purplecat24/Russel · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 74
sense-data which represent the cat to me, though it seems quite natural
when regarded as an expression of hunger, becomes utterly inexplicable
when regarded as mere movements and changes of patches of colour, which
are as incapable of hunger as a triangle is of playing football.

But the difficulty in the case of the cat is nothing compared to the
difficulty in the case of human beings. When human beings speak--that
is, when we hear certain noises which we associate with ideas, and
simultaneously see certain motions of lips and expressions of face--it
is very difficult to suppose that what we hear is not the expression
of a thought, as we know it would be if we emitted the same sounds. Of
course similar things happen in dreams, where we are mistaken as to the
existence of other people. But dreams are more or less suggested by what
we call waking life, and are capable of being more or less accounted for
on scientific principles if we assume that there really is a physical
world. Thus every principle of simplicity urges us to adopt the natural
view, that there really are objects other than ourselves and our
sense-data which have an existence not dependent upon our perceiving
them.

Of course it is not by argument that we originally come by our belief in
an independent external world. We find this belief ready in ourselves as
soon as we begin to reflect: it is what may be called an _instinctive_
belief. We should never have been led to question this belief but for
the fact that, at any rate in the case of sight, it seems as if the
sense-datum itself were instinctively believed to be the independent
object, whereas argument shows that the object cannot be identical
with the sense-datum. This discovery, however--which is not at all
paradoxical in the case of taste and smell and sound, and only slightly
so in the case of touch--leaves undiminished our instinctive belief that
there _are_ objects _corresponding_ to our sense-data. Since this belief
does not lead to any difficulties, but on the contrary tends to simplify
and systematize our account of our experiences, there seems no good
reason for rejecting it. We may therefore admit--though with a slight
doubt derived from dreams--that the external world does really exist,
and is not wholly dependent for its existence upon our continuing to
perceive it.

The argument which has led us to this conclusion is doubtless less
strong than we could wish, but it is typical of many philosophical
arguments, and it is therefore worth while to consider briefly its
general character and validity. All knowledge, we find, must be built
up upon our instinctive beliefs, and if these are rejected, nothing
is left. But among our instinctive beliefs some are much stronger than
others, while many have, by habit and association, become entangled with
other beliefs, not really instinctive, but falsely supposed to be part
of what is believed instinctively.

Philosophy should show us the hierarchy of our instinctive beliefs,
beginning with those we hold most strongly, and presenting each as much
isolated and as free from irrelevant additions as possible. It should
take care to show that, in the form in which they are finally set forth,
our instinctive beliefs do not clash, but form a harmonious system.
There can never be any reason for rejecting one instinctive belief
except that it clashes with others; thus, if they are found to
harmonize, the whole system becomes worthy of acceptance.

It is of course _possible_ that all or any of our beliefs may be
mistaken, and therefore all ought to be held with at least some slight
element of doubt. But we cannot have _reason_ to reject a belief except
on the ground of some other belief. Hence, by organizing our instinctive
beliefs and their consequences, by considering which among them is most
possible, if necessary, to modify or abandon, we can arrive, on the
basis of accepting as our sole data what we instinctively believe, at an
orderly systematic organization of our knowledge, in which, though the
_possibility_ of error remains, its likelihood is diminished by the
interrelation of the parts and by the critical scrutiny which has
preceded acquiescence.

This function, at least, philosophy can perform. Most philosophers,
rightly or wrongly, believe that philosophy can do much more than
this--that it can give us knowledge, not otherwise attainable,
concerning the universe as a whole, and concerning the nature of
ultimate reality. Whether this be the case or not, the more modest
function we have spoken of can certainly be performed by philosophy, and
certainly suffices, for those who have once begun to doubt the adequacy
of common sense, to justify the arduous and difficult labours that
philosophical problems involve.



CHAPTER III. THE NATURE OF MATTER

In the preceding chapter we agreed, though without being able to
find demonstrative reasons, that it is rational to believe that our
sense-data--for example, those which we regard as associated with my
table--are really signs of the existence of something independent of us
and our perceptions. That is to say, over and above the sensations of
colour, hardness, noise, and so on, which make up the appearance of
the table to me, I assume that there is something else, of which these
things are appearances. The colour ceases to exist if I shut my eyes,
the sensation of hardness ceases to exist if I remove my arm from
contact with the table, the sound ceases to exist if I cease to rap the
table with my knuckles. But I do not believe that when all these things
cease the table ceases. On the contrary, I believe that it is because
the table exists continuously that all these sense-data will reappear
when I open my eyes, replace my arm, and begin again to rap with my
knuckles. The question we have to consider in this chapter is: What
is the nature of this real table, which persists independently of my
perception of it?

sense-data which represent the cat to me, though it seems quite natural

when regarded as an expression of hunger, becomes utterly inexplicable

when regarded as mere movements and changes of patches of colour, which

are as incapable of hunger as a triangle is of playing football.

