Philosophy has never shown any inclination to roll over and die. — Srap Tasmaner

Quite.
A history of philosophy as endless mistakes is as much a mistake as a history of philosophy as endless progress.
One might think that, though philosophy never dies, philosophies can, and do, die. But I doubt even that. Can we really say that the philosophy of Plato or Aquinas is dead? There are plenty of people who not only study them as historical documents, but seem quite happy to adopt them.
The New Science developed a way (or ways) of not only asking questions, but finding answers. Almost everybody since then has been hypnotized by its success - which, I grant you, is impressive. But that model does not seem to apply to the arts or more accurately to our thinking about the arts - not even to history itself. I'm pretty sure that, to understand philosophy, we need to look away from science towards other models.
Of course, that way of thinking about it needs to recognize that the new science was originally simply Natural Philosophy. It took a good deal of work to establish it the distinction between philosophy and science and some sort of (uneasy) diplomatic relationship.

But there may be a third sort of philosophy, which is the more or less deliberate cultivation of perplexity — Srap Tasmaner

Yes. That would be a good description of the agenda of any Philosophy 101 course. It seems to me that it is now an essential step in learning about philosophy or, better, how to philosophize. Perhaps we should assess our students' success in such courses by their level of bewilderment. Look at how carefully Descartes instils his doubt at the beginning of the Meditations.

If I give someone the order "fetch me a red flower from that meadow", how is he to know what sort of flower to bring, as I have only given him a word?
— p. 3
Where does this question come from? It's not an ordinary question, not the sort of problem people raise in everyday life. ..... Frege says that we have to get behind the signs to the meaning, precisely what Wittgenstein notes it never occurs to anyone to say about the signs we exchange in everyday life. — Srap Tasmaner

That's true, so far as it goes.
But I don't see how philosophy could have got started - in history or in individual consciousness - unless it has roots in ordinary life.

Recognizing the difference between the word as a noise and the word as an order is the critical step. But I would suggest that it does have roots in everyday life, such as encountering people who not only don't understand me when I speak - even when I speak slowly and loudly - but also make odd noises themselves, which seem to function for their friends and neighbours as my language does for me. The Ancient Greeks were very impressed by this phenomenon.

It requires a particular sort of imagination to notice what people do not do and what they do not worry about, and a particular sort of imagination to make it plausible that they would. ...... Now we have something a bit like a problem to work on, philosophically. A deliberately induced perplexity. — Srap Tasmaner

I would put it as a particular perspective, but imagination seems to work as well. Perhaps philosophy arises from a disruption of ordinary life.
But it doesn't follow that finding an answer would necessarily return us to everyday life. Doubts about the existence of the gods started very early in the history of (what we can recognize as) philosophy. Returning the doubters to everyday life would not have been a good idea. On the contrary, those doubts amounted to a new perspective on everyday life. Or, to put it another way, everyday life is a bit of a mess and sometimes a new perspective is what is required. I'm very fond of that quotation from TS Eliot about travelling the world and returning home, and "knowing the place for the first time."

there are the oddball questions which lead either to science (why does the second ball move? is also a very good question) or to philosophy. — Srap Tasmaner

Yes. Oddball questions are sometimes just muddles or fantasies (nightmares). But sometimes they are more than that.

Recognizing the difference between the word as a noise and the word as an order is the critical step. — Ludwig V

A critical step of what? Of understanding an order? Does it go "Step 1: recognize the other person is not just making a noise; Step 2: ... "?

What if you forget to do step 1? Or do people just always remember?

When you give an order, do you worry that the other person might forget, and think you were just making a noise? -- Or maybe it will just happen at random: "I understood some of what you said, but there were a couple times you were just making noises."

(As a matter of fact, written exchanges like this differ from spoken conversation by leaving out the noises -- and the gestures -- we habitually make while talking. Those noises are also communicative, but in a different way.)

A critical step of what? Of understanding an order? Does it go "Step 1: recognize the other person is not just making a noise; Step 2: ... "? — Srap Tasmaner

I meant a critical step in getting perplexed about understanding carrying out an order.

If I give someone the order "fetch me a red flower from that meadow", how is he to know what sort of flower to bring, as I have only given him a word? — Srap Tasmaner

If you casually said that in the middle of a battle, I think you would be met by astonishment and bewilderment. W's question needs to be prepared for; it involves abandonment of our ordinary understanding and a peculiar way of thinking about the whole process.

