Джон остин три способа пролить чернила

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Философия/Искусство/Наука

Остин Дж. — Три способа пролить чернила: Философские работы

СОДЕРЖАНИЕ
В. Кирющенко, Μ. Колопотин. Джон Остин, аналитическая философия и язык как социальное явление .5
Αγαθόν и ευδαιμονία в «Этике» Аристотеля 20
Существуют ли априорные понятия? 52
Значение слова .76
Другие сознания .96
Истина 138
Как говорить 156
Правда о фактах 178
Принесение извинений .200
«Если» и «могу» .232
Перформативные высказывания .262
Притворство 282
Три способа пролить чернила 302
Линия и пещера в «Государстве» Платона 318

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Джон остин три способа пролить чернила

Философия/Искусство/Наука запись закреплена

Остин Дж. — Три способа пролить чернила: Философские работы

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Три способа пролить чернила

В книге представлена работа Джона Остина, посвященная проблемам аналитической философии и языка как социального явления. Автор, вместо языка как системы синхронных правил, сосредотачивает внимание на тех способах, которыми речевая деятельность описывает факты, делает нечто и провоцирует ту или иную реакцию или эффект. Остин анализирует не признаки высказываний, а конкретны В книге представлена работа Джона Остина, посвященная проблемам аналитической философии и языка как социального явления. Автор, вместо языка как системы синхронных правил, сосредотачивает внимание на тех способах, которыми речевая деятельность описывает факты, делает нечто и провоцирует ту или иную реакцию или эффект. Остин анализирует не признаки высказываний, а конкретные ситуации. Для него одной из основополагающих проблем является именно выяснение того, каким образом несущая «социальную информацию» интенция всякий раз оказывается инкорпорированной в акт речи.

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Once upon a time, there was a philosopher called Frege, who had the interesting idea that language and logic were really, you know, pretty much the same thing. He invented predicate calculus, which was the best shot to date at making sense out

Once upon a time, there was a philosopher called Frege, who had the interesting idea that language and logic were really, you know, pretty much the same thing. He invented predicate calculus, which was the best shot to date at making sense out of that particular approach. For example (this always comes up, for some reason), in English you might say «John loves Mary», and in predicate calculus you would write it as

You have two constants, john’ representing John, and mary’ representing Mary, and the predicate love’ obtains between them.

Some people, Bertrand Russell being a notable example, liked Frege’s insight. They picked it up and improved it. And then, in 1921, a young Austrian called Ludwig Wittgenstein published the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, which was meant to finish the job. Language, explained Wittgenstein, consisted of «pictures», the predicate calculus expressions, which «connected to the world». I first came across the Tractatus when I was about 17, and I remember looking at it and trying to figure out how this connection was supposed to work. It didn’t seem to be very clearly explained, and I wondered what I wasn’t getting. But at the time, Wittgenstein thought he’d cracked the problems of philosophy. He retired, and did other things that were more fun.

After a while, Wittgenstein started to have misgivings. Maybe it wasn’t all about logic: in fact, language often doesn’t seem to be logical at all. (I know. You could have told him that, right? But Great Philosophers prefer to work it out by themselves). He started compiling a huge quantity of notes, which were meant to outline a new theory. These eventually saw the light as the Philosophical Investigations, an impressive mess. Wittgenstein apologised «for not writing a better book», but he managed to convince many of his colleagues that logic may not in fact be the right way to think about what language means.

And so we get up to Austin, one of Wittgenstein’s brightest students, who wrote How To Do Things With Words. He probably wasn’t as inspired as his master, but he was certainly much better organised. One key insight immediately found favour. There are some ways of using words that do indeed seem to be about describing the world; but there are others that are about interacting with it. As Austin pointed out, when the Mayor says «I now pronounce you man and wife», she isn’t describing anything. She makes something happen by virtue of what she says. And, when you think a little more, you see that this is the top of a linguistic iceberg. «Performatives», as Austin called them, are very common. It’s not just marrying people: it’s a bunch of other things, like making promises, or issuing threats, or asking questions. Austin suggested some more useful terms, which were also enthusiastically adopted, and now everyone in linguistics talks about locutionary acts, perlocutionary acts and illocutionary force. The standard example is someone asking «Is there any salt?» The locutionary act is a question about the presence of salt, but the perlocutionary act is causing somebody to hand you the salt. The illocutionary force is a command to give you salt.

Austin had a bright student of his own, called Searle, and Searle took the ideas further. He wrote a book called Speech Acts, where he described different kinds of illocutionary acts. And then Searle had a student called Vanderveken, and together they developed a framework for writing down speech acts as formulas, in a new framework they called illocutionary logic.

Early 20th century Anglo-American philosophy is a bit of an oddity in the history of ideas. It was marked by two diametrically opposed approaches, yet both could be traced back to the work of a single figure, namely the Austrian logician Ludwig Wittgenstein. The first of these was logical positivism, which was inspired by Wittgenstein’s 1919 Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Originally founded in Vienna, logical positivism made its way to the English-speaking world by way of A.J. Ayer’s seminal La Early 20th century Anglo-American philosophy is a bit of an oddity in the history of ideas. It was marked by two diametrically opposed approaches, yet both could be traced back to the work of a single figure, namely the Austrian logician Ludwig Wittgenstein. The first of these was logical positivism, which was inspired by Wittgenstein’s 1919 Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Originally founded in Vienna, logical positivism made its way to the English-speaking world by way of A.J. Ayer’s seminal Language, Truth, and Logic in 1936. What followed was a veritable revolution in Anglo-American philosophy. Wittgenstein’s doctrine razed the edifice of philosophical orthodoxy with its verificationist criterion of meaning: a proposition is meaningful only if it can be verified by observation. Having thus reduced meaningful language to the utterances of the natural sciences, Wittgenstein banished metaphysics, ethics, aesthetics, and theology – those venerated objects of speculation – to the netherworld of senselessness. They were not even wrong, as we say in the vernacular.

