"That certain kinds of marks and noises have meanings, and that we human beings grasp those meanings without even thinking about it, are very striking facts."
"A widespread idea about meaning is that words and more complex linguistic expressions have their meanings by standing for things in the world. Though commonsensical and at first attractive, this Referential Theory of meaning is fairly easily shown to be inadequate. For one thing, comparatively few words do actually stand for things in the world. For another, if all words were like proper names, serving just to pick out individual things, we would not be able to form grammatical sentences in the first place."
"In virtue of what is any sequence of marks or noises meaningful?"
"Probably the most persistent critic of the Referential Theory is Wittgenstein (1953: Part I). A more systematic Wittgensteinian attack is found in Waismann (1965a: ch. 8)."
"If the Referential Theory of Meaning is false, what theory is true? Any theory of meaning must account for the relevant facts, which we may call “the meaning facts”: that some physical objects are meaningful (at all); that distinct expressions can have the same meaning; that a single expression can have more than one meaning; that the meaning of one expression can be contained in that of another; and more. We tend to talk of “meanings” as individual things.
Meanings have been thought to be particular ideas in people’s minds. But
several objections show that this cannot mean actual thoughts in the minds of particular people at particular times. At best, meanings would have to be more abstract: types of idea that might (or might not) occur in the mind of some being somewhere. Accordingly, meanings have also been taken to be abstract things in themselves, alternately called “propositions.” The sentence “Snow is white” means that snow is white; equally, we may say it “expresses the proposition that” snow is white. Other sentences, even in other languages such as “La neige est blanche” and “Der Schnee ist weiss” express that same proposition, and are therefore synonymous. This Proposition Theory fits the various “meaning facts” well, since “proposition” is essentially another word for “meaning.” But critics have questioned whether it explains the meaning facts satisfactorily, or indeed at all."
"When this book began, the topics of reference and meaning were not separate, because the most common naive idea people have about meaning is that meaning is reference. In chapter 1 we disparaged the commonsensical but untenable Referential Theory of Meaning."
"The Proposition Theory treats sentences and other linguistic items as inert abstract entities whose structure can be studied as if under a microscope. But Ludwig Wittgenstein argued that words and sentences are more like game pieces or tokens, used to make moves in rule-governed conventional social practices. A “meaning” is not an abstract object; meaning is a matter of the role an expression plays in human social behavior. To know the expression’s meaning is just to know how to deploy the expression appropriately in conversational settings.
As we saw in chapter 2, Russell’s habit was to write a sentence on the
blackboard and examine (as he contended) the proposition expressed by the sentence, treating it as an object of interest in itself and trying to discern its structure. Ludwig Wittgenstein and J. L. Austin argued that this picture of how language works and how it should be studied is completely wrong. Languages and linguistic entities are not bloodless abstract objects that can be studied like specimens under a microscope. Rather, language takes the form of behavior, activity—specifically social practice. Sentences do not have lives of their own. The things we write on blackboards, and the alleged
“propositions” they express, are fairly violent abstractions from the utterings performed by human beings in real-world contexts on particular occasions."
"If meaning itself is mysterious, one way to reduce the mystery is to enter its domain through something with which we are more directly familiar. In order to get a handle on meaning, let us think of it from the receiving end, the grasp of meaning or understanding of linguistic expressions. And in order to understand understanding, let us think of it as the product of our having been taught our language, and as what one learns when one learns a language."
• “Use” theories have it that “meanings” are not abstract objects like propositions; a linguistic expression’s meaning is determined by the expression’s characteristic function in human social behavior. • According to Wittgenstein, linguistic expressions are like game tokens, used to make moves in rule-governed conventional social practices. • Sellars’ version of this idea makes the act of inferring central, and it is the complexity of patterns of inference that allows the “use” theorist to accommodate long, novel sentences.
• “Use” theories face two main obstacles: explaining how language use differs from ordinary conventional rule-governed activities that generate no meaning; and explaining how a sentence can mean that so-and-so.