When you give an order, do you worry that the other person might forget, and think you were just making a noise? -- Or maybe it will just happen at random: "I understood some of what you said, but there were a couple times you were just making noises." — Srap Tasmaner

My default position is that the other person will understand me. If things go wrong, I cope in one way or another. I don't worry, because I am confident that I can cope. Normally, if I did worry about those possibilities, I would be already doing philosophy.

If I give someone the order "fetch me a red flower from that meadow", how is he to know what sort of flower to bring, as I have only given him a word? — p. 3

W's question needs to be prepared for; it involves abandonment of our ordinary understanding and a peculiar way of thinking about the whole process. — Ludwig V

Normally, if I did worry about those possibilities, I would be already doing philosophy. — Ludwig V

The question here ― how can the word "red" be any help getting a red flower ― is wrong-footed, a question that seems to involve selectively forgetting what words are for. (In that sense, it's a little like what he says later on about the question "How can one think what is not the case?")

Useful for Wittgenstein as an example of philosophy going wrong, but maybe helpful in another way, because if we can see we can see how it goes wrong, we can learn something about language.

Part of what's going on here, I think, is that Wittgenstein wants to say that looking for a psychological explanation for how words work is looking in the wrong place. The wrong place not because psychology (or anthropology or linguistics) doesn't work, but because that kind of explanation is not the business of philosophy.

That is, the problems philosophy worries over arise not because we don't know enough ― about the psychology of language, the nature of reality, whatever ― but because we misunderstand the nature of language or the grammar of particular words.

I don't at all like the phrase "the nature of language" there, but I'm not sure how else to put that. By pointing at use itself, Wittgenstein is offering no theory at all. Even to talk about someone understanding the grammar of a word is just another way of saying they know how the word is used, what it's role in the language is. 'Grammar' is an important word for him, but it's descriptive, not explanatory.

So to come back to the death of philosophy, on the one hand there will be criticism of philosophical positions that derive from misunderstandings of grammar, but there is also room to do this on purpose as a first step in exploring the grammar of our expressions, and you could maybe still call this "philosophy".

One might say that the subject we are dealing with is one of the heirs of the subject that used to be called "philosophy." — p. 28

At least that's what I think he's up to.

the question "How can one think what is not the case?" — Srap Tasmaner

Now that is a very good question and distinctively philosophical. I shall look forward to that discussion.

That is, the problems philosophy worries over arise not because we don't know enough ― about the psychology of language, the nature of reality, whatever ― but because we misunderstand the nature of language or the grammar of particular words. — Srap Tasmaner

I think there are problems with this.
In the first place, it is suspiciously tidy, and does not reflect the dialogue that goes on between philosophy and the sciences. I came across an egregious example of this in the psychological approach to empathy through a concept of "theory of mind". (See Wikipedia - Theory of Mind)
In the second place, categorizing the philosophical problem as a problem about language works if one has a certain philosophical background. But many people seem to confuse the philosophical discussions with linguistics or even with logic-chopping. The real issues, they think, are about reality, not just the words that we use to describe it.

'Grammar' is an important word for him, but it's descriptive, not explanatory. — Srap Tasmaner

I see his use of this term as the remnant of the idea that language has a complete logical structure, which is quite clearly distinct from the world that we talk about. There's room for a lot of clarification, though most people (including me) seem to think that it is not difficult to graps his point. We silently ignore the traditional sense of grammar, though it plays its part in creating philosophical perplexity.

So to come back to the death of philosophy, on the one hand there will be criticism of philosophical positions that derive from misunderstandings of grammar, but there is also room to do this on purpose as a first step in exploring the grammar of our expressions, and you could maybe still call this "philosophy". — Srap Tasmaner

It occurred to me that anyone who thinks that a philosophical problem has, or should have, an answer or solution is implicitly committed to the death of philosophy. It may be that this illusion is the same illusion as the idea that a complete and final physics is a desirable aim - i.e. that the point of physics is the death of physics.

One might say that the subject we are dealing with is one of the heirs of the subject that used to be called "philosophy."
— p. 28
At least that's what I think he's up to. — Srap Tasmaner

I don't think you are wrong. But I do think that there are some puzzles and confusions in his explanations.

W thinks they are wrong about that, but that is a philosophical position, which needs to be demonstrated. — Ludwig V

His form of proof is logical, but it takes the acknowledgement of his premises, which are the expressions we have about a practice in a situation, and this may seem arrogant.

