Meaning: Or Ideas and Understanding

As in our discussion of judgment we were making more explicit what is involved in inference, so in the discussion of meaning we are only recurring to the central function of all reflection. For one thing to mean, signify, betoken, indicate, or point to, another we saw at the outset to be the essential mark of thinking (see p. 8). To find out what facts, just as they stand, mean, is the object of all discovery; to find out what facts will carry out, substantiate, support a given meaning, is the object of all testing. When an inference reaches a satisfactory conclusion, we attain a goal of meaning. The act of judging involves both the growth and the application of meanings. In short, in this chapter we are not introducing a new topic; we are only coming to closer quarters with what hitherto has been constantly assumed. In the first section, we shall consider the equivalence of meaning and understanding, and the two types of understanding, direct and indirect.

Just as our discussion of judgment clarified what inference involves, our discussion of meaning returns to the central function of all reflection. At the outset, we saw that thinking is essentially marked by one thing meaning, signifying, betokening, indicating, or pointing to another (see p. 8). The object of all discovery is to find out what facts, just as they stand, mean. The object of all testing is to find out what facts will carry out, substantiate, or support a given meaning. When an inference reaches a satisfactory conclusion, we arrive at a meaning. Judgment involves both developing and applying meanings. In short, this chapter does not introduce a new topic. Instead, it examines more closely what we have assumed throughout. In the first section, we will consider the equivalence of meaning and understanding. We will also consider the two types of understanding, direct and indirect.

I. Meaning and Understanding

I. Meaning and Understanding

If a person comes suddenly into your room and calls out "Paper," various alternatives are possible. If you do not understand the English language, there is simply a noise which may or may not act as a physical stimulus and irritant. But the noise is not an intellectual object; it does not have intellectual value. (Compare above, p. 15.) To say that you do not understand it and that it has no meaning are equivalents. If the cry is the usual accompaniment of the delivery of the morning paper, the sound will have meaning, intellectual content; you will understand it. Or if you are eagerly awaiting the receipt of some important document, you may assume that the cry means an announcement of its arrival. If (in the third place) you understand the English language, but no context suggests itself from your habits and expectations, the word has meaning, but not the whole event. You are then perplexed and incited to think out, to hunt for, some explanation of the apparently meaningless occurrence. If you find something that accounts for the performance, it gets meaning; you come to understand it. As intelligent beings, we presume the existence of meaning, and its absence is an anomaly. Hence, if it should turn out that the person merely meant to inform you that there was a scrap of paper on the sidewalk, or that paper existed somewhere in the universe, you would think him crazy or yourself the victim of a poor joke. To grasp a meaning, to understand, to identify a thing in a situation in which it is important, are thus equivalent terms; they express the nerves of our intellectual life. Without them there is (a) lack of intellectual content, or (b) intellectual confusion and perplexity, or else (c) intellectual perversion—nonsense, insanity.

If someone suddenly enters your room and calls out "Paper," several things are possible. If you do not understand English, you hear only a noise. The noise may or may not stimulate or irritate you physically. But it is not an intellectual object. It has no intellectual value. (Compare above, p. 15.) To say that you do not understand the noise is the same as saying that it has no meaning. If the cry usually accompanies the delivery of the morning paper, the sound will have meaning and intellectual content. You will understand it. Or, if you are eagerly awaiting an important document, you may assume the cry announces its arrival. In a third case, you understand English, but your habits and expectations suggest no context for the cry. The word has meaning, but the whole event does not. You are puzzled and driven to think it through and look for an explanation of the apparently meaningless event. If you find something that explains the person's action, the event gains meaning. You come to understand it. As intelligent beings, we assume that meaning exists, and its absence is an anomaly. So suppose it turns out that the person only meant to tell you that a scrap of paper was on the sidewalk. Or suppose the person meant only that paper existed somewhere in the universe. You would think the person was crazy or that you were the victim of a poor joke. To grasp a meaning, to understand, and to identify a thing in a situation where it matters are equivalent terms. They express what is vital to our intellectual life. Without them, there is (a) a lack of intellectual content, or (b) intellectual confusion and puzzlement, or else (c) intellectual perversion, nonsense, insanity.

All knowledge, all science, thus aims to grasp the meaning of objects and events, and this process always consists in taking them out of their apparent brute isolation as events, and finding them to be parts of some larger whole suggested by them, which, in turn, accounts for, explains, interprets them; i.e. renders them significant. (Compare above, p. 75.) Suppose that a stone with peculiar markings has been found. What do these scratches mean? So far as the object forces the raising of this question, it is not understood; while so far as the color and form that we see mean to us a stone, the object is understood. It is such peculiar combinations of the understood and the nonunderstood that provoke thought. If at the end of the inquiry, the markings are decided to mean glacial scratches, obscure and perplexing traits have been translated into meanings already understood: namely, the moving and grinding power of large bodies of ice and the friction thus induced of one rock upon another. Something already understood in one situation has been transferred and applied to what is strange and perplexing in another, and thereby the latter has become plain and familiar, i.e. understood. This summary illustration discloses that our power to think effectively depends upon possession of a capital fund of meanings which may be applied when desired. (Compare what was said about deduction, p. 94.)

All knowledge, all science, aims to grasp the meaning of objects and events. This always involves seeing them as more than isolated facts. We find that they are parts of a larger whole suggested by them. That larger whole, in turn, accounts for, explains, and interprets them. In other words, it gives them meaning. (Compare the discussion above, p. 75.) Suppose someone finds a stone with unusual markings. What do these scratches mean? To the extent that the stone raises this question, we do not understand it. But to the extent that its color and shape tell us it is a stone, we do understand it. Such combinations of what we understand and what we do not understand provoke thought. Suppose the inquiry concludes that glaciers made the scratches. Then the obscure and puzzling features have been translated into meanings we already understand. These are the movement and grinding force of large masses of ice and the resulting friction between rocks. What we already understand in one situation has been transferred and applied to something strange and puzzling in another. As a result, the strange thing has become plain and familiar, in other words, understood. This brief example shows that our ability to think effectively depends on having a store of meanings to draw on when needed. (Compare what was said about deduction, p. 94.)

