I have been interested in the philosophy of language for years, and in the question of what our words can and cannot mean. Years ago, I read all kinds of things by and about the incomprehensible Jacques Derrida, and also quite a bit by and about Saussure, Jakobson, Paul de Man, Barthes, Foucault, Eco (besides being a novelist, also a professor of semiotics), Heidegger, and Rorty. And of Stefan Themerson, not to forget. But I had never dared to approach Wittgenstein, no matter how extremely interesting I found various pieces about him (including by Patricia de Martelaere, Roger Scruton, Richard Rorty). His "Philosophical Investigations" were on my bookshelf, but they didn't come out. But now, a small reading club has started on Hebban about "Wittgenstein's Mistress" (a novel by David Markson), which finally made me give in to my long-neglected urge to take those "Philosophical Investigations" off the shelf. Well, I should have done that much earlier, because I enjoyed this book like a child.
I read this book as naively as possible: not being overly impressed by the name and fame of Wittgenstein, and not getting stuck on the fact that I didn't understand some things. And also more focused on pleasure and aesthetic enjoyment than on learning philosophical lessons. That may not necessarily be the right way, but it was my way. I'm simply not a trained philosopher, but a hedonistic reader. Just like Bert Keizer, by the way, who wrote "Ludwig Wittgenstein. Language, the Wandering Guide": an infectious little book by an enthusiast that really helped me to better understand Wittgenstein, and especially to enjoy Wittgenstein's adventurous thinking.
"Philosophical Investigations" consists of a lot of fairly short pieces that are connected but in a very open and flexible structure. In those pieces, usually in short fictional dialogues, questions are considered about what words and sentences can all mean and how we can or cannot recognize that meaning. However, Wittgenstein is not looking for "the essence of things" or "the essence of knowledge": he investigates how word meaning works and functions in daily use. So how we use language as an instrument, and what (often unspoken) rules and criteria we apply or come up with on the spot. And he also doesn't investigate what our words "essentially" mean: on the contrary, he shows that the meaning of words and sentences is extremely diverse and rather indeterminate, because each word can be used in dozens of contexts and means something different in each context. Wittgenstein's basic idea seems to me always to be: we know ourselves and the world only thanks to language, thanks to the perspective that our words and sentences offer on ourselves and the world, but those words and sentences do not give us a copy that exactly matches the world inside and outside of me. Moreover, the meaning of those words and sentences is different in each context. That immediately means that our language does not offer an unassailable order or grip on the world: the thing I am talking about does not determine the meaning of my words, and moreover, language is a pluriform and heterogeneous construction that is constantly being developed further and thus is constantly changing. As Wittgenstein says: "Our language can be regarded as an ancient city: a maze of streets and squares, old and new houses, and houses with additions built in different times; and all of this surrounded by a large number of new suburbs with straight and regular streets and uniform houses." A city, then, that you cannot take in at a glance, and that moreover is constantly changing. And moreover, a city in which you don't always easily find your way: "Language is a labyrinth of paths. You come from one side and you know the way; you come from the other side to the same place, and you no longer know the way."
What I like about "Philosophical Investigations" is that Wittgenstein does not try to convince us through long argumentative discussions that language is a diverse labyrinth, and that he defines and explains little, but that he simply shows in short pieces how our use of words yields much less clarity than we think. We, and all kinds of philosophers with us, still assume that we know what a chair or a tree is and what components it is made up of. But Wittgenstein brilliantly challenges this self-evidence. For example: "But what simple components is reality composed of? - What are the simple components of a chair? - The pieces of wood of which it is made? Or the molecules, or the atoms? - 'Simple' means: not composite. And then the question is: in what sense 'composite'? It makes no sense at all to speak of the'simple components of a chair'. Or: Does my visual image of this tree, this chair, consist of parts? And what are then its simple components? Multi-color is a form of composition; another is, for example, the construction of a broken contour from straight pieces. And a piece of a curve can be called composed of an ascending and a descending branch [….] If it were established that the visual image of a tree is called 'composite' if one sees not only a trunk but also branches, then the question 'Is the visual image of this tree simple or composite' and the question 'What are simple components' would have a clear sense - a clear use." Nice passage, I think, because Wittgenstein first makes us aware of the vagueness and indeterminacy of quite common terms like'simple components of' and 'composed of components', and then finally ends with a question. He does not answer the question whether a chair and a tree are composed or one simple whole, but only clarifies the use of that question and its components. With which that question remains a question. Or as a group of questions: I no longer have the illusion that I know exactly what we exactly mean by "simple" or "composite. So that I look outside, see my little tree standing there, and only now really wonder what I see: one self-evident tree that forms one self-evident whole, as I always thought, or rather a heterogeneity of branches and leaves, where each leaf in turn is composed of many parts.....
