Adrian Haddock

Arthur C. Danto’s Analytical Philosophy of History has a Kantian ambition: to state the conditions that make historical knowledge possible and to show “the unhappy destiny” that attends attempts to extend modes of representation beyond these conditions. Even though Danto’s book fails to achieve this ambition, it succeeds in making a number of important—if neglected—suggestions in the course of its attempt. One concerns the significance of the progressive tense for our thinking about human agency. Another concerns the way agency can impact negatively on the possibility of foreknowledge.

In his Analytical Philosophy of History, published in 1965, Arthur Danto made a path‐breaking, but largely unacknowledged contribution to the philosophy of action. Davidson's sentences are to the effect that someone has done something: their verbs bear the past tense and the perfective aspect. Danto's sentences are to the effect that someone is doing something: their verbs bear the present tense and the imperfective aspect. Danto's sentences are central to the language of action. Philosophers of action who unreflectively employ the abstract sentences assume that their meaning takes care of itself, and as such fail to have in mind the concrete sentences in which their meaning consists. The fantasy of basic action is the fantasy of action without acting.

Anscombe seems to think that, even though “the knowledge that a man has of his intentional actions” is not “knowledge by observation”, it can be aided by observation. My aim in this essay is to explain how I think we should understand this thought. I suggest that, in a central class of cases, knowledge of one's intentional action is knowledge whose canonical linguistic expression is an utterance of the form “I am doing something to that G": knowledge in which the subject, at once, knows himself “as self" (and so, not by observation), and knows an outer object “as other” (and so, by observation). To characterise this knowledge either as knowledge by observation, or as knowledge not by observation, is to characterise it in a manner that abstracts away from its fundamental unity.

Jennifer Hornsby's account of human action frees us from the temptation to think of the person who acts as 'doing' the events that are her actions, and thereby removes much of the allure of 'agent causation'. But her account is spoiled by the claim that physical actions are 'tryings' that cause bodily movements. It would be better to think of physical actions and bodily movements as identical; but Hornsby refuses to do this, seemingly because she thinks that to do so would be to endorse the so-called 'standard causal story'. But Hornsby misses a possibility here, for we can insist on this identity claim without endorsing the standard story if we embrace an account which parallels the disjunctive account in the philosophy of perception. This will leave us with a picture of physical action that saves the insights of Hornsby's account without succumbing to its distortions.

This paper develops a way of understanding G. E. M. Anscombe's essay “The First Person” at the heart of which are the following two ideas: first, that the point of her essay is to show that it is not possible for anyone to understand what they express with “I” as an Art des Gegebenseins—a way of thinking of an object that constitutes identifying knowledge of which object is being thought of; and second, that the argument through which her essay seeks to show this is itself first personal in character. Understanding Anscombe's essay in this light has the merit of showing much of what it says to be correct. But it sets us the task of saying what it is that we understand ourselves to express with “I” if not an Art des Gegebenseins, and in particular what it is that we understand ourselves to express with sentences with “I” as subject that might seem to express identity judgments, such as “I am NN”, and “I am this body”.

Wilfrid Sellars employs the metaphor of the space of reasons to express a certain conception of knowledge: “in characterising an episode or state as that of knowing … one is placing it in the logical space of reasons, of justifying and being able to justify what one says”.1 A growing number of philosophers employ the same metaphor to express a conception of at least some (other) mental states: in characterising a state as that of belief, or intention, one is placing it in the same logical space.2 The burden of Alan Millar’s characteristically careful and thought-provoking book is to tell us what this conception amounts to, and to argue for its truth. Its central claim is that the concepts of belief and intention, and what they are concepts of, are (in a sense to be explained) normative. Chapter four – “the heart of the book”, in Millar’s view3 – is devoted to explaining, and defending this claim