Professor Macpherson is perhaps the most important living heir of John Stuart Mill and more especially of that in Mill which in the latter part of his life led him to become a socialist. Macpherson's polemics against liberalism's inheritance from possessive individualism make him the opponent of some of Mill's substantive positions and of even more of his formulations. But if we represent Macpherson as trying to rescue from Mill that which derives from his “concept of the power of a man as his ability to use and develop his uniquely human capacities” from that which derives from his “concept of a man's power as his ability to command the services of others” (Democratic Theory, henceforth DT, p. 79) we shall do him no injustice. If he disagrees with Mill and Berlin in his rejection of any purely negative concept of liberty, he agrees with them in rejecting what he calls the “Idealist or metaphysical rationalist” view of positive liberty with its “great, disciplined, authoritarian structures” (Berlin's phrase).

In the area of politics one is not surprised to encounter bias, prejudice, rationalization, special pleading; yet rarely does one encounter these phenomena so often, so blatantly, as in the area relating to equality. Indeed, even among those whose job it is to be impartial, rational, informed, namely, philosophers, one finds less objectivity, less evidence of a genuine search for the truth, and a greater concern to press preconceived views than elsewhere in their work. Among Western philosophers, there is a very widespread commitment to equality as a political value. So deep has been and is the commitment in theory at least, to this value, that concern for knowledge and truth have been subordinated to it by many — as in the refusal to allow or determination to discourage research into racial differences, for fear that the results of such research may lead to a lesser political commitment to equality. Yet, for all this professed concern for equality, a genuine lover of equality could be excused for being perplexed by the attitudes of those who profess such a concern for equality.

Unlike old soldiers, the rhetoric of the great neither dies nor fades away. And so Hume's celebrated ‘is-ought’ passage still provokes debate.

Hume was worried about the relation between ought statements and those supporting them: between ‘tolerence brings peace’ or ‘is God's will’, and ‘so one ought to be tolerant’. He denies the deducibility of the latter from the former, as the ‘ought’ expresses ‘a new relation or affirmation’, ‘entirely different from the others’. And this is commonly taken as saying that the ought statement is ‘different’ and non-deducible, because it is no longer a ‘purely factual statement’, to wit one that makes another ordinarily testable truth claim.

However, recent criticism, by W. D. Hudson and others, points out that Hume says other things seemingly inconsistent with this. In the passage, he mentions ‘ought’ and ‘virtue’ interchangeably, and ‘tolerance is virtuous’ as in the same boat as ‘one ought to be tolerant’. But, also, he treats the virtue of an action as sensibly discernible by the approbation which it evokes, and takes us to mean by a virtuous action that we will approve of it on contemplation.

Explanation of cognition as a special way of being appears in Aristotle without traceable ancestry. Earlier, in Parmenides (Fr. 16; DK, 288) and in Empedocles (Fr. 108; DK, 318), the notion that cognition is somehow equated with the physical constitution of the knower at any given moment had been put forward. But the now rather enigmatic fragments of those thinkers fail to show how this notion foreshadowed any new kind of being over and above the physical. In fact, would it not seem incongruous to use the term “being” for something proposed by them in terms of change? ·

We talk of the differences between the old Camus and the new Camus. Often such talk is equivalent to talk of the differences between Camus’ old self and Camus’ new self, between Camus’ diachronous selves. In other contexts, contexts which I shall ignore, the old and the new Camus is something we can read, provide literary criticism of, ponder over. In these contexts it is to the literary works of the old and new Camus that we are referring. The same kind of ambiguity attaches to the expressions ‘the early Beethoven’ and ‘the later Beethoven’.

In what follows I propose to consider the relevance of Plato's early claim that his Forms are explanatory to the structure of, and several of the main arguments of, the Parmenides. The first section of the paper looks into some implications of separate existence, exploring connections between the criticism of separation and the conception of Forms as explanatory principles. I focus attention on what the Forms do not explain, and suggest that the burden of much of Parmenides’ criticism centers on that question. Part two deals with Plato's evidently changing stance on the issue of explaining the Forms themselves. The third section takes up passages from the Parmenides in support of the view that Plato came to believe that his Forms stood in need of the same sort of explanation as he had originally thought was required for sensory particulars. The discussion is largely exploratory, and the connections adumbrated are intended as guidelines for further investigation.