…W seems to start from our perplexity… everybody needs to start from somewhere - but it seems to rely on a wholesale dismissal of the philosophical tradition(s) — Ludwig V

Also, he is not engaging the tradition on its own terms, which does seem dismissive, but the two methods don’t hit at the same points and if he goes in too close, he gets tied up in the same structural issues as the tradition. It does feel like we joined the lecture halfway through the semester. No explanation of sense data, no history, no defense. But the muddles come from the tradition. Sense data is the modern version of age-old responses to skepticism, other minds, the self, etc.

there may be a different desire underlying scepticism, the desire to undermine baseless certainties. — Ludwig V

Absolutely, the skeptic is right that there is no fact that ensures universality, prediction, righteousness, etc. and so dogmatism is his house of cards. (PI #118) The fear of radical skepticism is that the possibility of overblowing a position leads to the conclusion that it is impossible to hold any position, even in our best case scenario of seeing something right in front of us.

@Banno @Paine @Ludwig V @Jamal @Astrophel @Joshs @Shawn @Srap Tasmaner

(If anyone else does not want to be “notified” when I read another section, just let me know.)

Section 4A (pp.16-17) “language games”

As he puts off until later in the book the actual discussion of whether a machine can think, I will defer until then as well, only to point out the form of argument that he takes here is, again: a fact making a logical exclusion (what “can”, and “cannot”), which is simply that a machine cannot think because it is not human (analogously it can’t have a toothache either). I don’t know that this would be convincing to those that believe that eventually machines will be capable of “being human” or that reduce their interest in “thinking” to replicating an activity, such as problem-solving, but we can take that up later. As well as the brief reference to the desire that thought be “private”.

Another note on method involves the misunderstanding of what “language games” are for him. Many believe these are, say, contexts of rules that underly or justify the meaning of words, but, clearly here, he is “looking closely” at simplified examples that are “particular”, which I take to be distinguishing enough to show facts that matter to the workings of a specific activity (the criteria of its grammar), with thinking with words involving uses of “comparison”, “difference”, “agreement”, etc. (Thus, the PI is not, for instance, arguing that using words is like following rules, but is drawing out the mechanics of rule-following as a case to study; there, to show how the grammar is different than (falls short of) a desire for pure logic.) Here it shows thinking to be more than merely “activity” but not necessarily “mental”. Importantly, so we are not “misled by… linguistic form into a false conception of… grammar” as we might be misled by the expression that “thinking is an activity... of our mind” into thinking that the mind is “the seat of the activity of thinking” (rather than just pointing out, say, that we did it in our head rather than worked it out physically, and not a matter of locality).

People using signs are alive. They give life to the signs through their use. Wittgenstein recognizes that a process must be happening organically that makes thinking, speaking, and listening possible but sees his work as something entirely different from investigating that — Paine

I'd like to come back to this for a moment. These are important milestones for Wittgenstein.

But if we had to name anything that is the life of the sign, we should have to say it was its use. — p. 4

And on the next page:

The sign (the sentence) gets its significance from the system of signs, from the language to which it belongs. Roughly: understanding a sentence means understanding a language. — p. 5

The latter passage does have a whiff of what we could call "structuralism" about it: as if to say, the sentences of a language ― however you imagine collecting them all ― form a system, and the meaning of a sentence is the role it plays within this system, its function. (Maybe not inconsistent with the Tractatus's sense of language.)

But this is not quite what Wittgenstein says, because before that we get the point about the life of the sign ― in response to Frege's dismissal of formalism in mathematics. And Wittgenstein's answer is not that mathematical signs form a system, and therefore mathematical propositions are meaningful because they have a specified role or function within that system. What brings those dashes on paper to life is that they are used to do mathematics.

So, what does using a sign consist of?

Speaking or writing it, certainly, or even thinking it, but we know that's not enough, if nothing else because we know the difference between use and mention ― if you're talking about a sign (or doodling mathematical symbols, whatever), you're not using it but mentioning it.

Something else is needed then. What? We know one answer Wittgenstein rejects: the other thing that makes an utterance (or inscription, or thought) a use is something special going on in the speaker's mind.

As part of the system of language, one may say, the sentence has life. But one is tempted to imagine that which gives the sentence life as something in an occult sphere, accompanying the sentence. But whatever accompanied it would for us just be another sign. — p. 5, the very next sentence

But one natural test of whether an utterance is a use is whether the speaker means it, or is just quoting or fooling around or something else. This is the sort of thing that context ― another candidate for what's needed ― can't really provide on its own. Wittgenstein does not ignore the issue of intentions.

