The Abstracted World

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The intellectual enterprise

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William D. Nietmann
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THE INTELLECTUAL
ENTERPRISE
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WILLIAM D. NIETMANN
University of the Pacific
I. The Presence of Meaning 4
II. The Abstracted World 22
III. Propositions and Logic 36
IV. Personal Decision and Knowledge . . . 5 3
V. Knowledge as a Source of Problems . . 68

I.
THE PRESENCE OF MEANING
AN ACKNOWLEDGES himself to be the most intel-

ligent of all animals. As far as he knows, he alone has
organized his intelligence into bodies of knowledge, and
he alone uses his intelligence to analyze his intelligence.
Perhaps intellectual life is man's highest reach beyond
mere animality; and perhaps it is the maximum human

blessing. In any case, in directing our attention to intellec-
tual life we are not occupied with some remote feature of
human activity, but with one that is central to it. There
are two factors which, taken together, are basic to intellec-
tual life. They are meaning and decision. We propose to
show why this is the case, beginning with a discussion of
meaning.
The conventional place to begin a discussion of mean-
ing is with a definition. But a puzzle emerges when the
advisability of defining meaning is considered. On the
one hand, if the person to whom the definition is addressed
has no idea of what meaning is, the definition of meaning
would be meaningless. On the other hand, if he does know
what meaning is, the definition is superfluous. A person
who does not know what meaning is, is intellectually blind
in the same way that a person who is sightless is visually
blind. But sight, as it occurs, brings with it many distinc-
tions. Hence, if one were addressing a sighted person, it
would make sense to say something about sight in terms
of these distinctions. One could say, "I see blue," or "I
see depth." Likewise meaning, as it occurs, brings its own
distinctions with it. Hence, if one were addressing a per-
4
THE INTELLECTUAL ENTERPRISE, Chap. I 5
son who had grasped meanings, it would make sense to

say something about meanings in terms of these distinc-
tions. On these grounds we propose now to say something
about meanings.
There are, it seems to me, at least three kinds of dis-
tinctions pertaining to meaning that are indispensable to
intellectual life. These distinctions occur as ways in which
meaning is consciously present: ( 1 ) meanings are present
to me as though I were a spectator of them; ( 2 ) they are

present to me as though I were a participator in them; and
( 3 ) they are present to me because I hold them in ques-
tion as an interrogator. The way in which meaning is pres-
ent, at least with respect to its bearing upon intellectual
life, indicates whether I am in the role of spectator, of
participator, or of interrogator. Perhaps there are more
apt labels for identifying the three distinctions that have
been here suggested. The labels are expendable, but the
distinctions to which they refer are not. We propose next
to comment upon meaning in terms of these distinctions.
The Objectified World

The word "spectator" comes from the Latin word for
"to look, to behold." The derivation is suggestive in at
least two ways. For one thing, looking requires seeing;
hence the word links the spectator role to the life of sensa-
tions. Moreover, the beholding of something suggests also
the function of an observer who, as observer, is not a part
of what he is beholding. Looking and beholding require
an object to look at and behold. Hence there is at least
some etymological justification for calling meanings that
are marked by sensations and otherness, spectator mean-
ings. With the help of an illustration we shall elaborate
the notion of spectator consciousness.
6 WILLIAM D. NIETMANN
Suppose that a person is seated at a restaurant table.

He hears the waiter say, "Here you are, sir," as a poached
egg in a brown crockery egg cup is served to him. In swal-
lowing the egg, he feels the touch of luke warm semi-
thick slithery fluid slipping down his throat, and tastes
and smells the faint ammonia-like flavor and odor of half-
cooked albumen. In these two sentences we have intro-
duced traditionally prominent sensations, for present to
our diner are brown sight, vocal sound, albumen taste and
smell, and warm, slippery touch.

The fact that in this situation meaning is present in
conjunction with sensations indicates that the diner is
present at least in the role of speaator. Meanings and
sensations go together; not even the skillful introspection-
ists of Titchnerian analytic psychology could discover
sensations that were alone, by themselves, bereft of mean-
ing. The meanings that occur in conjunction with sensa-
tions fall into two groups. In one group are those mean-
ings that are carried by sensations themselves. In the other
group are those meanings by which we determine the kind
of thing we are observing. The restaurant situation may
serve to illustrate the two groups of meanings.
Recall the color of the egg cup. When the diner looks
at the egg cup he sees brown. The brown which is his
visual sensation of the moment can be no other sight than
itself. As this visual sensation, brown is its own meaning.
The brown that is present as speaator consciousness is
an example of a meaning that is carried by the sensation
itself; but as merely brown, the sensation is just a visual
blotch. At this point it should be noted that we cannot
refer to the brown visual sensation without classifying it,
for example, as "brown," "visual," "sensation," "blotch."
It is by way of the meanings we use in classifying that we
determine what kind of a thing we are observing. The

visual sensation is present as my consciousness; its mean-
ing is immediate. But the meanings I use to classify it
make it lose this immediacy, for as classified the visual
sensation becomes something that is present to my con-
sciousness, namely, a blotch of visual sensation. We struc-
ture our sensory life by classificatory meanings. It is by
these meanings that we endow sensory life with obj ects
to be observed.
It is likely that only a very sophisticated person would
answer, "A brown blotch of visual sensation," if he were
asked, "What do you see?" A more common answer
would be, "An egg cup." Or a person less familiar with
place-setting refinements might say, "An odd little coffee
cup without a handle." Or a primitive tribesman might
say, "A toy jug." Presumably the sensory situation is ap-
proximate for each respondent; but the meanings where-
by the sensations are objectified as external to the observer
are not. Each of our three observers lives in a different
world from the others to the extent that he objectifies his
world with different classificatory meanings. The world
as objectified is thus a private affair.
However, although the world as objectified may be
a private affair, the meanings whereby it is objectified are
more than a private affair. With a little erudition, the toy
jug and the coffee cup worlds could become an egg cup
world. But note that the worlds change; the meanings by
which they are constituted do not. The visual field that is
sensed may indeed now be objectified as an egg cup instead
of a toy jug, but the 'toy jug' meaning has not changed one
bit. Unless the 'toy jug' meaning remained itself it would
not be useful to the native as he reports his cultural pro-
gress: "Once I thought it was a toy jug; now I know that it
is an egg cap." The place-setting world, once objectified by

'toy jug' meaning, has changed into a world objeaified by
'egg cup' meaning. The world has changed, but not the
meanings; they stubbornly remain themselves.
Not only is this trait of stubbornness true of the mean-
ings by which we determine the kind of thing we are ob-
serving, but it is also true of the meanings that are carried
by sensations themselves. Sensations mean what they
mean whether we want them to or not. No matter how

persistently I gaze at brown, no amount of gazing turns
it into pink. What I see, I see. Thus sensory meanings also
stubbornly remain what they are. The slogan for mean-
ings could well be, "We stay what we are."
There is an important respect in which sensory mean-
ings and classificatory meanings differ. Unlike classifica-
tory meanings, by which each person objectifies a world
that is private to him, sensory meanings seem to join us
to a world that is public to all. Sensory meanings are given
to us as part of a world which is, so to speak, beyond our
tampering. This characteristic stubbornness of their pres-
ence is a token that something, whatever it may be—toy
jug, coffee cup or egg cup—is out there. By classificatory
meanings we may indeed create the world as objectified,
but we do so in conjunction with sensory meanings that
give to the objeaified world a public status of being there.
From the foregoing considerations we may say that
speaator consciousness is the meanings that are present
to us in conjunaion with sensations. These meanings
appear as objeas that are there. For this reason we may
say that in speaator consciousness our role is that of ob-
serving the objeaified world. The meanings present as
speaator consciousness never change with respea to their
own meaning, but the world as objeaified does. It changes
as different meanings are observed as conjoined with sen-

sations.
The Subjectified World

In the spectator role we observe the objects of con-
sciousness as external, and hence as present to conscious-
ness. In the participator role the situation is reversed, for
the kind of presence whereby participator consciousness
is characterized involves a person's own ego. As partici-

pants, we ourselves seem to be present in our own con-
sciousness, for participator consciousness is marked by our
own feelings of desire and emotion. Again it may be help-
ful to use an illustration, this time to elaborate the notion
of participator consciousness.
In a flight from the British West Indies some sweet
pickles were served to a little Jamaican girl as part of her
lunch. Never before had she been confronted by a pickle.
At the suggestion that she try it, she sniffed it and with-
drew in repugnance. In clipped British accents she ex-
pressed her feelings, "It has a horrid, sickish stink about
it." The pickles were, of course, present as her spectator
consciousness. If she had been asked to describe them, her
use of such meanings as 'vegetable,' 'raw,' 'pungent,'
'green,' etc., would provide some clues concerning the
objectified world she was observing. But she had not been
asked to describe them; she had been asked to eat them.
This request evoked from her strong "feeling" words like
horrid, sickish, stink. These words direct us not to the
pickles, but to her; not to the world as objectified, but to
the world as subjectified. In short, pickles aroused repul-
sive and undesirable feelings in her.
Perhaps they did more than that. Here she was, leav-
ing her familiar and obviously limited circumstances and

entering a strange environment. Not only was she dis-
gusted by the pickles, but her disgust may also have meant
that she herself was alienated from and repudiated by the
strange pickle-eating environment in which she had to
find a place. In such circumstances, her feelings would not
only refer to her dislike of pickles, but also to her personal
status. When she dislikes pickles she is in the position of
disposing of them; but when, in rejecting pickles, she

thereby herself becomes rejected, pickles become an
emotional matter and not merely a matter of undesirable
flavor.
Like sensations, feelings do not occur bereft of mean-
ing. The meanings that occur in conjunction with feelings
seem to fall into two groups. One kind of meaning char-
acterizes the feeling itself, as feeling; and the other kind
of meaning is the kind of feeling in which the subject finds
himself involved. In our illustration, the feeling itself was
one of desire, a desire to avoid pickles. It may also have
been an emotional feeling, as well as an aversion, in so far
as the little Jamaican felt her dignity to be at stake. An
emotion and a desire have, with respect to their mere
occurrence, a status comparable to that of a sensation. Just
as a sensation is a token that an object is there, no matter
how its being there may be objectified, so an emotion or
a desire is a token that the subject is there no matter how
his being there may be subjectified. The analogy between
sensations and feeling may be extended, for just as there
is no mere sensation, so there is no mere feeling. Feelings
are always some kind of feeling, for our feelings mean
something to us. The feeling of aversion suffered by the
little girl meant horrid, sickish, stinky. Her emotions may
have meant fear, embarrassment, anger. In any case, com-
parable to sensations and the objectified world, the mean-

ings that occur in conjunction with feelings—whether of
desire or of emotion—constitute the subjectified world
that is present as participator consciousness.
The subjectified world, like the objectified world, can
change. Perhaps ten years from now the little Jamaican
will say, "When I first came to this country I thought that
sweet pickles were horrid, but now I have actually come
to like them. Pass the pickles, please." In that case it would

be her subjectified world that changed, and not the mean-
ings of horrid, sickly, stinky; or fearful, embarrassing,
angry. As in the case of the transition from toy jugs to egg
cups, if meanings were transitory there would be no way
of marking subjective change. Our subjectified worlds
may change, but meanings themselves, whether they occur
in conjunction with feelings as participator consciousness,
or in conjunction with sensations as spectator conscious-
ness, do not change. With respect to itself, each meaning
stubbornly retains its own meaning.
We may say that participator consciousness is consti-
tuted by meanings that are present in conjunction with
feelings. These meanings appear as though they involve
the ego of the person with whose feelings they are con-
joined. For this reason we may say that in participator
consciousness we take the role of participating in a world
whose meanings pertain to us as subjects in that world.
Whatever else may be said about it, the subjectified world
as we know it is at least made up of meanings which stub-
bornly remain themselves, but which do not stay put as
our subjectified worlds. For although meanings per se
never change, as different meanings are present in our
participator consciousness, our subjectified world can
change.
Abstractions
In the objectified world meanings occur in conjunc-

tion with sensations, and in the subjectified world mean-
ings occur in conjunction with feelings. There are no
meaningless sensations to which we are spectators nor
are there meaningless feelings in which we participate.
However, their presence as spectator or as participator
consciousness does not exhaust the occurrence of mean-
ings, for meanings that are joined neither to sensations nor

to feelings can occur. Meanings that occur as separated
from any particular sensation or feeling are called abstrac-
tions. The word "abstraction" comes from the Latin ab-\-
trahere, "to draw away from," or "to separate." We shall
use the word "abstraction" to refer to meanings that are
both (1) separated from any given context of sensation or
feeling and (2) considered with respect to the meaning of
their meaning.
Piling up of words in a phrase such as "the meaning
of meaning" can easily expose philosophers to the charge
that they just play with words. Perhaps the following
anecdote will both protect us against such a charge and
also clarify abstractions. Please note that the anecdote
exhibits two kinds of abstractions: one kind whose mean-
ing is presentable in spectator or in participator conscious-
ness; and another kind whose meaning is presentable only
in conjunction with other abstractions.
One of the tasks in installing a hot air heating system
is connecting the ducts to the heat deflectors. Usually the
deflectors are merely tacked into place over a hole that
goes through the ceiling of the room to be heated and
into the attic above. In maneuvering the heating duct in
order to connect it to the deflector, I inadvertently jarred
loose the deflector. With a quick plunge of my arm

through the hole in the ceiling, I grabbed the defleaor
before it could fall to the floor in the room below.
At this point a problem emerged. The defleaor was
too large to be pulled through the hole in the ceiling; and
scattered on the floor in the room below were several
newly purchased elearical fixtures that were made of
glass. I was in a predicament, for I was in the house alone.
Suppose, on the one hand, I should continue to hold the

defleaor. What then? Right now, discomfort; and if no
one came to my rescue, the deflector would drop out of
a dead, starved hand. Suppose, on the other hand, I should
drop the defleaor. What then? Each fragile lighting fix-
ture cost $4.37, tax included. There were seven of them.
Dropping the defleaor could cost me as much as $30.00.
For thirty dollars I decided not to die; but I still did
not want to waste a penny I did not have to. The problem
now became: How should I balance discomfort against
money? The longer I held the defleaor, the greater time
I would make available for help to arrive. But, after awhile
the discomfort might pile up to the point that I would
drop the defleaor in spite of the cost. In this case I would
have had both the discomfort and, no doubt, some ex-
pense. Then I made up my mind: If no rescuer came at the
end of five minutes, I would drop the defleaor. I glanced
at my watch and started to wait.
The foregoing situation may seem far removed from
abstraaions. But consider: In measuring the discomfort
of being hot in a disagreeable attic against the possible
frustration of having to buy a new set of fixtures, a person
does not traffic in sensations and feelings. Rather, the men-
tal traffic is carried on with the meanings that sensations
and feeling might entail. Sensations and feelings are tied