For more than two decades, C. B. Macpherson has waged a relentless campaign to expose and critize the ‘possessive individualist’ assumptions of classical and liberal democratictheory. This new book —a collection of essays, including several not previously published —gives a clear focus to this campaign and provides the fullest expression to date of its positive side: the elaboration of a social philosophy incorporating liberal values but free from possessive individualist assumptions. What is defective in the assumptions is less the internal theoretical problems they generate than that they have become historically outmoded. For Macpherson, liberal democracy is historically — even politically — inadequate, before it is theoretically inadequate. It is inadequate for us — now — because it rests on assumptions we no longer need, assumptions that have ceased to be historically progressive. However, liberal democracy is not, as surgeons would say, beyond operation. On Macpherson's view, nearly everything that is attractive in liberal theory can be salvaged. Democratic Theory is appropriately subtitled: Essays in Retrieval.

Yes, Aristotle was named ‘Aristotle’. I want to show that since ‘Aristotle’ is a proper name, this is true by definition. My theory of proper names is a version of Russell's, a theory that a name is equivalent in meaning to definite description(s) which single out the individual, if there is one, to which the name refers. (“When I say,e.g. ‘Homer existed’, I am meaning by ‘Homer’ some description, say ‘the author of the Homeric poems’ .”) Braithwaite at one time said that the proper name ‘Aristotle’ meant the description ‘the individual named “Aristotle” ’. This theory, which makes it contradictory to suppose that Aristotle was not (the individual) named ‘Aristotle’ I will argue is the correct one. This will involve some explanation of what naming is, which I will carry out in the first two sections. My contention is that naming is an activity that can be done either explicitly or non-explicitly. And names can be conferred either (a) on the basis of acquaintance or (b) by associating the name with descriptions.

Ever since Moore revived the gospel of certainty, philosophers content with commonsense have tried to provide a perspicuous formulation of its merits. Neither Moore nor his ablest successors have completely fulfilled this task, and although few philosophers would take up Wittgenstein's challenge, “Just try ——in a real case ——to doubt someone else's fear or pain”, many would disagree that if one does he will “find these words becoming quite meaningless”. The psychological conviction that men have in many beliefs is philosophically trivial, but the suggestion that sceptical claims are meaningless seems simply false. The problem for advocates of commonsense is that there is no evident room between psychological indubitability and logical necessity, uninteresting ‘subjective’ certainty and unattainable ‘objective’ certainty. Only by describing linguistic stringencies intermediate between psychological and logical ones can this problem be overcome.

In Philosophical Papers Moore frequently claims to ‘know with certainty’ that many empirical propositions are true.

In most discussions of civil disobedience, certain characteristics are offered as essential to an act of justifiable civil disobedience, or sometimes to any act of civil disobedience. Among these one of the most frequently mentioned is nonviolence. Some thinkers, like Bedau and Wasserstrom, require an act to be nonviolent before they will even count it as an act of civil disobedience; the very concept for them includes the notion of nonviolence. Others, like Stuart Brown, Rex Martin and Michael Bayles, admit the possibility of a violent act of civil disobedience; but hold that, though nonviolent civil disobedience is justifiable, violent civil disobedience is not justifiable.

One way of developing a sceptical position is to take some hypothesis (H) which entails the sceptical thesis (T) that nothing is known, and argue that since H is not known to be false, T cannot be known to be false either. That is, since His not known to be false, it is not known that anything is known. One may then argue convincingly that no one knows anything at all (T) on the grounds that it is not known that anything is known is virtually equivalent to nothing is known (sc. that knowing is virtually equivalent to knowing that one knows). Take, for example, the Cartesian sceptical hypothesis that there is an evil demon systematically deceiving everyone all of the time about everything. Instead of arguing that the hypothesis is true and that there actually is such a creature, it is much more plausible to suggest that no one knows for certain that there is not, so that in this sense it is possible that there is. What follows is not that no one knows anything, but that it is not known that anything is known.

Both philosophy and theology are given a raison d'etre by their problems. Some of their problems they share, and some they do not. They share a concern with the nature of morality and they share the problem of human freedom. But the filioque issue and the controversy between Arius and Athanasius regarding the consubstaniality of the persons of the Trinity belong to theology, if contemporary theology will have them. The problems of reference and denotation, and of classes, in the cast given them by Frege, Russell and others, are exclusively in the domain of philosophy. Sometimes the problems shared by philosophy and theology are also human problems: they intimately touch human lives and have palpable ramifications for the way men live. Camus, who said with a flourish that the only philosophical problem is whether or not to commit suicide, was saying in part that the only philosophical problems worth considering are human problems. And William James would perhaps concur; he would insist that only philosophical problems that are “living, forced and momentous” present a genuine option to men.