"H. P. Grice maintained that a linguistic expression has meaning only because it is an expression—not because it “expresses” a proposition, but because it more genuinely and literally expresses some concrete idea or intention of the person who uses it. Grice introduced the idea of “speaker-meaning”: roughly what the speaker in uttering a given sentence on a particular occasion intends to convey to a hearer. Since speakers do not always mean what their sentences standardly mean in the language, Grice distinguished this speaker-meaning from the sentence’s own standard meaning. He offered an elaborate analysis of speaker-meaning in terms of speakers’ intentions, beliefs, and other psychological states, and refined that analysis in the light of many objections. It is generally agreed that some version of the analysis must be right."
consider sarcasm, as when one says “That was a brilliant idea”,
meaning that someone’s idea was very stupid. Here too, we get a divergence between the meaning of the sentence uttered and what the speaker meant in uttering it (since the speaker means precisely the opposite). The moral is that what a speaker means in uttering a given sentence is a slightly different kind of meaning from the sentence’s own meaning. Grice called it “utterer’s meaning”; it is also widely called just “speaker-meaning.”2 Now, let us turn to Grice’s reductive project, the explication of sentence
meaning in psychological terms. It proceeds in two importantly different stages. In the first stage,3 Grice attempts to reduce sentence meaning to speaker-meaning. In the second, he tries to reduce speaker-meaning to a complex of psychological states centering on a type of intention. On the face of it, the first stage is a plausible idea. As Wittgenstein emphasized, it is very strange to think of sentences as having meanings on their own and in the abstract, as opposed to thinking of sentences as having meaning because of what speakers use them to do. It does seem that linguistic expressions have the conventional meanings they do only in virtue of human communicative practices, and that communicative “practices” boil down to sets of individual speakers’ communicative acts. Grice amends that last phrase, focusing on what speakers use sentences to mean, in the sense of what the speakers mean in uttering the sentences when they do utter them. For Grice, a sentence’s meaning is a function of individual speaker-meanings.
The Verification Theory leads to bad or at least highly controversial metaphysics. Recall that a verification condition is a set of experiences. The positivists meant such verifying experiences to be described in a uniform kind of language called an “observation language.” Suppose our “observation language” restricts itself to the vocabulary of subjective sense impressions, as in “I now seem to see a pink rabbit-shaped thing in front of me.” Then it follows from verificationism that any meaningful statement I succeed in making can ultimately only be about my own sense impressions; if solipsism is false, I cannot meaningfully say that it is. And neither can anyone else.
In the 1950s and 1960s, W. V. Quine posed two challenges to the positivists’
philosophy of language. First, he attacked the notion of analyticity (Quine 1953, 1960); that is, he attacked the claim that some sentences are true entirely in virtue of what they mean and not because of any contribution from the extralinguistic world. Quine gives a number of different arguments against analyticity. Some of those are unconvincing. Others are better, and have kept
“analytic” a fairly dirty word ever since, or at least till a recent resurgence.
Quine shares and maintains the positivists’ epistemological bent, and
believes that if linguistic meaning is anything it is a function of evidential support. But his own epistemology differs from the positivists’ in being holistic. There are individual sentences you hold true and sentences you reject as false, but in each case the support for your belief is a complex matter of the evidential relations your sentence bears to many other sentences. Whenever it seems that belief revision is required, you have a wide choice of which beliefs to give up in order to maintain a suitably coherent system (recall Duhem’s point). And there is no belief that is completely immune to revision, no sentence that might not be rejected under pressure from empirical evidence plus a concern for overall coherence. Even apparent truths of logic, such as truths of the form “Either P or not P,” might be abandoned in light of suitably weird phenomena in quantum mechanics. But an analytic sentence would by definition be entirely unresponsive to the world’s input, and so immune to revision. Therefore, there are no analytic sentences.
