This is a paper about two philosophers who wrote to each other. One is famous; the other is not. It is about two practical standpoints, the strategic and the human, and what the famous philosopher said of them. And it is about friendship and deception, duty and despair. That is enough by way of preamble.

In spite of his profound influence on philosophy in general, Wittgenstein has had no discernible effect upon the philosophy of education. It was not to be expected that his rejection of doctrine in favour of the clarification of language as the goal of philosophical activity would readily find favour with those for whom the medium was intrinsically less important than the message it was intended to convey. Nevertheless philosophers of education have no medium other than language and no means of identifying the subject of their discourse other than the word ‘education’. They cannot convey a clear message if the meaning of their words, ‘education’ in particular, is not clear. Accordingly they cannot take for granted but must clarify in accordance with a postulated theory of meaning the nexus between ‘education’ and education. In his early Tractatus and his later Philosophical Investigations respectively, Wittgenstein proposes alternative theories of meaning. I apply each in turn to ‘education’ and sketch my view of a Wittgensteinian philosophy of education.

The ideas of modernity and post-modernity have recently come to figure prominently in social thought. Their importance for social thought about religion, however, has not generally been explored. Yet recent concern with modernity and its aftermath is closely related to the widespread interest that used to be taken in secularization. Indeed, I hope to show that some of the basic questions at issue are much the same.

I shall argue that cinematic images do not have tense: not, at least, in the sense that has been ascribed to them by film theorists. This does not abolish time in cinema, for there can be temporal relations without tense, and temporal relations between cinematic images can indicate temporal relations between events depicted. But the dispensability of tense will require us to rethink our assumptions about what is sometimes called anachrony in cinema: the reordering of story-time by narrative, of which the flashback is the most common example.

The claim that philosophy and its history are two distinct, though interrelated, things would probably seem allmost people who have any idea of what philosophy is, to be so obviously true that it would be foolish or perverse to call it in question. Do we not assume, and rightly, that there is a real distinction between art and the history of art, between science and the history of science? Is there not also a real distinction between philosophy and history of philosophy? Artistic creation and telling the story of the development of the arts through the centuries are clearly not the same thing, though there is an obvious relationship between them. Similarly, the actual process of scientific inquiry and formulating scientific hypotheses and theories is not the same thing as recounting the genesis of such hypotheses and theories. Again, it hardly needs saying that there is a difference between Kant's original creative development of his philosophy and the activity of providing even a sympathetic and illuminating interpretative account of Kant's thought.

Anyone who comes to read some of Aquinas' works and at the same time looks around for modern discussions of them will be struck by two things: first, the greater part of the latter is the product of American and European Catholic neo-scholasticism; and second, that, with a few distinguished exceptions,1 what is contributed by writers of the analytical tradition is often a blend of uninformed generalizations and some suspicion that what Aquinas presents is not so much independent philosophy as propaganda for the cause of Christian theology.

I begin with the common distinction between study which is for its own sake and study which is for some other reason. It is often assumed that when study is not for its own sake then it is for the sake of a career. But there are many and subtle ways in which a student's concern with his or her subject may be deflected from its intrinsic good. And there are ways of being concerned with its intrinsic good which are quite trivial. Therefore, if we are concerned with what may go deep in a student's life—as surely we must be if we are concerned with its ethical or spiritual possibilities—then we cannot rest with the distinction between intrinsic and extrinsic goods. A student with a vocation for healing who studies medicine in response to it, or a student who loves justice and who studies law in that spirit and with a view to practising it, is doing something finer than is a philosophy or history student who is merely enchanted with natural pleasures which come with the disciplined exercise of the powers of the mind.

In everyday English usage, the words ‘literal’ and ‘figurative’ are normally taken to be opposite in meaning. It is an opposition with very ancient roots. One of its forbears was the medieval theory of Scriptural hermeneutics, which distinguished among the literal, allegorical, moral, and anagogic senses of Scripture. This itself had an ancestry in pre-Augustinian times: Augustine tells in his Confessions how he learned from Ambrose the trick of interpreting Scripture figuratively, thus eliminating the problems and contradictions created by a literal reading. Earlier still, the distinction and the opposition were at least implicit in Poetics 21, where Aristotle differentiated between the standard or normal name for a thing, and various other types of name among which he listed metaphor. The antonymy of the literal and the figurative is therefore deeply embedded in our intellectual history, and it is perhaps for this reason that it has remained, to a large extent, unexamined and unquestioned.

In The Philosophy of John Stuart Mill, Alan Ryan suggests there is an underlying unity of conception in Mill's philosophical writing. He identifies this single idea as ‘inductivism’ and, in the first of the two chapters devoted to Mill's ethics, he states that ‘once we understand how this concept of rationality holds together his views on mathematics and justice’, we will find that much ‘light can be shed on the dark places of Mill's philosophy’. No mention will be made in the present essay of Mill's opinions on mathematics, and it is only incidentally concerned with his ideas about justice. However, it shares Ryan's premise that an inductivist interpretation of Mill's moral philosophy is likely to be most enlightening. In particular, our aim is to show how this approach can brighten up two undeniably murky spots in Utilitarianism: the ‘proof passage’ of chapter 4, and the distinction between higher and lower pleasures in chapter 2.

Dorothea, an idealistic young lady, is the central figure of George Eliot's Middlemarch. She longs to devote her life to something valuable, looking up to people like St Teresa as her ideal. Contrary to all expectations, she decides to marry Casaubon, an elderly clergyman. For years, Casaubon has been preparing his magnum opus called ‘Key to All Religions’. In the milieu where Dorothea is living—a quiet English parish in the 1830s—Casaubon's scholarly project appears to her as the right object of her devotion. She would lighten the burden of his solitary labour; share his life of wisdom and pursuit of truth.

In his book, The Principles of Mathematics, the young Bertrand Russell abandoned the common-sense notion that the whole must be greater than its part, and argued that wholes and their parts can be similar, e.g. where both are infinite series, the one being a sub-series of the other. He also rejected the popular view that the idea of an infinite number is self-contradictory, and that an infinite set or collection is an impossibility. In this paper, I intend to re-examine Russell's wisdom in doing both these things, and see if it might not have made more sense, and caused his enterprise fewer problems, if he had simply stuck to our commonplace ideas. To this end, I shall also be considering his treatment of certain paradoxes that he claims can only be resolved by the abandonment of the above notions, as well as certain others which his theories appear to have generated.

Long after we have abandoned belief in a Cosmic Law Giver, still we cling to the word ‘law’ in science. It is in this same way that we cannot let go of the substantializing and pluralizing ‘universal’, even though its literal sense indicates a kind of turning, a ‘one-turning’, (uni-versal) rather than a kind of thing. Yet ‘the problem of Universals’ is supposed to have become, again, a ‘compulsory examination question’ for philosophers. Let us reveal how this tradition begins for us.