If you are told or otherwise believe an either—or proposition, the question may easily arise what makes it true. ‘The potato crop in Ruritania was halved by blight in 1928’ — ‘Well then, either the expected, planned-for crop was in excess of the people's needs, or there was a shortage of potatoes that year, or a lot were imported …’. That seems a fair deduction, and we may ask which was true. If only one was, then we'd say it made the disjunction true. If all were, then all of them did.

Does truth attach to sentences, or to what sentences express? If to sentences, then certainly not to type sentences, such as ‘I am going to London tomorrow’, but only to token sentences, that is, sentences considered as uttered by a particular speaker at a particular time. It would, however, be inconvenient to restrict truth to utterances that are actually made; we may therefore adopt the device and terminology of Davidson, and speak of a ‘statement’ constituted by a triple [s, i, t] of a type sentence s, an individual i and a time t, the existence of which does not depend on whether i in fact uttered s at t. I shall presume that the identification of a type sentence depends on identifying the language to which it belongs. A familiar, irritating obstacle prevents our explaining that, when i did not utter s at t, the ‘statement’ is to be said to be true just in case he would have said something true if he had done so; the obstacle consists in sentences like, ‘I am not now speaking.’ The difficulty is not serious. What more is needed in order to obtain, from a type sentence s, something apt to be characterised as true or false is an assignment of references to indexical and demonstrative expressions occurring in s; we may say that s ‘comes out’ true or false under such an assignment. We may therefore take a ‘statement’ [s, i, t] to be true or false according as s comes out true or false under the assignment of t to the word ‘now’, i to the words ‘I’, and ‘me’, the place where i is at t to the word ‘here’, and so on. There is no reason to be disconcerted by the fact that this will yield as true a ‘statement’ involving the sentence, ‘I have been dead for a hundred years.’ Demonstrative expressions like ‘that house’, ‘this country’, etc., are less easily dealt with. Many should be regarded as devoid of reference unless, at t, i actually makes a pointing gesture or the equivalent; but the question need not be pursued here. For convenience, however, we may continue to speak of the ascription of truth to sentences, as long as we bear in mind that it is to ‘statements’, in our special sense, to which it is really to be ascribed.

0 Consider ‘I’ as used by a given speaker and some ordinary proper name of that speaker: are these two coreferential singular terms which differ in Fregean sense? If they could be shown to be so, we might be able to explain the logical and epistemological peculiarities of ‘I’ by appeal to its special sense and yet feel no temptation to think of its reference as anything more exotic than a human being.

Empiricism has traditionally been concerned with two questions: (a) What is the source of our concepts and ideas? and (b) How should claims to empirical knowledge be judged? The empiricist answer to the first question is ‘From observation or experience.’ The concern in the second question is not to ground science in pure observation or in direct experience, but rather to ensure that claims to scientific knowledge are judged against the natural phenomena themselves. Questions about nature must be settled by nature — not by faith, nor metaphysics, nor mathematics, and not by convention or convenience either. From Francis Bacon to Karl Popper empiricists have wanted to police the methods of scientific enquiry.

This paper is a reflection on some of Elizabeth Anscombe's influential work on causation, in particular on some comments in her Inaugural Lecture at Cambridge, published as ‘Causality and Determination’. One of Anscombe's major concerns in that paper is the relation between causation and necessitation, and she critically discusses the cast of mind which links causality with some kind of necessary connection or with exceptionless generalisation. In place of a semi-technical analysis of causation, Anscombe identifies the obvious and yet little considered core of the causal relation as follows:

Elizabeth Anscombe's most important philosophical work has been on intention and action: in her book Intention and in many of her articles. To read Intention is like watching somebody hew a path with a machete through a jungle of confusion and mythology. Such work is never done, for the jungle grows apace. Here I take up some of the task.

When I first read Intention as a student it seemed misnamed, since, I thought, it gave an account of intentional action all right, but left me still wondering what an intention was. It was only with years of rereading that I came to see that one beauty of the account was that it eliminated the need to ask.

I have asked that this article should be reprinted in the volume dedicated to Elizabeth Anscombe because it in particular reflects throughout my great indebtedness to her. I remember, as long ago as the late 1940s confidently referring to ‘the difference between descriptive and evaluative reasoning’ in one of the many discussions that we began to have from that time on. She, genuinely puzzled, simply asked, ‘What do you mean?’

… it is not profitable for us at present to do moral philosophy; that should be laid aside at any rate until we have an adequate philosophy of psychology, in which we are conspicuously lacking.

These words state one of the principal theses of Elizabeth Anscombe's ‘Modern Moral Philosophy’ (1958). Later in the article, the point is reiterated more specifically and with more force:

is it not clear that there are several concepts that need investigating simply as part of the philosophy of psychology and – as I should recommend – banishing ethics totally from our minds? Namely – to begin with: ‘action’, ‘intention’, ‘pleasure’, ‘wanting’. More will probably turn up if we start with these.

The innocent are immune. We must never, that is, make the object of any violent attack those who bear no responsibility for doing wrong to others; and only with grave reason and in extreme circumstances should we be prepared to cause them any incidental harm as we press home a violent attack against those who are its legitimate objects. This principle of the immunity of the innocent seems almost self-evidently true. This is not to say that the principle is incapable of further development and articulation, unsusceptible of marginal qualification, or underivable from deeper principles. It does however mean that any moral theory which denies this principle altogether will be something that only a fool or a knave could accept.