So far, only one of our theories has managed to shed much light on what actually determines the meanings of particular sentences. The Proposition Theory took sentence meanings and just reified them (made them into objects of a certain kind), without much further comment and without connecting the object thus reified with anyone’s linguistic practices or behavior. Grice attempted to fob off the question into the philosophy of mind by trying to connect sentences with the contents of people’s actual intentions and beliefs, which was not very successful and, more to the point, simply took the intentions’ and beliefs’ contents themselves for granted. As we have seen, the verificationists did better; they offered us a test for the propositional content of any given sentence, that content being (precisely) the sentence’s verification condition. The trouble is that, even if we ignore the Duhem– Quine problem (objection 7 in the previous chapter), the verification test often seems to predict the wrong content (objection 3).
We saw in chapter 1 that the crude Referential Theory was far too simple an idea of the correspondence between words and the world; the truth-condition theorist does not posit so strong or simple-minded a correspondence, since s/he does not contend that all words are names. But the truth-condition theorist is back in the business of mirroring nature, of asking what actual or possible states of affairs does a given target sentence depict or represent.
Pragmatics is specifically about the functioning of language in context. This marks a significant contrast, because syntax and semantics have generally aspired to be contextless. Syntax is about whether a sentence is grammatical or whether a string of words constitutes a grammatical sentence, period. Semantics has always focused on sentence meaning, the meaning of a sentence type in abstraction from any particular use to which the sentence might be put. But there are always pests like Wittgenstein, Strawson, and J. L. Austin reminding us that the very idea of a “sentence type” is a violent abstraction from linguistic reality. When a sentence is uttered, it is invariably uttered in a particular context by a particular speaker for a particular purpose.
Philosophers tend
to think that literal speech is the default and metaphorical utterances are occasional aberrations, made mainly by poets and poets manqué. But the bias is only a bias; sentences are very often used in perfectly ordinary contexts with other than their literal meanings. Indeed, virtually every sentence produced by any human being contains importantly metaphorical or other figurative elements. My use just now of the word “element” was at least in part metaphorical. Or consider the number of times in a day that someone utters the word “level.” “Level” is almost invariably metaphor, unless the speaker is actually talking about a horizontal layering of some physical thing. Nonliteral usage is the rule, not the exception. The letter of the claim that almost every sentence contains figurative elements is widely conceded, because everyone grants that among the literal expressions are many “dead” metaphors; that is, phrases that evolved from what were originally novel metaphors but have turned into idioms or clichés and now mean literally what they used to mean metaphorically. We speak of a river’s “mouth,” but no one in the present century thinks of this as a metaphorical allusion to human or animal mouths. Likewise “inclined to [do such-and-such],” “rich dessert,” “dead microphone,” and, for that matter, “dead metaphor.” Perhaps “level” as in “higher/lower level” is now literal too.
“Level” in “carpenter’s level,” meaning the tool, is certainly dead; there is no other term for that tool, and in a dictionary it would be listed as a separate meaning of the word. However, as has been emphasized by Lakoff and Johnson (1980), the
distinction between novel or fresh metaphor and “dead” metaphor is one of smooth degree, not of kind. Fresh metaphors get picked up and become current, and then only very gradually—sometimes over centuries—sicken, harden, and die.
even when we have identified the relevant respects of similarity, they often prove to be themselves metaphorical. Searle gives the example,
“Sally is a block of ice.” How, according to the naive simile theorist, is Sally like a block of ice? Perhaps she is hard and very cold. But not, of course, literally hard or cold; “hard” and “cold” are themselves used metaphorically here. So Sally is only like something that is hard and cold. In what ways? Perhaps she is unyielding, unemotional, and unresponsive. But, Searle points out (p. 107), there is no sense in which blocks of ice are unyielding, unemotional, and unresponsive but many other inanimate things are not. Bonfires too are unyielding, unemotional, and unresponsive; but neither “Sally is like a bonfire” nor “Sally is a bonfire” is metaphorically compatible with the original sentence. The naive simile theorist would have to insist that there is a further underlying literal similarity between cold things and unemotional things. But we are given no evidence for that claim. Searle conjectures that, on the grounds of heaven knows what psychological factors, “people [just do] find the notion of coldness associated in their minds with lack of emotion”