A young Greek student who arrived in Cambridge thirty years ago to readfor the Classical Tripos went to Bowes and Bowes to equip himself with the necessary works of reference. Besides his Liddell and Scott and his Lewis and Short he came away with a copy of A Guide to the Classics by Michael Oakeshott and G. T. Griffith, Fellows of Gonville and Caius College, not noticing that it was subtitled ‘How to Pick the Derby Winner’. Even when an author or editor is trying to avoid ambiguity there may still be questions of interpretation. The April 1926 issue of the Journal of Philosophical Studies printed three articles under the collective title ‘The Problem of Colour in Relation to the Idea of Equality’. They were the texts of papers read at a meeting of the newly founded British Institute of Philosophical Studies at the Royal Society of Arts on 16 February 1926. The title might suggest a symposium on problems discussed earlier by Goethe or later by Wittgenstein, or perhaps some investigation into the distinction between a priori and empirical concepts. The uncertainties of readers cannot have been long-lived. The symposiasts were Sir Frederick Lugard, KCMG, CB, DSO, Morris Ginsberg, MA, D.Litt. and the Hon. H. A. Wyndham. The same volume contained ‘The Primitive and the Civilized Mind’ by N. Lossky and the 1927 volume added Professor R. F. A. Hoernlé's ‘Prolegomena to the Study of the Black Man's Mind’.

Kant writes: If … the only aim of Nature regarding some creature possessed of reason and a will were its preservation, its well-being, in a word its happiness, then she would have come to a very bad arrangement in choosing its reason as executor of that aim. For all actions that it had to execute in this her intention, and the whole regulation of its behaviour would have been able to be prescribed to it much more precisely by instinct, and that aim thereby much more certainly maintained, than ever could happen through reason …

From the way we speak it appears that we think changes do not merely come about but are brought about. Can we really think this? Have we any idea of the bringing or being brought about of a change distinct from our idea of its coming about? In the first part of this paper I shall try to describe some of the forms of causal thinking which are reflected in our ordinary causal judgments. In the second, having criticized two current analyses of the notion of change, I shall argue that to think of a change as something which comes about is to think of it as a causal explanandum, and to think of a change as a coming about of something is to think of it as a causal explanans.

As a moral ideal, accepting the circumstances of one's life and its attendant miseries is, if not positively repugnant to modern ears, at least utterly puzzling.

Historians might attempt to trace this aversion to the French Rationalists and English Utilitarians who believed that once the laws of human behaviour were discovered all social problems would be solved and who even tried to establish communities in which unhappiness would simply be eradicated. In this optimistic climate of social engineering, when it began to appear as self-evident that each individual had a natural ‘right’ to happiness, accepting misery and social evil must have seemed perverse in contrast with striving to improve one's own and others’ condition in life.

Naturalism, the purported derivation of values from facts, is a fallacy which stubbornly persists despite all attempts to root it out. And nowadays the naturalists seem to be getting the upper hand. It has become a commonplace of contemporary thinking, both in ethics and the philosophy of science (social and even natural), that the fact-value distinction has ‘broken down’. As early as 1955, J. L. Austin spoke disparagingly of the ‘fact/value fetish’; three years later, Philippa Foot referred to the ‘disappearance’ of the logical gap between factual premises and moral conclusions. In the following decade, Jonathan Cohen baldly asserted that ‘the statement/evaluation dichotomy is erroneous’; and John Searle produced a famous paper which set out to demolish the ‘alleged’ and ‘not very useful’ distinction between descriptive and evaluative utterances. More recently we find Benjamin Gibbs telling us that the ‘positivist doctrine of a fact-value dichtomy’ is ‘only a sort of myth’; while Richard Rorty asserts that the ‘positivist distinction between facts and values’ is based on a ‘philosophical fiction’. Finally, Roy Bhaskar goes so far as to pronounce that ‘the transition from “is” to “ought”, factual to value statements, indicatives to imperatives’ is ‘not only acceptable but mandatory’ !

A misleading and apparently addictive practice is now prevalent in discussions of philosophy in general, and moral philosophy in particular. This is the habit of dichotomizing. We are led to believe that we have to choose between reason and sentiment as the basis of morality, that facts and values are to be found on either side of an unbridgeable gulf, and so on. This practice is harmful because it leads philosophers to take sides in unnecessary conflicts which cannot be won by either side, and thus prevents progress in the discussion of extremely important issues.