Having ostensibly solved philosophy once and for all, Wittgenstein did the only honest thing left to do: he quit. After a decade of working odd jobs as a schoolteacher and gardener, however, doubts began to grow in his mind. So he returned to Cambridge, where, over the course of the 1930s and 1940s, he began to develop his new philosophy, culminating in his posthumous Philosophical Investigations (1953). The verificationist criterion of meaning was replaced by the doctrine of meaning-as-use: an utterance has meaning if it plays some function in a linguistic transaction. Gone was the crystalline isomorphism of thought and world that characterized the Tractatus, leaving in its place the incommensurability of different language-games and forms of life. Like Tractatus before it, the Investigation gave rise to its own following of disciples, this time in the ordinary-language philosophers of the Oxford school: Gilbert Ryle, H.L.A. Hart, Peter Strawson, R.M. Hare, and, of course, J.L. Austin.

Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations is without a doubt the most important work of ordinary language philosophy, both in terms of influence and scope. However, J.L. Austin’s How to Do Things With Words might well be a close second. Ordinary-language philosophy was, and often still is, dismissed as pedantic terminological nitpicking, and reading Austin’s superficially might seem to confirm that assessment. The book contains a series of lectures that he delivered over his career, pieced back together from his own sometimes fragmentary notes and from students’ transcriptions. The lecture series format, as well as the author’s own hairsplitting approach, has the effect of stretching material that could easily have been fit into a 20-page article over a 160-page book rife with lists, examples, and minor adjustments that might well leave the reader wondering what the fuss is about.

Well, the fuss really isn’t about much – just the concept of truth itself. With their verificationist criterion, the logical positivists had reduced to mere babble any utterance that did not purport to describe the natural world. Only these could purport to be true or false at all. This is Austin’s starting point in the first lecture. For he claims to have discovered a class of utterances that are not descriptive in nature, yet that do not contain any words lacking an empirical reference. He calls these performative utterances, or performatives for short. They are statements the uttering of which is to do something: “I do” (uttered during a wedding ceremony), “I hereby sentence you” (uttered by a judge), and “Out!” (uttered by an umpire). These, Austin points out, presuppose that certain conditions are in place: notably, that they correspond to some institutional practice and that they are being performed by the right people in the right circumstances. These make up the utterance’s “felicity conditions” or “acceptability conditions”; they are what must be in place for a performative utterance to be recognized by an interlocutor.

Having identified this class of performative utterances, Austin proceeds to trying to demarcate them from ordinary descriptive utterances. The question is in what sense exactly saying something might amount to doing something. To make any linguistic utterance, he points out, is always to do three things. First, it is to perform a locutionary act. That is, it is to make certain sounds which correspond to words in a vocabulary with a certain sense and reference. Second, it is to perform an illocutionary act, i.e. to use these with a certain conventionally established force. And third, it is to perform a perlocutionary act. This means an act bringing about certain intentional or unintentional effects. Together, these three components constitute what Austin calls a speech-act, a category under which he subsumes such varied actions as promising, apologizing, threatening, predicting, betting, appraising, marrying, and pronouncing.

These distinctions provide the foundation for Austin’s greatest philosophical conjuring trick. For it turns out that the descriptive statements held up by the logical positivists as the form of all language-use are in fact but one variety of speech-act, namely describing or stating. They are but one of the multiple linguistic activities that we perform in everyday life. Most importantly, they do not possess any conceptual priority over others. From this point of view, truth is but one form of felicity condition, namely that which belongs to descriptive utterance. But in fact, Austin goes further. Not only is truth but one form of a condition of acceptability, but most utterances made in everyday life are not descriptive in the philosophical sense at all. Many apparently descriptive uses of language operate with very different acceptability conditions. Consider the claim that Italy is shaped like a boot. Is it true? Is it false?

Continental thinkers like to complain that Anglo-American philosophy is ahistorical. One of the things they mean by this is that philosophers in the analytic tradition are often insufficiently aware of the history of their own discipline. Wasn’t it Wittgenstein who used to brag about never having read Aristotle? The joke is on them, though, because analytic philosophy is by now old enough to have its own history, and Austin’s How to Do Things With Words no doubt belongs in the Parthenon of its great works. Admittedly, Austin’s argument is needlessly convoluted and could easily have been made straightforwardly in 20 pages or so. However, confusion in form by no means entails confusion in content. Although later revisions of speech-act theory – notably by John Searle and Jürgen Habermas – are sometimes more convincing, there can be no doubt, while reading Austin, that something of crucial importance is happening. And therein lies the irony of the accusation of ahistoricity: Whether or not Austin was familiar with the history of his discipline (in fact, he had a keen interest in Aristotle, Plato, and Kant among others), there can be no doubt that he came to have an important hand in shaping it. . more

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