So how is it really possible that I always saw that tree as something self-evident and as one whole? And what to do with the thought that that tree is actually composed of all kinds of more or less "simple" components and is thus not simple at all? Or that you could at least see it that way? A thought or question that is not demonstrably correct, but also not demonstrably incorrect: it is (according to Wittgenstein) a question that can have meaning in one situation and not in another, and now that meaning has for me and feeds my wonder. Because well, only now do I realize that my impression of that tree changes every day because the leaf growth is different every day, which means that some parts of that tree are just as decisive for my "total impression" as that tree as a whole. And that I now suddenly like it much better to see that tree as "composite" and not as "simple", while I didn't stop to think about it before I knew those terms better. Isn't that amazing? And that wonder grows even further because Wittgenstein says a little later: "The word 'composite' (and also the word'simple') is used by us in an enormous number of different ways. (Is the color of a chessboard simple, or does it consist of pure white and pure yellow? And is white simple, or does it consist of the colors of the rainbow? - Is this length of 2 cm simple, or does it consist of two parts of 1 cm each? But why not a piece 3 cm long and a negative piece of 1 cm?)"
By the way, I think the above is mainly about a broader philosophical issue: is it possible to name reality in a number of elementary names and a number of elementary statements, which would then be the indivisible atoms and indivisible meaning cores of "the truth"? And perhaps also about an assumption that we often make almost without thinking: that there are such atomic meaning cores in the reality around us (and in our own inner world). That Wittgenstein challenges such assumptions I find fascinating. But even more fascinating to me is how he does it with such everyday examples, and based on statements about ordinary trees and chairs. As a result, passages like the above are for me, besides philosophical, also poetic, because they make me look differently at the supposedly familiar world around me.
Thus, Wittgenstein feeds my wonder in every paragraph. Some paragraphs amaze with their conciseness: "But when you say: 'How should I know what he means, I only see his signs', I say: 'How should HE know what he means, he too only has his signs.' " That's quite a dizzying thought: not only do I only understand what the other person feels when he expresses it, but he also only fully understands what is going on inside him when he has found the words for it. And that also applies to me. Or, in other words: without language, everything that is going on inside me is amorphous and unarticulated, only through language does what is happening inside me get a form that is understandable for myself and others. But what to say about that form? Because words and sentences do not have one meaning that is fixed uniformly for all situations. "I love you" means something different to you than to me; it has a different meaning in a play than in an actual profession of love; and for me, the meaning of that sentence changes completely if I later discover - or even just start to suspect - that I was mistaken or was fooling myself. In short: only in language expressions can I properly articulate my thoughts and perceptions for myself and for others, but in those language expressions there is often much more indeterminacy, ambiguity, and vagueness than we think.
This kind of considerations also make me look very differently at often-used phrases like "It's on the tip of my tongue" or "Actually, I meant it like this....". Especially because Wittgenstein also raises all kinds of questions about exactly that kind of phrases. Which, very simply put, come down to: how do I actually KNOW that "something" is on the tip of my tongue, and what is that "something"? Is that the same "something" as in "Aha! Now I know it!". And how do I know that it's about the same thing? The same goes for "actually meaning something". I say something, someone else says something more or less similar that seems much more precise to me, and I say "yes, that's what I actually meant too". But how do I know that? How do I know at all what I had in my head before I put it into words? Unless I would assume that there was a fully worked-out intention in my head that was then literally and completely depicted by my words. But that's not how it works according to Wittgenstein: what we call intention only takes shape in our words and sentences, which are not a depiction of an archetype in my head. And when others talk about their intention, they use the same word, which is also not a depiction of an archetype in their head. Guys, what did I actually mean all those times when I said "that's what I actually meant"??
Moreover, what happens in our perceptions is also quite complex. Wittgenstein gives all kinds of enchanting examples of our use of "seeing something" and "seeing something as" (or in other words: interpreting something). For example, using a little drawing that from one perspective looks like the head of a hare and from the other like the head of a duck. It took a while before I realized that you can indeed see that little drawing in two ways.... And what makes one viewer see such a picture as a hare and the other as a duck? Moreover, what happens when someone first sees the picture as a duck and then as a hare? What is that "seeing as" exactly? What does the verb "see" mean that we are looking at in all those cases? To what extent are "seeing" and "seeing as" (interpreting) intertwined? The same goes, by the way, when I simply "see" a green leaf. Because that "seeing" is an inaccurate sensory impression (animals see more sharply than humans, for example), which is then translated by my brain, and without knowledge of the terms "green" and "leaf" I don't know that I'm looking at a "green leaf". Which is quite amazing if you stop and think about it for a moment. But even more amazing is to think that I don't know if others see exactly the same color "green" and have the same visual (?) image when looking at that leaf. Because I don't know how their senses work, and I don't know what associations they have with a "leaf": wouldn't a forest ranger look at a leaf differently than I do, wouldn't my spouse do that differently than I do, might I do that differently tomorrow than today?
Language is not a depiction of reality that gives us objective knowledge of how the world "in itself" is. At the same time, language is an indispensable guide in this complex world. But a wandering guide, as Bert Keizer says: a guide that leads me down all kinds of wrong paths and that is much more diverse and ambiguous than I usually assume. And it is exactly that diversity and ambiguity that Wittgenstein shows with great precision in "Philosophical Investigations". In the past week, I drove my colleagues crazy by asking about every sentence whether he meant it like this, like that, or perhaps something else: Wittgenstein had made me more alert to that kind of questions than ever before. I still look at my tree with different eyes. And I wonder even more about that diverse and changing labyrinth of our language than I already did before. What a pleasure it was to read this book!