Peirce's Philosophy of Communication: The Rhetorical Underpinnings of the Theory of Signs

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Author: Mats Bergman

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Peirce’s Philosophy of Communication

Continuum Studies in American Philosophy Series Editor: James Fieser, University of Tennessee at Martin, USA Continuum Studies in American Philosophy is a major monograph series from Continuum. The series features first-class scholarly research monographs across the field of American philosophy. Each work makes a major contribution to the field of philosophical research.

After Rorty, G. Elijah Dann America’s First Women Philosophers, Dorothy G. Rogers John Searle and the Construction of Social Reality, Joshua Rust The Legacy of John Rawls, edited by Thom Brooks and Fabian Freyenhagen Nozick, Autonomy and Compensation, Dale Murray Peirce’s Pragmatic Theory of Inquiry, Elizabeth Cooke Quine on Meaning, Eve Gaudet Quine’s Naturalism, Paul A. Gregory Relativism in Contemporary American Philosophy, Timothy Mosteller Richard Rorty’s New Pragmatism, Edward J. Grippe Thomas Kuhn’s Revolution, James A. Marcum Varieties of Pragmatism, Douglas McDermid Virtue Ethics: Dewey and MacIntyre, Stephen Carden

Peirce’s Philosophy of Communication The Rhetorical Underpinnings of the Theory of Signs

Mats Bergman

Continuum International Publishing Group The Tower Building 80 Maiden Lane 11 York Road Suite 704 London SE1 7NX New York NY 10038 www.continuumbooks.com © Mats Bergman 2009 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: HB: 978-1-8470-6466-0 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Bergman, Mats. Peirce’s Philosophy of Communication / Mats Bergman. p. cm. -- (Continuum Studies in American philosophy) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-84706-466-0 (hb) 1. Peirce, Charles S. (Charles Sanders), 1839–1914. 2. Semiotics. I. Title. II. Series. B945.P44B374 2009 121’.68092--dc22

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Contents

Acknowledgements Note on Abbreviations 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Introduction A Social Conception of Philosophy Beyond the Doctrine of Signs From Representation to Mediation Prospects of Communication

Notes Bibliography Index

vi vii 1 6 38 92 137 166 186 193

Acknowledgements

Work on this book has been generously supported by the Emil Aaltonen Foundation, the Georg and Ella Ehrnrooth Foundation, and the University of Helsinki Excellence in Research Funds. I am grateful to the Department of Philosophy of Harvard University for the permission to quote Peirce’s manuscripts. The Peirce Edition Project at Indiana University – Purdue University Indianapolis has provided invaluable assistance at various stages of my research. On a more personal level, I especially wish to thank Vincent Colapietro, André De Tienne, Nathan Houser, James Liszka, and Tom Short in addition to the members – past and present – of the Helsinki Metaphysical Club and all the other friends, colleagues, and critics who have contributed to the formation of this study. But they are not to blame. This book is dedicated to Marja, for keeping me relatively sane.

Note on Abbreviations

Throughout this study, standard editions of Peirce’s writings will be referenced according to the following scheme. CN

Charles S. Peirce: Contributions to the Nation (1975–87). 3 vols plus an index vol. Ed. by K. L. Ketner and J. E. Cook. Lubbock: Texas Tech University Press.

CP

Collected Papers of Charles S. Peirce (1931–58). 8 vols. Ed. by C. Hartshorne and P. Weiss (vols. 1–6), and A. Burks (vols 7–8). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

EP

The Essential Peirce: Selected Philosophical Writings (1992–98). 2 vols. Ed. by N. Houser and C. Kloesel (vol. 1), and The Peirce Edition Project (vol. 2). Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

HP

Historical Perspectives on Peirce’s Logic of Science: A History of Science (1985). 2 vols. Berlin: Mouton Publishers.

MS

An original manuscript, numbered according to Prof Richard S. Robin’s (1967) annotated catalogue. An ‘L’ before the manuscript number indicates a letter.

NEM

The New Elements of Mathematics (1976). 4 vols. Ed. by C. Eisele. The Hague: Mouton Publishers.

viii

Note on Abbreviations

PPM

Pragmatism as a Principle and Method of Right Thinking: The 1903 Harvard Lectures on Pragmatism (1997). Ed. by P. A. Turrisi. Albany: State University of New York Press.

RLT

Reasoning and the Logic of Things: The Cambridge Conferences Lectures of 1898 (1992). Ed. by K. L. Ketner. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

SS

Semiotic and Significs: The Correspondence between Charles S. Peirce and Victoria Lady Welby. (1977). Ed. by C. S. Hardwick. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

Chapter 1

Introduction

This book is a critical study of the communicative underpinnings of Charles S. Peirce’s theory of signs (semeiotic1). My aim is to explore the sense and the extent to which the groundwork of his sign-theoretical philosophy is permeated by the idea of communication. More than that, I will argue that semeiotic is inherently communicative in ways that have not been fully appreciated. For some, this may feel like a rather uncontroversial claim, bordering on triviality. Surely, a philosophy informed by a semiotic and pragmatic point of view simply cannot fail to be oriented towards communication and community? Other readers, more familiar with Peirce’s scientific agenda, may suspect that something more sinister is afoot, possibly even an attempt to ‘humanize’ his theory of signs in a way that would gravely compromise its claims to generality and objectivity. Perhaps I should at the outset admit to the transgression, for one of my objectives is indeed to argue that semiotic experience is – or should be – the starting point of Peircean sign theory, and the understanding and improvement of sign use ought to be its ideal goal. However, I believe that such an approach does not necessarily exclude a general and objective conception of sign and semiosis; nor does it unavoidably lead to crude instrumentalism and denigration of theory. The guiding idea of this book is that practitioners of semeiotic need to consider the communicative frame in order to avoid problems of empty formalism and theoretical arbitrariness. This is one reason for speaking of Peirce’s philosophy of communication rather than of his theory of communication. These terms indicate an implicit tension that complicates any attempt to get to grips with the question of communication in semeiotic. Peirce’s philosophical outlook seems to warrant treating communication as merely one instance of sign action among many. That is, we should be able to articulate a theory of communicative practice as a special application of general semeiotic. However, we also find the idea of communication, vaguely but undeniably, in central conceptions of Peirce’s philosophy, such as in ‘sign’ and ‘thought’. This ambiguity has not gone unnoticed.

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Peirce’s Philosophy of Communication On the one hand, the term might be taken as one (if not the) most basic explanatory terms in semiotic discourse. If it is so construed, then semiosis or sign-activity is defined or explained in terms of communication. On the other, communication might be treated as a more or less derivative conception. (Colapietro, 1995, p. 34)

The uncertain status of communicative conceptions in semeiotic may partly explain why the role and relevance of communication in Peirce’s philosophy remains a marginal topic at best. In view of the fact that Peirce’s theory of signs has been the object of serious investigation at least since the 1960s, one would expect that the issue would have been thoroughly probed in the literature by now. This is not the case, although Peirce scholarship has generated several penetrating examinations of various aspects of communication from a Peircean point of view. Therefore, the aim of this book is not to articulate a detailed theory of communication; instead, I hope to contribute to a deeper understanding of the fallible communicative grounding of semeiotic. Of course, these are interrelated tasks; the elucidation of the communicative soul of Peirce’s philosophy certainly ought to affect the development of a Peircean theory of communication. There are certainly other, more tangible, reasons for the relative neglect of the topic of communication in the literature. In an appraisal of Peirce’s contribution to the study of communicative action, Jürgen Habermas (1995) correctly observes that the father of pragmatism and philosophical sign theory rarely used the term ‘communication’. Peirce did not assemble an explicit theory of communication, and the reader would search in vain for references to a ‘philosophy of communication’ in the original texts. Consequently, this book presents a rhetorical reconstruction of Peirce’s sign-theoretical philosophy. It is certainly not the only way to interpret Peirce – I do not claim to cover all the bases here – but I believe that it is needed as a complement and even as a partial corrective to existing explications of semeiotic. Arguably, a top-down strategy, which straightforwardly moves from the general to the more particular and from the formal to the informal, is not sufficient to do justice to the dialogical rationale of semeiotic. That is, I maintain that the Peircean theory of signs should not be developed axiomatically; rather, a certain primacy ought to be assigned to practices such as inquiry and communication (cf. Colapietro, 2004, p. 104). Consequently, the rhetorical approach entails an emphasis on the experiential starting points and implications of semeiotic rather than on the construction of a formally polished grammar of signs. These are admittedly not mutually exclusive tasks; in a full treatment of Peirce’s project, attention to both sides would no doubt be indispensable. Yet, as his penchant for terminological innovation and abstract analysis tends to overshadow other aspects of his semeiotic, I feel that highlighting some all too easily overlooked rhetorical and pragmatic aspects is justified, partial as such a perspective must be. According to Max Fisch (W 1: xxii [1982]), Peirce devoted more energy to the classification

Introduction

3

of signs than to any other intellectual labour. Every so often, these classificatory endeavours begin to resemble Hermann Hesse’s glass-bead games, exclusive pastimes for idle intellectuals – or ‘mathematical recreations’, to use Peirce’s own apt characterization of excessive formalism in logic. I am not the first to propose that semeiotic possesses a communicative grounding or core. Joseph Ransdell (1976) has even claimed that Peirce’s originality is not found in the idea of semeiotic as such, or in the identification of the theory of signs with logic; rather, it lies ‘in his conception of semiotic as a logic of communication’ (p. 101).2 In a similar vein, Hugh Joswick (1996) has argued that ‘semeiotic is a formal study of signs used as a medium of communication’ (p. 96). More moderately, Vincent Colapietro (1995) has stated that Peirce’s theory of signs is ‘derived by an abstractive process from our communicative practices’ (p. 25). However, suggestive as such observations are, they practically demand substantiation lest they be dismissed as mere slogans. Ransdell (1977) has taken a first step in this direction by pointing out that Peirce performs a kind of ‘derivation’ of the basic sign relation from ordinary dialogic interaction; I will scrutinize this abstraction of semiotic ingredients too, but I will draw somewhat different conclusions than Ransdell. Colapietro (1995) also discusses the connection between communication and the general conception of sign in a manner that in many ways accords with my interpretation. Albeit I am critical of certain formalistic tendencies in semeiotic, this book can also be read as an implicit defence of semeiotic against criticism based on the contention that Peirce’s ‘anonymization’ of the interpretative process disconnects the general sign relation from social practice (see Habermas, 1995). The concept of sign – like any meaningful philosophical conception – can be said to be rooted in communal experience in a particular sense that this study aims to explicate. Furthermore, following leads from Peirce and T. L. Short, I will argue that the generality of the abstracted sign relation does not imply the autonomy of semiosis; signs function as signs in purposive and pragmatic contexts. For this reason, I am going to pay particular attention to Peirce’s rationale for asserting that philosophy ought to begin with human beings and their discourse. Naturally, there are many things that this book does not cover – too many to mention, in fact. This study offers neither a full exposition of semeiotic nor a meticulous development of a Peircean theory of communication. In the first instance, the reader should not expect a systematic treatise on Peirce’s grammar of signs.3 Instead of discussing the intricate details of sign classification, I focus on broader but frequently ignored topics such as the relationship between grammar and rhetoric, the abstraction of the general sign relation and the appropriate way to conceptualize semiosis. With regard to developing a Peircean theory of communication, this book is at best a preparatory study.4 My aim is to open up a distinctly pragmatic path to the world of semeiotic, an approach which would not gravely compromise the generality of the theory while anchoring it as a study of common experience. My hope is that this perspective will also

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prove to be conducive to semeiotic investigations of communicative processes and phenomena of different kinds. Before moving on, a couple of additional comments about my interpretative approach are in order. In recent years, the question of the development of Peirce’s theory of signs has become a rather contentious topic. In particular, Short (2004; 2007a) has argued for a strong developmental reading of semeiotic; this entails the detection of certain grave flaws in Peirce’s early theory that are supposedly corrected in the more adequate mature conception. In effect, Short’s approach divides semeiotic into an early and late phase; and he adds the controversial thesis that the latter is not compatible with the former, which gives us two divergent theories of semeiotic. At the opposite end of the spectrum, Ransdell (2007) has fervently criticized Short and defended a unity interpretation, according to which the essential building blocks of Peirce’s theory of signs were put firmly in place in the 1860s; later developments simply built on this practically unchanging core. While I acknowledge the significance of this scholarly debate, I will not examine the conflicting views of this issue here. I believe that neither narrative is wholly accurate; Peirce’s semeiotic changed more than Ransdell is prepared to admit, but not in such radical leaps as Short contends.5 I will bypass most of this debate by focusing on Peirce’s later writings. However, this does not imply denigration of his youthful efforts. Although I will discuss some prominent readings of semeiotic where appropriate, my main intellectual encounter in this book is with Peirce himself. This does not merely mean trying to explicate his philosophy as well as I can, but also engaging in criticism of his viewpoints when I feel it is needed. This may seem insolent and somewhat unfair; but I believe it is the best way to advance the development of semeiotic. I consider this book to be a part of an ongoing dialogue with Peirce, in contrast to a pure exposition, which is why I choose to write the following chapters in the present tense. My best apology for criticizing Peirce is that he would probably have appreciated it; judging by the records, he would not have looked kindly upon uncritical acceptance – partly because of his contrary disposition, but also because of his view that ‘every logical evolution of thought should be dialogic’ (CP 4.551 [1906]). Ideas need to be challenged and put to the test; that is the only way they can truly teach us and affect our habits. Semeiotic is not a finished project. In 1907, after nearly fifty years of philosophical and semeiotic labours, Peirce described himself as ‘a pioneer, or rather a backwoodsman, in the work of clearing and opening up [. . . ] semiotic, the doctrine of the essential nature and fundamental varieties of possible semiosis’ (EP 2: 413). This book does not assume that the pioneer would have built a highway on which we could travel contentedly all the way to our final destination. Although we are in many respects still only catching up to Peirce, it is sobering to keep in mind that he did not conceive of his semeiotic as a completed theory; in his final years, he rather ruefully conceded that he had not been able to satisfy himself of the truth of even one of the ‘sundry universal propositions concerning Signs’ that he had scrutinized most

Introduction

5

of his life (EP 2: 462 [c. 1911]). The self-appointed pathfinder looked to the future and suggested that ‘those who have both a talent and passion for eliciting the truth about such matters’ ought to institute a cooperative philosophical inquiry into the problems of signs ‘in the spirit of twentieth-century science’ (EP 2: 462 [c. 1911]). The twentieth century may be long gone, but I believe that we still have much to learn from the communicative spirit of Peirce’s philosophy. Thus, the following chapter, Chapter 2, will introduce his general conception of scientific and philosophical inquiry. In Chapter 3, I propose some critical revisions to Peirce’s arrangement of the philosophical sciences, and will delineate a rhetorical approach to semeiotic that also reveals the communicative underpinnings of the theory. In Chapter 4, the focus is on how semiosis ought to be conceptualized in light of the findings of the preceding chapter; this discussion scrutinizes the varying ways in which Peirce characterizes the action of signs, from representation to communicative mediation. Finally, in Chapter 5 I will consider some vital topics for a Peircean theory of communication that would build on Peirce’s philosophy of communication, such as indeterminacy and the role of communicative signs in bringing about habit changes.

Chapter 2

A Social Conception of Philosophy

Peirce maintains that philosophy should be practised in a scientific spirit. This is a controversial position, with its share of critics as well as backers. Although a detailed study of this topic is beyond the scope of this book, this discussion prepares the canvas for discussions of more specific questions pertaining to the disciplinary status and experiential grounding of semeiotic in subsequent chapters. In contrast to many illustrious champions of scientific philosophy, Peirce has a track record as a practising scientist as well as a philosopher. Although his achievements in philosophy have tended to outshine his work in sciences such as experimental psychology and metrology, several commentators have rightly emphasized the relevance of Peirce’s scientific labours for his philosophical approach. Kenneth L. Ketner (1987) has gone so far as to declare that Peirce should primarily be understood as a scientist and mathematician, and only secondarily as a philosopher. Although Ketner’s claim could be disputed on the ground that Peirce’s contributions to philosophy far exceed his scientific accomplishments, it is certainly important to keep in mind that Peirce’s idea of philosophy is intimately connected to his active engagement in the life of science. Ketner’s viewpoint seems to receive ample support from Peirce, who describes himself as a ‘scion of natural science’ (MS 326:4). He is scornful of the verbose mannerisms of the so-called ‘seminary’ and ‘literary’ intellectuals, and urges philosophers to adopt the rigorous methods of the successful scientific disciplines instead.1 In a letter to William James, Peirce bluntly states that ‘philosophy is either a science or is balderdash’;2 and in a critical scrutiny of F. C. S. Schiller’s humanistic agenda, he asserts that a strictly scientific philosophy must be ‘passionless and severely fair’, an abstract activity that should not strive to cover every aspect of human life (CP 5.537 [c. 1905–58]). On the basis of such uncompromising declarations, one might easily conclude that the Peircean agenda is scientistic in the strongest sense of the term. From a contemporary perspective, the notion that philosophy is or should be a science may look misguided and even dangerous (Colapietro, 1998, p. 248). For some, the term ‘scientific philosophy’ immediately conjures up images of unwise positivistic agendas and dreams of unified knowledge. A strictly scientific conception of philosophy would appear to exclude a large part of that which is commonly

Social Conception of Philosophy

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called ‘philosophy’, and might be perceived to be irrelevant to the concerns of contemporary humanistic and social inquiry. The fact that Peirce upholds the practice of natural scientists as an exemplar for all scientific investigation does nothing to reduce such fears. Colapietro (1998) articulates these reservations: [T]o assimilate too thoroughly the work of philosophers to that of scientists, especially natural scientists, (as Peirce would have us do) tends to occlude the character of philosophy as an ongoing quest for critical self-consciousness, one undertaken by participants in the intersecting practices dominant in their historical time and, in some form, perhaps even discernible throughout human history. (p. 251) Then again, Peirce also insists that philosophical inquiry differs substantially from mathematics and the so-called special sciences, which in his classification include the natural disciplines. Peirce does not endorse the reduction of philosophy to psychology, physics, or biology; he identifies philosophy as a distinctive kind of science, delimited by its methods of observation and objects of knowledge. The common mistake made by those who view Peirce as a stalwart champion of (natural) scientism and those who see his programme as an ill-advised attempt to force philosophy into the straitjacket of natural science is to ignore the generality of the Peircean conception of scientific inquiry and the substantial role of philosophy therein. Arguably, his writings contain the outline of a unique conception of philosophical inquiry as a study of everyday experience. Reading Peirce’s philosophy either from a resolutely scientistic perspective or a traditional humanistic point of view narrows its scope and diminishes its potential;3 that constitutes an obstruction of inquiry that would be positively unscientific according to the principles laid out by Peirce.

2.1 The Spirit of Inquiry In several writings, Peirce identifies three basic views of science by distinguishing three different uses of the word ‘science’: 1. According to the classic view, ‘science’ denotes certain knowledge. In other words, the term is taken to refer to the demonstrative character of certain cognition, or ‘knowledge through principles’ (MS 618: 2 [1909]; MS 339: 267 [1905]). It may be the etymologically correct use of the term, but it has very little to do with the actual practice of scientific inquiries. Peirce sometimes suggests that it can be identified as the ‘Aristotelian’ view of science (MS 618: 2 [1909]). 2. On the other hand, ‘science’ can also mean systematized knowledge (EP 2: 372 [c. 1906]; MS 618: 2–3 [1909]). In other words, science is understood as a body of knowledge identifiable by its well-ordered character. Such an

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understanding of science is common among non-scientific people, and often repeated in dictionary definitions (MS 965). According to Peirce (CP 7.54 [c. 1902]; EP 2: 372 [c. 1906]), this sense of ‘science’ can be traced to Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s definition in the Encyclopedia Metropolitana; it can consequently be called the ‘Coleridgean’ conception of science. 3. Finally, Peirce claims that for practising scientists ‘science’ means ‘the concrete body of their own proper activities’ (EP 2: 372 [c. 1906]); it denotes living inquiry guided by effective passion to find truth (MS 618: 3 [1909]). This idea of science is more focused on the methods used than on the knowledge acquired; but it cannot be codified as a given methodological toolbox (cf. CP 6.428 [1893]). Rather, the scientist’s conception of science, or genuine science as it may be called, is based on ethical and social considerations. The theorist that best captures this outlook is purportedly Francis Bacon, albeit his own credentials as a scientist are questionable (CP 7.54 [c. 1902]). The Baconian conception is virtually equivalent to Peirce’s definition of science of discovery or heuretic science (EP 2: 372 [c. 1906]). In this sense, ‘science’ does not primarily denote a collection of facts, methods, or knowledge. Obviously, such products and facilitators of inquiry are highly important, but they do not constitute the most fundamental features of research. On the other hand, it is important to keep in mind that heuretic science does not cover the entire field of scientific work, which also encompasses practical science (instrumental inquiry aimed at solving practical problems and producing utilities) and science of review (the systematization of discoveries, or science in the Coleridgean or ‘retrospective’ acceptation). In the following, I shall discuss ‘science’ in the favoured Peircean sense of ‘heuretic science’. However, further on I will consider whether the seemingly sharp separation of heuretic from practical inquiry might not need to be qualified in certain respects. Although Peirce offers numerous characterizations of the meaning of science, we should not interpret them as analytic definitions in a strict sense. The concept is vague, and – paradoxically enough – cannot therefore be delineated with scientific precision, in the way ‘circle’ or ‘equation’ can be defined (CP 7.49). Peirce is purportedly seeking a depiction of science that would capture its living character as a tangible historical activity or a ‘mode of life’ (CP 7.54 [c. 1902]; cf. MS 615: 10–11 [1908]). Thus, his efforts to capture the heart and soul of science ought to be viewed as a pragmatic clarification, or as a part of an endeavour to articulate the consequential signification of a real and historical practice. [T]here are men to whom nothing seems great but thought. In force, that which they admire and which interests them is not its exercise, but its Law. These are the Scientific Men. If we seek to define science, as it lives in history, and not merely to put it into an artificial pigeon-hole, we shall conceive it as that about which those men are busied. As such, it does not so much consist in knowing, nor even in


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‘organized knowledge’, as it does in diligent inquiry into truth for its own sake. (MS 1289: 1; cf. CP 1.44 [c. 1896]) This characterization immediately raises questions about the plausibility of Peirce’s approach, as he appears to mix historicist and normative elements in a rather blithe manner. On the one hand, Peirce argues that the proper way to form a viable conception of science is to scrutinize the actual doings of scientists, or, as he puts it, the life of ‘scientific men’. On the other hand, he uses the search for ‘truth’ – a strongly normative concept – as a criterion to classify agents as scientists in the first place. This, in turn, should be understood in the context of his division of human beings into three broad classes, namely, men of art, men of practice, and men of science (CP 1.43 [c. 1896]). The artists are purportedly interested in appearances or qualities of feeling, while the practical men are only impressed with worldly power and actual results. The third group consists of human beings devoted to a life of reason; they are possessed by a passion to learn.4 The problem is evident: if the ‘scientific man’ is an idealization, a class delineated by the concept of ‘truth’, then the bottom would appear to fall out of Peirce’s claim that his account of science is based on the concrete practices of scientists. Is he merely masking a strongly idealistic position in quasi-naturalistic and quasi-historicist rhetoric? The only plausible way out of this dilemma, short of rejecting Peirce’s approach as fundamentally flawed or duplicitous, is to conceive of the normative aspect of science as emergent from the practice of science. Such a pragmatic viewpoint cannot avoid a degree of circularity, as the scientist is defined in terms of normative commitments while those very compulsions are taken to be products of the scientist’s activity; but the circle is perhaps not vicious. In this matter, Peirce errs mainly in trying to split humankind tidily into scientists and non-scientists, when it would be more sensible to maintain that all human beings are inquirers, albeit to varying degree.5 The normative core of science would simply designate ideals and commitments intrinsic to this kind of activity, in particular in its higher social development as organized science. Arguably, Peirce more than suggests this approach in his discussion of the essentials of scientific inquiry. Peirce emphatically argues that there is only one thing that is absolutely indispensable to genuine research, namely the unfaltering desire to know and learn – the scientific spirit or interest (CP 6.428 [1893]; MS 860: 2 [c. 1896] MS 326: 6; MS 693: 48 [1904]). It all follows from the simple principle that ‘in order to learn you must desire to learn and in so desiring not be satisfied with what you already incline to think’ (RLT 178 [1898]). Indeed, as Susan Haack (1997, p. 241) has pointed out, this is Peirce’s ‘First Rule of Reason’ – even more fundamental than his famous maxim ‘do not block the way of inquiry’, which he construes as a corollary of the primary dictate of reason.6 It is important to recognize how central the sincere desire for learning is in the Peircean framework. A person’s initial fund of knowledge may be radically

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imperfect, ‘mixed with error and prejudice’, but as long as he or she pursues the chosen line of inquiry in the right mind-set, the endeavour will be scientific (CP 7.54 [c. 1902]). In contrast, an agent who pursues research merely in order to find corroboration for pre-given opinions, ignoring contrary evidence, cannot be a genuine scientist in Peirce’s sense, even if the defended views were subsequently proved to be correct;7 ‘he who does not wish to learn cuts himself off from science altogether’ (RLT 178 [1898]). Science, in this heuretic sense, must not be pursued for self-aggrandizing or political reasons. Analogously, scientific philosophy must be distinguished from pseudo-philosophical activities – ‘seminary philosophy’ – that do not sufficiently embody the right spirit. If one accepts that the desire to learn is a natural facet of human existence, it becomes easier to see how Peirce might succeed in combining a naturalistic account of science as a concrete, historically evolving practice with a rather traditional and idealized conception of the aims of the scientist. While not just any wish to find things out can be called research in the developed institutional sense, such a need to inquire, however insignificant and mundane it may be, involves the seed of science. In other words, scientific investigation does not miraculously appear out of the blue at a higher state of intellectual development. In its most rudimentary form, as the process that follows upon the wish to escape doubt and find stable belief, it is something common to all cognitively capable human beings; ‘inquiry is only a particular kind of conduct’ (MS 602: 8). To become a Peircean scientist, a person must elevate this natural desire above others, and separate it from the search for individual gratification. There cannot be genuine research before such limited interests are put aside; yet, the original roots of science can be located in the satisfaction of practical needs. Research is not something mysterious, but a natural development from more basic activities that never completely transcends its humble origins. There is an embryonic scientist in any human being.8 We can now see how ethical demands emerge in the Peircean conception of science. The first rule of reason can be construed as a moral dictum; it is the demand that a natural disposition of human beings be given a privileged position as the guide of a certain line of conduct. It may, however, be somewhat misleading to speak of this desire as an ethical principle; in the story told by Peirce, it is such a basic human trait that it is hardly possible to reflect on it critically. In a sense, the desire is beyond intellectual appraisal; it is built into the practice of inquiry. On the other hand, when elevated to the status of a principle, the first rule of reason possesses a certain moral authority; its critical edge is directed against inadequate conceptions of research – against single-minded tenacity, the slavish observance of authorities, and a priori postulation. However, the true ethical substance of Peirce’s conception of science – the moral attributes that are ‘the most vital factors in the method of modern science’ (CP 7.87 [1902]) – is properly


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expressed by the consequences of the principle. We have already identified one of these, the imperative that forbids the blocking of the path of inquiry. Another implication of the first rule is that one ought not to be satisfied with one’s current fund of knowledge; the first step of finding out is honestly to concede that one’s knowledge has flaws (MS 860: 2 [c. 1896]; CP 1.13 [c. 1897]). Readers familiar with Peirce’s meticulous treatment of reasoning and methodology may wonder where methods of research enter the picture. Certainly, he frequently prioritizes process and means over results, and occasionally refers to his generic conception of science as ‘scientific method’; the adoption of the best conceivable methods is part and parcel of a genuine desire to learn.9 However, the guidance of research is more accurately characterized as a product of the scientific spirit than as its quintessence. Science consists in the sincere and thorough search for truth according to the best available methods. Its only quite indispensable condition is the absolute single hearted energy with which it works to ascertain the truth, regardless of what the character of that truth may be. It is not science if it is not an intelligently directed research. But it will come to be so if it is absolutely sincere and highly energetic. These dispositions will generate the intelligence required. (NEM 4: xix; cf. NEM 4: 227 [1905–06]) Obviously, the scientific enterprise requires resources such as brainpower and methods; but Peirce holds that these will be produced, almost as a secondary consequence, as long as one fulfils the basic requirements of science.10 In this sense, scientific intelligence is an outcome of inquiry, rather than the other way around. In this context, ‘intelligence’ must not be understood too narrowly; it is primarily social. In other words, the locus of scientific mind is not the individual inquirer as such, but rather the research community that can be said to constitute a science. Peirce states that science consists in the business of a group of men organized together and specially equipped, mentally, physiologically, tactically, and materially, for the thorough survey of a province of truth, and going about it with devoted energy, with the most systematic thoroughness, and with the highest, broadest, and most detailed intelligence. (NEM 4: 227 [1905–06]) This sociality is not an accidental feature of truly scientific inquiry, but almost as essential an attribute as the ethicality noted above. In reality, it is virtually impossible to separate the one from the other. As C. F. Delaney (1993) observes, the ‘logical subject of the inquiry is the scientific community over time’ (p. 44). However, it is important to note that the sociality of science, as presented by Peirce, is both tangible and abstract. On the concrete level, it is manifested in actual collaboration and the pursuit of

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the best possible shared methods (MS 339: 267 [1905]; EP 2: 372 [c. 1906]). For Peirce, it is a sociological fact – purportedly based upon experience of the conduct of scientists – that ‘science’ means ‘the total principal industry of a social group’, which is bound together by a shared understanding of methods and a devotion to the pursuit (MS 655: 16 [1910]). From this point of view, scientific study can be characterized as ‘investigation by a considerable group [of] men who devote their lives to pursuing it according to the best established methods of their times and working in coöperation’ (NEM 3: 232 [1909]). Peirce uses a similar criterion to identify the natural borders of a specific heuretic discipline (CP 1.99 [c. 1896]). The studies of a single human being are not science; science arguably involves a wider communicative community (MS 1334: 12–13 [1905]). Ransdell, in particular, emphasizes this dimension of the Peircean conception of science. He states that Peirce does not identify science or the scientific by reference to any special type of property of the subject-matter of the science (its ‘primary qualities’, for example), or by reference to some special ‘scientific method’ (in the sense in which that would usually be understood), but rather by reference to the communicational relationships of its practitioners, considered members – past, present, and future – of a potentially infinite community of shared cognitive concern: truth-seekers considered just insofar as they are genuinely in search of the truth about an object of common interest. (Ransdell, 1997, §6) At first blush, Ransdell’s contention that a Peircean science is a tradition of communication about some subject-matter may sound rather misguided; it would seem to turn a serious matter into mere discourse. However, although Ransdell may be overstating his case, he has rightly identified a key element of Peirce’s conception of scientific inquiry that is frequently ignored by other commentators – that is, the fact that the idea of communication is inherently connected to the notion of inquiry, in particular in its more developed form as organized science. Strong defences of realism and objectivity easily ignore how basic and crucial the communicative dimension is for inquiry, in particular, and for cognition, more generally. Indeed, this indicates one way in which a communicative point of view can be said to permeate Peirce’s philosophy. Cooperation and the open sharing of results are important manifestations of the social nature of science. However, they do not exhaust the normative dimension of scientific inquiry; true science requires critical examination by peers, that is, by all those human beings who are qualified by their life-long devotion to inquiries nearly in the same line (MS 615: 10 [1908]). The desire to learn the truth entails an inclination to revise one’s beliefs in the light of evidence, and the readiness to have one’s errors corrected by critical examination (MS 339: 267 [1905]). One of the


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keys to scientific success, in Peirce’s opinion, is the scientists’ willingness to submit findings to the judgement of the community. No discovery or item of knowledge – no matter how true – can be considered as belonging to science before it is so published (i.e. made public) as to be open to the ‘kind but searching and inflexible’ criticism of the relevant social group (MS 615: 9–10 [1908]; cf. MS 614: 7–8 [1908]). If the findings sustain the critical assault, then they may be taken to be temporarily established. We see, then, that the actual publication of scientific results is not a minor feature of science in the Peircean sense. Without the possibility of communal assessment, the enterprise is seriously flawed; properly speaking, it is not science after all. While the sociality of science is readily understandable in terms of cooperative practices, there is another, more idealistic, side to Peirce’s analysis of the communal aspect of science. Namely, the community of inquirers, of which he often speaks, is not restricted to the colleagues of one’s generation; it is, in a pregnant sense, unlimited. Among the most severe Peircean demands placed upon the scientist is a requirement for life-long devotion to the pursuit of truth. However, it is clear that many scientific practitioners never find the truth concerning the matters they investigate; nor can they rely on their companions to achieve the desired results. The true scientist ought not be thrown off track by this fact; the group within which he or she works is defined by the common task – or, to be more precise, the shared desire – to find the truth. It is a goaldirected community, united by a common purpose. This brings us to another important aspect of Peirce’s social conception of science, that is, its orientation towards the future. Given that many questions will never be answered in one’s lifetime, it is primarily for the benefit of future inquirers that the scientist labours. In Baldwin’s Dictionary of Philosophy and Psychology (1902), Peirce contends that the method of modern science is social in respect to the solidarity of its efforts. The scientific world is like a colony of insects, in that the individual strives to produce that which he himself cannot hope to enjoy. One generation collects premises in order that a distant generation may discover what they mean. When a problem comes before the scientific world, a hundred men immediately set all their energies to work upon it. One contributes this, another that. Another company, standing upon the shoulders of the first, strike a little higher, until at last the parapet is attained. (CP 7.87) This is the culmination of Peirce’s idealization of the ‘scientific man’. In markedly bellicose terms, Peirce portrays the self-sacrifice of the scientists who die in their attempt to storm a castle, so that the ones who follow can climb on their bodies to reach the walls (MS 615: 12 [1908]). The blood-spattered image is meant to illustrate the unselfishness of the scientific labourers; but it also highlights another virtue of the scientist: his or her conviction that the

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truth is something that could be discovered, given enough time and effort (CP 7.87 [1902]). However, while the life of inquiry involves a sincere striving for true knowledge, it is essential for the very development of science that it is not conceived to be faultless. Science is defined in the dictionaries as systematized knowledge. But that is the corpse of science. As a living thing, animating men, it need not be free from error, – nor can it be, – and it cannot be thoroughly systematized so long as it is in rapid growth. (MS 965) As noted, the scientific ethos involves the willingness to accept our individual limitations. Looking at the matter from a different perspective, we find that it is precisely this fallibility of human knowledge that fuels the growth of science. In view of this, Peirce states that ‘the most essential element of the spirit of inquiry is a swiftness to see that you have been in the wrong’ (MS 860: 2 [c. 1896]). The circle closes, for this is simply a different way to say that the essence of science is the desire to learn. To summarize: Peirce holds that scientific inquiry emerges from a genuine desire to learn the truth; it is a social rather than an individual activity. It is future-oriented and furthermore involves a recognition of the fallibility of one’s undertaking. Arguably, these elements form the minimal requirements of science in the Peircean sense – that is, the basic criteria that philosophy must meet in order to be scientific and not mere ‘balderdash’. Of these requisites, the demand that philosophy ought to be fuelled by a desire to learn is probably relatively uncontroversial. I imagine that most philosophers would at least claim that they are driven by such a passion, or something similar. On the other hand, the breadth of Peirce’s conception of philosophy is to some extent limited by the addition of ‘truth’ to this requirement. It certainly excludes ‘seminary philosophers’, that is, intellectuals who are interested in defending a creed rather than improving their beliefs (see, e.g. CP 1.128 [c. 1905]). In our day and age, this scientific conception would perhaps leave out certain so-called postmodernists, but also the kind of neopragmatism that maintains that the aim of philosophy is not to represent reality or strive for truth, but rather to keep up the conversation. Peirce would certainly disagree with Richard Rorty’s claim that the only constraints on philosophical investigation are conversational (see Colapietro, 1998, pp. 265–7; Rorty, 1980, pp. 389–94).11 The requirement that philosophy ought to be a social mode of activity, rather than an individual pursuit is perhaps more problematic. At least, it diverges from the traditional view of the philosopher as a solitary seeker for wisdom. On the other hand, the call for public criticism and peer review is hardly controversial; at least, it is the model that most of contemporary philosophy strives to follow. Arguably, the more interesting aspect of Peirce’s stress on the social


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character of science is related to the notion that scientific claims are future-oriented and fallible. In order to attain the laudatory status of scientist, the prospective philosopher must accept that his or her pursuit is a cooperative activity that aims at discovery and correcting errors – an endeavour that can dispose of neither communication nor criticism. Before we move on to the question of the distinguishing features of philosophical inquiry, there are two major issues that deserve closer scrutiny. First, there is the question of the basis of scientific activity, an issue that turns out to be rather contentious when attention is turned to Peirce’s worryingly inconsistent accounts of the relationship between theory and practice. Secondly, there is the problem of how truth as a goal of research should be understood, in particular from a philosophical point of view.

2.2 Between Theory and Practice Peirce claims to base his conception of science on the concrete activities of scientists, but he does not satisfactorily spell out how this approach can be combined with the normative aspects of his account. Above, I advocated a charitable interpretation, in which science is construed as a normatively entrenched practice that emerges naturally from less sophisticated activities. This reading, albeit merely suggestive as it stands, receives support from Peirce’s early pragmatistic writings. However, some of his later comments on the relationship between theory and practice appear to cast some serious doubts on its validity. This ostensible inconsistency needs to be scrutinized. Peirce presents the pragmatistic perspective on the relationship between theory and practice in the seminal articles ‘The Fixation of Belief’ (1877) and ‘How to Make Our Ideas Clear’ (1878).12 The basic idea is simple. Peirce contends that human beings normally possess a set of more or less coherent beliefs. A belief can be defined as a readiness to take action, were the suitable occasion to arise; if we believe something, then we are prepared to act on that belief, although we do not need to be fully aware of the inclination and its potential consequences. At any rate, the feeling of believing something can be taken as a more or less certain indication that a habit of action has been established in our nature (W 3: 247 [1877]). If our habits always would work faultlessly, there would be no incentive to inquire; in fact, there would hardly be any need for advanced thought. We would, like the other animals, cope mainly with our innate habits or dispositions,13 or never question the patterns of action inherited from previous generations. The principal part of our conduct is arguably of this instinctual or commonsensical kind. Yet, human beings obviously do encounter surprises, resistances, and disappointments, and react upon them differently than other animals tend to do – although, as previously noted, Peirce maintains that the

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seeds of scientific inquiry can be traced back to animal behaviour. We become painfully aware of the fact that nature refuses to bow to our will; we meet people who hold different opinions and beliefs. Such occasions lead to what Peirce denotes as doubt. When in doubt, we recognize the fallibility of our beliefs, and indeed become aware of them as beliefs. Doubt and belief are related to action, but in different ways. A belief, or rather the underlying habit, could lead to action in certain situations; it is real, even if it is not constantly actualized. Doubt, on the other hand, is a direct incitement to action. There is a gap in the normal pattern of behaviour, and this requires the agent to take measures. In a sense, doubt is a mark of failure or error – that is, of the breakdown of established habits in a certain field of experience and practice. The feeling of irritation, which accompanies doubt, leads to a struggle to achieve a new state of belief. This effort is inquiry (W 3: 247 [1877]). It is always concerned with a limited part of our beliefs, never with our entire web of beliefs. While any habit – or at least any acquired habit – may be doubted, all-out doubt would entail total paralysis. It is not pragmatically feasible. Understood as a process that carries us from doubt to belief, inquiry is an everyday phenomenon. In fact, Peirce straightforwardly contends that ‘the settlement of opinion is the sole end of inquiry’ (W 3: 248 [1878]). Does this mean that there is no research, even of a mathematical or philosophical kind, unless we first encounter surprises and resistance? Yes, for if ‘we did not struggle against doubt, we should not seek the truth’ (CP 2: 84 [c. 1902]). According to Peirce, the doubt that brings forth inquiry must be genuine. It is not sufficient to say or write that one doubts; ‘paper doubt’ does not amount to legitimate disbelief. Here, he seems to be particularly targeting philosophers, who are plagued by an almost compulsive proclivity for ‘doubting’ things that no one really disbelieves. According to Peirce’s commonsensist stance, we should ‘not pretend to doubt in philosophy what we do not doubt in our hearts’ (W 2: 212 [1868]). However, this maxim does not prevent us from doing thought experiments concerning situations in which we do not actually find ourselves. Peirce gives a humdrum example; if one sits at a railway station and waits for a train, one can examine advertisements and schedules, and as an intellectual exercise try to figure out how it would be best to get from town A to town B – even if one is not planning to make such a trip (W 3: 262 [1878]). This process involves a real uncertainty concerning the best path of action and a genuine attempt to establish how it would be reasonable to behave. Such a play of thought can establish a habit of action; in fact, Peirce indicates that this kind of imaginary experiment exemplifies the basic model of scientific and philosophical investigation. It is a rudimentary piece of research, a controlled process of reasoning executed with the assistance of mental diagrams (cf. CP 2.227 [c. 1897]). But could not almost any artificial doubt be defended on the grounds that it can produce habits that might prove to be valuable in the future? This is a complex


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problem; here, it suffices to emphasize that a thought experiment is acceptable only as long as it relates to a potentially consequential question within a particular line of inquiry. The cause and setting may be imaginary and diagrammatic, but the doubt must be real. Thus, if we do not genuinely distrust the reality of the external world or the fact that two people are able to communicate with each other, then there is nothing to be gained by a philosophical programme of methodical scepticism that involves extreme requirements of certainty and precision. To put it in very simple pragmatist terms, habits that actually can guide our actions ought to always prevail over feigned disbelief, even in philosophy. At best, paper doubts are distractions that indirectly obstruct inquiry; at worst, they may lead to a futile loss of the ability to act. As Peirce observes in a letter to Victoria Lady Welby, useless doubts are actually ‘worse than useless’ (SS 141 [1911]). Although I have merely outlined a part of the argument of the early pragmatistic writings, it should be clear that they exhibit certain naturalistic leanings. ‘Higher’ cognitive activities, such as conscious thought and science, build on the interaction between the basic natural states of doubt and belief. There is a continuum between reasoning and action; the goal of controlled thought is to create the conditions for successful action, that is, beliefs and habits of action that help us to avoid surprise and doubt (cf. W 3: 263 [1878]). In this sense, it would appear that reflection serves action; it is not clear whether it possesses any value in itself, as ‘pure’ theory or speculation. Furthermore, there is a connection between everyday practical problems and their solutions, on the one hand, and scientific and theoretical activity, on the other. In both cases, it is a matter of fixating beliefs and opinions. Of course, we are talking about different levels of activity, but the dynamics is the same. Based on such pragmatistic viewpoints, one is tempted to infer that Peirce wishes to collapse the traditional dichotomy between theory and practice (cf. Niklas, 1988). In this account, inquiry is so intimately connected to action that the distinction can only denote a variation in degree. However, especially in Reasoning and the Logic of Things (The Cambridge Conferences lectures of 1898), we find Peirce advocating a very different approach. In this context, Peirce supports the separation of theory and practice as two modes of life, wishes to defend the autonomy of scientific inquiry, and argues that conservatism is the appropriate attitude in morals and non-scientific social affairs. This is a Peirce who declares that ‘the two masters, theory and practice, you cannot serve’ (RLT 113 [1898]). At first, it might seem that Peirce’s advocacy of such a surprisingly sharp dualism between the theoretical and practical is simply motivated by his wish to protect scientific inquiry from outside pressures – an effort to defend the autonomy of science from moralists who would stipulate that the scientist must not offend traditional mores as well as from utilitarians who would demand that the scientist must legitimize his or her activity by producing technological applications or socially useful results.14 The truly scientific inquirer is allegedly not concerned with the actual consequences or utility of his or her activities; even in sciences with obvious

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applicability, such as chemistry, the genuine investigator simply loses sight of the practical aspect (RLT 107 [1898]). True science is distinctively the study of useless things. For the useful things will get studied without the aid of scientific men. To employ these rare minds on such work is like running a steam engine by burning diamonds. (CP 1.76 [c. 1896]) Here, we once more run into the idealized scientist as the self-sacrificing truthseeker. Peirce is in effect attempting to delimit a social domain, identified as ‘Theory’ or ‘Science’, within which the true heuretic inquirer would be allowed to engage in open speculation and the free formulation of hypotheses without being weighed down by the baser concerns of the world of ‘Practice’ – a broad category that seems to encompass traditional morality and sentiment as well as technological application and social reforms. It amounts to an emphatic defence of the autonomy of heuretic inquiry. However, while Peirce’s contention that ‘to distinguish between speculative and practical opinions is the mark of the most cultivated intellects’ (CP 1.50 [c. 1896]) may seem rather innocuous in spite of its somewhat elitist overtones, it is not immediately clear how he manages to reconcile the theory/ practice split with the naturalistic framework in which inquiry – and by extension, science – emerges from practice. In particular, the elevation of theory seems to clash badly with the idea that the sole purpose of inquiry would be the fixation of belief. Peirce certainly seems to reject his own early pragmatistic stance when he declares that ‘pure science has nothing to do with belief’ (CP 7.606 [1903]; cf. RLT 112 [1898]). True, it is possible to qualify this blatant contradiction by making a clearer distinction between inquiry and science, in which the latter is taken to mean ‘institutionalized inquiry’; but the fact remains that Peirce is close to losing one of the most attractive features of his general account of science in his zeal to defend the purity of theory, as the belief-doubt model apparently now only pertains to inquiry and not to science. Discontinuity between theory and practice replaces the continuum of habit, belief, and knowledge. Such a major break in continuity can be taken as a sign that something is amiss, either in Peirce’s account or our understanding of it, as he identifies synechism – ‘the doctrine that all that exists is continuous’ (CP 1.172 [c. 1897]) – as the ‘keystone’ of his system (CP 8.257 [1902]).15 He also characterizes the synechist principle as ‘a regulative principle of logic, prescribing what sort of hypothesis is fit to be entertained and examined’ (CP 6.173 [1902]). Thus, a postulation of a discontinuity like the one that we seem to have at our hands would fly in the face of one of the major guiding ideas of Peirce’s thought. Some commentators (e.g. Colapietro, 2006) have argued that Peirce is not really imposing a strict partition of theory and practice; rather, theory should be construed as one kind of practice. Peirce certainly appears to be suggesting as much when he states that ‘inquiry is only a particular kind of conduct’ (MS 602: 8); but then again,


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there seems to be a sense in which theory (or science) functions on an entirely different level than inquiry. Perhaps the doubt-belief model should be seen merely as an attempt to explain how inquiry may have originated from everyday coping; but the end-product, science, should be seen as something that transcends its humble origins by not any longer being concerned with beliefs and habits as guides of action in weighty matters of ordinary life, but rather with theories that can be easily discarded. [P]ure science has nothing at all to do with action. The propositions it accepts, it merely writes in the list of premises it proposes to use. Nothing is vital for science; nothing can be. Its accepted propositions, therefore, are but opinions, at most; and the whole list is provisional. The scientific man is not in the least wedded to his conclusions. He risks nothing upon them. He stands ready to abandon one or all as soon as experience opposes them. (RLT 112 [1898]) Here, Peirce makes a distinction between two degrees of belief; ‘full belief’ denotes the readiness to act according to a proposition (of which we need not have a clear conception) in vitally important circumstances, while ‘opinion’ refers to a readiness to act in a similar way only in relatively inconsequential situations (RLT 112 [1898]). If we in practical life form or adopt a belief, it entails that we are really prepared to act in certain way in a possible situation. The proposition practically believed possesses a degree of vital relevance or meaning; we cannot simply choose to change our living beliefs. Consequently, Peirce claims that the scientist’s hypotheses and propositions are not beliefs in the strict sense of the word. However, all beliefs – practical and theoretical alike – can be said to involve expectation and thus a reference to the future (Potter, 1996, p. 73). What Peirce puts forward is a segregationist viewpoint, according to which theory (i.e. heuretic science) and practice (i.e. tradition, morality, and sentiment) ought to be kept separate and not be allowed to intrude on each other’s turfs. Remarkably enough, it is philosophy that Peirce most strictly wishes to disengage from the sphere of practice. Defining himself as an ‘Aristotelian’ and a ‘scientific man’, Peirce denounces ‘the Hellenic tendency to mingle Philosophy and Practice’ (RLT 107 [1898]). Again, such remarks can appear almost anti-pragmatistic; but as in the case of science in general, Peirce has two reasons for proposing such a partition. On the one hand, he wants to keep philosophy free from external demands. As a student of ‘useless things’, the philosopher should be free to entertain hypotheses that may violate existing moral norms and not be expected to prove the utility of his or her activity by producing applications. This utilitarian standpoint is rejected because it reduces science to technology and philosophy to ideology (Potter, 1996, p. 68). On the other hand, Peirce adopts an explicitly conservative stance as he argues that traditions, sentiments, and habits of instinctive reflexion ought not to be directly affected by ethical and logical speculation. In ‘philosophy, touching as it does

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upon matters which are, and ought to be, sacred to us, the investigator who does not stand aloof from all intent to make practical applications, will not only obstruct the advance of the pure science, but what is infinitely worse, he will endanger his own moral integrity and that of his readers’ (RLT 107 [1898]). Peirce is quite prepared to exclude those who do not agree with this point of view from the sphere of scientific philosophy. No doubt a large proportion of those who now busy themselves with philosophy will lose all interest in it as soon as it is forbidden to look upon it as susceptible of practical applications. We who continue to pursue the theory must bid adieu to them. But so we must in any department of pure science. (CP 1.645 [1898]) Consequently, it would appear that the upshot of Peirce’s account of theory and practice is a purified idea of philosophy. In order to be scientific, philosophical inquiry should ignore all questions of applicability and usefulness. Its function is not to reform conditions of life, but to contribute to science in a narrower sense. Philosophy must be ‘purely intellectual’ and not even attempt to cover ‘every department of man’s nature’ (CP 5.537 [c. 1905–08]). This is, as Peirce readily admits, a rather abstruse and abstract conception of philosophy; indeed, his insistence that philosophical investigation ought to be ‘passionless’ would, were it taken literally, entail the elimination of the very spirit of inquiry. This is, as we soon shall see, not the only problem with placing philosophy plainly in the theory box; but before considering some internal qualifications to Peirce’s viewpoint, it is important to stress that the emphasis on the intellectual character of philosophical inquiry does not, as such, commit Peirce to rationalism. Theory is not privileged in the sense of covering all aspects of reality. From a certain point of view, scientific activity, in which hypotheses are tested, is of less weight than other forms of life; human beings could live without science. Its accepted propositions can be abandoned without thereby causing irrevocable problems for everyday conduct. Peirce is actually an anti-theoreticist in this particular sense, for he does not hold ‘the position that the strictly theoretical provides the most adequate, least distorted, representation of reality attainable by human beings’ (Colapietro, 2006, p. 25). At least a part of Peirce’s criticism of mixing philosophy and practice should be understood as a reminder of the limitations of reasoning. While there is no point in postulating artificial limits to human imagination and speculation – which would be like introducing a legal ban on jumping over the moon (cf. CP 5.536 [c. 1905]) – human beings are nonetheless fallible reasoners who necessarily rely on uncriticized habits in their everyday life. Such commonsense habits of feeling, action, and thought will appear to be practically infallible to the individuals who live their life without doubting their satisfactoriness. Obviously, we often use our intelligence when confronted with practical problems in everyday life; but it does not require


