Notoriously, problems about time proliferate the moment we reflect on time-consciousness, or look for conceptual consistency between our ordinary temporal locutions. But it matters that reflection and language might be cited as alternative sources of this perplexity; for it is a sound principle of philosophical reasoning that answers to problems must, on pain of missing the point, be given in the same context as that in which they arise. If, for example, logicolinguistic analysis showed the notion of tense to be self-contradictory, as McTaggart claimed, it would be an act of scientific imperialism to lay it down that the fact that a favoured interpretation of time in relativity physics dispenses with tense means that there is no real problem.

An old Arab proverb runs as follows:

He who knows not, and knows not that he knows not, is a fool; shun him.

He who knows not, and knows that he knows not, is a child; teach him.

He who knows, and knows not that he knows, is asleep; wake him.

But he who knows, and knows that he knows, is a sage; follow him.

I shall venture to affirm, as a general proposition which admits of no exception, that the knowledge of this relation is not, in any instance, attained by reasonings a priori, but arises entirely from experience, when we find that any particular objects are constantly conjoined with each other.

A man has sexual intercourse with his three-year-old niece. Teenagers standing beside a highway throw large rocks through the windshields of passing cars. A woman intentionally drives her car into a child on a bicycle. Cabdrivers cut off ambulances rushing to hospitals. Are these actions wrong? If we hesitate to say yes, that is only because the word ‘wrong’ is too mild to express our responses to such acts

A number of writers have noted affinities between the form and style of Wittgenstein′s Philosophical Investigations and the Christian confessional tradition.1,2 In this paper, however, If the Christian tradition, than of the Christian inheritance refracted through, and secularized by, German Romanticism. I shall argue that Wittgenstein′s work is less a direct continuation on this context, not only do many of the features of the Investigations which seem eccentric or wilful become naturalized, but light is also thrown on Wittgenstein′s claim that the twentieth and late nineteenth century play no part in his spiritual makeup, and that his ‘cultural ideal’ derives from ‘Schumann′s time.’3

Brian Calvert has offered us a clear and careful analysis of Locke′s views on punishment and capital punishment.1 The primary goal of his paper–that of correcting the misperception of Locke as a wholehearted proponent of capital punishment for a wide range of offences–must be allowed to be both laudable and largely achieved in his discussion. But Calvert′s analysis also encourages, I think, a number of serious misunderstandings of Locke′s true position.

Imagine a child′s toy arrow, sticking by its rubber sucker to a mirror′s reflective surface. We can call the direction in which such an arrow would point the finwards direction (forwards into the mirror); and we can call the opposite direction boutwards (backwards out). When we look at things in a mirror, their images are apparently just as far finwards of the mirror as the things themselves are boutwards of it. For example, if we look at the tail of our arrow and cast our glance finwards, we see first the tail, then the head, then the mirror, then the reflection of the head, and finally the reflection of the tail. We can therefore say that a mirror reverses things in the finwards/boutwards dimension. Moreover, the straight line connecting each thing to its image passes perpendicularly through the plane of the mirror. Hence there is no plane, apart from that of the mirror itself, such that the apparent location of each thing′s image is just as far to the one side of that plane as the original is to the other. This means that the reversal in the finwards/ boutwards dimension is the only reversal of its kind to take place. In particular, there is no such reversal in any dimension at right angles to finwards/boutwards.

There is one grand question that lies beneath most of what follows. That question is: what is morality I mean morality as it is contrasted with the non-moral, not as it is opposed to the immoral. The question does not ask, say, whether lying to a friend in a certain situation is moral or immoral, but asks what makes something, for instance lying to a friend, a moral problem. Parts of the same question ask what counts as a moral consideration, as opposed to, say, one of efficiency or aesthetics, or ask what makes a motivation moral as opposed to prudential. The question asks for the boundaries of the domain of morality.

There have been a number of attacks on the idea of human rights recently, both in the course of political and diplomatic encounters across the globe, as well as in the more systematic literature of political philosophy. These attacks do not always distinguish between the Lockean, negative and the more recent positive rights traditions. For example, at the 1993 summer conference on Human Rights in Vienna, Austria, many diplomats from different regions of the world raised such questions as 'When we speak of human rights, are these conditions that everyone everywhere ought to enjoy?’Is it perhaps the case that human rights are one thing for people in one part of the globe and another for those in another part?' These questions were raised in large part about the rights spelled out in the United Nations Declaration of Universal Human Rights, including both (so called) negative and positive rights–e.g., the rights to freedom of expression and to public education, respectively.

Professor Phillips′s short paper ‘Ten Questions for Psycho-Analysis’ (Philosophy 68, 1993) goes back a long time to 1964 or 65. The questions were originally directed to me after a paper I read to the Philosophical Society in Swansea. I have answered some of these questions in my books on Freud, though perhaps not to Phillips′s satisfaction. Here I shall try to do so again, however briefly.

In a symposium with Roger Trigg, Renford Bambrough remarks that in discussing the difference between reason and faith philosophers too often raise the issue in a misleading form.1 The form is that of the ‘treacherous singular’. In other words, they assume that there is a single difference between reason and faith, that a line may be drawn with faith entirely on one side and reason entirely on the other. Against this, Bambrough argues that there is no sharp difference between the two, that they are related in many ways and that within the network of our discourse they come to different things at different points. Philosophers too often look only at one or two points, assume a radical divergence and produce a caricature alike of reason and of faith. A more extensive view will reveal no such radical incompatibility; rather it will enable us to see faith as a mode of reason.

Since many varieties of self-deception are ineradicable and useful, it would be wise to be ambivalent about at least some of its forms.1 It is open-eyed ambivalence that acknowledges its own dualities rather than ordinary shifty vacillation that we need. To be sure, self-deception remains dangerous: sensible ambivalence should not relax vigilance against pretence and falsity, combating irrationality and obfuscation wherever they occur.