A language of our own

I suppose you know how we philosophers talk. We have almost a language of our own. Sometimes I think it is largely nonsense.

Sherwood Anderson - Death in the Woods and Other Stories (1933)


Yet Baruch Spinoza gave us a philosophy which is easily adapted to avoid language where assertions about the real world don't really assert anything - as in any thing. To distil his guide into the modern world, suppose we see ourselves as living in a reality of language and physical things. Map the language to the things and we may be on the right lines, because things includes the behaviour of things.

Play around with the language and forget the things – then we have the potential for all kinds of mischief and twaddle. As Confucius knew and many others did too.


"What a rustic you are, Tsz-lu!" rejoined the Master. "A gentleman would be a little reserved and reticent in matters which he does not understand. If terms be incorrect, language will be incongruous; and if language be incongruous, deeds will be imperfect.”

Analects of Confucius


We have always been familiar with those who play around with language which asserts but doesn’t map accurately to things, such as Scott Fitzgerald’s college slang strung together into an intrinsic whole –


She thought of what she would say to-night at this revel, faintly prestiged already by the sounds of high and low laughter and slippered footsteps, and movements of couples up and down the stairs. She would talk the language she had talked for many years — her line — made up of the current expressions, bits of journalese and college slang strung together into an intrinsic whole, careless, faintly provocative, delicately sentimental.

F. Scott Fitzgerald – May Day (1920)


Or those who mix language with sentimental behaviour which asserts but mainly maps back to the speaker. Edith Wharton’s certain sweet inflections of Mrs Talkett for example –


Allusions to “the Talketts,” picked up now and again at Adele Anthony’s, led him to conjecture an invisible husband in the background; but all he knew of Mrs. Talkett was what she had told him of her “artistic” yearnings, and what he had been able to divine from her empty questioning eyes, from certain sweet inflections when she spoke of her wounded soldiers, and from the precise and finished language with which she clothed her unfinished and imprecise thoughts.

Edith Wharton – A Son at the Front (1923)

It's a philosophy which is too restrictive for many purposes, especially abstractions, generalisations, symbols and so on, but it has its uses when it clarifies why political assertions about the real world are usually twaddle. We may apply it to a quote from an earlier post where a Rachel Reeves' assertion only maps back to Rachel Reeves. 

"Now we are going to deliver growth through investment and reform to create more jobs and more money in people's pockets, get the NHS back on its feet, rebuild Britain and secure our borders in a decade of national renewal," Ms Reeves added.

This assertion doesn't really map to jobs, money, people, pockets or feet, although it is supposed to appear that way via analogy and a vague evasion of practical realities. Yet for many, it is easily recognised as twaddle which is best mapped back to Rachel Reeves as an emitter of twaddle. All she is saying is "I emit twaddle, here is some twaddle I prepared earlier." 

The point to be made is that she is telling us about herself, the world inside her head, not the world outside it. As well as twaddle, it is a narcissist's language.