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an expressly developed theory or reasoning. Peirce claims that human beings possess what he (following medieval philosophers) calls a logica utens, a kind of habitual ‘logic in use’ or a rudimentary logical theory (see, e.g. RLT 109 [1898]; CP 2.186 [c. 1902]; PPM 212 [1903]). He argues that many ‘of our reasonings [. . .] are performed instinctively’, and adds that he would never ‘recommend that such modes of action be given up in favor of theoretical procedures, except to compare theory with practice or for some other peculiar and quite theoretical purpose’ (MS 693: 20 [1904]). In most cases, we manage nicely without being fully aware of the logic we employ; in fact, it is on the whole wiser to rely on the logica utens that manifests itself as mechanical inferences and ‘gut feelings’ than to try to reflect profoundly on everyday problems.16 Most men are incapable of strong control over their minds. Their thoughts are such as instinct, habit, association suggest, mainly. Their criticism of their thoughts is confined to reconsideration and to asking themselves whether their ideas seem reasonable. I do not call this reasoning: I call it instinctive reflexion. For most purposes it is the best way to think; for instinct blunders far less than reason. Reasoners are in danger of falling into sophistry and pedantry. Our instinctive ways of thinking have become adapted to ordinary practical life, just as the rest of our physiology has become adapted to our environment. Wisdom lies in nicely discriminating the occasions for reasoning and the occasions for going by instinct. (CP 7.606 [1903]) If anything, Peirce privileges the ‘instinctive’ groundwork of habit and sentiment, for he argues that they embody ‘the traditional wisdom of ages of experience’; indeed, he maintains that it is not even safe to reason about such matters, ‘except in a purely speculative way’ (CP 1.50 [c. 1896]). According to the ‘sentimentalism’ advocated by Peirce, reasoning is actually a comparatively superficial faculty, unable to provide ultimate foundations for conduct; human reason ‘appeals to sentiment in the last resort’ (RLT 111 [1898]). Arguably, it is not through deliberate reasoning that we discover ‘the most vital factors in the method of modern science’ (CP 7.87 [1902]); they are encountered in the more immediate and practical plane of sentiment. Paradoxically, theoretical reflection on the theory–practice relationship ends up showing that philosophical inquiry is not strictly speaking autonomous, but dependent on the virtually inscrutable groundwork of habit and sentiment. In the early article ‘The Doctrine of Chances’ (1878), Peirce identifies ‘three sentiments, namely, interest in an indefinite community, recognition of the possibility of this interest being made supreme, and hope in the unlimited continuance of intellectual activity, as indispensable requirements of logic’ (W 3:285). He adds that it is not odd that we should find social sentiment presupposed in reasoning, since logic (or semeiotic) depends on a struggle to escape doubt, terminating in the formation of habits of action but beginning in emotion. The method of science is

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adopted because other methods of fixing belief – tenacity, reliance on authority, the a priori method17 – fail on account of ‘the social impulse’ (W 3:285). If anything is taken as a primitive in Peirce’s account, it is this impulse or sentiment that is intrinsically connected to the desire to learn. Thus, this sentimentalist viewpoint corroborates the claim that sociality and ethicality are intrinsically linked in Peirce’s account of scientific inquiry. Consequently, it would appear that the postulated chasm between theory and practice, between scientific reason and moral sentiment, is not as absolute as it might appear on first encounter. Yet, there is something troubling in the way Peirce tends to separate theory from practice and philosophy from application in his defence of pure science and sentimentalism. According to the pragmatism that he adjusts but never abandons, the meanings of concepts and propositions cannot be properly understood without reference to their conceivable practical consequences. Moreover, he notes that ‘practical considerations enter into scientific reasonings, unavoidably’ (NEM 3:874 [1909]). These contentions seem to fit poorly with the autonomy of science that Peirce advocates. In fact, they do indicate certain limits to the ideal freedom of scientific inquiry. In a pragmatistic spirit, Peirce maintains that theoretical conceptions must have some kind of connection to actual or possible practice; it is the basis of their testability, their communal validity. In other words, the claims must be in some sense open for public testing, although their truth is not dependent on any actual tests. Moreover, science typically gives rise to new possibilities for experimentation; although heuretic scientists look upon their work as purely theoretical, and many of them feel a utilitarian application, even of the highest kind, is comparatively lacking in the sacredness of pure science, they are nevertheless particularly given to thinking of their results as affording conditions for new experiments, if not in the narrower, then in the broader sense of the term,18 although they may have the vaguest possible notions of what those experiments may be. (EP 2: 372 [c. 1906]) Even though science, unlike food and shelter, is not a necessity of life, it is nonetheless the prime means by which human beings can deliberately develop their cognitive capabilities. The fact that theoretical claims are always idealizations without exact correspondents in the practical world does not render them useless. Of course, no proposition of theoretical science is true in practice. In other words it is only true of an ideal world that differs from the actual world. What of that? It is the only way to attain any kind of mastery over the real world. (NEM 3:833 [1905]) Peirce’s seemingly contradictory statements concerning the relevance of practice can be partly reconciled. Colapietro (1998, p. 248) identifies two principal


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acceptations of ‘the practical’ in Peirce’s writings. In the narrowest sense, ‘practical’ refers to a restricted interest in immediate satisfaction; but Peirce also defines the term as ‘apt to affect conduct’, adding that conduct is ‘voluntary action that is self-controlled, that is, controlled by adequate deliberation’ (CP 8.322 [1906]).19 Philosophy and theory should be severed from practical concerns in the first sense, but cannot be wholly isolated from conduct in the second pragmatistic meaning. In this more substantial sense, science can be said to depend on practice, for the ultimate meaning of its concepts and propositions must involve some reference to possible practical consequences;20 as Peirce notes, ‘regarding a truth as purely theoretical does not prevent its being regarded as a possible determinant of conduct’ (EP 2:372 [c. 1906]). Yet, even if we accept such a charitable reading, at least two points of contention remain. First, it is questionable whether a philosopher can truly adopt the stance of scientific disinterest, in which practical belief allegedly plays little or no role, and still be able to practise philosophy in the Peircean sense. As we shall see, the philosophical inquirer is meant to be engaged in an examination of everyday experience, and it would thus seem that practical belief is not only an object of research but also a necessary testing ground for any theoretical hypothesis that a philosopher might conjure up. At least, it seems prudent to keep in mind that unguided speculation in philosophy easily can turn into a fabrication of paper doubts. Arguably, philosophy needs an anchor in experience and belief if it is to be anything more than intellectual play. Secondly, and perhaps more controversially, I would argue that Peirce overstates his case when he wishes to separate theoretical philosophy from application. Although philosophers are theorists par excellence, in the sense that their primary ‘laboratory’ is the world of ideas, it is of interest to note that Peirce maintains that such efforts constitute the only way to attain some command of the world of experience (NEM 3:833 [1905]). This already suggests that his conception of philosophy is not quite as strictly separated from application as he lets on, at least not if applicability is understood broadly enough. Ultimately, philosophy is not pursued for the benefit of speculation or aesthetic amusement as such, but with the aim of improving habits.21 This does not turn the Peircean agenda into a utilitarian approach, for the ideal of a perfect habit, as something that would function without glitches and never give reason for doubt, is compatible with the idea that science pursues truth. It does bring the notion of ‘truth for truth’s sake’ down to the level of practice, but arguably without thereby denigrating theory. However, I maintain that the separation between philosophy and application needs to be further qualified, if not reconsidered. While it is plausible to maintain that philosophy ought not to be concerned with the satisfaction of immediate interests, this does not mean that it should drop all considerations of applicability from purview in the development of theory. The dictum that philosophers should be forbidden to even consider their work as susceptible to practical application is too austere; if it does not plainly block inquiry, the directive seems to a priori

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exclude considerations that might be vital (sic) for the purposeful direction of research.22 Peirce is certainly aware of this danger, as he shows in the following reflections on the applicability of logic: [A] theory cannot be sound unless it be susceptible of applications, immediate or remote, whether it be good economy so to apply it or not. This is perhaps no more true of logic than of other theories; simply because it is perfectly true of all. [. . .] It might be that a normative science, in view of the economies of the case, should be quite useless for any practical application. Still, whatever fact had no bearing upon a conceivable application to practice would be entirely impertinent to such a science. It would be easy enough – much too easy – to marshal a goodly squadron of treatises on logic, each of them swelled out with matter foreign to any conceivable applicability until, like a corpulent man, it can no longer see on what it is standing, and the reader loses all clear view of the true problems of the science. (CP 2.7 [c. 1902]) ‘Logic’ is practically a synonym for ‘semeiotic’ in Peirce’s mature philosophy; therefore, it is reasonable to conclude that the theory of signs – and philosophical inquiry in general – should not be absolutely severed from application. What is needed is a significant but not absolute distinction between actual application and conceivable application – not a division between pure philosophy, which floats in the clouds of ‘theory’, and serviceable application, isolated to the worldly sphere of ‘practice’.

2.3 Truth as Hope Given the amount of philosophical disagreement surrounding the concept of ‘truth’, Peirce’s contention that science essentially involves a desire to discover the truth is bound to be controversial. The meaning of ‘truth’ is certainly one of the most intricate and ardently debated questions of Peirce scholarship (see, e.g. Hookway, 2000; Misak, 2004; Thayer, 1996). Robert Almeder (1985) has identified no less than thirteen distinct interpretations of what Peirce might plausibly have meant by the term. Surveying this list, we find that it appears to be possible to attribute almost any of the contemporary views of truth to Peirce, as long as we focus on certain passages and ignore others. Namely, he seems to approach truth variously in terms of correspondence, coherence, minimalism, pragmatic satisfactoriness, communal consensus, or variants or combinations of these. Numerous attempts to explain the discrepancies and reconcile the varying accounts of truth have also been proposed. It is not possible to go into the details of these multifaceted discussions here; but it will be useful to briefly scrutinize some of the ways in which Peirce talks about truth.


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Peirce rarely stops to explicate his usages, and often seems to adopt a deliberately vague and general stance when speaking of truth. When he goes into details, he puts forward some apparently inconsistent accounts of truth (Almeder, 1985; Misak, 2004). Sometimes, Peirce appears to espouse a straightforward correspondence theory of truth, as he states that ‘truth’ can be understood in terms of ‘the correspondence of a representation with its object’ (EP 2:379 [c. 1906]). However, on closer examination it turns out that such a ‘nominal’ characterization ought to be understood as an analytic definition, which only achieves the second degree of clarity in the pragmatistic sense.23 That is, it is a characterization such as one might find in a dictionary, where a sign is translated into other signs; it does not amount to a substantial account of truth (cf. Misak, 2004, p. 38). At a higher level of clarity, ‘truth’ can be defined in terms of the final set of propositions that inquirers are bound to reach. This is, of course, the wellknown view of truth presented in ‘How to Make Our Ideas Clear’, where Peirce states that the ‘opinion which is fated to be ultimately agreed to by all who investigate, is what we mean by the truth, and the object represented in this opinion is the real’ (W 3: 273 [1878]). This famous position, often interpreted as a convergence or consensus theory of truth and reality, purportedly gives the meaning of the terms ‘truth’ and ‘reality’ in their third degree of clearness. However, several scholars have at least implicitly questioned whether this is a sufficiently pragmatic clarification of ‘truth’; it could be construed as merely another take on analytic definition, albeit one that moves us closer to a clearer conception of the matter. Peirce characterizes the third grade of clearness as consisting ‘in such a representation of the idea that fruitful reasoning can be made to turn upon it, and that it can be applied to the resolution of difficult practical problems’ (CP 3.457 [1897]).24 However, Cheryl Misak (2004) has plausibly suggested that full pragmatic elucidation requires a reflection on the consequential role the concept could play in the context of a characteristic practice; in the case of ‘truth’, that practical environment is inquiry.25 The ‘opinion which is fated to be ultimately agreed to by all who investigate’ may indeed be a succinct verbal portrayal of the third grade, but to really elucidate ‘truth’, we must consider what functions and consequences truth, so understood, could have in scientific practice. Of course, a full elucidation of this kind would be a rather tall order. At best, the pragmatist may succeed in articulating the most salient features of truth; such an explication cannot be exhaustive (cf. Misak, 2004, p. 37). Here, I will merely attempt to clarify a few aspects of Peirce’s conception of truth and its development in order to render it more applicable to philosophical practice. From this perspective, the central question concerns how we should understand the convergence towards a belief Peirce talks about. Does he mean that inquiry will, given sufficient time, come to a preordained opinion, or is he rather speaking more vaguely of an inclination or ideal inherent in scientific activity? Some of Peirce’s early statements do suggest that it is fated

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that such a state will be reached, given enough time and effort (e.g. W 2: 353 [1869–70]; W 2: 469 [1871]; W 3: 57 [1872]; W 3: 79 [1873]; W 3: 273 [1878]). That is, at the end of inquiry, philosophy and all the other sciences will have converged on one true representation of reality, the ‘Truth’. However, in many later writings, Peirce expresses serious doubts about the adequacy of his previous account, and the ‘will-be’ of the earlier position is replaced by the conditional ‘would-be’ (PPM 285 [1903]; MS 655: 27 [1910]; EP 2.457 [1911]). At the same time, Peirce begins to stress that the final state will never in fact be attained; it will always remain out of reach for mortal inquirers. Almeder (1985, p. 86) has dubbed the interpretation of Peirce’s development sketched above the ‘received view’ of his conception of truth. In Peirce scholarship, there is indeed a near consensus, according to which whatever else the Peircean final opinion may be, it is definitely not a concrete state that will be reached. That is, Peirce softens his conception of the final truth, going so far as to hold that it is an assumption or hope of inquiry.26 Almeder argues that this reading is an error; the ultimate truth should be conceived of as a destined product, rather than as a mere ideal. Almeder concedes that Peirce expresses doubt concerning the possibility of human inquirers ever reaching the final state; it is, after all, a distinct possibility that the planet will be destroyed some day. However, Almeder (1985, p. 88) argues that this does not mean that Peirce would have abandoned the view according to which scientific inquiry will, inevitably, reach the settled conclusions that are preordained. Intelligence is not restricted to human beings; as long as there is rational life in the universe, there will be inquiry heading towards the same destined opinion. In Almeder’s reading, Peirce’s faith in the unlimited extension of scientific investigation takes precedence over his misgivings concerning the final state ever being attained. According to this story, Peirce holds that belief in the indefinite continuation of inquiry is a necessary condition for being rational; in order to act rationally, we must believe that the ultimate opinion will be attained. Almeder uses a transcendental argument in his attempt to show that the received view is mistaken. However, this is somewhat ill-advised, as Peirce explicitly distances himself from such argumentative strategies in his discussions of truth (see Misak, 2004, pp. 37–40). [W]hen we discuss a vexed question, we hope that there is some ascertainable truth about it, and that the discussion is not to go on forever and to no purpose. A transcendentalist would claim that it is an indispensable ‘presupposition’ that there is an ascertainable true answer to every intelligible question. I used to talk like that, myself; for when I was a babe in philosophy my bottle was filled from the udders of Kant. But by this time I have come to want something more substantial. (CP 2.113 [c. 1902])


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Admittedly, Peirce sometimes speaks of the final truth as a rational assumption entertained by all genuine inquirers or as a requirement of logic; but in view of the above quotation, this must be taken in a weaker, non-transcendentalist sense. Still, the more serious deficiency in Almeder’s account is that he refuses to take Peirce’s distinction between what will be and what would be seriously. This is not a mere play with words, but marks a categoreal leap in Peircean philosophy. The nature of the would-be is such that it will never be completely actualized; it is the being of a law or habit. The will-be, on the other hand, is merely the actuality of the future. Almeder does not seem to accept this distinction; but in doing so, he definitely parts ways with Peirce. In spite of Almeder’s protests, I believe that the received view is correct; Peirce’s account of truth as a final state does evolve from destiny to hope. It may be more of a correction than a full-out transformation; but the change is nonetheless noticeable in passages such as the following: In reference to any particular investigation that we may have in hand, we must hope that, if it is persistently followed out, it may ultimately have some measure of success; for if it be not so, nothing that we can do can avail, and we might as well give over the inquiry altogether, and by the same reason stop applying our understanding to anything. So a prisoner breaks through the ceiling of his cell, not knowing what his chances of escape may be, but feeling sure there is no other good purpose to which he can apply his energies. (NEM 4: xii–xiii) We cannot be quite sure that the community ever will settle down to an unalterable conclusion upon any given question. Even if they do so for the most part, we have no reason to think the unanimity will be quite complete, nor can we rationally presume any overwhelming consensus of opinion will be reached upon every question. All that we are entitled to assume is in the form of a hope that such conclusion may be substantially reached concerning the particular questions with which our inquiries are busied. (CP 6.610 [1893]) Observe that Peirce here prefers to speak of particular investigations; we hope that any inquiry that we undertake will result in a complete settlement of opinion (MS L75c: 90 [1902]). This is another significant adjustment of perspective; while the earlier accounts of the final opinion tend to focus on inquiry in general, Peirce’s mature writings are more prone to adopt the point of view of a single line of research, that is, of trying to discover the truth about a certain question or the answers to a limited set of problems. This hope may be in vain; if in respect to some question – say that of the freedom of the will – no matter how long the discussion goes on, no matter how scientific our methods may become, there never will be a time when we can fully satisfy ourselves either that the question has no meaning, or that one answer or the other explains the facts, then in regard to that question there certainly is no truth. (CP 5.565 [1901])

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Yet, although there is no wholesale guarantee that all topics we might choose to investigate can be brought to a satisfactory conclusion, assuming that any given fact would be beyond discovery is not warranted by experience (cf. W 6: 206 [1887–88]). In other words, we cannot reasonably postulate that all problems of science will be solved, even given unlimited time and effort, but we ought to hope that there is some definite – that is, true – answer to each question that might be raised. The hope concerning each case is then generalized, ‘by a saltus’, so as to be stated as the law of excluded middle, applicable to all cases (NEM 4: xiii [1913]). This constitutes the basis of the idea of one final opinion as an ideal of science. In spite of appearances, this hope does not require a strong commitment to an all-encompassing representation of a singular reality; we ‘must look forward to the explanation, not of all things, but of any given thing whatever’ (W 6: 206 [1887–88]). This is no more paradoxical than holding each of our beliefs to be true, while at the same time acknowledging that it is highly unlikely that they would all turn out to be true. What, then, supports the hope that there will be an answer to any question? How can we be certain that there is any truth to be found at all ? Peirce provides no transcendental or metaphysical warranties; it is conceivable that it could turn out that there are no ‘truths’ in the final judgement (SS 73 [1908]; MS 655: 26–7 [1910]). In the practice of science, we ‘never can attain absolute certainty’, but have to cope with a form of coherentism; ‘such clearness and evidence as a truth can acquire will consist in its appearing to form an integral unbroken part of the great body of truth’ (CP 4.71 [1893]). However, Peirce offers a couple of weaker arguments in support of the hypothesis of truth. First, the practice of inquiry, as it emerges from the doubtbelief process, naturally leads us to assume that there is some truth to be found. What we believe in, we hold for true; consequently, in striving to fixate belief, we are already looking for truth. This seems to point towards a conception of truth in terms of satisfaction, more often associated with the pragmatism of James and F. C. S. Schiller than with Peirce. However, he would not necessarily disagree with his fellow pragmatists on this point, although he would add the requirements of sufficient time and effort to the definition; ‘when I say that a given assertion is “true”, what I mean is that I believe that, as regards that particular assertion, [. . . ] sufficiently energetic, searching, and intelligently conducted inquiry, – could a person carry it on endlessly, – would cause him to be fully satisfied with the assertion and never to be shaken from this satisfaction’ (MS 655: 27 [1910]). A second weak argument for the assumption that there is ‘truth’ in the world could be provided by the history of science (MS 655: 26–7 [1910]). Such empirical support is meagre at best, in no way proving that there is any such real thing, but the success of scientific inquiry renders the hypothesis of a final opinion at least credible; ‘practically, we know that questions do generally get settled in time, when they come to be scientifically investigated; and that is practically and pragmatically enough’ (CP 5.494 [1907]).


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In the end, Peirce does not appear to be worried by the lack of a proof for the existence or reality of truth; in fact, he explicitly rejects such attempts at substantiation as futile and possibly harmful for the advancement of philosophy. Albeit Peirce is no minimalist or quietist, as he argues that the idea of truth is a powerful force in the world (CP 1.348 [1903]), he tends to reject attempts to construct metaphysical accounts of truth. In fact, the whole issue would be ‘greatly simplified’ if we were to say that we ‘want to attain a state of belief unassailable by doubt’ instead of saying that we want to know the ‘Truth’ (EP 2: 336 [1905]) – not because the passion for truth would not play an important role in scientific pursuits, but because attempts to isolate and articulate the truth-component of this ‘practical’ desire in theories of truth will only lead to confusion or formal aridity. Truth is properly speaking intrinsically connected to sign use and the adjustment of habits in inquiry, and should not be conflated with a metaphysical notion of ‘reality out there’ (cf. CP 5.565 [1901]).27 Admittedly, this issue is somewhat complicated by the fact that Peirce often employs ‘truths’ as a near equivalent of ‘realities’ (see, e.g. NEM 3: 773 [1900]; NEM 4: 349 [1899–1900]). However, such a ‘truth with a little t’ is best understood as a belief that holds for the time being, which may be taken as an indication – but not as proof, of course – that the habits involved are adjusted to reality. This does not mean that ‘Truth with a big T’ would be entirely spurious and useless; it is a logical – or perhaps sentimental – ideal that energizes and even guides inquirers in their cooperative conduct. In this respect, truth as the hope for a final opinion is an essential part of the public or social dimension of science. Unless truth be recognized as public, – as that of which any person would come to be convinced if he carried his inquiry, his sincere search for immovable belief, far enough, – then there will be nothing to prevent each one of us from adopting an utterly futile belief of his own which all the rest will disbelieve. Each one will set himself up as a little prophet; that is, a little ‘crank’, a half-witted victim of his own narrowness. But if Truth be something public, it must mean that to the acceptance of which as a basis of conduct any person you please would ultimately come if he pursued his inquiries far enough; – yes, every rational being, however prejudiced he might be at the outset. For Truth has that compulsive nature which Pope well expressed: The eternal years of God are her’s. But, you will say, I am setting up this very proposition as infallible truth. Not at all; it is a mere definition. I do not say that it is infallibly true that there is any belief to which a person would come if he were to carry his inquiries far enough. I only say that that alone is what I call Truth. I cannot infallibly know that there is any Truth. (SS 73 [1908])

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If there is any such thing as a truth, in the worldly sense of a belief that would be unassailable by doubt, it must be something that the sincere inquirer would be able to discover, given enough time; there are no strictly private truths. Consequently, the philosophical significance of ‘Truth’ is intrinsically connected to the capacity of truths to bear down prejudices (cf. NEM 4: 349 [1899–1900]). The communal mode of conduct known as science is particularly efficient in eliminating unwarranted individual opinions; therefore, it tends to triumph over other methods of establishing belief. The hope for truth is intimately bound to the social impulse at the heart of scientific activity. To conclude this brief overview of the connection between truth and hope in the Peircean conception of science, it is of interest to note that it appears to imply a particular conception of objectivity. According to Ransdell (1979), Peirce’s account of scientific truth entails ‘semiotic objectivity’, where ‘objectivity’ is not understood in terms of results or inferential procedures, but rather as ‘a matter of the recognition in one’s communication with other inquirers that where one started from, and how one got to the conclusion (or how one thinks one can get to that conclusion), may be capable of being corrected by them, and hence are to be shared so that they can be subjected to the real possibility of such a correction’ (p. 264). As we have seen, this requirement of openness to rectification is indeed a crucial part of the Peircean notion of inquiry. In addition, Ransdell (1979) plausibly states that science is primarily a code of conduct – something rather more like a code of honor than a linguistic code – which is constitutive of an ideal and shared form of life, that ethic being derived logically from an analysis of how we must relate to one another communicatively if we are to achieve our common goal of a shared understanding of our subject matter. (pp. 266–7) Here, I can only concur with Ransdell’s interpretation. Of course, it needs to be augmented in numerous ways; but on a general level, he effectively summarizes one reason to hold that Peirce’s scientific conception of philosophy can be construed as entailing a philosophy of communication.

2.4 The Fallible Foundations of Semiotic Intelligence So far, I have sketched Peirce’s conception of science in as general terms as possible. That is, I have identified a number of characteristics that any inquiry must fulfil in order to be considered scientific in the Peircean sense. However, as noted, this perspective privileges heuretic inquiry and marginalizes practical science, which Peirce defines as investigation being pursued ‘for the sake of some anticipated utility of it to some man or men’ rather than as inquiry for the sake of truth. On the other hand, having taken a closer look at what ‘truth’ entails in this context, and


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having argued for a qualified reading of the theory-practice distinction, it is easier to see in what sense practical inquiry can be said to partake of the spirit of science, albeit imperfectly. To the extent that practical investigation brings into being habits that persevere, it contributes to discovery.28 Philosophy, on the other hand, is purportedly a science in the elevated sense; consequently, Peirce’s scientific programme requires that philosophical inquiry (1) must be based on a desire to learn, which involves a sincere acknowledgement of fallibility, (2) must be a social activity, which demands communication and openness to public criticism, and (3) must be oriented towards the indefinite future, which means that the endeavour is at least to some extent cumulative. Perhaps this could be seen as a pragmatic elucidation of ‘science’ in the broader context of inquiry as a means to escape doubt and establish belief. I have argued that Peirce’s demand that genuine science – and philosophy in particular – ought to be strictly theoretical is somewhat misleading, but this does not alter the fact that heuretic inquiry is not utilitarian in a narrow sense. I believe that these are the central requirements that philosophy must fulfil in order to be a science in the general heuretic sense; thereafter, any substantial articulation will be focused on what differentiates philosophy from other kinds of heuretic inquiry. The first – and indisputably contentious – distinguishing mark proposed by Peirce is that philosophy is a positive science, that is, an endeavour to discover ‘what really is true’ (EP 2: 259 [1903]). This separates it from mathematics, which studies hypothetical states of affairs merely, and deduces their consequences (MS 151: 1). Mathematical inquiry is observational ‘in so far as it makes constructions in the imagination according to abstract precepts, and then observes these imaginary objects, finding in them relations of parts not specified in the precept of construction’ (CP 1.240 [c. 1902]); but it is not strictly speaking experiential. Mathematics analyses what is and what is not logically possible without taking any kind of responsibility for the actual existence of its objects of study (EP 2: 259 [1903]). It ‘is a science of hypotheses; so that nothing could be more completely abstracted from concrete reality’ (CP 3.428 [1896]). In contrast, philosophy – theoretical as it may be – is connected to experience and tangible reality. Philosophy is not quite so abstract [as mathematics]. For though it makes no special observations, as every other positive science does, yet it does deal with reality. It confines itself, however, to the universal phenomena of experience; and these are, generally speaking, sufficiently revealed in the ordinary observations of every-day life. I would even grant that philosophy, in the strictest sense, confines itself to such observations as must be open to every intelligence which can learn from experience. (CP 3.428 [1896]) In other words, philosophy is an experiential science. It is the ‘cenoscopic’29 part of the positive sciences, distinguished from ‘idioscopy’ or the special sciences.

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As a positive science, philosophical inquiry belongs to the same family as disciplines such as physics, psychology, sociology, and history. This emphasis on experience might suggest an empiricist or even a reductionist approach to philosophy. However, the claim that philosophy is experiential does not entail that it would be replaceable by special disciplines such as physics or neuroscience. Furthermore, we should beware of interpreting ‘experience’ in the manner of classical empiricism or positivism. Peirce holds that simple sense experiences or ‘impressions’ neither exhaust the field of experience nor provide a certain foundation for knowledge. In other words, the references to experience do not mean appeals to self-evident sensations or ‘intuitions’; Peircean empiricism does not provide us with cognitive building blocks. In fact, Peirce states that experience should not be understood as an initial condition; the ‘very etymology of the word tells that [it] comes ex perito, “out of practice”’ (MS 681: 3 [1913]). Apart from the question of the etymological accuracy of this argument, the issue at hand is complicated by the fact that Peirce tends to employ the term ‘experience’ in somewhat different ways. William Haas (1964, pp. 29–30) identifies two principal uses of ‘experience’ in Peirce’s philosophy. In the broad application, experience is simply anything that can be said to be experienced, whether feeling, effort, resistance, thought, or something else. In the narrow sense, experience comprises the ‘brute’ facts of action and reaction apart from cognition and interpretation. It is something that is, strictly speaking, experienced, like a punch in the face at the moment of impact, rather than known in a cognitive sense. Effort and resistance is the paradigm of the category Peirce names secondness ; hence, he tends to characterize experience as strictly distinct from feeling and purposeful thought (SS 25–6 [1904]). In its narrowest sense, experience denotes something occurring here and now – more or less equivalent to what Peirce in other contexts calls ‘percept’. It is something that is had, but which never can be reached in its purity in intellectual reflection. We could designate this sense of experience singular experience. However, Haas’s account of the other acceptation of ‘experience’ is less satisfactory; he claims that the broader application ‘seems to place no limitations at all on the concept of experience’ (Haas, 1964, pp. 29–30). He notes that Peirce defines ‘experience’ as ‘the cognitive resultant’ of life (CP 2.84 [c. 1902]), but thereby fails to see that this definition also includes a strong emphasis on effort and reaction through the idea that experience is a determination of cognition. Experience is that determination of belief and cognition generally which the course of life has forced upon a man. One may lie about it; but one cannot escape the fact that some things are forced upon his cognition. (CP 2.138 [c. 1902])


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As a contribution to cognition, experience cannot be purely singular; it is something that can be understood and analysed cognitively. Haas observes, again correctly, that Peirce stretches the field of experience to include interpretations. [E]xperience can only mean the total cognitive result of living, and includes interpretations quite as truly as it does the matter of sense. Even more truly, since this matter of sense is a hypothetical something which we never can seize as such, free from all interpretative working over. (CP 7.538) Taken at face value, Peirce’s discussions of experience may seem puzzling and inconsistent, as he does not always specify which sense of the concept he is talking about. However, in a letter to James,30 Peirce explicitly makes the needed distinction. As he criticizes his fellow-pragmatist for calling a sensation an experience, he asserts that ‘experience and an experiential event are [. . .] utterly different, experience being the effect that life has produced upon habits’. This position ought to be complemented by Peirce’s dictum that percepts and perceptual judgements possess merely a kind of imperfect reality as data of knowledge; ‘developed reality only belongs to signs of a certain description’. In view of these comments, it seems that experience in the non-singular sense would be best understood as something belonging to the category of thirdness. However, here the subtlety of Peirce’s approach comes to the fore; while cognitive experience is relational, temporal, and semiotic, it nevertheless retains a predominant aspect of experience in the singular sense, its character of ‘brute force’. Although interpretational or inferential, the cognitions are experiential because they are compulsive. They are beyond our conscious control as they are had, yet they are of an intellectual and potentially controllable nature. In other words, we are not simply fed atomic experiences or sensations, from which we then build reasonable conceptions by interpretations; rather, there are interpretations we cannot avoid making, as they occur. We look around and see things such as books, chairs, and other people. At first, these experiences seem to be simply given; and so they are, at the very moment of their occurrence, as objects that are undeniably there in spite of our will. It is only in later reflection that the interpretative character of the experiences can become evident. This character of opposition is typical of all experiential objects. Even imaginations present a certain degree of resistance, once they have been imagined (CP 5.45 [1903]). Consequently, Haas’s claim that Peirce’s broad use places no limitations on experience is misleading; although the resultant of living is not singular in the sense of being absolutely definite and individual, it nevertheless possesses the essential characteristic of singular experience, appearing as an irresistible fact. Admittedly, we do not have a direct (in the sense of singular) experience of generality according to Peirce; but in the perceptual judgements we cannot help making, general conceptions pour in on us ‘through every avenue of sense’ (PPM 224 [1903]; cf. PPM 220 [1903]).

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The special province of philosophy is precisely the study of such ‘common experience’, understood broadly. Of course, the special sciences are also experiential in the sense that they deal with empirical observations and consequences, but the distinguishing characteristic of philosophy is that it turns its attention on experience in general, as it occurs in our daily lives, instead of on a specific slice of ‘laboratory’ experience. Consequently, Peirce distinguishes two different scientific senses of ‘experience’. In the special sciences, ‘experience’ means ‘that which their special means of observation directly bring to light, and it is contrasted with the interpretations of those observations which are effected by connecting these experiences with what we otherwise know’ (CP 7.538). However, in the philosophical sense, experience is not something that requires special machineries of observation. [I]n philosophy there is no special observational art, and there is no knowledge antecedently acquired in the light of which experience is to be interpreted. The interpretation itself is experience. (7.527) In other words, the ‘experience’ of philosophy is everyday experience, which is constantly had, and which therefore requires no other means of observation than natural cognitive capabilities. Note, however, that Peirce also emphasizes that this sense encompasses interpretation. Thus, while the special scientist purportedly distinguishes experiential observations from interpretations, the very process of interpretation is a central – if not the most central – object of study for the Peircean philosopher. The fact that interpretation is omnipresent, pervading the experience of the cognitive agent,31 constitutes a special challenge for philosophy. This also indicates why semeiotic, the philosophical discipline that deals explicitly with interpretation, is of vital importance in Peirce’s project. At this point, one might question whether this conception of philosophy really fulfils the criteria for a science as set forth by Peirce. The trouble is that by placing emphasis on everyday experience, Peircean philosophy seems to be more of an individual pursuit than a social undertaking. Of course, philosophy may fulfil a part of the social requirement by making its results public and openly criticizable; but one might still contend that its very objects of study are too private to form the basis for a truly scientific community. Peirce does not have recourse to a knockout argument with which to repel such criticism. The issue turns on the question of on what grounds, if any, one might hold that the experiences of one person are of the same kind as another’s – that is, the kind of problem that leads to scepticism. It would be pointless to expect a conclusive argument or proof that would once and for all eliminate the source of sceptical anxieties. The Peircean position can only rest on less decisive but more full-bodied pragmatic, sentimentalist, and commonsensical arguments, such as pointing out the futil-


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ity of blocking inquiry and the fact that experience is felt to be significantly communal. Peirce suggests that this sentiment is practically indubitable in the ordinary course of life; thus, to claim to disbelieve it in philosophy is mere paper doubt. The course of life has developed certain compulsions of thought which we speak of collectively as Experience. Moreover, the inquirer more or less vaguely identifies himself in sentiment with a Community of which he is a member, and which includes, for example, besides his momentary self, his self of ten years hence; and he speaks of the resultant cognitive compulsions of the course of life of that community as Our Experience.32 (CP 8.101 [1900]) Moreover, Peirce argues that a person is not quite as individual as we are inclined to think. Human ideas and cognitive competences are largely social. Given this continuity between the person and the community, human inquirers can make reasonable claims about the observations of any scientific intelligence. I have several times argued, at some length, that the unity of personality is in some measure illusory, that our ideas are not so entirely in the grasp of an ego as we fancy that they are, that personal identity differs rather in degree than in kind from the unity of ‘public opinion’ and gregarious intelligence, and that there is a sort of identity of dynamic continuity in all intelligence. Accepting this opinion, a man is not radically devoid of the power of saying what every scientific intelligence must observe, if he has the power of saying what he observes himself. If he is in dynamic continuity with his whole self, he is in the same kind of continuity, albeit less intimate, with the whole range of intelligence. He can observe, in a fallible, yet genuine, observation what it is that every scientific intelligence must observe. Such observation will, however, require correction; because there is danger of mistaking special observations about intelligences peculiarly like our own for observations that are open to every ‘scientific intelligence’, by which I mean an intelligence that needs to learn and can learn (provided there be anything for it to learn) from experience. I would here define experience as the resultant of the mental compulsions from the course of life; and I would define learning as the gradual approximation of representations toward a limiting definite agreement. My theory has to be that not only can man thus observe that certain phenomena are open to every scientific intelligence, but that this power inheres essentially in every scientific intelligence. (NEM 4: ix–x) This is a very revealing quote, as it shows how Peirce’s notion of scientific intelligence ties in with his social conception of science, his view of experience, and his discussion of truth and final opinion. These links turn out to be particularly important for the understanding of his conception of sign-theoretical inquiry;

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arguably, they lead us to a much more substantial notion of semeiotic than can be obtained by his rather sparse characterizations of the discipline. However, before taking a closer look at Peirce’s account of philosophical semeiotic, one more thing about his conception of experience needs to be noted – namely, the degree to which it can be said to be certain. As noted, experience, whether singular or general, is in a certain sense indubitable. This seems to accord poorly with Peirce’s commitment to fallibilism, according to which ‘we cannot in any way reach perfect certitude nor exactitude’ (CP 1.147 [c. 1897]), and which asserts that ‘our knowledge is never absolute but always swims, as it were, in a continuum of uncertainty and of indeterminacy’ (CP 1.171 [c. 1897]). Admittedly, there is a sense in which the experience examined by the philosophical sciences is simply given. Being ‘irresistibly forced upon us in the course of life’ (MS 1336: 1), such experience is beyond conscious control. However, this does not mean that it would be infallible; cognitive experience can be examined and checked. While we are not in charge of experiences as they happen, they can later be reviewed critically, in terms of both content and process. Yet, Peirce disapproves of the Cartesian programme, which sets out from the assumption that knowledge ought to be built on certain foundations. We cannot begin by doubting all of our cognitions, but must start out from the beliefs and prejudices that we actually have (W 2: 212 [1868]; EP 2: 336 [1905]; MS 326: 6). In other words, the commonsense knowledge we possess must be taken as a starting-point for philosophical inquiry.33 Such beliefs are practically indubitable. For instance, it is hardly possible to live as a human being and deny the existence of a reality external to our thoughts and representations of it. This does not mean that the belief in question would be strictly proven, but merely that it cannot be doubted in view of the habits of cognition that have been forced upon us. The fact that a certain belief is indubitable does not mean that it is absolutely certain, but rather that it really cannot be doubted as things stand right now (Robin, 1964, p. 272). This does not eliminate the need for criticism; nor does it entail an acceptance of a set of absolute a priori truths. However, Peirce’s critical commonsensism does involve a recognition of the relatively foundational role of common sense. Richard S. Robin (1964) has christened this emphasis on the indubitability of commonsense beliefs ‘credibilism’, further noting that Peirce’s epistemological stance can be characterized as a union of fallibilist and credibilist commitments (p. 272). According to Peirce, positive science can only rest on experience, but he adds that ‘experience can never result in absolute certainty, exactitude, necessity, or universality’ (CP 1.55 [c. 1896]; cf. CP 1.141 [c. 1897]; CP 2.75 [c. 1902]). The experiential foundation of science is fallible, and so is the knowledge acquired by scientific methods; ‘there is nothing at all in our knowledge which we have any warrant at all for regarding as absolute in any particular’ (CP 2.75 [c. 1902]). In other words, Peirce endorses ‘logical anti-cock-sure-ism’; whatever ‘we know, we know only experientially, provisionally, approximately, and


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doubtfully’ (MS 827). Theoretical science proceeds by trying explanatory hypotheses and making generalizations; it is not supported by a bedrock of firm facts. In Peirce’s memorable metaphor, science is walking on a bog, and can only say that the ground it stands upon seems to hold for now (RLT 176–7 [1898]). There are no guarantees that future events will uphold the framework according to this profoundly anti-foundationalist point of view. Since philosophical endeavours such as semeiotic stand on the ‘eminently fallible’ ground of everyday experience, their results cannot be perfectly universal or necessary (cf. CP 2.227 [c. 1897]). This is no reason to adopt a scepticist stance, for ‘there is a world of difference between fallible knowledge and no knowledge’ (CP 1.37 [c. 1890]). Any one of our beliefs can be erroneous, but to assume that all of our commonsense beliefs are mistaken is futile, if not impossible; that would simply leave us with nowhere to stand and lead to impotent despair. This is a characteristic of Peirce’s epistemological outlook that is easily overshadowed by a misinterpretation of his programme of scientific philosophy; beliefs do not need to fulfil strict criteria of absolute lucidity and certainty in order to count as proper knowledge. Of course, this should not be taken to mean that science could simply drop all requirements of exactness and precision of expression; on the contrary, Peirce remains a proponent of exact philosophy. However, as we shall see, he is also aware of the value of vagueness and mindful of the detrimental effects of demanding more precision than is reasonable and useful in the name of science. That does not produce living scientific inquiry in philosophy, but a theoretical corpse parading as science. Fallibilism teaches us to be careful in our proclamations and humble in scientific matters (cf. CP 1.9 [1897]). It is in this spirit that I propose to dig into the communicative underpinnings of Peirce’s philosophical theory of signs in the following chapters.

Chapter 3

Beyond the Doctrine of Signs

Semeiotic occupies a peculiar position in Peirce’s philosophical scheme. On the one hand, it is clear that questions concerning signs and semiosis are subjects of primary interest to him, in both early and late writings. Indeed, he repeatedly indicates that he is preparing a grand system, in which semeiotic would play a key role (see, e.g. CP 8.302 [1909]; MS 640:10 [1909]). Hence, it is not surprising that many scholars have tended to interpret his entire philosophical project from a sign-theoretical vantage point. On the other hand, it can be infuriatingly difficult to get a hold on what role semeiotic really is meant to play in Peirce’s scientific philosophy, as well as on the way the basic sign-theoretical concepts are conceived. Although he can go into great detail, vigorously searching for satisfactory definitions and meticulously classifying signs, he also lets many things go unaddressed, leaving rather troubling gaps in the theory that might have been his crowning glory. Perhaps this is unavoidable given Peirce’s ambitions; while several interpreters have tried to assemble the remains into a coherent whole (e.g. Liszka, 1996; Savan, 1987–88), such presentations, almost by necessity, tend to exclude many interesting questions in order to be able to present semeiotic as a unity. By this I do not mean to imply that Peirce would not have striven to be systematic; nor do I wish to belittle the accomplishments of some of his ablest interpreters. As noted, we are still in many ways only catching up to Peirce. The principal purpose of this chapter is to discuss two thorny issues that I feel have not received sufficient attention in studies of semeiotic, while at the same time outlining a rhetorical approach as a complement to what I refer to as a formal grammatical point of view. The first topic to be addressed is the basic, but surprisingly elusive question of how semeiotic should be understood as a mode of inquiry, and how its different compartments relate to each other. The second problem concerns the manner in which the most basic components of the theory are derived or constructed. This will take us to the conceptual heart of semeiotic, where – as I hope to make evident – we find the communicative underpinnings of his philosophy. Thus, this discussion principally concerns the concepts of semeiotic, that is, the issue of how its central terms, beginning with ‘semeiotic’ itself, should be


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understood. This is not a trivial matter for Peirce; he argues that a crucial phase of the effort to render philosophy scientific is a reform of its vocabulary, undertaken to ensure that disciplinary communication is not hampered by simple misunderstandings due to varying usages. In his ‘ethics of terminology’, Peirce urges philosophers to develop a ‘suitable technical nomenclature’ (EP 2:333 [1905]). This is obviously not uncontroversial; as the trend in post-Peircean philosophy has on the whole gone in the opposite direction, Peirce may appear antiquated – perhaps even to the extent of inviting ridicule – in his zeal to coin new terms. On the other hand, a few Peircean concepts, such as the ‘type’– ‘token’ distinction, have caught on. Furthermore, as we shall see in this and the following chapters, it is not necessarily clear and distinct articulation that is the culmination of Peirce’s endeavours, important as it is; in the pragmatic elucidations that surpass mere analytic definition, the aim is not to introduce artificial categorizations, but to articulate consequential concepts with footings in habits, experience, and practice. As Peirce came to recognize, possibly more profoundly than any other logician, there are limits to specification and definiteness; vagueness has a positive role to play in understanding, even in science. The challenge is to develop concepts that do not cut the life line to experiential reality through excessive formalism, turning the entire enterprise into a glass-bead game, but which nonetheless are exact and explicit enough to promote the progress of the research community.

3.1 Logic in the Broad Sense Although the idea of semeiotic as a field of study or discipline crops up repeatedly in Peirce’s writings, it is conspicuous by its absence in most of his attempts to classify the sciences, a task on which he spends considerable time and effort.1 Oddly enough, it would seem that the only classification that explicitly allots a position for semeiotic is one of Peirce’s earliest stabs at an arrangement of higher inquiry. In a sketchy manuscript titled ‘Teleological Logic’ (1865), ‘semiotic’ is characterized as ‘the science of representations’,2 one of the branches in a basic trivium of sciences that also includes positive science and formal science (W 1:303–4).3 ‘Teleological Logic’ and other writings of the same period also suggests that the motivation behind Peirce’s classification is not at first to pave the way for general semeiotic, but rather to demarcate his primary domain of interest – that is, the space of logical inquiry (see, in particular, W 1:174–5 [1865]). Accordingly, he defines ‘logic’ as ‘objective symbolistic’, distinguishing it from symbolistic grammar and rhetoric, and characterizes ‘symbolistic’ as the ‘semiotic of symbols’ (W 1:303 [1865]). In other words, Peirce classifies logic by delimiting its domain of investigation to the study of the relations of symbolic representations to their objects. It could therefore also be called the ‘science of truth’ (W 1:175 [1865]).4

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By making a hierarchical distinction between semeiotic and logic, the latter being a subclass under the former, Peirce in effect parts ways with John Locke, who in An Essay Concerning Humane Understanding (1690) introduces the idea of a ‘doctrine of signs’ into modern philosophy. Although Peirce does not explicitly examine Locke’s division of science into three principal kinds, he must have been acquainted with Locke’s characterization of the third main branch of knowledge, the semiotic science.5 The third Branch may be called σημιωτικη′ , or the Doctrine of Signs, the most usual whereof being Words, it is aptly enough termed also λογικη′ , Logick; the business whereof, is to consider the Nature of Signs, the Mind makes use of for the understanding of Things, or conveying its Knowledge to others. (Locke, 1690, p. 361)6 Locke’s and Peirce’s first presentations of their respective ‘doctrines of signs’ share more than a brevity of statement; both philosophers are obviously concerned with the connection between logic – that is, the theory of reasoning – and the theory of signs. Moreover, both thinkers identify words as paradigmatic instances of signs, but neither restricts the scope of the doctrine to linguistic signs. Nonetheless, it is easy to see that Peirce initially construes the relationship between logic and semeiotic differently from Locke. For the young Peirce, ‘logic’ is not a synonym for the ‘doctrine of signs’; it denotes symbolistic logic. This is one issue on which Peirce indisputably changes his mind. While the development of his theory of signs remains a fervently contested matter, it is evident that his conception of semeiotic and its link to logic undergoes what could be called a ‘Lockean turn’. Increasingly aware that the study of signs and semiosis in general is a task that needs to be undertaken, Peirce argues that logicians ought to expand their efforts from narrow examinations of reasoning or truth-preserving symbols to encompass the full gamut of semeiotic. In other words, logic is now to be understood as ‘the study of the general conditions of signs fulfilling their functions’ (MS 836:2), a distinctly Lockean point of view that clearly diverges from the early division of scientific labour. I at first defined logic as the general science of the relation of symbols to their objects. And I think still that this defines the Critic of Argument which is the central part of logic, – its heart. But studies of the limits of the sciences in general convinced me that the Logician ought to broaden his studies, and take in every allied subject that it was no business of anybody else to study and in short, and above all, he must not confine himself to symbols since no reasoning that amounts to much can be conducted without7 Icons and Indices. Nor ought he to confine himself to the relations of signs to their Objects since it had always been considered the business of the logician and of nobody else to study Definition. Now a definition does not reveal the Object of a Sign, its Denotation,


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but only analyzes its Signification, and that is a question not of the sign’s relation to its Object but of its relation to its Interpretant. My studies must extend over the whole of general Semeiotic. (SS 118 [1909]; cf. EP 2:387 [c. 1906]) Here, Peirce suggests two reasons for the proposed expansion. The first is his general examination of the sciences and their classification. Apparently, Peirce feels that there are certain crucial tasks that none of the existing sciences is fit to handle. Rather than proposing completely new sciences to fill the gap, he finds it more plausible to recommend that logicians expand their repertoire. Secondly, the inclusion of the study of definition – and signification – broadens the horizon of logic in the direction of semeiotic in a fuller sense. At first, this may seem to be a rather minor addition, but if we keep in mind that the Peircean conception of definition is closely connected to his pragmatism, it is easier to recognize the potential implications of the transformation. Peirce also suggests that his social conception of inquiry, in which ‘science’ is understood in terms of a social and historical practice, supports the broader conception of logic he now advocates. The highest kind of symbol is one which signifies a growth, or self-development, of thought, and it is of that alone that a moving representation is possible; and accordingly, the central problem of logic is to say whether one given thought is truly, i.e., is adapted to be, a development of a given other or not. In other words, it is the critic of arguments. Accordingly, in my early papers I limited logic to the study of this problem. But since then, I have formed the opinion that the proper sphere of any science in a given stage of development of science is the study of such questions as one social group of men can properly devote their lives to answering; and it seems to me that in the present state of our knowledge of signs, the whole doctrine of the classification of signs and of what is essential to a given kind of sign, must be studied by one group of investigators. Therefore, I extend logic to embrace all the necessary principles of semeiotic. (CP 4.9 [c. 1906]) One might opine that this approach fails, at least for Peirce, as he hardly has recourse to any established group of semioticians whose activities would delimit the ‘proper sphere’ of the alleged science in question. However, we can see that Peirce here widens his historicist argument to encompass a feasible future. His attempt to characterize the scope and task of a particular science is thus not merely a matter of registering existing activities; it comprises a reasonable supposition of how a certain line of inquiry might be developed. In other words, a science such as semeiotic is purportedly demarcated by a set of questions that could reasonably and productively occupy one concrete social group. In this sense, Peirce’s broader conception of logic is at least partly prescriptive rather than purely descriptive.