down to their own particular occurrence, but the mean-
ings that are conjoined with them need not be. As separ-
ated and abstracted, meanings are freed from any particu-
lar presence in the world as objectified or subjectified. A
person is then free to arrange them and to re-arrange them
as he sees fit. Thus when we relate complexes of meanings
called 'lighting fixtures' and 'heat deflector' in terms of
another complex called 'gravity,' we never need to touch,

even once, a piece of metal or glass, or feel the tug of
weight. So to speak, we "figure it out in our heads." So,
too, the discomfort that heat means is abstracted from its
conjunction with the sensation of heat. It is this abstraction
that is related to another abstraction, namely, the meaning
of relief which (one expects) will be conjoined with
lower temperature.
Thus far we have illustrated one kind of abstraction,
namely, the kind whose meaning is presentable in spec-
tator or in participator consciousness. We shall refer to
this kind as spectator- or participator-abstraction. But
there is another kind of abstraction, a kind whose mean-
ings cannot be sensed or felt. An example of the latter
kind may be found in the multiplication of 437 by 7, by
which we calculated that lighting fixtures costing about
thirty dollars were at stake. The multiplication itself had
nothing to do with the fixtures and dollars, nor with the
feeling of frustration that engulfed the person caught in
a ridiculous posture when he was captured by a too-small
hole in the ceiling. One cannot touch, taste, smell, see or
hear a line or a number; nor is a number itself a desire or
an emotion. Signs of mathematical meanings may be
sensed; and mathematical meanings may be symbolic of
desires and emotions (witness: come seven, come eleven!);
but in themselves mathematical meanings are not pre-

sentable in spectator or in participator consciousness.
The same observations may be made about other
abstraaions that cannot be sensed or felt. Examples are
the meanings symbolized by such words as and, but, yes,
no, some, all, whole, part, being, thing, left, right, top,
bottom, equal; and by such prepositional words as of, in,
over, alongside, etc. Unlike the lighting fixture, about
which it makes sense to ask, "What color is it?" and "How

much does it weigh?" it makes no sense to ask about
'through' which relates to 'arm' and 'hole,' "What color
is it?" and "How much does it weigh?" To the kind of
abstraaions mentioned in the last paragraph we shall give
the name, relational abstraaions; for, as we shall next
indicate, it is by means of them that abstraaions are re-
lated to each other.
Abstraaions may be related to each other on at least
two levels. One relationship is on the level of relational
abstraaions themselves. In arithmetic, for example, the
"4" in "14" symbolizes (1) + (1) + (1) + (1) and the
" 1 " in "14" symbolizes (1) + (1) + (1) + (1) + (1) +
(1) + (1) + (1) + (1) + ( 1 ) + . If, instead of the " 1 "
in "14" symbolizing " 1 " repeated ten times, it symbolized
" 1 " repeated five times, the same meaning symbolized
by "14" in our decimal system would have to be sym-
bolized by "24" in the new system. Thus "14" in one
system of arithmetic could mean "24" in another system.
In this example we can see how it is possible by using
relational abstraaions to relate 'and' and T in such a
way as to construa mathematical systems. Logic provides
a similar illustration. In Aristotelian logic we can relate
'yes,' 'no,' 'some,' 'all,' 'in,' and 'out' to each other in
twenty-four ways that do not violate the meanings of these
abstraaions. But, if by 'all' we mean merely a class of

things, and not, as in Aristotelian logic, a class of exist-
ing things, a different logical system results; just as a dif-
ferent arithmetical system resulted when " 5 " instead of
"10" was meant by the " 1 " in "14." According to the
different logical system, known as class calculus, 'yes,' 'no,'
'some,' 'all,' 'in,' and 'out' can be related to each other so
as not to violate their meanings, not in twenty-four ways,
but in two ways.1
In mathematical and logical systems we have exam-

ples of how meanings of abstraaions which can never be
sensed or felt, relate to each other meanings of other ab-
stractions which can never be sensed or felt. But such
structuring is not limited to relational abstraaions them-
selves, for abstraaions may also be related to each other
on another level. On this level, relational abstraaions
establish a scope of meaning for abstraa meanings that
are presentable in speaator or in participator conscious-
ness. Consider, for example, the following speaator-
abstraaion: 'an arm sticking through a hole in the ceiling.'
It is the meaning of the preposition "through" that estab-
lishes a scope of meaning for the 'arm' abstraction as it
relates to the 'hole' abstraaion. Thus an arm sticking
'through' a 'hole' does not mean the same as an 'arm'
'alongside' a 'hole' or 'on top of a 'hole.' Here we can
see that the relational meaning 'through' relates the
speaator-abstraaions 'arm' and 'hole' so as to make them
mutually meaningful.
1 (b-c=0) • (a-b=0) :. (a-b=0) and (ab=0) • (cb 0) :. (c-a 0).

Cf. Frank M. Chapman and Paul Henle, The Fundamentals of Logic (New York:
Charles Scribner's Son, 1933). p. 89. The assigning of meanings to meanings (as
in the cases of " 1 " and "all") is discussed later.
On numerical systems, see E. R. Stabler, An Introduction to Mathematical
Thought (Cambridge: Addison-Wesley Publishing Co., Inc., 1953). pp. 1ff.
In considering abstractions, we have been discussing

meanings with respect to their meaning and not as con-
joined with sensations or with feelings. But thus to abstract
meanings from their occurrence in spectator or partici-
pator consciousness is not to say that we cannot be con-
scious of the presence of abstractions.2 For we are aware
both of spectator- and participator-abstractions and of
relational-abstractions. We are aware of them in conjunc-
tion with questions which are present in interrogator con-

sciousness. We turn next to an account of questions and
abstractions.
Questions and Abstractions

What is not always realized is that a question and its
answer are as inseparable as the convex and concave sides
of the same sphere. Since the intellectual enterprise itself
is essentially the business of question-raising-and-answer-
finding, it is important that we see wherein meanings are
present in conjunction with questions. There are at least
three ways in which questions and abstractions belong to-
gether: (1) questions give relevance to meanings; (2)
meanings give significance to questions; (3) meanings
give scope to questions. Each of these ways will be com-
mented upon, in the order listed.
In the first place, a question is its own answer in so
far as the raising of a question also determines which
meanings are and are not relevant to its answer. For unless
2
Nor is it to say that the only thing that can be done with meanings that
are conjoined with sensations or feelings is to abstract them for the intellectual
enterprise. But we are here addressing ourselves to the intellectual enterprise. If
we were considering the aesthetic enterprise, meanings would not be considered
as abstracted, for meanings as sensed give rise to aesthetic joy. Likewise, if we
were considering the life of values, meanings would not be considered as abstracted
from feeling, for meanings as felt give rise to appreciation.
a question-raiser already has in mind the kind of answer

the question requires, he would never be in a position to
know whether or not his questions has been answered. Let
us suppose, for example, that a person is warned that pres-
ently he will be asked to answer a question, and that he is
assured that he already knows the answer to the question.
Then the demand is made upon him to state the answer.
In astonished protest he replies: "First tell me the ques-
tion, and then I will tell you the answer." No matter how
many meanings he may have at his disposal for answering
the question, the meanings remain irrelevant to each other
until the question is present. If the question should be,
for example, "What did you have for dinner?" the mean-
ing 'dinner' is held in question; that is, it has been selected
as an organizing focus for other meanings, let us say, 'roast
beef and 'mashed potatoes.' Hence a question may be de-
fined as the selection of one set of meanings as the organiz-
ing focus for other meanings. Only those meanings fall-
ing within the focus are possible answers. A false answer
might be 'oyster stew' and 'pizza pie,' but it is none the
less a relevant answer. To select, by a question, a mean-
ing as an organizing focus for other meanings is already
to have selected the kind of answer that belongs to the
question.
There is a second sense in which the answer to a ques-
tion is already present within its formulation. If to raise
a question is to select one set of meanings as the organizing
focus for other meanings, then unless there are meanings
to be brought into focus, no question has been raised.
Hence, meanings give significance to questions. Consider,
for example, the question: "What color is the square root
of sixteen?" There is no relevant answer to this question,
not because we are ignorant, but because there are no
abstractions that can be brought to focus by this "ques-

tion." It is an unanswerable question, and if a question
and its answer are inseparable, to speak of an unanswer-
able question is like speaking of a square circle. If it is
not answerable, it is a pseudo-question, and not a question.
Meaningless questions are those for which no mean-
ings can be available. To say this is not the same as saying
that a question of whose available meanings we happen
to be ignorant is a pseudo-question. "We are frequently

confronted by questions that expose our ignorance. Take,
for example, the question: "Do you like onion cake?" Let
us suppose the answer is: "I don't know. I never tried it.
I don't even know what it is." Now, in spite of the fact
that the respondent is ignorant of onion cake, he never-
theless has meanings available for handling the question.
'Onion cake' means something edible. It also means an
edible he has neither tasted nor understood, for we note
that he has placed 'onion cake' outside of the categories
of 'liking-disliking,' and 'understanding-not understand-
ing.' Since there are meanings available to him to handle
the question, it is not a meaningless question. Let us
suppose that the meanings 'edible,' like-dislike' and
'understand-not understand' were not available to him.
In this case, and as far as he was concerned, the question
would be a pseudo-question. But it would be a pseudo-
question, not on the grounds of incompatible meanings,
as in the case of the 'colored square root,' but on the
grounds of his innocence of meanings. If he ever should
grasp the meanings mentioned—'edible,' etc.—the ques-
tion would become meaningful, and he would have ex-
changed his innocence for ignorance.
There is a third way in which a question involves the
meanings whereby it can become an answered question.
The questions we can raise are liimted by the meanings we

have in our possession. For example, if the question-raiser
had been both innocent and ignorant of 'onion' and 'cake'
as meaning a dessert, he could never have raised the ques-
tion. How can there be a question if there is no meaning
to be held in question?
Not only is the possession of a meaning a necessity
for raising a question, but the possession of meanings
also determines the scope of the meanings that are brought

together as an answer to a question. Thus, for example, the
transaction in meanings that is occasioned by the question
of a layman is not likely to be the same as that occasioned
by a professional's question. To a biologist the difference
between inner and outer space is measured by that dis-
tance from the earth at which an organism, not being able
to replace its oxygen by breathing, must draw upon its
own reservoir of oxygen. Hence, if a biologist raises the
question, "Where does outer space begin?" his question
entails meanings that never occur to most of us. We may
say, then, that the possession of meanings not only deter-
mines whether a question can occur, but it also determines
the scope of the question.
From the foregoing we can see that a question is a
transaction of meanings that are present as abstractions.
A question is the selection of one meaning for the purpose
of bringing other meanings together on its terms. Just as
meanings conjoined with sensations constitute the world
as objectified, and meanings conjoined with feelings con-
stitute the world as subjectified, so, likewise, meanings
conjoined with questions constitute the world as ab-
stracted. The questions, however, need not be explicit. In
faa, it is usually only when we are deliberating that we
are aware of the presence of questions. In our ordinary,
uncritical moments the conjunaions of abstractions, which

go by the name of ideas, seem to pop into our heads; but
it is not hard to find the question that holds abstractions
together. If, for example, I should say to myself, "The
heat deflector is too big to permit me to get my hand
through the hole unless I drop the deflector," I can easily
formulate the question that holds these abstract meanings
together. They get their mutual relevance from the ques-
tion, "Why can't I get my hand free?" As a transaction of
meanings, the question, although it may drop out of at-

tention as a sentence that ends with a question mark, con-
tinues to be present as long as answering is going on.
Otherwise, what would the answer be an answer to?
Hence, answering does not dispose of questioning, for if
the question were eliminated, answering would likewise
be eliminated. Nor does a completed answer to a ques-
tion (which is later called a proposition) destroy its ques-
tion; for rather than eliminating a question, an answer
simply makes it an answered question.3
The intellectual life is the question-and-answer life.
This life is present as the abstracted world, and it is present
to us in our role as interrogators. But the abstracted world
is not an unrelated world. It is related both externally and
internally. Externally, it is related to the objectified and
the subjectified worlds. Internally, interrogation organ-
izes abstractions into knowledge. We turn next to a con-
sideration of the world as abstracted.
3 Cf. R. G. Collingwood, An Essay on Metaphysics (London: Oxford Univer-

sity Press, 1940), pp. 23-25.
n
THE ABSTRACTED WORLD
1 QUESTION is a transaction of meanings that are pres-

} \ eat as abstractions. This conclusion was reached in
Chapter I. But we do not ask questions merely to transact
business in abstractions. Rather, in the role of interrogator
we seek to make abstractions meaningful by referring

them to spectator- and participator-meanings. We also
refer them to relational meanings, which are the kind
of abstractions whose meanings can never be sensed nor
felt. But in raising questions we are not only in the quest
of meaningfulness, for we are also expressing meaning-
fulness. In this chapter we shall examine questions both
as a quest for meaningfulness and as an expression of
meaningfulness.
The Worlds of Answers
The meanings to which we intend our answers to

refer when we raise questions can occur in the world as
objectified, as subjectified or as abstracted. We shall con-
sider each of these possibilities in turn, beginning with
the world as objectified.
If the abstractions brought together by a question
are intended to refer to an objectified meaning, the inten-
tion is satisfied only if the meanings present as abstractions
are also present as spectator consciousness. Suppose, for
example, a person's intention is to find his lost dachshund.
Let us say that he asks a passerby, "Have you seen
Eugene?" He answers, "Eugene? Who is Eugene?" The
22
THE INTELLECTUAL ENTERPRISE, Chap. II 23
reply is, "My dog." The passerby asks, "What kind of a

dog?" To this question the reply is, "A dachshund." Fur-
ther inquiry is made: "What does he look like?" The
dogless owner tells him, "He's brown and his right ear
is clipped; and he's a he." Suppose now the passerby
should remark: "Thank you. Now I know what you are
looking for. You are looking for something that is animate
and not inanimate. This animate being belongs to the
dachshund breed of the canine species. Its sex is male; he
is brown in color; his right ear is clipped; and he answers

to the name of Eugene."
To be sure, the passerby has explained what Eugene
means, for in the absence of any of the meanings that he
has recited, it would not be Eugene that was referred to.
But the pet hunter was not intending to get the several
Eugene-meanings put together into a definition when he
asked, "Have you seen Eugene?" The meanings that can
satisfy this intention are not abstractions but the presence
in spectator consciousness of certain sensations whose
meanings, taken together, mean 'animate,' 'canine,'
'dachshund,' 'male,' 'brown,' 'clipped ear,' and 'respond-
ing to the name of Eugene.' Anything less than a sensory
appearance to which these abstractions can refer leaves
unsatisfied the intention of the question, "Have you seen
Eugene?"
The same kind of observations may be made about
questions whose answers refer to subjectified meanings.
Suppose, for example, that the daughter of Mr. and Mrs.
Brown has had time to arrive in the foreign country where
she is to study. So far they have not heard from her. A day
passes and yet another. Uneasiness mounts in geometric
proportions. The telephone rings and the Western Union
operator wants to know if they will accept a cablegram,
24 v . WILLIAM D. NIETMANN
collect. The cablegram reads, "Found lovely apartment.