But the difficulty in the case of the cat is nothing compared to the

difficulty in the case of human beings. When human beings speak--that

is, when we hear certain noises which we associate with ideas, and

simultaneously see certain motions of lips and expressions of face--it

is very difficult to suppose that what we hear is not the expression

of a thought, as we know it would be if we emitted the same sounds. Of

course similar things happen in dreams, where we are mistaken as to the

existence of other people. But dreams are more or less suggested by what

we call waking life, and are capable of being more or less accounted for

on scientific principles if we assume that there really is a physical

world. Thus every principle of simplicity urges us to adopt the natural

view, that there really are objects other than ourselves and our

sense-data which have an existence not dependent upon our perceiving

them.

Of course it is not by argument that we originally come by our belief in

an independent external world. We find this belief ready in ourselves as

soon as we begin to reflect: it is what may be called an _instinctive_

belief. We should never have been led to question this belief but for

the fact that, at any rate in the case of sight, it seems as if the

sense-datum itself were instinctively believed to be the independent

object, whereas argument shows that the object cannot be identical

with the sense-datum. This discovery, however--which is not at all

paradoxical in the case of taste and smell and sound, and only slightly

so in the case of touch--leaves undiminished our instinctive belief that

there _are_ objects _corresponding_ to our sense-data. Since this belief

does not lead to any difficulties, but on the contrary tends to simplify

and systematize our account of our experiences, there seems no good

reason for rejecting it. We may therefore admit--though with a slight

doubt derived from dreams--that the external world does really exist,

and is not wholly dependent for its existence upon our continuing to

perceive it.

The argument which has led us to this conclusion is doubtless less

strong than we could wish, but it is typical of many philosophical

arguments, and it is therefore worth while to consider briefly its

general character and validity. All knowledge, we find, must be built

up upon our instinctive beliefs, and if these are rejected, nothing

is left. But among our instinctive beliefs some are much stronger than

others, while many have, by habit and association, become entangled with

other beliefs, not really instinctive, but falsely supposed to be part

of what is believed instinctively.

Philosophy should show us the hierarchy of our instinctive beliefs,

beginning with those we hold most strongly, and presenting each as much

isolated and as free from irrelevant additions as possible. It should

take care to show that, in the form in which they are finally set forth,

our instinctive beliefs do not clash, but form a harmonious system.

There can never be any reason for rejecting one instinctive belief

except that it clashes with others; thus, if they are found to

harmonize, the whole system becomes worthy of acceptance.

It is of course _possible_ that all or any of our beliefs may be

mistaken, and therefore all ought to be held with at least some slight

element of doubt. But we cannot have _reason_ to reject a belief except

on the ground of some other belief. Hence, by organizing our instinctive

beliefs and their consequences, by considering which among them is most

possible, if necessary, to modify or abandon, we can arrive, on the

basis of accepting as our sole data what we instinctively believe, at an

orderly systematic organization of our knowledge, in which, though the

_possibility_ of error remains, its likelihood is diminished by the

interrelation of the parts and by the critical scrutiny which has

preceded acquiescence.

This function, at least, philosophy can perform. Most philosophers,

rightly or wrongly, believe that philosophy can do much more than

this--that it can give us knowledge, not otherwise attainable,

concerning the universe as a whole, and concerning the nature of

ultimate reality. Whether this be the case or not, the more modest

function we have spoken of can certainly be performed by philosophy, and

certainly suffices, for those who have once begun to doubt the adequacy

of common sense, to justify the arduous and difficult labours that

philosophical problems involve.

CHAPTER III. THE NATURE OF MATTER

In the preceding chapter we agreed, though without being able to

find demonstrative reasons, that it is rational to believe that our

sense-data--for example, those which we regard as associated with my

table--are really signs of the existence of something independent of us

and our perceptions. That is to say, over and above the sensations of

colour, hardness, noise, and so on, which make up the appearance of

the table to me, I assume that there is something else, of which these

things are appearances. The colour ceases to exist if I shut my eyes,

the sensation of hardness ceases to exist if I remove my arm from

contact with the table, the sound ceases to exist if I cease to rap the

table with my knuckles. But I do not believe that when all these things

cease the table ceases. On the contrary, I believe that it is because

the table exists continuously that all these sense-data will reappear

when I open my eyes, replace my arm, and begin again to rap with my

knuckles. The question we have to consider in this chapter is: What

is the nature of this real table, which persists independently of my

perception of it?