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Yet another argument for broadening logic to encompass the full semiotic field is provided by the supposed needs of other lines of inquiry. The study of languages ought to be based upon a study of the necessary conditions to which signs must conform in order to fulfill their functions as signs. I have gradually been led to conclude that it is best to identify logic with this study, notwithstanding its thus being made to include something which has no bearing upon the strength of arguments. For there is but little of this superfluous matter, – too little to make a separate science of, – and it is needed for its linguistic and rhetorical applications, as well as having a value simply as truth; and a simpler unity is thus given to logic. I might, therefore, very well call it speculative semeiotic. (MS 693:188–90 [1904]) While the claim that linguistics ought to be supported by general semeiotic could be disputed on the grounds that the former has been far more successful in a scientific sense than the latter and consequently is in no need of such backing, Peirce does here indicate that potential applications ought to be kept in mind in the pursuit of theory. This decidedly pragmatic point of view can be construed as another nail in the coffin of the purely theoretical conception of philosophy, which was criticized in Chapter 2. Peirce recognizes that the proposed extension of logic is likely to bring forth certain objections, primarily related to the controversial claim that logical inquiry, which is typically understood as a study of formal models of reasoning and valid demonstration, actually ought to concern itself with all kinds of signs and semiotic functions. For instance, commands are not truly open to logical criticism; nor does it seem feasible to say that a piece of music is subject to logical laws (MS 803). However, Peirce replies that as long as every logical relation is a semiotic relation (which he holds it to be), then the deeper comprehension of logic requires an understanding of signs and their functions. If logic is not expanded, then at least an investigation of the limitation, which is required to bring signs within the jurisdiction of logic, is needed (MS 803). In several writings (e.g. MS 793 [c. 1906]; 640:10 [1909]; 645:2 [1909]; 499s), Peirce indicates that the most feasible and effective solution is to extend the subject of logic, rather than restricting it to certain kinds of semiotic relations. Like medical researchers examining yeasty diseases study all kinds of yeast, so logicians ought to investigate anything that bears any real analogy to reasoning, and analyse the agreements and disagreements of such occurrences with reasoning (MS 634:15–16 [1909]). In Essays on Meaning, Peirce even asserts that the broader investigation is part of the duties of the logician; it is the reason he calls his prospective magnum opus ‘A System of Logic, Considered as Semeiotic’ (MS 640:10 [1909]). Thus, it seems safe to conclude that Peirce wishes to expand – or perhaps even transform – logic into semeiotic, that is, into general or philosophical sign


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theory. This conclusion is supported by the fact that he drops the in-between level to which symbolistic belongs, and divides logic into grammar, critic, and rhetoric in his mature classification of the sciences. However, this does not mean that whatever Peirce at one point or another refers to as ‘logic’ could equally well be called ‘semeiotic’; therefore, a couple of qualifications are in order. First, Peirce continues to use the term ‘logic’ for a branch of semeiotic. He characterizes this line of research varyingly as the critic of arguments and the study of the conditions of true representation, but it is perhaps best identified as the study of various types of inference – primarily of induction, deduction, and abduction – and their claims to validity and truth. As Peirce himself admits, he fails to enforce this terminological distinction between the narrower and broader sense of logic scrupulously. The term ‘logic’ is unscientifically by me employed in two distinct senses. In its narrower sense, it is the science of the necessary conditions of the attainment of truth. In its broader sense, it is the science of the necessary laws of thought, or, still better (thought always taking place by means of signs), it is general semeiotic. (CP 1.444 [c. 1897]) Peirce’s hesitation – or even failure of nerve – at this point is a potential source of confusion. Arguably, he has two viable options: either designate logic in the broader sense as ‘semeiotic’ and reserve the term ‘logic’ for the narrower acceptation, or else use a term such as ‘critic’ to mark the distinction from logic in the broad sense (i.e. semeiotic). He seems to prefer the latter alternative, but unfortunately he frequently invites misunderstanding by employing ‘logic’ for logical inquiries in the narrower sense. Furthermore, although Peirce often speaks of the need to expand the range of logic in order to include all kinds of signs – that is, not just symbols used in reasoning – most of his concise definitions of logic remain relatively traditional, especially in the context of classification. For instance, it is characterized as ‘the theory of self-controlled, or deliberate, thought’ in A Syllabus of Certain Topics of Logic (EP 2:260 [1903]), while Reason’s Conscience describes logic as ‘that branch of normative science which studies the conditions of truth, or that kind of excellence which may or may not belong to objects considered as representing real objects’ (MS 693:88 [1904]). Secondly, a substantial portion of Peirce’s intellectual efforts is undeniably constituted by formal logic, in which he makes few explicit references to the study of signs. True, in his minute analyses of logical problems, Peirce employs a variety of semiotic means; but it is only in the development of the system of the existential graphs that one discerns a truly significant connection to semeiotic.8 On the other hand, he would place a considerable part – if not all – of what is today known as ‘formal logic’ or ‘mathematical logic’ into the science of mathematics, rather than into the positive science of logic (Houser, 1992, p. 1284; see CP 4.240 [1902]). According to Peirce, logicians ought to beware

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of making their science excessively formalistic (CP 3.451 [1896]; 8.173 [1903]; 8.228 [c. 1910]). Logic should not be reduced to calculus (MS 283:106v [c. 1906]). Peirce asserts that ‘formal logic must not be too purely formal; it must represent a fact of psychology, or else it is in danger of degenerating into a mathematical recreation’ (W 4:421 [1883]). This last claim may feel like an aberration; if there is one thing Peirce opposes, early and late alike, it is psychologistic approaches to logic. In the very texts that introduce semeiotic, he characterizes his viewpoints as ‘unpsychological’, as he contends that the elevation of logic into a proper scientific endeavour entails the gradual elimination of the ‘human elements’ from the conception (W 1:310–11 [1865]); and in his mature writings, he repeatedly criticizes logicians who appeal to psychology for support or advocate a conception of logical inquiry as the ‘natural history’ of thought (see, e.g. CP 2.43 [1902]; 2.210 [1902]; 4.8 [1906]; 8.189–190 [1904]; 8.239 [1904]). Consequently, it seems peculiar that he would maintain that logic ought to represent psychological states of affairs. However, I believe Peirce offers a solution to this evident contradiction by introducing a distinction between psychic and psychological facts in his mature philosophy; the former indicate ‘commonsense observations concerning the workings of the mind, observations well known even if little noticed, to all grown men and women that are of sound minds’, while the latter denote findings of the special science of psychology (EP 2:412 [1907]). By ‘appeal to psychology is not meant every appeal to any fact relating to the mind’; Peirce argues that it is ‘important to discriminate between facts of that description which are supposed to be ascertained by the systematic study of the mind, and facts the knowledge of which altogether antecedes such study, and is not in the least affected by it; such as the fact that there is such a state of mind as doubt, and the fact that the mind struggles to escape from doubt’ (CP 2.210 [1902]). In other words, although logic ought not to be built on psychological foundations, it is in a vital respect based on everyday experience and commonsense knowledge of mind, like any other philosophical science. In this particular sense, Peirce’s philosophical logic is not purged of mental or human elements. If a line of inquiry is purely formal, it cannot belong to philosophy in Peirce’s sense; it lacks the crucial relation to experience. Therefore, Kent (1987) has even suggested that deductive logic does not belong to the philosophical science of logic, but to mathematics. Against this interpretation, Nathan Houser (1988, p. 409) has argued that the study of deduction belongs to philosophical logic on the basis that mathematics is solution-oriented, while logic is analysisoriented. There seems to be quite strong support for Kent’s position; for instance, in Reason’s Conscience, Peirce states that it ‘is only probable reasonings which require a special science of logic’, adding that ‘necessary reasoning is relegated to mathematics, where it belongs’ (MS 693:134 [1904]); and in the Minute Logic, we are told that ‘every apodictic inference is, strictly speaking,


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mathematics’ (CP 4.233 [1902]). Yet, Houser is right in holding that the reflexive study of the nature of deduction, in particular as it contributes to our understanding of the role of deduction in complex processes of inference, is a task for the Peircean (critical) logician; the mathematician simply reasons deductively, without paying any special attention to the kind of inference used. Keeping these caveats in mind, we may take a closer look at how Peirce portrays the broadened logic. In contrast to the sparse early characterization of the ‘science of representations’, Peirce’s later writings offer numerous varying descriptions of the nature and objectives of semeiotic. It is briefly characterized as ‘the general physiology of signs’ (MS 641:1 [1909]) and more fully as the ‘study of the necessary conditions to which signs must conform in order to fulfill their functions as signs’ (MS 693:188 [1904]) or as the ‘general theory of all possible kinds of signs, their modes of signification, of denotation, and of information; and their whole behaviour and properties, so far as these are not accidental’ (MS 634:14 [1909]). Perhaps most vitally, semeiotic is a study of signs in action, that is, of ‘the essential nature and fundamental varieties of possible semiosis’ (EP 2:413 [1907]). Obviously, these characterizations display a fair amount of variation, which is not unexpected in the case of a pioneer effort. For instance, while some descriptions of the semeiotic task place more emphasis on classification of sign relations, others focus more on the principles and dynamics guiding signs as processes. However, regardless of these differences, it is evident that Peirce is attempting to articulate a general conception of semeiotic. What this really entails is far less obvious. The easy solution is to simply proclaim that Peircean semeiotic is a general doctrine of signs, covering the entire semiotic field, whatever that may involve. This is no doubt accurate as far as it goes, but declaring generality by fiat is also rather uninformative. Arguably, there is a danger that the Peircean theory of signs degenerates into a belief system, in contrast to living investigation, if its central tenets are simply accepted as doctrinaire truth. At any rate, I feel that it is imperative to look closer at the way semeiotic is meant to be pursued as an inquiry. The following well-known passage is a good place to start, as it offers a rich yet succinct account of the basic procedures of semeiotic: Logic, in its general sense, is, as I believe I have shown, only another name for semiotic [. . .], the quasi-necessary, or formal, doctrine of signs. By describing the doctrine as ‘quasi-necessary’, or formal, I mean that we observe the characters of such signs as we know, and from such an observation, by a process which I will not object to naming Abstraction, we are led to statements, eminently fallible, and therefore in one sense by no means necessary, as to what must be the characters of all signs used by a ‘scientific’ intelligence, that is to say, by an intelligence capable of learning by experience. As to that process of

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Peirce’s Philosophy of Communication abstraction, it is itself a sort of observation. The faculty which I call abstractive observation is one which ordinary people perfectly recognize, but for which the theories of philosophers sometimes hardly leave room. It is a familiar experience to every human being to wish for something quite beyond his present means, and to follow that wish by the question, ‘Should I wish for that thing just the same, if I had ample means to gratify it?’ To answer that question, he searches his heart, and in doing so makes what I term an abstractive observation. He makes in his imagination a sort of skeleton diagram, or outline sketch, of himself, considers what modifications the hypothetical state of things would require to be made in that picture, and then examines it, that is, observes what he has imagined, to see whether the same ardent desire is there to be discerned. By such a process, which is at bottom very much like mathematical reasoning, we can reach conclusions as to what would be true of signs in all cases, so long as the intelligence using them was scientific. The modes of thought of a God, who should possess an intuitive omniscience superseding reason, are put out of the question. Now the whole process of development among the community of students of those formulations by abstractive observation and reasoning of the truths which must hold good of all signs used by a scientific intelligence is an observational science, like any other positive science, notwithstanding its strong contrast to all the special sciences which arises from its aiming to find out what must be and not merely what is in the actual world. (CP 2.227 [c. 1897])

A close reading of this characterization discloses that semeiotic is formal yet positive in the sense of experiential, and observational yet constructive as it generates fallible abstractions. At first blush, the juxtaposition of ‘formal’ and ‘positive’ may seem injudicious; however, it is a crucial indication of the way that Peircean sign theory is meant to be conceived and constructed. At the root of the endeavour stands the scrutiny of common signs. These observations are based on everyday experience and logica utens; they are practically infallible as they are made. However, as concepts and principles are articulated through a process of abstraction, in order to reach assertions of what must be the characters of signs used by any ‘scientific intelligence’ – that is, an intelligence capable of learning from experience – we end up with general statements that are ‘eminently fallible’. Hence, the necessity – or perhaps better, generality – of semeiotic propositions refers to the scope of the claims; it is not a matter of guaranteeing necessary truths by strictly formal-deductive principles. This is what Peirce means when he states that semeiotic is a quasi-necessary doctrine. The above passage also provides some hints as to the role of imagination in semeiotic. Indeed, this could be called the diagrammatic or mathematical phase of Peirce’s theory of signs; semeiotic is developed into a theory by imaginary experiments, in which the inquirer forms hypotheses based on his or her observations, and traces out consequences of the abstracted concepts and


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principles, generalizing the observations so as to be purportedly valid for any scientific intelligence. The only major phase missing from this outline of semeiotic method is the testing of the abstractions not only in imagination, but ultimately in external experience. However, in view of the fact that Peirce clearly portrays general semeiotic as a philosophical inquiry, I feel that at least one terminological modification is in order. While the term ‘doctrine of signs’ undoubtedly appeals to Peirce because of its medieval and Lockean associations, this characterization of semeiotic does not really agree with his contention that semeiotic is a science.9 In fact, his choice of words is rather unfortunate in view of the standard dictionary definitions, according to which a doctrine is a body of teachings or principles, often with religious overtones. Of course, one could plausibly argue that Peirce uses ‘doctrine’ in a special sense, and maintain that we should not understand it as indicating anything significantly different from a scientific discipline; in most cases, the terms ‘doctrine’ and ‘science’ are practically synonymous. However, since he does not discuss his conception in detail (as he does in the case of ‘science’), the use of the word is somewhat regrettable. Moreover, at least once, Peirce makes a significant distinction between the two terms. In a letter to Welby, he indicates that he is not satisfied with his own use of ‘doctrine’, because the expression is too static, too suggestive of rigid dogma, to capture the life of semeiotic as a pursuit of discovery; ‘science consists in inquiry, not in “doctrine”’ (SS 79 [1908]). In view of this comment, the conclusion that Peirce sees semeiotic primarily as scientific inquiry and not as doctrine seems warranted. The fluctuation between a doctrinal and a scientific point of view in his characterizations of the field of semeiotic may be attributed to two different aims; on the one hand, Peirce wishes to indicate the existence of a historical continuum and thus underlines the fact that the study of signs has a venerable past, but on the other hand, he wants to incorporate semeiotic into his overall scheme of science and therefore emphasizes the future prospects of this field of inquiry. Overall, the latter point of view is more significant and vital. In any case, it is sufficiently clear that Peirce strives to pursue his studies of semiotic phenomena in a scientific spirit; semeiotic, as he presents it in his mature philosophy, could perhaps be described as an embryonic or prospective science. Before moving on, another important qualification regarding the generality of semeiotic needs to be registered. Fisch (1986) argues that the association of logic with semeiotic does not, after all, entail that logic would cover the whole domain of the study of signs (p. 339). In addition to philosophical semeiotic, which is distinguished by such adjectives as ‘cenoscopic’, ‘normative’, ‘formal’, ‘general’, or ‘speculative’, there ought to be idioscopic studies of signs, that is, semeiotic investigations that are distinctive of biology, psychology, media studies, literary criticism, and so on. Peirce does not really develop such lines of inquiry, but he does suggest that semeiotic specializations are needed when he

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says that ‘psychologists ought to make, as in point of fact they are making, their own invaluable studies of the sign-making and sign-using functions’ (EP 2:461 [c. 1911]). In a similar vein, Ransdell (1977, p. 158) and Houser (1992, p. 1283) distinguish between general and special studies of signs, where the latter kind of inquiry can be seen as an application of the former. Such a distinction between various levels of semeiotic is useful, worth adopting for purposes of the further development of Peirce’s thought. General semeiotic is philosophical, and operates as a preliminary for more specialized research, which in turn puts the abstract claims of the general theory of signs to the test. In other words, philosophical semeiotic provides specialized sign studies with theoretical and conceptual frames and tools, while special semeiotic deals with more substantial applications, the results of which may be considered in the abstract by general semeiotic. Hence, we would ideally have a productive give and take operating between these two planes of the study of signs. Arguably, this reciprocity ought to be stronger than that which Peirce usually suggests. At times, his campaign to broaden logic leads him to conclude that the only people capable of developing semeiotic are logicians. Even if restricted to philosophical sign theory, his viewpoint is unduly narrow, at least if ‘logicians’ denotes people who usually understand themselves as such. Although studies of signs certainly need logical support, it is difficult to avoid the suspicion that Peirce is overly optimistic regarding the willingness and ability of logicians to undertake the grand task he sets out for them. Perhaps it is for this reason that he, in one of his final manuscripts, suggests that it would ‘be good scientific policy, for those who have both a talent and a passion for eliciting the truth about such matters, to institute a cooperative cenoscopic attack upon the problems of the nature, properties, and varieties of Signs, in the spirit of twentieth-century science’ (EP 2:462 [c. 1911]). I interpret this as a call for a reasonable interdisciplinarity within philosophy; and this, in turn, points to the need to look closer at how Peirce relates semeiotic to other types of cenoscopic inquiry.

3.2 Normative Semeiotic on the Ladder of Science Peirce often refers to his conception of systematic philosophy as ‘architectonic’. This idea, adopted from Kant, refers to the public and secular character of the enterprise; it should be more like a building meant for all than a painting that expresses individuality (CP 1.176 [c. 1896]). Furthermore, the architectonic conception entails the idea that the sciences are in some sense self-organizing (Short, 2007a, p. 61). Hence, Peirce maintains that his arrangement of the sciences is designed to be a natural classification. In spite of initial appearances, this approach is closely tied to the social-normative conception of science, for by


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‘natural class’ Peirce means ‘a class of which all the members owe their existence as members of the class to a common final cause’10 (CP 1.204 [c. 1902]). The most important characteristic of the Peircean scientist is the sincere desire for truth, which can be construed as the generic final cause of science. With slight modifications, the same point of view can be applied to particular heuretic sciences; their unifying objective or cause is the truth concerning a certain set of questions. The requirement that the sciences should be arranged so as to reflect their status as natural classes may seem to carry us towards an exceedingly idealistic view of science. However, in his Adirondack lectures, Peirce explicitly states that only experiential objects lend themselves to natural classification (MS 1334:10 [1905]; cf. CP 1.204 [c. 1902]). Furthermore, he contends that a science, as a natural object, is the occupation of an actual group of living inquirers (MS 1334:11 [1905]). That is, a particular discipline is identified as the concrete activity uniting a set of human beings; in other words, ‘the limits of a science are those of a social group’ (MS 655:16 [1910]). [A] definition of science in general which shall express a really intelligent conception of it as a living historic entity must regard it as the occupation of that peculiar class of men, the scientific men. The same remark may be extended to definitions of the different branches of science. The men who pursue a given branch herd together. They understand one another; they live in the same world, while those who pursue another branch are for them foreigners. (CP 1.99 [c. 1896]) Arguably, Peirce overstates his case here, at least if his reference to scientific ‘herds’ is taken as an approval of increasing specialization; it would render the conception of semeiotic he is advocating unscientific, and would cast his own philosophical pursuits, which are more appropriately characterized as broad and general than as narrow and particular, in a rather peculiar light. Furthermore, the social criterion seems to render his classification purely descriptive, which would be difficult to reconcile with the normative implications of a classification based on final causes.11 However, as already noted, the tension between descriptivist-historicist and idealistic viewpoints in Peirce’s characterizations of science can to a large extent be alleviated by adopting an emergentist approach. In addition, we have seen that Peirce does allow for some leeway for potential inquiries, as long as they are rooted in genuine interests and are construable as plausible projections of how certain branches of inquiry may develop. This extension beyond extant sciences is based on the principle that a distinct scientific discipline ought to be so delimited that an inquirer could realistically devote his or her whole research existence to its problems (MS L75:351 [1902]; MS 299:6–7 [c. 1905]; CP 4.9 [c. 1906]).

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Peirce’s Philosophy of Communication As a general rule, the value of an exact philosophical definition of a term already in familiar use lies in its bringing out distinct conceptions of the function of objects of the kind defined. In particular, this is true of the definition of an extensive branch of science; and in order to assign the most useful boundaries for such a study, it is requisite to consider what part of the whole work of science has, from the nature of things, to be performed by those men who are to do that part of the work which unquestionably comes within the scope of that study; for it does not conduce to the clearness of a broad view of science to separate problems which have necessarily to be solved by the same men. (NEM 4:266–7 [c. 1895])

In other words, the problems pursued indicate where reasonable boundaries are to be drawn, and how deep an adequate classification ought to go. This does not mean that all the practitioners of one science should work on the same problem, or that they should be fully acquainted with each other’s work. Peirce contends that their studies must be so closely allied that any one of them could take up the problem of any other after a reasonable period of preparation, and that each member of the community in question should be able to understand his or her colleagues without too much effort (MS 1334:13–14 [1905]; cf. HP 2:804 [1904]; MS 1339:2–3). Consequently, a true science requires a shared terminology and a sufficient unity of ideas. Admittedly, these criteria are vague and general, which only goes to show that natural classification does not give us strictly definite and individuated disciplines.12 Still, Peirce clearly wavers on the question of whether possible or likely sciences should be allowed in the classification. On the one hand, he states that the attempt to classify the sciences of the remote future is a ‘somewhat presumptuous undertaking’ (CP 1.203 [c. 1902]; cf. SS 79 [1908]); but on the other hand, it is far from obvious that the inquiries that he mentions are really being pursued by a relatively clear-cut group of human beings. Indeed, in a letter to James he confesses that his ‘classification the Sciences is [. . .] intended to be useful in the future, and therefore is not absolutely confined to what exists’ (EP 2:500 [1909]). This is a critical point for semeiotic and other philosophical disciplines as articulated by Peirce. Peirce’s indecision regarding the soundness of introducing prospective sciences may explain why he occasionally prefers the denomination ‘doctrine of signs’; he admits that the science of signs remains a desideratum (MS 634:14 [1909]). There is little doubt that Peirce strives to approach semeiotic in a scientific spirit; yet, as long as it lacks communal foundation and critical feedback, it cannot be a science in the full sense of the term. What we are presented with is a potential discipline, a ‘science-egg’ (cf. MS 645:1 [1909]), which we may choose to develop or abandon.13 Peirce recognizes this, as he avers that a pioneer of a new line of inquiry cannot be declared a scientist, except by those who afterward follow in his or her footsteps (MS 614:8 [1908]).


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However, Peirce does at least partly anchor semeiotic in extant philosophical practice by re-interpreting it as logic in a broad sense. This also allows us to consider how the science of signs is meant to be related to other kinds of inquiry, as Peirce allots a specific place for logic in his arrangement of scientific inquiry. As I observed earlier, he is intriguingly reluctant to explicitly insert the science of signs into his classification, but it seems fairly safe to assume that ‘logic’ would be replaceable by ‘semeiotic’ in the hierarchy. However, as we shall see, such a swap is not entirely unproblematic due to the organizational principles that determine the relations of dependency among inquiries. The detailed classification that Peirce gradually articulates is not a mere collection of actual or potential inquiries; the arrangement is hierarchical in a special sense. Peirce adopts an organizational principle from the French positivist Auguste Comte, according to which ‘the sciences form a sort of ladder descending into the well of truth, each one leading on to another, those which are more concrete and special drawing their principles from those which are more abstract and general’ (CP 2.119 [c. 1902]; cf. MS 1334:8 [1905]; 655:15 [1910]).14 In other words, the hierarchy is based on the level of abstraction of the inquiries under consideration. Approaching the matter from a slightly different perspective, Peirce also connects the arrangement to the degree of determination of the sciences involved; ‘because the process of evolution both in the physical universe and in thought is mainly a process of determination, – of fixing that which had before not been fixed, – it follows that of almost any two considerable departments of study, the one is more determinate than the other, and needs to make use of the principles discovered in that other, which on its side owes nothing to the more determinate science excepting instances with which it could have dispensed’ (MS 605:4–5). Peirce maintains that ‘one science cannot furnish a principle to another science to be accepted by the other unquestionably, unless the conclusions of the former science extend without reasonable doubt to all the objects of the latter’ (MS 693:60 [1904]). The relationship between sciences in the ladder is not strictly reciprocal; the more abstract disciplines are capable of lending general principles to the more concrete ones, but the opposite does not apply. Therefore, Peirce argues that the testing of the results of one science according to the criteria of another requires that they are logically independent of one another. If the disciplines were mutually dependent yet equal, their testimonies would lack integrity; they would, ‘like two lying witnesses in court, sustain each other’s credit’ (MS 1334:33 [1905]; cf. Kent, 1987, p. 124). Consequently, Peirce’s classification of the sciences entails more than a mere cataloguing of disciplines; it is a heuristic aid meant to say something substantial about the relationships between various sciences and the conduct of inquiry. Of course, in their actual activities, the sciences utilize each other in a variety of ways (see MS 693:30–68 [1904]; HP 2:805–9 [1904]); but Peirce holds that the loaning of principles is the most relevant and useful connecting factor

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(Kent, 1987, p. 122). The aim of the classificatory project is to reveal significant relationships of dependency between the various forms of inquiry. The different sciences help one another, and that in multiform ways. No rules can be laid down as to where a science shall seek help; far less as to where it shall not. Yet in a general way the sciences are related like the rungs of a ladder. That is to say, some sciences are broader than others, look over a wider range of facts, but look less into details. The general rule is that the broader science furnishes the narrower science with principles by which to interpret its observations while the narrower science furnishes the broader science with instances and suggestions.[. . .] A good classification is a diagram usefully expressive of significant interrelations of the objects classified. The best classification of sciences is a ladderlike scheme where each rung is itself a ladder of rungs; so that the whole is more like a succession of waves each of which carries other waves, and so on, until we should come to single investigations.(NEM 4:227–8 [1905–06]) Where, then, do we find semeiotic in this ladder of sciences? According to Peirce’s mature view, logic is the third branch of normative science, which also comprises esthetics and ethics. Normative science forms the mid-part of philosophical inquiry, being below phenomenology15 but above metaphysics in the disciplinary ladder. Cenoscopic philosophy, as already noted, is the second rung of heuretic science, of which the first is mathematics and the third special science.16 Here I shall only be concerned with the disciplines above logic, as the latter allegedly relies upon the former in some manner. However, as the Comtean model suggests, this dependence should not be understood in a foundational sense; a higher science cannot provide a basis for a lower one, but merely principles and tools.17 Albeit applicable throughout the ladder, this tenet is most evident in the relationship between the main rungs, such as that between philosophy and mathematics. As the most abstract science, mathematics is not dependent on any other kind of inquiry; it is the only mode of research that is self-sufficient in the sense of not requiring principles provided by other sciences. Although mathematical hypotheses are often constructed in order to provide an idealized picture of something in the real world, the pure mathematician does not care about the fact that such mathematical representations are approximately true (NEM 3:343 [1903]). Being strictly hypothetical and formal, mathematics does not as such ‘touch the ground’ of experience in any significant sense. On the other hand, the placement of mathematics at the top of the hierarchy implies that certain mathematical principles are operative in the other sciences; Peirce even states that every science has a mathematical part (CP 1.133 [c. 1894]; 1.245 [c. 1902]). This might provoke protests; it certainly seems rather far-fetched to say that such human sciences as ethnology and literary criticism


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would employ mathematical principles in their investigations. However, Peirce does not claim that these inquiries would involve a clear-cut mathematical section, in which ethnological geometry or literary algebra would be pursued, or that the practitioners of the sciences in question would have to master advanced logarithms before being allowed to pursue more concrete studies. His point is that all sciences include the kind of imaginary or diagrammatic experimentation that is under close examination in mathematics; it is the kind of procedure typically employed in scrutinizing explanatory hypotheses – a method operative in semeiotic abstraction, as we have seen. Broadly put, mathematical research is performed by experimentation upon diagrams (MS 283:117v [c. 1906]). In other words, the special field of mathematical study is that of hypothetical schemas and relations; therefore, Peirce suggests that instead of mathematics we could talk about ‘schematoscopy’ (MS 1338:7 [c. 1905–06]).18 Moving onto the philosophical rung, the most general cenoscopic discipline recognized by Peirce is phenomenology. Albeit it operates on a high level of abstraction, phenomenological inquiry is experiential; it makes ‘the ultimate analysis of all experiences the first task to which philosophy has to apply itself’ (CP 1.280 [c. 1902]). However, phenomenology examines experience only as it appears as a phenomenon (or phaneron), whether the appearing objects be real or illusory; concisely put, it is ‘the science of what might appear or seem’ (MS 655:25 [1910]). Phenomenological investigation ‘ascertains and studies the kinds of elements universally present in the phenomenon; meaning by the phenomenon, whatever is present at any time to the mind in any way’ (EP 2:259 [1903]). As a rule, Peirce holds that the central task of phenomenology is the identification and articulation of ubiquitous categories of experience. It makes out ‘what are the elements of appearance that present themselves to us every hour and every minute whether we are pursuing earnest investigations or are undergoing the strangest vicissitudes of experience, or are dreamily listening to the tales of Scheherazade’ (PPM 152 [1903]). In other words, phenomenology is that study which, supported by the direct observation of phanerons and generalizing its observations, signalizes several very broad classes of phanerons; describes the features of each; shows that although they are so inextricably mixed together that no one can be isolated, yet it is manifest that their characters are quite disparate; then proves, beyond question, that a certain very short list comprises all of these broadest categories of phanerons there are; and finally proceeds to the laborious and difficult task of enumerating the principal subdivisions of those categories. (CP 1.286 [c. 1904]) The principal outcome of this endeavour is the theory of three irreducible and sufficient phenomenological categories, usually named firstness, secondness, and

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thirdness (PPM 208 [1903]). Stripped down to bare bones, these allegedly omnipresent categories can be characterized as follows: Firstness is the mode of being of that which is such as it is, positively and without reference to anything else. Secondness is the mode of being of that which is such as it is, with respect to a second but regardless of any third. Thirdness is the mode of being of that which is such as it is, in bringing a second and third into relation to each other. (SS 24 [1904]) I will return to some critical questions about the character and status of the Peircean categories later,19 when I scrutinize the drift towards formalism in semeiotic. The issue that we need to consider next is what the classification of logic as a normative science may entail for semeiotic. Broadly speaking, Peirce describes the task of normative inquiry as differentiating ‘what ought to be from what ought not to be’ (CP 1.186 [1903]); it can also be concisely characterized as an analysis ‘of the conditions of attainment of something of which purpose is an essential ingredient’ (CP 1.575 [c. 1902]). Put differently, the normative disciplines make basic distinctions between the good and bad – esthetics in the domain of feeling or presentation, ethics in the domain of action or effort, and logic in the domain of signs or representations (PPM 119 [1903]; 212 [1903]). This does not mean that their task would be to simply list the good and bad in each domain, or to produce quantitative scales of goodness and badness (PPM 210–11 [1903]). In contrast to phenomenology, which purportedly simply accepts the testimony of the phenomenon as it appears, normative inquiry involves an explicit awareness of the contrast between the actual and the ideal, as it scrutinizes practical experience in view of purposes. [The theories of the Normative Sciences] relate to how certain activities should be exercized in order to realize a deliberate ideal purpose. Each is marked, therefore, by the dual distinction that it emphasizes. Esthetics, the fine and the vulgar or not fine; ethics, the right and wrong; and logic, the true and false. This hard duality is the mark of the practical; and although the normative sciences are purely heuretic and not practical, yet they are heuretic sciences of practical activities. They are not all equally so, however; it is ethics to which this description most directly applies. (MS 283:34–5v [c. 1906]) This conception of a trichotomy of normative sciences is a relatively late product of Peirce’s philosophical labours. In early classifications, ethics does not rank as a theoretical science, and esthetics is rarely mentioned. The arrangement of the three normative sciences, with esthetics on the top and logic at the bottom, is established around the year 1902; but Peirce continues to express


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some doubts concerning the scientific status of esthetics and ethics even after the articulation of the perennial version of the classification.20 This is not entirely surprising; while his logical production is extensive, Peircean ethics and esthetics are underdeveloped as sciences.21 Peirce characterizes ethics as ‘that normative science which studies the conditions of that excellence which may or may not belong to voluntary action in its relation to its purpose’ (MS 693:86 [1904]), and esthetics as ‘the science of ideals, or of that which is objectively admirable without any ulterior reason’ (EP 2:260 [1903]). In other words, ethics is concerned with what is right and wrong in action, given certain ideal purposes, while esthetics is supposed to ‘determine by analysis what it is that one ought deliberately to admire per se in itself regardless of what it may lead to and regardless of its bearings upon human conduct’ (PPM 119 [1903]). Put differently, esthetical inquiry sets out to determine what is attractive in itself. Esthetics is the science of the general conditions of a form’s being beautiful. It has to begin by finding out what this familiar but elusive idea of the beautiful really means. It has to define it, not at all with reference to its pleasing A, B, or C, but in terms of those universal elements of experience that have been brought to light by phenomenology. Unless this can be done, and it can be shown that there are certain conditions which would make a form beautiful in any world, whether it contained beings who would be pleased with such forms or not, there is no true normative science of esthetics. (HP 2:832 [1904]) Again, it is quite clear that Peirce does not strictly follow the requirement that a particular science should be identified and delimited on the basis on a concrete social group of inquirers; while one could argue for the existence of a science of aesthetics, Peirce often defines esthetical inquiry in a manner designed to exclude much of what commonly goes under that name. More worryingly, however, some of his characterizations of esthetics and its role in normative investigation are so narrowly focused as to render even its claims to the status of a potential science rather dubious. True, Peirce’s definition of esthetics as ‘that normative science which studies the conditions of that kind of excellence which objects may possess in their presentation, or appearance, regardless of their relations’ (MS 693:86 [1904]) may be broad enough to embrace the activities of many aestheticians. However, he also frequently suggests that there is a strict hierarchical dependency among the three normative disciplines; as one mode of controlled and goal-directed conduct, logic is dependent on ethics as a source for principles, while both rely on esthetics to provide an account of the objectively admirable per se (EP 2:260 [1903]). This tends to reduce esthetics to the discovery of a highest standard (summum bonum) by which to judge aims and ideals of action, which in turn would be the province of ethics. This approach sometimes brings Peirce uncomfortably close to an almost anti-pragmatistic Platonism.

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Like Misak (2004, p. xv), I believe that the Peircean project can survive without recourse to an ultimate end of mankind that ‘recommends itself in itself without ulterior consideration’ (EP 2:260 [1903]) – that is, the ‘one quality that is, in its immediate presence, καλο′ς’ (CP 2.199 [c. 1902]). Indeed, as the foundation for normative science, esthetics would seem to be nothing but the reiteration of a foregone conclusion, as Peirce does not leave any room for doubt that there is one ultimate ideal (Bernstein, 1991, p. 37). Rather than reducing esthetics to the registration of the self-sufficient transcendent ideal, it seems more productive to say that the pragmatist’s operative summum bonum entails the goal to manifest reasonable generals in existents, or ‘the continual increase of the embodiment of [. . .] idea-potentiality’ (EP 2:343 [1905]). This might be translated as the development and formation of intelligent habits and practices in the world (cf. Colapietro 2005, p. 361). It is a matter of ‘rendering the world more reasonable, whenever [. . .] it is “up to us” to do so’ (CP 1.615 [1903]), but in full acceptance of the thoroughly fallible and contextual character of such endeavours. Such a worldly ideal is not strictly speaking admirable in itself, but only in relation to the practices from which it emerges and which it can guide. Furthermore, there is no infallible guarantee that there is one norm ‘to rule them all’; at best, esthetics is driven by the hope that varying and seemingly incommensurable ideals guiding particular practices can be rendered coherent. In lieu of the qualitative end-in-itself, which would appear as perfect firstness, we have to settle with the ends-in-view that emerge from our practices (cf. Stuhr 1994, p. 10) – which, however, does not amount to saying that all views and ends are of the same rank. What this does entail is a moderate contextualization of normativity, through which ‘objectivity will come to be seen as (in large measure) a demand we assume for ourselves’ (Colapietro, 1997, p. 264). Therefore, I find Peirce’s contention that esthetics would unearth that which is admirable ‘without any ulterior reason’ untenable, simply because ideals and purposes are the kind of things that arise from practices; without a practical context, such as is provided by inquiry and communication, esthetics in particular will not amount to much more than a reiteration of an empty creed. By speaking of a singular and self-sufficient summum bonum, Peirce in effect goes beyond what a fallible scientific intelligence can reasonably claim; it is almost to adopt the ‘modes of thought of a God, who should possess an intuitive omniscience superseding reason’ – something that he argues that a scientist ought to ‘put out of the question’ (CP 2.227 [c. 1897]). I suspect that Peirce is occasionally driven towards such an absolutistic position because of a too strict adherence to the hierarchical principle of classification coupled with a problematic application of the categories to normative inquiry. Instead, it seems reasonable to conceive of the normativity of esthetics, ethics, and logic in terms of criticism of habits, where the categories manifest themselves on the level of the objects criticized rather than as determinants of the sciences as such. In other words, all of the normative sciences are concerned with criticism of conduct, albeit of different kinds.


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This does not mean that ethics would not be in need of esthetics, or that logic could get along without the other two normative sciences. Any practice involves ideals and esthetic habits; if our aim is to improve our practices – which, arguably, ought to be the ambition of normative inquiry – then logic will be normatively dependent on ethics and esthetics. Peirce hints at such an approach when he notes that ethics and logic call for a science that ‘would have for its purpose to make our ideals, our aim, conform to what sufficient experience, consideration, and human development generally would tend to make them conform’ (MS 673:13 [c. 1911]). Even more pointedly, he argues that if a line of ‘conduct is to be thoroughly deliberate, the ideal must be a habit of feeling which has grown up under the influence of a course of self-criticisms and heterocriticisms; and the theory of the deliberate formation of such habits of feeling is what ought to be meant by esthetics’ (EP 2:377–8 [c. 1906]). The key to all of the normative sciences is that their subject matters are to some extent under control; esthetics, ethics, and logic ‘are confined respectively to ascertaining [. . .] how Feeling, Conduct, and Thought ought to be controlled supposing them to be subject in a measure, and only in a measure, to self-control, exercized by means of self-criticism, and the purposive formation of habit, as common sense tells us they are in a measure controllable’ (MS 655:24 [1910]). Consequently, it seems plausible to say that esthetics, ethics, and semeiotic all entail a practice of this kind, in which the improved self is construed as an achievement through indefinite replication of self-control upon self-control (CP 5.402 n. 3 [1906]), rather than isolating it to esthetics. On the one hand, it seems too unreasonable to make the esthetician carry the entire burden of distinguishing the summum bonum, while on the other it seems somewhat peculiar that ethicists and logicians should passively accept a standard set by esthetics when engaging in their own critical activities. Arguably, the three disciplines are better construed as essentially intertwined activities, where the dependency entails that the logician should also be an ethicist and esthetician. At times, Peirce does concede that the normative sciences do not form three entirely clear-cut disciplines after all. In particular, he suggests that esthetics and ethics could be united as one line of inquiry (MS 1334:36 [1905]). Esthetics, Practics,22 and Logic form one distinctly marked whole, one separate department of heuretic science; and the question where precisely the lines of separation between them are to be drawn is quite secondary. It is clear, however, that esthetics relates to feeling, practics to action, logic to thought. (EP 2:378 [c. 1906]) As the strict hierarchy of normative inquiry is qualified, more ominous doubts regarding the adequacy of the proposed classification begin to emerge. In A Syllabus of Certain Topics of Logic, Peirce concedes that the name ‘normative science’ is not exactly descriptive of all of the disciplines traditionally so called

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(EP 2:272 [1903]). The dual distinction, which is characteristic of normativity, is strong in ethics – the genuine ‘philosophy of purpose’ (MS 1135:5v [c. 1897]) – but weaker in logic and subordinate in esthetics. Indeed, Peirce suggests that ‘no form is esthetically bad, if regarded from the strictly esthetical point of view’, and adds that all ‘esthetic disgust is due to defective insight and narrowness of sympathy’ (EP 2:272 [1903]). In a different way, logic also fails to conform to the requirements of normative inquiry; it ‘began historically, and in each individual still begins, with the wish to distinguish good and bad reasonings’, but ‘develops into a general theory of signs’ (EP 2:272 [1903]). This could be interpreted as an admission that cenoscopic semeiotic is not really normative after all; it starts out as critical logic (i.e. logic in the narrow sense), which is concerned with the criticism of inferences, but as it is expanded into a theory of signs the critical aspect becomes less prominent. Semeiotic grammar, in particular, would seem to lack the normative ingredient. However, a closer look at Peirce’s argument regarding the insufficient normativity of esthetics reveals where this line of reasoning goes wrong; the error is to assume that there would be any scientifically relevant sense of a stringent ‘esthetic point of view’. If qualities and feelings could be considered in detachment, ‘without any idea of adopting the form in conduct’ (EP 2:272 [1903]), one would indeed be forced to deduce that there is no esthetic fault in the strict sense. There is no distinction between good and bad to be drawn in firstness; but then, there would be no meaningful difference between esthetics and the phenomenological observation of firsts either. The lesson I would draw from this is not that esthetics must contemplate an absolute object, but rather that it cannot be divorced from the idea of adopting esthetic forms in conduct, that is, in habits and practices. In other words, if it is not related to practices from which purposes and ideals emerge, esthetics will either drift aimlessly or become a barren doctrine. With minor modifications, an analogous pragmatistic argument is applicable to semeiotic. If we focus strictly on logic in the broad sense, without regard for the purposive and pragmatic context in which it is entrenched, it will indeed appear to be insufficiently normative, apart from the narrow part that is concerned with the distinction between truth and falsity. This, I believe, is the main reason that Peirce fails to introduce semeiotic properly into his classification of the sciences; if logic is generally defined as ‘that branch of normative science which studies the conditions of truth’ (MS 693:88 [1904]), then a considerable portion of semeiotic will certainly not meet the requirements. However, if we approach the matter from a broader perspective, then semeiotic can be construed as normative, because its overall aim is to contribute to the improvement of habits of understanding and sign use. Consequently, Peirce is absolutely right when he asserts that ‘it is only the connection of logic with esthetics through ethics which causes it to be a normative science at all’ (MS L75d:235–7 [1902]).


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What he arguably fails to fully appreciate is that normativity neither trickles down from a summum bonum identified by esthetics nor radiates to the margins from the core discipline of ethics; the normative sciences are rendered distinctly normative by their interconnections, which in turn entails that none of them is properly normative in isolation from the others. Consequently, I submit that none of the Peircean normative sciences can be appropriately practised in isolation, which in effect means that the broadening of logic should be even further extended, so as to encompass normative science as a whole. From this point of view, esthetics, ethics, and logic are better conceived of as indispensable phases in one and the same line of inquiry, rather than as a strict hierarchy.

3.3 Grammar and Rhetoric Peirce also proposes to divide semeiotic inquiry into three compartments, those of grammar, critical logic, and rhetoric.23 In fact, this trichotomy is the most enduring of all of his partitions of science; as we have seen, it surfaces in the very first texts that introduce semeiotic, and it is also discussed in some of his final writings. This is not to say that Peirce’s conception of the grammar–critic– rhetoric group would not change as time goes by; but with a few notable exceptions, these changes are more due to adjustments of the surrounding scheme than to major modifications of the relationship between the semeiotic sciences themselves. The most significant change pertains to the place of the grammar–critic– rhetoric division in relation to general semeiotic or logic; from the 1890s onward, Peirce divides logic rather than symbolistic into three sub-disciplines.24 I have already explored the rationale behind this move; for the topic at hand, its most obvious consequence is that all branches of semeiotic are concerned with all kinds of signs and not merely with symbols. In what follows, I will focus my attention mainly on the relationship between grammar and rhetoric, and on the role of the latter in semeiotic and in philosophy in general. This does not mean that critical logic would be less significant than the other branches; for Peirce, it is the very ‘heart’ of logic (SS 118 [1909]; MS 640:6 [1909]), although his writings show a growing appreciation for the significance of rhetoric, which he describes as ‘the highest and most living branch of logic’ (CP 2.333 [c. 1895]). However, for the purposes of this study, critical logic is not of primary importance.25 Beginning with the earliest semeiotic writings, Peirce suggests that the subdisciplines are distinguished by the fact that they focus on different semiotic functions: grammar on significant structure, (critical) logic on objective representation, and rhetoric on translation or interpretation (see, e.g. W 1:274 [1865]).26 In ‘On a New List of Categories’ (1867), he articulates this division in

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relation to ground, object, and interpretant – that is, the basic components of his early analysis of the representation relation. [L]ogic treats of the reference of symbols in general to their objects. In this view it is one of a trivium of conceivable sciences. The first would treat of the formal conditions of symbols having meaning, that is of the reference of symbols in general to their grounds or imputed characters, and this might be called formal grammar; the second, logic, would treat of the formal conditions of the truth of symbols; and the third would treat of the formal conditions of the force of symbols, or their power of appealing to a mind, that is, of their reference in general to interpretants, and this might be called formal rhetoric. (W 2:57 [1867]) Putting aside the fact that Peirce speaks of symbols rather than of signs in general, his association of the various semeiotic sub-disciplines with the principal aspects of the sign relation is a feature that we also find in many of his later characterizations of grammar, critic, and rhetoric (see, e.g. CP 2.229 [c. 1897]; SS 80 [1908]). In particular, Peirce’s conception of critical logic does not change significantly; in his later writings, he defines it as ‘the formal science of the conditions of the truth of representations’ (CP 2.229 [c. 1897]). From a slightly different point of view, its task is ‘to ascertain what descriptions of arguments are sound, and in what the soundness of each consists’ (MS 640:6 [1909]). In other words, critic is concerned with criteria for good and bad reasoning (CP 2.205 [1902]; EP 2:260 [1903]; 2:272 [1903]). Consequently, the province of critical logic can be summarized as an investigation of the reference of signs to their professed objects, examination of the conditions of truth in a narrow sense (i.e. truth as correspondence), and focus on the soundness of arguments. Peirce’s conception of grammar is arguably broadened in his mature philosophy, a revision probably related to a modification of the generic signs relation; in his later definitions of ‘sign’, reference to ‘ground’ tends to drop out.27 The function of grammar is to ‘study modes of signifying, in general’ (EP 2:19 [1895]), or to examine the ways in which something can be a sign (CP 1.444 [c. 1896]; EP 2:327 [1904]; MS 775:5 [c. 1904]). More specifically, grammar examines the conditions of signs having any significant or meaningful character (NEM 4:331 [1898]; CP 2.93 [c. 1902]). There are two potentially misleading elements in these characterizations. First, they may suggest that grammar is a theory of meaning; in A Syllabus of Certain Topics of Logic, Peirce quite straightforwardly asserts that it is ‘the general theory of the nature and meanings of signs’ (EP 2:260 [1903]). In view of the account of signification that he develops after the publication of the Syllabus, this is plainly untenable. As Peirce more and more clearly associates meaning with the sign’s relation to its interpretant or the interpretant in itself, it ought to be rhetoric rather than grammar that provides the abode for a Peircean theory of


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meaning – although there may be certain qualifications to that as well. Secondly, the term ‘condition’, which often crops up in Peirce’s portrayals of the semeiotic disciplines, might suggest a transcendental viewpoint, in which grammar lays out essential preconditions for semiotic knowledge. However, Peirce explicitly states that he is ‘not one of those transcendental apothecaries [. . .] who call for a quantity of big admissions, as indispensible Voraussetzungen of logic’; instead of Kantian ‘indispensible presuppositions’, he is looking for ‘something more substantial’ (CP 2.113 [c. 1902]). Admittedly, Peirce is here arguing against the notion that the concept of truth would entail transcendental conditions or beliefs, in place of which he contends that the only thing logic warrants is a hope for truth;28 but the argument is applicable to the matter at hand. Albeit grammar does set out to study the different ways in which something can be a sign, the conditions it allegedly discovers are not transcendental in the sense of laying out necessary prerequisites, neither of coherent experience nor of knowledge.29 Peirce’s grammar is weaker, as it merely strives to discover the requisites that any ‘thing’ must fulfil in order to be able to function as a sign; this is an eminently fallible undertaking. For these reasons, Peirce’s characterizations tend to be less than satisfactory, leaving it somewhat unclear what the function of grammar is supposed to be. However, the 1903 Syllabus may be viewed as a relatively reliable guide to the field of semeiotic grammar, as Peirce states that the publication is only concerned with this branch of sign-theoretical inquiry (EP 2:272). As one examines the explicitly semeiotic part of the Syllabus, it quickly becomes clear where the focus of grammar lies. Setting out from a definition of the sign or representamen as ‘a First which stands in such a genuine triadic relation to a Second, called its Object, as to be capable of determining a Third, called its Interpretant, to assume the same triadic relation to its Object in which it stands itself to the same Object’ (EP 2:272–3 [1903]), Peirce moves on to a methodical classification of signs, following the principles of his theory of categories. The result is his most systematic presentation of the physiology or syntax of semeiotic (cf. EP 2:272 [1903]; MS 452:6 [1903]).30 Indeed, were it not for the risk of a mix-up with later conceptions of the field of semiotic or linguistic inquiry, ‘syntax’ could be a more precise and descriptive term than ‘grammar’. The division of the field of semiotic inquiry into syntax, semantics, and pragmatics, introduced by Charles Morris (1938, pp. 6–7; cf. Carnap, 1946, pp. 8–9) and later adopted in linguistics as a division of the study of language, certainly bears a resemblance to Peirce’s trivium. However, there are certain significant differences between the two. Most importantly, logical critic differs markedly from semantics, at least as it has been practiced in philosophy, and ‘meaning’ is primarily a topic of rhetorical research in Peirce’s scheme, to mention just the most obvious examples. Interestingly, in one sketchy classification of the sciences, Peirce suggests that the whole of normative science could be called ‘pragmatics’; he characterizes it as ‘the study of how we ought to behave in the

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light of the truths of empirics [that is, phenomenology – MB]’ (NEM 3:1122). This could be taken as further corroboration of my hypothesis that the normative sciences are best construed as a unity; it could even be boldly interpreted as an indication of the primacy of rhetoric in the undertaking, as the pragmatic method is arguably a part of rhetorical or methodeutic inquiry. Be that as it may, the central task of grammatical inquiry is to unearth the possible syntactical connections between the elements of the generic sign relation, and to disclose what classes of signs may be thus obtained. It is at first a distinctly formal undertaking, as it sets out from a general definition and a set of mathematical principles that determine what kind of combinations are permissible; in the following step, the semeiotician is supposed to examine experience, and see whether these a priori classes of signs are in fact confirmed a posteriori (EP 2:289 [1903]). Only then can he or she truly recognize their importance or lack thereof. Consequently, it would seem that grammar possesses a relatively clear-cut function in semeiotic, in spite of Peirce’s occasionally confusing characterizations. In contrast, the status of rhetoric is manifestly uncertain, not only because of the fragmentary character of Peirce’s rhetorical efforts, but because of shifts that may amount to a substantial makeover of this field of inquiry.31 Peirce defines rhetoric as ‘the study of the necessary conditions32 of the transmission of meaning by signs from mind to mind, and from one state of mind to another’ (CP 1.444 [c. 1896]; cf. NEM 4:331 [1898]). The task of rhetoric ‘is to ascertain the laws by which in every scientific intelligence one sign gives birth to another, and especially one thought brings forth another’ (CP 2.229 [c. 1897]). As such, the focus of rhetoric would naturally seem to be placed on communication and interpretation. However, approximately in 1902, Peirce begins to define the third sub-discipline of semeiotic in terms that suggests that its proper province is methodology, something that is reflected in his new preferred name, ‘methodeutic’ (cf. CP 4.9 [1906]). The occurrence of this shift can be seen quite concretely in the Minute Logic, where the two terms still co-exist, albeit somewhat uneasily. In this context, Peirce characterizes rhetoric as being substantially the same as methodeutic; it is concerned with the ‘the general conditions of the reference of Symbols and other Signs to the Interpretants which they aim to determine’ (CP 2.93 [c. 1902]). At first, it does not seem that much has changed, apart from the name. In his 1902 Carnegie Application, Peirce says that ‘methodeutic looks to the purposed ultimate interpretant and inquires what conditions a sign must conform to, in order to be pertinent to the purpose’ (NEM 4:62 [1902]). However, a year later we find him defining the substance of the third branch of semeiotic as ‘the principles of the production of valuable courses of research and exposition’ (EP 2:272 [1903]). In A Syllabus of Certain Topics of Logic, Peirce says that methodeutic ‘studies the methods that ought to be pursued in the investigation, in


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the exposition, and in the application of truth’ (EP 2:260 [1903]). More in the same vein follows. The third department of logic ‘considers how inquiries are to be ordered and arranged’ (MS 452:6 [1903]); its ‘purpose is to ascertain the proper order of procedure in any inquiry’ (MS 640:6 [1909]). In short, methodeutic ‘shows how to conduct an inquiry’ (NEM 3:207 [1911]). Thus, it would appear that Peirce has replaced rhetoric with the more tangible or better-defined methodeutic, while at the same time restricting its scope to the study of effective methods. Some scholars have drawn this very conclusion; for instance, according to Lucia Santaella (1999, p. 380), the third branch of semeiotic develops from a narrow to a broad sense. However, at roughly the same time as this transformation takes place, Peirce also continues to write on rhetoric, and even proposes a quite intricate scheme of various rhetorical studies in ‘Ideas, Stray or Stolen, about Scientific Writing’ (1904). In this context, Peirce defines the third branch of semeiotic as ‘the science of the essential conditions under which a sign may determine an interpretant sign of itself and of whatever it signifies, or may, as a sign, bring about a physical result’ (EP 2:326 [1904]; cf. MS 836). However, not all rhetorical questions are necessarily pursued in philosophy. According to Peirce, there is, as a matter of fact, a universal art of rhetoric, which is ‘the general secret of rendering signs effective’ (EP 2:326 [1904]). From this art, which arguably is based on the rhetorica utens33 that consists of commonplace means and methods of communication and persuasion, one may abstract the science of rhetoric, which should investigate the principles of everything that the art covers or could cover. It is by no means clear how this characterization fits with the methodeutic point of view – or if it is even meant to do so. One could obviously argue that ‘Ideas, Stray or Stolen’ is explicitly focused on scientific writing and is therefore naturally a part of methodeutic; it is concerned with the publication of scientific findings, which is a central part of science according to Peirce. This is true as far as it goes, but it does not satisfactorily explain the discrepancies between the rhetorical and methodeutic perspectives. In fact, it would seem that many of Peirce’s characterizations of methodeutic are far narrower than his comparable definitions of rhetoric; some of the methodeutic definitions appear to turn the third branch of semeiotic into a set of rules for conducting successful research. Furthermore, in ‘Ideas, Stray or Stolen’, Peirce suggests that rhetoric could be divided into rhetoric of art, rhetoric of persuasion, and rhetoric of science (see EP 2:329 [1904]). This, in turn, could be interpreted to imply that methodeutic is only the part of rhetoric known as rhetoric of science. Yet, the contrast between rhetoric and methodeutic should not be exaggerated. Taking ‘rhetoric’ as an umbrella term, James Liszka (2000) argues that rhetoric as speculative rhetoric (i.e. as an account of the conditions of communication and the fixation of belief) and rhetoric as methodeutic (i.e. as a systematic procedure for inquiry and for the systematization of the sciences34) are reconcilable within scientific rhetoric, which ‘works to underscore the formal

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conditions of inquiry as a practice, including its presuppositions, purposes, principles, and procedures’ (p. 470). In spite of certain qualms regarding the term ‘formal conditions’, I find this approach promising, as it points to how we might conceive of (speculative) rhetoric and methodeutic within the same framework. By re-conceptualizing the third branch of semeiotic as methodeutic, Peirce establishes a concrete function for it in inquiry. He also wants to retain the broader conception, in which rhetoric is defined in terms of bringing forth interpretative effects or results. Adopting a slightly different point of view than Liszka, Ransdell (1997) enumerates three principal functions of the third semeiotic discipline; it ‘can be conceived variously as the general methodology of inquiry, as a theory about how beliefs are established when truth is sought,35 or as a theory about the representational process considered as an autonomous interpretant-generating process’ (§19). The autonomy claim is questionable, but if we speak more broadly about a theory of interpretant generation and communication, then Ransdell’s summary feels quite acceptable. In view of these reflections, it seems reasonable to maintain that rhetoric and methodeutic should not be conceived of as mutually exclusive alternatives; at any rate, it seems more productive to consider them as complementary approaches or perspectives within the same frame. Arguably, methodeutic and rhetorical viewpoints inform each other; there are undoubtedly interesting analogues between the semiotic processes of inquiry and communication that deserve to be explored. Possibly with this in mind, Peirce puts forward some definitions of the liveliest branch of semeiotic that are broad enough to encompass both methodeutic and rhetorical emphases, such as the following, one of his more successful succinct characterizations of the trivium: The whole discussion of the logical nature of the different kinds of possible signs makes up the first division of logic, or Speculative Grammar. The second division, Critic, discusses the relation of signs to their objects, that is, their truth. The third division, Methodeutic, discusses the relations of signs to their interpretants, that is, their knowledge-producing value. (MS 793:20 [c. 1906]) In addition to ‘knowledge production’, one might speak of communicative significance; in both cases, the emphasis lies on the interpretative effects of signs. This conception would be extensive enough to allow for an acceptable division of labour between rhetoric and methodeutic; explicitly rhetorical studies would be primarily concerned with communication, while methodeutic investigation would be a broader equivalent of what is usually known as methodology. However, if rhetoric encompasses a study of the underpinnings of inquiry, then it possesses a more vital role in Peircean philosophy than its disciplinary position would suggest. In the hierarchical model, rhetoric is dependent on critical logic, which in turn depends on grammar (EP 2:260 [1903]). Yet, it would seem that the


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tables can be turned, for if rhetoric investigates the principles of belief formation, communication, and inquiry, then practically all other sciences are in some sense dependent on it. Liszka (1996) makes this point with regard to the relation of reliance between rhetoric and critic, arguing that ‘critical logic is dependent upon universal rhetoric as the study of the formal conditions of inquiry’ (p. 79).36 In fact, the explication of Peirce’s conception of scientific inquiry that I pursued in Chapter 2 of this volume would be rhetorical in this sense; the first rule of logic, the idea of truth as hope, and the general principles of cooperation that were articulated could plausibly be construed as tenets applicable to any inquiry. Paradoxically, viewed from this perspective, rhetoric would be more basic than mathematics. More cautiously, we might follow Short in holding that rhetoric is the primary semeiotic discipline. [I]t follows both from Peirce’s pragmatism and from his holism (not a term he himself employed) that, of these three departments of semeiotic, rhetoric should occupy the primary position, without reference to which nothing in critic or grammar can be understood. For sign-interpretation and inference occur in a context, which is the use these processes have; we cannot understand what those processes are, without reference to their use. And the study of the use of signs is rhetoric. (Short, 2007b, p. 665) These are undeniably controversial claims, for they appear to knock Peirce’s ladder of sciences off balance; but I believe they point to a sound conclusion that is far less damaging to his project than it may seem to be. However, one might reasonably protest that rhetoric must at least be dependent on grammar, if the latter provides the former with the syntax of signs. Indeed, from this point of view, grammar must be given priority over rhetoric. Yet, it is important to take this arrangement in the right spirit: as a heuristic model of use for furthering systematic inquiry. If the hierarchy is construed as a strict order, there is a danger that semeiotic is rendered austerely formal, and it loses the rooting in common experience that should characterize philosophical inquiry. As we shall see, Peirce does occasionally succumb to this temptation, that is, to developing his theory of signs in a top-down manner that tends to turn grammar into a quasi-mathematical pursuit. However, it is not the only way to pursue the development of semeiotic. As in the case of the normative sciences of esthetics, ethics, and logic, Peirce at times argues for a stringent hierarchy of dependency among the branches of semeiotic, but he also maintains that the lines between the sub-disciplines are not hard and fast, and even suggests that they should not be treated as separate lines of inquiry at all. In a letter to Welby, he argues that the cenoscopic studies of signs are best viewed as one science, at least for the time being, since there is no natural line of demarcation provided by relevant concrete communities of research (EP 2:482 [1908]).