1. There is an important argument which can be traced back to Kant's second and third Critiques, and which has been defended by a number of distinguished modern philosophers.1 It goes as follows. Moral judgments are universalizable; that is, I am logically committed to making the same moral judgment about all relevantly similar cases. If I refuse to make the same moral judgment about two relevantly similar cases, then either I believe that they are relevantly different, or I have changed my moral views between examining the first case and examining the second, or I am simply irrational and not a proper subject for discussion. In contrast, however, aesthetic judgments are not universalizable; works of art are necessarily unique. If I say that a painting is aesthetically pleasing or successful or important or striking or whatever, I am not committed to making the same judgment about any relevantly similar work. Occasionally no doubt I might make the same judgment about a relevantly similar work, but I am in no way logically committed to doing so. Indeed in certain cases—the cases which are the topic of this paper—I am logically committed to making an entirely different aesthetic judgment of a relevantly similar work. Since works of art are necessarily unique, copies, fakes, forgeries, pastiches and ‘works in the style of …’, however plausible, however skilful, however close to the original, can never have the same aesthetic merit. Even if my Athena print of a Canaletto were qualitatively identical with the original, it could not have the same aesthetic merit. Even if a modern symphony reproduced perfectly the style of Mozart and even if it were in general of comparable musical quality, it could not have the same aesthetic merit as (most of) the forty-one originals.

Philosophers are inclined to raise philosophical dust by asking such questions as, what relations must exist between two body occurrences for them to be body occurrences of the same body? or what relation among person-stages makes them stages of the same person? and then complain that they cannot see the answers. I want to argue that the reason they cannot see the answers is that these questions and others like them are misconceived.

An argument is a conceptual instrument through which a certain logical f order between propositions can be seen to exist. But does an argument show that a proposition is true? It does, if by ‘that’ you mean that the proposition can be seen to follow through the instrument of a valid argument which employs true premises. But when we wonder whether to believe that a proposition is true we do not always wonder whether or not the proposition follows logically from other propositions. We want to know f whether the proposition is in itself true, whether or not it follows from another proposition or series of propositions. That a proposition is true f may be a fact, whether or not the machinery of reason has succeeded in focusing our attention on its truth by extracting its truth from other true premises.

Liberalism, or at least twentieth century liberalism, is today out of fashion amongst the electorate of the United States and Britain. Even within the academy—often, contrary to liberalism itself, one of the last institutions to reflect major shifts in ideology—it appears to be losing its grip. The rise of neo-contractarianism in social and political philosophy and neo-conservatism in economics are only two pieces of evidence of its demise. Nevertheless, reports of its death have been greatly exaggerated in some quarters of social philosophy; in particular, it still thrives as the received opinion whenever the issue of paternalism is raised. And, of course, the single most important liberal standard-bearer here is John Stuart Mill.

Many have said, and I think some have shown, that it is irrational to fear death. The extinction of what is essential to the self—whether it be biological death or the permanent cessation of consciousness—cannot by definition be experienced by oneself as a loss or as a harm.

Those who examine Plato's theory of forms have from Aristotle onwards tended to interpret it as a theory of universals. Enough in the dialogues appears to support such an interpretation for it not to be entirely wrongheaded. Nevertheless, the conception of forms as universals or as the meanings of general terms produces a baffled incredulity when we consider some of the things that Plato has to say about them. It would be outlandish enough anyway to be told that a universal is an object; it becomes positively outrageous when we are informed furthermore that the object which is the universal being a so-and-so is itself a very superior so-and-so, existing separate from and independent of the particulars it characterizes and causing them to have the nature that they do. Could Plato have seriously thought and meant things so foolish? I doubt it, for there is a more charitable, less Aristotelian, way to interpret what Plato says about forms. This is the way suggested by Eudoxus and those others who apparently drew on Anaxagoras’ theoryof the homoiomeries in the exposition of Plato: a Platonic form is like an Anaxagorean stuff and accounts for the character of a particular ‘as white does, by being mixed with the white thing’ (Aristotle, Metaphysics 991314–19, 1079–8–23). In this paper I wish to build on Eudoxus’ suggestion and show how all the most troubling contentions that Plato makes about forms turn out to be either true or at least quite plausible if we suppose that forms are meant, not as universals, but as chemical elements instead. Plato's theory of forms is not a grotesque misunderstanding of universals; it is a sober, intelligent, and largely true account of the elemental stuffs from which the world is made.