To learn to make one's way about in the world it is of course necessary to rely on one's own observations and on the reports of other observers. But making one's way about in the world is also very much a matter of learning non-natural distinctions. These express attitudes and feelings which are normal and established in the community. Ownership is the most obvious example. The difference between Mine and Yours cannot be observed but it can be learned: and part of what is learned is Don't touch. It is this distinction which transforms territories and commodities into properties. All distinctions of this group I call ‘prosaic’. They are, or profess to be, wholly useful and business-like. Their importance lies entirely in their functional utility. They are all eminently reasonable and arguable—as important and as prosaic as a bank balance or a shop-steward.

Psychological egoism is, I suppose, regarded by most philosophers as one of the more simple-minded fallacies in the history of philosophy, and dangerous and seductive too, contriving as it does to combine cynicism about human ideals and a vague sense of scientific method, both of which make the ordinary reader feel sophisticated, with conceptual confusion, which he cannot resist. For all of these reasons it springs eternal, in one form or another, in the breasts of first-year students, and offers excellent material for their philosophy instructors, who like nothing better than an edifice of sturdy appearance but with rotten foundations on which to display their skill as demolition experts.

I must admit that I was long tempted to choose a different title for this lecture—one which seemed to give a better idea of its contents. On the other hand, the title I found so attractive did not seem suited to the note of solemnity which normally accompanies an inaugural lecture. I was forced to suppress it—until today, at any rate; for today I have the opportunity of justifying it, and I hope to make the most of it. The title I wanted to use was ‘The Thing with the Thing’.

In Word and Object Professor Quine formulated his Principle of Indeterminacy of Translation as follows:

Manuals for translating one language into another can be set up in divergent ways, all compatible with the totality of speech dispositions, yet incompatible with one another. In countless places they will diverge in giving, as their respective translations of a sentence of the one language, sentences of the other language which stand to each other in no plausible sort of equivalence however loose. The firmer the direct links of a sentence with non-verbal stimulation, of course, the less drastically its translations can diverge from one another from manual to manual.

Where a man foresaw that through its consequences his action would violate a law, is he for that reason to be judged responsible for the violation of the law? The principle that such a man is responsible, and thus that foresight is sufficient for responsibility, has long been accepted in both legal and moral theory. But in recent years anxieties about this principle have been expressed by both philosophers and lawyers. What one commonly finds in older books, both legal and ethical, is the thesis that foresight is proof of intention. Given that intention is sufficient for responsibility, this thesis has as consequence the principle that foresight is sufficient for responsibility, but it is only required by that principle if one wants to keep the view that intention is also necessary for responsibility in all cases where negligence is not involved. Miss Anscombe (op. cit., note i) made the extraordinary suggestion that this thesis that foresight is proof of intention originates with Sidgwick, and she took him severely to task on this account; indeed, she even implied that Sidgwick's introduction of this thesis is the source of the shallowness of ‘modern’ moral philosophy. While it is true that Sidgwick did endorse this thesis, in a somewhat qualified manner, he was only following an established tradition of utilitarian thought to which the thesis belongs (not because it is specifically utilitarian in content but because the utilitarians Bentham and Austin were among the first writers to try to articulate clearly the principles of responsibility). Thus this thesis occurs in John Austin's 1828 lectures on Jurisprudence (lecture XIX) and the best early discussion of it is to be found in Bentham's Introduction to the Principles of Morals and Legislation (Chs. VIII, IX). Bentham, it is true, introduces a distinction between ‘directly intentional consequences’ and ‘obliquely intentional consequences’ which we might describe as a distinction between consequences that are intended and those that are foreseen but not intended. But for Bentham, foresight is proof of intention, and thus for him obliquely intentional consequences are intended: ‘Advisedness with respect to the circumstances, if clear from the mis-supposal of any preventive circumstance, extends the intentionality from the act to its consequences’ (Ch. IX, 10).

If the world were wholly just, the following inductive definition would exhaustively cover the subject of justice in holdings.