Letter follows." What does the telegram mean? Td the
operator it means that someone has found a place to live.
The Browns, of course, get the same meaning from the
telegram; but to the Browns the message was not an an-
swer to the question, "Did she find a place to live?" Their
question was, rather, "What has happened to Sylvia?" In
their case, the meaning of the cablegram was addressed to
their uneasiness. 'Found' and 'lovely apartment' satisfy

the intention of their question because they mean Sylvia's
safety. Anything less than a message that in one way or
another refers Sylvia's fate to their uneasiness would be
beside the point of their question. The question is an-
swered because a feeling of relief is present as their par-
;
ticipator consciousness. °
As in the case of the heat deflector, the traffic in mean-
ings about Eugene and Sylvia is abstract. It is traffic that
aims to rid itself of abstraction by arriving at a meaning
conjoined with sensations in the case of Eugene and with
feelings in the case of Sylvia. Not only do we intend spec-
tator and participator meanings as answers to our ques-
tions, but also in some cases we intend relational abstrac-
tions. We shall draw upon antiquity for an illustration of
the latter circumstance.
Let us suppose that Achilles and a tortoise are to run
a race. Obviously Achilles, the speedy one, should win.
Hence the tortoise is given a lead. Can Achilles overcome
the lead and beat the tortoise? The answer is, No. If, for
example, the tortoise has a two minute head start, by the
time Achilles has run those two minutes, the tortoise will
have crawled (let us say) a distance it takes Achilles 32
seconds to cover. But 32 seconds later the tortoise has
moved on a little further. This time it only takes Achilles
rTHE lINTEIiECTUAL ENTERPRISE, Chap. II 25
eight seconds to reach where, the tortoise was. "Was" is

used advisedly, for in the meanwhile the little animal has
moved two seconds away from the eight second spot. The
gap between the athletes is closing; but even though the
distance that separates them should be infinitesimal, the
gap can never completely be closed.
This puzzle, we remember, was propounded by Zeno.
But as his critics, Aristotle and Eudoxus, knew, Zeno was
not writing as a sports enthusiast. The adventures of Achil-

les and the tortoise merely illustrate his answer to the
question, "What does infinity mean?" The answer to the
question does not refer to Achilles and the tortoise, but
to infinity and measurement. And infinity and measure-
ment cannot be felt or sensed; rather, they must be thought
of in terms of relational abstractions. Whereas the ques-
tions about Eugene and Sylvia involved, respectively, sen-
sations and feelings, Zeno's question required an abstrac-
tion for its answer. Thus, as Eugene, Sylvia, and Achilles
illustrate, we may observe that, although question-raising
transacts business in abstractions, the transactions become
meaningful answers according to whether their questions
are satisfied by meanings of the world—objectified, sub-
jectified or abstracted-^—for which they are intended.
Questions and Their Presupposed Meanings
In raising questions we not only seek to make abstrac-

tions answer to meanings that are present in the worlds
as objectified, subjectified and abstracted, but we also
express the meanings that make the questions possible.
Questions do not arise meaninglessly, for to raise a ques-
tion is to presuppose some meaning to which the question
owes its meaningfulness. A consideration of presupposi-
26 ^ WILLIAM D. NIETMANN
tional meanings next claims our attention. We shall begin

by remarking upon meanings presupposed in the inquiries
made in behalf of Eugene and Sylvia.
The Browns presupposed that lack of communication
was possibly a sign that Sylvia was in trouble. It was this
meaning, namely, the lack of communication, that gave
rise to the question, "What has happened to Sylvia?" If
there had been communication, there would not have been
this question. The question about the whereabouts of

Eugene was likewise generated by a presupposition. Peo-
ple notice stray dogs, and because they do, it occurred to
Eugene's owner to ask the passerby, "Where is Eugene?"
Unless people did notice stray dogs, the detailing of the
meanings conjoined with Eugene's sensory presence
would have been beside the point.
Much of the intellectual traffic we call knowledge is
carried on in terms of ordinary affairs, such as the Sylvia
and Eugene situations. But not only ordinary knowledge,
which is produced by commonplace questions, is an ex-
pression of presupposed meanings, but scientific knowl-
edge as well becomes meaningful in terms of presupposi-
tions. The history of gravity theory affords an instruaive
illustration at this point, for in it we may note how the
selfsame question may receive different answers in accord-
ance with a difference of meanings presupposed by the
question-raiser. The question is, "Why do things fall down
when they are left unsupported?" How different answers
arise from different presuppositional meanings may be
presented with the help of the following myth:
According to the myth, Galileo climbed to the top of
the leaning tower of Pisa with two cannonballs under his
arms, one a hundred-pounder and the other a one-pounder.
On Aristotelian theory, the heavier of the two balls should

reach the ground first if they were simultaneously
dropped. Galileo, so the myth goes, did drop them both
at once, and they both hit the ground at the same time.
Instead of blindly following Aristotle's theories, why did
men before Galileo not have enough sense to stir out of
their armchairs and get some experimental evidence on
falling bodies?4 But contrary to popular misconception, it
was the Aristotelians who advocated experimentation, and
it was Galileo who repudiated experimentation as a meth-

od for arriving at an understanding of nature.
Also contrary to popular notion, it is not a difference
in method that distinguishes pre-Galilean from post-
Galilean science. Rather, the crucial difference is in the
different meanings of motion which gave significance to
the question, "Why do things fall down?" For Aristotel-
ians, the question called for one answer because they pre-
supposed that motion needed to be explained. For Gali-
leo's followers, however, the question called for another
answer because to them motion needed no explanation.
We will first offer a word about Aristotelian theory of
motion, and then about Galilean theory.
Aristotelian science presupposed that motion was
caused by a thing's nature. It is the nature of any mass,
such as a cannonball, to be heavy; that is, to go to the
center of the earth. Any heavy object will continue down-
ward until it reaches dead center. Hence, the destiny
proper to its being is downward motion. The pressure is
a thing's heaviness or weight. Any other direction than
4 Although the cannonball story is myth, there is some evidence that Galileo
as a youth did drop a block of wood and a lump of lead from a tower. The lead
reached the ground first, just as the Aristotelians said it would.
downward, such as the upward section of the trajectory of

an arrow, is in violation of nature and is therefore called
violent motion by Aristotle. In Aristotelian science, mo-
tion had to be explained; hence, falling bodies move either
by nature (Aristotle's final cause) or in violation of nature
(Aristotle's efficient cause).
In contrast to the Aristotelians, the modernists started
from the notion that motion was uncaused. In Descartes'
formulation of the notion, things that are moving keep

on moving indefinitely in a straight line until interfered
with. Motion is taken for granted, and hence the problem
generated by the question, "Why do things fall down?"
becomes, "What makes them move the way they do?"
The answer to the question was therefore not found in the
nature of massive things, but in a relation that obtained
among them, namely, the relation of their mutual attrac-
tion. Consequently, according to a modern gravity theory,
all massive things are understood to move toward each
other, and where the earth is one of them, at the rate of 32
feet per second per second. It may be said, then, that rather
than explaining motion in terms of gravity, as the ancient
scientists did with their doctrine of final causes, modern
scientists explain gravity in terms of motion.
Our concern in offering this contrast between Aris-
totelian and Galilean science is not primarily with physics
or its history. Rather, as a British historian put the matter,
we are interested in the fact that the change from ancient
to modern science came as a result of a "transposition in
the mind of the scientist himself" when he switched pre-
suppositional "thinking caps."5 Theories about gravity,
5 Herbert Butterfield, The Origins of Modern Science (New York: Mac-

millan Co., 1951), page 1.
no less than the whereabouts of Eugene and Sylvia, make

sense according to a presupposed meaning that undergirds
them. With respect to dependency for meaning upon
presuppositions, all knowledge is alike, whether the
knowledge be scientific or merely ordinary, everyday
knowledge.
The kind of knowledge that is illustrated by Eugene,
Sylvia, and gravity theory may be called empirical. At
least we shall use this word to refer to knowledge which

can be referred to the objectified and subjectified worlds.
The abstractions involved in the Eugene and Sylvia dis-
course more obviously refer to meanings that can be pres-
ent as spectator or participator consciousness, respectively.
But, however remote gravity theory may seem from the
objectified world, it is nevertheless to the behavior of this
world, as evidenced by sensations, that the theory may be
referred.
The same may not be said for the relational abstrac-
tions in the Zeno puzzle. The kind of knowledge that is
illustrated by the Zeno discourse we shall refer to as formal
knowledge. Formal knowledge is made up wholly of
relational propositions. But formal knowledge, no less
than empirical knowledge, is an expression of presuppo-
sitional meanings. Let us consider next the Zeno puzzle
as an expression of a presupposition.
More than one freshman in the "Philosophy for
Beginners" course has remained unconvinced by Zeno's
conclusions, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, has
been hard put to refute Zeno's argument. As Aristotle's
companion, Eudoxus, pointed out, it is not Zeno's argu-
ment nor its conclusions that are the source of their dis-
satisfaction, but rather his presupposition. Zeno presup-
posed that time is a series of discrete instants and that space

is a series of discrete points. With this presupposition, the
question of measurement and infinity, and the answer pro-
posed by Zeno to the question, are meaningful in spite
of the lack of freshman conviction.
However, if one were to presuppose a different mean-
ing of time and space, Zeno's answer no longer would
make sense. Aristotle and Eudoxus started from the pre-
supposition that time is an interval and space is a span. On

this presupposition, the time and space taken by Achilles
from the beginning to the end of the race must be con-
sidered as a unit; and so, too, with the tortoise. In this case
we can say that Achilles does 100 yards in five seconds
and that the tortoise does it in five days. If we had taken a
motion picture of the race, we could indeed stop the film
and measure their positions with respect to each other
(which is exactly what Zeno did). But in so doing we
would be measuring them not as moving, but as stopped;
and if they are stopped, the question of Achilles overtak-
ing the tortoise is no longer relevant. How can one thing
that is not moving overtake another thing that is not
moving?
Eudoxus' criticism of Zeno is instructive. Like the
contrast between ancient and modern gravity theory, it
illustrates that different meanings are brought into focus
by the same question, because meanings presupposed by
the question are different. The history of geometry offers
a well-known parallel illustration. Several mathematical
sciences differ in their answer to the same question, because
the question arises from different presuppositions. The
illustration is literally a parallel one, for it is one about
parallel lines.
Presupposing a plane that is unlimited in extent and
not closed upon itself—as Euclid did—one must answer

"no" to the question, "Do parallel lines meet?" If parallel
lines do not meet, it follows that the sum of the angles of a
triangle must be 180°. A Russian, Lobashevski, and later
a German, Riemann, did not use Euclid's fifth postulate
about parallel lines. Lobashevski presupposed that geo-
metrical space is shaped like two bells whose circular ends
coincide. Consequently, more than one parallel can be
drawn through a point alongside a given line. On this

basis, the angles of a triangle add up to less than 180°.6
Riemann's geometrical space may be pictured as spheri-
cally shaped, and from the presupposition that permits
this image, it follows that parallel lines cannot be drawn.
In Riemann's geometry, the sum of the angles of a trian-
gle is greater than 180° but never greater than 540°.
Where presuppositions differ, the same question
brings different meanings into focus. Starting from
Euclid's presupposition, for example, one concludes that
the sum of the angles of a triangle must be 180°. If one
starts from different presuppositions, as Lobashevski and
Riemann did, then, as we have seen, a different sum of the
angles of a triangle is required. Whether a triangle's angles
add up to 180°, less than 180°, or more than 180°, is an
implication of the same question—"Do parallel lines
meet?" The answers are different because they are derived
from different presuppositions.
Zeno's puzzle and the geometry of parallels are ex-
amples of formal knowledge, for mathematical abstrac-
tions such as time, space, motion, lines, degrees, triangles,
6
Bolyai, an Hungarian contemporary of Lobashevski, who worked inde-
pendently of the Russian, contrived a similar geometry. This kind of geometry
later proved useful to Einstein and to nuclear physicists. On Euclidean and non-
Euclidean geometries see E. R. Stabler, op. cit., pages 11 ff.
etc., cannot be sensed or felt. But whether knowledge be

formal or empirical, the questions whose answers produce
knowledge do not arise meaninglessly. The same holds
true for ordinary, everyday knowledge. Abstract answers
that constitute knowledge, whether it is scientific knowl-
edge about gravity or parallels, or ordinary knowledge
about Eugene or Sylvia, for example, accrue their mean-
ings from two sources of meaningfulness. As we have
seen in the present section, they express the meaning pre-

supposed by the question by which they have been assem-
bled into knowledge; and, as we have seen in the previous
section, they become meaningful as a quest for spectator,
participator or relational meanings.
Sensations, Feelings and Questions
The final section of this chapter is offered as a review

of the first chapter. It may also serve to indicate the charac-
ter of the next two chapters. Its review and preview func-
tion will be discharged by the help of a comparison and
contrast of the worlds as objectified, subjectified and ab-
stracted. It is the latter world, however, that will receive
special attention.
Sensations, feelings and questions are similar in the
respect that none can occur bereft of meanings. Sensations
give an objectified bearing to meanings, feelings give a
subjectified bearing to meanings, and questions give an
abstracted bearing to meanings. In the case of questions,
recall for example the heat deflector anecdote. In this situ-
ation, spectator and participator meanings were considered
apart from their conjunction with sensations and feelings
because a question—"How can I get my hand out of this
hole without causing damage?"—was raised. In evoking

a consideration of such meanings as 'lighting fixtures,'
'comfort,' etc. apart from their occurrence in conjunction
with sensations or feelings, the question created an abstract
world which we call knowledge. The transaaion could
not have taken place, however, were it not for relational
abstractions symbolized, for example, by prepositional
words like 'through.' Thus we may say that just as mean-
ings are conjoined with sensations and with feelings,

meanings as abstractions are conjoined with questions.
To continue the comparison: The objectified and sub-
jectified worlds can change, but the meanings present in
them do not. Likewise the abstracted world, and not its
meanings, change. For example, suppose my wife should
walk into the room into which my hand is protruding
through the hole in the ceiling. Let us say that she sizes
up my predicament and then raises a question: "How
come you didn't use that coil of wire alongside of you to
lower the deflector to the floor?" To be sure, her question
changes my subjectified world by making me feel foolish
as well as ridiculous and frustrated. But it also changes the
abstracted world. All of the abstractions involved in this
world take on a new relevance. "Heat deflector," for
example, becomes something to tie a wire to and not some-
thing to hold. But their meanings remain the same: 'heat
deflector' and 'arm,' for example, with respect to their own
meaning, still mean 'heat deflector' and 'arm,' even though
a new question has given them a different relevance. It is
our abstracted worlds that change, and not the abstrac-
tions. Hence, the abstracted world, no less than the objec-
tified and the subjectified worlds, is a private affair.
Although the objectified, subjectified and abstracted
worlds are parallel at least in the ways that we have just
remarked upon, there is a significant way in which mean-