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Peirce is perhaps needlessly pessimistic when he suggests that the division of semeiotic into grammar, critical logic, and rhetoric should be postponed to an indefinite future. Again, it seems perfectly plausible to regard these compartments as interconnected phases within one scientific practice. The proposed reconception of the relationship between grammar and rhetoric does not necessarily gainsay Peirce’s approach, at least not in all respects. For instance, in a suggestive passage, he indicates that grammar needs to employ rhetorical evidence – that is, inferences drawn from our commonplace experiences of assertions. This evidential base is formally imperfect. Yet, it does not only provide the initial material for the inquiry, but also constitutes the testing ground for the systematically developed analysis (CP 2.333 [c. 1895]). This accords with Peirce’s claim that philosophy ought to be based on common, everyday experience; and in this dynamic field, from which all semeiotic abstractions emerge, ordinary communicative exchanges – in all their complexity – are the most full-blooded semiotic phenomena available. If this line of reasoning is correct, then grammar must, in certain respects, lean on rhetorical considerations – which, in turn, suggests that the relationship between grammar and rhetoric is not to be construed as a straightforward hierarchy, in which grammarians, oblivious to the interests and worries of rhetoricians, pursue their studies in an a priori manner, eventually handing over principles and concepts to the lower order. The picture that begins to emerge is more multifaceted, involving a continuous give and take between the two modes of semeiotic inquiry, and perhaps casting some doubt on the validity of pure semeiotic grammar – if such a thing is even conceivable. Even so, the reassessment of the relationship between the semeiotic disciplines should be performed with care. While the proposal calls for a partial overturn of old priorities, it is nonetheless not a call for an unstructured discipline without distinctions and divisions of labour. There is certainly the danger that we might end up in a situation in which grammar and rhetoric support each other as well as ‘two drunken sailors’ leaning against each other (CP 8.167 [1903]). The challenge here is to find a reasonable balance, which not only avoids a vicious circle but also provides the whole project of Peircean grammar with a rhetorical motivation. All this does not mean that we should simply turn the tables and proclaim the dominance of rhetoric, an approach advocated by some contemporary rhetoricians (e.g. Grassi, 1980; Meyer, 1986) that would replicate the radical stance of Florentine humanists like Lorenzo Valla.37,38 The only thing that the rhetorical approach necessitates is a healthy check on formalistic tendencies. That is, it acts as a reminder of the fact that even the most elegant and well-ordered semeiotic concepts, classifications, and theories are abstractions from sign use, and – not least – that they must also stand the pragmatic test of possible application in rhetorical studies. From one point of view – albeit an admittedly narrow and incomplete one – rhetoric is the beginning and end of semeiotic; grammar is a


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means for improving our rhetorical practices, that is, our habits of communication and methodeutic of inquiry. Consequently, I would suggest that there are reasons to treat rhetoric as more fundamental (but not foundational) for semeiotic and philosophy in general than we are used to. Following a rhetorical path into the Peircean science of signs would entail placing emphasis on those parts of Peirce’s semeiotic in which he not only suggests that the theory is an abstraction from actual practices, but also ‘derives’ central conceptions, such as object and interpretant, from ordinary sign use, such as communication. Indeed, it is by setting out from this point of view that it is plausible and justifiable to conceive of Peirce’s semeiotic as a philosophy of communication, in addition to its being a theory of signs that may be applicable to the study of communicative processes.

3.4 Irreducible Relations If there is one thing that characterizes Peirce’s theory of signs, it is his account of the generic semiotic relation. The simplest way to describe what distinguishes semeiotic from other major variants of semiotics is to say that it is based on the premise that the sign relation is irreducibly triadic. That it consists of a sign (or representamen) that represents an object for an interpretant or, alternatively, that mediates between object and interpretant is practically axiomatic for semeiotic; the line is so well rehearsed in the literature that it can feel like a superfluous truism for followers of Peirce and like rigid dogma to non-believers. The claim that semeiotic depends on the theory of categories is almost as selfevident, for Peirce singles out the conceptions of sign, representation, and medium as prime exemplars of thirdness (see, e.g. CP 1:337 [c. 1875]; 1.532 [1903]; 1. 537 [1903]). This undeniable reliance could be taken as a repudiation of the rhetorical perspective I sketched above; indeed, it may even cast some doubt on the experiential character of semeiotic, as Peirce sometimes appears to advocate a purely formal conception of the sign relation. To see on what grounds a formalistic or top-down approach may stand, it is necessary to look a bit closer at how – and at what level – claims about the irreducibility of triadic relations are made. If one tries to locate this issue in Peirce’s mature classification of the sciences, then it seems that questions concerning the categories would belong to phenomenology, the most abstract philosophical discipline. However, as a study of the phenomenon, this type of inquiry can feel almost intolerably light on substance and lacking in method. Sticking strictly to phenomenology, there would seem to be nothing much to do except to ‘open our eyes’ and observe, and then to note that our observations simply conform to a certain categoreal scheme. The talent required is allegedly not ‘minute accuracy’ in analysis, ‘but the knack

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of attending to elements so universal as often to escape notice’ (W 5:298–9 [1886]). In other words, phenomenology demands ‘very peculiar powers of thought, the ability to seize clouds, vast and intangible, to set them in orderly array, to put them through their exercises’ (CP 1.280 [c. 1902]). As a part of philosophy, phenomenology ought to be based on everyday experience. Indeed, in the Minute Logic Peirce asserts that ‘the ultimate analysis of all experiences [is] the first task to which philosophy has to apply itself’ (CP 1.280 [c. 1902]); and in ‘On the Classification of the Sciences’, he states that its material is universal experience – ‘experience [. . .] of the fanciful and the abstract, as well as of the concrete and real’ (MS 602:12–13 [late]). Yet, we find him criticizing James for the use of the term ‘experience’ where ‘phenomenon’, or, more properly, some technical substitute,39 ought to be employed (CP 8.301 [1904]). Thus, it seems that the phenomenon cannot be equated with experience, which would cast some doubt on the status of phenomenology as a philosophical science. However, just before his criticism of James’s vocabulary, Peirce talks about three ‘constituent principles of experience’ (CP 8.294 [1904]). This can hardly refer to anything else than the categories. One could question whether it is really James’s terminology that is confused; does not Peirce contradict himself by first stating that philosophy is based on common experience and then denying that the phenomenon is experiential? Certainly, the above statements cast some doubt upon the accuracy of the characterization of phenomenology as a positive science. The phenomenologist pays no heed to the status of the phenomenon; he or she is simply to open his or her ‘mental eyes and look well at the phenomenon and say what are the characteristics that are never wanting in it, whether that phenomenon be something that outward experience forces upon our attention, or whether it be the wildest of dreams, or whether it be the most abstract and general of the conclusions of science’ (CP 5.41 [1903]). Anything before the mind and eye is in this sense of equal rank; phenomenology allegedly just draws ‘up an inventory of appearances’ (CP 2.120 [c. 1902]). Therefore, there is neither a relevant metaphysical distinction between fact and figment nor any normative conception of right and wrong within phenomenology; in its strictest purity, it is an examination of ‘seemings’. ‘[P]henomenon’ is to be understood in the broadest sense conceivable; so that phenomenology might rather be defined as the study of what seems than as the statement of what appears. It describes the essentially different elements which seem to present themselves in what seems. Its task requires and exercises a singular sort of thought, a sort of thought that will be found to be of the utmost service throughout the study of logic. It can hardly be said to involve reasoning; for reasoning reaches a conclusion, and asserts it to be true however matters may seem; while in Phenomenology there is no assertion except that there are certain seemings; and even these are not, and cannot be asserted,


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because they cannot be described. Phenomenology can only tell the reader which way to look and to see what he shall see. (CP 2.197 [c. 1902]) The difficulty facing phenomenology is somewhat similar to the problem facing esthetics. What else can be said about phenomenological practice except ‘look and you shall see’?40 By following the hierarchical principles of his classification of the sciences too stringently, Peirce seems to be pushing himself into an untenable position; on the one hand, the top-most philosophical science turns out to be an endeavour that lacks experiential grounding and cannot make assertions, but on the other, this very enterprise is supposed to turn out the categories that inform semeiotic and practically all other modes of inquiry. Acting as the devil’s advocate for the moment, I would argue that phenomenology as such ends up being too thin and rather pointless; Peirce finds what he wants to find in the phenomenon, but cannot provide any arguments for why anyone else should find the same. It is just a matter of conviction, or worse, postulation. In other words, the phenomenological ‘method’ does not appear to be up to the grand task that it has been given. In particular, phenomenology seems to be at a loss when it comes to motivating why there must be three categories of experience, and why these should be considered to be sufficient. Similarly, Murray Murphey (1961) characterizes Peirce’s phenomenological approach as ‘a quite unsuccessful sleight of hand’, because it fails to provide a reason ‘as to why the classification by relations is to be preferred’ (p. 368). Murphey argues that Peircean phenomenology is an empty gesture, since the underpinning of the categories is logical (or, as he would have it, grammatical); if ‘the basis for the categories is not demonstrable until we reach speculative grammar, then the whole argument is circular, for speculative grammar itself presupposes the categories of phenomenology’ (Murphey, 1961, p. 369). What Murphey fails to appreciate is the extent to which Peirce’s logic of relations is mathematical, and not, properly speaking, logical. On the other hand, Murphey does have a point when he asserts that Peircean phenomenology fails to show why the phenomenal field should be analysed or classified in accordance with the categoreal scheme. Short (2007a) concurs, and adds that Peirce’s phenomenology is a ‘post hoc systematization of what was already being done’ (p. 65). It is difficult to avoid the suspicion that the phenomenological level is placed above normative science to free the logician from the need to justify the three-category scheme. Even if one accepts that phenomenological observation gives us three universal categories, Peirce appears to undercut his own argument when he divorces the phenomenon from experience. His assertion that phenomenology is not restricted to ‘the observation and analysis of experience’ but extended ‘to describing all the features that are common to whatever is experienced or might conceivably be experienced or become an object of study in any way direct or indirect’ (PPM 120 [1903]) suggests that it is pre-experiential rather than experiential.

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The trouble with this characterization is that it renders phenomenology practically indistinguishable from mathematics. In fact, there are certain arguments that would support the contention that much of what Peirce claims to be discovered on the level of phenomenology is in fact established in mathematics. Consequently, it is not surprising that many commentators have suggested that the most basic categories are mathematical (e.g. de Waal, 2001; Houser, 1989; Parker, 1998). At least, Peirce occasionally writes as if the categoreal elements could be found as such in a purely formal space, where they would appear as monadic, dyadic, and triadic relations. Should we, then, conclude that the foundation of the categories is to be located in mathematics? If we inspect Peirce’s writings with this question in mind, we find rather inconclusive evidence (cf. Houser, 1989). The description of the categories as a priori forms backs the hypothesis of there being mathematical categories. More support for this interpretation can be found in the hierarchical ordering of the sciences; since mathematics precedes philosophy, mathematical relations ought to be more primary than philosophical conceptions. This would appear to be the only way to consolidate Peirce’s ‘architectonic’ project with his mature conception of the sciences (Houser, 1989, pp. 104–5). In addition to these general arguments, Cornelis de Waal (2001, pp. 10–11) claims that Peirce did in fact perform an explicit mathematical ‘derivation’ of the categories using a graphical argument in one of his manuscripts (MS 915 [c. 1880–85]). Roughly, the graphical method proceeds as follows: start from the supposition of something, and represent it by a dot on a blank paper. By that act of representation, the blank of the paper has in fact been divided into two parts, the white and the black. This shows that to represent one we need to use the idea of two. In other words, to realize one, some second must be used, although one does not logically involve two as a part. Two can then be represented by two dots connected by a line. If the line is omitted, it will be supplied by the mind that must combine the dots to construct the idea of two. Thus the conception of a third, or middle, is introduced. However, to represent three explicitly, we can use three dots connected by three lines. Thus, it does not require the introduction of anything new – anything fourth. In other words, the graphical approach sets out to establish what are the minimal elements needed to represent combinations of any complexity, and by a series of simple steps establishes that three elementary conceptions – monadic, dyadic, and triadic – suffice. Peirce speaks of the ‘mathematical proposition’ that something, other, and third is present in anything that is supposed. This says nothing about the reality or experiential status of these simple relations; thus we are firmly in the province of mathematics. However, Peirce also suggests that this basic relational proposition involves or implies ‘all logic and all metaphysics in a nut-shell’. This sweeping statement can be interpreted as an affirmation of the priority of mathematical categories.


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Kelly Parker (1998) takes this line of thinking one step further by claiming that the categories are properly discovered in the simplest branch of mathematics, or the ‘mathematics of logic’, to use one of Peirce’s more confusing designations. Peirce suggests that one particularly useful way of classifying mathematical inquiry is based on the complexity of the hypotheses admitted – or, in other words, on the multitude of units supposed at the outset of the investigation (CP 4.248 [1902]; PPM 137 [1903]). Putting aside plain emptiness, the most austere hypothesis imaginable would be that there is nothing but one unit (CP 4.250 [1902]; PPM 137 [1903]). However, of such a strictly medadic universe, nothing can be asserted; because it lacks relation, it does not allow for any kind of reasoning and is therefore as impotent as mere nothingness. From a pragmatistic perspective, it is equivalent to an empty or absolute universe. Properly speaking, the simplest mathematical sub-discipline is dichotomic mathematics, in which two distinct objects or values, but no more, are admitted. There are only dyadic relations between the primary elements of this universe; however, there may be triadic relations between three different dyadic relations (PPM 138 [1903]). In its most important application, the system of dichotomic mathematics is interpreted as two-valued logic, in which an unknown x may be either true or false (CP 4.250 [1902]; Parker, 1998, p. 42). It is the basis of Boolean algebra. The next mathematical investigation in order of complexity is trichotomic mathematics, which sets out from the hypothesis of three elementary objects. Peirce notes that this branch is not as fundamentally important as dichotomic mathematics, and has in fact received very little attention (CP 4.308 [1902]; PPM 126 [1903]). Nonetheless, he asserts that it is of great interest because of the ‘generative potency’ of the number three (CP 4.309 [1902]). Using chemical models as starting-points,41 Peirce endeavours to show that relations of higher valency than three can be produced by manipulating triadic graphs, it being understood that a genuine triad cannot be similarly constructed from dyads. Without going into the details of Peirce’s quasi-chemical analyses or his examinations of the permutations of three things, we may note the upshot of his examination: We [. . .] see that it is impossible to deal with a triad without being forced to recognize a triad of which one member is positive but ineffective, another is the opponent of that, a third, intermediate between these two, is all-potent. The ideas of our three categories could not be better stated in so few words. (CP 4.317 [1902]) Thus, it would seem that the hypothesis of mathematical categories has been corroborated. Not only does Peirce explicitly speak of categories in the context of trichotomic mathematics, but he also describes the results of the mathematical analysis in a manner that must ring bells to readers familiar with his more generous descriptions of the philosophical categories – or, indeed, with his general definition of the sign. Hence, Parker’s contention appears to be right, apart

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from the fact that the categories are not strictly speaking discovered in the simplest mathematics, but in the slightly more complex domain of trichotomic mathematics. However, I am splitting hairs; the important thing here is that the categories are purportedly ascertained in purely mathematical analysis, without any reference to experience. Where does this leave phenomenology? It would seem that the categories, in their purest form, would already have been established by the mathematician, so what is a poor phenomenologist to do? Peirce suggests an answer to these questions in an entry in his Logic Notebook (MS 339:269 [1905]), where he offers a tentative outline of phenomenological investigation. Simplified, the main steps could be summarized as follows: 1. study of the forms of indecomposable elements of thought, that is, of elementary ideas that are a priori possible, and of the composition of concepts in general 2. examination of the forms of indecomposable elements we actually find 3. providing an account of the principal kinds of firstness, secondness, and thirdness Albeit the entry is sketchy, it does suggest a more robust conception of phenomenological inquiry. Notably, the first part would be mathematical or quasi-mathematical. The second part would be empirical or quasi-empirical, as it entails an investigation of actual experience in order to see whether we find phenomena (which might be characterized as experiences as they seem) that correspond to the mathematical categories. The third part would be analytical and classificatory, consisting primarily of an articulation of the relations between the substantiated categories.42 It is not possible to delve into the details of Peirce’s analysis of relations and phenomenological categories here; it is a highly complex issue full of false leads and outright contradictions. For our purposes, it is sufficient to note some mathematic-phenomenological principles that evidently inform Peirce’s grammatical endeavour to forge an adequate definition of the general sign relation. These principles could be summarized as Peirce’s ‘remarkable theorem’ or ‘reduction thesis’ (cf. Brunning, 1997; Burch, 1991; Herzberger, 1981; Ketner, 1989). It has two parts, a ‘sufficiency theorem’, which states that tetrads or relations of higher complexity than three may be composed exclusively of combinations of monads, dyads, and triads, and a ‘non-reduction theorem’, according to which no triad can be composed of relations of lower valency than three, that is, of monadic and dyadic relations only (Ketner, 1989, pp. 135–6). Or, to use Peirce’s words, a ‘triad is something more than a congeries of pairs’, and systems ‘of more than three objects may be analyzed into congeries of triads’ (NEM 4:307 [c. 1894]). Strictly speaking, these theorems should be treated formally and proved mathematically, as they are perfectly hypothetical and in that sense a priori.


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Whether that is doable or not is an undecided matter; it is at any rate clear that a complete and satisfactory treatment of the topic would require a rather intricate technical discussion.43 On the other hand, the simple graphical ‘derivation’ sketched above already suggests the rationale behind the Peircean thesis. A slightly different way to depict the matter is to conceive of relations in terms of bonds: a monadic relation can ‘attach’ one object only, a dyadic relation can join two objects, and so on. Relations are combinable if there are free or ‘unsaturated’ bonds to which other relations can be attached; this combinatory ‘power’ of the relation is referred to as its valency. The joining of two relations is conceived of as a welding together of two unsaturated bonds. In general, the valency of the result can be calculated using the following general formula of relational union: the combination of any μ-ad with any υ-ad gives a [μ+υ−2λ]ad, where λ is the number of bonds combined (CP 3.484 [1897]). Consequently, combining two dyads (– O – + – O –) will give us a new relation of the same valency (2 + 2 − 2), and not increase relational complexity; for that, triads are required, which leads us to the non-reduction theorem. However, using relations of valency three, tetrads, pentads, hexads, and so on, can be constructed, which is what the sufficiency theorem in practice entails. Peirce sums this up by saying that we can take two [. . .] triple relatives and fill up one blank place in each with the same letter, X, which has only the force of a pronoun or identifying index, and then the two taken together will form a whole having four blank places; and from that we can go on in a similar way to any higher number. But when we attempt to imitate this proceeding with dual relatives, and combine two of them by means of an X, we find we only have two blank places in the combination, just as we had in either of the relatives taken by itself. (W 6:175 [1887–88]) Although the Peircean thesis is properly speaking mathematical, and does as such not require illustrations culled from experience, the relations of giving and exchange that Peirce often employs as examples are useful in this context. If we analyse the tetradic relation ‘A gives B to C in exchange for D’, we will find that it is equivalent to saying that there is a surrender of D by C, which takes place in consideration of the reciprocal surrender of B by A (SS 190 [1905]; cf. W 5:244 [1885]; W 6:175 [1887–88]). That is, Peirce argues that ‘to say that there is a relation between four objects A, B, C, D is the same as to say that there is an object M, so related to C and for D that A is in the given relation to B and for M’ (SS 190 [1905]). Thus, the tetradic relation can be analytically articulated as two triadic relations, although this does not constitute a full analysis. This reduction illustrates the sufficiency of triadic relations; there is no need to assume an indecomposable tetrad in order to account for the exchange relation. Similarly, the non-reduction theorem can be exemplified – and possibly proved, since only one truly irreducible triadic relation is required for that – by giving.

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This relation can be expressed schematically as A gives B to C (or more properly as – gives – to –). A triad is something more than a congeries of pairs. For example, A gives B to C. Here are three pairs: A parts with B, C receives B, A enriches C. But these three dual facts taken together do not make up the triple fact, which consist[s] in this that A parts with B, C receives B, A enriches C, all in one act. (NEM 4:307 [c. 1894]) In other words, we could try to express the relation of giving as a set of dyadic relations, but in doing so, something crucial would be lost, namely the triadic act of giving. Obviously, the plausibility of Peirce’s position depends on how inclined we are to agree with his conviction that there really are genuine triadic relations. Yet, even if one is sceptical about the validity of his analysis – or of its presuppositions – it is difficult to deny the force of his commonsense appeal to examples such as giving. If the relation is reduced to a compound of dyads, something indispensable is indeed lost. Peirce often contends that giving involves a law, an intelligible principle that guides the mechanical (dyadic) actions involved (MS 462:68–70 [1903]; SS 29 [1904]). [T]he relation of giving [. . .] does not consist in A’s throwing B away and its accidentally hitting C, like the date-stone, which hit the Jinnee in the eye. If that were all, it would not be a genuine triadic relation, but merely one dyadic relation followed by another. There need be no motion of the thing given. Giving is a transfer of the right of property. Now right is a matter of law, and law is a matter of thought and meaning. (CP 1.345 [1903]) The sign relation is decidedly akin to giving; as noted, Peirce portrays the basic semiotic relation as an irreducible triad that can be articulated schematically as ‘– represents – to –’ or as ‘– mediates between – and –’. This suggests that the conception of the generic sign relation may be obtained by moving from mathematics to grammar via phenomenology, where the role of the latter is to detect the appearance of certain triadic phenomena – signs, representations, or mediums – that conform to the mathematical categories. The function of grammar in this top-down method would be to forge a more substantial conception of the sign relation and sign classes; for as Peirce argues, the ‘principles and analogies of Phenomenology enable us to describe, in a distant way, what the divisions of triadic relations must be’, but ‘until we have met with the different kinds a posteriori, and have in that way been led to recognize their importance, the a priori descriptions mean little’ (EP 2:289 [1903]). However, this strategy, which supposedly progresses from the hypothetical to the experiential, carries a decided risk, namely that of generating a formal conception of sign with insufficient underpinning in experience. Arguably, Peirce does fall into that trap at times.


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3.5 Problems of Formalism Anyone who has given semeiotic more than a passing glance will know that Peirce spends a considerable amount of time and effort searching for an adequate definition of the general sign relation. More than once, he declares that the idea excited by the common word ‘sign’ is hazy, and that its meaning needs to be worked out (see, e.g. MS 8:1 [c. 1903]; EP 2:388 [c. 1906]). This is a difficult task; according to Peirce, we are prone to include too little or too much in our characterizations (MS 634:19 [1909]). Reflecting on the matter in a letter to Welby, he asserts that if ‘the question were simply what we do mean by a sign, it might soon be resolved’ (SS 31 [1904]). However, Peirce contends that we are in a situation similar to that of a zoologist, ‘who wants to know what ought to be the meaning of ‘fish’ in order to make fishes one of the great classes of vertebrates’ (SS 31 [1904]; cf. EP 2:402–3 [1907]; MS 318:19 [1907]). Purportedly, this endeavour will give us a concept that may exclude some things ordinarily called signs, but which will almost certainly include others customarily not so called (EP 2:388 [c. 1906]). Peirce’s aim is to find a conception of ‘sign’ that is useful for logic, and, by extension, for inquiry in general.44 Taking a broad overview of Peirce’s numerous characterizations of the general sign relation, it seems that the search for an adequate technical definition of ‘sign’ principally boils down to an effort to purge the concept from subjectivistic and mentalistic associations. This is taken to varying lengths in the different attempts; often, Peirce settles with abstracting from the interpreter or sign user, so as to give a non-psychologistic definition independent of actual interpretation or sign use. That is, he strives to eliminate all references to personal mind from the general definition. For instance, he announces that he intends to give a characterization of the sign that ‘no more refers to human thought than does the definition of a line as the place which a particle occupies, part by part, during a lapse of time’ (NEM 4:20 [1902]). Yet, many of these characterizations retain terms with certain experiential associations, such as ‘representation’ and ‘mediation’. Representation is the relation of one thing, – the representamen, or sign, – to another, – the object, – this relation consisting in the determination of a third, – the interpretant representamen, – to be in the same mode of relation to the second as the first is to that second. (MS 491:1 [1903]) In its genuine form, Thirdness is the triadic relation existing between a sign, its object, and the interpreting thought, itself a sign, considered as constituting the mode of being of a sign. A sign mediates between the interpretant sign and its object. Taking sign in its broadest sense, its interpretant is not necessarily a sign. (SS 31 [1904])

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These definitions suggest to what extent Peirce draws on the theory of categories in his semeiotic. The sign relation is depicted as a genuine triad, even as thirdness par excellence; there is an obvious emphasis on the form of the relation. However, at times, Peirce takes this line of argument one step further, pushing the theory of signs towards outright formalism. In the Carnegie Application, he first describes the sign as ‘something, A, which brings something, B, its interpretant sign determined or created by it, into the same sort of correspondence with something, C, its object, as that in which itself stands to C’, and then asserts that he proposes to deduce mathematically the principles of logic from this characterization and an account of the meaning of ‘formal’ (NEM 4:20–1 [1902]). The references to ‘mathematical deduction’ and a definition of ‘formal’ (which is not given) indicate that semeiotic would lean heavily on mathematics in the construction of a systematic theory of signs; arguably, the most developed exemplar of this approach is the classificatory endeavour of A Syllabus of Certain Topics of Logic (1903). Peirce fully affirms semeiotic formalism in ‘The Basis of Pragmaticism’ (MS 283), where he declares that ‘the new concept of a “sign” will be defined exclusively by the forms of its logical relationships; and the utmost pains must be taken to understand those relations in a purely formal, or, as we may say, in a purely mathematical way’ (EP 2:389 [1906]). All ‘accidents of experience’ are to be excluded from consideration in this primary grammatical task. Somewhat incongruously, Peirce does not end up crafting the kind of formal definition one might expect; in fact, ‘The Basis of Pragmaticism’ provides one of his most interesting accounts of the sign as a medium of communication, with rich experiential associations. Perhaps we should not read too much into this turn of events; but it may be an indication of certain shortcomings of the purely formalistic approach. Be that as it may, it is obvious that any verbal definition of the sign relation will always fall short of being purely formal. However, in lieu of a satisfactory graphical depiction (if such a thing is even possible), Peirce doubtless comes near to a ‘mathematical’ definition of ‘sign’ in the following characterization: A ‘sign’ is anything, A, which, (1) in addition to other characters of its own, (2) stands in a dyadic relation, γ, to a purely active correlate, B, (3) and is also in a triadic relation to B for a purely passive correlate, C, this triadic relation being such as to determine C to be a dyadic relation, ζ, to B, the relation ζ corresponding in a recognized way to the relation γ. (SS 192 [1905]) This may be as close as one can get to a purely formal definition of the sign relation. It excludes references to human interpreters and thought, does not use terms such as ‘represent’ or ‘mediate’, and even drops the concepts of ‘object’ and ‘interpretant’ in favour of the more technical ‘correlate’. Yet, one might contend that the characterization does not succeed in eliminating all


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non-mathematical terms; while it may be possible to provide a satisfactory formal account of determination and correspondence – albeit it is not at all clear that it is – the reference to recognition does suggest, however tenuously, something capable of recognizing. It is the ghost of the scientific intelligence that discovers, uses, and even produces signs. Why, then, does not Peirce pursue his formalistic approach to its logical conclusion? Many of his final characterizations of the sign relation fall noticeably short of formal perfection. One reason is certainly that Peirce is wary of the criticism that could be directed against his attempts to craft a general account of the sign without making explicit allusions to human thought (see NEM 4:313 [c. 1906]). He often defines the sign relation in a more lax way, sometimes inserting references to minds and persons at the interpretative end. Grudgingly, Peirce declares that he has decided to limit his conception, ‘so as to define a sign as anything which is on the one hand so determined (or specialized) by an object and on the other hand so determines the mind of an interpreter of it that the latter is thereby determined mediately, or indirectly, by that real object that determines the sign’ (NEM 3:886 [1908]). In a well-known letter to Welby, he laments this compromise, describing the addition of ‘person’ to one of his definitions as a ‘sop to Cerberus’ (SS 81 [1908]). This would suggest that the less-than-formal definitions are merely the result of a recognition of the limitations of readers, who are not able or prepared to accept Peirce’s broader conception of sign. However, this is only a part of the truth, for at the tail end of his most ardent attempts to find a strictly technical definition of the sign relation,45 Peirce also begins to increasingly recognize the value of the everyday concept of sign; indeed, he explicitly asserts that it is ‘a wonderful case of an almost popular use of a very broad word in almost the exact sense of the scientific definition’ (SS 193 [1905]). This development admittedly overlaps with certain formalistic tendencies, but at least, there seems to be a quite different strand of thought running alongside – or rather, in the opposite direction to – the top-down approach that sets out from pure form and then argues that experience does in fact conform, if the analysis is ever taken down to the complex experiential ground of common semiotic practice. There are certainly a number of factors that help explain the turn away from pure formalism in semeiotic. One of the clearest reasons is a perceived inadequacy of ‘representamen’, the technical concept Peirce strives to develop. Peirce characterizes the representamen as the refined conception of sign; the word ‘sign’ purportedly indicates the ‘ordinary’ notion of sign as ‘anything which conveys any definite notion of an object in any way, as such conveyers of thought are familiarly known to us’, while ‘representamen’ is to be applied to the essential features of a sign, as these are revealed by analysis (CP 1.540 [1903]).46 In other words, Peirce strives to replace the indefinite commonsense notion of sign with a ‘more general and more definite term’ – a concept from

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which vagueness would be eliminated as far as possible while at the same time expanding its breadth in application (CP 4.447 [c. 1903]). However, Peirce realizes that the technical concept is in fact narrowing the scope of his semeiotic in ways not foreseen; somewhat paradoxically, this change of mind is announced directly after one of his most formal definitions of the sign relation. More specifically, Peirce rejects ‘representamen’ because the term excludes too much, in particular such ordinary signs as warnings (SS 193 [1905]). Here, Peirce seems to suggest that some of the less definite associations of the ordinary concept actually capture something important about semiotic relations, which may be lost in the rigorous technical definitions. True, this motive for dropping the technical concept seems to be entirely due to an unfortunate choice of term;47 ‘representamen’ is disqualified because Peirce feels that it is too narrowly tied to the representative relation between sign and object, which is not the most lucid way to account for the kind of relation characteristic of indexical signs. However, it is possible to discern a more substantial cause behind the move to accept ‘sign’ as a satisfactory term for scientific semeiotic; as Peirce begins in earnest to develop his theory of interpretants from 1904 onwards, the focus of his generic conception of sign action arguably moves in the direction of interpretation and mediation, semiotic functions that are better captured by ‘sign’ than by ‘representamen’. Another factor that may partly explain why Peirce at times leaves the formalistic path is the development of his ‘logic of vagueness’. Albeit a longtime interest of his, this account of semiotic indeterminacy begins to congeal into a coherent theory around 1905. For the issue at hand, the significance of this advance is that Peirce increasingly acknowledges that there are limits to definiteness. Vagueness or indefiniteness is not in all cases just a regrettable deficiency that could in principle be eliminated by clear and distinct definition without losses to signification, fecundity, and depth; in fact, Peirce asserts that ‘superficial parts of mind [. . .] are alone susceptible of exact definition’ (MS 805:18). Thus, ‘vagueness [. . .] is no more to be done away with in the world of logic than friction in mechanics’ (CP 5.512 [c. 1905]). Furthermore, persons ‘who are given to defining too much inevitably run themselves into confusion in dealing with the vague concepts of common sense’ (CP 6.496 [c. 1906]). Peirce argues that in addition to the crafting of an adequate technical vocabulary, which the philosopher needs to do, ‘it is at least equally needful that philosophy should adopt into its language a body of words of vague significations with which to identify those vague ideas of ordinary life which it is its business to analyze; and for this purpose vernacular locutions, if unmistakably apt, will be the best’ (MS 280:5 [c. 1905]). This is sound philosophical rhetoric. The inherent vagueness of the concept of sign is probably irreducible; but that indefiniteness can be beneficial in certain respects, providing a degree of flexibility of use and space for growth. Metaphorically speaking, the sign is not


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an artificial creation, but a living conception with roots in practices such as inquiry and communication. This resort to metaphor might be felt to be just the sort of loose talk that formalism is designed to avoid, but Peirce argues that ‘logical and phaneroscopical concepts need to be clothed in such garments’, for ‘a pure idea without metaphor or other significant clothing is an onion without a peel’ (EP 2:392 [c. 1906]). If intellectual discourse – external or internal – is divested of substantial signs in order to ‘get at the naked thought itself’, ‘it ceases to be thought’ (NEM 3:1119 [1903]). This, I submit, is one reason why a strictly formalistic top-down agenda in semeiotic will leave us empty-handed. This does not mean that semeiotic would merely register how the word ‘sign’ is used in ordinary language, or that formal methods and approaches would somehow be banned from the theory of signs. What this does entail is that a definition of the sign relation, however exactingly devised and general, cannot be purely formal or mathematical without losing something vital. If accepted, this perspective also affects how we view the Peircean categories. I agree with Colapietro (2001), who contends that the categories are primarily heuristic aids; they ought not to be conceived of ‘as a static taxonomic but rather as a dynamic interrogative framework’ (p. 202).48 Similarly, Short (2007a) argues that ‘Peirce’s phaneroscopic theses are like hypotheses in natural science: based on observation, they are nonetheless not fully justified by observations already made but must prove themselves by their fruitfulness for further research’ (pp. 65–6). Furthermore, countering Murphey’s (1961) piercing criticism of Peirce’s phenomenology, Short notes that this lack of firm foundation is not a defect; Peirce’s adoption of a phenomenological stance can be interpreted as a fallibilistic move beyond Kantian or transcendental justification.49 Consequently, the theory of categories does not provide the kind of support for the formalistic strategy that might be expected. Although Peirce at times seems to suggest that the categoreal conceptions are obtained by purified observation, aided only by mathematics, this only goes to show one of the perils of a top-down approach taken too far; what is easily omitted is the fact that the categories are abstractions from common experience, and that this fact ought to be as irreducible as the basic relations themselves. True, looking at the matter from a strictly systematic and hierarchical point of view, the categories will appear purely formal; but to suggest that they are gradually ‘filled’ with experience as we move downward on the scientific ladder is somewhat disingenuous. In view of Peirce’s actual discussions of the categories, it seems more appropriate to say that rough categoreal conceptions are first obtained abductively and inductively from the rough and tumble of ordinary experience. Certainly, this is the way Peirce frequently introduces and discusses the conceptions. For instance, firstness is characterized as experience of simple qualities or feelings, secondness as the experience of ‘brute’ action and struggle,50 and thirdness as the experience of mediation and law. Firstness is manifested in simple experiences, such as

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‘the color of magenta, the odor of attar, the sound of a railway whistle, the taste of quinine, the quality of the emotion upon contemplating a fine mathematical demonstration, the quality of feeling of love’ (CP 1.304 [1905]), while secondness is manifested by experiences marked by a clash between ego and non-ego, such as those of constraint and force (CP 1.325). These are inevitably deficient characterizations. Properly speaking, the first and second experiential categories cannot be described, but only felt or experienced; thus, the definitions are at best indices that point to some ingredients of experience. Nor are characterizations of thirdness ever perfect. However, the descriptions themselves, to the extent that they are comprehensible, illustrate the experience of the category, since it is principally experienced as the function of the sign, as Peirce makes clear in the 1903 Lowell lectures: This element of our daily & hourly experience, the element of the conformity of fact to thought, – this element whose being such as it is consists in this that it has such reference to an object independent of it as to bring a third thing (the interpretation) into the same triadic relation to the same object, – this character of a sign, the being an exponent of thought, is what I call the element of Thirdness in the phenomenon. (MS 462:84–6) The third element is the moulding of brute reactions into conformity to ideas. It is the growth into expression of a thought which can only be thought in the expression, this expression consisting of a bending of reactions to the form of the idea. But, dear me, what a fearfully abstruse matter I am making of that which is the easiest thing in the world to understand, the nature of a general sign. Yes, strictly speaking the very easiest of all things to understand; for what we call understanding anything else merely consists in seeing that it is of the nature of a sign. Every little child understands it perfectly. But as he grows up and loses his gift of language, it becomes more difficult; and the more he studies and cultivates his mind the more inscrutable this simple business of a sign, which is the only comprehensible thing in the universe, appears to him to be. (MS 462:76–8) In ‘Pragmatism’ (1907), Peirce asserts that the theory of categories cannot be proved logically, at least not as things stand; therefore, it must be stated ‘problematically, as a surmise to be verified by observation’ (MS 318:23 [1907]). To this we might add that the corroboration can never be complete, and also that the first ‘problematic’ expression of the categories is experiential. The role of phenomenology in all of this is arguably to review the crude categories of experience from a formal point of view, giving us more sophisticated conceptions that are experientially grounded yet hypothetical and fallible; it is a circular process of refinement, moving from experience to form and back again, with no specific end in sight to the cycle. Thus, I maintain that the Peircean categories


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should be treated neither as God-given truth nor as absolute principles of classification; they ought to be viewed as pragmatically grounded hypotheses that need to be tested in inquiry and judged on the basis of their capacity to raise questions and to guide inquirers to fertile fields of study. In the end, the most convincing validation of the trichotomic scheme is its suggestive power. I have followed out this trichotomy into many [. . .] ramifications, and have uniformly found it to be a most useful polestar in my explorations into the different branches of philosophy. There is no fallacy in it; for it asserts nothing, but only offers suggestions. It has preserved me, in innumerable cases, from one-sided opinions. It has had me search in directions that it has indicated for points of view that I should otherwise have overlooked. (MS 318:36 [1907]; cf. CP 1.351) In Peirce’s evocative metaphor, the categoreal ideas are like beautiful pebbles on the beach, ‘worth taking home, and polishing up, and seeing what they are good for’ (RLT 149 [1898]). In addition, it is worthwhile to note that Peirce’s overall attitude towards formalism in philosophy is rather ambiguous. On the one hand, he often lashes out at philosophers, such as his fellow-pragmatists James and F. C. S. Schiller, for lack of appreciation for the value of exactitude and abstraction (see, e.g. CP 5.537 [c. 1905]). On the other hand, Peirce chides Kant, the philosophical master of his youth, for being ‘twisted up in formalism’ (SS 141 [1911]). Undoubtedly, Peirce is a pioneer in formal logic. Yet, he distances himself from excessive formalism in logical inquiry; as noted earlier, he argues that ‘formal logic must not be too purely formal’, or it may degenerate into a ‘mathematical recreation’ (W 4:421 [1883]). Furthermore, Peirce claims that the failure of many philosophers has been caused by their tendency to ape mathematics, ‘crudely mimicking its externals’ (NEM 4:228 [1905–06]). This leads us to a final factor that may explain why Peirce wanders astray from the formalistic path. Namely, as noted above, he at times suggests that the theory of signs could be conceived of as a ‘deduction’ from a small number of principles, resulting in a purely formal conception of the sign relation and the classification of signs. However, if such a strategy were possible, we would not obtain a philosophical semeiotic, but a mathematical account of possible relations of a certain kind. Such a formalistic approach inevitably falls short when faced with the question of the experiential grounding of semiotic concepts. Of course, it might be suggested that the a priori phase, in which possible semiotic relations are laid out in an orderly categoreal fashion, ought to be followed by an a posteriori phase, in which the inquirer checks whether there really is anything in experience that would match the forms (cf. EP 2:289 [1903]); but schemes like that easily become self-fulfilling prophesies. The problem is most acute in the case of the key concept of sign. Following the top-down path, there seems to be no experientially or

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pragmatically grounded argument that would justify or even weakly support a triadic conception of the sign; it is a mathematical entity, purely formal and hypothetical. This way, semeiotic would be turned into a mathematical recreation.

