The most important question under this heading is the question whether states are subject to the moral law. That they are has sometimes been denied even in theory, and there are no doubt still countries in which it would be highly desirable to publish an article combating this denial. But, thank goodness, England is not one of these countries, and it will suffice to say briefly that I can find no even plausible argument for the contrary view. This view has often been associated with the doctrine that the State is a sort of super-person over and above the individual citizens, to whom the latter can appropriately be sacrificed as beings of little worth, as we sacrifice to our own welfare, if we can, without any compunction the myriad germs inhabiting our bodies. I cannot see any reason whatever for holding this view either, but I should have thought that, if it were adopted, the analogy of the individual thus applied to the State would suggest the contrary conclusion that the State should find its true good not in its own unscrupulous aggrandizement but in co-operation with other States. We have been taught the analogous doctrine in regard to the individual from the beginning of the Christian era or earlier, and we can look on it as generally accepted in regard to the individual by reflective people in theory, although not, of course, by any means always in practice. If we regard the State as just a group of individuals, there is still less excuse for making it out to be subject to no moral law. In that case actions of the State will always be actions by individual persons, differing only from other such actions because they are performed on behalf of certain groups of persons.

All men desire their own happiness: which is not to say that they desire nothing else, or regulate all their actions with a view to it. But very many men are also puzzled and perhaps distressed by the fact of unhappiness, whosever it may be. For it seems evil, and evil is a problem, whether seen in animal pain, or in human unhappiness, or in wrong-doing, or in what, though not the work of man, yet seems unjust: as, for example, that one who does his duty should perish miserably. True, we should most of us say that our own interest has nothing to do with our duty; and the Psalmist blesses him that sweareth unto his neighbour and disappointeth him not, “though it were to his own hindrance.” Yet almost in the same breath he declares that such a man shall never fall, that he shall dwell in the tabernacle of the Lord, and rest upon his holy hill. Clearly he thought that, unless this were so, something would be very much amiss, though even so he might have maintained that a man ought to keep the promise which he has sworn to his neighbour. It has been impressively contended by Professor Prichard that there is no sense of “advantage” in which the question whether to keep his promise is advantageous to me is relevant to the question whether I ought to keep it, not even if I identify my own advantage with what advantages society: “our conviction that we ought to do certain actions does not in fact arise from our thought that our action will conduce to the good of society which is also our own good.” Yet the contemplation of a world in which, though men did their duty, they were always involved in misery by doing it, would be gravely disconcerting. Kant himself could not believe such a world possible, though more almost than any other moralist he insisted that our consciousness of obligation had no connection with any thought of how discharging it bore upon our happiness, nor the obligation itself with how discharging it actually did so. Rather than admit that there could in the last resort be even a partial maladjustment between virtue and happiness, he was prepared to accept what he claimed to have shown that the speculative reason could never establish, the existence of an all-powerful and all-righteous God.

The connection of value-experience with activity has led to the widespread modern tendency to interpret value in terms of interest. To value a thing is certainly to take an interest in it, and there can be no doubt that the value any object has for us tends to vary with the interest we take in it. The suggestion readily arises, therefore, that the value of any object simply is the interest we take in it. The difficulty with views of this type is that interest is a distinctly subjective category while value is persistently spoken of as if it were somehow objective. Indeed, the term “value” would lose the most essential element of its meaning if it could not be applied to objects of common knowledge in such a way that two people could significantly discuss the question as to whether the object A is not more valuable than the object B and each, on the basis of his own interest and experience, defend a different view. I do not think the subjectivity of value can be as easily disposed of as does Laird1 in discussing the argument, “Beauty is not in the aurora. Therefore it is in the beholder's mind.” This, he says, leads to the absurdity, “Therefore the beholder's mind is beautiful.” The apparent absurdity is due to the ambiguity of the term “beautiful.” It is applied either to an experience or to the object of that experience.

In ‘Scientific Research and Moral Rectitude’ Robert Hoffman defends the scientific community against critics who maintain that ‘the researcher's claim to freedom of inquiry should be upheld only if his discovery does not adversely affect mankind….’ He uses two arguments in his defence, both of which purport to show that this sort of criticism is logically misconceived.

