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Representation and Reality in Wittgenstein’s Tractatus
Representation
and Reality
in Wittgenstein’s
Tractatus
José L. Zalabardo
1
1
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
United Kingdom
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© José L. Zalabardo 2015
The moral rights of the authorhave been asserted
First Edition published in 2015
Impression: 1
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and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
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Acknowledgements
Introduction 1
1. Russell’s Theories of Judgment 13
2. Wittgenstein and Forms 37
3. The Vanishing Subject 87
4. Propositions and Facts 108
5. The Limits of Representation 149
6. Logic and Analysis 185
Conclusion 228
I.1. Wittgenstein’s Programme
A book is an act of communication. Its author intends to produce with it a certain
effect in the mind of her readers. The precise effect that that an author intends to
produce with her book varies widely from genre to genre. The authors of novels,
poetry volumes, self-help books, and scientific manuals, for example, seek to affect
their readers in very different ways.
Scientific manuals and other pieces of academic writing tend to follow a par-
ticularly straightforward pattern. These books present facts, theories, or expla-
nations that their authors believe to be correct. The authors’ goal is to get their
readers to accept their claims. Success will come about when the reader accepts the
claims expressed in the book. If the claims are correct, the reader will have learnt
something about the world from the book.
Many philosophy books follow this pattern. They present philosophical doc-
trines that their authors believe to be correct, with the intention of making their
readers accept these doctrines. The author succeeds when the reader accepts the
doctrines presented in the book. When this happens, if the doctrines are correct,
the reader will have learnt something about the world from the book.
Readers of Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, especially those
who skip the preface, can easily get the impression that it is this kind of book.
For the most part, the Tractatus seems to be devoted to presenting philosophical
doctrines—about the structure of the world, linguistic and mental representation,
the nature of logic and mathematics, and other traditional philosophical subjects.
Readers then naturally assume that Wittgenstein believes these doctrines to be
correct, and that his goal is to get them to accept these doctrines—that, according
to Wittgenstein, we will learn something about the world from the Tractatus if we
accept the doctrines that are expressed in it.
2 Introduction
However, right at the end of the book, in its penultimate section, Wittgenstein
offers an explanation of how he expects his readers to benefit from it that is radi-
cally at odds with these assumptions:
6.54 My propositions serve as elucidations in the following way: anyone who understands
me eventually recognizes them as nonsensical, when he has used them—as steps—to climb
up beyond them. (He must, so to speak, throw away the ladder after he has climbed up it.)
He must transcend these propositions, and then he will see the world aright.
Wittgenstein, like the authors of other philosophy books, thinks that his read-
ers can learn something about the world from the Tractatus: the book can ena-
ble us to ‘see the world aright’. However, the way in which he expects us to attain
this goal is not by accepting the doctrines presented in the book. What he wants
us to do instead is to ‘transcend’ the propositions that seem to express these
doctrines. This process of transcendence will result in the recognition that the
propositions of the Tractatus are nonsensical, and hence, in effect, that they
don’t actually express any doctrines. This recognition is what will enable us to
see the world aright.
These instructions for how to learn from the Tractatus are highly perplexing,
and have often failed to make readers abandon the assumption that the book pre-
sents philosophical doctrines that Wittgenstein accepts and wants us to accept.
Upholding this assumption, without simply ignoring 6.54, requires a creative read-
ing of Wittgenstein’s claim that his propositions are ‘nonsensical’. On this reading,
Wittgenstein’s point is not that they are utterly devoid of meaning, but that they
don’t express their meanings in the standard way. When read along these lines, the
claim is compatible with treating the propositions of the Tractatus as expressing,
in some other way, philosophical doctrines that Wittgenstein accepts and wants us
to accept.
But surely this line should be taken only as a measure of last resort—if we find
ourselves incapable of taking Wittgenstein’s explicit instructions at face value.
Hence the first question that we need to pose is this: how would the recognition
of the propositions of the Tractatus as nonsensical enable us to see the world
aright? Over the last couple of decades, this has been one of the most active areas
of research in early-Wittgenstein scholarship but is not the subject matter of the
present book.1 Here I only want to make a few basic points about the procedure
that Wittgenstein wants us to follow in order to benefit from his book. I shall refer
to this procedure as Wittgenstein’s programme. I am not going to defend the details
of my construal of the programme. My goal is simply to show that there is at least
1
These issues have been brought to prominence by the work of Cora Diamond and James Conant,
among others. See e.g. Diamond 1991; Conant 2002.
