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The Problems of Philosophy
Bertrand Russell
PREFACE
In the following pages I have confined myself in the main to those
problems of philosophy in regard to which I thought it possible to say
something positive and constructive, since merely negative criticism
seemed out of place. For this reason, theory of knowledge occupies a
larger space than metaphysics in the present volume, and some topics
much discussed by philosophers are treated very briefly, if at all.
I have derived valuable assistance from unpublished writings of
G. E. Moore and J. M. Keynes: from the former, as regards the
relations of sense-data to physical objects, and from the latter as
regards probability and induction. I have also profited greatly by
the criticisms and suggestions of Professor Gilbert Murray.
1912
CHAPTER I
APPEARANCE AND REALITY
Is there any knowledge in the world which is so certain that no
reasonable man could doubt it? This question, which at first sight
might not seem difficult, is really one of the most difficult that can
be asked. When we have realized the obstacles in the way of a
straightforward and confident answer, we shall be well launched on the
study of philosophy--for philosophy is merely the attempt to answer
such ultimate questions, not carelessly and dogmatically, as we do in
ordinary life and even in the sciences, but critically, after
exploring all that makes such questions puzzling, and after realizing
all the vagueness and confusion that underlie our ordinary ideas.
In daily life, we assume as certain many things which, on a closer
scrutiny, are found to be so full of apparent contradictions that only
a great amount of thought enables us to know what it is that we really
may believe. In the search for certainty, it is natural to begin with
our present experiences, and in some sense, no doubt, knowledge is to
be derived from them. But any statement as to what it is that our
immediate experiences make us know is very likely to be wrong. It
seems to me that I am now sitting in a chair, at a table of a certain
shape, on which I see sheets of paper with writing or print. By
turning my head I see out of the window buildings and clouds and the
sun. I believe that the sun is about ninety-three million miles from
the earth; that it is a hot globe many times bigger than the earth;
that, owing to the earth's rotation, it rises every morning, and will
continue to do so for an indefinite time in the future. I believe
that, if any other normal person comes into my room, he will see the
same chairs and tables and books and papers as I see, and that the
table which I see is the same as the table which I feel pressing
against my arm. All this seems to be so evident as to be hardly worth
stating, except in answer to a man who doubts whether I know anything.
Yet all this may be reasonably doubted, and all of it requires much
careful discussion before we can be sure that we have stated it in a
form that is wholly true.
To make our difficulties plain, let us concentrate attention on the
table. To the eye it is oblong, brown and shiny, to the touch it is
smooth and cool and hard; when I tap it, it gives out a wooden sound.
Any one else who sees and feels and hears the table will agree with
this description, so that it might seem as if no difficulty would
arise; but as soon as we try to be more precise our troubles begin.
Although I believe that the table is 'really' of the same colour all
over, the parts that reflect the light look much brighter than the
other parts, and some parts look white because of reflected light. I
know that, if I move, the parts that reflect the light will be
different, so that the apparent distribution of colours on the table
will change. It follows that if several people are looking at the
table at the same moment, no two of them will see exactly the same
distribution of colours, because no two can see it from exactly the
same point of view, and any change in the point of view makes some
change in the way the light is reflected.
For most practical purposes these differences are unimportant, but to
the painter they are all-important: the painter has to unlearn the
habit of thinking that things seem to have the colour which common
sense says they 'really' have, and to learn the habit of seeing things
as they appear. Here we have already the beginning of one of the
distinctions that cause most trouble in philosophy--the distinction
between 'appearance' and 'reality', between what things seem to be and
what they are. The painter wants to know what things seem to be, the
practical man and the philosopher want to know what they are; but the
philosopher's wish to know this is stronger than the practical man's,
and is more troubled by knowledge as to the difficulties of answering
the question.
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