3.6 A Rhetorical Approach to the Sign If the rigorous formalistic strategy is deemed to be inadequate, there are two alternatives; either we choose to part ways with Peirce, or else we need to find another Peircean route to a satisfactory general conception of the sign – not necessarily as an all-out replacement for the top-down strategy but as a complement to and a partial corrective of the attempt to articulate the triadic conception of sign mathematically and categoreally. This is where the rhetorical perspective I mentioned earlier comes in; it is a bottom-up approach that sets out from semiotic experience rather than from mathematical or grammatical form.51 Peirce suggests this approach when he contends that semeiotic ought to begin with observation of ‘the characters of such signs as we know’, and only then, by abstraction, move on to ‘statements, eminently fallible, and therefore in one sense by no means necessary, as to what must be the characters of all signs used by a “scientific” intelligence’ (CP 2.227 [c. 1897]). Of course, this raises the question of how familiar signs ought to be observed. This is rendered particularly problematic by the fact that the usual ‘way of using signs is to think in them without thinking of them, as signs’ (MS 810:2). Likewise, trying to form adequate conceptions of the basic ingredients of the sign – supposing that a sign can be so partitioned – is not a simple matter; if ‘we look upon Sign, Object, & Interpretant in a sufficiently broad way, they become indistinguishable’ (MS 339:255 [1905]). That is arguably what unadulterated observation will give us: a perfusion of signs, or a flow of semiosis without firm demarcations between various signs and between components of sign relations that would aid us in forming satisfactory abstractions. There are, undeniably, distinct signs in experience; yet, they tend to be so interconnected that no selfevident lines of separation can be discerned in the logica utens and rhetorica utens of our daily lives. As Peirce says, everything ‘is in reality welded together’ (MS 452:11 [1903]). No doubt, this is the stage at which the theory of categories could show its heuristic value; it might give us some valuable hints about how to identify significant gaps and boundaries in semiotic experience so as to render abstraction feasible. However, as noted, this can be perilous, as it may lead to an artificial partitioning based on a priori principles and foregone conclusions. Consequently, it is advisable to consider some other criterion or rationale for identifying and articulating the primary object of study. Arguably, the starting-point should not be a postulation of absolute principles or ad hoc hypotheses. Neither should we try to ground the endeavour introspectively


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or empirically by looking for simple ideas, the intuitions and sensations of Cartesian philosophy. In his review of Josiah Royce’s The World and the Individual, Peirce argues that philosophy must begin with the multifarious and familiar. Remembering [. . .] that philosophy is a science based upon everyday experience, we must not fall into the absurdity of setting down as a datum and startingpoint of philosophy any abstract and simple idea, as Hegel did when he began his logic with pure Being; but we must set out from ideas familiar and complex, as Hegel began his greater masterpiece by considering a man sitting under a tree in a garden in the afternoon. We must not begin by talking of pure ideas, – vagabond thoughts that tramp the public roads without any human habitation, – but must begin with men and their conversation. (CP 8.112 [c. 1900]) The reference to ordinary communication is telling; it indicates that the starting-point of philosophical analysis ought to be neither mathematics nor phenomenology, but rather something that we could vaguely call the rhetorical field. Peirce also refers to conversation as ‘a wonderfully perfect kind of sign-functioning’ (EP 2:391 [c. 1906]) – that is, a paradigmatic case of semiosis. It is on such a ‘highly characterized form’ that semeiotic inquiry ought to focus in its earliest stages, rather than on the concept of sign in general (cf. EP 2:390 [c. 1906]). In ‘The Basis of Pragmaticism’, Peirce even argues that it is impossible to get a clear idea of a sign except as something that functions between minds (MS 280:30v [c. 1905]). Thus, the proposal is to set out from such well-known signs or semiotic operations, and through analysis discern key features that are thought to be characteristic of signs in general, possibly extending the scope of the term to include phenomena not customarily called ‘signs’ (cf. Short, 1981b, p. 197; 2007a, p. 151). This is arguably precisely what Peirce does in the landmark essay ‘Pragmatism’ (1907), which contains his fullest account of how the general concept of sign might be obtained by abstraction from communicative experience. Referring to his method as ‘phaneroscopic analysis’, Peirce begins his scrutiny by seizing upon that predicate which appears to be most characteristic of the definitum, even if it does not quite apply to the entire extension of the definitum. If the predicate be too narrow, I afterward seek for some ingredient of it which shall be broad enough for an amended definitum and, at the same time, be still more scientifically characteristic of it. (EP 2:403 [1907]) Consequently, this ‘phaneroscopic analysis’ does not consist in simply registering how a concept is used in ordinary language, which would only give us first-degree clarity. Although Peirce explicitly states that he is ‘debarred from a direct appeal to the principle in pragmatism’ in this endeavour (EP 2:403 [1907]), as the pragmatistic method belongs to the level of rhetoric and methodeutic, it is viable to

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interpret what he is attempting to do as the crafting of a pragmatically informed definition. It does not amount to a full pragmatic elucidation of the concept in question, but neither is the end result a merely analytic definition. Furthermore, Peirce’s reluctance to employ pragmatistic means may be due to two misperceptions, of which the first is the notion that the analysis in question is conducted strictly at the level of phenomenology. Secondly, even if the scrutiny were purely phenomenological, there would be no reason why rhetorical tools could not be employed in the undertaking, apart from hierarchical predispositions that may block inquiry. It is notable that Peirce in other contexts sees no problem in applying the pragmatistic method in mathematics; he even submits that the pragmatic maxim is ‘of signal service in every branch of science’ that he has studied (PPM 109 [1903]). Consequently, I believe that his approach might be more appropriately designated as a pragmatic or rhetorical strategy than as a ‘phaneroscopic analysis’.52 The name is justified by Peirce’s claim that grammar needs to lean on formally imperfect ‘rhetorical evidence’ (CP 2.333 [c. 1895]). In a somewhat similar vein, Colapietro (1995, pp. 34–5) argues that the notion of sign as an implement of intercommunication only attains the first degree of clarity, that is, the clearness of familiar usage (cf. EP 2:389 [c. 1906]). The second level would be that of abstract definition, while the third degree is that of pragmatic elucidation, in which the significant ramifications and practical functions of the concept are laid out. However, plausible as Colapietro’s outline is, it offers no hint about how to move from the first degree to the second, leaving the analytic definition of the sign just about as disconnected as before. I believe that one of Peirce’s accomplishments in ‘Pragmatism’ is that he starts from the alleged commonplace conception of communicative sign, but instead of simply quickly moving beyond the level of the ordinary by postulating an abstract definition, he grounds the definition in the familiar notion. I take this to indicate an implicit acknowledgement that the ‘vulgar’ concept is not simply something that ought to be surpassed by a formal definition, but rather something that incorporates the factors that the abstract characterization tries to make explicit. However, for the reasons noted above, we should not expect that this will give us a perfectly definite or non-vague conception of sign. Accordingly, Peirce sets out to scrutinize the obvious case of sign action, that is, a communicative exchange. He then notes that it is highly characteristic of signs that they ‘mostly function each between two minds, or theatres of consciousness, of which the one is the agent that utters the sign (whether acoustically, optically, or otherwise), while the other is the patient mind that interprets the sign’ (EP 2.403 [1907]). This does not imply that signs are merely external receivers or temporary carriers of a meaning that is somehow lodged in the utterer’s consciousness ahead of the intentional act of communication; in one draft of ‘Pragmatism’, Peirce notes that it is impossible that an utterer ‘should have had a naked meaning before he had a mental sign embodying it’ (MS 318:16–17 [1907]). Before the sign is explicitly uttered, it is virtually


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present to the mind of the utterer as a thought; however, according to Peirce, ‘a thought is itself a sign, and should itself have an utterer, (namely, the ego of the previous moment), to whose consciousness it must have been already virtually present, and so back’ (EP 2:403 [1907]). In a similar fashion, the interpreted sign will give rise to a series of interpreters, or future selves. In other words, the publicly manifested sign marks a moment in a continuous process of utterance and interpretation. Next, Peirce notes that it is conceivable that the endless series of utterers and interpreters could do their work in a certain interval of time; however, he adds that it is undeniable that there are cases in which neither series forms an infinite collection, which means that there is a sign without utterer and interpreter (EP 2:403–4 [1907]). In the case of utterance, this point is fairly self-evident, since signs without utterers are often employed, such as symptoms of disease and signs of the weather. It is less clear whether there can be signs without interpreters, but Peirce suggests that an automated Jacquard loom provides an example (EP 2:404 [1907]; cf. MS 7:2 [c. 1903]). In our age, one will almost inevitably think of a computer, a machine that is fed sets of instructions – signs that convey intelligence, hopefully – and gives a certain output by transforming the signals in accordance with programmes. Still, a computer working unattended on a certain problem might produce a result and even display it on the screen, only to have it wiped out by a vicious virus before anyone has interpreted it. It might be argued that such an automated process is not semiosis in the proper sense; but there is no denying that the computation – and the action of the virus – involves signs of certain kinds. With reference to analogous cases, Peirce concludes that neither utterer nor interpreter is strictly speaking necessary for the function of a sign, although they are no doubt characteristic features of semiotic operations. Instead, he inquires ‘whether there be not some ingredient of the utterer and some ingredient of the interpreter which not only are so essential, but are even more characteristic of signs than the utterer and the interpreter themselves’ (EP 2:404 [1907]). More specifically, Peirce is looking for the vital ingredients of utterer and interpreter. In the case of utterance, he explains that ‘where this quaesitum is absent, the utterer cannot be present; and further [. . .] where there is no utterer, it cannot be that this quaesitum together with all the others of a certain body of “ingredients” should all be present’ (EP 2:404 [1907]). A fact concerning our quaesitum, which we can know in advance of all study, is that, because this quaesitum will function as a sort of substitute for an utterer, in case there be no utterer, or at any rate fulfills nearly the same, but a more essential, function, it follows that since it is not the sign that constructs or voices or represents the utterer, but, on the contrary, the utterer that constructs, voices, and sets forth the sign, therefore, although ex hypothesi the quaesitum is something quite indispensible to the functioning of the

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Peirce’s Philosophy of Communication sign, yet it cannot be fully revealed or brought to light by any study of the sign alone, as such. Knowledge of it must come from some previous or collateral source. (EP 2:404 [1907])

Peirce designates this vital ingredient of the utterer as the ‘object’ of the sign. It is that which is not expressed by the sign as such, but which must be known by experience apart from the sign. As the utterer is not created by the sign, but can be viewed as the source of the sign in a communicative act, so the object logically precedes the sign. However, Peirce’s notion, according to which the object functions as a kind of proxy for an utterer, does not necessarily entail that the object possesses a self-sustaining power to generate meaning. The object is something that is either well known to both utterer and interpreter in a communicative exchange, or else it must in some way be displayed or explained in such a manner that the interpreter is capable of determining its identity to a relevant degree (MS 318:98–9 [1907]). The crucial aspects of the utterer, which the object effectively fulfils, are those of determination of the sign and contextualization of semiosis. Serving in the capacity of initiator of communication, the utterer can be said to determine what the exchange will be about; and in a corresponding fashion, the object also delimits the action of signs. However, Peirce also suggests that the object is similar to an utterer in that it functions as a ‘repository of ideas or significant forms’ (MS 318:17 [1907]). This is somewhat perplexing; does Peirce, after all, claim that the object should be understood as a source of meaning? No doubt, we can conceive of sign situations in which the object-correlate acts in such a manner. For instance, at least part of the meaning of a non-abstract painting is typically attributable to its object. Yet, depicting the object as a storehouse of ideas seems too restricting; at least, it is difficult to see how it would be applicable to certain classes of signs, such as indications, the primary function of which is to compel attention. Consequently, it seems appropriate to say that the truly crucial function of the utterer is that of determination, and not that of being a source or repository of ideas. However, allowing myself some interpretative leeway, I would argue that Peirce does acknowledge the fact that the utterer not only identifies and delimits the subject of discourse, but typically asserts something about that topic or at least presents it in a certain way; this aspect of saying something about something in some manner is conceptualized as the immediate object in distinction from the dynamical object that encompasses identification and demarcation. In comparison to the objective function of the utterer, the vital ingredient of the interpreter – that is, the interpretant – is perhaps easier to grasp. Although the interpretant is not necessarily a modification of consciousness, ‘our lack of experience of any semiosis in which this is not the case, leaves us no alternative to beginning our inquiry into its general nature with a provisional assumption


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that the interpretant is, at least, in all cases, a sufficiently close analogue of a modification of consciousness to keep our conclusion pretty near to the general truth’ (EP 2:411 [1907]). In other words, this ingredient corresponds to the semiotic effect that a sign determines in an interpreter. If there is no actual interpreter, then the interpretant is what would be determined in the interpreter if there were one (EP 2:409 [1907]). However, to complicate matters, Peirce also claims that this ingredient of the interpreter could be called ‘meaning’, since it includes all that the sign really does convey to the interpreter, its entire influence, in its capacity as sign (MS 318:37 [1907]). He often defines the interpretant plainly as the meaning of the sign; in fact, ‘meaning’ is frequently used as a synonym for ‘interpretant’ in ‘Pragmatism’. Yet, in the very same essay, Peirce also indicates that there is a relevant distinction to be made between the interpretant and the meaning of a sign. At least, he states that until he can consult ‘the more delicate apprehension of Lady Welby’, he prefers to use the word ‘meaning’ for the entire significance that the sign conveys (MS 318:37 [1907]). Thus, we see how the crucial semiotic functions involved in utterance and interpretation are supposed to be captured by the correlates of the sign. This communicative point of view arguably affects Peirce’s sign definitions, leading to an accent on mediation and relative determination. Moreover, he emphasizes that the object is in a relevant semiotic sense past in relation to the sign, while the interpretant in general implies a reference to the future (see, e.g. MS 318:21 [1907]). This difference between the object-pole and the interpretant-pole of the sign leads to a definition of the sign relation that involves a significant directionality. These consequences of Peirce’s rhetorical strategy are evident in the following depiction of the sign and its correlates: [T]he essential nature of a sign is that it mediates between its Object, which is supposed to determine it and to be, in some sense, the cause of it, and its Meaning, or as I prefer to say, in order to avoid certain ambiguities, its Interpretant, which is determined by the sign, and is, in a sense, the effect of it; and which the sign represents to flow as an influence from the Object. (MS 318:14–15 [1907]) While communication (in the ordinary sense of the word) is certainly not exhaustive of semiosis, we can nonetheless see how the above characterization takes in something of the character of an ordinary communicative exchange. However, here we encounter an apparent dilemma. Even if one accepts that Peirce outlines a rhetorical strategy, it is undeniable that the goal of the endeavour is to craft an adequate general definition of sign. What justifies his contention that an analysis that sets out from a basic communicative situation is applicable to signs of all kinds, and not merely to implements of intercommunication? On the one hand, Peirce wants to draw up a definition of the sign that

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does not refer to personal minds; but on the other hand, his conception is supposedly derived from the eminently human process of conversational communication. Is this not just another sop to Cerberus? Peirce could defend his position by noting that the references to sign users are merely aids for understanding; although ‘it is not necessary that any person should originate the sign or that any person should interpret it, yet it will contribute to perspicuity to use language as if such were the case, and to speak of the utterer and the interpreter’ (MS 10:1 [c. 1903]). Furthermore, he contends that ‘we ought not to think that what are signs to us are the only signs; but we have to judge signs in general by these’ (NEM 4:297 [c. 1903]). In other words, we have no option but to base our conception on signs that we know, and communicative signs seem to be the best candidates available. A formalistic semeiotician, who accepts Peirce’s anti-psychologistic programme, might find this contention perilous; almost inevitably, it will lead to an anthropomorphic conception of the sign. That is, the properties of certain human signs are taken to be characteristics of all signs, without any logical guarantee of the validity of the generalization. At the other end of the scale, humanistic thinkers could fault Peirce for expanding the boundaries of the sign beyond its proper human habitat, that is, for not being anthropocentric enough. Peirce’s reply to such critics might raise a few eyebrows. He would not deny the charges, as he openly embraces anthropomorphism. Peirce’s approval of anthropomorphism has rarely been noted in the literature, most likely because of the negative connotations; ‘anthropomorphism’ is a term that usually indicates condemnation, much like ‘sophism’ or ‘relativism’. Thus, Short (2007a) makes an effort to shield his naturalistic interpretation of Peirce’s theory of signs from accusations of ‘gross anthropomorphism’. However, I would argue that semeiotic – or at least a rhetorical approach to semeiotic – cannot avoid anthropomorphism, and I believe that this is Peirce’s position as well. If I were to attach a definite meaning to ‘anthropomorphism’, I should think it stood to reason that a man could not have any idea that was not anthropomorphic, and that it was simply to repeat the error of Kant to attempt to escape anthropomorphism. At the same time, I am confident a man can pretty well understand the thoughts of his horse, his jocose parrot, and his canary-bird, so full of espièglerie; and though his representation of those thoughts must, I suppose, be more or less falsified by anthropomorphism, yet that there is a good deal more truth than falsity in them, and more than if he were to attempt the impossible task of eliminating anthropomorphism, I am for the present sufficiently convinced. (NEM 4:313 [c. 1906]) In other words, the attempt to escape anthropomorphism will lead to the supposition of things-in-themselves beyond human reach. Peirce, who so vehemently opposes psychologism in logic, unexpectedly concludes that we can know only the human aspect of the universe (SS 141 [1911]).


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It is not a coincidence that Peirce articulates his anthropomorphic stance principally in letters to F. C. S. Schiller – not as a criticism of the latter’s humanistic pragmatism, as one might expect,53 but as a complement to or clarification of it. Notably, Peirce agrees with Schiller that purposiveness cannot be eliminated from our explanations of the world. On similar grounds, Peirce argues that trying to weed the anthropomorphic element out of our ideals ‘is only to debase those ideas and eviscerate them of their meaning’ (MS L390). This anthropomorphic stance constitutes Peirce’s sharpest pragmatistic denial of a God’s eye point of view; as he says, no ‘conception, direct or indirect, can be had of an exterior standpoint’ to that of the pragmatic domain of actual and conceivable experience that we occupy (MS L390). However, Peirce denies that this entails scepticism, or a supposition of a realm of reality beyond human knowledge. Significantly, he argues that this is precisely the error of Kant: postulating philosophical limits to human experience and comprehension in the form of unknowable things, confines that human beings ought not to try to go beyond. It is simply idle to tell a person that he or she should not attempt to cross the bounds of possible experience (MS L390 [1905]). [M]an is so completely hemmed in by the bounds of his possible practical experience, his mind is so restricted to being the instrument of his needs, that he cannot, in the least, mean anything that transcends those limits. The strict consequence of this is, that it is all nonsense to tell him that he must not think in this or that way because to do so would be to transcend the limits of a possible experience. For let him try ever so hard to think anything about what is beyond that limit, it simply cannot be done. You might as well pass a law that no man shall jump over the moon; it wouldn’t forbid him to jump just as high as he possibly could. (CP 5.536 [c. 1905]) Thus, Peirce connects his argument for the inevitability of anthropomorphism to his criticism of Kantian philosophy, and more generally of any attempt to postulate restrictions on human experiential and cognitive powers on philosophical grounds. Arguably, this in turn links anthropomorphism to Peirce’s revised commonsensism. [T]he only possible justification for a hypothesis is that it renders the facts comprehensible, and that to suppose them absolutely incomprehensible (which is what the doctrine of the Unknowable comes to) is not rendering them comprehensible. This seems to point toward some new incarnation of the idea of the old philosophy of common sense. (CP 8.168 [c. 1903]) However, one may still wonder how Peirce can answer critics who would hold that a generalization of the outcome of the rhetorical strategy is unwarranted. In truth, the defence lacks sophistication; there is not much more to it than the claim that failing to generalize in the manner proposed would be to block

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inquiry, since there is no non-anthropomorphic path from human experience to knowledge of nature. True, it may turn out that the conception devised is inadequate; but in order to get anywhere, an initial conception is needed. More broadly, Peirce argues that we do not have a plausible alternative to assuming that there is some analogy between human reason and natural processes, other than isolating ourselves to certain spheres of experience based on a presumed confinement to the ‘subjective’ sphere. [E]very scientific explanation of a natural phenomenon is a hypothesis that there is something in nature to which the human reason is analogous; and that it really is so all the successes of science in its applications to human convenience are witnesses. They proclaim that truth over the length and breadth of the modern world. In the light of the successes of science to my mind there is a degree of baseness in denying our birthright as children of god and in shamefacedly slinking away from anthropomorphic conceptions of the Universe. (PPM 275–6 [1903]; cf. PPM 157 [1903]) Peirce claims that his scientific experience has convinced him that ‘an anthropomorphic conception, whether it makes the best nucleus for a scientific working hypothesis or not, is far more likely to be approximately true than one that is not anthropomorphic’ (PPM 157–8 [1903]). Furthermore, he maintains that ‘pretty much all conceptions are at bottom’ anthropomorphic, and adds that to say ‘that a conception is one natural to man, which comes to just about the same thing as to say that it is anthropomorphic, is as high a recommendation as one could give to it in the eyes of an Exact Logician’ (PPM 157 [1903]). This is unlikely to satisfy critics, who might, like Short (2007b, pp. 667–8), argue that anthropomorphism is either insidious, leading to outlandish and uncorroborated claims about non-human nature, or else it is trivial, having no consequences for inquiry. The first line of criticism is understandable, and should in fact be kept in mind as a caveat in semeiotic; there is a difference between uncritical and critical anthropomorphism.54 We should not assume that signs in the world are exactly like ours, but we need to work with the hypothesis that they are sufficiently analogous to signs familiar to us, in order to be able to put forth reasonable generalizations that can be tested in the course of research. As to the second line of criticism, it is true that anthropomorphism will not give us specific directions in inquiry. However, it does function as a guiding principle, much as fallibilism; anthropomorphism is a reminder not to close our mind to explanations based on analogies, such as teleological accounts. In this case, Schiller (1902) makes the argument better than Peirce; the humanist argues that if ‘every attempt to know rests on the fundamental methodological postulate that the world is knowable, we must also postulate that it can be interpreted ex analogia hominis and anthropomorphically’ (p. 118).


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Consequently, the generalization of the results of the communicative derivation to cover all signs is an abductive hypothesis, which needs to be specified or corrected, but which is nonetheless useful as a preliminary step in the investigation of semiotic phenomena. When we expand upon the ordinary notion of sign and sign action, so that it is applicable to sign phenomena without utterers and interpreters, we are wandering on uncertain paths. Therefore, it is imperative to keep in mind that semeiotic results, abstracted from the observation of familiar signs, are ‘eminently fallible’ (CP 2.227 [c.1897]). A carefully developed conception of sign that does not shy away from generalization, but which nonetheless keeps the caveats of anthropomorphism and fallibilism in mind, neither ignores Cerberus by remaining on the level of pure form nor tries to appease the hellhound with anthropocentrism, but strives to capture the most vital ingredients of the three-headed beast.

Chapter 4

From Representation to Mediation

If the approach outlined in the preceding chapter is on the right track, then Ransdell’s (1976, p. 101) contention that Peirce’s theory of signs is a ‘logic of communication’ would be at least partly substantiated, in spite of its prima facie questionability. Indeed, when viewed from a resolutely rhetorical point of view, semeiotic turns out to be a philosophy of communication in a rather profound sense of the word. That Peirce’s theory of signs can be differently construed does not as such invalidate this argument; one can, for certain purposes, put aside the experiential grounding of the Peircean sign and its epistemological upshots, for example, when considering the metaphysical issue of the emergence of semiotic relations in non-human nature. However, the question of anthropomorphism, highlighted by the rhetorical strategy, unavoidably crops up in any account of semeiotic that is not purely formalistic. What are the implications of all this? Given that the proposed interpretation of semeiotic includes criticism of several Peircean positions as well as proposals for improvement, one might expect that the approach would require a rather radical overhaul of Peirce’s theory of signs. Perhaps disappointingly, I do not think that it does. Although the focus on rhetoric draws attention to issues such as the experiential grounding of the sign relation and casts doubts on the satisfactoriness of a strictly hierarchical model of the sciences, there is nothing in this approach that would necessarily require us to discard the formal models and classifications that are characteristic of Peircean grammar. In view of this, a critic might opine that the rhetorical approach is pragmatically inconsequential. What is the point, if we end up with the same theory of signs with which we started? It seems, to use a Wittgensteinian quip, to leave everything as it is (cf. Wittgenstein, 1958, §124). Of course, I do not agree; while the rhetorical approach should not be understood as a foundationalist enterprise, I feel that one of its greatest merits is that it fallibly grounds the Peircean theory of signs in common experience, providing a much-needed counterweight to the formalistic tendencies in semeiotic. Perhaps Peirceans can appeal to the communicative starting point if accused of speculative formalism. More seriously, I believe that the rhetorical perspective does affect the outlook of semeiotic in numerous complex and often subtle


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ways. Admittedly, the influence is by no means straightforward or one-sided; but at the very least, I believe that the increasing focus on rhetoric and communication in Peirce’s mature philosophy is reflected in – and conversely influenced by – developments in his theory of interpretants and his conception of meaning, to name just two examples. One key issue, where the rhetorical approach ought to leave some mark, is the way we conceive of the action of signs. Within contemporary Peirce scholarship, it has been suggested that ‘semiosis’ is in reality the most basic concept of semeiotic. In particular, Fisch (1986) has argued that ‘the fundamental conception of semeiotic is not that of sign but that of semeiosis; and semeiotic should be defined in terms of semeiosis rather than of sign, unless sign has antecedently been defined in terms of semeiosis’ (p. 330). One could dispute this simply by noting that occurrences of ‘semiosis’ or ‘semeiosy’ are extremely rare in Peirce’s writings, while definitions of ‘sign’ are plentiful; but as a contribution to Peircean sign theory, Fisch’s argument is reasonable, in particular from the rhetorical viewpoint adopted here. However, it is not sufficient to merely proclaim that ‘semiosis’ holds sway; this calls for a closer scrutiny of how signs in action ought to be portrayed. In a sense, this is precisely what a strictly formal theory cannot do; at a certain level of abstraction, the life of signs is simply lost from view. Thus, I will in this chapter look at some of the principal ways in which Peirce characterizes the sign as action or process, aiming to ascertain what would be the most fruitful way to conceive of the matter from a rhetorical point of view. In tracing out this matter, I will examine various issues pertaining to representation, determination, and mediation as characterizations of sign and semiosis, as well as reflect on what Peirce’s characterization of the sign as a medium of communication entails.

4.1 Representative Relations On one level, semiosis is an easy concept to grasp; it simply denotes the action proper to signs, whatever that action may be. In other words, semiosis can be characterized as the type of activity or process that distinguishes signs from other kinds of activities and processes. Accordingly, Peirce’s only definition of the term, given in ‘Pragmatism’ (1907), highlights a distinction between two principal modes of action. It is important to understand what I mean by semiosis. All dynamical action, or action of brute force, physical or psychical, either takes place between two subjects, – whether they react equally upon each other, or one is agent and the other patient, entirely or partially, – or at any rate is a resultant of such actions between pairs. But by ‘semiosis’ I mean, on the contrary, an action, or an influence, which is, or involves, a cooperation of three subjects, such as

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Peirce’s Philosophy of Communication sign, its object, and its interpretant, this tri-relative influence not being in any way resolvable into actions between pairs. (EP 2:411)

In view of the fact that many Peirce scholars prioritize semiosis over sign, this characterization is less informative than one would hope; in a sense, it is nothing but the non-reduction theorem expressed in terms of different types of action. We get barely any information about the nature of the triadic action; we are merely told that it is irreducible and cooperative. Another mention of the elusive process is slightly more enlightening, but only just; discussing the semiotic activity that occurs in the functioning and interpretation of a thermometer, Peirce asserts that ‘if the thermometer is dynamically connected with the heating and cooling apparatus, so as to check either effect, we do not, in ordinary parlance speak of there being any semeiosy, or action of a sign, but, on the contrary, say that there is an “automatic regulation”, an idea opposed, in our minds, to that of semeiosy’ (CP 5.473 [1907]). This certainly gives us some idea of what semiosis is not, but in the end it does not tell us a whole lot about the distinctive semiotic action. What the characterization of semiosis leaves particularly obscure is what the ‘cooperation’ of sign, object, and interpretant really entails. In order to make progress in this matter, one needs to look at Peirce’s sign definitions. One of the conceptions that seems to be intrinsically connected to the Peircean sign is that of representation. In the earliest semeiotic, the term ‘representation’ performs practically the same function as the later ‘sign’ (see, e.g. W 1:327 [1865]). Indeed, this period of Peirce’s sign-theoretical thought could be characterized as the representationist phase (see Bergman, 2007); he maintains that ‘the supposition of anything unrepresented [. . .] is self-contradictory since that which is supposed is thereby represented’, and concludes that ‘all is representative’ (W 1:324 [1865]). Although Peirce qualifies this radical stance in many ways in his mature semeiotic, the idea of representation remains a prominent trait of his definitions of the sign. Often, he suggests that ‘sign relation’ and ‘representation’ are virtually interchangeable (see, e.g. NEM 4:309 [c. 1894]; CP 2.273 [1902]). However, he also characterizes this connection in terms that suggest that the action of signs could be articulated as a representative function, confining ‘the word representation to the operation of a sign or its relation to the object for the interpreter of the representation’ (CP 1.540 [1903]).1 That is, the distinctive mode of semiotic action could be characterized as the act of representing, while ‘represent’ is defined as to ‘stand for, that is, to be in such a relation to another that for certain purposes it is treated by some mind as if it were that other’ (CP 2.273 [1902]). This suggests that the semeiotic conception of sign entails a surrogational theory; Peirce often defines the sign as a replacement for the object. For instance, he states that a sign ‘is a thing which is the representative, or deputy, of another thing for the purpose of affecting a mind’ (NEM 4:xxi [c. 1899–1900];


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cf. MS 640:8 [1909]; 634:19 [1909]). A sign can be defined either as ‘something which truly represents something or else as something which professes to represent something’ (MS 277).2 Thus, the central function of the sign is to represent or stand for something else, analogously to the way ‘a spokesman, deputy, attorney, agent, vicar, diagram, symptom, counter, description, concept, premiss, testimony’ acts as substitute (CP 2.273 [1902]). A representation is that character of a thing by virtue of which, for the production of a certain mental effect, it may stand in place of another thing. The thing having this character I term a representamen, the mental effect, or thought, its interpretant, the thing for which it stands, its object. (CP 1.564 [c. 1899]) When Peirce characterizes the sign in representative terms he often refers to thought, mind, or a person, to whom the sign acts as a representative for something else. However, such descriptions can be viewed as sops to the proverbial Cerberus; they include compromising elements that can be purged in order to attain a simple definition of the relation as ‘R stands for O, thereby determining I to assume the same relation to O’ (cf. EP 2:272–3 [1903]). Putting the question of semiotic determination aside for the moment, we would seem to have arrived at an abstract definition that retains an appropriate reference to the purported distinctive action of signs. This impression is strengthened by the fact that Peirce employs ‘representamen’, a word obviously associated with representation, in his discussions of semiotic matters. However, his use of the technical term is not consistent, which may be a symptom of certain shortcomings of the representative conception of semiosis. Peirce often employs ‘representamen’ merely as a synonym for ‘sign’ (see, e.g. CP 2.228 [c. 1897]), but in some of his later writings, he introduces a distinction between sign and representamen. In these texts, ‘representamen’ is usually characterized as the first of the representative relation, or as the ‘thing’ acting as sign. For instance, commenting on the ‘New List’, Peirce characterizes the representamen as a thing in possession of a representative character and a capacity to produce a semiotic effect (CP 1.564 [c. 1899]); and in the Dictionary of Philosophy and Psychology, he explicitly distinguishes the representamen, that which represents, from representation (CP 2.273 [1902]). In the Lowell lectures of 1903, he clearly defines ‘representamen’ as the ‘concrete subject that represents’ (CP 1.540). Hence, George Benedict (1985) has proposed that the representamen ought to be understood as the subject of the sign relation. However, a closer examination of the Lowell lectures and the syllabus that accompanies them complicates the matter. Namely, as noted in Chapter 3, Peirce also characterizes the representamen as the technical conception devised to replace the vague concept of ‘sign’. However, to add to the muddle, he additionally describes a sign as ‘a Representamen

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of which some Interpretant is a cognition of a mind’ (EP 2:291 [1903]), that is, ‘a Representamen with a mental Interpretant’ (EP 2:273 [1903]). Consequently, Peirce delimits the scope of ‘sign’, in effect providing a technical acceptation of this term as well. In other words, the sign may be viewed as a species under the genus representamen. This is clearly a different way to conceive of the relationship between the two concepts than postulating the representamen as the subject of the sign. The representamen is not a correlate of the sign; the sign is rather a certain kind of representamen, distinguished by the mental character of its interpretant (cf. Deledalle, 1992, p. 296). At the same time, Peirce hesitates to call a representamen without a mental interpretant a representation; ‘thought is the chief, if not the only, mode of representation’ (EP 2:273 [1903]). This, in turn, casts some doubts on the adequacy of the characterization of semiosis as representing; at least, there would seem to be representamens that do not properly speaking represent. I have already drawn attention to the fact that Peirce abandons the technical term ‘representamen’ and suggests that the ordinary word ‘sign’ may be more appropriate after all. Now, we need to consider how this change of mind affects the thesis that semiosis principally denotes representation. Namely, the motive for the rejection of ‘representamen’ is not that signs represent and representamens perhaps do not; Peirce states that his reason for abandoning ‘this horrid long word’ is that ‘it requires some stretching to cover such imperative ejaculations of drivers, as “Hi!” or “Hullah”’, which in his youth were ‘the signal to get out of the way of a coaster’s sled on Boston Common’ (SS 193 [1905]). The important thing for the topic at hand is the underlying rationale for the change of opinion. Peirce declares that he had thought of a representamen as a representative, as something taking the place of the thing, but adds that he has realized that ‘a sign is not a substitute’ (SS 193 [1905]). That is, a definition that asserts that a sign (or representamen) must stand for its object is not wholly adequate; it may omit certain important sets of signs, such as indications. These do not properly speaking represent things, but draw our attention to objects. This does not bode well for the surrogational conception of semiosis. Benedict (1985, p. 262) adds fuel to the fire by arguing that the notion of a sign as a substitute would even be too narrow to cover all symbolic signs, which brings us to one of the most divisive issues of Peirce studies: do all signs necessarily represent objects? Or, to put the question more generally, is every sign really determined by something that can be identified as the object of the sign? Our answers to such questions obviously depend on how we construe the relationship between object and sign. The claim that the sign must have an object has been a favourite target for critics over the years – in particular for members of the so-called ‘Buchler school’ (see, in particular, Buchler, 1955; Greenlee, 1973; 1981; Singer, 1987;


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cf. Short, 1992). These critics claim to identify certain counterexamples, which allegedly show that not every sign has an object in the sense intended by Peirce. Typical instances include imperative commands, questions, grammatical connectives, pieces of music, or tones. According to Douglas Greenlee (1973 p. 56), the ‘semantic’ conception, which maintains that all signs stand for objects, is unable to account for such instances. Thus, the stipulation of objective reference would in effect jeopardize the generality of Peirce’s project. Yet, Peirce holds that musical airs and commands are signs, and even that they fall within the purview of logic in the broad sense (MS 676:4–6 [c. 1911]). This seems to leave only two options: either the Peircean conception of sign is radically restructured, or else we must be able to explain in what sense such non-cognitive signs can be said to have objects. For the Buchlerian school, the answer is clear; the general definition of the sign ought to include no necessary reference to an object or to representation. In Justus Buchler’s (1955, p. 155) terms, Peirce errs in defining the sign as a representamen; certain ‘signs’, such as musical phrases, do not stand for anything, but are nonetheless said to possess meaning. In opposition to the basic tenets of semeiotic, Buchler (1955, pp. 155–6) argues that the sign should be characterized as a means of further judgement, placing emphasis on interpretation and response in a sign-situation (cf. Colapietro, 1989, pp. 7–8). Following in Buchler’s footsteps, Greenlee (1973) suggests that we can ‘understand by “representation” the fact that a sign possesses a specific power to be interpreted, that it have a certain duty to fulfill as something that signifies in a certain way, calling forth appropriate interpretation’ (p. 97). That is, the sign is representative because it is mediative. However, Greenlee adds that what ‘establishes the sign as representative is convention; it is a habit or rule of interpretation possessed either by an individual interpreter or by a society of interpreters’ (p. 98). In other words, conventional interpretation is the only essential condition of the sign (Greenlee, 1973, pp. 54–5). This is not satisfactory from a Peircean point of view. Several Peirce scholars have attempted to reply to criticisms of the kind outlined above, and have in various ways argued for the necessity of the conceptions of object and representation. In an idealist vein, Ransdell (1977) contends that ‘the distinction between the interpretant and the object in the sign relation is really only the distinction between an actual interpretation and the ideally correct – which is to say ultimately unquestioned – interpretation’ (p. 173). That is, we could say that the object is what will or would be represented in the final, ideal interpretation. This point of view has some appeal, but it does not accord well with Peirce’s claim that the object, as something with which we are acquainted, precedes the sign, while the interpretant in a significant sense follows the sign (EP 2:410 [1907]; cf. Savan, 1987–88, p. 26). Moreover, rendering the object as interpretation cuts off semiosis from all non-semiotic influence, which can lead to complete semiotic hermeticism (cf. Short, 1994).

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Employing a different strategy, Short defends the concept of object by utilizing the Peircean distinction between immediate and dynamical (or real) object. Many signs, such as ‘unicorn’, do not refer to real objects, but according to Short (1981b, p. 217), all signs signify something, namely the immediate object or object as it is represented. However, ‘if we can question whether this immediate object is real, then that is because the sign itself indicates where or how, if anywhere or anyhow, that reality is to be found’ (Short, 1981b, p. 217). Consequently, the dynamical object of such a sign as ‘unicorn’ would be the world insofar as it does or does not contain unicorns. This object is not known through strictly semiotic means, but by collateral experience of the world. In this sense, any sign will have both an immediate and a dynamical object. This accords with Peirce’s characterization of the vital ingredient of the utterer; therefore, Short’s approach is more plausible than Ransdell’s idealistic solution. We shall soon take a closer look at the important immediate/dynamical distinction, but before that, we need to consider whether Short’s explanation suffices to thwart the critical assault. Short gives plausible accounts of how commands and pieces of instrumental music can be said to have objects. In the first case, the object could be construed as the will of the person giving the instruction (cf. EP 2:493 [1909]); but according to Short (1981b, p. 216), the proper dynamical object is in fact what the commander wills, which is a type of action (cf. Short, 1992, p. 111). As to the more challenging case of instrumental music, Short (1981b, p. 216; 2007a, p. 205) calls it a limiting case; if the object is the feeling or the musical idea embodied, then there can be no difference between immediate and dynamical object. However, he argues that there is such a distinction with respect to a piece of music as it first presents itself to us; it may take several hearings before one discovers the qualities of the music. Without doubt, it is possible to conceive of cases in which a certain piece of music can be said to stand for a certain feeling or mood, such as sadness, joy, or anger. Moreover, it is clear that this representation can be quite distinct from the actual effect of the music; one can grasp that a certain piece expresses anger without thereby becoming enraged. Yet, in its purest state, the music is a qualisign, that is, ‘a quality which is a Sign’ that stands iconically for the quality embodied, although the concrete ‘embodiment has nothing to do with its character as a sign’ (EP 2:291 [1903]). Does such a sign have an object in any meaningful sense? The answer seems to be no. Pure music – if such a thing is imaginable3 – would be a presentation rather than a representation.4 However, there can be no cognitive processing of the qualitative piece, unless it is embodied and embedded in a semiotic network. An absolutely selfcontained ‘representation’ would not be a sign at all; as a pure presentation, it would not even be intelligible (MS 797:15; cf. MS 634:22 [1909]). As a qualisign, a piece of music is indeed a limiting case. It is ineffective by itself, meaning that it needs to be embodied and embedded in semiotic networks to be interpretable.


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Thus, we see how such signs as commands and pieces of music can be said to have objects; the only exception would be a pure qualisign, which marks the boundary between presentation and representation. It is more like a limit of semiosis than a sign in the proper sense. However, there is still one important kind of non-representational sign that has not been considered, words such as ‘and’. Colapietro (1989, p. 12) provides a plausible explanation of the problematic connectives; they are partial signs.5 By themselves, they do not refer to anything, but they have indexical functions in context. It is perhaps a matter of taste if we conceive of their distinctive roles as their objects or as their interpretants; or, alternatively, maintain that partial signs of this kind have objects only as they perform their function, in which case the objective reference would derive from the signs to which they attach in some manner. To sum up, we may say that such problematic cases as commands, pieces of music, and connectives have objects in a certain sense, but it may be rather contrived to say that all signs represent their objects. At any rate, I submit that we treat ‘representation’ as a fractional description of semiosis. As the term primarily designates directedness towards objects (Liszka, 1996, p. 113), it seems appropriate to limit its use to such instances of semiosis in which the key function of the sign is to stand for an object in distinction from being merely determined by an object. Consequently, Colapietro (1989, p. 8) argues that there is more to semiosis than representation; not all signs are, properly speaking, representative. Not all Peirce scholars would agree. Short (1992, p. 122) criticizes Colapietro for yielding to the Buchlerians, and interpreting ‘representation’ too narrowly. Short certainly has a point, as Peirce’s use of the term is unusually broad, and should be understood in a special sense. However, in view of the fact that Peirce explicitly gives up the term ‘representamen’, Colapietro’s viewpoint is defensible. This is not simply a terminological matter; it indicates an explicit disavowal of a theory of signs as surrogates or proxies.6 Looking at the matter from the rhetorical point of view, representation is arguably too narrow to capture some of the functions of signs; in many cases, the primary function of a sign is better described as mediation than as representation (cf. Colapietro, 1989, pp. 18–19). True, we might postulate that ‘representation’ is a technical term that encompasses sign action of all kinds, but as many signs simply are not representative in any ordinary sense, the outcome would be rather contrived and prone to lead to misunderstandings.7 This does not mean that we would have to give up on the notion that every sign has an object. The vital abstracted ingredient of the utterer is not that of being represented – albeit a communicator is, in various ways, signified by the signs he or she uses – but rather that of delimitation and contextualization of semiosis. Arguably, this is the key semiotic function of the object; it determines a sign, which in turn ‘determines an interpretation to determination, through it, by the same object’ (CP 4.531 [1906]).

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Obviously, ‘determination’ is another term that needs to be explicated in this context. It can easily be misunderstood as denoting straightforward causation. Thus, we need to take a closer look at Peirce’s conception of the semeiotic object and the question of semiotic determination.

4.2 The Dynamics of the Object Two possible misunderstandings concerning the Peircean object need to be averted at the outset. First, Peirce notes that ‘the common use of the word “object” to mean a thing [. . .] is altogether incorrect’ (MS 693:60 [1904]). Secondly, and more importantly, the Peircean ‘object’ should not be understood in contrast to ‘subject’. Peirce does not accept the ‘German’ distinction between the subjective and the objective, which has ‘led to a lot of bad philosophy’ (SS 69 [1908]). ‘Subject’ is a technical term of logic, that is, the correlative of ‘predicate’ (cf. MS 659:19–20 [1910]).8 The object should not be understood stringently as a tangible entity, but rather as something that occupies a certain position in a triadic relation or semiosis. In Chapter 3, I showed how Peirce abstracts the concept of object from the utterer. Furthermore, I indicated that the vital ingredient of utterance could be specified as delimitation and contextualization of the sign; in simple terms, the basic initial function of the utterer is to establish what the discourse is about. This is arguably generalized and conceptualized as objective determination in Peirce’s sign definitions. Nonetheless, the description of the sign–object relation as one of determination may seem inapt. For one thing, one may wonder how erroneous signs could be said to be determined by objects, or what kind of influence a fictional object is supposed to emit. Still, the most difficult critical question concerns signs that refer to future existents or events, that is, predictive signs. How could such a sign be determined or influenced by its object? Pondering the case of a weather forecast in a daily newspaper, Peirce notes that the subsequent weather is, unquestionably, the object to which that sign relates; but ‘how, it may be asked, can the state of weather have acted upon a sheet of paper that was printed, sold, used, and destroyed long before that state of things existed?’ (MS 634:23 [1909]). Peirce’s reply is unfortunately rather obscure. He asserts that the notion of influence should not be interpreted too narrowly; instead, we should broaden our conception of semiotic influence or causation ‘so as to make it include logical consequence’ (MS 634:24 [1909]). Furthermore, Peirce suggests that the word ‘determine’ is to be preferred over ‘cause’ precisely because the latter term would rule out signs relating to the future (L36 [1909]). This is, as such, not very helpful; but the following quotation casts some light on the matter:


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It may be asked [. . .] how a lying or erroneous Sign is determined by its Object, or how if, as not infrequently happens, the Object is brought into existence by the Sign. To be puzzled by this is an indication of the word ‘determine’ being taken in a too narrow a sense. A person who says Napoleon was a lethargic creature has evidently his mind determined by Napoleon. For otherwise he could not attend to him at all. But here is a paradoxical circumstance. The person who interprets that sentence (or any other Sign whatsoever) must be determined by the Object of it through collateral observation quite independently of the action of the Sign. Otherwise he will not be determined to [the] thought of that object. (EP 2:493 [1909]) Thus, the determination of the sign by the object is not to be understood in strictly causal terms; it is rather construed in terms of constraint and attention to the thing denoted. As we read Peirce’s sentences, our minds are supposedly determined by Napoleon, a man we have never met. Presumably, the object influences us through other means; it would seem plausible, then, to say that it is a case of logical (or semiotic) rather than of strictly efficient determination. We might as well have thought of Hamlet, in which case our minds or, better, internal discourse, would have been determined – to some extent at least – by a fictional object. This, in turn, may lead one to conclude that the determination can be attributed to the system of signs; while we have met neither Napoleon nor Hamlet, our minds are in a sense determined by the semiotic web in which the names occur and within which alone they are comprehensible. Consequently, one might infer that the object is not external in any pertinent sense. Indeed, Peirce suggests something along these lines in the following passage: Every system of signs has certain properties. In virtue of these properties certain propositions hold good in that system of signs independently of the existence of the thing signified. For example, it is true that a griffin is a winged quadruped; but there is no fact which corresponds to this proposition and makes it true, except the fact that the word griffin is so used. It is a familiar fact that the earliest way of using signs is to think in them without thinking of them, as signs; that is to say, the thought of the sign does suggest another thought, but it is not distinctly thought of as suggesting the other thought. In this simple thought, – the first intention, – propositions, whose validity depends on the properties of the system of signs employed, cannot be regarded as merely verbal, but appear to express real facts. And even after reflection has shown the true nature of such propositions, this reflection though more or less intimately associated with the thought of the sign, yet remains a second thought distinct from the first, and so more or less of the old illusion lingers, even after it is known that it is an illusion. (MS 810:2–3)

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Here, Peirce outlines how a sign may acquire a meaning and reference in a system of signs, apparently quite apart from any experience. Furthermore, he indicates that second-order awareness of the process of mediation – that is, of signs as signs – will reveal that the signs used may only profess to represent objects, but notes that a certain habit of regarding the initial objects as real will remain (cf. MS 8:4 [c. 1903]). This viewpoint seems to be corroborated by Peirce’s oft-cited claim that the ‘object of representation can be nothing but a representation of which the first representation is the interpretant’ (NEM 4:309 [c. 1894]). This series is infinite, for whatever object is taken up for scrutiny turns out to be a sign, which by definition will have an object, and so on. True, Peirce adds that an ‘endless series of representations, each representing the one behind it, may be conceived to have an absolute object at its limit’ (NEM 4:310 [c. 1894]). However, such an ‘absolute object’ is inferred logically (or semiotically) rather than experienced as a ‘reality’; consequently, it would seem that a body of signs may be self-sufficient in the sense that there is no need to appeal to anything but the system itself to account for representation and determination. The object seems to be intra-systemic. This casts some doubts on the adequacy of the concept of object obtained through the rhetorical strategy. If the ‘previous or collateral source’ that is required to identify or comprehend the object is actually intra-systemic – that is, acquaintance with signs – then the concept does not touch the ground of experience in the way presumed. Perhaps a sign can function adequately with an internal object merely. Certainly, it is difficult to see in what sense there could be collateral experience of the object of ‘griffin’; but the argument is actually expandable to all signs, even those that we feel to be real. The difference between the signs ‘Hamlet’ and ‘Napoleon’ is just that one professes to be fictional and the other real; but that is determined by the system rather than by an external force. Something seems to be amiss here; surely Peirce, who is known as a champion of realism, cannot propose that all knowledge of the world would be relative to the system of signs used? This almost suggests relativism à la Nelson Goodman (1978). Although it would be quite a stretch to call Peirce a ‘relativist’, I believe that this is not a completely erroneous conclusion; Peirce is definitely not a naïve realist. True, he affirms what he calls the ‘outward clash’, a robust acknowledgment of secondness as experience in the narrow sense,9 but that gives us only direct experiential contact; knowledge of the world is always semiotic or mediated. Peirce’s simple and brilliant solution to the threatening scepticist dilemma is not to postulate the object as wholly external, but as something that can in principle be known as a semiotic product of the clash. Thus, he introduces a distinction between two kinds of objects that qualifies the systemic point of view in crucial respects.


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According to Peirce, the object ‘determines in the sign an element corresponding to itself; so that we have to distinguish the quasi-real object from the presented object; or as we may say, the external from the internal object’ (MS 145s; cf. MS 339:263 [1905]).10 The internal object, or the immediate object, does not strictly speaking conform to the definition of the object, as it is reliant on the sign. In contrast, the external or dynamical object is the proper object in the sense of being independent of the sign. [E]very sign has two objects. It has that object which it represents itself to have, its Immediate Object, which has no other being than that of being represented to be, a mere Representative Being, or as the pre-Kantian logicians used to say, a merely Objective Being; and on the other hand there is the Real Object which has really determined the sign, which I usually call the Dynamical Object, and which alone strictly conforms to the definition of the Object. The Object of a Sign is its progenitor, its father. The Dynamical Object is the Natural Father, the Objective Object is the putative father. (MS 499s) While the internal object is passive, the external or genuine object is ‘purely active’ (MS 793:12 [c. 1906]). In other words, the dynamical object remains in all respects exactly as it was before representative mediation. Peirce acknowledges that ‘the purpose of representing an Object is usually, if not always, to modify it in some respect’, but adds that ‘by the Object Itself, or the Real Object, we mean the Object insofar as it is not modified by being represented’ (MS 793:12 [c. 1906]; cf. NEM 3:886 [1908]). Thus, the external or dynamical object can be defined as the object as it influences the sign or as ‘the Reality which by some means contrives to determine the Sign to its Representation’ (CP 4.536 [1906]). This definition is problematic in two senses. First, it seems simply odd to say that the object would plot to do anything. One could perhaps ignore that as a less than instructive figurative expression, but some interpreters of Peirce do take it almost literally (e.g. Ransdell, 1977; cf. Short, 2007a, p. 186). I will return to that discussion later in this chapter. Secondly, there is the question of the status of the dynamical object. To put the matter simply, how should the characterization of the dynamical object as ‘real’ be understood? One possible answer to this question may be called the strong realist interpretation of Peirce’s theory of signs.11 That is, the solution to the problem seems to be to identify the dynamical object with a real object – an object that is real in a metaphysical sense. The being of the immediate object is dependent on its representation in the sign, and explains the fact that signs may err, or be used to lie or to refer to fictions; but the real object is independent of all representation, and as such it guarantees truth as a kind of bedrock (cf. EP 2:407 [1907]). A sign may represent its real object falsely by producing an erroneous immediate object.

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Still, however plausible the strong realist interpretation sketched above may appear in light of Peirce’s distinction, it is too simple as it stands. Peirce also states that ‘the dynamical object’ does not indicate an entity outside of the mind (SS 197 [1906]). This is initially puzzling; how could the dynamical object – the external and ‘real’ object – be a mind-dependent entity? This obvious incongruity can perhaps be resolved as follows: while the dynamical object is not dependent on any actual human cognition, it is nonetheless not entirely independent of the semiotic process, which for Peirce is practically a synonym for intelligent or mind-like action. As we have seen, the object is not a thing, but a correlate of the sign; consequently, there can be no objects in the proper semiotic sense without signs and semiosis. An alternative way of looking at Peirce’s distinction is to construe the immediate and dynamical object as different aspects of the object. If we look at the object from the point of view of representation and the growth of knowledge, the emphasis is placed on the immediate aspect of the object, but in considering semiosis as a process of determination or influence, the focus is on the dynamical component. Neither aspect of the object is independent of semiosis in a wide sense, but the dynamical aspect of the object is external with regard to the sign system as the object that is perceived or felt to be a real influence on the sign (cf. EP 2:409 [1907]). This aspectual approach has many advantages in comparison with the strong realist interpretation. First, it is less prone to cause misunderstandings, since immediate and dynamical object are explicitly not treated as separate entities; these facets refer to different sides of the same object.12 Secondly, it does not postulate a reality absolutely beyond semiosis, a sphere of ‘things-in-themselves’ that would be in principle unknowable for thought (cf. W 2:213 [1868]). Peirce explicitly rejects the idea that there is a non-semiotic core to signs; to ‘try to peel off signs & get down to the real thing is like trying to peel an onion and get down to onion itself, the onion per se, the onion an sich’ (MS L387 [1905]). Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the aspectual interpretation does not lead to a simplistic division of signs into true and false on the basis of the existence of a ‘real’ object. The dynamical aspect of the object refers to the determinative role played by the object in semiosis; in fact, Peirce indicates that the adjective ‘dynamical’ is preferable to ‘real’ on these very grounds (see EP 2:498 [1909]). True, Peirce states that a sufficiently complete sign must in some sense correspond to a real object; it ‘cannot even be false unless, with some degree of definiteness, it specifies the real object of which it is false’ (MS 7:2–3 [c. 1903]). However, a closer examination of this claim shows that it is compatible with the proposed reading; this reference to correspondence merely suggests that the analytic distinction between truth and falsity requires a relation to an object of some degree of dynamic power over the sign. There are truths about ‘Hamlet’ as an object, albeit the fictional sign inevitably leaves more things vague than an object such as ‘Napoleon’. However, within its limited determinative range,


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‘Hamlet’ can be construed as more definite, as the universe of discourse in which it functions is limited to a piece of fiction.13 So what is the object of ‘Hamlet’? According to the plain realist solution, such a sign would have an immediate object, but no dynamical object – a contention that can be supported by some of Peirce’s statements (see, e.g. MS 318:15 [1907]). In other words, the scope of the dynamical object would be that of existents or embodied reals as determinants of signs. This is not Peirce’s position; the dynamical object may be altogether unreal in the ordinary sense of the word. One way to understand this claim is that the non-existent object is a mental construct, which nonetheless acquires a degree of reality once it has been imagined or presented to be in a certain way. In other words, the reality of such an object would be tied to the facts of its creation and description. Peirce often speaks of fictional characters in this manner, for instance in his Harvard lectures, where he considers the reality of Scheherazade as a literary figure (see PPM 222 [1903]). Johansen (1993a, p. 84) accurately notes that Peirce occasionally suggests that signs with fictional objects are not full-fledged signs; they can be accepted as signs as long as they announce or display their unreal character in some manner (see, e.g. EP 2:429 [1907]). For Johansen, this seems to indicate that not all signs have dynamical objects (see Johansen, 1993a, p. 82). However, following Short, we can maintain that all signs have both dynamical and immediate objects; in the case of fiction, the sign will involve a kind of precept or clue, which indicates to what part of dynamic reality or to what universe of discourse the sign refers. In other words, the sign can only suggest, through the immediate object, what range of experience is germane for the sign in question. In view of the aspectual characterization of the object, in which the dynamical object is construed in terms of a determinative function, one might be inclined to postulate a third object, the ‘really’ real object, or the object from which the immediate aspect is purged. I believe that this would be to repeat the onion mistake, that is, to think that a pure reality simply exists and awaits discovery underneath the semiotic layers. To connect the object straightforwardly to the concept of reality is a mistake; the dynamical object is not equivalent to the ‘true reality’ of scientific hope, albeit the dynamical aspect of an object of research certainly guides the inquirer in the sense of resistance to certain interpretations (Joswick, 1996, p. 98). The role of the dynamical object in semiosis is not that of revealer of the real; it is at best a rough guide and an indicator.14 There is a reason why Peirce describes the external aspect of the object as ‘quasi-real’; developed reality belongs to signs. Furthermore, although he practically begs to be misunderstood as he repeatedly speaks of the ‘real object’ without qualification, he does at times specify it as the purportedly real object. It may even be created by the sign, but it is nonetheless professedly real from the point of view of the particular semiosis in which it is involved. Thus, he can claim that even such a sign as ‘witch’ has a real object.