Introduction 3
one way in which we might in principle learn something important from the book
by coming to see its propositions as nonsensical.
Let’s suppose then that we have succeeded in recognizing the propositions of the
Tractatus as nonsensical. What, if anything, could we learn from this recognition?
One thing we would undoubtedly learn is that certain propositions that seemed to
express philosophical doctrines achieve no such thing—that, contrary to appear-
ances, they are complete nonsense. The propositions of the Tractatus seem to us at
first sight to make sense. Hence, if they are actually nonsensical, we certainly learn
something by recognizing them as such. However, this is hardly a worthwhile dis-
covery for the average reader of the Tractatus who, prior to reading the book, is
unlikely to have come across its propositions, or other propositions that strike her
as expressing the same doctrines. It is hard to see how we are significantly better off
after having been introduced to a set of propositions and then learning that they
are nonsensical than before coming across them in the first place.
It is clear, however, that Wittgenstein expects that the recognition of the prop-
ositions of the Tractatus as nonsensical will teach us something, not only about
these particular propositions, but about the general enterprise to which they seem
to contribute before their nonsensicality is recognized. The propositions of the
Tractatus seem to provide answers to philosophical questions and solutions to
philosophical problems. By recognizing these propositions as nonsensical we are
expected to learn something, not just about these answers and solutions, but about
the questions and problems they address, and about the enterprise of seeking
answers to philosophical questions and solutions to philosophical problems. The
recognition of the nonsensicality of the propositions of the Tractatus is expected
to expose this enterprise as illegitimate. It will enable us to see that philosophi-
cal questions aren’t genuine questions and philosophical problems aren’t genuine
problems.
It is not immediately obvious how the recognition of the nonsensicality of the
propositions of the Tractatus could have this consequence. We can give nonsensi-
cal answers to perfectly legitimate questions and nonsensical solutions to perfectly
legitimate problems. So in order to see how Wittgenstein’s strategy is supposed
to work we need to consider why in this particular case the nonsensicality of the
answers and solutions succeeds in undermining the enterprise of asking the ques-
tions and posing the problems.
On this point one thing seems clear: if we haven’t come to accept the proposi-
tions of the Tractatus as providing the only correct answers and solutions to the
philosophical questions and problems they address, then recognizing them as
nonsensical will have no tendency to undermine the status of these questions and
problems.
4 Introduction
Let’s suppose then that we have come to accept the propositions of the Tractatus
as providing the only correct answers and solutions to the philosophical questions
and problems they address. It’s not obvious how even now the recognition of these
propositions as nonsensical will taint the enterprise of philosophy. If we thought
that the propositions of the Tractatus provided correct answers and solutions to
philosophical questions and problems, and we now come to the conclusion that
they are actually nonsensical, wouldn’t we simply revise our initial positive verdict
and resume our search for the correct answers and solutions?
Suppose, however, that after recognizing the propositions of the Tractatus as
nonsensical we remain convinced that they are designated by the rules that define
the enterprise of philosophy—of seeking answers to philosophical questions and
solutions to philosophical problems—as the correct answers and solutions to the
questions and problems they address. This will amount to a discovery about the
rules—that they compel us to regard nonsense as correct. It is this discovery that is
supposed to undermine the enterprise of philosophy. We start off thinking of phil-
osophical questions and problems as perfectly legitimate and, following the rules
of the enterprise, we find the correct answers and solutions. But then we discover
that what we regarded as correct answers and solutions are nothing but nonsense.
We remain convinced, however, that in endorsing these ‘answers’ and ‘solutions’
we didn’t make any mistakes in applying the rules of the enterprise: these pieces
of nonsense are the ‘answers’ and ‘solutions’ that the rules designate as correct.
The only way out of this impasse is the rejection of the rules and of the enterprise
they define, and this is the outcome that Wittgenstein’s programme is intended to
produce.
