In moral as in other branches of philosophy good examples are indispensable: examples, that is, which bring out the real force of the ways in which we speak and in which language is not ‘ on holiday’. Peter Winch, ‘The Universalizability of Moral Judgments.’

There are, no doubt, a variety of reasons, good and bad, why anyone might want to treat a worker's labour, and most people, consciously or unconsciously do, as a commodity.

The notion of experience plays a deeply ambiguous role in philosophical thinking. In ordinary discourse we say that applicants for employment as joiner, farmhand or nanny should have some previous experience with carpentry, livestock or children. Such uses of the word clearly presuppose the existence of the relevant objects of experience. In other usages the focus is more on the mental effect on the subject (without doubting the existence of the relevant objects), as when someone says that they have had several unpleasant experiences that day–a wetting in a thunderstorm, an altercation with a traffic warden, and a long wait at the station.

Locke reports, in his discussion of substance and with some amusement, on the Indian philosopher who, when asked what the earth rests on, postulated an elephant and then, when asked in turn about the elephant, decided to go with a tortoise. Locke's amusement, of course, is justified. But it is also tempered if not downright equivocal. For he sees that at some point a very special elephant or—if we stick to the Indian's story—a very special tortoise will have to be invoked. Locke's own tortoise, or elephant, substratum or substance, has some very peculiar properties or, alternatively, an equally alarming lack of them—so much so that, as he is painfully aware, it might well seem totally implausible. Enough of Locke though. Wittgenstein's problem, unlike Locke's, lies in epistemology. His elephant consists of an indefinitely large and varied set of bench-marks or paradigms—Moore's examples, in fact, along with some additions—that function as an epistemological ‘foundation’, ‘river bed’, ‘bedrock’, ‘rock bottom’, a ‘substratum’, no less. Where is the tortoise? Wittgenstein's answer to this is that there is no tortoise, none at all. A non-existent tortoise, however, is as unacceptable here as a regular common-or-garden one. Even the Indian realized that an elephant is no good without a tortoise.

Irony is nothing new to philosophy; quite the contrary, it is as familiar as the figure of Socrates. Yet when, for example, Socrates asks Euthyphro to teach him about piety because of Euthyphro's obvious knowledge of the subject, Socrates‘ irony has little philosophical significance. Socrates says something contrary to what he means, and Euthyphro in his arrogance takes the statement literally. Plato uses Socratic irony to dramatic affect by allowing the events of the drama to unfold in such a way that it becomes clear that Socrates’ literal praise of Euthyphro’s knowledge is incongruous with the results of the discussion taking place, although Euthyphro is hardly aware of the incongruity. The significance of this literary technique is that the reader be made conscious of the possibility of his own arrogance and the hindrance this would create to true philosophical understanding. As important as this use of irony is to Plato's Socratic dialogues, the irony is not the philosophical thesis.

Frank Plumpton Ramsey was born in February 1903, and he died in January 1930—just before his 27th birthday. In his short life he produced an extraordinary amount of profound and original work in economics, mathematics and logic as well as in philosophy: work which in all these fields is still, over sixty years on, extremely influential.