1. A person who acquires a holding in accordance with the principle of justice in acquisition is entitled to that holding.

2. A person who acquires a holding in accordance with the principle of justice in transfer, from someone else entitled to the holding, is entitled to the holding.

3. No one is entitled to a holding except by (repeated) applications of i and 2.

The complete principle of distributive justice would say simply that a distribution is just if everyone is entitled to the holdings they possess under the distribution.

The notion that concern for the feelings of animals is as such sentimental is rather a common one. I shall suggest that, in general, the charge of sentimentality can never be made to stick in this way merely because concern is directed towards one class of sentient beings rather than another. It rests on the motives and reasons for being concerned, not on the objects to which concern is directed. About animals, however, a special point arises which I must deal with first. Objectors may say that it is sentimental to attribute feelings to them at all, or at least to attribute specific feelings, to suppose ourselves well enough informed about their states of consciousness for concern to be appropriate. The charge of sentimentality here is close to that of anthropomorphism.

Having distinguished essentially fictional characters from inessentially fictional ones (a distinction I shall examine later) and having identified Anna Karenina as an inessentially fictional character, Barrie Paskins solves the problem I posed in ‘How Can We Be Moved by the Fate of Anna Karenina?’ thus: ‘our pity towards the inessentially fictional is, or can without forcing be construed as, pity for those people if any who are in the same bind as the character in the fiction’. Making a similar point in a footnote, ‘our emotions towards fictional characters are directed towards those real people, if any, who are in essentially the same situation’, he continues in the text, ‘This possibility is neglected by Radford and Weston.’

Spinoza is a pantheist: he believes that everything that is, is God. Traditional Judaeo-Christian theologians dislike the idea, and Spinoza has always been unpopular for it. Nevertheless, I want here to suggest that, simply by following out the logic of omniscience and omnipotence—two attributes of God on which both Spinoza and his opponents are agreed—it is possible to arrive at a conception of God which is at least very close to Spinoza's own. I do not claim that any of the arguments I use are to be found in Spinoza, but I do think that this way of thinking helps to explain the motives behind his ‘hideous hypothesis’.

In ‘The Survival Lottery’ John Harris raises the following issue. Suppose it is possible for physicians to save the lives of two patients, Y and Z, otherwise doomed to die through no fault of their own, by taking the life of a third person, P, and using various of his organs appropriately for transplants. To provide a fair and impartial way of selecting the organ donor, a survival lottery is proposed for the society. This lottery randomly selects an organ donor from the population at large. Harris, speaking from the point of view of Y and Z, defends the demand that such a lottery be established. What if anything is wrong with this scheme?

It is a familiar fact that dreams are hard to recall. Because of this, memory alone is not a reliable indication of what they are like.

Consider the following examples. (1) Some people claim that they never dream. The truth is, psychologists assure us, that they do not remember having dreamt. Researchers say that they can tell when someone is dreaming, by his rapid eye movements (REM) and a certain pattern of brain waves recorded on an electroencephalograph (EEG). When a sleeper's eyes move rapidly, and he registers the appropriate pattern of brain-waves on the EEG, and then he is awakened, he almost always reports a dream. By this test, no one has yet been discovered who does not dream at all. In fact, psychologists have established that the average person has four to six periods of dreaming each night. (2) Some people say that they always dream in black and white, never in colour. Again, however, they have apparently forgotten the colours that occur in dreams, as is shown by the fact that most often, if we wake a sleeper in the middle of a dream, when it is still fresh in his mind, he then can report colours. (3) Another claim that some people make is that dreams never last more than a few seconds. This also seems to be a case of forgetting dreams, since periods of REM, together with EEG readings, indicate that dreams take longer than this; in fact they may last as long as thirty-five minutes. (4) Finally, it is a piece of folk wisdom that eating rich foods just before sleep causes nightmares. According to scientists, however, all that eating such foods can do is to cause a person enough bodily discomfort to wake him often during the night. This leads him to remember more of his dreams—and therefore more of their vividness and strangeness—than he usually does.