It seems to me that this general approach provides the most plausible construal
of Wittgenstein’s communicative intentions, but defending this claim is not among
the goals of the present book. As we are about to see, my main claims will not
depend on the correctness of this approach, and should also be of interest to those
who believe that the goal of the Tractatus is to impart philosophical doctrines
somehow expressed by its propositions.
solutions to genuine problems. His goal is to make his readers abandon this enter-
prise, but for this purpose they first need to accept, by following the rules that
govern the enterprise, that the propositions of the Tractatus express correct philo-
sophical doctrines. If philosophy is the ladder that we need to throw away in order
to see the world aright, Wittgenstein programme requires that we first climb up
it: we need to do philosophy in order to rid ourselves of it.2
In fact, if we don’t come to accept the propositions of the Tractatus as express-
ing correct philosophical doctrines we won’t be able to recognize them as nonsen-
sical either. Wittgenstein doesn’t establish the nonsensicality of his propositions
on independent grounds. What he shows is that they entail their own nonsensi-
cality, since the limits that he defends on what propositions we can produce are
grounded in his theory of propositions.3 But clearly this amounts to showing that,
if the propositions of the Tractatus express correct doctrines, then they are non-
sensical. Unless we come to accept the antecedent of this conditional we will be
under no obligation to accept its consequent. We will be able to treat the proposi-
tions of the Tractatus as perfectly meaningful, even if the false doctrines that they
express entail their nonsensicality.
Notice, furthermore, that the recognition of the propositions of the Tractatus
as nonsensical is supposed to come about as a result of philosophical reasoning.
Hence, the outcome that will rid us of philosophy is not that its rules compel us
to accept as expressing correct philosophical doctrines propositions that are as a
matter of fact nonsensical, but rather that its rules compel us to accept, concern-
ing the propositions of the Tractatus, both that they express correct philosophi-
cal doctrines and that they are nonsensical. The second result (the nonsensicality)
doesn’t enjoy a more permanent status than the first (the correctness). Both will be
left behind once the ladder has been thrown away. In fact, even the claim that the
rules yield these results may have to be left behind. At this point the construal of
Wittgenstein’s programme raises fundamental issues that the present book will not
address.
If Wittgenstein believes that his readers will be able to follow his programme, he
must expect that its propositions will strike us as expressing correct philosophi-
cal doctrines. Why did he think that his propositions could generate this illusion?
2
See, in this connection, Cora Diamond’s insightful remarks on the imaginative activity involved
in understanding the demands that the Tractatus makes on its readers (Diamond 2000: 156–8).
3
On this construal of Wittgenstein’s strategy, the realization that the propositions of the Tractatus
are nonsensical is supposed to result from arguments for the conclusion that this is so. Resolute read-
ers of the Tractatus have identified other, more subtle ways in which Wittgenstein seeks to promote
this realization. See e.g. Goldfarb 1997. My construal could be easily modified to accommodate
this point.
6 Introduction
What we know about the evolution of Wittgenstein’s thought in the period of ges-
tation of the Tractatus lends strong support to the following answer to this ques-
tion: Wittgenstein thought that his readers would be likely to see his propositions
as expressing correct philosophical doctrines because he himself was once a vic-
tim of this illusion. The rejection of philosophy that the Tractatus seeks to promote
was not Wittgenstein’s original attitude towards the enterprise. He once thought
that philosophical questions and problems were perfectly genuine, and devoted
himself to addressing them. Many of the propositions of the Tractatus are very
close descendants of propositions that he first formulated as contributions to the
philosophical enterprise—as his answers to philosophical questions and his solu-
tions to philosophical problems.
This circumstance is potentially very valuable to those who intend to follow
Wittgenstein’s programme. This requires, as we have seen, seeing the proposi-
tions of the Tractatus as expressing correct philosophical doctrines, but this is not
an easy thing to do. The propositions of the Tractatus are often terse and cryp-
tic. They rarely offer clear arguments in favour of the doctrines that they seem
to express, and even the content of these doctrines is sometimes hard to fathom.
The Tractatus offers insufficient support to readers who seek to complete the first
stage of Wittgenstein’s programme. We need all the additional help we can get.