II. Direct and Indirect Understanding

II. Direct and Indirect Understanding

In the above illustrations two types of grasping of meaning are exemplified. When the English language is understood, the person grasps at once the meaning of "paper." He may not, however, see any meaning or sense in the performance as a whole. Similarly, the person identifies the object on sight as a stone; there is no secret, no mystery, no perplexity about that. But he does not understand the markings on it. They have some meaning, but what is it? In one case, owing to familiar acquaintance, the thing and its meaning, up to a certain point, are one. In the other, the thing and its meaning are, temporarily at least, sundered, and meaning has to be sought in order to understand the thing. In one case understanding is direct, prompt, immediate; in the other, it is roundabout and delayed.

The examples above show two ways of grasping meaning. When a person understands English, they grasp the meaning of "paper" at once. However, they may not see any meaning or sense in the performance as a whole. Similarly, a person recognizes an object as a stone on sight. There is no secret, mystery, or confusion about that. But the person does not understand the markings on the stone. The markings have some meaning, but what is it? In one case, the thing is familiar, so the thing and its meaning are one, up to a point. In the other case, the thing and its meaning are separated, at least for the moment. The person must look for the meaning in order to understand the thing. In one case, understanding is direct, prompt, and immediate. In the other, it takes an indirect route and comes later.

Most languages have two sets of words to express these two modes of understanding; one for the direct taking in or grasp of meaning, the other for its circuitous apprehension, thus: γνωναι and ειδεναι in Greek; noscere and scire in Latin; kennen and wissen in German; connaître and savoir in French; while in English to be acquainted with and to know of or about have been suggested as equivalents.²² Now our intellectual life consists of a peculiar interaction between these two types of understanding. All judgment, all reflective inference, presupposes some lack of understanding, a partial absence of meaning. We reflect in order that we may get hold of the full and adequate significance of what happens. Nevertheless, something must be already understood, the mind must be in possession of some meaning which it has mastered, or else thinking is impossible. We think in order to grasp meaning, but none the less every extension of knowledge makes us aware of blind and opaque spots, where with less knowledge all had seemed obvious and natural. A scientist brought into a new district will find many things that he does not understand, where the native savage or rustic will be wholly oblivious to any meanings beyond those directly apparent. Some Indians brought to a large city remained stolid at the sight of mechanical wonders of bridge, trolley, and telephone, but were held spellbound by the sight of workmen climbing poles to repair wires. Increase of the store of meanings makes us conscious of new problems, while only through translation of the new perplexities into what is already familiar and plain do we understand or solve these problems. This is the constant spiral movement of knowledge.

Most languages have two sets of words for these two ways of understanding. One expresses the direct grasp of meaning, the other an indirect grasp: γνωναι and ειδεναι in Greek, noscere and scire in Latin, kennen and wissen in German, and connaître and savoir in French. In English, acquainted with and know of or about have been suggested as equivalents.²² Our intellectual life consists of a distinctive interaction between these two kinds of understanding. All judgment and all reflective inference assume some lack of understanding, a partial absence of meaning. We reflect so that we can grasp the full and adequate meaning of what happens. Yet something must already be understood. The mind must possess some meaning it has mastered, or thinking is impossible. We think in order to grasp meaning. Yet every expansion of knowledge makes us aware of blind and obscure spots. With less knowledge, everything had seemed obvious and natural. A scientist brought into a new district will find many things they do not understand. A local Indigenous person or country dweller, by contrast, will be entirely unaware of meanings beyond those immediately apparent. Some Indians brought to a large city showed no reaction to the mechanical wonders of bridges, trolleys, and telephones. But they were spellbound by workmen climbing poles to repair wires. As our store of meanings grows, we become aware of new problems. Yet we understand or solve these problems only by translating the new puzzles into what is already familiar and clear. This is the constant spiral movement of knowledge.

Our progress in genuine knowledge always consists in part in the discovery of something not understood in what had previously been taken for granted as plain, obvious, matter-of-course, and in part in the use of meanings that are directly grasped without question, as instruments for getting hold of obscure, doubtful, and perplexing meanings. No object is so familiar, so obvious, so commonplace that it may not unexpectedly present, in a novel situation, some problem, and thus arouse reflection in order to understand it. No object or principle is so strange, peculiar, or remote that it may not be dwelt upon till its meaning becomes familiar—taken in on sight without reflection. We may come to see, perceive, recognize, grasp, seize, lay hold of principles, laws, abstract truths—i.e. to understand their meaning in very immediate fashion. Our intellectual progress consists, as has been said, in a rhythm of direct understanding—technically called _ap_prehension—with indirect, mediated understanding—technically called _com_prehension.

Our progress in genuine knowledge always consists partly in discovering something we do not understand in what we once took for granted as plain, obvious, and ordinary. It also consists partly in using meanings we grasp directly and without question as tools for grasping meanings that are unclear, doubtful, and puzzling. No object is so familiar, obvious, or ordinary that it cannot unexpectedly present a problem in a new situation. The problem can then prompt us to reflect so that we understand the object. No object or principle is so strange, peculiar, or remote that we cannot study it until its meaning becomes familiar. We can then grasp its meaning on sight, without reflection. We may come to see, perceive, recognize, grasp, seize, or lay hold of principles, laws, and abstract truths. That is, we may understand their meaning very directly. As noted, our intellectual progress consists in a rhythm between direct understanding, technically called _ap_prehension, and indirect understanding, reached through other means and technically called _com_prehension.