Some recent writers on practical reasoning have had it that reasoning about what to do differs in logical structure from theoretical reasoning. In particular, Anthony Kenny and G.E.M. Anscombe have argued that there are permissible inferences in practical reasoning which lack analogues in theoretical reasoning. Such discussions seem inevitably to draw their impetus from what Aristotle had to say on the topic, both in the Nicomachean Ethics and elsewhere.

Chapter III of Anselm's Proslogion is quite naturally interpreted as presenting a second version of the ontological argument (the first version having been presented in Chapter II). In recent discussions it has been so interpreted by Charles Hartshorne and by Norman Malcolm. Other writers, however, have rejected this interpretation, maintaining that Anselm intended Chapter Ill, not as a second proof of God's existence (by way of showing that it is necessary that God exist), but only as a demonstration that the kind of existence which God (already proved to exist in Chapter II) has is necessary existence. Perhaps the latter writers are correct on this exegetical point, but even so, it does not follow that there is anything improper about an inquiry into the character of the distinct, modal version of the ontological argument which can be derived from this passage.

Donald Davidson did it. He did it slowly, deliberately, in more than a half dozen widely noted essays. What he did was to elaborate a program for the study of empirical semantics. Nor did he stop there. He went on to apply his program to some of the problems that have long bedeviled semantics: action sentences, indirect discourse and propositional attitudes.

My goal in this paper is to assess Davidson's achievement. The first step is to assemble the program from the sketches and hints scattered among Davidson's papers. This is the project of my first section where my aim is sympathetic exposition. Since Davidson sometimes seems to be playing a game of hide and seek with his reader, my reconstruction of his program and arguments is of necessity occasionally speculative. In the second section my stance turns critical. There are anomalies in the program; the sort of theory Davidson advocates is not the sort delivered. When the problems are pushed, I think the program loses whatever initial plausibility it may have had. It is my contention that Davidson has provided no serious framework for the empirical study of natural language.

The idea of equality exerts considerable influence on our moral imaginations, yet it has remained philosophically elusive. Although men and women have thought equality worth dying for, philosophers have been largely unable to give any systematic account of its importance as a moral ideal, or of its function in moral and political theory.

In the Summa Theologia I (STI), beginning at question 2, article 3, and in the Summa Contra Gentiles I (CGI), beginning at chapter 13, Aquinas provides five proofs for the existence of God. These proofs are intended to demonstrate that God exists and to provide the foundation for a larger program to demonstrate many other doctrines which are held by faith. However, the program which Aquinas sets up for himself in the two great Summae is trivial and unnecessary if the existence of God is self-evident in such a way that God's existence needs no demonstration. So, as a preamble to the five ways, Aquinas argues that the existence of God is not self-evident in any way that would hinder his program of rational theology.

In STI the argument occurs in question 2, article 1, and in CGI it occurs in chapters 10 and 11. Aquinas also argues the same point in Commentum in Primum Librum Sententiarum (CS) distinction 3, question 1, article 2, and in Quaestiones Disputate De Veritate (DV) question 10, article 12.

In this paper I will suggest an interpretation of Spinoza's ontological argument on which (i) the argument, properly construed, is valid, and (ii) Spinoza, if granted the claim that it is possible that God exists, is successful in obtaining the conclusion of the argument. The interpretations given by H.A. Wolfson, G.H.R. Parkinson, and William A. Earle will then be argued to be deficient on textual and logical grounds. Leibniz’ assessment of the argument, namely that it “permits us only to conclude that God's existence follows if his possibility is already proven,” is thus held to be correct.

Comme chacun sait, nous vivons à une époque où le changement est une donnée fondamentale de I’ action et aussi de Ia pensée. De ce point de vue, il est bizarre de penser que des hommes, disons des philosophes, aient non seulement posé l'immutabilité comme critère constitutif de Ia vérité mais en outre qu'ils aient défendu ce critère selon les règles de l'éloquence, avec un succès public notoire. En effet, dire d'un concept qu'il se définit au sein d'une rhétorique c'est dire, entre autres choses, qu'il présente, aux yeux du locuteur qui le propose avec succès, une valeur et une importance qui peuvent être montrées. Encore une fois, dans un monde où le changement est devenu banal, Ia défense efficace de l'immutabilité est non seulement un anachronisme: elle est bizarre.