And one possible source of help is Wittgenstein’s own experience as a victim of
the illusion he now expects us to fall for. If we could understand the reasons that
led Wittgenstein to the conviction that the propositions of the Tractatus expressed
correct philosophical doctrines, we might find that they have the same effect on
us that they had on him. In fact, it would be a remarkable coincidence if we could
reach this point by any other route: our only realistic chance of coming to see the
propositions of the Tractatus as expressing correct philosophical doctrines is to
identify the virtues that Wittgenstein once saw in them.
This means, in effect, that those who want to complete the first stage of
Wittgenstein’s programme will need to adopt the same approach as those for
whom the book expresses philosophical doctrines that Wittgenstein accepts and
wants us to accept. This approach doesn’t correspond to Wittgenstein’s concep-
tion at the time of completing the book of what his propositions achieve, but it
does correspond to his conception of his achievement at an earlier point, as well
as giving us our best chance of completing the first stage of his programme. This
is the approach that I propose to adopt in the present book. In accordance with
this approach, I will no longer refer to the doctrines that the Tractatus ‘seems’ to
express. At the ladder-climbing stage of the programme, this distance is out of
place. I shall simply speak, without reticence, about the doctrines of the Tractatus.
Likewise, instead of asking why Wittgenstein thought that we could come to see
Introduction 7
the propositions of the Tractatus as expressing correct doctrines, I will simply ask
why he thought that the doctrines of the Tractatus are correct.
4
This is Pears and McGuinness’s translation and the term I shall use. Ogden uses atomic fact
(Wittgenstein 1922).
8 Introduction
I.4. Nonsense
Once we have convinced ourselves that the propositions of the Tractatus express
correct philosophical doctrines, we are ready to move on to the second stage of
Wittgenstein’s programme—recognizing that these propositions are nonsensi-
cal, and hence that they don’t express any doctrines at all, let alone correct ones.
As I have suggested, Wittgenstein doesn’t establish this result on independent
grounds. What he shows is that it follows from philosophical doctrines that the
propositions of the Tractatus seem to express that these propositions are nonsensi-
cal. The doctrines that play this role in Wittgenstein’s strategy are all constituents
of TARR.
If linguistic representation works as TARR says it does, then there are impor-
tant limitations to what language can represent. In some cases, the solutions
to the problems that TARR addresses arise from these limitations. Thus, for
example, as we shall see in due course, the problems that Russell encountered
with some paradoxical propositions are solved for Wittgenstein by the fact that,
if linguistic representation works as TARR says it does, then it’s not possible to
10 Introduction
produce the propositions that would raise the problem. A subsidiary goal of the
present book is to understand the aspects of TARR that impose limits on what
language can represent. I am going to argue that these limits have two main
sources in TARR. One is its account of how elementary propositions represent
states of affairs. The other is its account of the relationship between proposi-
tions and their constituents. The limits that TARR imposes on what language
can represent are ultimately responsible for the nonsensicality of the proposi-
tions of the Tractatus, but the resulting implosion of Wittgenstein’s ‘doctrines’
lies outside the scope of this book.
But, Rupert, I did not know all this at the time when you
were supposed to be dead. I let Dick, who seemed to
be turning out better then, regain his influence over
me. That day on which you came home I had become
secretly engaged to him. This will help to explain what
followed. Really, I was out of my mind and not
responsible. Afterwards, in my distress, I wrote Dick
some foolish letters, which he has held over my head
ever since I refused to have anything more to do with
him. Also, I would have asked your pardon and tried to
make it up with you if I had known where you were
gone. But I did not know, and I was afraid to inquire for
fear of betraying the shameful facts.
EDITH.
This letter produced a great effect upon Rupert, as its writer had
hoped that it would do. When he received it he was already low-
spirited, but after reading it his depression became acute. The
piteous way in which Edith made the best of a bad case; her evident
and honest repentance, and the curious heart-change which, as she
declared and as he half believed, now inclined her towards himself,
all touched him deeply, especially the repentance.
Yet he could not but see that almost every argument she used
might be urged with even greater effect upon behalf of Mea, who
wrote no letters and made no prayer. Why should Mea’s heart be
broken? Why should Mea be left to wander in that lonely wilderness
whereof Edith spoke, or perhaps to take to those common courses of
despair—Mea, who had never offended, who had always played an
angel’s part towards him?