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[T]he phrase ‘the real Object of a Sign’ does not imply that the Sign is altogether veracious. The word ‘witch’ is a sign having a ‘real Object’ in the sense in which this phrase is used, namely to mean a supposedly real Object, not the Sign, and in intention or pretension not created by the Sign, and consequently professedly real as far as the action of the Sign is concerned. It is real in the sense in which a dream is a real appearance to a person in sleep, although it be not an appearance of objects that are Real. (MS 634:26 [1909]) Certain cognitive products, such as Shakespeare’s Hamlet, may function dynamically, once they have established themselves. Obviously, we must form our first acquaintance with this object through the mediation of signs – as we do when we read about actual people in newspapers or see them on the television screen, for instance. What the signs must do, then, is relate the sign ‘Hamlet’ to objects with which we are already familiar (kings, Denmark, the universe of drama. . .). After a while, ‘Hamlet’ takes on a reality of its own, and therefore acts as an object that can delimit interpretation; as an object, ‘Hamlet’ prescribes a certain domain of possible interpretations. Socially established signs may create objects with real dynamical power. Although ‘no phoenix really exists, real descriptions of the phoenix are well known to the speaker and his auditor; and thus the word is really affected by the Object denoted’ (CP 2.261 [c. 1903]). The aspectual interpretation of Peirce’s two objects also steers clear of full-out semiotic idealism. While the immediate aspect of the object is expressed by the sign, there is always a sense in which the sign points beyond itself and the semiotic system to which it belongs. This ‘outside’, conceptualized as the dynamical object, is unexpressed by the sign (cf. SS 83 [1908]). In general, the dynamical aspect of the object can be defined as ‘that to which the Sign applies but which it does not express otherwise than through some other Sign, or through collateral experience, or through an indication of how the interpreter of it may proceed in order to identify it’ (MS 640:9v [1909]). In other words, the external object can be indicated, but it is primarily known through experience. Whether the object immediately before the mind is the Real object or not seems to be a question from which it is difficult to extract any clear meaning; but it [is] quite certain that no thinking about it will at all modify the Real object, since this is precisely what is meant by calling it Real. It is sometimes an object shaped by thinking, – of which the very last sentence affords an example; but, so far as it is Real, it is not modified by thinking about it. Now in thinking, the object before the mind is under the thinker’s control and is always modified by the action of his will. It is therefore not the Real thing, although the Real thing is undoubtedly the object he is thinking about (MS 634:9–10 [1909]) We must distinguish between the Immediate Object, – i.e., the Object as represented in the Sign, – and the Real (no, because perhaps the Object is


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altogether fictive, I must choose a different term; therefore:), say rather the Dynamical Object, which, from the nature of things, the Sign cannot express, which it can only indicate and leave the interpreter to find out by collateral experience. (EP 2:498 [1909]; cf. MS 339:279 [1906]) In sum, the dynamical object is something with which we must be familiar with by previous or additional experience in order to be able to grasp the sign. It is ‘that with which [the sign] presupposes an acquaintance in order to convey some further information concerning it’ (MS 637:31v [1909]; CP 2.231). From this point of view, we could say that the reference of a sign to its dynamical object enables ‘the identification of the actual or supposed previous experience with which the new meaning, conveyed in the sign, is to be attached’ (MS 318:18 [1907]). In a full sense, including both immediate and dynamical aspects, the object may be characterized as ‘that which a sign, so far as it fulfills the function of a sign, enables one who knows the sign, and knows it as a sign, to know’ (MS 599:31 [c. 1902]). The references to collateral experience imply that semiosis cannot be a matter of purely semiotic systems – at least not of structures that could be made wholly explicit in the semiotic act. As Peirce stresses, collateral observation or experience does not mean ‘acquaintance with the system of signs’ (EP 2:494 [1909]). A sign requires a certain experiential background or grounding, be it ever so indirect, in order to be able to function as such. In other words, a system of signs is empty without collateral observation, that is, ‘previous acquaintance with what the Sign denotes’ (EP 2:494 [1909]). Hence, the basis of the dynamical aspect of the object is experiential knowledge of or familiarity with the object in question, apart from its representation in the sign. The interpreter must be determined by collateral observation of the object, independently of the action of the sign (EP 2:493 [1909]). Let us consider the problematic case of future objects mentioned earlier. What collateral experience can be involved in such a sign as a weather forecast? Evidently, we are not directly acquainted with the object in question, for instance tomorrow’s weather in New York. Yet, this is not a conclusive counterargument against the notion that all signs have some kind of experiential grounding. Obviously, the sign in question requires familiarity with such things as the weather and time. Moreover, the experiential purport (to use a somewhat contrived phrase) can be construed as follows: if you find yourself in New York at noon, then you will experience a severe thunder storm. Obviously, as we all know from experience, the forecast may be mistaken; yet it professes to refer to the actual weather as it will be, and the eventual success or failure of the sign is, in a sense, determined by this highly dynamical object. Even if the world was annihilated, so that there would be no New York and instantiation of weather at all, our minds would, nonetheless, be logically determined by the object ‘tomorrow’s weather in New York’, of which we can make sense because of experience

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of New York, time, thunder storms, and so on. Not all of these need to be parts of our direct experiential background, but they must relate, however distantly, to things that are. This experiential identification is a crucial part of making sense of the signs involved.

4.3 Purposive Tendencies Numerous interpreters of semeiotic have argued that semiosis is not only a process of determination in the sense of delimitation and constraint; Peirce often indicates that the sign process is goal-directed in some sense. This, in turn, suggests that semiosis is a teleological mode of action (Seager, 1988; Short, 1981b; 2007a). Consequently, discussions of Peirce’s notion of sign action have largely revolved around the theme of causality. In this case, commentators tend to agree that Peirce conceived of semiosis as a paradigmatic case of final causation, if not as coextensive with this mode of causation. However, as Menno Hulswit (2002) and Short (2007a) have shown, the relation between Peirce’s conception of causation and his idea of semiosis is both complex and fraught with possible inconsistencies; at any rate, it cannot be easily compressed into one simple formula. In order to render the issue of semiotic action more tangible, it is useful to reformulate the question, and enquire what the driving force that gives semiosis its alleged tendential or goal-directed character may be. Is it to be understood as something inherent or immanent in the process itself, or rather as something that can be properly grasped only through the functions and uses interpretative agents make of signs? Both positions have been defended with weighty arguments, most notably by Ransdell and Short. Ransdell is a firm adherent of the idea of the autonomy of the semiosis process. That is, he takes Peirce’s most general sign definition as his guiding light, and argues that uttering or interpreting agencies are not essential for the being of signs; object, sign, and interpretant will suffice in a ‘puristic’ analysis (Ransdell, 1986, p. 692). References to interpreting minds, other than the signs themselves, are not permitted, unless it is possible to eliminate the extrinsic factor by further analysis. Of course, this is strictly speaking correct in view of Peirce’s most formal sign definitions. However, left as such, Ransdell’s claim would imply a rather meagre view of semiosis; indeed, it would be devoid of action or process in any significant sense of the word, and perhaps even reducible to a structuralist conception of a triadic variant. Obviously, that is not his intention. The solution for Ransdell, then, is to locate the driving force of semiosis within the basic sign relation, strictly distinct from human or other outside agencies. According to Ransdell’s causal point of view (which can be contrasted to the logical perspective of representation), signs possess a power of generating interpretants, a kind of immanent principle that pushes forth the development of the sign by its own semiotic force. Seen from this vantage point, it is


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not interpreters that produce interpretants, but rather signs that have the disposition to produce interpretants in agents. The contributions of interpreters are negligible, although Ransdell claims that human agency does have an important role to play in the occurrence of meaning and its development. As Ransdell (1992) explains, ‘an interpreter’s interpretation is to be regarded as being primarily a perception or observation of the meaning exhibited by the sign itself’ (§2). The human control over signs is limited to setting them in interaction with one another in a way that will be favourable in view of a desired result. Still, Ransdell holds that the generation of interpretants is not blind, but rather telic. In Ransdell’s view, it is the object, or rather the dynamical object, that acts as the final cause of semiosis. In other words, the whole process is geared towards the complete manifestation of the object through the interpretant-generating powers of the sign. This amounts to saying that the dynamical object and the truly final interpretant are the same in the end; they are the ideal goal or end state of the semiotic process. This is encapsulated in the contention that the term ‘object’ should actually be understood as aim or purpose (Ransdell, 1981, p. 203). As the object is an essential correlate of the sign relation, the goal of semiosis is always somehow given in the sign; semiosis is teleological because of its peculiar form, its tendency towards the truth or the one correct interpretation – the object as distinguished from actual interpretations, which are conceptualized as the interpretant of the sign. According to Ransdell (1986), ‘the semiosis process could be thought of as being the object itself in its protracted manifestation or self-actualization in time’ (p. 676). If a final interpretant were ever realized – something that will never actually happen – it would be nothing but the object itself. [T]he object of a sign [. . .] is to be understood primarily as being the generic aim of a semiosis process. To say, as Peirce did, that all semiosis involves reference to an object is to say that semiosis is essentially a purposive process whose purpose is truth . . . And what is truth, in Peirce’s view? The answer is, of course, that it is the ‘opinion’ – that is, the interpretation – that is fated to be the one that the community of interpreters ultimately settles upon. Thus the semiotic object is the ideal correct and complete interpretation of the sign, or rather of it along with the complete set of all signs with which it is linked through indexical cross-reference. (Ransdell, 1981, p. 203) [W]hat is meant in saying that every sign has an object is that every sign-interpretational process tends toward an end-state, that is, has a final causational form. That end state is the object of the process. [. . .] [T]he distinction between the interpretant and the object in the sign relation is really only the distinction between an actual interpretation and the ideally correct – which is to say ultimately unquestioned [or true – MB] – interpretation. (Ransdell, 1977, pp. 168,173)

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As Ransdell (1981, pp. 203–4) explicitly concedes, his position can be characterized as semiotic idealism in two respects. First, he holds that the object or reality towards which interpretation is directed is an ideal. Secondly, he locates the object of thought within thought, ‘rather than positing it as something to which the thought process externally refers’ (Ransdell, 1981, p. 204). Ransdell would perhaps not accept the contention that this amounts to semiotic hermeticism, but it seems unavoidable, if we by a hermetic account understand one that does not accept any kind of external influence in the theory of signs. The most obvious difficulty with Ransdell’s position is that it does not agree with Peirce’s discussions of the object of the sign. True, there are exceptions, like the rather obscure passages in which Peirce speaks of the sign as a kind of emanation from the object (see MS 634:23 [1909]; Hulswit, 2002, pp. 148–9). However, how are we to make any sense of Peirce’s claim that the object is the antecedent and the interpretant the consequent of the sign? Furthermore, Peirce often explicitly identifies the dynamic object as the actual determinant of semiosis. Overall, Ransdell’s reading seems to lead towards an absolutistic conception of the object, whether that object is construed as a metaphysical reality or a Platonic ideal. In contrast to Ransdell, Short (1981b, p. 221; 2007a, p. 167) interprets semiotic determination in a non-causal way as delimitation of the possible (see also Joswick, 1996, p. 98; Liszka, 1996, p. 23). In effect, the object determines the sign only in the sense that it restricts what can be a sign of it, and the sign performs the same function in relation to the interpretant (Short, 1982, p. 290; 2007a, p. 167). Hulswit (2002, p. 161) cites the following passage, which shows that Peirce does in fact make a distinction between cause and determinant: In order that a Sign should truly represent that which it undertakes to represent, it must be caused, or, to use a wider term, must be determined by that Object; and then it must determine the mind that it addresses in such a way that that mind is in turn determined mediately by that Object. This is my definition of a Sign and it applies even to mendacious Signs. Of course, the objection that would be raised if I used the word ‘cause’ in place of ‘determine’ would be that in that case there would be no Sign of the future, whereas one may say that all signs relate to the future. (L 36 [1909]) Hulswit notes that Peirce’s use of the term ‘cause’ is rather liberal in semeiotic contexts; it is frequently employed as a synonym for determination. Furthermore, Peirce occasionally speaks of the object as an efficient cause of the sign (see, e.g. EP 2:429 [1907]). This may lead to confusions. Not all signs are efficiently caused by their objects; strictly speaking, this characterization applies only to indices. However, it is not certain that we should replace determination as cause with determination as necessary condition, as Hulswit (2002, p. 161) suggests. True, this may nicely account for the way determination works in certain problematic cases, in which the object is an object of the future. In the case of the weather


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forecast, the weather of tomorrow constrains the signs of today as conditions of representation. However, in other cases, the determination is more direct – and more efficient – as in the case of perception. Let us now turn to Short’s approach. With his non-causal view of semiotic determination, he paints a picture of semiosis that makes the activity of interpreting agents, whether human or non-human, necessary for the process. Within the Peircean framework, this is rendered plausible by Short’s (1981b, p. 200; 1996, p. 490; 2007a, pp. 53, 162) distinction between significance, the relation that makes an interpretation possible, and actual interpretation, as it is performed by sign users. Significance, for Short, is equivalent to justified interpretability.15 Using his terminology, we can say that it is determined by the ground, that is, the iconic, indexical, or symbolic connection between sign and object. This basis justifies the interpretability. However, significance also involves the type of potential interpretant Peirce sometimes calls ‘immediate’; it is thus a triadic relation, which can be real without any actual interpretation occurring (cf. Short, 1985, p. 108). In other words, Short’s conception of significance allows for signs that are not actualized in semiosis. In effect, his proposal amounts to a distinction between the being of a sign and the action of the sign; or, to put the matter even more simply, between sign and semiosis. Short’s position is supported by Peirce’s contention that until a sign is interpreted, it does not function as a sign (MS 637:36 [1909]). Given Short’s distinction, what are we to make of the goal-directedness of semiosis? In Ransdell’s framework, this was to be explained as internal to the semiotic process, directed towards the ideal final object. Short takes on the problem from a different angle, focusing on Peirce’s characterizations of intelligent action and triadic production. The distinguishing mark of intelligent activity, according to Short, is that it involves the anticipation of a future event or state. In a discussion of how a scientist can detect intelligence in organisms, Peirce observes that the characteristic mark of intelligence is that a certain event is produced as a means of achieving another event, the goal of the action (CP 5.473 [1907]). This amounts to saying that intelligent action is purposive. Furthermore, Peirce claims that a sign is something that functions triadically (MS 318:39 [1907]). This could be taken as a statement to the effect that signs are engendered in order to be interpreted; but according to Short, it does not entail that the sign would necessarily be produced triadically. Something may be a sign without the active involvement of any intelligence, as in the case of natural signs, such as symptoms of disease or signs of the weather. However, we find that semiosis, if it truly is a mode of intelligent action, must involve the triadic production of interpretants (CP 5.473 [1907]). In other words, it is the interpreting activity, in which interpretants are produced, which is the source of intelligence and direction in the process. According to Short, this is best understood as the production of dynamic, actual interpretants in order to achieve some goal, conceptualized as the final interpretant.

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Consequently, the purposiveness of semiosis is ultimately derived from the sign user, a living being that acts interpretatively. In itself, a sign is not necessarily teleological; proper semiosis requires at least the contribution of some sign-interpreting agency. However, this does not mean that the semiotic development could be entirely attributed to the interpreter. In Short’s account, it is not the object that is the aim of the process, but rather the final or ideal interpretant, which depends on the grounding involved in the significance of the sign as well as on the goal of interpretation (Short, 1981b, p. 213). Furthermore, in order to avoid misconceptions, it should be emphasized that Short’s position does not entail that the teleological power of semiosis would necessarily reside in a human interpreter. The interpretant-producing agent may be a non-human organism. To do justice to Short’s position, we should note that it is primarily directed against ‘Brentano’s thesis’, according to which intentionality is characteristic of psychical phenomena (see Short, 2007a, pp. 6–16). ‘Intentionality’ is here used as a technical term to designate the peculiar sense in which certain things can be about or of other things, regardless of whether those other things exist (Short, 1998, p. 49). This conception has been used as an argument against behaviouristic theories of signs (such as Morris, 1946). Roderick Chisholm (1952), in particular, has maintained that it is practically impossible to describe sign relations or semiotic action without using intentional concepts, such as ‘believing’, ‘expecting’, or ‘wishing’, thereby concluding that Brentano’s thesis holds for signs; they are psychical or, to use Short’s (1998, p. 50) characterization, derivative of thoughts. This, in turn, could be used as a criterion for separating humans from animals; only human beings use signs intentionally. Obviously, such a stance is incompatible with Peirce’s anti-psychologistic outlook. According to Short (1998, pp. 50–1), Chisholm’s position leads to an unacceptable dualism, in which intentionality is an inexplicable datum of human consciousness. In contrast, Peirce’s teleological view of semiosis provides an explanation of the phenomenon. To be more specific, semiosis is coexistent with a certain kind of goal-directed process, namely acting for a purpose; all ‘sign-interpretation is purposeful and all purposeful action interprets signs’ (Short, 1998, p. 51). [I]t is the process of interpretation [. . .], and not the interpretant per se, that confers intentionality on the sign. It confers intentionality on both the sign and the interpretant. And it does so, only because it is goal-directed. It is the teleological structure of semeiosis that explains the intentionality of its parts. (Short, 1996, p. 527) Thus, semiosis depends on interpretation, which according to Short means that any action of the sign is only relevant in relation to the aims and strivings of some sign user. These purposes are not given in the sign relation itself.


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The sign’s ‘action’ [. . .] depends on its relevance to the purposes of an agent; only so does it have an effect. The sign makes or can make a difference: in that sense it ‘acts’, when it acts at all. But it acts only through influencing an agent that, independently of that sign, is pursuing some purpose. Talk of a sign’s action is only another way of talking about how a sign determines its interpretant. Nothing is a sign except for its objective relevance to the purposes of possible agents. (Short, 2007a, p. 172) If Short’s contention is correct, then any act that can be said to be purposive will entail semiosis, even if it is a matter of a seemingly spontaneous action, such as a rabbit that startled by a noise flees from an invisible predator (Short, 1998, p. 53). The obvious objection to such an example is that the rabbit is acting by instinct, not because of any conscious awareness of the predator as an object. Short’s point, however, is that the action is intentional because the rabbit’s interpretation of the sign could be mistaken; the object might not exist. That the purpose of the action – survival – is a product of evolution rather than a conscious choice does not alter the fact that the purposive interpretation renders the situation intentional. Short’s account of semiosis involves conceptions of interpretation and purpose that are significantly broader than the ordinary understanding of those notions. It may be asked on what grounds this position could be defended. Are we not just attributing features of our own interpretative activity to the rabbit? Perhaps, but if we follow the Peircean line of thought, such an anthropomorphic conception is not automatically damaging. Furthermore, it may be argued that many human uses of signs are as ‘instinctive’ as the action of the rabbit. Recall Peirce’s contention that ‘the earliest way of using signs is to think in them without thinking of them, as signs’ (MS 810:2). This does not apply merely to some primitive or immature phase of human development; rather, we typically lose awareness of the semiotic character of our signs in use – at least if Peirce is right in his contention that practically all human activity, from perception to cognition, is pervaded by signs. We repeatedly make misinterpretations without even being aware that we were making interpretations; indeed, it is typically error that awakes us to the semiotic character of seemingly self-evident perceptions and cognitions. The intentionality of such pre-mistake signs cannot be explained by consciousness; nor is the mistake to be explained by a misunderstanding of the purpose – that is, object – of the sign, as Ransdell would have it. Ransdell’s and Short’s differing conceptions of semiosis represent two manifestly different views of the action of signs. The core disagreement between the two scholars concerns the role and character of purpose in the process. Whereas Ransdell considers the sign-relation as such to be goal-directed, irrespective of any interpretation or external purpose, Short holds that not all signs are teleological, but only those which are interpreted by a sign user – not necessarily

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human – with some purpose in view. What seems to lend support to Ransdell in this matter is Peirce’s claim that purposes are only those teleological phenomena we know best; they do not exhaust the field of such processes. However, this is only so if we consider all goal-directed processes to be semioses in themselves; Short does not subscribe to that view. Hulswit (2002, p. 143) criticizes Short for inconsistency; but his arguments are largely misplaced, as they are based on the assumption that Short considers all irreversible physical processes to be semioses.16 This is not the case; for Short, semiosis is limited to living nature (see Short, 1998). Quite apart from the question of the scope of semiosis, we may ask how well the two rivalling conceptions of the character of semiotic goal-directedness accord with such semioses that we know. Obviously, Ransdell’s point of view is more abstract and totalizing than Short’s more easily graspable notion of purposiveness. There is a commonsensical robustness in Short’s account, which seems to be missing from Ransdell’s idealistic point of view. Indeed, it can be rather difficult to argue constructively for or against Ransdell’s position, as he builds his reading of Peirce on the fundamental premise that semiosis universally tends towards an end state, the truth. However, it is of some interest to note that Ransdell (1977, pp. 171–3) refers to Peirce’s abstraction of the sign relation from the basic conversational situation for intuitive support for his view of the object. The utterer, from which Peirce abstracts the semiotic function of the object, can be seen as the possessor of the correct interpretation, the meaning to be communicated. Erroneous interpretations can only be corrected by paying attention to the signs emanating from the utterer. Therefore, Ransdell (1977, p. 173) concludes that if the concept of ‘utterer’ is stripped down to its ‘semiotic essentials’, it is shown to be simply the general idea that is required as a basis for rectification of misinterpretations on the part of the interpreter. This could also serve as a possible explanation for the alleged dialogical character of semiosis; there is a kind of interplay between signs and interpretants that tends towards the discovery of the true meaning, the object. Based on what we unearthed in the last chapter, Ransdell draws the wrong conclusions from the communicative abstraction. According to Peirce, the most general vital ingredient of the utterer is not that of correcting the interpreter, but rather that of determining the subject of discourse. In a conversation, the utterer may not know the truth about the topic at hand; in fact, he or she rarely if ever does. Instead, that aim should arguably be construed as a dialogical achievement; or, perhaps better, we might say that utterer and interpreter strive for understanding regarding some matter, where the role of utterance – which is actually shifting from one participant to the other, as the roles of utterer and interpreter are in reality intermingled and not necessarily restricted to certain persons – is to determine the limits of the exchange. From this point of view, inquiry, as the search for truth, could be construed as a special case of a generalization of the communicative process.


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Furthermore, as Short (2007a) asserts, there is nothing to suggest ‘that Peirce held that purposefulness is one of the utterer’s features retained in the generalized conception of the sign’s object’ (p. 186). Obviously, people enter into conversations with certain intentions and goals, consciously or not; but that is not what Peirce considers to be the indispensable semiotic ingredient of the utterer. Moving beyond the communicative abstraction, Ransdell also seems to ignore a distinction that Peirce often insists upon, namely that between the object of the sign and the meaning of the sign. Peirce tends to locate the meaning – or perhaps more accurately the developed meaning – on the interpretant-side of the relation, sometimes even straightforwardly defining the interpretant as a technical term for meaning. For Ransdell meaning, object, and truth seem to be more or less equivalent on the wider scale of semiosis; moreover, any interpretant that falls short of ideal finality is deemed to be just a more or less failed attempt to grasp the object. According to Peirce, however, interpretant and meaning are associated with the idea of the future, precisely the factor that is missing from the object. Signs tend to grow in meaning, while the object in an important sense remains the same. Take any sign with a history, for instance the word ‘philosophy’, and consider how its meaning has changed over the years. On the one hand, it has altered so much that we could say that philosophy today is not what it was one-hundred years ago, but on the other hand, it is delimited precisely by the fact that it is a sign of the object philosophy. It would seem that Short’s purposive conception – whether it perfectly represents Peirce’s position or not – constitutes a more plausible account of semiosis than Ransdell’s idealistic viewpoint. However, a qualification is called for here. Short examines semiosis as a process connected to the habits and purposes of living organisms, while Ransdell is primarily looking at semiosis from the point of view of inquiry in an idealized community, such as that of science. Therefore, it is conceivable that their accounts could be rendered compatible after all, as long as we accept that the questions at hand can be conceptualized on different levels. Yet, perhaps surprisingly, Ransdell’s abstract account is not readily applicable to sign-phenomena in general, as one might expect of an account focusing only on the basic sign-relation. This, I believe, is a result of misunderstanding of the implications of Peirce’s abstraction of object and interpretant from dialogical communication. Perhaps the weightiest argument in Short’s favour is that his account brings the relevance of purposive action to the foreground. In fact, he seems to part ways with Peirce at this point by arguing that semiosis is not triadic, as purpose is a fourth element in his analysis (Short, 2007a, p. 158). However, as Short notes, this is not a cause for alarm; the semiosis relation can still be formally reduced to triads. In view of this, one could argue that it would be an error – quite tempting for Peirceans – to assume that the only thing that matters in semeiotic analysis is form. We can accept the thesis that the sign is triadic without thereby assuming that its action would need to be reduced to three elements in order for an analysis to be significant. In this sense, then, Fisch’s claim that ‘semiosis’ is more basic than ‘sign’ is not correct; from a formal point of view, the

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priority must be given to the sign relation. Yet, when the issue of how signs work in different contexts is addressed, appeals to the structural sign relation will not get us far. Against this, it might be argued that that is precisely what Ransdell succeeds in doing by casting the object as the aim and purpose of the process, and claiming autonomy for semiosis. However, construing the object as something that strives to manifest itself through the sign is in my opinion simply not plausible or helpful. As Short (2007a, p. 186 n. 5) pithily notes, the idea that the object somehow produces the sign with an intention to be represented is almost like portraying the world as Narcissus, as something that endeavours to generate its own likeness for some occult reason. Such a quasi-Platonic view is a case of misplaced anthropomorphism; it will more likely close the path of inquiry than help us understand the variety of ways in which signs operate and interpretations are formed. Short’s account is generally preferable on the grounds that it opens up semeiotic to further development; in particular, if we follow his lead, then semeiotic needs to focus on questions of context, self-control, purposes, and ideals – topics that Peirce frequently addresses in his later pragmatistic writings. I do not see similar beneficial consequences emanating from Ransdell’s interpretation, as it portrays the sign user as nearly powerless in the self-sufficient flow of signs. However, there is one undeniably sound insight incorporated in his account, namely the contention that human beings are not necessarily in full command of their signs; in many instances, the opposite would be a more accurate description. The claim that there is no semiosis without purpose does not mean that signs would not have powers of determination in that purposive context. We cannot make the signs mean what we want, and thus it might be argued that they do possess a degree of autonomy within that sphere. In this matter, I believe that a paraphrase of Peirce says it best: sign users and signs reciprocally educate each other (cf. EP 1:54 [1868]). Ransdell is not wrong to insist on the power of signs; but we should be careful not to develop a semeiotic that denies the limited but real capacity of human beings to reflect on and improve their use of signs in light of purposes and common ideals. Semiotic idealism is all too easily transformed into semiotic determinism.

4.4 Interpretative Effects Semiotic determination is not restricted to the object’s determining of the sign; the sign also determines what Peirce’s innovatively calls the interpretant.17 More precisely, he argues that the characteristic function of the sign is to establish an interpretant in view of its own determination by the object. Even better, Peirce defines the sign as anything, of whatsoever mode of being, which mediates between an object and an interpretant; since it is both determined by the object relatively to the interpretant, and determines the interpretant in reference to the object, in such


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wise as to cause the interpretant to be determined by the object through the mediation of this ‘sign’. (EP 2:410 [1907]) Arguably, this characterization, which is given immediately after the communicative abstraction of the semiotic ingredients of utterer and interpreter in ‘Pragmatism’, is one of Peirce’s finest sign definitions. It is particularly enlightening as it indicates that the object does not determine the sign blindly or based on an innate ‘desire’ for self-representation; being relative to the interpretant can be plausibly construed as an implicit acknowledgement of the relevance of interpretative purpose. Consequently, the passage cited may be the most formal characterization possible that still retains a vital reference to purposive context. However, the semiotic determination of the interpretant presents some puzzles as well. In particular, reading Peirce, it is often difficult to pinpoint what kind of entity or function the interpretant really is. No doubt, this is partly due to the fact that Peirce truly begins to develop his theory of interpretants relatively late. The young Peirce conceives of the interpretant as a further representation, that is, as another sign in some way produced by the original sign or the object’s action on the sign. This is connected to the view that thought does not have a definite end point; it is rather construed as an infinite series of representations. [A]n idea which should exist only for one moment, which should never before that have had any existence in the mind in any preceding time however close before and which should never have any existence in any succeeding time no matter how close after would have no existence whatever; and therefore an idea apart from what it represents and suggests to the mind, apart from its calling up to the mind another idea, does not exist in the mind at all. It is therefore an essential property of an idea that it should address itself to the mind at another time. Thus an idea is in the strictest sense a representation and the statement that it is necessary that a representation should excite an idea in the mind different from its own idea is reduced to the statement that a representation is something which produces another representation of the same object and in this second or interpreting representation the 1st representation is represented as representing a certain object. This 2nd representation must itself have an interpreting representation and so on ad infinitum so that, the whole process of representation never reaches a completion. (W 3:63–4 [1873]) In the hectic period of sign-theoretical development that follows upon the reawakening of Peirce’s semeiotic interest in the 1890s, the interpretant is characterized in a variety of ways, often leaving the reader unsure whether the divergences indicate noteworthy changes or merely inconsequential variations in expression. However, in essence the notion seems to be practically unchanged; the interpretant is still conceived of as another sign.

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This characterization of the interpretant has caught the imagination of many later commentators. It makes semiosis a radically open-ended process, since as a sign the interpretant must have an interpretant of its own, and so on, indefinitely (see NEM 4:310 [c. 1894]; CP 2.203 [1902]; 2.92 [c. 1902]; MS 599:36–8 [c. 1902]; MS L107:25–6 [1904]). Semiosis does not stop when the sign has determined an interpretant. Furthermore, Peirce seems to claim that this chain of determination ought to be infinite, if the sign is to be a sign in the proper sense; ‘if the series of successive interpretants comes to an end, the sign is thereby rendered imperfect, at least’ (CP 2.203 [1902]). In addition to the apparently interminable sequence of interpretants, Peirce suggests that there may be a similar lack of an absolute end in the series of objects (NEM 4:309–10 [c. 1894]; MS 599:37–8 [c. 1902]). Any object that is lifted up for contemplation turns out to be, therein and thereby, a sign, which ought to have an object of its own. This double openness has given rise to the idea of unlimited semiosis. It should be noted, however, that this is not Peirce’s term. It has been coined by Umberto Eco (1977), for whom ‘unlimited semiosis’ is equivalent to the thesis that ‘semiosis explains itself by itself’ (p. 71). That is, the sign process is autonomous, albeit in a systemic rather than an objective sense à la Ransdell; it does not have to rely on anything other than itself to be able to function as such. Furthermore, Peirce occasionally indicates that interpretation is synonymous to translation (see, e.g. EP 2:388 [1906]). Roman Jakobson (1980), in particular, has found this point of view appealing; he refers to it as Peirce’s ‘brilliant idea’, and concludes that semiotic meaning entails the translation of a sign into another system of signs (p. 35). Consequently, there would be no extra-systemic way to approach signs; meaning would always be internal to the sign system in question. In other words, the idea of unlimited semiosis seems to form a point of contact between semeiotic and structuralist semiotics, in which the meaning of signs is principally a systemic matter; paradoxically, interpreted in this fashion, the radical openness leads to structural closure. The question whether Peirce’s semeiotic really involves a thesis of unlimited semiosis is undoubtedly thorny. The issue has been frequently discussed in the literature, but no consensus has been reached. However, the structuralist reading has been largely rejected. Rather, the two competing interpretations can be summarized as the idealistic position, according to which Peirce affirms the infinity of semiosis, and the more restrained naturalistic or pragmatistic reading, according to which Peirce does in fact delimit semiosis and identify certain significant breaks in the process. Predictably, we find Ransdell in the former camp and Short in the latter. Furthermore, the debate between these positions can be condensed into two questions: (1) is every interpretant properly speaking a sign or not? and (2) can a sign possess meaning that is in itself in some sense non-semiotic? These issues are closely related. The answer to these questions depends on whether one accepts that Peirce modifies his semeiotic quite drastically towards the end of his career or not.


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Especially in ‘Pragmatism’ (1907), he unambiguously identifies interpretants that are not signs and furthermore argues that some of these can be construed as the proper meanings of signs. This is easily explained by accepting a developmental point of view, so the burden of showing that this is not a major change in Peirce’s thought lies with those who argue for the essential unity of semeiotic. Although I believe that the development is more a matter of gradual growth than of monumental upheavals, the modification of the theory of interpretants is substantial enough to justify calling it a correction of the earlier theory. In a letter to Welby, Peirce explicitly states that the interpretant is not necessarily cognitive in the proper sense of the term; ‘we may take a sign in so broad a sense that the interpretant of it is not a thought, but an action or experience, or we may even so enlarge the meaning of sign that its interpretant is a mere quality of feeling’ (SS 31 [1904]). Consequently, we might characterize the interpretant in general as interpretative effect or significate outcome (cf. CP 4.536 [1906]; 5. 473 [1907]; EP 2:429 [1907]). However, there are certain complications in the story that require us to examine Peirce’s theory of the interpretant in some more detail. Up until the year 1903, Peirce seems to hold the view that the interpretant is a sign, although he does at times offer bribes to Cerberus by characterizing it more narrowly as thought, idea, or mental effect. However, around the year 1904 Peirce begins to expand on his conception by identifying different varieties of interpretants, typically presented in groups of three.18 This is not easily reconcilable with the depiction of the interpretant as a mental sign; and indeed, approximately during the same period, Peirce considers the possibility that there might be representamens without mental interpretants (EP 2:273 [1903]). In addition, Peirce explicitly notes that the interpretant need not actually exist to guarantee the reality of the sign; a being in futuro suffices (CP 2.92 [c. 1902]; cf. EP 2:409 [1907]). As Short (2007, pp. 54–5) notes, this should not be understood in the sense that the interpretant will occur; it implies that a relation is a sign because of its capacity to determine a possible future interpretant. This is what Short calls ‘significance’.19 In Peirce scholarship, it has become customary to assert that Peirce presents two major divisions of interpretants in the final phases of his semeiotic. The first consists of immediate, dynamical, and final interpretant, while the second is constituted by the less prominent trichotomy of emotional, energetic, and logical interpretant. The proper relationship between these groups of interpretants has been one of the major sources of scholarly disagreement in studies of semeiotic, which is not surprising, since Peirce’s characterizations of the interpretants hardly constitute a complete and unified theory. They are mostly provisional sketches, full of changes of terminology and varying points of view. The fluctuations in Peirce’s vocabulary are particularly problematic in the case of the varieties of interpretant. Namely, in addition to the two trichotomies

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already mentioned the reader encounters a barrage of different candidates, such as the normal, rogate, and destinate interpretant.20 In some cases, it is relatively safe to say that the changes are just a manifestation of Peirce’s unrelenting search for adequate expression, and do not as such signal the introduction of a new idea; but in others, it is difficult to be certain. Here, the view that the two best-known sets of interpretants are distinguishable will be accepted. However, we will also see that there is a third trichotomy – that of intentional, effectual, and communicational interpretant – which is not simply equivalent to the ones already mentioned, and which may have a more important role to play than has been recognized. Nonetheless, it should be acknowledged that Peirce gives hardly any indication that he intends to construct a theory containing more than three interpretants. Turning to Peirce’s most prominent trichotomy, the immediate interpretant can be characterized as the potential or expected effect of the sign, ‘the immediate pertinent possible effect in its unanalyzed primitive entirety’ (MS 339:288 [1906]).21 It is ‘implied in the fact that each Sign must have its peculiar interpretability before it gets any Interpreter’ (SS 111 [1909]). This agrees with Short’s notion of significance, which may be distinguished from actual and ideal semiosis. Like the immediate object, the immediate interpretant is in a sense internal; indeed, Peirce characterizes it as the interpretant represented, explicitly or implicitly, in the sign itself (MS 339:276 [1906]; NEM 3:886 [1908]). Even if the sign has no actual interpreter, it may still be a sign, because the immediate interpretant prescribes how the sign could determine interpretation if there were one (cf. CP 2.92 [c. 1902]; EP 2:409 [1907]). Additionally, Peirce at least once suggests that the immediate interpretant is what is ordinarily called the ‘meaning’ of the sign (CP 4.536 [1906]). The dynamical interpretant is the factual effect caused or determined by the sign, or a collection of such experiences. These experiences are always in some sense separate from each other (SS 111 [1909]). Viewed from a slightly different point of view, the dynamical interpretant is the concrete effort or interpretation produced by the sign or that which the interpreter is able to draw from the sign (MS 339:276 [1906]; EP 2:499 [1909]). In other words, the dynamical interpretant is closely connected to the concrete sign user, situated in semiosis; it is ‘the actual effect produced upon a given interpreter on a given occasion in a given stage of his consideration of the sign’ (MS 339:288 [1906]; cf. NEM 3:886 [1908]; SS 110 [1909]). However, it is important to note that the dynamical interpretant is the interpretant determined by the sign in the field of interpretation exterior to the sign (MS 339:260 [1905]). The final interpretant is the ideal result of the sign or ‘the effect the Sign would produce upon any mind upon which circumstances should permit it to work out its full effect’ (SS 110 [1909]; cf. NEM 3:886 [1908]). In other words, the final interpretant is what would be the permanent habitual result of semiosis, if the process were unlimited. In such a final phase, there would no longer be any relevant


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function for the sign in question; to use Peirce’s metaphorical expression, the sign is ‘exhausted’ in the production of the final interpretant (MS 339:287 [1906]). As these characterizations show, there is a normative aspect to the final interpretant, something that is further emphasized by the fact that Peirce also refers to it as the normal or rational interpretant. The final interpretant embraces all that the sign could reveal concerning the object to a sufficiently penetrating mind, which is always more than an individual interpreter is able to attain (MS 339:276 [1906]). In terms of inquiry, the final state may be characterized as the true opinion, which would prevail if research and study could be pursued to its ideal experiential and communal limit (EP 2:496 [1909]). It is not difficult to see that the immediate–dynamical–final trichotomy follows the categoreal model of first, second, and third. The immediate interpretant is of the nature of firstness in the sense of being immediately present in the sign, apart from actual interpretation. The dynamical interpretant is second as a concrete interpretational effect, and the final interpretant partakes of the character of thirdness as a ‘would be’. Furthermore, we may observe a definite parallel between the object and the interpretant; in a certain respect, the first and second interpretant correspond to the immediate and dynamical object.22 However, there is also an obvious incongruity between the two poles, conceptualized as the final interpretant. This would lend support to the contention that the goal of semiosis is to be located on the interpretant pole rather than on the object pole. This is due to two important differences between object and interpretant. First, the object is the antecedent correlate, while the interpretant is the consequent; the orientation towards the future is particularly marked in the final interpretant. Secondly, such teleology as a process of semiosis may possess is attributable to its third interpretant, which as we have seen is at least partly normative notion. This, in turn, suggests a connection to the purposes of sign production and interpretation. Broadly, this is compatible with the drift of Peirce’s mature thought; only, we need to keep in mind that the ideal purposes are not necessarily to be identified with the aims of any individual. Moving on to the second trichotomy, the emotional interpretant can be characterized as the recognizability of the sign. However, Peirce also provides a somewhat more concrete description of the emotional interpretant, as he identifies it with a feeling determined by the sign in the interpreter; it is felt as a sense of comprehending the meaning of the sign (EP 2:409 [1907]). Some signs may only produce an emotional interpretant, for example, a piece of music that brings forth certain feelings in the listener (EP 2:430 [1907]). Excitants are borderline cases; a performance of a piece of concerted music may excite emotions without thereby being a sign. However, if the hearer discerns musical ideas or emotions in the notes, then the music functions as a mediator and is thus indubitably a sign (MS 318:44 [1907]). The energetic or existential interpretant is a singular effort or reaction caused by the sign (EP 2:409[1907]). Peirce claims that most signs, in their significate

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capacity, provoke efforts, whether these are active efforts in the outer or the inner world, or efforts of inhibition or self-restraint (MS 318:44 [1907]). His favourite illustration of this type of sign situation is a response to a command, insofar as the reaction is not merely ‘physiological’ (EP 2:430 [1907]). The emotional interpretant is the familiarity with the words felt by those commanded, while the energetic interpretant is the effort of obeying the order. The logical interpretant is of the character of thought (EP 2:409 [1907]). That is, it is the intellectual apprehension of the meaning of the sign, or of what is commonly called the meaning of the sign (EP 2:430 [1907]; MS 318:17 [1907]). As such, it must be a conceptual sign itself (cf. CP 4.536 [1906]). However, according to the principles of semeiotic, such a sign ought to have an interpretant of its own, which is a sign that has an interpretant, and so on. Yet, intellectual interpretation does not continue forever; infinite semiosis is practically impossible. A sign process, which at some point involves a logical interpretant, might end with an emotional or energetic response. However, that would mean that the intellectual operation would simply be terminated in a way that would have no permanent consequences for sign activity or behaviour (with the exception of an emotion or an effort that would be in some way concretely beneficial for or damaging to the interpreter-organism). The ultimate logical interpretant, that is, the interpretant that ends intellectual interpretation, is characterized as a habit or a habit-change (EP 2:431 [1907]; CP 5.476 [1907]). In other words, an intellectual interpretant, if it is allowed to run its due course, will result in a modification of the habitual character of the interpreter, his or her dispositions to feel, act, or think. This does not mean that only full-scale habit-changes qualify as ultimate logical interpretants; the modification may be nothing but a strengthening or weakening of a previous habit (CP 5.477 [1907]). However, a truly logical interpretant will lead to some effects on the behavioural pattern of the interpreter, no matter how minuscule. Thus, Peirce recognizes the reality of interpretants that are not signs in the proper sense. Albeit they are significate effects, emotions and efforts are not in themselves signs with interpretants of their own. Nevertheless, it could be argued that such effects, as parts of semiosis, will inevitably call forth logical interpretants, if they are to be genuinely meaningful. This may be true, but it does not entail an assimilation of the emotional and energetic effects into the field of logical signification. Furthermore, Peirce characterizes the ultimate logical interpretant as the proper meaning of an intellectual sign; a habit is not necessarily a sign, albeit signs may be based on habits, as symbols in particular are. In its capacity as ultimate interpretant, a habit can be construed as a determinant of future action; it is, in that sense, of the nature of law. The adherents of an idealistic interpretation of Peirce find this hard to accept. Ransdell (1986) accounts for the troubling fact of interpretants that are not signs as follows: in ‘passages in which Peirce speaks of the interpretational process as terminating in something that is not a sign, he is to be understood as


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using the word sign in its colloquial sense, not as denying that all interpretants are themselves signs in the technical sense, that is, representamens’ (p. 676). This is not a very satisfactory explanation. There is no indication that Peirce would be particularly describing the everyday uses of ‘sign’ in his discussion of the emotional, energetic, and logical interpretant. In fact, he asserts that the logical interpretant, connected to the common conception of meaning, is of the nature of a sign, while the ultimate logical interpretant – definitely a technical concept – is not of such a character. The second trichotomy also follows a discernable categoreal design; the emotional interpretant is an instance of firstness, the energetic interpretant of secondness, and the logical interpretant of thirdness. Still, it is obvious that Peirce’s descriptions of these sets of interpretants are not simply equivalent. The emotional–energetic–logical trichotomy is evidently associated with semiotic effects on an interpreter in a particular process of interpretation. Over the years, various ways to clarify the relationship between the trichotomies has been proposed (see, e.g. Fitzgerald, 1966; Liszka, 1990; Short, 1981b; 1996; 2007a; Zeman, 1977). I will not review these alternatives here; suffice it to say that they are typically based on some principle of classification or combination, which would allow us to subdivide one trichotomy by the other.23 Instead, I will elaborate on a suggestion put forth by Brendan Lalor. My thesis is that the emotional/energetic/logical classification is a special case of the immediate/dynamical/final one. More specifically, the 190624 trichotomy reflects the concrete human case, the human experience of semiosis, while the 1909 trichotomy is more abstract and lends itself to a characterization of semiosis generally. This relation is analogous (but only analogous) to the relation of the phenomenological to the metaphysical categories. [. . .] So, the relation of Peirce’s references to the interpretant-trichotomy, and his references to other interpretant-trichotomy terminologies might be said to be that of genus to species. (Lalor, 1997, pp. 34–5) In addition, Lalor (1997, p. 35) notes that Peirce generalizes the conclusions from the world of human sign use to encompass non-human semiosis. In other words, the emotional–energetic–logical trichotomy is distinctly human, but Peirce’s anthropomorphic point of view allows the expansion of the results to less familiar domains. This is no doubt a highly fallible hypothesis; but as we have seen, human inquirers simply have no alternative than to generalize on the basis of their experience, if they wish to know the world. Consequently, Lalor’s account would seem to follow roughly the same rationale as the rhetorical approach I outlined in Chapter 3. Still, his model could be slightly modified. Instead of arguing that the more general of the divisions of interpretant identified by Peirce is the genus, both trichotomies may be seen as special cases of a formal triad of first, second, and third interpretant. According

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to my modified Peircean hypothesis, which draws on Short, this basic categoreal pattern is found in all developed forms of semiosis, but it takes on different shapes depending on the purposive perspective of the investigation. Consequently, the immediate–dynamical–final division may be seen as a description of the macro-level of sign action, while the emotional–energetic–logical division primarily characterizes the concrete field of human interpretation. The first trichotomy offers a way of explicating semiosis on a higher plane of abstraction, which most importantly encompasses cooperative processes of inquiry. It involves a strong normative element in the idea of the final interpretant, the ideal end of semiosis, which never can be fully perfected. The second trichotomy describes the effects on the individual interpreter in a particular sign process. It also involves a normative aspect, but as a habit or a habit-modification, the ultimate logical interpretant is relatively concrete. Such ends of semiosis are constantly being reached. This reading has distinct advantages. As Short (1996, pp. 508–9) notes, there are substantial differences between the two trichotomies of interpretants, a fact that makes it difficult to see how one could simply be a special case of the other. In particular, the emotional–energetic–logical division seems to lack what Short identifies as the modal characteristics of the immediate–dynamical–final trichotomy; that is, while the distinction between immediate, dynamical, and final interpretant corresponds to the modalities of possibility, actuality, and tendentiality,25 there is no equivalent dimension in the other trichotomy of interpretants. However, both can definitely be presented in abstraction as a first, a second, and a third. Moreover, the proposed interpretation can accommodate the fact that there is considerable overlap between Peirce’s characterizations of the two principal divisions of interpretants, and avoids the need to explain away a large portion of what he says about the variants. However, it is possible to take this argument one step further by dissecting another set of interpretants identified by Peirce. This trichotomy of intentional, effectual, and communicational interpretant is not in any obvious way equivalent with either of the others. There is the Intentional Interpretant, which is a determination of the mind of the utterer; the Effectual Interpretant, which is a determination of the mind of the interpreter; and the Communicational Interpretant, or say the Cominterpretant, which is a determination of that mind into which the minds of utterer and interpreter have to be fused in order that any communication should take place. This mind may be called the commens. It consists of all that is, and must be, well understood between utterer and interpreter at the outset, in order that the sign in question should fulfill its function. (SS 196–7 [1906]) It is remarkable how similar this description of significate outcomes is to Peirce’s depiction of the dialogical situation from which the basic semiotic ingredients


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are obtained. Thus, my tentative hypothesis is that the passage cited can be treated as a model for how the basic scheme of three interpretants may be abstracted from a communicative exchange, as well as an outline for a theory of interpretative effects in a communicative situation. This does not mean that the trichotomy of intentional, effectual, and communicational interpretant would cover the entire field of significate effects; the communicative exchange is simply one process where the outcomes may be most clearly observed, as this is a familiar but complex kind of semiotic experience, providing ‘eminently fallible’ experiential grounding for the abstract theory. Admittedly, this division of the interpretant crops up only once in Peirce’s writings, in a draft of a letter.26 Consequently, it might be easily dismissed as just another failed attempt to articulate the basic trichotomy. I do not claim that Peirce would have conceived of the matter in precisely the way I am suggesting. However, one of the great – and sometimes frustrating – characteristics of Peirce as a thinker is the way he opens up new perspectives. This communicative perspective on the interpretant is, I believe, one of those instances. However, a critic might opine that the communicative situation, as it is portrayed, does not allow us to abstract a system of three interpretants, since a fourth element, the obscure commens seems to be involved. However, the underdeveloped concept of commens is not to be conceived as a significate outcome; it is the ‘common mind’ of the utterer and interpreter that is needed for any communication to be feasible at all. It is connected to the fund of experience and knowledge that the participants need in order to communicate; thus, it is associated with the capacity to utter and interpret signs, familiarity with social norms, relevant observation, and so on. In other words, the commens is nearly equivalent to the initial common ground required for communication, while the intentional interpretant is the determination of the utterer’s mind, the effectual interpretant is a determination of the interpreter’s mind, and the communicational interpretant is the determination of the commens. The cominterpretant can thus be construed as shared understanding that results from communicative interaction; in this sense, it points towards an ideal end. Albeit the textual evidence is shaky at best, I believe that the approach outlined above accords with Peirce’s conception of philosophy as an experiential science. Still, it is wise to keep in mind Short’s (1996) proviso; ‘no matter how much Peirce’s various formulations of aspects of his semeiotic owe to the human paradigm, his mature semeiotic reaches out to a much broader class of phenomena’ (p. 507). This is certainly true, which is why Peirce advocates critical commonsensism and anthropomorphism instead of anthropocentrism. My proposal, then, is that Peirce’s various trichotomies of interpretant ought to be construed as relative to the varying perspectives from which semiosis is examined. The obvious objection to this conception of the interpretant and its divisions is that it is too accommodating; what, for instance, would stop us from postulating new sets of interpretants for a myriad of conceivable fields of signification? There

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is perhaps no good answer to this, except that the purposes of inquiry will guide the selection with the heuristic help of the categories. One can of course politely doubt that all domains will fall neatly into the one–two–three model; but the approach can still be justified – admittedly rather weakly – by the contention that all our understanding of sign processes is founded on the ones most familiar to us. Another possible objection to the proposed interpretation is that it loses something central to Peirce’s thought: the idea that there is a final end for any semiosis – or, in other words, the notion that all sign processes ultimately converge towards a final interpretant, ‘that which would finally be decided to be the true interpretation if consideration of the matter were carried so far that an ultimate opinion were reached’ (EP 2:496 [1909]). This is just another way of expressing absolute truth, for the logical conclusion is that there would eventually be only one Final Interpretant, the perfect interpretation of everything. This criticism can be partly countered by pointing out that Peirce conceives of truth as a hope; likewise, the final interpretant is an ideal. Furthermore, I would argue that it should not be sweepingly applied to semiosis in toto, but rather to particular semioses; it is plausible to maintain the hope that any specifiable line of interpretation will reach a final end, without thereby committing oneself to the thesis that a final consensus is practically possible. However, something must be conceded to the imaginary critic. The reading I defend does lead to the conclusion that not all semioses are appropriately conceptualized in terms of one final true interpretation; that notion emerges from a certain context of practice and purpose, namely that of scientific inquiry. There are numerous different ends of sign use, and a truly general theory of signs must be able to accommodate them all, and not force them into the procrustean bed of science. To assume that a sign itself prescribes a definite interpretation by being determined by its object will lead to a peculiar form of semiotic idealism, ill-fitted to account for a reading of James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’, an aesthetic appreciation of Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’, or a heated exchange in an internet chat room. Remarkably, following a rather different line of argument, Short (2007a) comes to substantially the same conclusion, albeit expressed in terms of finality; he argues that we ‘shall have to allow distinct final interpretants of a given sign, S, relative to the different purposes for which that same sign may be interpreted’ (p. 190). This way of articulating the matter certainly has some attraction, in particular in the communicative context, for we might construe the communicational interpretant as the final interpretant of communication. However, Short’s (1996, p. 507) contention that the ‘final interpretant has to be that which would best fulfill the interpreter’s goal’ is less apposite. The communicational interpretant – or, perhaps more accurately, the ultimate communicational interpretant – is better interpreted as a common goal of utterer and interpreter, that is, as shared understanding regarding some matter, which is also construable as shared habits of action. Obviously, most communicative interactions fall


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short of such an ideal; in practice, truly understanding a viewpoint that differs from one’s own is already a remarkable achievement. From a pragmatic point of view, it may actually be the idea of the ultimate (in contrast to final) interpretant that possesses the greatest generality, for almost any semiosis can be construed as tending towards the enforcement or reformation of habits, regardless of what the purposive context is. Consequently, if the determination by signs (in reference to their objects) of their interpretants must be summarized in one sentence, it would seem that ‘effect on habits’ would be the most adequate alternative.