The first problem that comes up in connection with direct understanding is how a store of directly apprehensible meanings is built up. How do we learn to view things on sight as significant members of a situation, or as having, as a matter of course, specific meanings? Our chief difficulty in answering this question lies in the thoroughness with which the lesson of familiar things has been learnt. Thought can more easily traverse an unexplored region than it can undo what has been so thoroughly done as to be ingrained in unconscious habit. We apprehend chairs, tables, books, trees, horses, clouds, stars, rain, so promptly and directly that it is hard to realize that as meanings they had once to be acquired,—the meanings are now so much parts of the things themselves.

The first question about direct understanding is how we build up a store of meanings we can grasp directly. How do we learn to see things at a glance as meaningful parts of a situation? How do we come to see things as having specific meanings as a matter of course? Our chief difficulty in answering this question is that we have learned the lesson of familiar things so thoroughly. Thought can explore unfamiliar territory more easily than it can undo something learned so thoroughly that it has become an unconscious habit. We recognize chairs, tables, books, trees, horses, clouds, stars, and rain so quickly and directly that we hardly realize we once had to learn their meanings. Those meanings now seem so much a part of the things themselves.

In an often quoted passage, Mr. James has said: "The baby, assailed by eyes, ears, nose, skin, and entrails at once, feels it all as one great blooming, buzzing confusion."²³ Mr. James is speaking of a baby's world taken as a whole; the description, however, is equally applicable to the way any new thing strikes an adult, so far as the thing is really new and strange. To the traditional "cat in a strange garret," everything is blurred and confused; the wonted marks that label things so as to separate them from one another are lacking. Foreign languages that we do not understand always seem jabberings, babblings, in which it is impossible to fix a definite, clear-cut, individualized group of sounds. The countryman in the crowded city street, the landlubber at sea, the ignoramus in sport at a contest between experts in a complicated game, are further instances. Put an unexperienced man in a factory, and at first the work seems to him a meaningless medley. All strangers of another race proverbially look alike to the visiting foreigner. Only gross differences of size or color are perceived by an outsider in a flock of sheep, each of which is perfectly individualized to the shepherd. A diffusive blur and an indiscriminately shifting suction characterize what we do not understand. The problem of the acquisition of meaning by things, or (stated in another way) of forming habits of simple apprehension, is thus the problem of introducing (i) definiteness and distinction and (ii) consistency or stability of meaning into what is otherwise vague and wavering.

In an often quoted passage, Mr. James said: "The baby, assailed by eyes, ears, nose, skin, and entrails at once, feels it all as one great blooming, buzzing confusion."²³ Mr. James is speaking of a baby's world as a whole. But his description also applies to how anything new strikes an adult, insofar as the thing is truly new and strange. To the familiar "cat in a strange garret," everything is blurred and confused. The familiar marks that label things and distinguish them from one another are missing. Foreign languages we do not understand always sound like jabbering and babbling. We cannot pick out any definite, clear, distinct group of sounds. Other examples are the countryman on a crowded city street and the landlubber at sea. So is someone who knows nothing about sports watching experts compete in a complicated game. Put an inexperienced man in a factory, and at first the work seems to him a meaningless jumble. All strangers of another race proverbially look alike to a foreign visitor. An outsider sees only broad differences in size or color among a flock of sheep. Yet each sheep is perfectly distinct to the shepherd. What we do not understand is marked by a spreading blur and a pull that shifts from one thing to another without distinction. The problem is how things acquire meaning, or, put another way, how we form habits of simple understanding. The problem is to bring (i) clarity and distinction and (ii) consistency or stability of meaning to what is otherwise vague and wavering.

The acquisition of definiteness and of coherency (or constancy) of meanings is derived primarily from practical activities. By rolling an object, the child makes its roundness appreciable; by bouncing it, he singles out its elasticity; by throwing it, he makes weight its conspicuous distinctive factor. Not through the senses, but by means of the reaction, the responsive adjustment, is the impression made distinctive, and given a character marked off from other qualities that call out unlike reactions. Children, for example, are usually quite slow in apprehending differences of color. Differences from the standpoint of the adult so glaring that it is impossible not to note them are recognized and recalled with great difficulty. Doubtless they do not all feel alike, but there is no intellectual recognition of what makes the difference. The redness or greenness or blueness of the object does not tend to call out a reaction that is sufficiently peculiar to give prominence or distinction to the color trait. Gradually, however, certain characteristic habitual responses associate themselves with certain things; the white becomes the sign, say, of milk and sugar, to which the child reacts favorably; blue becomes the sign of a dress that the child likes to wear, and so on: and the distinctive reactions tend to single out color qualities from other things in which they had been submerged.

Meanings become clear and consistent mainly through practical activities. By rolling an object, a child makes its roundness noticeable. By bouncing the object, the child singles out its elasticity. By throwing it, the child makes its weight stand out. An impression becomes distinct not through the senses, but through the child’s reaction and adjustment in response. This gives the impression a character that sets it apart from other qualities that prompt different reactions. For example, children are usually quite slow to grasp differences in color. They have great difficulty recognizing and remembering differences that are so obvious to adults that adults cannot miss them. No doubt the colors do not all feel alike, but children do not intellectually recognize what makes them different. An object’s redness, greenness, or blueness does not tend to call out a response distinct enough to make the color stand out. Gradually, however, certain habitual responses become associated with certain things. White becomes a sign, for example, of milk and sugar, to which the child responds favorably. Blue becomes a sign of a dress the child likes to wear, and so on. These distinct responses tend to single out colors from the other qualities in which they had been lost.

Take another example. We have little difficulty in distinguishing from one another rakes, hoes, plows and harrows, shovels and spades. Each has its own associated characteristic use and function. We may have, however, great difficulty in recalling the difference between serrate and dentate, ovoid and obovoid, in the shapes and edges of leaves, or between acids in ic and in ous. There is some difference; but just what? Or, we know what the difference is; but which is which? Variations in form, size, color, and arrangement of parts have much less to do, and the uses, purposes, and functions of things and of their parts much more to do, with distinctness of character and meaning than we should be likely to think. What misleads us is the fact that the qualities of form, size, color, and so on, are now so distinct that we fail to see that the problem is precisely to account for the way in which they originally obtained their definiteness and conspicuousness. So far as we sit passive before objects, they are not distinguished out of a vague blur which swallows them all. Differences in the pitch and intensity of sounds leave behind a different feeling, but until we assume different attitudes toward them, or do something special in reference to them, their vague difference cannot be intellectually gripped and retained.