ings conjoined with questions are different from meanings
conjoined with sensations and feelings. "When meanings
are present to me as though I were a spectator of them,
their presence is correlated with sensations. I can, to be
sure, pick an object to look at, but I cannot pick my sensa-
tions of it. After staring steadily at the natural bamboo
drapes in my study with an admonition to my sight to see
pink this time and not pale yellow, I still see pale yellow.
The meaning that goes along with any given sight, goes
along with it; and that is that. So too does the meaning
that goes along with desire and with emotion. For any time
that I am feeling one or the other, the conjoined mean-
ing occurs only as it is being felt. The point is that only
those meanings that are present with a given sensation or
a given feeling are present as speaator or participator
consciousness.
It is at this juncture that the difference mentioned
above becomes apparent. In contrast to meanings con-
joined with sensations or feelings, which are tied down to
some particular sensing or feeling event, the meanings
that are conjoined with questions are abstractions. They
therefore are not tied down to any particular question,
but can be made relevant to other abstractions by other
questions, as we saw in the second solution to the heat
deflector problem. Thus, whereas in sensations and feel-
ings we must take whatever meanings we get, with ques-
tions we get whatever meanings we take by means of our
questions.
At least this is so with respect to abstractional mean-
ings. Whether it also applies to speaator and participator
meanings that are intended by abstraa meanings is a mat-
ter of fact. We shall have more to say about this later. But
for the present we want to call attention to a characteristic
that is peculiar to questions in contrast to sensations and
feelings. This characteristic is the decisional nature of ques-
tions. In matters pertaining to sensation and feeling, we
can decide what to sense and we can decide what to desire
or emote about; but in so doing we are dealing in abstrac-
tions. Sensations and feelings in themselves cannot be
decided upon. I cannot, for example, decide that I am not

now seeing pale yellow and have the yellow forthwith
change to another color. Nor can I decide that I am not
now feeling depressed, and by that decision feel cheerful.
However, with questions the situation is different. For a
question is a decision to select this meaning rather than
that as a focus for organizing other meanings. Moreover,
I can decide upon another question, and forthwith a dif-
ferent set of abstractional meanings is present as my inter-
rogator consciousness.
Questioning does not go on forever. As an activity, it
comes to a halt when a person is no longer busy at it. How-
ever, the connections among meanings that are established
by questioning do not dissolve when the questioning
stops. Such connections remain to constitute an abstracted
world. When they and the meanings they connect are
thought of apart from the questions that produced them,
they are called propostions. Propositions are the stuff of
knowledge. Knowledge is therefore the end produa of
the question-and-answer activity which marks our role as
interrogators. In the next two chapters we offer an analy-
sis of knowledge in terms of the basic factors in its pro-
duction, namely, meaning and decision.
....;.:. ..... ; HI.... - ,
PROPOSITIONS AND LOGIC
D ECISION bears upon the intellectual enterprise in at

ieast two ways. The first way has to do with putting
meanings together into propositions, and the second way
has to do with putting propositions together into knowl-
edge. There are at least five ways in which meanings may

be put together into propositions, and there are at least
three ways in which propositions may be put together
into bodies of knowledge, or science. This chapter explains
the five kinds of propositions arid the three ways for link-
ing propositions into knowledge. Chapter IV is an expla-
nation of knowledge as a product of personal decision.
Factual and Valuational Propositions
The word "proposition" is given to two meanings

that have been put together in such a way that one mean-
ing is made to mean the other meaning. There are at least
five ways of doing this, and we shall explain and illus-
trate each way. In this section, factual and valuational
propositions will be treated, in that order.
Let us suppose that I am seated in my office, hard at
work trying to understand; "Peanuts." In the adjoining
'office there is ahigh pitched "scrunchy" noise. Perhaps
many other noises are also.sounding—-the chirping of a
bird and the between^class chatter of students, etc. But
it is the "scrunch" noise I hold in question by asking,
"What does it mean?" This question indicates that I have
seleaed the meaning of the noise for the purpose of bring-
36
THE INTELLECTUAL ENTERPRISE, Chap. Ill 37
ing other meanings together on its terms. Suppose that

the meanings it brings together are: "My secretary is cut-
ting heavy wrapping paper with a pair of scissors. Each
time she snips, the paper 'scrunches'." Here I am putting
forward ("proposition" comes from pro -fponefe, "to put
forward") 'paper cutting' as the meaning of "scrunchy"
noise. In referring the "scrunch" noise to 'paper-cutting,'
I am making the 'noise' meaning mean the 'paper-cutting'
meaning. In so doing I have made a proposition. Propo-

sitions thus express decisions about meanings.
The decision to give 'paper-cutting' meaning to
'scrunchy noise' may be called factual proposition. The
use of the word "factual" in this connection is a concession
to a current philosophical doctrine which reserves that
word for events linked, or linkable, to sensations. The
proposition we have been using as an example is factual
because its starting-point meaning, 'scrunchy sound,' is
linked to a meaning that is presentable in the world that
is objectified by sensations, namely, the sight and sounds
proper to the use of a pair of scissors. The proposition that
" 'scrunchy noise' means 'paper-cutting' " refers to a visual
and auditory presence; hence it is a factual proposition.
Valuational propositions are a second kind of propo-
sition. A proposition is valuational if it links its starting-
point meaning to a meaning that is presentable in the
world as subjectified. For example, let us say that the
noise that means paper-cutting also means an annoyance.
The meaning of the noise might then be expressed in the
proposition, "I don't like that noise." In Spanish one
would say "No me gusta este ruido." The Spanish idiom
has the advantage of putting into a more usual proposi-
tidnal form the meaning assigned to the noise, namely,
'dislike,' for it is translated, "That noise is displeasing to
38 j;;/-. ,...;..•:•;•••• WILLIAM D. NIETMANN
me." Such a proposition may be called valuational, because

a valuation may be defined as a feeling of liking, desiring,
prizing, enjoying, preferring; an acknowledgement of
interest, importance, or worthiness of approval;7 and
also whatever feelings are contrary to these.8 In short,
any feeling whose worth or unworth is imparted to
it by personal involvement and participation is a val-
uation.9 It should be noted that a valuation is not the
feeling per se, for there is no such thing. Rather, it

is a feeling that is conjoined to a meaning.10 Since,
as we saw in the first chapter, it is meaning as con-
joined with feeling that constitutes the world as sub-
jectified, we may say that the subjeaified world is also
the world of valuations. The proposition that we have
used for an example, "That noise is displeasing to
me," is valuational because its starting-point meaning,
namely, 'scrunchy noise,' is linked to a meaning that is
presentable in the valuational or subjectified world.
Descriptive and Relational Propositions
A third kind of proposition is the descriptive propo-

sition. The descriptive proposition can resemble in one
respect either factual or valuational propositions. Con-
sider, for example the following examples of descriptive
7 The list of features, but not the definition, is borrowed from E. S. Bright-
man. Cf. An Introduction to Philosophy, rev. ed. (New York: Henry Holt and
Company, 1951). p. 141.
8
Aversions are positively present as participator consciousness, and hence
evaluations and "dis-evaluations" are not contradictory. If this is so, ambivalence
is at least no logical puzzle.
9 It should be noted that valuations have not been equated with values. To
do so would be to offer an incomplete account of values, which include ideal and
systemic considerations as well as feelings.
10 Hence valuations, and subsequently values, are cognitive.
propositions: "All apples are fruit" and "In 1953 each

family had 3.2 children." "Apples/ 'fruit,' 'family' and
'children' are like meanings of factual propositions in the
sense that they might possibly be conjoined with sensa-
tions. Descriptive propositions can, in like manner, also
resemble evaluational propositions. Thus, in the propo-
sitions, "Production increases in direct proportion to the
level of employee morale," or "Embarrassment is caused
by a feeling of insecurity," 'morale,' 'embarrassment,' and

'insecurity' can, like the meanings of evaluational propo-
sitions, be conjoined with feelings.
But there is an important difference between descrip-
tive propositions, on the one hand, and factual and
evaluational propositions, on the other hand. Descriptive
propositions, unlike factual and valuational propositions,
refer to any possible situation that fits their description.
Descriptive propositions are thus abstraa, for they do not
refer to any particular "this", or "that" in the objectified
or subjectified worlds.
The abstraa charaaer of descriptive propositions is
nicely brought out by one of the many stories told by the
late Chancellor Knoles. According to the story, a duck
hunter reported his luck with the proposition, "On
the average I shot one duck." Under pressure of cross-
examination, he confessed that he really was a luckless,
duckless hunter, for his first shot was one foot to the left
of the duck and his second shot one foot to its right. "So,"
he explained, "on the average I shot a duck." His "average
duck" referred to no particular duck; and so, too, the
propositions we have used for examples refer to no par-
ticular apple, or family, or morale, etc.
In an earlier discussion (in Chapter I) we distin-
guished between spectator- and participator-abstractions,

on the one hand, and relational abstractions, on the other
hand. The kinds of propositions that we have thus far
treated relate meanings that are either spectator- or
participator-abstractions. Factual and evaluational propo-
sitions refer their abstractions to particular events in the
objectified or subjectified worlds, whereas descriptive
propositions are general in their reference. Even so, they
nevertheless describe a definite abstraction, such as 'apple/

'family,' 'morale,' etc. Not so with relational propositions,
the kind of proposition we now turn to. For relational
propositions are applicable to any or all spectator and
participator meanings, and their abstractions; and hence
they have no descriptive meanings. Because of their non-
descript character, noncommittal letters, such as 5", P, and
M, and a, b, and c, etc., are used to symbolize relational
propositions. For example, in the relational proposition of
logic that a—b=0 (i.e., that the a that is not b is without
members), these symbols refer not to any particular a and
b, but, to any meanings whatever which stand in the rela-
tions indicated by the relational meanings 'not,' 'equals,'
and 'without members.' These meanings are symbolized,
respectively, by the minus sign (—), by the equal sign
( = ) and by the cipher sign (0).
Relational propositions may, we have said, be applied
to any spectator- and participator-abstractions. When
thus applied, a proposition like a—b=0 is more readily
grasped. For example, let a stand for 'apples,' and b stand
for 'fruit.' Using these spectator abstractions, we can trans-
late a—b=0 into a descriptive proposition: "The class of
apples that does not belong to the class of fruit is without
members"; that is, "All apples are fruit." The fact that we
believe this proposition to be true, however, has nothing
to do with the relationship expressed in the proposition.

We may not believe, for instance, that "all paper clips are
fruit"; but this proposition, no less than the one about
apples, still expresses our decision to relate a and b so that
the a that is not b is without members.
Postulational Propositions
Postulational propositions are the last kind to be pre-

sented. The word "postulational" is a form of "postulate,"
which comes from the Latin word postulate, "to demand."
Postulational propositions are demands for intelligibility.
They assert what is required of the world if certain factual,
evaluational, or descriptive propositions are to make sense.
Two illustrations of postulational propositions follow,
one from the field of astronomy and the other from the
field of epistemology.
Early in the last century, astronomers noticed that the
speed and orbit of Uranus was not what Newtonian celes-
tial mechanics called for. U. J. J. Leverrier of France and
John Coach Adams of England, two mathematicians who
worked independently of each other, calculated where and
when another planet, whose gravitational field would
explain the behavior of Uranus in Newtonian terms,
should be located. In 1846 Johann Galle of Berlin, using
their calculations, discovered the planet Neptune.
Why were Leverrier, Adams, Galle, and others, con-
cerned about Uranus' behavior? Because its behavior did
not fit in with a demand they had made upon physical
nature. They had postulated a mechanical orderliness that
permitted no exceptions to its requirements, in this case
expressed by Newtonian astrophysics. Unless their scien-
tific work had been undergirded by this demand, Uranus'
orbit and speed would never have constituted a problem

for them. For example, if instead of postulating an orderly
mechanical universe, they had postulated a magical uni-
verse in which capricious deity was wont to make the sun
stand still, or earthquakes come and.go to enforce moral
lessons, the orbit of Uranus could readily be explained as
the accustomed action of deity. In this case, the problem
of Uranus would have been solved on magical grounds.
The point is that the "magical" observer brings to his ob-

servations the demand that physical events be explained as
the manipulations of deity, and the "scientific" observer
brings to his observations the demand that the universe be
mechanically explained.
Now, it should be noted that neither magical manipu-
lation nor mechanical order are present to the senses, for
postulational propositions do not refer to any particular
meaning that is presentable in the world as objectified;
nor, it may be added, as subjectified or as abstracted. To be
sure, both the "magician" and the "scientist" presumably
see similar sights of light from Neptune; but neither the
"magical" nor the "orderly" postulate is sensed. Rather,
the meaning of a postulational proposition refers to the
demand it expresses. Both "physical nature is magical" and
"physical nature is orderly" refer to a way of understand-
ing the meaning of physical events so that they make sense.
A postulate is wholly an abstraction. Yet, it is not an
abstraction in the same sense that a relational abstraction
is an abstraction, for its intention is different. Although
relational abstractions may be applied to a world beyond
themselves (for example, when we apply a and b to 'apple'
and 'fruit'), in themselves relational abstractions do not
refer to any world beyond the level of relational abstrac-
tions. In contrast, the abstractions joined together as postu-
lational propositions do; for they refer to a world beyond

the worlds we have mentioned—the objectified, subjecti-
fied and abstracted worlds—to a real world which imparts
meaningfulness to these worlds. We turn now to the
second illustration of postulational propositions, an illus-
tration which comes from the field of epistemology.
The interest of epistemologists is to explain knowl-
edge, especially to explain what you get when you get
knowledge, and why knowledge is possible. In one epis-

temological explanation it is postulated that the laws of
thought are principles of being. Before commenting on
this proposition, we will first remark upon laws of thought
and then upon principles of being.
The laws of thought are relational meanings. One of
them, the law of identity, states that "A is A." In saying
"A is A" we are not deciding anything about A, and hence
the law of identity is not a proposition. The formula "A
is A" is merely a way of expressing what we earlier (in
Chapter I) called the stubbornness of meanings. The for-
mula is an abstraction. It abstracts from the occurrence of
any meanings whatever—whether they are present as
spectator, participator or interrogator consciousness—the
stubbornness whereby a meaning stays put with respea
to its own meaning. Rather than being a prepositional
decision about A, the law of identity is a meaning about
meanings, and like other meanings, it is available for our
decision.
The same may be said about the law of contradiction,
which may be formulated as "A is not both B and non-B,"
or less ambiguously, "A cannot at the same time, and in
the same relation, be both B and not B."u Superficially,
11
Cf. H. W. B. Joseph, An Introduction to Logic (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1916), p.46.
the law of contradiction, like the law of identity, seems to

