Most contemporary philosophers accept Kant's view1 that the central question of morality is what ought I to do. This gives choice a pivotal role, for choice is what one faces when the question has to be answered. Since what is chosen is an action, this view of morality—I shall call it the current view—is action-orientated. And since actions are directed towards people, the current view stresses altruism and universalizability. Morality is thus supposed to be activist and social. It is a sensible, public-spirited enterprise in which responsible members of society will participate because they realize that reason requires it. Kantians, Utilitarians, Contractarians, and Marxists disagree, of course, about the nature of the relation between reason and morality. But they agree that choice intending to lead to action contributing to the welfare of others is the central concern of morality.

Some years ago, it was fashionable for philosophers not to take sceptica arguments seriously. Now, it seems no longer so.

One of the questions that any future history of British moral philosophy in the twentieth century should investigate and document is how it came about that Moore's Principia Ethica was appropriated by what we can call theHumean tradition of moral philosophy. I shall not trace that development now but only argue that there was no excuse or justification for it.

What makes us responsive, however occasionally, to moral demands? Why do people sometimes own up, go off to fight unwillingly in what they consider to be just wars, refrain from stealing a march on friends, and so on, even when they could by doing otherwise reap advantages far outweighing, in the scales of ordinary prudential rationality, any consequent disadvantage? Why has morality such a hold over us?

I shall in this paper defend a universalizability thesis against certain objections. It will shortly be clear that the thesis defended is not the universalizability thesis as generally understood but something which differs crucially from it in that it claims no role whatsoever in ‘the definition of morality’. My title may therefore be misleading in this respect.

The articles on ‘thinking’ by Gilbert Ryle brought together by Konstantin Kolenda were not very well received, even by those who acknowledge, as awhole generation of philosophers must, a considerable intellectual debt to him. Bernard Williams in his review ‘Ryle Remembered’ (The London Review of Books I, No. 3 (1979)) seemed to capture the general impression created by the book. My suspicion is that this was so because readers approached it with a resistance built up over years of hearingRyle flounder on the topic. They read the book expecting to find nothing init that they had not already assimilated or rejected. To pick up the metaphor G. E. L. Owen employed in the obituary he wrote for the Aristotelian Society, they had come to regard Ryle's work as a philosophical seam which during his own lifetime had already been so extensively and profitably minedthat by the time of his death it was already producing diminishing returns. Although Williams in his review did provide a rationale for Ryle's floundering I suspect that his rationale, like most readers’ expectations, preventedhim from reading the articles in the volume at all closely. Williams's viewwas that towards the end of his life, with whatever he had had in the way of theory collapsing around him, Ryle was left with nothing but his massive common sense together with the resources of a style of writing which had bythen become a caricature of itself. As against this I shall argue that Ryle, puzzled by the notion of thinking, took the problem back to his own philosophical roots where he finally came to think that the solution lay.

The attitude of the impartial spectator has seemed to some to be the appropriate one for a moral philosopher: the philosopher should disengage himself from the moral battle and try to understand it; the academic moral philosopher's responsibility is to write about morality rather than to recommend moral positions—and, indeed, where an ideological standpoint is presupposed in academic moral philosophy, it is commonly not consciously presupposed.

Thomas Nagel recognizes that it is commonly believed that people can neither be held morally responsible nor morally assessed for what is beyond their control. Yet he is convinced that although such a belief may be intuitively plausible, upon reflection we find that we do make moral assessments of persons in a large number of cases in which such assessments depend on factors not under their control. Of such factors he says: ‘Wherea significant aspect of what someone does depends on factors beyond his control, yet we continue to treat him in that respect as an object of moral judgment, itcan be called moral luck’ (p. 26).

John S. Dunne says that in its most general form the ‘problem of death’ is this: ‘If I must some day die, what can I do to satisfy my desire to live?’ His aim is to ‘discover what[men] have done or tried to do to make themselves immortal’ —or at any rate to prolong their lives indefinitely, a rather different matter. His book charts the adoption and subsequent rejection of a succession of historical ‘solutions’ to this problem: ‘surrogates’of one or another kind for everlasting life, as he calls them. The surrogates he examines are many and varied: the shared experience of life and death; the appropriation of the dead by the living; immortal fame; immortal status; autonomous life and autonomous death; and others still.

Fulke Greville speaks of the will as inevitably divided between reason and passion. Shakespeare takes such a division seriously but, through Hamlet, he recognizes the possibility of reason and passion being united in a man's will and purpose.

What is systematic in philosophy is its description of the world we inhabit. ‘Philosophers boast’, said Whitehead, ‘that they uphold no system. They are then a prey to the delusive clarities of detached expressions whichit is the very purpose of their science to surmount’. We need not accept Whitehead's comparison of ‘speculative philosophy’ with the systemof naturalsciences to take his point. The philosophical description of the world issystematic since ‘detached expressions’ may delude us; ‘detached’, that is, in lying outside ‘a coherent, logical, necessary system of generalideas’; we lack a conviction that they have an application to any element of our experience, which the members of a system possess, according to Whitehead, in characterizing every element. What is the nature of this system of description?

Many philosophers have believed that colours and the other qualia ofexperience are simples and that colour terms are unanalysable. Colour termsare unanalysable because colours are simples, colours are known to be simple because colour terms are unanalysable. I shall try to show that things are not as simple as this. Nothing in the paper will depend on the general Wittgensteinian thesis of the relativity of simplicity. The thought I shallpursue is the more specific one that the philosophers who have believed in the simplicity of colours have been the victims of certain false images of what the relevant kind of simplicity is like, and that when these images are destroyed the belief is clearly false. Most importantly they have confused logical simplicity with visual uniformity, the kind of simplicity which could intelligibly be attributed to coloured patches or expanses of colour andthe kind of simplicity which can be attributed to colours. So the paper is concerned with the destruction of spatial and material images which distort our understanding of concepts which are neither spatial nor material ones.The wider epistemological implications of the non-existence of simple ideas of colours will not be discussed.

While it is generally accepted that we need to use our intelligence (toreason) in order to get what we want, it is thought to be a cardinal error to imagine that by reasoning we can discover what we ought to want. Reason can in no way constrain the choice of ends, it can only constrain the choice of means once an end has been (non-rationally) adopted. In Plato's philosophy we find a view strongly opposed to this (Humean) attitude towards reason. It is widely held, however, that to arrive at a position which is plainly opposed to (Humean) common sense, Plato must have grossly confused reasoning about means with reasoning about ends. Evidence of this confusion is found in Plato's use of analogies between statecraft and navigation, and between virtue and skill. But the diagnosis of confusion rests on a misunderstanding of how Plato wanted to use the word translated ‘skill’, i.e. ‘technē’, and this misunderstanding is shared even by those who see Plato as rejecting the virtue/skill analogy.