Take another example. We have little difficulty telling rakes, hoes, plows, harrows, shovels, and spades apart. Each has its own characteristic use and function. But we may have great difficulty remembering the difference between serrate and dentate leaf edges, or ovoid and obovoid leaf shapes. We may have the same difficulty with acids whose names end in ic and those whose names end in ous. There is some difference, but just what is it? Or we know the difference, but which is which? Differences in form, size, color, and the arrangement of parts matter less than we might think. The uses, purposes, and functions of things and their parts matter much more. These uses and functions help give things a distinct character and meaning. What misleads us is that qualities like form, size, and color are now so distinct. We therefore fail to see that the very problem is to explain how those qualities first became clear and noticeable. As long as we sit passively before objects, they remain lost in a vague blur that swallows them all. Differences in the pitch and intensity of sounds leave us with different feelings. But until we respond differently to those sounds, or do something particular in response to them, we cannot intellectually grasp and retain their vague differences.

Children's drawings afford a further exemplification of the same principle. Perspective does not exist, for the child's interest is not in pictorial representation, but in the things represented; and while perspective is essential to the former, it is no part of the characteristic uses and values of the things themselves. The house is drawn with transparent walls, because the rooms, chairs, beds, people inside, are the important things in the house-meaning; smoke always comes out of the chimney—otherwise, why have a chimney at all? At Christmas time, the stockings may be drawn almost as large as the house or even so large that they have to be put outside of it:—in any case, it is the scale of values in use that furnishes the scale for their qualities, the pictures being diagrammatic reminders of these values, not impartial records of physical and sensory qualities. One of the chief difficulties felt by most persons in learning the art of pictorial representation is that habitual uses and results of use have become so intimately read into the character of things that it is practically impossible to shut them out at will.

Children's drawings offer another example of the same principle. They lack perspective because children are interested in the things represented, not in pictorial representation. Perspective is essential to pictorial representation, but it is no part of the things' own characteristic uses and values. Children draw a house with transparent walls because the rooms, chairs, beds, and people inside are important to what the house means. Smoke always comes out of the chimney. Otherwise, why have a chimney at all? At Christmas, the stockings may be drawn almost as large as the house. They may even be so large that they have to be placed outside it. In every case, the relative importance of things in use determines how they are depicted. The pictures are like diagrams that remind us of these values, not impartial records of physical and sensory qualities. Most people face a major difficulty when learning to represent things in pictures. We have become so used to reading familiar uses and their results into the character of things that we can hardly set them aside at will.

The acquiring of meaning by sounds, in virtue of which they become words, is perhaps the most striking illustration that can be found of the way in which mere sensory stimuli acquire definiteness and constancy of meaning and are thereby themselves defined and interconnected for purposes of recognition. Language is a specially good example because there are hundreds or even thousands of words in which meaning is now so thoroughly consolidated with physical qualities as to be directly apprehended, while in the case of words it is easier to recognize that this connection has been gradually and laboriously acquired than in the case of physical objects such as chairs, tables, buttons, trees, stones, hills, flowers, and so on, where it seems as if the union of intellectual character and meaning with the physical fact were aboriginal, and thrust upon us passively rather than acquired through active explorations. And in the case of the meaning of words, we see readily that it is by making sounds and noting the results which follow, by listening to the sounds of others and watching the activities which accompany them, that a given sound finally becomes the stable bearer of a meaning.

When sounds acquire meaning, they become words. This is perhaps the most striking example of how mere sensory stimuli acquire clear, consistent meanings. In the process, the stimuli themselves become distinct and connected to one another, so that we can recognize them. Language is a particularly good example because hundreds or even thousands of words now have meanings so firmly joined to their physical qualities that we grasp the meanings directly. Yet with words, it is easier to recognize that this connection was acquired gradually and with effort. With physical objects such as chairs, tables, buttons, trees, stones, hills, and flowers, the connection seems to have existed from the beginning. It seems as if their intellectual character and meaning were joined to the physical facts and passively imposed on us, rather than acquired through active exploration. With words, we can readily see how a particular sound finally becomes a stable bearer of meaning. We make sounds and notice the results. We also listen to the sounds others make and watch the activities that accompany them.

Familiar acquaintance with meanings thus signifies that we have acquired in the presence of objects definite attitudes of response which lead us, without reflection, to anticipate certain possible consequences. The definiteness of the expectation defines the meaning or takes it out of the vague and pulpy; its habitual, recurrent character gives the meaning constancy, stability, consistency, or takes it out of the fluctuating and wavering.

Being familiar with meanings means that we have learned definite ways of responding to objects. These responses lead us to anticipate certain possible consequences without thinking about them. The clarity of the expectation makes the meaning definite rather than vague and formless. The expectation’s habitual, recurring nature gives the meaning constancy, stability, and consistency rather than leaving it shifting and uncertain.

The word meaning is a familiar everyday term; the words conception, notion, are both popular and technical terms. Strictly speaking, they involve, however, nothing new; any meaning sufficiently individualized to be directly grasped and readily used, and thus fixed by a word, is a conception or notion. Linguistically, every common noun is the carrier of a meaning, while proper nouns and common nouns with the word this or that prefixed, refer to the things in which the meanings are exemplified. That thinking both employs and expands notions, conceptions, is then simply saying that in inference and judgment we use meanings, and that this use also corrects and widens them.