4.5 Transmission and Transparency Taking stock of the preceding discussions, one can conclude that determination is doubly descriptive of semiosis, both as objective determining of the sign in view of the interpretant and as mediated determining of the interpretant. Following leads from Short, I have argued for a qualified conception of determination in semiosis; it should not be understood causally, but as a logical or semiotic function that is in a relevant sense dependent on purposive context. Furthermore, in agreement with Colapietro, I have contended that ‘representation’ is not an adequate term to describe semiosis in general, characteristic as it may be of some of the most important sign actions. So, to return to the question posed at the beginning of this chapter, is there anything more to say about semiosis, that is, in addition to describing it in terms of determination? One option would be to follow Greenlee’s (1973) lead and say that the representative capacity of signs is in a certain sense secondary to their function as mediators. In a similar vein, Colapietro argues that ‘mediation’ would be a better term than ‘representation’ to characterize the function of the sign. [I]t is better to speak of a sign mediating between an object and its interpretant than to speak of a sign representing an object to an interpretant. The principal reason is that the first way of speaking strongly invites the question, In what way does the sign so mediate? whereas the second way too infrequently suggests the query, In what way does the sign represent its object? In short, ‘mediation’ is a far more perspicuously general term than ‘representation’. (Colapietro, 1989, pp. 18–19) Another reason to opt for ‘mediation’ is that a representative conception of semiosis almost unavoidably leads to a surrogational model of sign action, which in turn restricts the generality of the theory. Arguably, ‘representation’ easily triggers this unwelcome association, while ‘mediation’ is less likely to do so.27 Further support for this viewpoint could be obtained from the rhetorical strategy outlined in the last chapter. Focusing on the communicative sign, it

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seems feasible to maintain that its principal generic function is not representation – although signs in communication also can represent states of affairs and the like – but rather mediation. Thus, we need to examine the plausibility of this proposition a bit closer. Characterizations of the sign in terms of mediation or related terms are fairly frequent in Peirce’s writings.28 Still, most of these seem to cluster around the year 1906, when Peirce begins to portray the sign as a medium of communication (see EP 2:329 [1904]; 2:389–391 [c. 1906]; MS 793:1 [c. 1906]; 339:271 [1906]; SS 196 [1906]). This is roughly the same period when Peirce decides to drop the term ‘representamen’ and begins to question the adequacy of ‘representation’ as a depiction of the general function of the sign relation. In ‘The Basis of Pragmaticism’ (MS 283 [c. 1906]) Peirce introduces the notion of medium of communication in a way that suggests that it has taken the place of the generic technical term. More precisely, the new concept seems to be a replacement of ‘representamen’ as a genus of which ‘sign’ is a species. Peirce still questions whether ‘sign’ is broad enough to embrace signals (such as commands) and excitants (such as melodies as generators of feelings). In this context, he vaguely suggests the rhetorical strategy (or ‘phaneroscopic analysis’) through which the main ingredients of the sign relation could be abstracted from ordinary communication, but he ends up pursuing a different approach. Parts of his argument are rather obscure, and feel tentative at best. Furthermore, as Peirce includes commands and melodies within the scope of ‘sign’ in the end, the central distinction he proposes in ‘The Basis of Pragmaticism’ is somewhat dubious. Nonetheless, this text is of interest as it shows how he attempts to construe the relationship of sign and mediation in an analysis clearly informed by a communicative point of view. In the conceptual hierarchy sketched by Peirce, ‘a sign is [. . .] a species of medium of communication, and medium of communication is a species of medium, and a medium is a species of third’ (EP 2:390 [c. 1906]; cf. MS 339:271 [1906]). A genuine third ‘is something which differs from a first in one respect and from a second in another respect’ (EP 2:390 [c. 1906]). If these respects differ from one another as contraries, then the third is a medium. A medium of communication, in its turn, ‘is something, A, which being acted upon by something else, N, in its turn acts upon something, I, in a manner involving its determination by N, so that I shall thereby, through A and only through A, be acted upon by N’ (EP 2:391 [c. 1906]). The significance of this characterization becomes clearer in an illustration given by Peirce: a mosquito (A) is acted upon by an entity of contagious disease (N), and then itself acts upon another animal (I), to which the disease is thereby transmitted. Superficially, this may seem like a case of mediation where the mosquito acts as a medium of communication; however, Peirce notes that the example is not perfect, because ‘the active medium is in some measure of the nature of a vehicle, which differs from a medium of communication in acting upon the


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transported object and determining it to a changed location, where, without further interposition of the vehicle, it acts upon, or is acted upon by, the object to which it is conveyed’ (EP 2:391 [c. 1906]). My reason for focusing on this example is that it highlights some important distinctions for semeiotic. The mosquito is a medium, but Peirce argues that it lacks a key feature of a medium of communication. The two events – the mosquito being acted upon and it acting upon another animal – are separate and not produced in view of each other; the relationship is triadic, but not genuinely because the appropriate cooperative element is missing.29 Therefore, the process is better characterized as transportation or transmission than as mediation in the communicative sense. This is a central distinction, which Peirce does not always make clearly enough. The sign relation may be construable as mediation, but the sign is not a vehicle; it acts as a medium of communication.30 Unfortunately, in the next step of his argument Peirce once again seems to articulate a surrogational model of the sign. A sign [. . .], just in so far as it fulfills the function of a sign, and none other, perfectly conforms to the definition of a medium of communication. It is determined by the object, but in no other respect than goes to enable it to act upon the interpreting quasi-mind; and the more perfectly it fulfills its function as a sign, the less effect it has upon that quasi-mind other than that of determining it as if the object itself had acted upon it. Thus, after an ordinary conversation, a wonderfully perfect kind of sign-functioning, one knows what information or suggestion has been conveyed, but will be utterly unable to say in what words it was conveyed, and often will think it was conveyed in words, when in fact it was only conveyed in tones or in facial expressions. (EP 2:391 [c. 1906]) Strangely enough, Peirce seems to miss the fact that tones and facial expressions are excitants. Consequently, he is either wrong when he calls them signs, or else needs to abandon the distinction between sign and medium of communication. Judging by his final semeiotic writings, he seems to opt for the second option, as melodies and commands are included in the scope of sign in spite of the fact that they are not fully representational. However, the more serious problem concerns the description of the ideal sign medium as something that acts as transparently as possible. This renders it vulnerable to critical assault on the grounds that it is, after all, a transmission conception, in which the sign is a channel for an occult influence from object to interpretant. In fact, based on a similar line of argument, Richard Parmentier (1985) has contended that the turn towards mediation and communication in Peirce’s mature semeiotic is unsound and that we should therefore stick to the representational model. Parmentier claims that we can distinguish two basic ‘vectors’ in the general sign relation: the vector of representation, which points from the sign and the

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interpretant towards the object, and the vector of determination, which points from the object towards the sign and the interpretant. According to Parmentier (1985), determination ‘is the causal process in which qualities of one element are specified, transferred, or predicated by the action of another element’ (p. 27). Semiotic determination is a process, in which the object acts upon the sign, which in turn acts upon the interpretant. In this way, the sign brings about a mediated determination of the interpretant by the object. Representation works in the opposite direction. It is characterized as ‘the act or relation in which one thing stands for something else to the degree that it is taken to be, for certain purposes, that second thing by some subject or interpreting mind’ (Parmentier, 1985, p. 27). In both of these vectors, the sign, or representamen, occupies a mediating position between object and interpretant, and the object functions as a constraining factor of semiosis; yet, the types of semiotic action involved are different. In the case of determination, the action of the object must pass through the sign in order to reach the interpretant and determine some effect, such as cognition. In the second vector, the representation formed by the interpretant is limited by the fact that there must be some kind of prior ‘standing for’ relation between sign and object in order for representative semiosis to be possible at all (Parmentier, 1985, pp. 28–9). Furthermore, Parmentier claims that the vectors of representation and determination interlock in a manner that accounts for the characteristic processuality of semiosis. He notes that there are two infinite series involved in semiosis – back towards the object and forward towards the interpretant – and thus affirms the idea of ‘unlimited semiosis’. However, Parmentier’s (1985) crucial claim is that the two semiotic vectors operate on different levels of semiosis, and are thus not symmetric (p. 29). This asymmetry is due to the fact that the sign can stand for the object in three different ways. The iconic connection is based on some quality shared by sign and object, while the indexical relation is existential; but the third, symbolic mode of representation accounts for the asymmetry. According to Parmentier, determination operates at the same level of semiosis in all of its phases. Hence, it could be characterized as linear influence. In representation, however, a metasemiotic level is introduced, as the interpretant of the symbol represents its object by forming a conception of the prior relation between sign and object. That is, we move to this second order of semiosis when the symbol’s interpretant sign represents the relation between sign and object as a new semiotic entity. Perhaps we can say that this semiotic accomplishment is due to the peculiar semiotic character of the symbol; it represents itself to be represented (EP 2:323 [1904]). Although Parmentier does not explicate the nature and relevance of the metasemiotic level in detail, it is obviously of utmost significance for both his critical interpretation of Peirce and his own conception of semiotic inquiry. Namely, it is implied that the process of symbolic representation, in which


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habits and conventions are involved, accounts for both the growth of meaning and the essential interconnectedness of signs. To the extent that it is symbolic, semiosis tends to produce more and more extensive objects or grounds, which not only serve to explicate the original object in a series of representations, but also form complex semiotic webs of signs and objects that would otherwise not be so connected. In this manner, representations of second intention, in which the objects are semiotic entities, are formed (Parmentier, 1985, p. 30). Parmentier’s approach seems plausible; it would certainly help explain Peirce’s often cryptic remarks to the effect that the object is also a sign (see, e.g. CP 1.538 [1903]; EP 2:328 [1904]; 2:380 [c. 1906]). The first object can be construed as an ideal limit, which can be comprehended only within a representational process; it is never given as such, free from all representation. Moreover, the postulation of a metasemiotic level serves to highlight the creative role of the interpretant as a synthesizing force, thus making it clear that semiosis is not mere determination; it involves a complication in the shape of interpretation, which in fact is a necessary requirement for true semiotic development. The process of symbolic representation could be viewed as a highly abstract account of the basic dynamics of understanding and culture. Hence, the vectorial analysis of semiosis, coupled with an acknowledgement of the importance of representation as a creative force, implies the applicability of semeiotic to a wide range of phenomena and inquiries. To recapitulate: Parmentier recognizes two principal processes involved in the more inclusive process of semiosis, the causal process of determination and the synthesizing process of representation. In general, Parmentier finds this to be the acceptable upshot of Peirce’s analyses; but he also wants to argue that Peirce’s mature account of semiosis shows an unfortunate tendency to prioritize the determinative aspect. To be more specific, Parmentier (1985, p. 32) feels that Peirce unwisely shifts his emphasis from representation to determination when the sign is defined as a medium of communication. Parmentier finds the following passage to be particularly problematic: [A] Sign may be defined as a Medium for the communication of a Form. It is not logically necessary that anything possessing consciousness, that is, feeling of the peculiar common quality of all our feeling should be concerned. But it is necessary that there should be two, if not three, quasi-minds, meaning things capable of varied determination as to the forms communicated. As a medium, the Sign is essentially in a triadic relation, to its Object which determines it, and to its Interpretant which it determines [. . .] That which is communicated from the Object through the Sign to the Interpretant is a Form; that is to say, it is nothing like an existent, but is a power, is the fact that something would happen under certain conditions. This Form is really embodied in the object, meaning that the conditional relation which constitutes the form is true of the Form as it is in the Object. In the Sign it is

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embodied only in a representative sense, meaning that whether by virtue of some real modification of the Sign, or otherwise, the Sign becomes endowed with the power of communicating it to an interpretant. (MS 793:1-3 [c. 1906]; cf. SS 196 [1906]) Parmentier claims that Peirce’s later semeiotic is marked by a tendency to see communication as an essential feature of all sign action. However, in this context, ‘communication’ does not necessarily refer to communication as it is ordinarily understood; according to Parmentier (1985, p. 42), Peirce associates communication with the transfer of truth in an object-interpretant continuum, which is endless in both directions. Furthermore, Parmentier states that truth and communication are perfectly isomorphic for Peirce, because communication is not construed in terms of social sharing of knowledge, but rather as an argumentative dialogue between moments of one mind that realizes the unity of semiosis (cf. NEM 3:886 [1908]). Yet, this does not mean that Peirce would reduce his analysis of semiosis into a classical epistemological concern involving only the knowing subject and known object; that would certainly not be a viable option for an anti-Cartesian, who explicitly rejects such dualistic accounts of inference and cognition (see, e.g. SS 69 [1908]). Obviously, Peirce continues to affirm the need for mediation in his communicative definitions, as the sign is characterized precisely as a medium; but this perspective may nevertheless entail certain reductive consequences because of its causal linearity. In Parmentier’s interpretation, semiosis as communication is primarily a specification of semiosis as determination. At least, Peirce seems to be concerned with the same vector of semiosis when he speaks of communication and determination in his definitions. The sign, which is determined by the object, determines the interpretant, so that a form is communicated from object to interpretant. This transfer would take place on the same causal level of semiosis; no metasemiotic level of second intentions appears to be involved. Still, Peirce acknowledges the need for concrete expression; the form must be embodied in some manner, if it is to be conveyed from object to interpretant. In other words, some kind of vehicle of expression, which embodies the form representatively in the process, is required. This conveyance is the role assigned to the sign; its mediating character is that of a carrier capable of determination. The form, which in Parmentier’s reading is more or less equivalent to cognitive truth, cannot exist as such; if a thought is to have any active mode of being, it must be embodied in a sign (cf. SS 195 [1906]). At the same time, Peirce appears to expound an ideal of semiotic transparency (Parmentier, 1985, pp. 43–4). As anyone familiar with Peirce’s logic knows, he distinguishes the proposition from its accidental expression. That is, the proposition is not supposed to be affected by the material shape it is given for the purposes of outward or inward communication, but remains the same proposition whether it is asserted or denied, stated in English or Finnish, and so on


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(see, e.g. EP 2:312 [1904]; CP 8.313 [1905]; 4.6 [1906]). Such a perspective implies that there is a meaningful core to any thought that can be communicated, in spite of the variety of ways that can be used to express it. This, in turn, would seem to accord with Peirce’s view that the embodiment of the form in the sign is ‘merely’ representative. Parmentier (1985, p. 43) claims that the expressive vehicle that is required for communicative transmission does not contribute to the significant determination of the interpretant. That is, the function of the sign is to convey the form without affecting it (cf. EP 2:391 [1906]). However, we all know that the vehicles we use tend to influence semiosis; for instance, different languages offer different means of expression, enabling certain modes of communication while limiting our capacities in other regards. Peirce is certainly aware of these restrictions on our semiotic capacities, and of the power of sign systems (see, e.g. W 1:494 [1866]; EP 2:10 [c. 1894]). Still, he never ceases to look for an adequate logical notation, in which the deficiencies of ordinary language could be overcome – that is, a mode of expression that would allow us to focus on the significant relations of communicated thought without being distracted or muddled by inessential extras. Parmentier (1985, p. 43–4) argues that it is precisely for this purpose that Peirce creates his ‘iconic’ system of existential graphs. We are now in a position to see why Parmentier claims that Peirce’s communicative definition of the sign limits the scope of semiosis and semiotic inquiry. By combining the requirement of expression with the ideal of transparency, Peirce ends up giving us a picture of semiosis as mere delivery of form. Contrary to the earlier account of symbolic representation, the sign is reduced to a kind of necessary evil, needed as a temporary vehicle, but of no relevance for the constitution of meaning. At the same time, the focus of semeiotic has changed; its primary concern is now to conceive of a mode of expression that would be as transparent as possible. The representative function of the human mind is all but eliminated from the process, as the optimal sign is similar to a perfect translating machine (Parmentier, 1985, p. 45). In other words, there is no growth of meaning by symbolic representation. Hence, Parmentier (1985) concludes that ‘Peirce in the end reduced the role of signs to being blind vehicles for communication meanings that they do not influence’ (p. 45); but it would perhaps be more illuminating to say that the sign only affects the process in a detrimental way, as its expressive limitations make perfect transparency impossible. Semiosis is a process of transmission, in which the form transmitted ought not to be influenced by the medium, but some disturbance is inevitable due to the necessity of embodiment. If Parmentier is right, then Peirce’s conception of the sign as a medium of communication is both limited and limiting. As a strict logical ideal, the communicative definition of the sign relation reduces semeiotic’s scope to truth-functional epistemology and logic (cf. Parmentier 1985, pp. 25, 44). Consequently, it is inferior to the earlier idea of mediate representation, and almost of no use for attempts to investigate various modes of communication semiotically.

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Reconstructed and slightly modified, the problems noted or implied by Parmentier can be summarized as follows: 1. The communicative definition places the emphasis on causal determination rather than mediate representation. Therefore, Peirce’s later account of semiosis lacks a metasemiotic level, which could account for semiotic growth. 2. In communicative determination, the sign is reduced to a vehicle carrying form or truth from the object to the interpretant. It still has a vital function as a mediator; but it does not contribute anything positive to the process. The sign is simply a means to an end (cf. EP 2:5 [c. 1894]). 3. By simultaneously affirming the necessity of expression and the ideal of transparency, Peirce restricts his semiotic interests to logic and the effective expression of thought; other modes of semiosis are ignored or devalued as scientifically deficient. Consequently, Peirce ends up limiting the scope of semeiotic in a way that makes it an inappropriate starting-point for more comprehensive studies of communicative and cultural phenomena. Parts of Parmentier’s criticism can be quickly dismissed with reference to our previous findings. The worry that the sign would be construed as a vehicle does not need to be addressed anew; I have already shown that Peirce expressly denies it. Furthermore, while Parmentier is right in claiming that there is a causal element in many of Peirce’s characterizations, it has been shown that this does not necessarily entail the kind of straightforward determination that Parmentier dreads. As to the lack of a metasemiotic level, Parmentier may have a point; but nevertheless, Peirce may be articulating a conception of sign that could incorporate semiotic phenomena that are not representational in the full sense of the word. The sign can be construed as something that enables representation rather than being representation. Thus, the sign would primarily be construable as a mediator. Still, Parmentier’s critical rejection of the communicative definition of the sign raises a number of important questions. There is no denying that he makes many accurate observations concerning the focus and possible limitations of Peirce’s conception. In particular, the ideal of transparent medium seems to transform the sign into a viaduct for transmitting information. The key to the question would appear to be the ‘form’ that is supposedly conveyed or transmitted through the medium of communication. In one context, Peirce indicates that it is more or less equivalent to the object, but the suggestion hardly makes sense (see SS 196 [1906]). For Parmentier, form seems to be more or less equivalent to truth or a truthful idea, although he does not discuss this interpretation at great length. However, he suggests that the triad of mediation should not really be construed as consisting of sign, object, and interpretant, but rather of object, interpretant, and meaning (Parmentier, 1985, p. 37). While it is not possible to examine this problematic claim in detail here, it leads us towards a possibility that


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Parmentier appears to ignore – that is, that the concept of form may be approached from the perspective of meaning rather than truth. This opens up the doors for a more substantial reading of the semiotic ‘form’. According to Peirce, the communicated form is not a singular thing; it possesses the being of a predicate (EP 2:544 [c. 1906]). It can be formulated as a conditional proposition that states that certain things would happen under certain circumstances. In other words, it is a power, which can be understood as a kind of disposition or real potential (cf. EP 2:388 [c. 1906]). Yet another Peircean term for the form so interpreted would be habit; and here we find a vital connection to the pragmatistic analysis of the meaning of signs. Interpreting the communicated form in terms of habit moves our analysis towards a more concrete and practical level, as it establishes an association between the enigmatic form and the ‘would-acts’ and ‘would-dos’ of habitual behaviour (CP 5.467 [1907]). Be that as it may, the notion that the form would first reside in the object, and then be moved or extended to the interpretant is less than satisfactory (cf. SS 196 [1908]). It seems to entail the problematic conception of the object as a repository, which fits poorly with Peirce’s view of the dynamical object as a determinant as portrayed above. The semiotic form may be simply an abstract analogue of the meaning shared in an ordinary communicative situation. At any rate, it does not seem to have been a truly necessary ingredient of the sign relation in Peirce’s opinion; the concept all but disappears after 1906. Rather than speak abstractly of ‘form’ in the general sign definition, it might be more fruitful to say that there is a ‘space of determination’ delimited or opened up by the dynamical object; it establishes what possibilities of influence the sign has, and thus how habits formally embodied in the immediate object can ‘spread’ to the interpretant and become truly effective. Next, let us turn to another one of Parmentier’s central critical arguments, namely the claim that the communicative definition involves a problematic ideal of transparency. At least in this regard, his criticism seems to be accurate, for as we have seen, Peirce does characterize the ideal function of the sign in such terms (see EP 2:391 [c. 1906]). Why is this standpoint problematic? It would appear to be a rather plausible account of the ideal functioning of a sign as a channel that does not disturb the transmission of information by noise (cf. Shannon and Weaver, 1949). Yet, there are two problems in this outlook. First, the sign is again depicted in a way that may lead to the erroneous conception that it is a mere vehicle or perhaps a kind of conduit for information transfer. Secondly, while it is true that we often wish that our signs would function as transparently or noiselessly as possible, Peirce also indicates that an awareness of the sign as a sign is a prerequisite of semiotic development. In particular, self-control and self-criticism require that we become aware of our habits – for instance, habits of thought or habits of communication – so that they can be reflected upon, and possibly transformed in view of certain purposes and ideals. This is of course not possible if the signs are perfectly translucent.

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Instead of simply stating that the more transparent a sign is, the better it functions, Peirce ought to have said that signs – or rather semiotic habits – have a tendency towards transparency. In many cases, this is beneficial and unavoidable – it would certainly be difficult to live in constant controlled awareness of the signs one uses in interpretation and communication; but in other cases, transparency may be associated with ingrained habits, which ought to be criticized. Paradoxically, the invisibility of signs can be an obstruction to the development of thought. Indeed, any critical use of mind must involve awareness of the signs employed and the grounds upon which they profess to represent their objects. The bearing of all this on the issue at hand is that mediation may, after all, not be the best way to characterize semiosis in general. The term suggests arbitration and bringing together, but it is by no means clear that all instances of sign action should or even could be so construed. No doubt, one of the important tasks of a sign can be to bring the interpretant into contact with an object as transparently as possible. However, this does not cover all kinds of semiosis. Of course it is possible to treat ‘mediation’ as a strictly technical term, and discard the unwanted associations; but the same could be said of ‘representation’. The disappointing upshot is then that neither term covers semiosis in general. The sign typically represents the interpretant to be influenced or caused by the object, but there are clearly cases in which that description is less apt. The sign can more generally be portrayed as a mediator, but that depiction also has its weaknesses. In my view, the most general way of characterizing semiosis is as a double relative determination; it is a determination of sign by object relatively to interpretant and a determination of interpretant by sign relatively to object in one act (EP 2:410 [1907]).31 The action is cooperative in the sense that none of the ‘entities’ involved would be what they are without the others. I do not believe one can be more descriptive than that without losing generality; and a more formal definition would utterly fail to capture what is characteristic of semiosis. No doubt, this determinative depiction is flawed in many senses, as it does not succeed in capturing all flavours of semiosis; but that simply shows the need to probe the peculiarities of various kinds of semioses, instead of denying the diversity.

Chapter 5

Prospects of Communication

In this final chapter, I will examine some aspects of communicative semiosis. At first blush, this may feel circular; since the principal semiotic ingredients are abstracted from a dialogical exchange, a critic might contend that applying such findings to studies of processes and phenomena of communication is somewhat disingenuous. It appears to violate some key principles of Peirce’s architectonic. Such a criticism would be understandable, but the circle may be virtuous rather than vicious; at any rate, Peirce’s appeal to rhetorical evidence as the imperfect starting-point of grammar does support the reading I propose. [W]e can directly observe what is familiar to our experience of assertions1 and seems to be inseparable from them. Professor Schröder2 calls this rhetorical evidence; and the designation is felicitous, because the reasoning in question has the characteristics of the inferences termed rhetorical by the old logicians. The term also harmonizes with my name of speculative rhetoric for the highest and most living branch of logic. To me personally, perhaps the designation gives that sort of satisfaction which so many schools have manifested in adopting appellations invented by their opponents as depreciative. For although Professor Schröder cannot but acknowledge the value and need of this kind of reasoning, a slight shade of disesteem seems to mingle with his approval on account of its undeniable formal imperfection.3 Now to me this very imperfection marks the reasoning as being drawn direct from those observational sources from whence all true reasoning must be drawn; and I have often remarked in the history of philosophy, that the reasonings which were somewhat dark and formally imperfect, often went the deepest. (CP 2.333 [c. 1895]) The first step of this process is partly inductive, being based on past experience, but also significantly abductive as it leads to the formation of general hypotheses; it ‘consists in examining a mass of facts and in allowing these facts to suggest a theory’ (CP 8.209 [c. 1905]; cf. CP 5.590 [1903]). In the next stage, Peirce argues that we need to deduce the consequences from the theory obtained. This is arguably the phase at which grammar in the proper sense is articulated, giving us formal definitions of the sign relation, classifications of

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varying signs and interpretants, and the like. The deductive stage is sometimes deemed to be the whole of Peircean sign theory. However, Peirce not only argues for a rhetorical grounding of grammar, he also insists that grammatical conceptions need to be tested in the very field from which they were obtained; ‘the deductions, or quasi-predictions, from theory having been made, it is requisite to turn to the rhetorical evidence and see whether or not they are verified by observation’ (CP 2.333 [c. 1895]). Noting the circularity of the process, he deems it to be beneficial, leading to a ‘rounded’ and more probable theory if support and corroboration is found. Ideally, it is a positive feedback loop. Thus, communication plays a double role in semeiotic. On the one hand, the basic semeiotic components are obtained by an informal analysis of an ordinary communicative sign situation, the object and interpretant fulfilling the vital semiotic roles of utterer and interpreter. On the other hand, as a general theory of signs, semeiotic should also be applicable to studies of the field of communicative semiosis. Indeed, if semeiotic is not capable of handling this task of rhetorica docens, then it cannot be an adequate semiotic theory. Taking stock of the findings of Chapter 4, I believe that a number of central questions of communication may be fruitfully articulated with reference to determination within the semeiotic framework. As noted, this term can lead to misunderstandings, but by now it should be clear that we are not talking about a deterministic conception. Of course, I do not mean to say that questions of determination would exhaust a semeiotic theory of communication; here, I am only trying to point out some central areas of interest for such a theory. Thus, in what follows I will expand on certain key issues touched upon in the preceding chapters, moving from the complex role of experience in objective fixation to the inherent indeterminacy of communicative interaction. I will conclude this study with some reflections on signification and the habituation of sign users.

5.1 Finding Common Ground Building on Peirce’s theory of interpretants, communication could be schematically conceptualized in terms of three kinds of significate outcome: the intentional interpretant (II) that is a determination of the utterer,4 the effectual interpretant (EI) that is a determination of the interpreter, and the communicational interpretant (CI) that is a determination of the ‘common mind’ or the ‘commens’. This seems clear-cut enough: there is an intention to communicate something that determines the utterer (II), there is an effect on the interpreter that is almost certainly different than intended (EI), and there is an optimal result that is not necessarily equivalent to either II or EI, and which cannot be simply dismissed as the sum of the two (CI). The intention does not need to be explicit and conscious; in this context, it refers more broadly to the purposive elements that determine the utterer’s mind to an II. Nor does the interpreter


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need to be aware of the EI as an effect on his or her disposition to think and act in certain ways. Consequently, this conception leaves room for a broad range of determinations, something that any representation of communication certainly must do in order to lay claim to generality. However, apart from obviously being a simplification of a complex process of determination and unification, there is one aspect that this account seems to leave out, namely the initial determination of the common mind. According to Peirce, the commens ‘consists of all that is, and must be, well understood between utterer and interpreter at the outset, in order that the sign in question should fulfill its function’, and he adds that no ‘object can be denoted unless it be put into relation to the object’ of this common mind (SS 197 [1906]). This may seem like another barrage of tentative and cryptic concepts, but they actually indicate something crucial about communication from the semeiotic point of view: the fact that communicative interaction requires a cognitive and experiential ground, and that mere signs would not be capable of sufficiently identifying and delimiting objects for communicative purposes. Peirce argues that no human being can communicate with another unless they have a common ground consisting of ‘common familiar knowledge’, ‘where the word ‘familiar’ refers less to how well the object is known than to the manner of the knowing’ (MS 614:1 [1908]). The mode in question could be characterized as mutuality; the communicants not only have a certain fund of shared knowledge, but also at least tacitly ‘know’ that the other party possesses roughly the same cognitive and experiential goods. Peirce lists a set of things that are typically covered by the common ground, for example knowledge of the language used, grammatical aptitude, capacity for self-control, practical certainty that one’s experiential knowledge of the world does not radically differ from that of other human beings, and so on (MS 612:6–7 [1908]). The most important part of this fund is arguably a product of experience in the broad sense, that is, something of cognitive bearing that a person simply cannot deny.5 Yet, it is not static, but changes and grows through the practices in which human beings are engaged. As Ahti-Veikko Pietarinen (2006) appositely summarizes the matter, the Peircean ‘common ground is the evolving resource of all that is given in the continuous situatedness and mutual experience of communicating agents’ (p. 58). The commens is clearly intimately bound to the common ground between utterer and interpreter; but it may be advantageous to retain the distinction between the two for analytical purposes. The common mind can be characterized as the blending of utterer’s and interpreter’s mind that is determined by the common ground.6 In other words, the common ground is the complex initial object that partly unifies the seemingly separate minds of utterer and interpreter as a commens. In the next step, we need to take note of Peirce’s contention that no object can be denoted unless it is put into relation to the object of the commens. As the broader object can be understood as the common ground in its dynamical aspect – that is, as experiential – the narrower object can be interpreted as the

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subject matter of the communication that is not given in the signs as such, but which requires collateral experience. It is a dynamic object that cannot be expressed by the sign; it can only be indicated and identified by previous acquaintance or collateral observation. This is not the kind of knowledge that might be obtained from the sign system as such, as Peirce makes clear. I do not mean by ‘collateral observation’ acquaintance with the system of signs. What is so gathered is not COLLATERAL. It is on the contrary the prerequisite for getting any idea signified by the Sign. But by collateral observation, I mean previous acquaintance with what the Sign denotes. Thus if the Sign be the sentence ‘Hamlet was mad’, to understand what this means one must know that men are sometimes in that strange state; one must have seen madmen or read about them; and it will be all the better if one specifically knows (and need not be driven to presume) what Shakespeare’s notion of insanity was. All that is collateral observation and is no part of the Interpretant. (EP 2:494 [1909]) Peirce tends to use the terms ‘collateral observation’, ‘collateral experience’, and ‘collateral acquaintance’ interchangeably. We might consider introducing a sharper distinction between collateral observation and collateral experience, at least. The former concept suggests such relevant additional experience as is obtainable from the immediate environment at the moment when a sign acts. ‘Collateral experience’ evokes a broader scope, encompassing germane previous experience not expressed by the sign. It is a part of the common ground, while collaterally observable experience is more adequately described as such narrow contextual experience that the commens enables communicants to acquire or undergo. In temporal terms, collateral experience is mainly past and collateral observation is predominantly present; but logically, both precede the sign. Whether this distinction is adopted or not, the important point is that no sign system can ever be self-sufficient and autonomous; there is always a kind of ‘base level’ of experience that is not captured by the signs as such. Consequently, when Peirce states that an object must be put into relation with the object of the commens in order to be denoted, he to all intents and purposes asserts that any subject matter must be related to the experiential common ground in order to be sufficiently determinate for both utterer and interpreter to be communicatively effective. The parties need at least some degree of primary agreement regarding what the discourse is about, or else there really cannot be any communication; ‘two men cannot converse without some common ground of experiences undergone by both concerning which they speak’ (MS 1135:7 [c. 1897]). This grounding is extra-systemic, which is why Peirce speaks of additional or collateral experience and observation. One of the arguments on which Peirce bases his requirement for collateral experience and observation is that no description, in itself, suffices to indicate


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the object of a communicative exchange. If person A says ‘Bush is a liar’ to person B, the sentence will be close to senseless unless B has some previous experience of the objects involved. That is, if B does not know who Bush is, or has blissfully escaped contact with lies and liars, the objects of the sentence will not be sufficiently fixed to function determinatively in the semiotic process. If B asks ‘Who?’, A can of course try to specify the reference by offering a description along the lines of ‘The 43rd president of the United States’; but then again, the understanding of that phrase depends on experience of such objects as presidents and the United States. The formulations can be made more and more definite, but unless A somehow manages to refer to an object of B’s experience, no communication can take place. According to Peirce, such a reference cannot be achieved with pure descriptions. [L]ooking at the matter from the rhetorical point of view, every assertion must be an assertion about something, and there must be something to indicate what it is about. This subject must be something which speaker and listener both know by experience; or else, the assertion must show the hearer by what process he can gain experience of the subject of the assertion. No description whatever can suffice to show what the subject is, unless the assertion is absolutely empty. For example, the assertion ‘all red cows are red’, if it be intended to say something about real cows is perfectly empty and means nothing. An uncultivated person, who only understands assertions as referring to real things, will call it nonsense. It only gains a meaning when it is understood as meaning that the term, or Begriff, ‘red cows’ involves their being red. The subject of the assertion is in that case the logical world of terms or concepts; and this world cannot be differentiated from every world of fact and of fiction by any general description. (MS 805:19) Consequently, the recognition of the need for collateral experience entails an emphasis on the role of indices – signs that somehow draw attention to the relevant part of experience without describing it – in communication. However, not even the most basic index imaginable can eliminate the need for collateral factors. I point my finger to what I mean, but I can’t make my companion know what I mean, if he can’t see it, or if seeing it, it does not, to his mind, separate itself from the surrounding objects in the field of vision. It is useless to attempt to discuss the genuineness and possession of a personality beneath the histrionic presentation of Theodore Roosevelt with a person who recently has come from Mars and never heard of Theodore before. (EP 2:498 [1909]) This does not mean that collateral factors would replace the need for signs. Indices, in particular, play an important role as contextualizers of communication, since

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they are signs that in some sense indicate or call the attention to their objects, without thereby giving any substantial information about them. Such signs are primarily of two kinds: designations or subindices, which force the attention of the interpreter to certain existents, and reagents, which are purer indications. An index represents an object by virtue of its connection with it. It makes no difference whether the connection is natural, or artificial, or merely mental. There is, however, an important distinction between two classes of indices. Namely, some merely stand for things or individual quasi-things with which the interpreting mind is already acquainted, while others may be used to ascertain facts. Of the former class, which may be termed designations, personal, demonstrative, and relative pronouns, proper names, the letters attached to a geometrical figure, and the ordinary letters of algebra are examples. They act to force the attention to the thing intended. Designations are absolutely indispensable both to communication and to thought. No assertion has any meaning unless there is some designation to show whether the universe of reality or what universe of fiction is referred to. The other class of indices may be called reagents. Thus water placed in a vessel with a shaving of camphor thrown upon it will show whether the vessel is clean or not. If I say that I live two and a half miles from Milford, I mean that a rigid bar that would just reach from one line to another upon a certain bar in Westminster, might be successively laid down on the road from my house to Milford, 13 200 times, and so laid down on my reader’s road would give him a knowledge of the distance between my house and Milford. Thus, the expression ‘two miles and a half’ is, not exactly a reagent, but a description of a reagent. A scream for help is not only intended to force upon the mind the knowledge that help is wanted, but also to force the will to accord it. It is, therefore, a reagent used rhetorically. Just as a designation can denote nothing unless the interpreting mind is already acquainted with the thing it denotes, so a reagent can indicate nothing unless the mind is already acquainted with its connection with the phenomenon it indicates. (CP 8.368 n. 23) Reagents are proper indices. As such they have no necessary connection to symbols, although, as Peirce notes, they may be described using symbolic signs. Examples of such indexical signs would be the environment of the interlocutors or something attracting attention in that environment, for instance a pointing finger. Reagents have a virtually direct connection to collateral observation. Designations are characteristically indexical signs, but not pure indices. Typical examples include proper names and pronouns. Some designations, such as ‘there’, can be closely linked to collateral observation; but others, such as ‘Theodore Roosevelt’, are more intimately bound to collateral experience. In addition, Peirce distinguishes a special class of symbols, precepts, that describe what could be done (by the interpreter of somebody else) in order to obtain a reagent of the object (EP 2:286 [1903]). Logical quantifiers are typical examples of precepts.


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Designations do not constitute collateral acquaintance, but they possess the capacity to draw attention to the relevant experience. In contrast, reagents are closely connected to the situation and context of occurrence, and cannot be properly expressed by words. In the communicative situation, they can be construed as whatever in the circumstances of the communication, apart from the verbal utterance itself, enables the identification of the object. An example adopted from Peirce may help to clarify this point (cf. CP 2.357 [1902]). Suppose that someone comes into a room where some people are sitting and asserts ‘fire’. In itself, the word in question is hardly informative; there is nothing in the sign as such that would designate the proximate environment or danger. The persons present could look up ‘fire’ in a dictionary, but that would merely give them a description of how the term may be applied (cf. MS 452:12 [1903]). If that were all they had to go on, they might calmly ask for more information. The herald may add designations – ‘here’ or ‘in this building’ – but these are not necessarily sufficient to produce the intended effectual interpretant. However, if the utterer’s tone is panicky, and his or her expression is worried, the interpreters will probably start to look for a way out. Add a smell of smoke to the setting, and there should be no doubt about the object of the sign – although they actually know very little about it, and the whole thing might be a rather puerile prank. There are many reagents at play in such a situation: the tone and the expression, for instance, but also less obvious contextual elements, such as the environment. The reaction is likely to be different in a theatre than in a library, for instance. Overall, the basic communicative role of the index is that of identification of an object or delimitation of the field of experience so that relevant objects can be found. The use of such signs is dependent on there being at least some common experiential ground; but by pointing out the relevant fund of experience, indices also enable the growth of experience by communication. I have defined an index or indication as a sign by virtue of physical connection. Experiential connection would be more explicit; for I mean by physical connection that the sign occurs in our experience in relation to the when and where of the object it represents. The phrase ‘our experience’ is significant. Experience is the course of life, so far as we attend to it. ‘Our experience’, I say, because unless two persons had some experience in common, they could not communicate, at all. If their experience were identical, they could furnish one another no information. But to the experience both have in common, the several experiences of the two connect other occurrences; and so we have shares in a collective experience. An index connects a new experience with former experience. (MS 797:10) Consequently, no act of communication can in any way convey information unless it incorporates indices, whether it is a warning, question, assertion,

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or some more esoteric act of communication. In other words, information does not mysteriously flow from object to interpretant or from sign to sign; being informed is something that connects an agent to an experiential ground that is in a relevant sense distinct from the semiotic frame at hand. Albeit iconic signs also constitute an indispensable part of communicative interaction, no likeness can ever communicate anything to an interpreter unless connected with an index in a symbolic act (EP 2:6–7 [c. 1894]). At this stage, it is important to point out that this emphasis on the indexical and experiential aspect of communication does not entail a restriction of communicative interaction to actual experience. The utterer and interpreter can of course discuss a fictional world such as that of ‘Hamlet’ or a universe of mathematical possibilities. Nonetheless, such discourses never transcend possible experience, for human beings cannot meaningfully conceive of anything absolutely beyond pragmatic limits (CP 5.536 [c. 1905]). Furthermore, the aims of communication restrict the scope of communication; as a rule, we do not engage each other semiotically in all possible fields of signification at once, but in more narrow universes of discourse.7 Peirce defines a ‘universe of discourse’ as ‘a collection of things, or subjects of force, to which the whole of a discussion relates’ (NEM 3:412 [1903]). Only rarely does our discourse concern the unlimited universe, which would ‘comprise the whole realm of the logically possible’; normally, ‘we are either thinking of the physically possible, or of the historically existent, or of the world of some romance, or of some other limited universe’ (CP 2.517 [1893]). Thus, while the possible worlds of thought and communication are not reducible to the domain of actuality, any given universe is always comprehended in relation to the experiential common ground; even the most fanciful work of fiction or a purely hypothetical world of mathematics is not fully self-sufficient, as it is grasped in terms of what it is not. Accordingly, a communicative universe of discourse can be construed as a determination of the potentially unlimited space of communication in relation to the common ground and the pragmatic purposes of communication. To denote in what field of actual or possible experience communication is supposed to take place, indices are again required. In an entry in Baldwin’s Dictionary of Philosophy and Psychology, Peirce and his former student Christine Ladd-Franklin state the matter as follows: In every proposition the circumstances of its enunciation show that it refers to some collection of individuals or of possibilities, which cannot be adequately described, but can only be indicated as something familiar to both speaker and auditor. At one time it may be the physical universe, at another it may be the imaginary ‘world’ of some play or novel, at another a range of possibilities. (CP 2.536 [1902])


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In other words, there is no semiotic property that would distinguish the various universes from each other; not even the basic distinction between fact and fiction is given in the signs themselves (see CP 2.337 [c. 1895]). Instead, a variety of means are used to indicate what universe is meant; ‘often, it is the tone of the discourse which gives us to understand whether what is said is to be taken as history, physical possibility, or fiction’ (NEM 4:367). In other cases, certain phrases, such as ‘the fact is’ or ‘once upon a time’, afford a clue. Of course, such phrases partake of the nature of conventional signs; but insofar as they refer us to some living experience or to something with which we are familiar by action and reaction, they signify their object predominantly in an indexical way, or by existential connection (NEM 4:367). In other words, a universe of discourse consists in the partial narrowing of the scope of semiosis. It forms the semiotic space, in which actual utterance, interpretation, and communication can take place; as Colapietro (1989) observes, the ‘specification of the object of any sort of semiosis must [. . .] always be determined in reference to the context in which the process of semiosis is occurring’ (p. 11). One of the most important implications of the idea of universe of discourse is that the demarcation of the subject matter of communication takes place within a certain cognitive space relative to certain purposes; it can therefore be construed as the communicative equivalent of the purposive context that Short’s interpretation of semeiotic highlights. Communicative interaction is possible in spite of widely varying conceptions of the subject matter caused by experiential differences. However, communication is hardly feasible unless there is a sufficient common ground and adequate indices to specify the universe properly for utterer and interpreter; it is a matter of determining from which purposive perspective the matter should be viewed. To give a simple example: if the utterer is referring to a creation of fiction while the interpreter believes that the discourse is about the actual world, the lack of coordination is best construed as complete misunderstanding.8 However, there is usually considerable leeway in such interpretation; the interpreter can on one level correctly construe the significations of words and sentences while on the broader purposive plane he or she fails to grasp what the whole discourse is about. Furthermore, a designation of a universe of discourse is never absolute; it only needs to be rendered sufficiently determinate, so that the utterer and interpreter can be said to be in communication regarding the same world of objects.

5.2 Indeterminacy and Latitudes of Interpretation Two principal constraints emerge from the previous considerations. First, the utterer and interpreter must stand on some common ground, if they are to communicate. This can be construed as a need for experiential capacity and ‘knowledge’. Secondly, there is the related call for appropriate delimitation of the communicative universe. Indexical signs are typically employed to compel

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attention to the objects in question; or, to avoid the impression that the indication would necessarily be a consciously intentional act, we might say that the delimitation is achieved with the aid of indices, subindices, and precepts, many of which – such as facial expressions – are more directly available to the interpreter than to the utterer. However, as suggested above, the determination of the communicative minds is rarely, if ever, complete and absolute. Signs characteristically leave a certain leeway of semiosis – not only in the production of significate effects, but also with regard to referential delimitation and identification. Indeed, indices typically demarcate a more or less determinate universe, within which objects might be experienced, rather than plainly pointing out the object of the semiotic interaction. On their own, signs are not capable of properly fixing the reference of a discourse purporting to relate information concerning some world. Nor can collateral observation ever bring forth a perfectly clear and specific semiotic object, determinate in every conceivable respect; singular experience is never adequate by itself. Thus, there will always be a certain degree of indeterminacy or latitude in semiosis, because human beings cannot escape the use of signs to some kind of ‘hard core’ of pure objective perception. That would again be like attempting to get to the onion per se by peeling off layer after layer. These topics are further developed in Peirce’s ‘logic of vagueness’, which might more accurately be characterized as a theory of semiotic determinacy and indeterminacy. It is a multifaceted and largely tentative construction; I will not trace its development and discuss all the issues involved in this context.9 Nor do I plan to fully relate Peirce’s conception to the complex contemporary discussions pertaining to vague boundaries and fuzzy concepts. Here, I merely intend to indicate certain aspects of his pragmatic approach to semiotic indeterminacy that I believe to be particularly pertinent for the construction of a Peircean theory of communication. As Peirce recognizes, communication will always be marked by indeterminacy. No communication of one person to another can be entirely definite, i.e., non-vague. We may reasonably hope that physiologists will some day find some means of comparing the qualities of one person’s feelings with those of another, so that it would not be fair to insist upon their present incomparability as an inevitable source of misunderstanding. Besides, it does not affect the intellectual purport of communications. But wherever degree or any other possibility of continuous variation subsists, absolute precision is impossible. Much else must be vague, because no man’s interpretation of words is based on exactly the same experience as any other man’s. Even in our most intellectual conceptions, the more we strive to be precise, the more unattainable precision seems. It should never be forgotten that our own thinking is carried on as a dialogue, and though mostly in a lesser degree, is subject to almost every imperfection of language. (CP 5.506 [c. 1905])


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In other words, Peirce identifies three major causes of indeterminacy in communication. First, it is difficult, if not unfeasible, to communicate feelings with precision; in categoreal terminology, they are firsts, and it is at present practically impossible to compare the quality of feelings. All we have are external signs – that is, thirds – that profess or seem to profess to express feelings. However, Peirce argues that this inevitable uncertainty of feeling – which definitely is a human predicament – does not have an effect on the ‘intellectual purport’ of communication. In other words, the substantial meaning transferred or shared in communication is distinct from the qualities of feeling involved in the interaction. This might be challenged, of course. Secondly, the signs used may be indeterminate, allowing a range or continuity of interpretations. Thirdly, the use of signs is always based on experience; when there is variation between experiential backgrounds and environments – as there inevitably is when two or more people are involved – communicative indeterminacy is bound to follow. The boundaries of the commens are fuzzy. Furthermore, the fact that communication requires some common ground obviously does not guarantee that the participants have a correct perception of its scope and contents. In addition, Peirce contends that it is not only interpersonal or social communication that is indeterminate, but also thought that takes the form of internal dialogue between phases of the self. This last point may feel simply odd; how could we not know our own feelings and experiences? We might make some sense of Peirce’s claim by holding that communication – even as internal dialogue – is temporal, and that there will always be variation in feeling and experience from the present self to the future self; but such a viewpoint seems quite contrived and scarcely plausible. Obviously, the kind of indeterminacy that principally affects silent thought is due to the nature of the signs used rather than to the sign users themselves. However, signs in communication are never divorced from experience and habitual practice; and thus the problem of indeterminate signs can largely be formulated in terms of the interaction between signs, experience, and sign users. In most of his treatments of the topic, Peirce distinguishes between two principal types of indeterminacy that can affect a sign. Significantly, this distinction is introduced by relating the different kinds of indeterminacy and determinacy to the communicative roles of utterer and interpreter. If a sign is apt to represent many things, the option as to what single thing it shall be taken to represent may be reserved by the utterer of it, to whom it naturally belongs; in which case it may be said to be used vaguely, or not definitely. The utterer may, however, transfer this option to the interpreter; in which case the sign may be said to be used generally, or not individually. Obviously, the option cannot, in the same respect, at once lie with both parties. Hence, a sign cannot be at once vague and general in the same respect. It may, however, be both definite and individual; and in that case may be said to be used singularly. (MS 9:2–3 [c. 1903])

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Thus, the distinction between two principal kinds of indeterminacy is conceptualized in terms of possibilities of determination; vagueness (which, as we shall see, is more adequately called indefiniteness) entails that the utterer is at liberty to bring the determination to a close, while generality hands this option over to the interpreter.10 According to this broad conception of indeterminacy, a statement such as ‘a person I could name is a liar’ is indefinite, while the assertion ‘all human beings are liars’ is general. In the former case, it is implied that some person, whom the utterer could name, is a liar. In the latter situation, the interpreter is free to select the subject from a certain range of objects, namely that of human beings. The indefinite proposition thus leaves a certain latitude to the utterer, as he or she is the only one who could definitely determine the subject, while the interpreter could challenge the general contention by arguing that there is at least one human being who is not a liar. This pragmatic approach to indeterminacy is closely connected to quantification; the indefinite sign functions similarly to the existential quantifier and generality implies universal quantification.11 However, quantification does not exhaust these forms of indeterminacy. In addition, Peirce stresses that ‘the collectively universal, the universal expressed by ‘all’ and ‘every’, is not ipso facto indeterminate’ (MS 283:135v [c. 1906]). Rather, the proper form of indeterminate universality is distributive, as expressed in the proposition ‘any human being is mortal’. Once more, we see how Peirce’s pragmatic approach affects his theory. From the point of view of the interpreter the key claim is that any human being that he or she might select is mortal; it provides a strategy of falsification. There is a significant difference between asserting that any question that we might consider would receive an answer and stating that all questions would be answered; the former does not require that every conceivable question would be within the scope of consideration.12 However, important as general assertion is, particularly from the point of view of scientific inquiry, it is Peirce’s discussion of vagueness or indefiniteness that is of more interest here. Peirce’s pragmatic approach has led some scholars to conclude that his ‘logic of vagueness’ is just a peculiar conceptualization of quantification theory, rather than a bona fide precursor of the contemporary discussions of vagueness and fuzziness.13 There is some truth to this, as it would appear that Peirce does not mean by ‘vagueness’ what is nowadays known as ‘fuzziness’, or the property of having cases of indeterminate application (Lane, 1999, p. 287). The most common criticism of Peirce’s theory of indeterminacy is that it is too broad; it does not properly distinguish between vagueness as blurred boundaries and vagueness as lack of specification. However, he does provide a definition of ‘vague’ or ‘indeterminate in intention’ that at least approaches the current acceptation. A proposition is vague when there are possible states of things concerning which it is intrinsically uncertain whether, had they been contemplated by the speaker, he would have regarded them as excluded or allowed by the


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proposition. By intrinsically uncertain we mean not uncertain in consequence of any ignorance of the interpreter, but because the speaker’s habits of language were indeterminate; so that one day he would regard the proposition as excluding, another as admitting, those states of things. Yet this must be understood to have reference to what might be deduced from a perfect knowledge of his state of mind; for it is precisely because these questions never did, or did not frequently, present themselves that his habit remained indeterminate. (Dictionary of Philosophy and Psychology, 1902, p. 748) Timothy Williamson (1994, p. 47) notes that this characterization is almost equivalent to the standard use of ‘vague’ in contemporary philosophy. According to Peirce’s definition, the predicate ‘tall’ in the proposition ‘S is tall’ is vague if there are borderline cases of such a nature that the sign user cannot say whether S is tall or not, or his or her judgements vacillates because of semiotic habits. This implies that predicate-indeterminacy (or indeterminacy of depth) is due to indeterminacy of use (Williamson, 1994, p. 48). It is not because the interpreter is ignorant or chooses not to utter certain signs that the proposition is indeterminate, but rather because the habits of sign utterance are unsettled in this regard. Again, it is important to recall that the utterer and interpreter can be one and the same person; this is not just a matter of differing habits of sign use, but of intrinsically indeterminate habits of utterance and interpretation. According to the critics, Peirce blunders because he does not properly acknowledge the difference between vagueness in the sense of the definition given above and the type of indefiniteness that the utterer could in principle remove by uttering a specific sign or set of signs. Williamson (1994, p. 52) argues that the kind of indeterminacy involved in the proposition ‘the number of bald men is even’ is significantly different from the kind involved in the statement ‘some woman wrote Middlemarch’, and that there is little to be gained by assimilating the two cases. The former is vague because of the blurred boundaries of its predicate; in the latter instance, the subject is merely unspecified. The methods of rendering these statements more definite differ markedly. In the second instance, the process typically involves replacing ‘some woman’ with an appropriate indexical sign, such as ‘Mary Anne Evans’; it is quite natural to concede that such a sign should render the statement sufficiently determinate in view of most purposes. In contrast, the vagueness of ‘baldness’ renders the statement ‘the number of bald men is even’ indeterminate in a deeper sense. The truth of the assertion hangs in the balance because of the indefiniteness of the underlying semiotic habit. Williamson’s criticism is partly justified; Peirce sometimes overloads the concept of vagueness. However, Peirce also makes some finer distinctions within indefiniteness, which at least to some extent address the shortcomings that the critics have noted.14 The first mode of indeterminacy that shall be noticed is indefiniteness, which consists in the sign’s leaving it doubtful just what its intended interpretation

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was, not between two or more separate interpretations, which would be ambiguity, but would not be indefiniteness, in the acceptation in which this term will here be taken, but as to a great multitude or even a continuum of possible interpretations, no two of which differ without the doubt extending to intermediate interpretations, especially, such uncertainties as can be formulated as questions of more or less, if indeed this cannot be done in all cases. The old question of the ‘sorites’, How many grains of sand are required to make a ‘heap’, or ‘whole lot’, is an instance in point. If a term should be needed to include both ambiguity and indefiniteness, and nothing else, the words ‘equivocation’ or, better, ‘equivocality’, and ‘equivocal’ may be employed. We may use the term indefiniteness in depth, or vagueness, to denote any indefiniteness which primarily affects the essential depth of a sign, that is, the predicates or other consequences which its affirmation may by logical necessity carry with it, and which will, at least usually, thereby affect its logical breadth, or the total of subjects of which it can be affirmed in a given state of information. We may use the term indefiniteness in breadth to denote any indefiniteness which affects the logical breadth of a sign otherwise than by affecting its depth. Such, for example is the effect upon a common noun in the singular number of the selectives ‘a’ and ‘some’ (meaning some one that there is or would be, or is or would be available). These two seem to be the only kinds of indefiniteness, although there are kinds of ambiguity. Thus, the sentence ‘You will tell the truth’ may be intended for an assertion, for a command, for an inquiry, for a biting sarcasm, or what not, without any uncertainty as to its breadth or depth. (MS 283:137v–40v [c. 1906]) So, Peirce actually distinguishes three principal kinds of indeterminacy: ambiguity, indefiniteness, and generality. Indefiniteness entails that the sign allows for a great multitude or a continuum of possible intended interpretations; ambiguity implies doubt between two or more clearly distinct alternatives. These modes of equivocality are alike in that they leave the right or burden of determination to the utterer. Furthermore, Peirce identifies two types of indefiniteness: indefiniteness in depth or vagueness and indefiniteness in breadth, for which he also proposes the name indesignance. Vagueness primarily affects the predicates or consequences of affirmation of a sign; but as it does so, it also affects the range of subjects of which the utterance in question could be affirmed. Take, for instance, the doubly indefinite assertion ‘the president is a fool’. It is vague because of the predicate ‘foolishness’; it is unclear how many foolish things a president is allowed to do and yet not be a fool in the full sense. Thus, the predicate restricts the range of subjects, but in a highly indefinite way. In contrast, indesignance is the kind of indefiniteness that influences the breadth otherwise than through the depth; assuming that the predicate P would be definite (which it never fully is), an assertion could still possess indefiniteness of the form ‘some S is P’. This is what some of the critics refer to as lack of specification, but which in Peirce’s vocabulary would be


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called lack of designation. The term ‘some president’ leaves a certain scope of indesignance irrespective of what the predicate is. Another crucial difference between vagueness and indesignance is that the former implies indeterminate habits of utterance and interpretation in a way that the latter does not. If somebody asserts ‘the president is a fool’, and, having been asked to be more definite, adds ‘the current president of the USA’, the subject of the communicative exchange would probably be sufficiently designated assuming that the interpreter is in possession of certain experiences and grasps the universe of discourse; but the proposition would remain indeterminate as long as the semiotic habit of predicating foolishness would be vague. In other words, the predicate-object would be only vaguely identified. To complement the terminological frame of the Peircean theory, it can be added that all types of indeterminacy have counterparts that entail an increase of determinacy. In the case of generality, it is specification or individuation; similarly, the determination of ambiguity is disambiguation, the reduction of vagueness is explication, and the removal of indesignance is naturally designation. A sign that would be perfectly specific and definite in all universes and for all purposes would be singular; it is, at best, conceivable, rather than pragmatically feasible. Thus, Peirce at least proposes the kind of distinction that the critics demand. However, this still leaves another question raised by Williamson (1994, p. 52): what is the point of assimilating the different kinds of indefiniteness in the way proposed by Peirce? This is too complex an issue to be addressed here, but I would tentatively suggest that the perception of the problem might reflect different philosophical attitudes and strategies. An analytic philosopher is typically looking for a minute analysis of vagueness of the sorites type; as a pragmatist, Peirce is more interested in the role of vagueness in semiotic practices. These are not necessarily conflicting points of view, but it is at least possible that the pragmatic frame within which Peirce articulates his theory can contribute something to contemporary discussions of the phenomenon of vagueness. Be that as it may, Peirce’s view seems to be that no sign is indefinite or general irrespective of its frame of actual and possible employment. Although certain signs are inevitably vague in use, the character of the common ground and the universe of discourse establishes the degree of indeterminacy of signs; and the latitude of interpretation is always dependent on purposive context. This does not mean that indeterminacy could be explained away as mere ignorance, which would be caused by the fact that people lack sufficient information or experience concerning the sign in question. The fact that determination is always contextual does not necessarily lead to subjectivism or radical relativism. However, the way Peirce discusses determination as specification, designation, and explication may seem to violate the basic principle according to which the sign is determined by the object and not vice versa, for what mostly seems to be at stake in the communicative situation is the adequate determination of objects (subjects and predicates) by sign users.