be a relational proposition. When one applies the formula
to 'apples' and 'fruit,' for example, it seems that in a state-
ment such as the following one has decided something
about applies: "Apples are not both fruit and non-fruit."
Actually the law of contradiction, like the law of identity,
is a meaning and not a proposition. The meaning formu-
lated by the law is that a meaning means what it means.
If 'apple' means 'fruit,' it means 'fruit'; the fruit meaning

cannot, while meaning fruit, be absent. The law of con-
tradiction is thus an abstraction of the meaning of the
mind's ability to put meanings together. It is not a propo-
sitional decision, but rather the meaning of propositional
decisions.
Since the laws of identity and of contradiction are, as
we have seen, abstraaions from the operation that we call
thinking, it is easy enough for us to see why they are re-
garded as conditions of thinking. And it is true that in the
absence of the identity of meanings and of their non-
contradiction, there would be no thinking. Thus, for ex-
ample, when we say "all apples are fruit," we are giving
the meaning of fruit to apples. If we say that all fruit are
edible, and therefore all apples are edible, we are also
giving the meaning of edible to apples. This transaction
in thinking could never have taken place if A were not
A—if 'apples' were not 'apples;' 'fruit,' 'fruit'; and 'edi-
ble,' 'edible.' Nor could it have taken place if A were both
B and non-B—if 'apples' were both 'fruit' and 'non-fruit.'
It seems that in the absence of these laws of thought, no
decisions about apples would have been made. Identity
and non-contradiction seem therefore to be necessary con-
ditions for putting meanings together.
But this is not the case. To think that it is, is like
THE INTELLECTUAL ENTERPRISE, Chap. Ill • 45
thinking that a well-devised charter can establish a world

community of nations. It is, rather, the community that
establishes the charter; and likewise, it is the nature of
meanings as exhibited in the decisional process of putting
meanings together that makes possible the abstraa formu-
las called the laws of thought. Unless we put meanings
together, there would be nothing there from which to
derive the meaning of putting meanings together. Hence,
instead of saying that if it were not for the laws of thought

we could not think, we should say that, if we did not
think, there could be no laws of thought because the source
of their meaning would be absent. It should be noted that
we are not saying that the laws of thought are products of
decisions, for the laws of thought are relational abstrac-
tions and not propositions.
As relational abstractions, the laws of thought are
meanings and not decisions, and we can and do make
decisions about meanings. The proposition that we shall
consider in the next paragraph, namely, that the laws of
thought mean that reality itself is rational, is an example
of such a decision. Other decisions about the laws of
thought are, of course, possible. Alice in Wonderland is
a literary monument to the decision to ignore laws of
thought; and Christians, in order to report a truth claim
that to them bursts rational categories, defy the laws of
thought with such doctrines as the Incarnation and the
Trinity. Although the laws of thought may be an abstraa
description of how some meanings are put together (e.g.,
'apples,' 'fruit' and 'edible'), they are not a description of
how all meanings are put together.
The laws of thought, then, are not necessary condi-
tions of thought. However, their widespread and taken-for-
granted use in framing propositions makes them impor-
tant. Their importance so impresses some epistemologists

that they are regarded not only as making knowledge pos-
sible, but as also providing grounds for the trustworthiness
of intellectual life. In saying that the laws of thought are
also principles of being, these epistemologists are saying
that it is possible for us to know the universe outside our
own minds, because the same conditions that make our in-
tellectual life possible also structure reality itself. Both our
minds and the rest of the universe are, so to speak, cast in

the molds of thought. No small wonder, then, that we can
understand the universe, for such rational sameness is an
assurance that our intellectual life can truly know the real-
ity beyond itself to which it refers by its meanings. In
other words, we demand or postulate a reality that is think-
able and rational so that our thinking and reason can grasp
it—which might well be the case if the laws of thought
were also principles of being.
Like other postulational propositions, this one has a
specific meaning content, namely, that reality is rational.
Also in common with other postulational propositions, its
meaning content is abstract, for it does not refer to the
world as sensed or as felt. But its abstraction is not like
that of relational propositions, for its meaning content
renders possible one way of understanding the reality of
any possible world.
Analytic and Stipulative Sentences
Before passing on to a consideration of the way in

which propositions are linked together into knowledge,
we should make note of a philosophical confusion. I refer
to what is called an analytic proposition, but which actu-
ally is a pseudo-proposition. The following sentence ex-
hibits an analytic "proposition:" "All bachelors are men."

It does not take much inspection of this sentence to see
that it is not a proposition. For, if by bachelors we mean
unmarried men, the sentence may equivalently be restated,
"all unmarried men are men." With the help of the re-
statement we can see that the predicate of the first sentence
(men) is included in the meaning of its subject (bache-
lor) . In this sentence, bachelor is not made to mean man;
it already means man. What an analytic "proposition"

does is to point out that, with respect to itself, a meaning
means no more than it means. To say that bachelors are
men is to say that unmarried men are men. Analytic "prop-
ositions," rather than putting different meanings together,
simply repeat the same meanings in different words.
Although analytic sentences are not decisional, stipu-
lative sentences are. A person may decide, for example,
to say that in the future every time he says "bachelors"
he means unmarried girls. To be sure, a person who
stipulates that, in his use of language, "bachelor" means
unmarried girls, might have to build his own linguistic
colony. Be that as it may, the stipulation is a decision con-
cerning the use of words. But it is not, it should be noted,
a decision concerning the meaning of meanings. The
meaning "unmarried man" remains itself even though
the word "bachelor" is understood to symbolize "unmar-
ried girls." Although the reversal of a symbol's meaning
by an individual is practically unheard of, etymologically
such reversal is not unheard of. A notable example is the
word "prevent." In Elizabethan times this word (which
is derived from the Latin prae+venire, "to come before" )
symbolized the meaning of anticipating a wish by satis-
fying it. Today it symbolizes the meaning of setting up
obstacles, of frustrating rather than satisfying. Obviously
the symbol has changed its meaning, but the meanings,

although now differently symbolized, stubbornly remain
themselves. Stipulative sentences, like analytic sentences,
are not prepositional, for propositions are created by the
decision to put together two meanings in such a way that
one meaning is made to mean the other meaning.
Systematized Knowledge
Knowledge is created by the decision to put proposi-

tions together. Both everyday knowledge and scientific
knowledge are made up of propositions. Ordinary knowl-
edge and scientific knowledge part company at the point
of the importance attached to the way in which proposi-
tions are linked together. Three ways of linking proposi-
tions together have been formulated in western thought,
and they have been variously named. We shall use the
names that follow: necessary logic, possibility logic, syn-
optic logic. When any of these logics can be used to justify
the linking of propositions to each other, the propositions
thus linked are called a body of knowledge, or scientific
knowledge. If the linkage cannot be so justified, the prop-
ositions do not logically belong together. Such proposi-
tions may be called matters of opinion, or ordinary knowl-
edge, or "hunches." As we shall have an occasion to notice
more fully later, the truth of a proposition is independent
of whether the proposition is or is not logically linked
to other propositions. Opinions may be true and science
may be false; or science may be true and opinions may be
false.
In distinguishing the five kinds of propositions, our
consideration of knowledge has been limited to the propo-
sitions as such. Our next concern is with the logic whereby
propositions are put together into bodies of knowledge,

or sciences. In the remainder of the present chapter we
shall illustrate the difference between necessary logic, pos-
sibility logic, and synoptic logic. In the next chapter we
will show how these logics enter into the construction of
the several kinds of science.
It may be recalled that when relational propositions
were discussed, we resorted to the use of words in order
to illustrate the symbolism of a—b=0. a we said was

apples, and b was fruit. Translated into a descriptive prop-
osition, the symbols read: "All apples are fruit." Since
necessary logic is made up of relational propositions, we
shall resort to the same device. Consider for example the
argument that reads:
b—c=0
a—b==0
a—c=0
Translated into the paper-cutting seaetarial situation so

that b stands for "paper-cutting," c for "getting work
done," and a for "making noise," my secretary could meet
my protest about her noisy activity by arguing:
I have to cut paper to get your work done;

I have to make noise to cut paper;
Therefore, I have to make noise to get your
work done.
Her inference does not silence the noise, but it does

silence me, at least as far as its logic goes. For if b is in-
cluded in c (i.e., "paper-cutting" is among the things
meant by "getting work done"), and if a is included in c
(i.e., "noise-making" is among the things meant by

"paper-cutting"), then a is also included in c (i.e., "noise-
making* ' is also meant by' 'getting work done'').
As we remarked earlier, if the terms of relational
propositions are applied to other kinds of meanings, we
have to distinguish between the way the meanings have
been put together and whether they have been truly put
together. We can put together "all clips are fruit" in the
same way that we put together "all apples are fruit," but
there may be doubts concerning whether 'clips' and 'fruit'
have been truly put together. The point is that relational
propositions, when applied to spectator- or participator-
abstractions, have to do with how meanings are put to-
gether and not whether they are truly put together. At this
point necessary logic differs from possibility logic, for
necessary logic, since it is a linkage of relational proposi-
tions, is likewise merely concerned with how meanings
are put together. Possibility logic, unlike necessary logic,
raises the question whether meanings have been truly put
together. In illustrating possibility logic, we shall
approach my secretary with a challenge to her contention
that she has to make noise in order to get my work done.
Let her reply to the challenge be, "You're getting your
work done, aren't you?" Behind her reply is reasoning that
may be formulated in this way:
If getting your work done requires paper-

cutting, then there is going to be noise;
There is noise;
Therefore, you are getting your work done.
The necessity that attached to the first argument does not

attach to this one. For the conclusion that she here offers—
that I am getting my paper-cutting work done—does not

necessarily follow from its premises, any more than it
necessarily follows that because a house is colored, it is
red. That noise should accompany paper-cutting is a most
likely situation, but it is not the only possible situation.
Perhaps, with the help of Dr. Wonmug, I can provide her
with a pair of electronic shears whose cutting action re-
arranges the molecules of paper in an "unscrunchy" fash-
ion. Or perhaps I might induce her to dip the blades in

water before she cuts with them. Or perhaps there are
other sources of 'scrunchy' noises to which I am being ex-
posed and which have nothing to do with paper-cutting
and my work. An alternative conclusion may be remote
and fantastic, but its absurdity has no logical weight. In
possibility logic other options are always possible. Hence,
no matter how great may be the practical certainty of the
argument presented by my secretary, there always remains
a possibility that the conclusion does not follow from its
premises. In using possibility logic, my secretary is scien-
tific in the popular sense of science; for it is this logic that
is used to lead to the conclusions of empirical science.
The first argument that was derived from the secre-
tarial situation yielded an illustration of necessary logic.
The next argument yielded an illustration of possibility
logic. Once more we return to the secretarial situation, and
this time the argument is intended to yield an illustration
of synoptic logic.
Since she is an alert woman, it occurs to her that I have
a problem. I want to have my work done, yet my sensi-
bilities are so tender that the noise is disturbing me as I try
to fathom "Peanuts." In detail, she sizes up the situation as
involving three propositions:
(1) His work needs to be done.

(2) His reading of "Peanuts" requires
silence.
(3) Noise accompanies the doing of his
work.
Looking at these three propositions with a view to solv-

ing our problem, she asks me, "Why don't you read Tea-
nuts' in the library?" If I take her hint, then (1) I get my

office work done; (2) there is silence so I can grapple with
"Peanuts;" ( 3 ) the noise no longer is an issue.
In her wisdom she has solved the conflict between
noist and silence so that each aspect of the situation has
its own proper satisfaction. For by introducing a new
meaning—in this case 'library'-—a new situation is intro-
duced, a situation in which hitherto incompatible mean-
ings may be viewed together without conflict. The words
"viewed together" have been italicized because their
Greek equivalent gives rise to the kind of logic we are
exhibiting, namely, synoptic logic: syn means "together,"
and opsis means "view." To infer synoptically, my secre-
tary had to decide on a meaning which, if introduced into
the situation, would also introduce coherence among its
several competing meanings.
There is a sense in which synopsis is like necessary
logic, for it is necessary to enlarge the situation with addi-
tional meanings in order to resolve its conflict in a coherent
fashion. There is also a sense in which synopsis is like
possibility logic, for possibly some meaning other than
"library," could have brought coherence. But synopsis is
essentially different from both logic and possibility logic.
Whereas they are limited by the terms in their premises,
it is the essential characteristic of synoptic logic not to be
THE INTELLECTUAL ENTERPRISE, Chap. IV 53
so limited, but to seek out whatever new meanings can be

used to change a conflicting situation into a coherent one.
Three kinds of logic—necessary, possibility and syn-
optic—have been distinguished. It is by way of these
logics that the five kinds of propositions we have identi-
fied are put together into sciences such as astronomy, biol-
ogy, psychology, physics, sociology, economics, chemis-
try, logic, mathematics, ethics, metaphysics, epistemology,
etc. We turn next to a consideration of the content and

construction of such bodies of knowledge.
IV
PERSONAL DECISION AND
KNOWLEDGE
S CIENCES may be arranged into three groups, namely,

formal sciences, empirical sciences and metaphysical
sciences. According to the distinctions we have been mak-
ing, formal sciences consist of relational propositions that
are put together by necessary logic. Empirical sciences are
made up of descriptive propositions which are referable
either to factual or valuational propositions. Possibility
logic is the logic of empirical sciences. Metaphysical sci-
ences consist of postulational propositions that are put to-
gether by synoptic logic.
What does it mean to say, as we so frequently have,
that propositions are "put together" into knowledge? It
is obvious enough that they do not put themselves to-
gether, but it is not always obvious that knowledge is a
product of personal decision. The human race has knowl-
WHEATON CGLLEG2 LIBRARY

WHEATON, ILLINOIS
edge because of what certain of its members have decided

to do with meanings. In our consideration of the content
and construction of knowledge we shall bring to a focus
the decisional character of knowledge.
Formal Science
Perhaps the kind of science in which it seems least

likely that human decision should be determinative is the
kind called formal. Logics and mathematics belong to this

class, which gets its name because the form taken by mean-
ings when they are put together, and not the content of the
meanings, is the subject matter of such knowledge. Never-
theless, formal science, no less than other kinds, is a pro-
duct of decision. This claim may be illustrated by repeat-
ing the example of necessary logic used in the previous
chapter. We will use this example as a paradigm for other
formal sciences. The example is:
(1) b—c=O
(2) a—b=O
(3) a— c=0
It is not hard to see what is happening here. The "affirma-

tive b" in proposition (1) is cancelling out the "negative
b" in proposition ( 2 ) . All that remains on the left side of
the equation is an "affirmative a" of proposition (2) and
"negative c" in proposition ( 1 ) . Hence, the conclusion is
that a—c=0.
What may not be so easily seen is that the conclusion
necessarily follows from a decision that the logician has
made about b. His decision was to make b mean both "in-
cluding a" and "included in c." Because of this decision
about relational meanings, all as are included among cs.