The word meaning is a familiar, everyday term. The words conception and notion are both everyday and technical terms. Strictly speaking, however, they introduce nothing new. A meaning is a conception or notion when it is distinct enough to be grasped directly, readily used, and thus fixed by a word. In language, every common noun carries a meaning. Proper nouns, and common nouns preceded by this or that, refer to things that exemplify those meanings. So to say that thinking uses and expands notions or conceptions is simply to say that we use meanings in inference and judgment. Using meanings in these ways also corrects and broadens them.

Various persons talk about an object not physically present, and yet all get the same material of belief. The same person in different moments often refers to the same object or kind of objects. The sense experience, the physical conditions, the psychological conditions, vary, but the same meaning is conserved. If pounds arbitrarily changed their weight, and foot rules their length, while we were using them, obviously we could not weigh nor measure. This would be our intellectual position if meanings could not be maintained with a certain stability and constancy through a variety of physical and personal changes.

Different people talk about an object that is not physically present, yet all come to believe the same thing about it. The same person often refers to the same object or kind of object at different times. Sensory experiences and physical and psychological conditions vary, but the meaning stays the same. If weights and rulers changed at random while we were using them, we obviously could not weigh or measure anything. Our thinking would be in the same position if meanings could not remain reasonably stable and constant despite physical and personal changes.

To insist upon the fundamental importance of conceptions would, accordingly, only repeat what has been said. We shall merely summarize, saying that conceptions, or standard meanings, are instruments (i) of identification, (ii) of supplementation, and (iii) of placing in a system. Suppose a little speck of light hitherto unseen is detected in the heavens. Unless there is a store of meanings to fall back upon as tools of inquiry and reasoning, that speck of light will remain just what it is to the senses—a mere speck of light. For all that it leads to, it might as well be a mere irritation of the optic nerve. Given the stock of meanings acquired in prior experience, this speck of light is mentally attacked by means of appropriate concepts. Does it indicate asteroid, or comet, or a new-forming sun, or a nebula resulting from some cosmic collision or disintegration? Each of these conceptions has its own specific and differentiating characters, which are then sought for by minute and persistent inquiry. As a result, then, the speck is identified, we will say, as a comet. Through a standard meaning, it gets identity and stability of character. Supplementation then takes place. All the known qualities of comets are read into this particular thing, even though they have not been as yet observed. All that the astronomers of the past have learned about the paths and structure of comets becomes available capital with which to interpret the speck of light. Finally, this comet-meaning is itself not isolated; it is a related portion of the whole system of astronomic knowledge. Suns, planets, satellites, nebulæ, comets, meteors, star dust—all these conceptions have a certain mutuality of reference and interaction, and when the speck of light is identified as meaning a comet, it is at once adopted as a full member in this vast kingdom of beliefs.

To stress the fundamental importance of concepts would therefore only repeat what has already been said. We can simply sum up: concepts, or standard meanings, are tools for (i) identification, (ii) supplementation, and (iii) placing something in a system. Suppose a tiny speck of light, never seen before, is detected in the sky. Without a store of meanings to use as tools for inquiry and reasoning, it will remain just what the senses perceive: a mere speck of light. As far as it leads to anything, it might as well be a mere irritation of the optic nerve. But with the stock of meanings gained from past experience, we can use appropriate concepts to investigate it. Does it indicate an asteroid, a comet, a newly forming sun, or a nebula caused by a cosmic collision or breakup? Each of these concepts has its own specific, distinguishing features. These features are then sought through careful and persistent inquiry. As a result, let us say, the speck is identified as a comet. Through a standard meaning, it gains an identity and a stable character. Supplementation then takes place. All the known qualities of comets are attributed to this particular object, even though they have not yet been observed. Everything that past astronomers have learned about the paths and structure of comets becomes available for interpreting the speck of light. Finally, the meaning of “comet” is not isolated. It is a connected part of the whole system of astronomical knowledge. Suns, planets, satellites, nebulae, comets, meteors, star dust: all these concepts refer to and interact with one another. So when the speck of light is identified as a comet, it immediately becomes a full member of this vast kingdom of beliefs.

Darwin, in an autobiographical sketch, says that when a youth he told the geologist, Sidgwick, of finding a tropical shell in a certain gravel pit. Thereupon Sidgwick said it must have been thrown there by some person, adding: "But if it were really embedded there, it would be the greatest misfortune to geology, because it would overthrow all that we know about the superficial deposits of the Midland Counties"—since they were glacial. And then Darwin adds: "I was then utterly astonished at Sidgwick not being delighted at so wonderful a fact as a tropical shell being found near the surface in the middle of England. Nothing before had made me thoroughly realize that science consists in grouping facts so that general laws or conclusions may be drawn from them." This instance (which might, of course, be duplicated from any branch of science) indicates how scientific notions make explicit the systematizing tendency involved in all use of concepts.

In an autobiographical sketch, Darwin tells how, as a young man, he told the geologist Sidgwick about finding a tropical shell in a gravel pit. Sidgwick said that someone must have thrown the shell there. He added: "But if it were really embedded there, it would be the greatest misfortune for geology. It would overturn all that we know about the surface deposits of the Midland Counties." Those deposits were glacial. Darwin then adds: "I was completely astonished that Sidgwick was not delighted by such a wonderful fact. A tropical shell had been found near the surface in the middle of England. Nothing before had made me fully realize that science consists in grouping facts so that general laws or conclusions may be drawn from them." This example shows how scientific ideas make explicit the tendency to organize that is involved in all use of concepts. Of course, a similar example could be found in any branch of science.

The idea that a conception is a meaning that supplies a standard rule for the identification and placing of particulars may be contrasted with some current misapprehensions of its nature.

A concept is a meaning that provides a standard rule for identifying and classifying particular things. This idea may be contrasted with some common misunderstandings about the nature of concepts.

