or twice removed, using it to cover Max's first lie by successively re-explaining what he had
really
meant. Ethics was such a misery, thought Wittgenstein. Words were so slippery, and metaphors were all the more so, being instructive in almost equal measure to their power to distort. And in the end, words only evaded: our words could not justify, and further words and actions only muddied our questionable original intentions like a picture that has been too often erased and revised. No, thought Wittgenstein, good or evil (if those were quite the words) were not to be broken down like salt in a crucible to get at the truth — it was a hollow nugget that clinked into the alchemist's dish. Somewhere in the process, the spirit escaped.