Of course the only answer was that he was married to Edith, and
that he was not married to Mea; that he had taken Edith for better or
for worse, and that to them applied the ancient saying: “Those whom
God has joined together, let no man put asunder.” He knew well
enough in which direction his own feelings lay. Yet, what right had he
to thrust her out, his wife, whom he had asked to marry him? On the
other hand, what right had he to desert Mea, the woman who had
saved and sheltered him?
Rupert was sore perplexed; he could find no answer to these
problems. He wrote a note to Edith thanking her for her letter, the
contents of which he said he was considering, adding that he was
quite well, but she had better still keep away from him for a while.
Then he took a sudden resolution. He would go to Mea, and lay the
whole matter before her.
Once again they sat in that room in which, after weeks of
blindness, he had recovered his sight. His story had been told, the
letter had been read, there it lay upon the ground beside them.
“And now, Rupert,” asked Mea quietly, “what shall you do?”
“I don’t know,” he answered passionately. “I have come to ask
you.”
She looked at him and asked again: “Which is it that you love, your
wife or me?”
“You know well,” he replied. “It is you, and no other woman, you
now and for ever. Why do you make me tell you so again?”
“Because I like to hear it, Rupert,” she said, with her slow smile.
“But it does not make the choice easier, does it? On the one side,
love; on the other your law. Which will win, love or your law?”
“I have come to you to tell me, Mea.”
She looked upwards as though seeking an inspiration, then spoke
again.
“I will be no stumbling-block in your path of righteousness. Was it
for this that I was given to you? Love is longer than your law, Rupert,
and is not that doctrine which we practise named Renunciation? It
seems that those who would reap must sow.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean, Rupert, that this woman who has behaved so ill repents,
and what says our Book—the Book you taught me to believe?
‘Judge not, that ye be not judged!’ I mean that since she has kept its
letter, that oath still stands between you and her.”
“Then I must leave you?” he muttered hoarsely.
“Yes, Rupert, I suppose so.”
“And what will become of you then?”
“I,” she replied, with another of her sweet smiles, “oh! what does it
matter? But if you wish to know, I will tell you. I think that I shall die,
and go to wait for you where love remains, and your law is finished.
Shall we agree that together, my Rupert?”
His hands trembled, and the veins swelled upon his forehead.
“I can’t,” he said hoarsely, “God forgive me, I can’t—yet. You are
nobler than I, Mea.”
“Then, Rupert, what?”
“Mea,” he said, “we have still four days. Something might happen
in those four days. Perhaps God may be pleased to help us in some
manner unforeseen. If not, at the end of them I will accept your
counsel, however cruel it may be; yes, even if it kills us both.”
“Good!” she answered, with a flash of her eyes, “such words I
looked to hear you speak, for shall the preacher of a faith fly before
its fires? The sooner we are dead, the sooner will there be an end—
and a beginning.”
“Aye,” he echoed, breaking into English, “an end and a beginning.”
Another two days had gone by, and once more Rupert and Mea
sat together. They were making arrangements for the forthcoming
gathering in the temple; also, he was giving her an account of his
stewardship, he who it seemed must so soon depart. He was ill; he
was troubled. He faltered in his speech, forgetting the Arabic words,
his head bent forwards over the book of accounts. Then suddenly he
placed his hands upon the edge of the table and raised himself with
a smothered exclamation of pain.
“What is it?” she asked wildly, as he sank back into his seat.
“Nothing,” he answered, in a faint voice. “It was as though a sword
passed through me, that is all.”
“Oh! Rupert,” she cried, “you are ill.”
“Yes, Mea,” he said presently, “I am ill. I think that God has shown
us a way out of our troubles, and for that blessed be His name. Mea,
I have the plague. Leave me; leave me at once.”
“Aye,” she answered, setting her lips, “when they take you from
me dead, but never before.”
Two more days and Rupert was dying with the dawn. By his side
knelt Mea, and in a chair at the end of the shadowed room, tears
streaming down her placid face, and the grey-haired Bakhita
crouched crooning at her feet, sat Tabitha. Edith was not there.