If the logician had denied the conclusion a—c=0, his
denial would simply have indicated another decision
about b. "Whatever the new decision about the meaning of
b might be, b no longer could mean "including a" and "in-
cluded in c." In the light of his denial, it would no longer
necessarily follow that a—c=0. The point is that although
formal sciences exhibit logical necessity, such logical
necessity is established by personal decision.
Empirical Science
Whereas formal sciences use only relational propo-

sitions, empirical sciences use both descriptive and rela-
tional propositions. They also use either factual or valua-
tional propositions, depending upon whether the mean-
ings with which they are concerned may be conjoined with
sensations or with feelings. The empirical knowledge that
we ordinarily call natural science refers its conclusions to
factual propositions, and the empirical knowledge that we
call social science refers its conclusions to valuational
propositions. We propose to illustrate the decisional char-
acter of empirical science with the help of an incident
taken from the history of one of the natural sciences, but
before doing so, some remarks about social science will be
made.
Ultimately, the subject matter of social sciences are
personal events, whether they are individual or social in
their bearing. Social sciences are scientifically concerned
with meanings that indicate personal involvement, and
such meanings are conjoined with desires—such as the
desire for food, for sex and family life, for security, for
common activity, etc., and with emotions, which are in-
% WILLIAM D. NIETMANN
dexes to individual commitments. The meanings of per-

sonal events, which are present only as the subjectified
world of participator consciousness, are referred to by
valuational propositions. Hence valuational propositions
are the content of social science. This observation is not
unimportant, for social science loses its empirical charac-
ter if its practitioners seek to make factual propositions its
content. Ironically, such an effort may be in the interest
of making social sciences "scientific," for sometimes there

is a mistaken impression that to be scientific, knowledge
must, like physics and chemistry, explain events as they
occur as the objectified world. The fact that meaning is
conjoined with feeling does not make it less a meaning
than if it were conjoined with sensation. Hence, a major
problem of social scientists would seem to be the inven-
tion of devices for publicly exhibiting participator mean-
ings without reducing them to something they are not,
namely, spectator meanings. It is such reduction that turns
social science into pseudo-science.
Having delivered this little homily about the empiri-
cal charaaer of social science, I turn now to the history of
a physical science for an incident which exhibits the deci-
sional charaaer of empirical science. The incident was
used earlier, when we discussed postulational propositions
in the preceding chapter. I refer to the discovery of Nep-
tune. In this little segment of empirical science there are
at least two arguments, the first held together by neces-
sary logic and the last held together by possibility logic.
We shall state these arguments in order that we may indi-
cate wherein they depend upon personal decisions.
In our account of the discovery of Neptune we pointed
out that the discovery was made within the context of
Newtonian astrophysics. According to Newton's law of
universal gravitation, mutually external bodies attract each

other. Their mass, and the distance separating them, de-
termine the force of their attraction. The larger the bodies,
the greater the attractive force; and the greater the dis-
tance separating the bodies, the less the force. The force
can be measured as the direct proportion of the product
of their masses and the inverse proportion of the square
of the distance between the center of each body.
The first argument links the behavior of Uranus to

Newton's law, for if Uranus' behavior defies Newton's
law, then the law does not (as the first argument claimed)
hold for all bodies. A statement of the argument follows:
(1) Either Uranus is an exception or its

movement can be explained by the
attraction of some unobserved mass;
(2) Uranus is not an exception;
(3) Therefore, its movement can be ex-
plained by the attraction of another
mass.
"Either . . . or" arguments are called disjunctive argu-

ments. At least one of the alternatives in the "either... or"
sentence can be true. Hence, if one of the alternatives is
denied, as occurs in proposition (2) of the argument, it
necessarily follows that the remaining alternative can be
true. This argument involves at least two decisions. One
decision is to put the Uranus-Newton matter into a dis-
junctive argument, and the other is to deny that Uranus is
an exception. Both of these decisions express the convic-
tion that Newton's law is universal. The argument, then,
really expresses a decision to stand by Newton's law. It
should be clear that there is no logical necessity so to do;
nor, as we shall comment more fully later, is there any-

thing in nature itself that necessitates Newtonian physics.
It was neither impersonal logic nor impersonal nature, but
a personal decision that terminated in the conclusion that
Uranus' movement can be explained in Newtonian terms.
Up to now our sample of astronomical science has car-
ried on its transaaions with desaiptive propositions and
with necessity logic. At this point we introduce a second
argument, an argument in which there is a shift to a factual

proposition and to possibility logic. It is this shift which
gives empirical science its essential charaaeristic, for it is
the charaaer of an empirical science to reach for meanings
which are conjoined with sensations in the case of natural
sciences and with feelings in the case of the social sciences.
In the Neptune story, abstraa meanings and empirical
speaator meanings are related to each other in the follow-
owing argument:
(1) If Uranus is not an exception, there

then will be evidence of another
planet;
( 2 ) There is a speck of light which is evi-
dence of another planet;
( 3 ) Therefore, Uranus is not an exception.
In this argument a speck of light appears according to

calculations which would regularize the irregularity of
Uranus and thus save Newton's theory, and it is accepted
as evidence of the presence of another planet. There is, to
be sure, nothing in the speck of light that requires us to
accept it as evidence. Such acceptance is the decision of the
astronomer. Moreover, even if the speck of light should
appear as calculated, Neptune is not the only possible ex-
planation for its appearance. Perhaps its appearance is

merely the wishful thinking of astronomers who have
become subject to mass hysteria because of their high ex-
pectations.12 Or perhaps a meteor happened to disinte-
grate just then. Many other options could be cited. The
point is that of all the possibilities available, some astrono-
mer by personal decision had to select one of them as being
an actuality. To be sure, he may comfort himself as to the
Tightness of his choice by appeal to canons of predicta-

bility, of controlled observations, of the absence of nega-
tive cases, etc. But these canons, however successfully they
may serve to justify his choice, do not choose for him. Pos-
sibility logic, no less than formal logic, is an instrument of
personal decision.
Metaphysical Science
There remains one more kind of science to be com-
mented upon. This kind of science is metaphysical. We
have said that metaphysical knowledge consists of postu-
lational propositions that are put together by synoptic
logic. Our illustration of the bearing of personal decision
upon metaphysical knowledge will be derived from the
Neptune story.
"We shall begin constructing our metaphysical sample
with the help of an analogy. Let us suppose that we are
impolite observers of a checker game. A player makes a
move, and our comment is, "He should have let him jump
that king. Then he could have stalemated those two men
in the corner." Obviously, apart from the rules of the
12 If one were to make a comparable remark about the resurrection appear-
ances of Jesus, the objection would in certain pseudo-scientific circles be taken
seriously. That it should be so taken is a significant commentary upon the part
decision plays in scientific knowledge.
game of checkers the remark about jumping the king

would be meaningless. Thus, the rules are the source of
meaning for our comment. If a person submits to being a
checker player, he likewise permits the game to measure
the meaningfulness of his decisions to move one way or
another. If he should tinker with the game and make new
rules, new moves would become meaningful. Children,
for example, sometimes decide to play "give-away." In
this distortion of checkers, the person who first loses all

his men wins the game. "With the new rules comes a new
measure of meaningfulness.
Now let us suppose that, instead of checkers, the game
is Newtonian celestial mechanics. The scientist is not un-
like the inventor of a set of rules for a game, for, as we
observed earlier, the source of "rules" of the game of
science can be traced to "the mind of the scientist him-
self." 13 But the players in the astronomical game—the
sun, the moon and the stars—have not, unlike the checker
players, submitted themselves to its rules. Suppose, now,
that instead of watching the moves of checker players, we
are watching Uranus' move. We say, "It should have
moved in another path at another speed." This admoni-
tion, it should be noted, is on a different level than the one
we made about jumping the king. In checkers we were
criticizing the player. In Uranus' case we are either criti-
cizing our understanding of the rules, or we are criticizing
the game itself. We are not criticizing the player, Uranus.
Let us say, first, that we are criticizing our under-
standing of the rules. In this case we are maintaining that
both the game and its celestial players are ordered by the
same set of rules. Our problem is not that the players are
13 See the remarks about presuppositions, page 28.

disorderly, but that we cannot understand their orderli-

ness. If we take this option, we are presupposing that al-
though nature is orderly, our thinking about it is disor-
derly. On these grounds it makes sense to try to straighten
out our thinking; otherwise astronomical games would
be futile. Hence, in the interests of maintaining the astro-
nomical game, we postulate the orderliness of the physi-
cal universe. We have therefore decided, as expressed in
proposition (2) in the "either . . . or" argument,14 that

Uranus is no exception to the game's rules. For the sake of
convenience, we shall call the postulational proposition
presupposed by proposition ( 2 ) , the "orderliness of na-
ture" proposition.
Now let us make a contrary supposition, namely, that
the erratic movements of Uranus should lead us to criti-
cize the game itself. Of course, the discovery of Neptune
was a triumph for the Newtonian game, for it strength-
ened almost beyond doubt the belief that Uranus was,
after all, a player in good standing. Nevertheless, let us
suppose that, like ether in the undulatory theory of light
in physics, Uranus was an exposure of a scientific fiasco,
at least to the extent that Uranus could not be understood
as a player in Newton's game. The question then arises,
Which will go? Will we insist on keeping Newton's
theory? Or will we insist on keeping Uranus as a rule-
breaker? Or will we, like epicycle theorists, try to adjust
Newton's theory and Uranus' behavior to each other by
some patchwork theory? Notice that the answer to these
questions awaits our decision. Neither Newton's theory
nor Uranus' behavior can decide the matter. It is those
who have invented the game and who watch it being
14 See page 57. i

played—namely, the scientists—who decide what should

or should not be the relationship between the game and
its players. Modern empirical temper leaves no doubt as
to the decision. If a theory is threatened by a fact so much
the worse for theory. Hence, we decide that if it comes
to a question of not being able to understand Uranus' be-
havior on Newton's theory, however fond we may be of
Newton, we shall have to abandon his theory. In so doing,
we are demanding that theory conform to fact. This "stick

by the facts" postulate we shall call, for sake of conven-
ience in reference, the "empiricism" proposition.
It is because of the "empiricism" proposition that the
game, and not Uranus, was held in question. It was also
because of the "orderliness" proposition that, in spite of
Uranus' behavior, we play astronomical games at all. On
the one hand, if we had to choose between keeping the
game and getting rid of Uranus as a player in it, or vice
versa, we would demand that the game yield. On the other
hand, we want to keep the game intact, and hence we de-
mand that nature be orderly, and consequently that
Uranus be a player in the game. An orderly world at the
expense of fact destroys the explanatory power of any
theory that presupposes such a compromise. The same
destruction ensues if there is a factual world bereft of
order.
It would seem that the "orderliness" and the "empiri-
cism" propositions are not entirely compatible with each
other. We shall comment upon each in turn in order to
expose a paradox that is implied by their incompatibility.
By one of the propositions—the "orderliness propo-
sition"—we, like the inventor of checkers, are imposing
order upon the game's players. That men do not find order
in nature, but put it there, is important to note. Suppose,
for example, that like Adams and Leverrier, I am inter-

ested in the apparent irregularity of the orbit of Uranus.
I ask, "Why is Uranus' orbit irregular?" Note that Uranus
is not asking the question. I am asking the question. Also
note that the question I ask is generated because I started
with Newtonian laws of celestial orderliness. Uranus, it
should be observed, does not present Newton's system to
me; I present Newton's system as a way of understanding
its behavior. Since I do, I can raise a question about Uranus.

Suppose I answer my question as to why Uranus is irregu-
lar by saying, "Neptune is doing it!" Note further that
Uranus does not answer my question. I answer my ques-
tion. By answering my own questions according to my own
model of intelligibility—in this case Newtonian astro-
physics—I impose order upon nature.15
Whereas the "orderly" proposition imposes order on
nature, the "empiricism" proposition denies that order can
be imposed upon nature. According to the "empiricism"
proposition, the rules of our games are to be held account-
able to meanings that are conjoined with sensations, and
which are therefore beyond our tampering. Instead of
making heavenly bodies conform to our model by devious
explanations, we are to find a model that will conform to
their behavior.
At this point a paradox arises. In order to find such
a model one has to propose such a model; but, unless one
postulates that the universe is orderly, there is no point in
proposing a model for it. No one, for example, tries to
find order among the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle unless he
thinks that there is order to be found. Comparably, unless
a person has postulated some order for the objectified
15 Cf. W. D. Nietmann, "Science and Religion," The Journal of Religious
Thought, Vol. XIX, No. 1, 1962.
world, how can he determine whether or not its pieces are

orderly or disorderly? Thus, while we do not want to im-
pose order on nature, in order to understand nature factu-
ally, we must impose order upon her. In short, with respect
to order in nature, we're damned if we do and damned
if we don't.
Now we are in a position somewhat like that of my
secretary. She wanted to meet my wishes. Yet, if she did
my work, she would be hindering my contemplation of

"Peanuts"; and if she let me read "Peanuts," she would
be hindering my wish to have my work done. Her solu-
tion, it will be recalled, was to introduce a new meaning
which changed the situation so that its incompatibilities
could be viewed together without conflict. The meaning
she introduced was 'library.' We, too, in the case of the
"orderliness"—"empiricism" impasse, are confronted
with the need to introduce a new meaning that will render
these propositions mutually coherent.
One such new meaning which offers a commonplace
solution to this problem is the demand that reality itself
be rational. If reality itself is rational, in following nature
we are following not some capricious vagaries that twist
reason to their own performances, but we are following
the leadings of reason itself. In conforming our knowl-
edge to these leadings, our reason is conforming to reason.
Hence, when Uranus' orbit seems to be irregular, rather
than being a challenge that threatens the house of reason,
such irregularity is an invitation of reason to set its own
house in order. And, in seeking to set its house in order by
making Uranus' behavior intelligible, reason is not impos^
ing itself upon nature, for nature itself in reality is ra-
tional. On these grounds, it makes sense to propose a
system that explains nature, for nature in itself is intel-
ligible. For ease of reference, we shall call the reconciling

postulational proposition, the "reality" proposition.
With the help of synoptic logic, we have made the
meanings of the "empirical" proposition and of the "or-
derliness" proposition mutually coherent in terms of the
"reality proposition." The linking together of postula-
tional propositions makes our little system metaphysical;
and as a metaphysical attempt to justify our understanding
of physical nature, the system is also cosmological.