1. Conceptions are not derived from a multitude of different definite objects by leaving out the qualities in which they differ and retaining those in which they agree. The origin of concepts is sometimes described to be as if a child began with a lot of different particular things, say particular dogs; his own Fido, his neighbor's Carlo, his cousin's Tray. Having all these different objects before him, he analyzes them into a lot of different qualities, say (a) color, (b) size, (c) shape, (d) number of legs, (e) quantity and quality of hair, (f) digestive organs, and so on; and then strikes out all the unlike qualities (such as color, size, shape, hair), retaining traits such as quadruped and domesticated, which they all have in general.

1. Concepts do not come from comparing many different, distinct objects. We do not form concepts by leaving out their differences and keeping their shared qualities. The origin of concepts is sometimes described as if a child started with many different individual things. These might be individual dogs: his own Fido, his neighbor's Carlo, and his cousin's Tray. With all these dogs before him, the child breaks them down into different qualities. These include (a) color, (b) size, (c) shape, (d) number of legs, (e) amount and type of hair, (f) digestive organs, and so on. He then crosses out all the qualities that differ, such as color, size, shape, and hair. He keeps traits they all share, such as having four legs and being domesticated.

As a matter of fact, the child begins with whatever significance he has got out of the one dog he has seen, heard, and handled. He has found that he can carry over from one experience of this object to subsequent experience certain expectations of certain characteristic modes of behavior—may expect these even before they show themselves. He tends to assume this attitude of anticipation whenever any clue or stimulus presents itself; whenever the object gives him any excuse for it. Thus he might call cats little dogs, or horses big dogs. But finding that other expected traits and modes of behavior are not fulfilled, he is forced to throw out certain traits from the dog-meaning, while by contrast (see p. 90) certain other traits are selected and emphasized. As he further applies the meaning to other dogs, the dog-meaning gets still further defined and refined. He does not begin with a lot of ready-made objects from which he extracts a common meaning; he tries to apply to every new experience whatever from his old experience will help him understand it, and as this process of constant assumption and experimentation is fulfilled and refuted by results, his conceptions get body and clearness.

In fact, a child begins with whatever meaning he has gained from the one dog he has seen, heard, and handled. From one experience of the dog, he has learned to expect certain characteristic behaviors in later encounters. He may expect them even before they appear. He tends to anticipate these behaviors whenever he encounters any clue or stimulus, whenever an object gives him any reason to do so. Thus, he might call cats little dogs or horses big dogs. But when he finds that other expected traits and behaviors do not appear, he must remove certain traits from his idea of a dog. At the same time, he picks out and emphasizes other traits by contrast (see p. 90). As he applies his idea to other dogs, his idea of a dog becomes still more defined and refined. He does not begin with many ready-made objects and draw a common meaning from them. Instead, he tries to apply whatever from his past experience will help him understand each new experience. In this continuing process of assuming and testing, results confirm some assumptions and disprove others. As a result, his ideas gain substance and clarity.

2. Similarly, conceptions are general because of their use and application, not because of their ingredients. The view of the origin of conception in an impossible sort of analysis has as its counterpart the idea that the conception is made up out of all the like elements that remain after dissection of a number of individuals. Not so; the moment a meaning is gained, it is a working tool of further apprehensions, an instrument of understanding other things. Thereby the meaning is extended to cover them. Generality resides in application to the comprehension of new cases, not in constituent parts. A collection of traits left as the common residuum, the caput mortuum, of a million objects, would be merely a collection, an inventory or aggregate, not a general idea; a striking trait emphasized in any one experience which then served to help understand some one other experience, would become, in virtue of that service of application, in so far general. Synthesis is not a matter of mechanical addition, but of application of something discovered in one case to bring other cases into line.

2. Similarly, concepts are general because of how they are used and applied, not because of what they contain. One view holds that a concept comes from an impossible kind of analysis. A related idea is that a concept consists of all the shared elements left after several individual things have been dissected. But this is not so. Once we grasp a meaning, it becomes a working tool for grasping more. It becomes an instrument for understanding other things. In this way, the meaning is extended to cover them. Generality lies in applying a meaning to understand new cases, not in the parts that make up the meaning. A collection of traits left as the common residue, the caput mortuum, of a million objects would be merely a collection. It would be an inventory or an aggregate, not a general idea. But a striking trait emphasized in one experience might help us understand another experience. Because the trait was applied in this way, it would become general to that extent. Synthesis is not a matter of mechanically adding things together. It is a matter of applying something discovered in one case to bring other cases into line.

A being that cannot understand at all is at least protected from mis-understandings. But beings that get knowledge by means of inferring and interpreting, by judging what things signify in relation to one another, are constantly exposed to the danger of mis-apprehension, mis-understanding, mis-taking—taking a thing amiss. A constant source of misunderstanding and mistake is indefiniteness of meaning. Through vagueness of meaning we misunderstand other people, things, and ourselves; through its ambiguity we distort and pervert. Conscious distortion of meaning may be enjoyed as nonsense; erroneous meanings, if clear-cut, may be followed up and got rid of. But vague meanings are too gelatinous to offer matter for analysis, and too pulpy to afford support to other beliefs. They evade testing and responsibility. Vagueness disguises the unconscious mixing together of different meanings, and facilitates the substitution of one meaning for another, and covers up the failure to have any precise meaning at all. It is the aboriginal logical sin—the source from which flow most bad intellectual consequences. Totally to eliminate indefiniteness is impossible; to reduce it in extent and in force requires sincerity and vigor. To be clear or perspicuous a meaning must be detached, single, self-contained, homogeneous as it were, throughout. The technical name for any meaning which is thus individualized is intension. The process of arriving at such units of meaning (and of stating them when reached) is definition. The intension of the terms man, river, seed, honesty, capital, supreme court, is the meaning that exclusively and characteristically attaches to those terms. This meaning is set forth in the definitions of those words. The test of the distinctness of a meaning is that it shall successfully mark off a group of things that exemplify the meaning from other groups, especially of those objects that convey nearly allied meanings. The river-meaning (or character) must serve to designate the Rhone, the Rhine, the Mississippi, the Hudson, the Wabash, in spite of their varieties of place, length, quality of water; and must be such as not to suggest ocean currents, ponds, or brooks. This use of a meaning to mark off and group together a variety of distinct existences constitutes its extension.

