Andreas Dorschel

In the process of making bedsteads, Plato claimed, makers look towards the ‘idea’ of the bed. But what is that idea? Two candidates come to mind: shape and purpose. The fact that we identify objects of very different shape, not even involving a bedstead, as beds seems to render purpose conceptually superior. But, then, what is a bed’s purpose? An obvious response appears tobe: lying down and sleeping. Yet, first, beds are not needed for that. Secondly, precisely when a bed is slept on, it is not perceived as a design object. Thirdly, beds constitute a kind of existential furniture, associated with giving birth, making love, suffering illness and dying. All such issues humans really care about, however, are strikingly indifferent towards the design of beds. As elsewhere, the maxim that form follows function fails. Design thinking might rather make headway when beds are conceived of as peculiar spaces within spaces.

‚Origin‘ must be counted among the 19th century’s obsessions. Following the lead of 18th century Enlightenment, subverting origins rather than venerating them became a theoretical preoccupation. Yet art – specifically the art of music – dealt with origins in a different way. That way eludes the obvious alternative of either awe or unmasking. It is specifically modern: The work of art attends to its own genesis. The different versions of the beginning of Bruckner’s Fourth Symphony disclose a subtle craft of constructing the unconstructed, origin: artificial nature.

Arnold Gehlen's attempt to give anthropological grounds for morality stems from Kant's idea that being freed from the compulsion of instinct left human beings in need of compensation for the loss of the practical guidance which instinct had hitherto provided. Whereas Kant thought this compensation was to found only in reasoned morality, Gehlen would argue that morality provides recompense by becoming a quasi-instinct that functions without reflection and that needs to be bred into human beings. The author maintains that in comparing animals and human beings. Gehlen posits will as a deficient instinct as deficient will; because each side is characterized as the negative of the other, Gehlen's starting point fails to meet the conditions for a valid comparison.

Does having some feeling or other ever count as an argument – and, should it? As a matter of fact, not just do persons sometimes refer to their feelings to make a point in debate. Often, they even treat them as irrefutable arguments; for they are, of course, certain of their own feelings. To make a point in debate by reference to one’s feelings, one has got to articulate them. As language is the core medium of debate (though it can be supported by images etc.), feelings, then, have to be articulated in words. These words, to function in communication, must participate in what is general (though not necessarily universal). On that level of generality, other speakers of the same language can contest the feelings – not that they have occured within the first speaker’s subjectivity, but that they are reasonable reactions to circumstances. Hence if feeling is sometimes to be taken seriously as an argument, it is not irrefutable, but rather refutable; and to the extent that somebody insists that it is irrefutable, it cannot count as an argument.

Reference to past possibilities is not an additional luxury in writing history, after all facts have been established. For even facts become such only within a field of alternative options. What it means that one path was taken depends in part on answers to the question which other paths once open were not taken. Historical potential unrealized can be conceived of in a number of ways: as unfulfilled intentions, as unresolved problems, as suppressed endeavours, as waived alternatives within a context of decision, or as losses incurred by gains in some other respect. Some of these conceptions are non-exclusive. None of them provides the single model to grasp past possibilities; rather, they will turn out to be more or less elucidative according to historical case.

In book 3 of ‘De anima’, Aristotle distinguishes between sensations and feelings. On the level of sensation, we merely register that something is so and so; feeling, by way of contrast, takes that so and so to be agreeable or disagreeable. Emotion has to be distinguished from both sensation and feeling. One cannot have a sensation or feeling without noticing it. But others may be the first to realize that somebody is jealous or envious. Hence emotions like jealousy or envy are not, and are not like, sensations or feelings. Feelings and emotions share an evaluative stance towards the world. But they differ in the way they relate to reason.

The expulsion of prejudice is the centrepiece of intellectual progress, as it has been understood since the Enlightenment. that this fight has not been successful since is obvious, but this does not invalidate it. There is no reason to believe that people in the 20th century had fewer (rather than merely different) prejudices than people had in the 18th century; yet we might simply conclude that the fight has not been conducted resolutely enough. The question whether or not this might be the right conclusion, however, depends on an answer to a more fundamental question; whether prejudices, as such, are a proper object to fight against in the first place. The argument of this book, is an attempt to show that they are not. The author begins by reconstructing the Enlightenment's main objection to prejudice, challenging the conclusion that all prejudices must be destroyed and focusing on the context of decision and action. The book goes on to consider the relationship between prejudice and experience, and explores a particular defence of prejudice developed in hermeneutics. A final chapter drives home the general conclusion of the book. To make the case for a reinterpretation of the concept of prejudice, it addresses particularly contentious issues, exploring dogmatism, fundamentalism and racist prejudices.

In this paper I want to examine the concept of 'conditions of fulfilment' or 'compliance' or 'satisfaction' which have been introduced by some authors in order to provide analyses of meaning which are just as adequate to directive speech acts as truth-conditional semantics are (claimed to be) adequate to assertive speech acts. It will be argued that this aim is missed. Most analyses (except those of some primitive cases) will remain throughout imcomplete as long as they are not supplemented by a specification of conditions of normative validity. In the case of several illocutionary verbs they can be substituted by conditions under which the speaker could make use of sanctions against the hearer.

The relationship between art and knowledge is subject to historical change. In the early 19th century, the view was still prevalent that art was about eternal values, especially beauty, whereas science was entirely involved in historical time: The former was seen as contemplative, the latter as searching. But ever since, most artists have given up that stance and hence the once imagined detachment from historical time. They search, and sometimes research, too. Does that mean that art and science have come closer?

Is fear a ‘deficient mode’ of anxiety? This claim made by Martin Heidegger in ‘Being and Time’ (1927) depends on an analysis of intentionality. Emotions take objects: to love, to hate, to fear is to love, to hate, to fear someone or something. Yet anxiety, Heidegger maintains (‘Being and Time’ § 40), is about “nothing” (“nichts”) rather than “something” (“etwas”). Heidegger then turns lack of knowledge or understanding of what one’s anxiety is about into a revelation of “Nothing” (“Die Angst offenbart das Nichts”; ‘Being and Time’ § 40) – a state meant to manifest freedom. Yet freedom is not increased but diminished if and when someone cannot judge the direction, extent and power of a threat. Concrete, determinate thought liberates; someone is less free in anxiety than in fear.

Simplicity can be a complicated matter. This has been notorious in the philosophy of science for some time; but it seems the aesthetics of music yet have to come up to that insight. Song, apparently the plainest of musical genres, turns out to be a rather intricate sort of thing once we try to unravel its puzzle of expression as confluence of words and music. Specifically, Franz Schubert’s Ihr Bild, after Heinrich Heine, achieves simplicity through condensation. The idea of gestural development, linked with expressive modes, can disclose such a process.

Expression in orchestral music is a matter of conductors rather than orchestras. Why should that be so? The straightforward answer seems to be that expression is bound to the individual self. But, then, does it have to be? Collective expression of, e.g., anger, rage or protest is not at all unusual in the public domain of politics. Our intuition of conductors’ expressive primacy could be salvaged if we were to conceive of orchestras as their instruments. But that will not do. For conducting is to make oneself understood by an orchestra rather than to impact on it causally. A better way of making sense of the relationship between conductor and orchestra is offered by the theory of the social contract. That idea should be supplemented by an account of the relationship between the conductor who gesturally embodies the music’s expression on the one hand and the audience on the other hand.