Some others, more willing to believe that there has been progress in philosophy since 1970, still find value in engaging with Wittgenstein’s work. Nevertheless, his influenced has declined drastically over the past forty years. No doubt that could be roughly measured by his proportion of citations in journals. But what strikes me most forcefully is that the fear factor has gone. As a test of authority, of intellectual or other kinds, admiration tells less than fear. In the 1970s, even non-Wittgensteinian philosophers were often afraid to speak out against Wittgenstein. They are so no longer. Another philosopher who has ceased to elicit the fear factor is Quine. Originally, he was frightening because few could match his skill with the weapons of formal logic in philosophical debate. By the 1970s that was no longer so, but philosophers were still very nervous of relying on ordinary semantic notions such as synonymy, because they were afraid of being caught out by Quine’s argument for the indeterminacy of translation. That fear too gradually evaporated in the 1970s, as Quine’s behaviourist assumptions fell into disrepute. Timothy Williamson (2014) “How Did We Get Here From There? The Transformation of Analytical Philosophy.” (28) [HT Dailynous]
During the next week or so, I’ll do a series of critical blog posts on Timothy Williamson’s entertaining, “How Did We Get Here From There?” This recent paper is, in part, an extremely illuminating (and modestly self-serving) history of decisive controversies -- presented elegantly and concisely as a series of miniature set-pieces -- in important areas of recent analytical philosophy (M&E, Mind, Language, and a bit of Logic)[1] as practiced primarily in the two Cambridges, Oxford, and Princeton.[2] It is especially impressive because Williamson is very sensitive not just to doctrinal disputes, but also to the methodological shifts and challenges along the way. The piece is, in part, a privileged memoir of the intellectual atmosphere of Oxford philosophy during the last four decades. It is, also, a polemical attempt at boundary policing.
But before I aim my polemic at Williamson’s polemic(s) and boundaries, I warmly welcome Williamson’s newfound receptivity toward the history of philosophy (he sprinkles his piece with clever references to Leibniz, Berkeley, Kant, and even Bradley, etc.), including recent history of philosophy; it is lovely to note that he looks “forward to reading” philosophical “histories” of recent history (34). And I take it that he is signaling that the discipline should be receptive to training people who are competent enough to write such a history. In future posts, I will be critical of the fairly evident constraints he wishes to put on such history, but it cannot hurt to stress our agreement.[3] Williamson recognizes the “danger” when the history of philosophy is left to “the losers” (27). In future posts, I’ll reflect a bit more pointedly on Williamson’s choice of words, but, as an expert philosophical historian, I agree with him, from my self-serving, considered judgment, that in a zero-sum intellectual environment, it is best to keep control over the past.
Today I call attention to a fascinating paragraph on the legacy of Wittgenstein and Quine quoted above. Williamson rightly observes that two reactive attitudes, admiration and fear, can play a non-trivial role in authority, “intellectual or other kinds” (22). Even if one does not associate these two attitudes with superstition (as, say, Hume would do) or reverence to authoritarian authority, it is a striking fact that consent or agreement are absent here. (Maudlin and I have noted Williamson's concern with authority before.) One does not freely give fear; while admiration can be consequent to one’s judgment it is more commonly its cause. That is to say, analytical philosophy, as experienced by Williamson, is less akin to an egalitarian republic of letters than a ruthless game of thrones in which people ascend and decline in “standing” (27), named professorships (I counted eight explicitly named Chairs), admiration (see also 21), and “authority” (see also 29). It’s a world of rapidly eclipsed dynasties with “rising stars” (21) and star “pupils” (17), and where the common currency is “prestige” (30; 34). In this world rightly aimed cruelty is sometimes welcomed as a “breath of fresh of air,” (describing Kripke’s critique of Davidson (21)).[4]
Williamson denies that his history lends itself to “easy morals.” (17) That’s not quite right. It would be too easy, although not misleading, to say that morals or even intellectual friendship and collaboration are absent in his perception of recent analytical philosophy.[5] He describes a ruthless world of intellectual combat in which positions and approaches can be “enforced” by superior technical skill (e.g., 9). To be clear: it’s not only a world of intellectual might makes right; while facility in technical and formal tools can give one momentary advantages, ultimately – it seems – the party of truth also avails itself of such tools. (Williamson recognizes and embraces the role of fashion (33); about this more soon.) While Williamson has apparently given up his charming project of formalizing Leibniz’s Principle of Sufficient Reason (17), he does maintain a modest providential faith that the “cunning of reason” will “extract the residue it needs from each changing fashion.” (33)
In Williamson's intellectual universe there are no official philosophical Kuhn-Losses that can accompany "progress." But he tacitly recognizes that it may take a while for philosophy to see the light: Bradley’s observation that “critiques of metaphysics themselves depend on contentious metaphysical assumptions” (11) is now common sense; it was not always so within analytical philosophy.
I close with a final observation. Williamson reveals in passing that he once enjoyed shocking people by claiming that he “found Popper more interesting than Davidson.” (23) In fact, Williamson’s embrace of the intellectual virtue of “openness” (22) is evidence of Popper’s more enduring influence on him. Even so, Popper was no friend abduction -- a key commitment not just of Quine and Lewis, but also of Williamson's scientific philosophy (24). I note the embrace of abduction, not because I am some outdated Popperian, but because Popper was keenly aware of the dangers of appeals to illegitimate authority within science and philosophy. One may note in Popper's spirit that in fields with an abductive ethos there is a bias toward confirmation rather than Popperian stress-testing of one's theories.
In institutions in which fear and admiration are key sources of authority, it is to be expected that there are considerable patterns of exclusion: if one lacks certain tools or has the wrong personality, or connections, one and one's ideas will not have a seat at the table. Nobody said that professional philosophy would be fair, of course, but it is notable that Williamson offers no hint that he can help us point the way toward different, wiser not to mention less zero-sum norms.
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