A being that cannot understand anything is at least protected from mis-understandings. But other beings gain knowledge by drawing conclusions and interpreting things, by judging what things mean in relation to one another. They are constantly exposed to the danger of mis-apprehension, mis-understanding, and mis-taking, or taking a thing the wrong way. A constant source of misunderstanding and error is imprecise meaning. When meanings are vague, we misunderstand other people, things, and ourselves. When meanings are ambiguous, we distort and twist them. We may enjoy deliberately distorted meanings as nonsense. If mistaken meanings are clearly defined, we can investigate and eliminate them. But vague meanings are too jellylike to analyze and too soft to support other beliefs. They escape testing and accountability. Vagueness disguises the unconscious mixing of different meanings. It makes it easier to substitute one meaning for another. It also hides the failure to have any precise meaning at all. Vagueness is the original sin of reasoning, the source of most bad intellectual consequences. It is impossible to eliminate imprecision entirely. Reducing its extent and force requires sincerity and effort. To be clear, a meaning must stand apart as a single, self-contained unit, uniform throughout, so to speak. The technical name for any meaning made distinct in this way is intension. The process of arriving at such units of meaning, and stating them once found, is definition. The intension of the terms man, river, seed, honesty, capital, and supreme court is the meaning that belongs exclusively and distinctively to each term. The definitions of those words set out these meanings. A meaning is distinct if it successfully separates a group of things that exemplify it from other groups. This is especially important when the other objects express closely related meanings. The meaning, or character, of a river must serve to designate the Rhone, the Rhine, the Mississippi, the Hudson, and the Wabash. It must do so despite their differences in location, length, and water quality. And the river-meaning must not suggest ocean currents, ponds, or brooks. Using a meaning to distinguish and group together a variety of distinct things constitutes its extension.

As definition sets forth intension, so division (or the reverse process, classification) expounds extension. Intension and extension, definition and division, are clearly correlative; in language previously used, intension is meaning as a principle of identifying particulars; extension is the group of particulars identified and distinguished. Meaning, as extension, would be wholly in the air or unreal, did it not point to some object or group of objects; while objects would be as isolated and independent intellectually as they seem to be spatially, were they not bound into groups or classes on the basis of characteristic meanings which they constantly suggest and exemplify. Taken together, definition and division put us in possession of individualized or definite meanings and indicate to what group of objects meanings refer. They typify the fixation and the organization of meanings. In the degree in which the meanings of any set of experiences are so cleared up as to serve as principles for grouping those experiences in relation to one another, that set of particulars becomes a science; i.e. definition and classification are the marks of a science, as distinct from both unrelated heaps of miscellaneous information and from the habits that introduce coherence into our experience without our being aware of their operation.

Just as definition sets out intension, division (or the reverse process, classification) explains extension. Intension and extension are clearly related, as are definition and division. To use the earlier terms, intension is meaning as a principle for identifying particular things. Extension is the group of particular things identified and distinguished. Meaning, as extension, would be entirely abstract or unreal if it did not point to some object or group of objects. Objects, meanwhile, would be as isolated and independent in our thinking as they seem to be in space. This would be so if characteristic meanings did not bind objects into groups or classes. The objects constantly suggest and exemplify these meanings. Together, definition and division give us distinct or definite meanings. They also show which groups of objects those meanings refer to. They are typical ways of fixing and organizing meanings. A set of particular experiences becomes a science to the extent that its meanings are clarified. These meanings must be clear enough to serve as principles for grouping the experiences in relation to one another. In other words, definition and classification are the marks of a science. They distinguish it both from unrelated collections of miscellaneous information and from habits that bring coherence to our experience without our being aware of how they work.

Definitions are of three types, denotative, expository, scientific. Of these, the first and third are logically important, while the expository type is socially and pedagogically important as an intervening step.

There are three types of definitions: denotative, expository, and scientific. Denotative and scientific definitions are important to logic. Expository definitions are important as an intermediate step in social life and education.

I. Denotative. A blind man can never have an adequate understanding of the meaning of color and red; a seeing person can acquire the knowledge only by having certain things designated in such a way as to fix attention upon some of their qualities. This method of delimiting a meaning by calling out a certain attitude toward objects may be called denotative or indicative. It is required for all sense qualities—sounds, tastes, colors—and equally for all emotional and moral qualities. The meanings of honesty, sympathy, hatred, fear, must be grasped by having them presented in an individual's first-hand experience. The reaction of educational reformers against linguistic and bookish training has always taken the form of demanding recourse to personal experience. However advanced the person is in knowledge and in scientific training, understanding of a new subject, or a new aspect of an old subject, must always be through these acts of experiencing directly the existence or quality in question.

I. Denotative. A blind person can never fully understand the meaning of color and red. A sighted person can learn their meaning only by having certain things pointed out to focus attention on some of their qualities. This way of defining a meaning by directing attention toward objects may be called denotative or indicative. It is necessary for all sensory qualities, such as sounds, tastes, and colors. It is equally necessary for all emotional and moral qualities. The meanings of honesty, sympathy, hatred, and fear must be understood through firsthand experience. Educational reformers have always challenged training based on language and books by calling for personal experience. No matter how advanced a person's knowledge or scientific training is, understanding a new subject requires direct experience of it. The same is true of understanding a new aspect of a familiar subject. In either case, a person must directly experience the thing or quality in question.