Suppose that the question is "what do you mean by that gesture?" and the answer is "I mean that you must leave". The answer would not have been more correctly phrased: "I mean what I mean by the sentence 'you must leave'." — Philosophical Grammar, p. 40

"What did you mean by those words?" "Did you mean those words?" The first question is not a more precise specification of the second. The first is answered by a proposition replacing the proposition which wasn't understood. The second question is like: "Did you mean that seriously or as a joke?" — Philosophical Grammar, p. 41

So Wittgenstein is not going to ignore the fact that, generally speaking, to count as use we must mean what we say; but he is going to deny that meaning what we say is a mental phenomenon or a mental activity.

Much to argue about there, but we can be pretty clear that he is not looking for a psychological explanation of what use is, or of what makes an utterance of a sign a use of it.

So what does?

As we head with @Antony Nickles into language-games, we find this:

We are inclined to think that there must be something in common to all games, say, and that this common property is the justification for applying the general term "game" to the various games; whereas games form a family the members of which have family likenesses. — p. 17

To keep it short, I believe this is our answer regarding use: there is nothing common to all uses of signs that distinguishes them from mere utterances. Use has no essence. I don't happen to know how Wittgenstein got here ― after beginning to doubt that there is such a thing as the "general form of a proposition" ― but it would make sense if use was the very first case of "family resemblance"; language-games come along, after all, to explicate use.

And with that move, the whole world opens up. Now Wittgenstein can say things like this:

Now does this mean that it is nonsensical to talk of a locality where thought takes place? Certainly not. This phrase has sense if we give it sense. — p. 7

That doesn't mean every utterance is some kind of use, but it means that the uses of a sign are open-ended. Whatever 'grammar' describes, it is not a fixed set of rules that must be followed when using a sign; 'language games' illustrate use, but do not exhaust the possibilities of use.

I hope you will not mind if I post a comment on p. 15 - on causes and reasons - before progressing to p. 16.

If on the other hand you realize that the chain of actual reasons has a beginning, you will no longer be revolted by the idea of a case in which there is no reason for the way you obey the order. .....

The difference between the grammars of "reason" and "cause" is quite similar to that between the grammars of "motive" and "cause". Of the cause one can say that one can't know it but can only conjecture it. On the other hand one often says: "Surely I must know why I did it" talking of the motive. When I say: "we can only conjecture the cause but we know the motive" this statement will be seen later on to be a grammatical one. The "can" refers to a logical possibility.

The double use of the word "why", asking for the cause and asking for the motive, together with the idea that we can know, and not only conjecture, our motives, gives rise to the confusion that a motive is a cause of which we are immediately aware, a cause 'seen from the inside', or a cause experienced.- Giving a reason is like giving a calculation by which you have arrived at a certain result. — p. 15

The first bolded passage, it seems to me, turns on the distinction between an action being justified in principle, as it were, that is, whether or not it was performed and, if it was performed, it was performed from quite different reasons. Think of an umpire's correct decision being given, not because it was correct, but for some quite different reason. That is, W is concerned with the agent's reason(s), not whether the action is justifiable in principle. Fair enough.

The second bolded passage is confusing, at least to me. I can only suppose that he means that we may or may not know what the cause of an action is or whether a possible cause actually was the cause. I can see why he classifies the teaching process as a cause, not a reason - because it "drops out of consideration" - or, we don't need to know about it when considering how you responded to the order. But it isn't a cause like gravity or the impact of one billiard ball on another.

However, my problem is with his comparison of reasons with motives. I have to say, I think of a motive as a desire or wish or value - reasons map the path from there to the action. as in the third bolded passage. But set that aside. My question is how does this fit with the justification post hoc? It looks as if I may act for no reason, but then offer a justification post hoc, which suggests that I did act for a reason. But that doesn't fit with our immediate awareness of the motive.

if you're talking about a sign (or doodling mathematical symbols, whatever), you're not using it but mentioning it. — Srap Tasmaner

Yes, but it’s not a matter that words are tools we manipulate then of which “well established usage”(p.3) something is like, as he draws out the different uses of “This is a pencil” in the phrases which follow it (solved by imagining a context for that “use”, as if a crossword).

But one natural test of whether an utterance is a use is whether the speaker means it, or is just quoting — Srap Tasmaner

An utterance is not judged as, or as not, a ‘use’ of words; an utterance has a use—it is a plea, or a threat, or points out a difference; as are the examples regarding the pencil—depending on the context. Thus why words are not ‘meant’ by us, other than in contrast to when we jest.