Rupert had refused to allow her to be admitted, lest she also should
contract the plague. Sometimes he was conscious, and sometimes
he sank into sleep. His eyes opened, he woke again and turned to
Mea.
“Beloved,” she whispered in his ear, “I have hidden it from all save
Bakhita, but I have that which I must tell you at last. Our merciful
God has called me—I die also. Before midday I follow on your road.
Wait for me, Rupert.”
He smiled, and whispered: “I understand. I will wait—surely,
surely!”
Then he stretched up his arms. She sank into them, and for the
first time their lips met. It was their kiss of farewell—and of greeting.
“Bakhita,” said Mea presently in a clear and ringing voice, “it is
done. Come; tire me in those robes that I have made ready, my
bridal robes. Be swift now, for my lord calls me.”
The stern-faced, aged woman rose and obeyed. Tabitha knelt in
prayer by the corpse of Rupert, and messengers swiftly spread the
news that Zahed had departed from his people. A while later, as high
and shrill the Eastern death-wail broke upon the silence, a door burst
open and in rushed Edith.
“Oh! is it true, is it true?” she sobbed.
Tabitha pointed to the shrouded form of Rupert.
“Come no nearer,” she said, “lest you should die also—you who
are not ready to die.”
The two women, Edith and Mea, stood face to face with each
other; Edith, dishevelled, weeping; Mea, a strange and glorious sight
in the rays of the rising sun that struck on her through the open
window-place. She was clad in silvery robes that flowed about her; in
her weak hand swayed the ancient sceptre of her race, upon her
breast lay a pectoral of Isis and Nepthys weeping over dead Osiris;
above her outspread hair was set that funeral crown worked in thin
gold and enamelled flowers which once she had shown to Rupert.
Her wide eyes shone like stars, and the fever that burned upon it
seemed to give to her mysterious face a richer beauty.
“I greet you, lady,” she said to Edith. “Well have I nursed our lord,
but now he has passed from us—home, and I—I follow him,” and
she pointed over the shattered temple and the wall of mountains
upwards to the splendid sky.
“You follow him; you follow him?” gasped Edith? “What do you
mean?”
By way of answer, Mea tore open her white wrappings and
showed her bosom marked with those spots of plague that appear
only just before the end.
“It was his last and best gift to me,” she cried in Arabic.
“Soon, very soon we two shall have done with separations and
with griefs. Hearken you, his lady according to your law. He had
determined that to-morrow he would have gone back with you whom
he forgave, as I do. But we prayed, he and I—yes, knee by knee we
prayed to our God that He would save us from this sacrifice, and He
has answered to our prayer. Behold! we who have followed the way
of the Spirit inherit the Spirit; and we who renounced, renounce no
more. To me it was given to save his life; to me it is given to share
his death and all beyond it through light, through dark—forever and
forever.
“Way now, make way for Tama who comes to her lord’s bed!”
Then while they gazed and wondered, with slow steps Mea reeled
to the couch upon which the corpse of Rupert lay; uttering one low
cry of love and triumph, she cast herself beside him, and there she
died.
“Now,” said the quiet voice of Tabitha, as she looked upward to
heaven over the ruined temples of a faith fulfilled and the cruel
mountains of our world—“now, who will deny there dwells One
yonder that rewards the righteous and smites the wicked with His
sword?”
FINIS
POLITICAL HISTORY
Cetewayo and his White Neighbours
BOOK OF TRAVEL
A Winter Pilgrimage
NOVELS
Dawn
Beatrice
The Witch’s Head
Joan Haste
Jess
Doctor Therne
Colonel Quaritch, V.C.
Stella Fregelius
ROMANCES
King Solomon’s Mines
She
Allan Quatermain
Maiwa’s Revenge
Mr. Meeson’s Will
Allan’s Wife
Cleopatra
Eric Brighteyes
Nada the Lily
Montezuma’s Daughter
The People of the Mist
Heart of the World
Swallow
Black Heart and White Heart
Lysbeth
Pearl Maiden
The Brethren
Ayesha: The Return of She
(In collaboration with Andrew Lang):
The World’s Desire
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