2. Expository. Given a certain store of meanings which have been directly or denotatively marked out, language becomes a resource by which imaginative combinations and variations may be built up. A color may be defined to one who has not experienced it as lying between green and blue; a tiger may be defined (i.e. the idea of it made more definite) by selecting some qualities from known members of the cat tribe and combining them with qualities of size and weight derived from other objects. Illustrations are of the nature of expository definitions; so are the accounts of meanings given in a dictionary. By taking better-known meanings and associating them,—the attained store of meanings of the community in which one resides is put at one's disposal. But in themselves these definitions are secondhand and conventional; there is danger that instead of inciting one to effort after personal experiences that will exemplify and verify them, they will be accepted on authority as substitutes.

2. Expository. Once we have a store of meanings established through direct experience or by pointing things out, language becomes a resource. It allows us to build imaginative combinations and variations. A color may be defined for someone who has not experienced it as lying between green and blue. A tiger may be defined by choosing qualities from familiar members of the cat family. We can combine these with qualities of size and weight drawn from other objects. This makes the idea of a tiger more definite. Illustrations are a kind of expository definition, as are the explanations of meanings given in a dictionary. By combining better-known meanings, we can draw on the store of meanings our community has built up. But these definitions are themselves secondhand and conventional. There is a danger that people will accept them on authority as substitutes for personal experience. Instead, the definitions should encourage people to seek experiences that illustrate and verify them.

3. Scientific. Even popular definitions serve as rules for identifying and classifying individuals, but the purpose of such identifications and classifications is mainly practical and social, not intellectual. To conceive the whale as a fish does not interfere with the success of whalers, nor does it prevent recognition of a whale when seen, while to conceive it not as fish but as mammal serves the practical end equally well, and also furnishes a much more valuable principle for scientific identification and classification. Popular definitions select certain fairly obvious traits as keys to classification. Scientific definitions select conditions of causation, production, and generation as their characteristic material. The traits used by the popular definition do not help us to understand why an object has its common meanings and qualities; they simply state the fact that it does have them. Causal and genetic definitions fix upon the way an object is constructed as the key to its being a certain kind of object, and thereby explain why it has its class or common traits.

3. Scientific. Even popular definitions provide rules for identifying and classifying individual things. But the purpose of such identification and classification is mainly practical and social, not intellectual. Thinking of a whale as a fish does not prevent whalers from succeeding or recognizing a whale when they see one. Thinking of a whale as a mammal rather than a fish serves the practical purpose equally well. It also provides a much more valuable principle for scientific identification and classification. Popular definitions select certain fairly obvious traits as keys to classification. Scientific definitions select conditions of causation, production, and generation as their defining material. The traits used in popular definitions do not help us understand why an object has its usual meanings and qualities. They simply state that it has them. Definitions based on cause and origin focus on how an object is constructed as the key to what kind of object it is. In this way, they explain why it has the traits common to its class.

If, for example, a layman of considerable practical experience were asked what he meant or understood by metal, he would probably reply in terms of the qualities useful (i) in recognizing any given metal and (ii) in the arts. Smoothness, hardness, glossiness, and brilliancy, heavy weight for its size, would probably be included in his definition, because such traits enable us to identify specific things when we see and touch them; the serviceable properties of capacity for being hammered and pulled without breaking, of being softened by heat and hardened by cold, of retaining the shape and form given, of resistance to pressure and decay, would probably be included—whether or not such terms as malleable or fusible were used. Now a scientific conception, instead of using, even with additions, traits of this kind, determines meaning on a different basis. The present definition of metal is about like this: Metal means any chemical element that enters into combination with oxygen so as to form a base, i.e. a compound that combines with an acid to form a salt. This scientific definition is founded, not on directly perceived qualities nor on directly useful properties, but on the way in which certain things are causally related to other things; i.e. it denotes a relation. As chemical concepts become more and more those of relationships of interaction in constituting other substances, so physical concepts express more and more relations of operation: mathematical, as expressing functions of dependence and order of grouping; biological, relations of differentiation of descent, effected through adjustment of various environments; and so on through the sphere of the sciences. In short, our conceptions attain a maximum of definite individuality and of generality (or applicability) in the degree to which they show how things depend upon one another or influence one another, instead of expressing the qualities that objects possess statically. The ideal of a system of scientific conceptions is to attain continuity, freedom, and flexibility of transition in passing from any fact and meaning to any other; this demand is met in the degree in which we lay hold of the dynamic ties that hold things together in a continuously changing process—a principle that states insight into mode of production or growth.

For example, suppose a nonexpert with considerable practical experience were asked what he understood by metal. He would probably answer in terms of qualities useful for (i) recognizing a particular metal and (ii) working with it. His definition would probably include smoothness, hardness, glossiness, brightness, and heavy weight for its size. These traits help us identify particular things by sight and touch. He would probably also include useful properties such as the ability to be hammered and drawn out without breaking, to soften with heat and harden with cold, to retain an assigned shape, and to resist pressure and decay. He might do so whether or not he used terms such as malleable or fusible. A scientific concept, however, does not use traits of this kind, even with additions. Instead, it determines meaning on a different basis. The current definition of metal is roughly this: A metal is any chemical element that combines with oxygen to form a base. A base is a compound that combines with an acid to form a salt. This scientific definition rests neither on qualities we directly perceive nor on properties directly useful to us. It rests on the way certain things are causally related to other things. In other words, it describes a relation. Chemical concepts increasingly describe relations of interaction through which substances form other substances. Similarly, physical concepts increasingly express relations of operation. Mathematical concepts increasingly express functions of dependence and order of grouping. Biological concepts increasingly express relations of differentiation through descent, brought about by adjustment to various environments. The same pattern continues throughout the sciences. In short, our concepts become most distinctly individual and most general, or applicable, when they show how things depend on or influence one another. They do so less when they express qualities that objects possess in a fixed state. The ideal of a system of scientific concepts is to allow continuous, free, and flexible movement from any fact and meaning to any other. We meet this demand to the extent that we grasp the dynamic ties holding things together in a continuously changing process. This principle expresses insight into how things are produced or grow.