As we have been pointing out in the construction of
the system, the links that hold the system together are
decisional links. It is a scientist who decides that, to be
intelligible, physical nature must be orderly rather than,
let us say, magical. It is a scientist who decides to put faas
before theory. It is a scientist who decides to introduce the
postulate that reality itself is orderly as a way of reconcil-
ing the conflict we noted between the "empirical" and
"orderliness" propositions. The scientist who does this is
a metaphysician, although he may also be a natural scien-
tist. Perhaps we should note in passing that the system he
erects with his decisions must be considered according to
synoptic canons and not according to possibility canons.
Cosmology is, of course, not the only metaphysical
science. Axiology (refers to value theory and includes
ethics and aesthetics; the word is from axios, "of like
value"-\-logos, "discourse"), ontology (refers to theory of
being; from onta, "the things that exist"-\-logos), episte-
mology (refers to theory of knowledge; from episteme,
"knowledge"+logos) and theology (from theos, "God"
-{-logos) are other kinds of metaphysical knowledge.
However, as interesting as metaphysical speculations are,
our primary interest is not in any metaphysical science as
such, no more than it was in empirical or formal science as
such. Rather, our purpose is to illustrate the bearing of

decision upon knowledge. Our concluding section will
be used to rehearse our findings.
The Bearing of Decision Upon Knowledge

More than once there has been occasion to remark
upon the stubbornness of meanings. We have said that
with respect to itself, meaning always and only means
what it means. If this is the case, we do not decide upon

what we know, for meanings per se are not constituted by
decision. Hence, the knowing of meanings is not knowl-
edge. Rather, it is what we decide to do meaning-wise with
our meanings that constitutes knowledge. In other words,
although meanings are not decisional, the relation that
obtains among meanings—the relation we have been call-
ing propositional—is decisional.16
For purposes of exposition, we may say that propo-
sitional decisions are on two levels. On the first level, we
decide that one meaning is to mean another meaning. This
decision produces a proposition, of which we have distin-
guished five kinds: factual, valuational, descriptive, rela-
tional, and postulational. These distinctions among the
propositions were made in accordance with the distinc-
tions made earlier among meanings. For, in commenting
upon meanings, we classified them as belonging to spec-
tator consciousness, to participator consciousness, or to
interrogative consciousness. Those belonging to spectator
consciousness we have been calling spectator meanings,
and those belonging to participator consciousness, partici-
16 Attention is called to an interesting variant etymological account of
"knowledge": cnawan is the Anglo-Saxon word for the "know" part of "knowl-
edge"; the "ledge" part comes from the Anglo-Saxon laecan, "to play," which
in turn comes from lac, a game. This etymology suggests that knowledge is play-
ing a game with what you know.
pator meanings. The meanings belonging to interrogator

consciousness we have called abstractions, of which there
are three kinds: spectator- and participator-abstractions,
which refer (respeaively) to speaator and participator
meanings; and relational abstraaions, which refer to
neither.
The second level at which meanings are linked to-
gether again calls for decisions, this time for putting prop-
ositions together. Such decisions were classified as neces-

sary logic, possibility logic and synoptic logic. Necessary
logic derives its necessity from a decision about the mean-
ing of the term we have designated as b in our paradigm.
Possibility logic derives its cogency from a decision which
accepts as an actuality one of many possibilities—for ex-
ample, that the conneaion between paper-cutting and the
noise is not only possible, but actual. Synoptic logic de-
pends for its operation upon the decision to introduce this
postulate, rather than that, as a reconciliation for conflias
of meanings.
Propositions that are linked to other propositions by
the kinds of decisions that we have classified as necessary,
possibility and synoptic logic are called bodies of knowl-
edge, or sciences. Formal sciences link propositions that
are made up of relational abstraaions. Empirical sciences
are more complex. Descriptive propositions whose dis-
tinctive meanings are speaator-abstraaions are linked to-
gether in natural sciences, and those whose distinaive
meanings are participator-abstraaions are linked together
in social sciences. In both cases, it is not mere description
that is important, but rather the referring of the descrip-
tions to factual propositions (in the case of natural sci-
ences) or valuational propositions (in the case of social
sciences). Factual and valuational propositions, in turn,
are decisions about spectator and participator meanings,

respectively. Metaphysical sciences, as we have just no-
ticed at some length in the preceding section, link postu-
lational propositions together.
The ways in which propositions are put together in
the several sciences vary. In formal sciences, necessary
logic is used. Both necessary logic and possibility logic are
used in empirical sciences. Metaphysical sciences use syn-
optic logic. But, to speak of using logic is to speak of mak-

ing decisions. Hence, not only is knowledge decisional on
the level of some person deciding that one meaning is
to mean another meaning, and thus producing a propo-
sition; it is also decisional on a second level, the level of
deciding how to put propositions together into bodies of
knowledge. In short, knowledge is a product of personal
decision.
V
KNOWLEDGE AS A SOURCE
OF PROBLEMS
T HE INTELLECTUAL life of man is our general topic.

We have discussed this topic in terms of the interroga-
tor role of raising questions and assembling meanings as
answers. The answers remain as propositions after the
question-raising, answer-assembling aaivity has come to a
halt. It is out of propositions that bodies of knowledge are
constructed. Knowledge, organized as science, is thus the
end product of question-raising. But knowledge is itself
not unquestionable, for it generates at least three kinds of
problems. In this chapter we propound these problems
THE INTELLECTUAL ENTERPRISE, Chap. V 69
under the headings of knowledge and truth, knowledge

and consciousness, and knowledge and meaninglessness.
These problems provoke the conclusion that with respect
to the intellectual enterprise, knowledge is a bridge be-
tween absurdity and meaninglessness.
Knowledge and Truth

Propositions are usually defined as statements which
can be either true or false. What is sometimes overlooked

is that a statement of propositions is a dependent clause
of an elliptical independent clause. The independent
clause is "I believe that...." It is this ellipsis that gener-
ates the problem of truth. The problem of truth is not
whether or not the proposition under consideration is
true. It is true or false exclusive of belief in its truth or
error. The problem arises when I wonder whether I am
believing truly that it is true or false. The problem of
truth may be stated in this way: How can one know
whether one believes truly that a proposition is true or that
it is false? Propositions are claim checks for the luggage
of truth. The problem is, How can the truth-claims be re-
deemed? This question is best handled according to the
kind of luggage at stake, for redemption of truth-claims
varies according to the kind of knowledge—formal, em-
pirical or metaphysical—under consideration. We will
comment on the problem of truth with respect to each
kind of knowledge, and in the order mentioned.
Logic and mathematics are formal sciences. The para-
digm that we have been using for formal sciences is:
(1) h— c=0
(2) a—b=0
(3) a— c=0
Let us say that a person believes that the concluding prop-

osition, a—c=0, is true. Let us say further that his be-
lief in the truth of this proposition is challenged. The
problem of truth is, How can he know whether he believes
truly that "the a that is not c is without members?" In
defense of his belief he might say that he knows the prop-
osition is true because its claim follows from the meaning
assigned to b. Since b means 'including a' and 'included in
c,' c truly includes a. But why, the believer is asked, does b

mean 'including a' and 'included in c'P The answer he
gives is, "Because someone has said so. How else are mean-
ings assigned to meanings?"
The point is that the truth of logical propositions or
of mathematical propositions is arbitrarily established by
the assertion of some person. For further examples, recall
the several ways of viewing parallel lines to which we re-
ferred in Chapter II. There we reported on three ways of
looking at parallel lines and the consequences for the sum
of angles of triangles. Let us imagine that partisans of each
of the three ways are being questioned about their beliefs.
Here is a person who believes the proposition that the sum
of the angles of a triangle equals 180°. When his belief
is challenged, he defends its truth by saying, "But if just
one parallel can be drawn through an outside point, the
180° proposition necessarily follows." The challenger
persists until the believer confesses, "According to Euclid,
this is the case." With respect to the less-than-180° mean-
ing of triangles, the final appeal would be to Bolyai or to
Lobashevski; and for the 180°-540° meaning, the final
appeal would be to Riemann.
Our interest is not in this or that mathematical reason-
ing per se. We are concerned with observing that the be-
lief in the truth of abstract relational propositions is ulti-
mately authorized by some person's decision to propose

certain meanings for certain meanings. This kind of justi-
fication of belief in the truth of a proposition we shall call
authoritarian. Belief in the propositions of formal science
can be established as true or false according to whether
an arbitrary decree of an accepted authority is or is not con-
formed to.
There is a difference with respect to the propositions
that constitute empirical sciences. It stems out of the make-

up of the two kinds of knowledge. For (as we explained
earlier) whereas in formal sciences the meanings consti-
tuting the propositions are abstract relations, in empirical
sciences the abstractions refer to meanings that are con-
joined with sensations or feelings. In the case of natural
science, sensations are evidence supporting factual prop-
ositions; in the case of social science, feelings are evidence
supporting valuational propositions. In empirical sciences
the anchorage is not in decisions, as it is in formal sciences,
but in sensations and feelings. As we remarked earlier in
our discourse, we sense what we are sensing and we feel
what we are feeling. Hence the empirical anchorage is
equally arbitrary. But its arbitrariness is not one derived
from the decision of an interrogator of meanings; rather
its arbitrariness is derived from the presence of meaning as
spectator or participator consciousness. The problem of
truth for a believer in empirical propositions thus be-
comes, How can I know whether a given sensation (or
feeling) verifies the proposition for which it is offered as
testimony? Again we shall seek illustrative illumination
from the light of Neptune:
Let us suppose that there is a person who believes the
proposition that a planet—Neptune—accounts for what
otherwise would be a perturbation in the orbit of Uranus.
Let us suppose, further, that the truth of this belief is chal-

lenged. The most obvious reply of the believer would be,
"But, if you aim your telescope at a certain time and place,
you can see a speck of light." Note what is happening: To
justify his belief in the Neptune proposition, the believer
is offering his belief in another proposition, namely, that
a speck of light is evidence of the presence of Neptune.
Now let us challenge the believer further: Why, we want
to know, does he believe that the speck-of-light proposi-

tion is true? Let us say that he tells us that the occurrence
of this particular speck of light, in keeping with the elab-
orate calculations, could not possibly be a mere coinci-
dence. At this point he is appealing to belief in a proposi-
tion that in the preceding chapter we named the "orderli-
ness" proposition.
Our interest in the believer's performance is in the
fact that he supports his belief in a proposition by appeal-
ing to his belief in another proposition, and to another
and another. Perhaps he will finally come upon a propo-
sition which is dependent upon no other, and upon which
the others depend. Such a proposition is ultimate; but the
fact that it is ultimate does not give greater veridical power
to his belief in it. Belief in an ultimate proposition is no
less belief than is belief in a less-than-ultimate proposition.
Since the effort of the empirical believer to know
whether he is truly believing seems to turn on the believ-
ing of beliefs, a remark upon the nature of believing is in
order. What does one do when one believes? Etymologi-
cally "belief" is a volitional term, for it is derived from
leaf, a Saxon word for "permission" or "assent," as in the
expression, "by your leave." To believe a proposition is to
endorse it; it is to assent to it. But assenting to a proposi-
tion is a deed of the assenter. Thus, when a believer is
asked to state why he thinks he knows that he truly be-

lieves that a proposition is true, he can point (so to speak)
to a pile of deeds, namely, the beliefs he has piled up in
assenting to propositions; and pointing, he can make the
comment, "Look at what I have done. My deeds in support
of the proposition have been piled almost sky-high."
Perhaps so; but they can never be piled up high
enough to reach Neptune. His belief in the Neptune prop-
osition may indeed be justified by the truth of that propo-

sition. The only trouble is that all he can do is believe that
he knows the truth. As soon as we ask whether he is be-
lieving truly, his answer is another belief. Unlike formal
propositions, belief in whose truth can be settled by con-
formity to authority, empirical propositions offer no way
of settling whether or not one's belief in their truth is
justified. In empirical science we can justify, not the truth
of its propositions, but our belief in the truth of its propo-
sitions. Since the justification of belief in the truth of em-
pirical propositions is only as good as a person's assent,
we shall call the answer to the empirical problem of truth,
justification by assent.
There remains for our consideration the problem of
truth as it relates to metaphysical knowledge. Metaphysi-
cal knowledge, according to our discussion in Chapter IV,
is made up of postulational propositions. Postulates have
something in common both with formal propositions and
with empirical propositions. Like formal propositions,
postulates cannot be checked against empirical evidence.
Thus, for example, a speck of light from Neptune cannot
be evidence for the proposition that the physical universe
is orderly, for, as we have seen in Chapter IV, it is the
"orderliness" proposition that makes it rational to believe
that the speck of light is evidence for the presence of Nep-
tune. To appeal to sensation of light as evidence for the

"orderliness" proposition would therefore be begging the
question.
But not only can postulates not make this appeal as a
warrant for their truth, but neither can they make the ap-
peal that is proper to formal propositions. It is the asser-
tion of the propounder of formal propositions which is
decisive concerning the truth of formal propositions. Not
so with postulates. Their demand is that the universe

vouch for their truth. But how can a silent universe—one
that neither makes declarations nor shows its truth in its
appearances—vouch for its truth? If we confront a be-
liever in a postulational proposition with the problem of
its truth, he cannot appeal to' the authority of the proposer,
as a believer in a formal proposition can. Nor can he ap-
peal to the belief that sensations or feelings verify the
truth of his proposition, as a believer in an empirical prop-
osition can. "Now, sir," we shall say to the believer, "in
view of these limitations, how can you know whether you
believe truly that your proposition is true or that it is
false?" Let us try out our question on believers in two con-
trasting postulational propositions, namely, the proposi-
tion that physical nature is orderly, and the proposition
that it is magical.
The believer in the "orderliness" proposition might
say to us: "Disbelieve my proposition if you want to; but if
you do you will know that you are in error because you
thereby rule out the possibility of having scientific knowl-
edge. Unless, for example, the physical universe is orderly,
there is no justification for our believing that a speck of
light can verify that set of descriptive propositions that
we call Newtonian astrophysics. Don't you think that such
a price of disbelief would be too high to pay?''
Let us say that the believer of the magical proposition

is a Hopi rain dancer. The Hopi believer might say, "Dis-
believe my 'magical' postulate if you want to; but if you
do you will know that you are in error because you thereby
rule out the possibility of understanding how weather is
controlled. For, if our dance pleases the gods, it will rain;
and if it does not rain, then we know that our dance has
not been pleasing. If you disbelieve, you do so at the price
of remaining meteorologically ignorant."