Of the many possible, and no doubt actual, forms of incoherence covered by my title, I shall be concerned with only one, and must begin by dismissing the others. The incoherence I shall speak of is not any alleged inconsistency between deterministic and indeterministic physical theories, such as between classical particle mechanics and quantum theory. It is an inconsistency internal to determinism. Not, that is, internal to any deterministic theory; but to the general claims put forward by determinists—whether scientists, philosophers, or laymen. Still another qualification—it is ‘hard’ determinism I shall be concerned with—‘hard’ in the sense in which William James distinguished between hard and soft determinism. Soft determinism James himself ridiculed as glaringly incoherent, and in any case I shall not be specially concerned with determinism as regards human conduct—with the problem of free will and responsibility.

‘Every particular Thou is a glimpse through to the eternal Thou; by means of every particular Thou the primary word addresses the eternal Thou … the Thou that by its nature cannot become It.’

Deconstruction is commonly associated with the philosophy of Derrida. But there are also non-philosophers who say they engage in deconstruction, for example architects, anthropologists and literary critics. This may lead some people to suppose that deconstruction is not concerned with specifically philosophical problems.

There is at the present time a bewildering variety of schools of psychology in open rivalry and conflict with one another. The Press and the general public, in America, at least, seem to be aware of only two of these, namely the psychoanalytic and the behaviouristic schools; and the newspaper writers and the average highbrow are content to mix snippets and catchwords from these two utterly different schools, ignoring all the rest, unless they add to their shop-window display some uncertain reference to the work of the mental testers.

Collingwood was hardly in danger. In 1939, when he wrote that, Festschrift volumes for British scholars were rare; for philosophers they were virtually non-existent. Whitehead had been given two, but then he had put himself at risk by going to America. Recently things have changed, and it is no longer safe to stay at home: half a dozen such volumes—at least—were published in honour of British philosophers between 1977 and 1980. But are they really a Bad Thing?

Philosophy unties the knots in our thinking, which we have tangled up in an absurd way; but to do that, it must make movements which are just as complicated as the knots.1 A claim to know can be contradicted in various ways. Which of them does the sceptic have in mind when he denies that we can know—for example, that the sun will rise tomorrow? Does he mean, perhaps, that the proposition is false—that the sun will not rise tomorrow? The sceptic is in no position to make such a claim. Does he mean that no one can feel certain of the proposition? No; the fact that people feel certain of it is not in dispute. The sceptic's argument is essentially about justification. He claims that we do not have the right to feel certain, nor, therefore, to claim to know. But how can he arrive at this conclusion?

In the summer of 1921 the newspapers in this country carried long reports of a Conference of Modern Churchmen at Cambridge. Many of the contributions to their proceedings were unorthodox; they resulted from an historical and philosophical approach to the New Testament and certain fundamental Christian doctrines. There was nothing particularly new to scholars in all that was said, but the eminence of some of the speakers, their intellectual distinction, and their outspokenness created a public sensation. It looked almost as if the Modernist movement which had been stifled in the Roman Church were advancing in the Anglican.

Professor Ayer's new book1 is of very great interest. All the discussion is skilful, much of it is ingenious; the arguments ramify, but never get out of control; the prose is pleasant, the presentation polished and civilized. Once before, Professor Ayer investigated the foundations of empirical knowledge; and the central topics of his new book are, to a large extent, the same as those of his earlier one. These are topics which have been much discussed since 1940. Ayer takes account of many of these discussions, and his views, in consequence, have changed. They have not changed quite so radically as one might have expected. Ayer thinks that the old-style sceptic ought still to be given a run on the old course against the old competitors. If I am not mistaken, it is important to keep this guiding thought in mind in trying to understand his book. For it is easy to glide comfortably over the smooth surface of this prose without noticing transitions and modulations which, in a less expertly composed treatise, might have given one a jolt.

The most surprising development of philosophy in recent years has been the sudden interest, friendly or hostile, in theology—or at least in the philosophy of religion. Hence the present volume, Faith and Logic, appears at a propitious time. As a series of essays composed by teachers of theology or philosophy in the University of Oxford it follows in the succession of Essays and Reviews (1860), Lux Mundi (1890), and Foundations (1912). Like all of these works it endeavours to adjust Christian, and more specifically Anglican, doctrines to the changing intellectual problems of the contemporary world. Yet perhaps it is the differences that are most striking.