The "orderliness" proposition believer and the "mag-
ical" proposition believer may be worlds apart with re-
spea to the content of their beliefs, but they are not worlds
apart with respea to the justification of the truth of their
beliefs. Both appeal to the penalty of disbelief in their
postulates in order to justify belief in them. In both cases,
not to accept the postulate under consideration requires
giving up an intelligible account of the universe; and this
surrender is too high a price to pay for disbelief. Hence
we shall call the answer to the problem of metaphysical
truth, price-tag justification.
To many persons it may seem outrageous that the
truth of such contrary propositions as the "orderliness"
and "magical" postulates can be equally justified. They
may protest that the universe must indeed be a chaotic mad-
house if both propositions are true. To any such protesters
two remarks may be made. We may say to them that unless
they had already opted for the "orderliness" proposition,
they would not be outraged. Hence the scandal they pro-
fess to see is of their own making. In the second place, we
may offer them some comfort. Perhaps the world is not
a madhouse, after all. Maybe only one of the proposi-
tions—perhaps the one they favor—is true. In this case,
no matter how persuasively the "magical" proponents
justify the truth of their proposition, the universe would

nevertheless be orderly. For the justification of the truth
of knowledge is not the same as the truth of knowledge.
Of course, whether they have the truth or their opponents
have the truth, or perhaps neither have it, they cannot
know. We may have the truth; but we are forever inno-
cent with respect to the truth of the knowledge of the
truth we have.
This much may be said concerning empirical truth and

postulational truth. But what about formal truth? At least
we can know whether or not the propositions of formal
knowledge are true by appealing to the person who has
authorized the scope of meaning of the proposition. At
this point we can note a significant difference between
formal truth, on the one hand, and empirical and meta-
physical truth, on the other hand. The former always de-
pends upon an argument to which it is the conclusion, and
the latter does not. Unless a conclusion of formal knowl-
edge is relevant to a necessity established by its author,
it is neither true nor false. For example, it makes no sense
to question the truth of a—c=0 unless a and c mean some-
thing, perhaps that a is included in b, which in turn is in-
cluded in c. Hence, whereas empirical and metaphysical
propositions are in themselves either true or false, no mat-
ter how their truth or error are argued, the truth or error
of a formal proposition depends upon whether the argu-
ment whereby it is established conforms to the meanings
decided upon in its premises.
This difference has a bearing upon the problem of
truth, for it indicates that the only truth that human be-
ings can know with certainty is the truth that human be-
ings can themselves establish. Such truth is the truth of
formal knowledge. With respect to empirical and meta-
physical knowledge, the truth of propositions cannot be

known to be truth. The truth of empirical propositions
can be justified by assent, and the truth of metaphysical
propositions can be justified by making the price of denial
too costly for intellectual comfort. But assenting and pric-
ing tell us about certain human interests; they do not dis-
close propositional truth. In considering formal, empiri-
cal and metaphysical knowledge, we have discovered that
when the truth of knowledge is held in question, no an-

swer offered in justification of the truth of knowledge
takes us beyond the human scene; for the accepting of
authority, the giving of assent, and the renouncing of
irrationality are all human deeds.
Knowledge and Consciousness

In the opening remarks of the essay two factors in
knowledge were distinguished, namely, meaning and de-
cision. In the present section we shall make some observa-
tions about meanings; and in the next section, some obser-
vations about decision. The presence of meanings hold
knowledge in question in a way that we shall now indi-
cate.
In our discussion of meanings we pointed out two
general characteristics of meaning. One characteristic is
that meanings are unyieldingly stubborn. Their motto is,
"We stay what we are," for meanings do not change. With
respect to their constancy, meanings are completely be-
yond human control. We can, to be sure, decide that some
one meaning should mean some other meaning, as we do,
for example, when we make 'apple' mean 'fruit.' But to
make 'apple' meaning meaningful in terms of 'fruit'
meaning does not compromise the meaning either of apple
or fruit. For each with respect to itself continues to mean
itself. Another characteristic of meanings is that they are

present as a dimension of consciousness—as spectator,
participator, or interrogator consciousness, to use the dis-
tinctions we have invented. We shall now consider the
bearing upon knowledge of the stubbornness of meanings
and of their presence in consciousness.
Let us suppose that we are in a windowless house, and
on an outside wall of the house thumpings are heard. Let
us suppose, further, that we can organize the thumpings

into a code so that the thumpings are intelligible. There
are, let us say, two conclusions that can be drawn about
the thumpings. We might say (1) that although there
is nothing we can do to change the thumpings, at least they
make sense to us. And we might add (2) that not only
can we understand the thumpings, but they also give us
intelligence about the other side of the wall, or from
wherever they come. Therefore, we are not only living in
a meaningful room, but the room is meaningful because
it is part and parcel of beyond-the-wall meaningfulness.
The room is a metaphor of our consciousness, and the
thumps are metaphors of meanings. The code is a meta-
phor of knowledge. In both (1) and (2 ) we are enclosed
within our own consciousness. Moreover, the knowledge
in case (1) is not different from the knowledge in case
(2 ). The difference is in the function of the wall. In (1)
without (2) the wall is a barrier; in (1) and (2) it is a
medium. If the wall is a barrier, the meanings which are
present as consciousness refer only to other meanings
which are also present as consciousness. In this case mean-
ings do not link us to a world that is not our own con-
sciousness. In both (1) and (2) knowledge is a private
affair; but in (1) it is merely a private affair, whereas in
(2) it is a private appropriation of a public world.
For myself, and I suspect for most of the human race,

I believe that (2) represents the true situation; but when
I try to determine on what meaningful grounds I can jus-
tify this belief, I find none. If I am to justify the
belief on meaningful grounds I must use meanings
in so doing. Let us say that I succeed in assembling a
mighty argument for ( 2 ) . The argument, since it is
meaningful, is made up of meanings. After I admire my
argument for an appropriate length of time, it occurs to

me to ask whether the meanings are merely private to me,
or whether they are public property which I have appro-
priated. But this is precisely the question that my argu-
ment presumed to answer. Now, (as we saw in Chapter I),
a question that is unanswerable is not a question. It is
merely a pseudo-question. If, every time I try to justify the
public character of my private meanings I end up with
the same question with which I started, perhaps I have
on my hands an unanswerable question, and hence a
pseudo-question. In this case it is meaningless to ask on
what meaningful grounds I can justify my belief that the
meaning of meanings is not completely exhausted by their
presence as my consciousness.
Those who persist in thus trying to find meaningful
grounds for believing that knowledge is also public should
consider Gracie Allen's uncle. This ingenious travelling
salesman tried to avoid paying porter tips and railroad
fares by using a large suitcase which he only half filled with
clothing. The other half he climbed into himself. In this
way he could carry himself out of the hotel and travel on
the railroad for the mere cost of transporting luggage.
George, the Socratic member of the comedy team, was
curious: "How," he asked, "could your uncle carry the
suitcase if he were inside it?" "Oh, Uncle Harry was real
smart," explained Grade. "He put his hand through a

hole cut in the top of the suitcase, grabbed the handle and
off he went."
To think that one is carrying on in an "outside" world
of meanings by way of an "inside" grasp isn't absurd; that
is, unless one also thinks that the grasp can be intellec-
tually justified. In that case Uncle Harry's maneuver prob-
ably does not seem absurd either.
Knowledge and Meaninglessness
It is, as we have just seen, intellectually futile to try

intellectually to justify the belief that meanings are mean-
ingful beyond their occurrence as consciousness. We turn
now to a consideration of another factor in knowledge,
namely, the factor of decision. Knowledge, so we argued
in Chapter IV, is a product of personal decisions about
meanings. It is made up of human answers to human ques-
tions about meanings that are present as human conscious-
ness. As we elaborated in Chapters II and III, when mean-
ings are present and conjoined to sensations, our role is
that of a spectator. When they are conjoined with feel-
ings, it is that of a participator. When we assume the role
of an interrogator, meanings are abstractly present as our
consciousness. The intellectual life of man is lived pri-
marily in his role as an interrogator of meanings, and this
aaivity is decisional. The seleaion of the word role in our
treatment of intellectual life is not without design, for it
serves as an occasion to exhibit another problem engen-
dered by knowledge, namely, the problem of knowledge
and meaninglessness. This problem brings to a focus the
work of the decision-maker in putting meanings together
into knowledge.
The problem may be exhibited with the help of an

analogy in which the decision-maker is compared to and
contrasted with the actor. In his role as an actor, a person
presents himself as the character whose part he is playing.
Both the audience and the actor know that the actor is not
the character he is portraying. A distinction can be made
between his own being as such and his dramatic role. The
analogy we are proposing is this: Just as an actor is pres-
ent in his role, and yet his role is not his being as such, so
we are present in the activities of sense, of desire, and of
emotion, and of interrogation, but these are not our being
as such. Like the actor who can distinguish himself from
his role, we can distinguish ourselves from our sensations,
from our desires and emotions, and from our questions
and answers.
It is here that the analogy breaks down; and because
it does, we are left with a puzale. The puzzle is opposite
to the one we encountered in the last section, where we
considered the meaning of meaning. Here we are con-
fronting the puzzle of the meaning of meaninglessness.
For consider: We can know that the role played by the
actor is not the same as the person who acts, but can we
know that the role we play as interrogators is not the same
as the decider who plays the role? The very effort we make
to distinguish ourselves from our role, we must make in
our role of interrogator. Hence, to end with ourselves
distinguished from our role, we must end with ourselves
in our role. This situation permits alternative interpre-
tations.
We can say in the first alternative that the decider
is no more than his role, and the belief that he is a being
apart from his role is merely one of the ways in which
meanings are assembled. This position, while it disposes
of the being of a decider in a way comparable to the dis-

position of meanings from "outside" the wall, neverthe-
less maintains the meaningfulness of the distinction be-
tween the role of the interrogator and the being of the
interrogator. Both are accounted for in terms of the pres-
ence of meanings, but in a way that reminds me of an
advertisement of a Nevada dairy company. This dairy
assures its customers that the milk they drink is produced
by the fresh green grass of Sierra meadows and the crystal

pure water of snow fed mountain streams. But, grass and
water do not put themselves together into milk; and per-
haps we are as reluaant to believe that meanings likewise
put themselves together into knowledge.
The second alternative is that there is no meaningful
way of separating the decider himself from his role of
interrogator. Perhaps, like the actor who must give up
acting if he wants to get out of his role, to get out of the
role of interrogator we must give up apprehending and
manipulating meanings. If this is the case, then the being
by whose decisions meanings are put together into knowl-
edge, is, with respect to his being, beyond meaning.
Schopenhauer may be opting for this alternative when he
wrote that the subject is that which knows all things and
is known by none.17 Although any attempt to make the
meaner of meanings meaningful reduces him to a mean-
ing, it nevertheless may seem repugnant to commonsense
to say that the decider of meanings is, with respect to his
own being, not a meaning and hence, as beyond meaning,
is meaningless. Those to whom it does seem repugnant
would very likely have no difficulty with cow-less milk.
17 Arthur Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Idea [in The Philosophy
of Schopenhauer, Irwin Edman, editor, (New York: Random House, 1928;
Modern Library Edition) ] page 5.
With respect to any intellectual justification of itself,

knowledge seems to be a bridge between absurdity and
meaninglessness. For, with respect to the problem of
knowledge and truth, it is (as we have seen) an absurdity
to know that one may know the truth but yet not know
that he is knowing the truth. With respect to knowledge
and consciousness, it is an absurdity not to know whether
we are knowing any more than our knowledge itself. Con-
sciousness and truth are concerned with the meaning of

meanings, and hence these absurdities constitute the
"meaning" abutment of the bridge. The "decision" abut-
ment is the meaninglessness of the deciders of knowledge.
If they are at all, they are meaningless; for the very
moment they attach meanings to themselves they have
turned themselves into objects to be known. The meaners
of meaning must remain meaningless. Knowledge bridges
the gap between the meaningless meaners of meaning and
the absurd meaning of meanings. The thesis that estab-
lishes this position about knowledge is, to be sure, a part
of the bridge. But so, too, is any refutation of it.
We have been commenting upon the intellectual
enterprise. If we may substitute the word "logic" for "in-
tellectual enterprise," Borden Parker Bowne's epigram is
not out of place as a closing remark, for the first American
personalist is reported to have been fond of saying that
"life is deeper than logic." Perhaps the intellectual enter-
prise is merely a mode of life and not its depth: If so, unless
its modal status is realized, the depths of life may be closed
to our purview.

The Abstracted World

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World Futures: The Journal

The intellectual enterprise

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I. The Presence of Meaning 4

II. The Abstracted World 22

III. Propositions and Logic 36

IV. Personal Decision and Knowledge . . . 5 3

V. Knowledge as a Source of Problems . . 68

AN ACKNOWLEDGES himself to be the most intel-

mere animality; and perhaps it is the maximum human

son who had grasped meanings, it would make sense to

to me as though I were a spectator of them; ( 2 ) they are

The Objectified World

Suppose that a person is seated at a restaurant table.

smell, and warm, slippery touch.

determine what kind of a thing we are observing. The

is an egg cap." The place-setting world, once objectified by

mean whether we want them to or not. No matter how

as different meanings are observed as conjoined with sen-

The Subjectified World

is characterized involves a person's own ego. As partici-

ing her familiar and obviously limited circumstances and

disposing of them; but when, in rejecting pickles, she

parable to sensations and the objectified world, the mean-

to like them. Pass the pickles, please." In that case it would

In the objectified world meanings occur in conjunc-

ings, for meanings that are joined neither to sensations nor

loose the deflector. With a quick plunge of my arm

Suppose, on the one hand, I should continue to hold the

and feeling might entail. Sensations and feelings are tied

another complex called 'gravity,' we never need to touch,

but in themselves mathematical meanings are not pre-

which it makes sense to ask, "What color is it?" and "How

abstraaions. But, if by 'all' we mean merely a class of

In mathematical and logical systems we have exam-

1 (b-c=0) • (a-b=0) :. (a-b=0) and (ab=0) • (cb 0) :. (c-a 0).

In considering abstractions, we have been discussing

tion with questions which are present in interrogator con-

Questions and Abstractions

a question-raiser already has in mind the kind of answer

abstractions that can be brought to focus by this "ques-

to be ignorant is a pseudo-question. "We are frequently

The questions we can raise are liimted by the meanings we

also determines the scope of the meanings that are brought

uncritical moments the conjunaions of abstractions, which

meanings, the question, although it may drop out of at-

3 Cf. R. G. Collingwood, An Essay on Metaphysics (London: Oxford Univer-

1 QUESTION is a transaction of meanings that are pres-

we seek to make abstractions meaningful by referring

The Worlds of Answers

The meanings to which we intend our answers to

reply is, "My dog." The passerby asks, "What kind of a

is brown in color; his right ear is clipped; and he answers

collect. The cablegram reads, "Found lovely apartment.

their uneasiness. 'Found' and 'lovely apartment' satisfy

eight seconds to reach where, the tortoise was. "Was" is

not writing as a sports enthusiast. The adventures of Achil-

Questions and Their Presupposed Meanings

In raising questions we not only seek to make abstrac-