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At this point, it is useful to recall Peirce’s distinction between two aspects of the object. In the communicative frame, the determination of objects is basically a process in which the references of a sign are made sufficiently clear for communicative purposes. That is, this type of determination mostly entails determining the immediate object in various ways, so that it can function as a basis for semiotic interaction. In the case of communicative indeterminacy, the referential objects need to be made suitably determinate, so that the objects can then operate dynamically as determinants of semiosis. We could, therefore, move beyond Peirce and differentiate two modes of determination in relation to universes of discourse: discursive determination, in which indices or other means are used to decrease the indeterminacy of a communicative situation, and objective determination, in which the object acts as a delimiter of interpretative latitude within a certain semiotic space. This object-to-sign determination should be seen as a constraining process, which restricts the scope of interpretation, but does not definitely pin it down. If the object were capable of absolutely determining the sign, there would really be no leeway of interpretation, and hence no need for interpretative activity and interpretants. However, the requirement that a sign has an object implies that there is no such thing as a totally indeterminate sign – apart perhaps from pure (iconic) qualisigns, signs that are mere possibilities. Although this distinction between two kinds of determination cannot be found as such in Peirce’s writings, I believe it is compatible with his semeiotic and his theory of indeterminacy. A few words of caution are in order, however. The fact that deliberate discursive determination is often needed for efficient objective determination does not entail that the latter is straightforwardly caused by the former. In fact, from a Peircean point of view it would be more appropriate to say that the determinative power of the object is what makes discursive determination possible at all. As noted, one of Peirce’s central semeiotic theses is that communicative exchange is possible only if the object is already at least to some extent known by both utterer and interpreter. The basic acquaintance with the object cannot be had by mere descriptions or other purely intrasemiotic means; according to Peirce, it requires some collateral experience or observation of the object. This collateral factor is logically prior to the sign, albeit the sign may be encountered in actual life before its object has been adequately determined. Hence, it is not strictly speaking the dynamical object that is identified and delineated in sign-to-object determination, but rather the immediate object. Generality, indefiniteness, and singularity pertain primarily to signs in view of the nature of their immediate objects.15 Arguably, this objective character is something that sign users can in various ways affect through utterance and interpretation given appropriate experiential and purposive contexts. However, the indeterminacy of the immediate object is often a prerequisite of communication; the amount of discursive determination needed depends on such factors as experiences and communicative aims.


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These claims can be clarified with the help of another illustration adopted from Peirce (EP 2:393 [c. 1906]). In his example, two Englishmen meet in a railway carriage and engage in conversation. One of the men mentions Charles the Second, and the other has no problem in identifying what subject (i.e. object) is meant, as he is in possession of the required collateral experience. The immediate object, which is normally grasped almost automatically and without reflection, is the English Charles the Second within the discursive universe of reality – not, for instance, Charles the Second of the Holy Roman Empire. When this preliminary discursive identification is made, the object becomes an actual determinant of the ensuing conversational exchange; figuratively speaking, the dynamical object becomes ‘activated’. Yet, the success of this determination does not mean that the object of the discussion has been rendered perfectly determinate in every respect. For instance, the Englishmen have not designated what precise temporal Charles is meant; one could for example argue that Charles was a different man on different days; from this point of view, the object ‘Charles the Second’ is indesignant. However, the travellers have no interest in such details; the latitude in question is simply irrelevant (cf. Brock, 1969, p. 344). What renders the determination of the subject a success, in spite of the countless designations that could be added, is the purposive context of the discussion. As Peirce puts it, ‘the two Englishmen have no purpose of splitting hairs in their talk; the latitude of interpretation which constitutes the indeterminacy of a sign must be understood as a latitude which might affect the achievement of a purpose’ (EP 2:393 [c. 1906]). Obviously, the situation would have been different if one of the travellers would have lacked the needed collateral experience – if one of the travellers would have been French, for instance. In that case, the utterer of the sign would have been forced to try to find suitable signs, with which to specify the object meant, using the shared experience available as a starting point. If no appropriate experiential factors were to be found, then the undertaking would be hopeless, rather like trying to discuss the wisdom of the president of the United States with a being that has just arrived from Alpha Centauri (cf. EP 2:498 [1909]). Putting all this together, we may note that a sign, which in certain contexts might be highly indeterminate and almost incomprehensible, can under other circumstances function as a singular sign, and leave no uncertainty as to its object; then, it leaves no relevant latitude. Considered in isolation, the sign ‘the president’ in the proposition ‘the president is a liar’ is a highly indefinite sign. However, collateral factors typically render the sign less indefinite, or determinate enough to be considered as decidedly identifying an object in a certain universe of discourse and relative to a certain semiotic purpose. In fact, the indeterminacy or determinacy of a sign can be meaningfully discussed only in view of such contexts. Signs are typically relatively determinate or relatively determinate. A term could be said to be ‘absolutely determinate or indeterminate if it

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has the requisite properties relative to all universes of discourse, all states of information, and all purposes of discourse or inquiry’ (Brock, 1981, pp. 133–4). However, such signs are elusive ideals at best, for a ‘sign may be and can be shown to be determinate with respect to a given purpose (or any finite number) but not with respect to all possible purposes’ (Brock, 1969, p. 341). Two more things need to be noted. First, although it is possible to approach vagueness as well as indesignance and generality from the communicative point of view, there are significant differences between these modes of indeterminacy that should not be ignored. In the case of indesignance, the utterer can typically designate what the object is; it is only the degree of precision of the designation that might be open to discussion. Normally, a sufficiently precise designation leads to dynamical objective determination, assuming that the experiential and discursive requirements are met; in the example above, the mere naming of ‘Charles the Second’ was enough to render the subject relatively designate. However, vagueness is often more contentious, as it concerns how habitual concepts might or ought to be applied. If one of the travellers would have said ‘Charles the Second was immoral’, then the question of what object ‘immorality’ refers to would be hanging in the air. If challenged, the utterer would have considerable latitude to explicate his or her usage; however, it seems unlikely that the immediate object could be rendered determinate in a similar way that the indefiniteness of the subject of the statement ‘a certain king was immoral’ could be eliminated by an appropriate designation. The reason for this is that ‘immorality’ depends on indeterminate habits of sign use in a way that ‘some king’ or ‘Charles the Second’ does not. This brings us to the second issue that needs to be addressed. Albeit indeterminacy is practically ubiquitous, at least in communication, should not its optimal elimination be the goal and ideal of every upright sign user? Obviously, the answer depends on the kind of indeterminacy in question. Peirce often claims that generalization is the principal aim of our intellectual activities. In other words, certain semiotic endeavours aim at generating, or perhaps more accurately discovering, general signs; that is, signs that are indeterminate in a special sense. The explanation for this conclusion is to be found in Peirce’s scholastic realism; general signs are needed to represent adequately the general and real laws of the world (cf. Tiercelin, 1992). This is, in part at least, what Peirce seems to mean by his famous but cryptic statement that the ‘universe is perfused with signs’ (EP 2:394 [c. 1906]). Generality, then, is not to be construed as a defect in a sign, although it may be so viewed in some specific situation; overly general signs are often useless, and generalizations can certainly be exploited. The removal of indesignance, however, seems to be relatively uncontroversial. Albeit there are cases where this kind of indeterminacy can hinder communication and understanding, there is rarely any substantial philosophical problem involved; the issue merely concerns what degree of discursive determination is required. Of course, an


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utterer may have dubious reasons to express him- or herself in an indesignate manner, and such exploitation of indeterminacy may violate purported norms of communication; yet, the indefiniteness is in itself of relatively little interest, as its ‘elimination’ is mostly a matter of appropriate discursive determination. Of course, there is always a certain degree of communicative indeterminacy caused by varying experiential backgrounds; no two human beings possess exactly the same experiences of objects and signs. One might suspect that such divergence would be a cause for scepticism with regard to the possibility of communication (cf. Johansen, 1993b). After all, granted an inevitable variation in experiential grounds, does it not follow that the shared identification of objects is uncertain at best? This would in fact be a crushing result, if absolute precision was required. Peirce sometimes speaks in such a manner, for example, when he says that the object referred to must be singular; but on closer inspection it becomes clear that he must mean that the object need only be sufficiently determinate to be considered singular in view of certain purposes.16 The travellers in the example above did not need to have the same experiences of Charles the Second in order to communicate about this subject; the growth of experience is one central objective of communicative interaction (cf. MS 797:10). The case of vagueness would seem to be different. Is not this mode of indeterminacy simply a semiotic imperfection, which ought to be eliminated as far as possible? The intuition of many philosophers and rhetoricians – including Peirce on occasion – has been to proclaim vagueness to be nothing but a major barrier to knowledge and transparent communication. It certainly seems that Peirce would hold that inquiry ought to move from vagueness to precision (Williamson, 1994, p. 46). For instance, he explicitly states that insofar a proposition is indefinite, the information it conveys is flawed (MS 530:14 [c. 1903]). Occasionally, Peirce also suggests that this ideal of precision ought to inform our rhetoric. Is vagueness then simply a necessary evil, of which we never can rid ourselves, but which still ought to be combated on all fronts with improvements of our semiotic practices? This would seem to be one of the central tasks of semeiotic: to craft technical terms and provide precise definitions that would as far as possible eliminate indefiniteness in depth and thus facilitate explicitness and exactness in communication, in particular in science. Peirce certainly suggests that precision is a communicative ideal when he states that ‘honest people, when not joking, intend to make the meaning of their words determinate, so that there shall be no latitude of interpretation at all’ (EP 2:351 [1905]). Assuming that inquirers ought to be truthful and as open as possible, should not scientific rhetoric support the good intentions of ‘honest people’ by striving to eradicate vagueness as a source of communicative failure? Perhaps this viewpoint could even be extended to cover communicative interaction in general; that is, if we construe communication as requiring a membership in a ‘community of ideals and aims of speech’, then the will to communicate and learn can be said to necessarily involve an attempt to ‘suppress all kinds of ambiguity and imprecision

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that might creep into the rational process and break communication’ (Tiercelin, 2005, p. 233). However, this seems to entail a rather one-sided conception of communication and indefiniteness, one too singularly informed by the perspective of scientific inquiry. We should beware of judging all forms of communication as if the context of science would provide the only norms; that would actually entail reducing the range and significance of common discourse, or importing possibly irrelevant aims and ideals of precision into analyses of ordinary communicative situations. Jarrett Brock (1969, p. 343) falls into this trap when he lists a set of purposes that are allegedly involved in any communicative context on the ground that they are aims of any scientific intelligence. He states that such intelligences are interested in the discovery and communication of truth, and that they always intend to communicate information in the most clear, intelligible, and economical way possible. This may sound like an innocuous, albeit somewhat simplistic, conception of ideal scientific communication; however, Brock adds that all this is applicable to Peirce’s traveller example. Brock is probably right in identifying a bias for science in the Peircean approach, but he reads too much into the scientific intelligence, which after all only entails a mind capable of learning from experience. Yet, the more serious mistake is to import the purported norms of scientific discourse into the Englishmen’s conversation; it would produce rather poor results. Of course, Peirce’s illustration is hypothetical, but it is far more likely that the communicative aims of such travellers would be quite mundane rather than scientific: entertainment, passing of time, keeping up appearances, and so on. Of course, they might be curious to find out the truth about Charles the Second, or what their respective opinions of the king happen to be; but it seems more probable that they are ‘making conversation’ and wish to appear agreeable to a new acquaintance. In such a situation they might reasonably withhold certain opinions – for example, radical views about the monarchy – as they do not wish to insult each other. It is one thing to attempt to devise an appropriate rhetoric of science, something that Peirce envisages; it is something different to investigate communication more broadly and fully using philosophical tools. The latter endeavour will suffer if it is forced to look at all the objects of analysis through the relatively narrow purposive and ideal lens of scientific discourse. I would argue that it is possible and even advisable not to reduce semeiotic rhetoric to scientific rhetoric; however, even if we do restrict ourselves to that context, vagueness is not merely a hindrance. As we have seen, Peirce is also aware of the limits of formalism and precision, and advocates the adoption of vernacular terms in philosophy on the grounds that they are needed to capture the vague but consequential concepts of ordinary life. Moreover, vagueness can be said to possess a positive role as a kind of initial state, from which new developments may be born (cf. CP 6.348 [c. 1909]). Brock sees similar implications in the Peircean account of indefiniteness. We should not complain about the


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fact that our symbols are never completely determined, because if they were, there would be no semiotic growth and change; as Brock boldly states, ‘vagueness is the mother of invention’ (Brock, 1981, p. 136). New ideas, in particular, are typically indefinite abductions. If we take a broader look at Peirce’s view of the role of indefiniteness in life, we will see that it is a key feature in the so-called commonsense beliefs. The most distinctive character of the critical commonsensist lies in the insistence that those beliefs, which we cannot doubt nor criticize, are invariably indefinite (EP 2:350 [1905]; CP 5.505 [c. 1905]). According to Peirce, an attempt to wipe our set of ideas completely clean from such beliefs would inevitably fail, and the effort might even be damaging. As he notes, a suitable line of deliberation, aided by imagination, will always lead to the doubt of any given broad proposition, if it is defined with precision (CP 5.507 [c. 1905]). However, such an endeavour can leave a certain indefinite remainder, which survives the criticism. It is only natural, then, to ask whether this residue could not also be eliminated; but the question is reasonable only if one stands aloof from the actual situation, viewing it in a detached manner, as one might observe a painting by Monet (CP 5.508 [c. 1905]). In the end, one will be forced to admit that it is not because the attempt to render the indefinite proposition precise has not been rigorous enough that the vagueness persists; it is because the commonsense belief is intrinsically indefinite and valuable as such. Peirce gives a clarifying example of such a functional vague belief: our belief in the order of nature. On a commonsense level, most of us, if not all, believe that there is at least some order in nature, although we may be incapable of specifying what exactly constitutes the order or how it is built up. In fact, if we try to define precisely what we mean by the belief, doubts are almost certainly encountered. This has been the fate of many philosophers, who have considered the question of natural order. Yet, even if such analyses cause us to doubt the precisely defined belief, the indefinite core of the commonsense belief will remain – who could genuinely believe that there is no order at all in nature (CP 5.508 [c. 1905])? One might of course claim to do so, but in this case actions speak louder than words. Arguably, ‘communication’ is another example of a vague term that is useful for inquiry in spite of its vagueness. Over the years, many characterizations – probably too many to be counted – of this phenomenon have been proposed; and the failure to find one satisfactory definition has sometimes been taken as a sign that the term does not refer to anything real. The Peircean approach is different. The lack of definiteness does not render the concept useless; nor does the difficulty of unearthing a precise definition exclude explication. Instead, these factors may imply that ‘communication’ is a living symbol in common experience; it grows and is constantly reformed in use. This does not mean that the term could not be rendered more explicit in varying ways in various purposive contexts; however, a theory that assumes that scientific communication will give us the normative core for all

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communicative interaction is arguably too narrow. Rather, norms and ideals are dependent on the purposive context and universe of discourse in question. Communicative interaction does not simply mean effective and transparent exchange of information; in many cases, its primary function is to induce emotions, to entertain, to create community, or some other purpose not simply reducible to cognitive aims. To sum up, I maintain that vagueness is a vital and often useful feature of purposive communication, something that cannot completely be removed from the picture, even in science (cf. CP 5.512 [c. 1905]). There are things that are most effectively communicated using indefinite signs. This does not mean that Peirce would advocate scepticism regarding the possibilities of intelligent criticism of vague and indesignate semiotic practices. There certainly are situations where indefiniteness is a defect. In others, the judgement may depend on perspective; a politician pontificating about ‘John Q. Public’ may be highly effective, yet condemnable from the point of view of certain ideals of public life. In this respect, Peirce is neutral; we should not expect to find a substantial moral theory hidden in semeiotic. The wise Peircean caveat simply concerns the intellectualistic illusion that vagueness is merely a hindrance, which could somehow be eradicated by logical analysis or formalization. Not only is relative vagueness needed in order to enable communicative exchange regarding objects of which the parties have divergent experiences; it underlies the entire enterprise of communication and inquiry, because the beliefs, competences, and semiotic practices that constitute the core of any common ground are inevitably vague.

5.3 Signification and Habit-Change Designation and explication pertain primarily to the identification or delimitation of semiotic objects within purposive contexts. As we have seen, this concerns predicates as well as subjects; in order for a complex sign, such as an assertion, to be interpretable and communicable, its references need to be rendered sufficiently clear. In many cases, this simply happens habitually and without conscious exertion; at other times, deliberate efforts by utterer and interpreter are required because of the discrepancies in experiential background or the indeterminacy of the signs used. All this might lead to the assumption that meaning ought to be conceptualized in terms of the object in the semeiotic framework. Peirce sometimes suggests as much, for instance when he states that a ‘sign is supposed to have an object, or meaning, and also to determine an interpretant sign of the same object’ (MS 11:1 [c. 1903]). However, more often meaning is distinguished from the object. The object of a sign is one thing; its meaning is another. Its object is the thing or occasion, however indefinite, to which it is to be applied. Its meaning is the


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idea which it attaches to that object, whether by way of mere supposition, or as a command, or as an assertion. (CP 5.6 [1905]) The object is the idea or thing that the sign finds, the meaning what it leaves (MS 318:26 [1907]) This issue is complicated by the fact that Peirce uses ‘meaning’ and ‘signification’ rather liberally, often without giving any definition of the terms, and he does not provide clear technical alternatives. According to Short (1982, p. 308), ‘meaning’ is not a technical term of semeiotic; the proper context for the Peircean analysis of meaning is his pragmatism. Furthermore, Short (1985, p. 109) claims that the word ‘meaning’ does not even play any important role in semeiotic until 1907, when Peirce explicitly connects his theory of signs to his pragmatistic analysis of meaning. As we shall see, this is not entirely accurate. Albeit Peirce’s discussions of meaning often appear to be muddled by a vague and indesignate vocabulary, this can also be viewed as an acknowledgement of the fact that meaning or signification is an indefinite and complex idea, which perhaps cannot be fully explicated without introducing a number of distinctions. It is at least possible to construe Peirce’s seemingly inconsistent treatments of the matter as partial explications; none of them is intended to capture the ‘meaning of meaning’ fully, but rather to identify and delimit various aspects and uses of the concept. Still, this does not entail full-scale pluralism; some conceptions of meaning turn out to be more pregnant than others. Thus, I will bring this chapter to a close with some brief remarks on the variety of semiotic meaning from a pragmatic point of view. We may begin by noting how Peirce addresses the question of signification in his review of Josiah Royce’s The World and the Individual. There, he indicates in what sense a sign’s object can be said to be its meaning, and – more importantly – why that is not a sufficient account of signification. In the appraisal, Peirce adopts Royce’s concepts of internal meaning and external meaning, suggesting that the former is roughly equivalent to depth or the kind of intrinsic meaning characteristic of an icon, while the latter corresponds to breadth or the kind of extrinsic meaning possessed by an index (CP 8.119 [c. 1902]).17 This, in turn, implies that Peirce is considering propositional signification, as breadth and depth are primarily applicable to terms in a proposition. Thus, to use an example from Peirce’s early writings, the proposition ‘the stove is black’ has external meaning and internal meaning, the former being the subject (informed breadth) and the latter the predicate (informed depth). In many contexts, it seems natural to identify the meaning of the propositional sign with one or the other of these; it can seem reasonable to say that ‘stove’ means the objects that it could represent, but also that ‘blackness’ is the meaning that could be predicated of certain subjects.

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Peirce sometimes suggests that the internal meaning is the ‘proper’ meaning of a proposition, calling it its ‘imputed flavour’ (MS L75d:237 [1902]; cf. W 2:82 [1867]). At other times, he refers to depth simply as ‘signification’ (see, e.g. EP 2:394 [c. 1906]). In these instances, Peirce tends to conceptualize the depth as the ‘interpretant sign’ – or, to be more precise, the interpretant is construed as a hypostatic depth-object. This is less incongruous than it might at first seem, for the internal meaning can be treated as a habit underlying the predicate; thus even such a vague term as ‘blackness’ would entail certain habits prescribing how the subject and the sign users could act. This impression is strengthened by Peirce’s straightforward association of the interpretant with signification or ‘content’ (EP 2:497 [1909]). However, accepting such a one-to-one correlation would be unfortunate in three respects. First, it would restrict the interpretant to a constituent of the proposition in a way that simply does not accord with Peirce’s fuller development of the theory of interpretants. Secondly, rendering the interpretant plainly as depth would reduce the significate purport of a proposition to the recognition of its predicate; it would imply that the meaning of ‘the stove is black’ is given by the idea of ‘blackness’, which would imply a rather stale Platonic theory of propositional signification and interpretation. Thirdly, such an approach would entail adopting an idealistic or Roycean position that Peirce explicitly rejects. Moving beyond the fractional meaning of terms, the fuller signification of a propositional sign might be construed as a sum of internal and external meaning; Peirce sometimes uses the formula ‘breadth × depth = information’. Still, the information of a sign is not necessarily equivalent to its total meaning. At this point, it is critical to emphasize that there is one feature of the Roycean account that particularly appeals to Peirce, namely Royce’s tendency to characterize ‘ideas’ in terms of purpose (CP 8.119 [c. 1902]). For Peirce, this suggests a pragmatistic outlook; the principal merit of the Roycean approach is that it shows that there is a connection between the meaning of a sign and what one means to do (CP 1.343 [1903]). However, Peirce argues that Royce mistakenly associates purpose with internal meaning, when in fact it should be attributed to a third type of meaning. [A] purposive state of mind is one that signifies something by virtue of intending to be interpreted in a deed. Therefore, although an idea18 certainly has its internal and its external meaning, yet its principal meaning is of a different kind from either of those. (CP 8.119 [c. 1902]) The significance of this conclusion is threefold. First, it clashes with the notion that the depth of a sign would exhaust its signification. Secondly, Peirce’s argument suggests that propositional objects – objects of the subject as well as of the predicate – can be construed as meanings, but that they do not cover the full signification of such a symbolic or intellectual sign. Thirdly, the ‘principal meaning’


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of the purposive idea is pragmatic; it is the ‘intention to be interpreted in a deed’ – or, as it would be better to say, the kinds of action that a sign is apt to produce. Consequently, Peirce expands the scope of semiotic meaning beyond information in the sense of propositional closure; in effect, this implies that the most pregnant aspect of signification is closely connected to the interpretant, but not in the sense that restricts it to depth. In Peirce’s later writings, meaning is often straightforwardly associated with the interpretant (see, e.g. PPM 86 [1903]; MS 318:19 [1907]). However, as such this is not very informative. As we have seen, Peirce identifies a number of interpretants; to the extent that these significate outcomes are determined or communicated by the sign they can be said to be significations. [W]hat is called [. . .] ‘Meaning’ is that which a sign communicates. This may be nothing but a feeling or emotion, which is all that a performance of instrumental music, for example, commonly expresses. Or the Sign being a command, such as the order ‘Ground Arms’, its Meaning may be the impulse to obey, which the sign excites. A question is a sort of command. Or the Sign may be an appeal to reason by an argument consisting of known premisses, the synthesis of which, which Synthesis will be its meaning, may be a new thought. Or the Sign may be an assertion, or ‘Proposition’, to use the logical term, when the Meaning is the substance of an assent to it. Or it may be a mere suggestion to imagination or memory, such as [a] single word may convey. Many ‘Utterances’, as all acts of using Signs will here be called, are purposeless. But a serious Utterance is usually intended to influence either a single act or the reasoned conduct of the Interpreter or Interpreters, and its meaning is that general kind of Conduct that it virtually recommends. (MS 637:33v–34v [1909]) Analysing this abundant quotation, we may discern the following variants of semiotic meaning: feeling or emotion, impulse to act, appeal to reason, the substance of an assent to an assertion, the suggestion called forth by a single sign, and the general kind of conduct virtually recommended by an utterance (whether public or private). A rather motley collection of things, to say the least; one might even feel some despair at Peirce’s pluralism. However, I feel that this is more of a strength than a weakness; his aim is arguably not to devise a narrow theory that would be defensible in the philosophical battleground, but rather to examine a real but vague phenomenon as broadly as is feasible. Be that as it may, there is at least one possible misapprehension that the above considerations should rectify, namely the view that Peirce construes significate meaning as conceptual; indicative and iconic utterances can produce outcomes of a less intellectual kind. In ‘Pragmatism’ Peirce speaks of emotional meanings, which are primarily feelings, and existential meanings, which are actual things or concrete events (whether physical or psychical) determined by signs, as well as conceptual or logical meanings (MS 318:15 [1907]). Obviously, these

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significations are nearly, if not perfectly, equivalent to the emotional, energetic, and logical interpretants. Similarly, other conceptualizations of the interpretant could be construed as modes of meaning. If the analysis of the interpretant proposed earlier is accepted, it would be impossible to give an exhaustive inventory of types of meaning. Of course, we could limit the account by not bestowing the status of meaning on all interpretants; certainly, there can be semiotic effects that are not meanings in any ordinary sense. Furthermore, it is prudent to note that ‘meaning’ and ‘interpretant’ are not strictly equivalent; there are internal and external meanings, and in a fuller sense, the signification of a proposition is not comprehended until not only its interpretant, but also its object, is recognized (EP 2:429 [1907]). However, as long as we do not have a fixed collection of fields of signification, a comprehensive set of significate meanings will be pragmatically unattainable. This openness is actually a welcome consequence for the development of a Peircean theory of communication; Peirce’s theory of interpretants possesses great potential for future development in this regard. It does not dictate what the communicated meaning is; rather, it provides means for analysing varying significate outcomes in a multitude of communicative contexts. All this must be qualified by the fact that Peirce’s principal endeavour is to find the most adequate notion of the meaning of intellectual concepts. The result of this analysis is the account of the ultimate logical interpretant – the genuine meaning of the concept – as a habit of action, which many Peirce scholars not unreasonably take to be the Peircean analysis of meaning (see, e.g. Short, 1982). In other words, the most pregnant meaning is identified with an interpretant that would manage to end a particular process of interpretation. Semiosis is not mere sign translation; ‘signs which would be merely parts of an endless viaduct for the transmission of idea-potentiality, without any conveyance of it into anything but symbols, namely, into action or habit of action, would not be signs at all, since they would not, little or much, fulfill the function of signs’ (EP 2:388 [c. 1906]). Without embodiment in something else than symbols, there cannot be ‘the least growth in idea-potentiality’ (EP 2:388 [c. 1906]). There are at least two important consequences of this viewpoint that need to be noted. First, signs do not only ‘touch ground’ through the experiential object; developed signs also connect to future possibilities of conduct, conceptualized as pragmatic meaning. Peirce asserts that the only adequate account of the habitual meaning of the sign is a description of the kind of action to which it could give rise, accompanied by specifications of conditions and motive. It is this kind of meaning that his famous pragmatic maxim is meant to clarify: Consider what effects, which might conceivably have practical bearings, we conceive the object of our conception to have. Then, our conception of these effects is the whole of our conception of the object. (W 3:266 [1878])


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Secondly, the pragmatistic emphasis also suggests a normative perspective, especially in the mature semeiotic. Peirce claims that the only kind of habit that is truly capable of terminating a certain intellectual process is one that has gone through an appropriate test of criticism; the ‘deliberately formed, self-analyzing habit – self-analyzing because formed by the aid of analysis of the exercises that nourished it – is the living definition, the veritable and final logical interpretant’ (EP 2:418 [1907]). This suggests that rhetoric should not be restricted to the analysis of meaning in a narrow sense; arguably, pragmatic elucidation entails a more active involvement in the development of signification. This point of view finds some support in Peirce’s discussions of the ends of interpretative work. While it is nowadays widely recognized that Peirce associates the ultimate logical interpretant with the kind of habit that would be the result of critical deliberation on its potential consequences, less attention has been paid to the fact that Peirce occasionally defines this pragmatically clarified interpretant as habit-change – ‘a modification of a person’s tendencies toward action’ (CP 5.476 [1907]) – rather than in terms of habit, plain and simple. This may, at first blush, seem like a rather ill-advised move on Peirce’s part – and from a certain point of view, it is. Namely, if the pragmatic method is meant to elucidate the significations of concepts such as ‘lithium’, ‘democracy’, and ‘reality’ – or more fully, their function in relevant contexts of communication and inquiry – it seems rather peculiar to assert that their proper meaning is to be found in the way they would change a person’s tendencies to act, rather than saying that their appropriate acceptation is the kinds of habits of action they would involve after sufficient critical investigation (with ‘sufficiency’ left intentionally vague). The addition of ‘change’ does not seem to add anything of value to the scrutiny of meaning. In fact, if taken literally, such a definition could lead to some rather unwelcome consequences for the pragmatistic elucidation; if meaning is habitchange, then the signification of a sign would be slighter for well-informed agents than for persons with little knowledge, as the latter would be more likely to have their habits greatly modified by acquaintance with the sign in question. This would almost inevitably undermine any claim to objectivity the pragmatistic method might make. Also, the meaning of a sign would seem to diminish the more its usage would be established in processes of inquiry and communication, as it would no longer be capable of producing habit-changes. True, such undesirable results could be avoided by adding certain qualifications; but that would lead us back to a conception of signification as ultimate habit – that is, an understanding of the meaning of x in terms of habits of action involved in the deliberate acceptance of x – rather than as habit-change. However, there are some indications that the ultimate logical interpretant should not be treated as the highest logical interpretant in Peirce’s scheme. In some partly unpublished fragments of ‘Pragmatism’, he proposes a division of the logical interpretant into first, second, and third logical interpretant, adding that the second may be further divided into two, and the third into three subtypes.

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Although such an exposition seems to bear all the marks of Peircean triadomania run amok, this mostly ignored analysis contains some potentially fruitful ideas. The first logical interpretant is defined as a conjecture, which establishes a habit that enables imaginary experimentation in the inner world; we ‘imagine ourselves in various situations and animated by various motives; and we proceed to trace out the alternative lines of conduct which the conjectures would leave open to us’ (CP 5.481 [1907]). Working on the concept or belief in this manner, we are gradually led to more refined logical interpretants – improved conjectures and more general depictions of the involved possibilities of action – which Peirce characterizes as lower and higher second logical interpretants. This is perhaps only a somewhat schematic way of describing the critical process by which we work our way towards a more adequate pragmatic conception of our ‘virtual resolve’ (cf. EP 2:19 [1895]), but the upshot is of great interest. The second logical interpretants constitute the ultimate normal and proper mental effect of the sign taken by itself (I do not mean removed from its context but considered apart from the effects of its context and circumstance of utterance). They must, therefore, be identified with that ‘meaning’ which we have all along been seeking. In that capacity, they are habits of internal or imaginary action, abstracted from all reference to the individual mind in which they might happen to be implanted, and whose future actions they would guide. (MS 318:46 [1907]) Peirce emphasizes that such internal analysis, which in its more advanced forms amounts to experimentation in the internal world, can lead to the kind of habituation that really would guide our conduct, were the circumstances to arise (CN 3:278 [1906]). However, the semiotic labour does not stop there. A third level of logical interpretant is required when the activity turns ‘from the theatre of internal to that of the external experience’ (MS 318:46 [1907]). It entails ‘a deliberate, self-controlled, purposive, muscular effort’ or experimentation in the actual world (MS 318:47 [1907]). In other words, the clarified concept is put to the test, which may result in further consequential habit-changes; moving beyond what Peirce explicitly says, we might even argue that the principal aim of the pragmatistic elucidation is to contribute to the improvement of habits. That is, active habit-change would then turn out to be a part of the philosopher’s task alongside intellectual analysis of meaningful habits; indeed, the two would be practically inseparable. Admittedly, Peirce’s discussions of habit-change are tentative at best, but they may open the door to further developments in unexpected directions. It would allow us to say that the second logical interpretant – that ultimate interpretant identifiable as the pragmatic meaning of a sign – is indeed a habit of action, while at the same time acknowledging a higher level of semeiotic labour – one that would be aimed at reforming external conditions through modification of


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our habits of conduct rather than merely analysing the meaning of signs. This critical task does not only involve establishing associations between habits, but also changing habitual tendencies by dissociating existing habits; as Peirce argues that active effort and experimentation are legitimate initiators of such modifications in addition to external experiences that cause doubts (see CP 5.476–9 [1907]), it does not seem too farfetched to maintain that he is suggesting that pragmatistic philosophers need to move beyond mere analysis towards a more active engagement in the makeover of habits.19 It seems to be in this direction that Peirce is pushing his pragmatism in his oft-cited but cryptic reference to ‘concrete reasonableness’. [T]he [pragmatic] maxim has approved itself to the writer, after many years of trial, as of great utility in leading to a relatively high grade of clearness of thought. He would venture to suggest that it should always be put into practice with conscientious thoroughness, but that, when that has been done, and not before, a still higher grade of clearness of thought can be attained by remembering that the only ultimate good which the practical facts to which it directs attention can subserve is to further the development of concrete reasonableness. (CP 5.3 [1902]) Note that Peirce acknowledges that the pragmatic maxim can only take us so far, and that there is a higher level of pragmatistic labour that is connected to the attempt to increase concrete reasonableness in the world. Arguably, such development must entail improvement by means of habit-change, conscious modification of existing habits and even the development of relatively new habits. It is not surprising, then, that Peirce declares that ‘continual amelioration of our own habits [. . .] is the only alternative to a continual deterioration of them’ (MS 674:1 [c. 1911]). This ought to be one of the most pregnant tasks of semeiotic rhetoric and a Peircean theory of communication.

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Over the years, Peirce scholars and semioticians have debated – sometimes rather heatedly – the issue of the proper name for semiotic inquiry (see, e.g. Deely, 2003; Fisch, 1986; Romeo, 1977). I prefer to avoid this storm in a teacup, but a few words about my choice of terminology are in order. Influenced by Max Fisch (1986), many Peirceans have adopted the terms semeiotic for the discipline and semeiosis for the sign process. However, although it is often claimed that ‘semeiotic’ was Peirce’s name of choice, he seems to have used ‘semiotic’ more often. ‘Semeiosis’ (in English) appears to have been introduced into the literature by Fisch; Peirce used ‘semiosis’ and ‘semeiosy’. Rather than trying to settle the issue on historical and etymological grounds, I opt for a more practical solution. In this book, I simply use ‘semeiotic’ to denote Peircean sign theory in order to distinguish it from other de facto extant forms of semiotics, such as the semiology of Ferdinand de Saussure and his followers. I do not adopt a strong stance on the question whether there is just one true theory of semiotics (the Peircean kind), as some Peircean defenders of employing the term ‘semiotics’ would do. In order to legitimately make such a sweeping claim, one ought to study all the major alternatives and argue the case in detail, and not merely proclaim that Peirce triumphs because of the logical generality of his viewpoint; from a different perspective, the ‘generality’ may look like a mere postulation or posturing. I believe this book has something to contribute to this discussion, as I will consider the grounds for the generality claim, but it is not my aim to argue for the superiority of semeiotic as the one authentic semiotics here. I use ‘semiotic’ (as adjective) and ‘semiosis’ when I refer to the sign phenomena and processes that are allegedly studied by any kind of semiotics. However, I do not make changes to the spelling in direct quotations. Ransdell (1977) also asserts that ‘anyone who wishes to explore the potentialities in Peirce’s semiotic should understand that it is originally conceived by Peirce as an explication of the concept of mind’ (p. 161). It is not quite clear whether Ransdell wishes to argue that mind and communication are semiotically equivalent – a hypothesis that could be justified by appeal to the ‘Peirce–Plato thesis’ according to which all semiosis, including thought, is dialogic (cf. Brock, 1975, p. 126). However, it is worth noting that T. L. Short has recently designated the construction of a naturalistic account of the human mind as one of the two central tasks of semeiotic (see Short, 2007a). I will not explore this line of argument in detail in this book. For fuller accounts of semeiotic, see Liszka, 1996; Savan, 1987–88; Short, 2007a.

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See Johansen, 1993a, and Pietarinen, 2006, for two different attempts to delineate Peircean theories of communication. I have previously explored some such themes in articles (Bergman, 2003; 2007). In the earlier of these, I overemphasized some of the changes in semeiotic; yet, I still feel that the developmental point of view is overall more sound than the unity interpretation.

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Peirce’s references to ‘seminary philosophers’ can be understood against a particular historical background. In the United States of the nineteenth century, philosophy was for a long time pursued mostly in theological seminaries. Peirce belonged to the first generation of American thinkers seriously to challenge this hegemony, advocating a secularized philosophy to be pursued in universities dedicated to research. (See Kuklick, 2001, for a lucid account of these phases in American philosophy.) The quote is from a letter dated 9 March 1909. It is worth noting that Ketner, who has forcefully emphasized the scientific nature of Peirce’s output, has also argued that social science would benefit from a dose of Peircean semeiotic combined with literature (see Ketner, 1993). As the clued-up reader undoubtedly realizes, this division is based on Peirce’s categories. Amusingly, Peirce sometimes identifies a fourth group of human beings – the ‘Hypnotists’ or ‘the Medicine Men, the Confidence Men, the Horse Traders, the Diplomats, and all that lot’ (CP 1.192 [c. 1902]) – that he prefers to ignore. In addition, Peirce has a somewhat unfortunate tendency to write as if the members of the actual social group would be blessed with nothing but ideal qualities, possibly doing damage to the credibility of his account. For instance, he maintains that ‘scientific men have been the best of men’; the scientist is by nature a ‘wellconducted person’ who can ‘hardly be otherwise than an honest, fair-minded man’ (CP 1.49 [c. 1896]). Or, he states that ‘the lofty character of the true man of science, physical or psychical, finds not one exception among a hundred’ (CP 1.576 [1902–03]). Also, while Peirce grudgingly acknowledges one or two exceptions to the rule, his claim that selfish and ignoble motives never would have contributed to the advance of science feels questionable at best. Often, his ‘world of science’ feels more like a utopia than a description of real historical practices. Peirce lists four ways of blocking inquiry that should be avoided: (1) absolute assertion, that is, making overconfident statements; (2) maintaining that a certain fact never can be known; (3) maintaining that any element of science is basic, ultimate, absolutely independent, or inexplicable; and (4) holding that some law or truth has found its final and perfect formulation (RLT 179–80 [1898]). On the other hand, Peirce does not demand that the scientist should purge his or her mind from previous ideas. He maintains that such a programmatic demand is characteristic of a loose reasoner, and adds that to ‘have no preconceived idea in experimentation is to take an interrogatory position without putting any definite question’ (NEM 4: xii).

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Indeed, Peirce sometimes argues that science – or better, the seed of scientific inquiry – is not an exclusively human possession: The instincts connected with the need of nutrition have furnished all animals with some virtual knowledge of space and of force, and made them applied physicists. The instincts connected with sexual reproduction have furnished all animals at all like ourselves with some virtual comprehension of the minds of other animals of their kind, so that they are applied psychists. Now not only our accomplished science, but even our scientific questions have been pretty exclusively limited to the development of those two branches of natural knowledge. (RLT 173 [1898])

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This viewpoint qualifies Peirce’s seemingly sharp division between theoretical and practical inquiry. ‘[If] a man pursues a futile method through neglect to inform himself of effective methods, he is no scientific man; he has not been moved by an intelligently sincere and effective desire to learn. But if a man simply fails to inform himself of previous work which would have facilitated his own, although he is to blame, it would be too harsh to say that he has violated the essential principles of science. If a man pursues a method which, though very bad, is the best that the state of intellectual development of his time, or the state of the particular science he pursues, would enable a man to take [. . . ] we perhaps cannot call them scientific men, while perhaps we ought to do so.’ (CP 1.235 [c. 1902]) In ‘Telepathy’ (1903), Peirce suggests that ‘a natural gift for reasoning, for severely critical thought’ is the second of the two qualifications possessed by a ‘man of science’, the first being that ‘the dominant passion of his whole soul must be to find out the truth in some department, regardless of what the color of that truth may be’ (CP 7.605). But Peirce adds that ‘the incessant action of experience would ultimately produce those two qualities’ if a human being were to live long enough. Still, the situation is perhaps not quite as black and white as some followers of Peirce claim. Peirce, who never abandoned objectivity as an ideal, would certainly not have approved of the kind of politically charged ‘conversationalism’ espoused by Rorty. However, Rorty’s (1979) controversial contention that we should see ‘knowledge as a matter of conversation and of social practice, rather than as an attempt to mirror nature’ (p. 171) is not as fully at odds with Peirce’s approach as it may at first seem. As an anti-nominalist, Peirce eschews both naïve objectivism and radical constructivism. Arguably, he suggests a compromise, in which knowledge is not simply a matter of representing facts rightly, but rather something that is developed in communities of communication and practice. The question of whether something is a correct representation or not can only be raised within a frame of purpose and mediation. This is not to say that philosophy should adopt a laissez-faire attitude to issues pertaining to conflicts between frames, which seems to be the principal upshot of Rorty’s ‘ethnocentrism’. These articles have been criticized for ‘psychologism’, as Peirce appears to explicate inquiry and reasoning using such ‘psychic’ concepts as ‘belief’ and ‘doubt’. Yet, although they are representatives of Peirce’s early philosophy, and contain an infamous nominalistic application of the pragmatic maxim among lesser blunders, he arguably considered their basic approach sound all his life. Just a few

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years before his death, Peirce planned to publish his original writings on pragmatism as a book (Essays on Meaning, c. 1909). The project was not completed, but the plans show that he intended to make only minor corrections and additions to the essays. I will not address the issue of psychologism in this context, but will consider the related problem of anthropomorphism in the following chapter (but see Colapietro, 2003, and Kasser, 1999, for illuminating discussions of psychologism in the context of Peirce’s philosophy). Peirce occasionally distinguishes two senses of ‘habit’. In the broader sense, ‘habit’ ‘denotes such a specialization, original or acquired, of the nature of a man, or an animal, or a vine, or a crystallizable chemical substance, or anything else, that he or it will behave, or always tend to behave, in a way describable in general terms upon every occasion (or upon a considerable proportion of the occasions) that may present itself of a generally describable character’, while the narrower and more proper acceptation entails a distinction between acquired habit and natural disposition (CP 5.538 [c. 1902]). In this respect, the distinguishing mark of a human being may be the comparatively large amount of acquired habits (habit in the narrow sense) among our habits (in the broad sense that also includes dispositions). There is also a well-documented biographical reason for Peirce’s unusually testy tone in the 1898 lectures. Instructed by James to give talks on ‘vitally important topics’, and to keep them ‘unmathematical’ and ‘popular’ (RLT 25), Peirce reacted by giving an opening lecture – popular in tone – about the lack of relevance of philosophy for the conduct of life. There is certainly more than a hint of sarcasm and vitriol in these talks. Thus, at least a part of the abnormally strong rhetoric might be dismissible as hyperbole. On the other hand, Peirce did advocate similar viewpoints when discussing theory and practice in other late writings; even if one were to accept biographical explanations of philosophical positions (which I strive to avoid in this book), the stance of the 1898 lectures cannot be quite so easily explained away as a mere anomaly. Without doubt, Peirce’s outburst could also be partially accounted for as a reaction to the utilitarian programmes of positivists and proponents of eugenics such as Karl Pearson. I will not examine the relevance of synechism for Peirce’s philosophy in detail in this book. See Parker, 1998, for an explicitly synechistic reading of Peirce’s philosophical system. Peirce argues that the more important – or ‘vital’ – such problems are, the less room there is for deliberate reasoning. This feels a bit simplistic, and should perhaps be taken with a grain of salt. No doubt, some ‘vital crises’ are best handled ‘instinctively’; but there are also major practical decisions that can benefit from reasoning. Personally, at least, I prefer a political leader who strives to use his or her powers of reasoning instead of relying on ‘gut feelings’ in a serious crisis. Of course, the time to reason may be limited in such a situation; but that only highlights the need to cultivate adequate habits of sign use. These are the three non-scientific methods of fixating belief discussed by Peirce in ‘The Fixation of Belief’ (1877). Peirce specifies the ‘broader sense of experiment’ as ‘any observation made to test the hypothesis’, and opposes it to the narrower sense, in which ‘special conditions of experience are purposely created’ (EP 2:372 [c. 1906]).

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To these two senses, we could add the previously noted acceptation of ‘the practical’ as a sphere of life distinguishable from ‘theory’. Obviously, many contemporary sciences deal with concepts that would appear to have little or no connection to actual or possible experience; but if Peirce is right, there must be at least an indirect link to some such pragmatic dimension or else the terms used and propositions put forth by scientists would be meaningless. Even in science, human beings cannot fully transcend their experience (cf. CP 5.536 [c. 1905]). This seems to conflict with the views of some Peirce scholars. For example, Vincent Potter (1996) argues that action ‘through thought is only the upshot of inquiry; it is neither its purpose nor its legitimate motive’ (p. 74). However, although it is true that Peirce emphatically denies that pragmatism makes ‘Doing to be the Be-all and the End-all of life’ (EP 2:341 [1905]), he is simply criticizing the notion that singular deeds or actual collections of actions could be viewed as exhaustive of the meanings of thoughts and symbols. Peirce reserves this status for rationally and purposefully developed habits of action. In this sense, continuously successful action is the purpose and motive of inquiry; but so is ‘finding truth’. From the point of view of habit, they are but two sides of the same coin. The material conditions under which science, as a mode of conduct, must function are not only limitations posed on inquiry but can also serve as guides in the endeavour. While a scientist is in principle free to entertain any proposition he or she likes, it is rational to try such hypotheses that could be credibly proven true or falsified, given certain initial conditions and reasonable expectations of the future. Although it is not possible to discuss these issues here, we may note that Peirce even develops a theory of such factors under the name ‘the economics of research’ (W 4:72–8 [1879]; RLT 178 [1898]; CP 5.600 [1903]). The first grade of clearness of ‘truth’ is the mere familiarity with the application of the word; that is, our ability to use it in meaningful sentences. Another analysis at the second level, perhaps more familiar than the one noted here, would give us the definition of truth as that which is as it is, independent of how anyone thinks it to be (CP 2.55 [c. 1902]; PPM 255 [1903]). This characterization is practically the same as Peirce’s second-grade clarification of ‘real’. Note that Peirce here declares that one aim of pragmatic clarification – clearly a philosophical task – is to facilitate the application of concepts to the resolution of practical problems. Again, this qualifies his sharp distinction between theory and philosophy, on one side, and practice and application, on the other. This contention receives some additional support from the fact that Peirce identifies different kinds of truth depending on the context of inquiry. For example, positive or experiential science operates with a positive conception of truth, which involves the notion that a prediction based on a true proposition will be experientially fulfilled under certain conditions, while the pursuit of pure mathematics involves ideal truth, which ‘does not imply that that any particular state of things will ever appear in experience’ (NEM 3:773 [1900]). However, it is worth noting that the need for hope is already suggested in some of Peirce’s earliest writings, where he states that dogmatism must be replaced by ‘faith’ (e.g. W 1:78 [1862]).

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This conception of the generic normative role of truth in inquiry is arguably broad enough to encompass a wide variety of inquiries. In fact, Peirce’s conception of science turns out to be remarkably inclusive, as the key factor is the right spirit, rather than narrow empiricist or positivist criteria. Although Peirce often elevates natural scientists to role models for all sincere inquirers, and argues that philosophy ought to imitate the method of the ‘successful sciences’ (W 2:213 [1868]), he is not an advocate of the kind of scientism that would hold that natural science has self-evident authority over philosophy, the social sciences, and humanistic inquiry. In his classification of the sciences, the physical sciences (e.g. physics and chemistry) are placed parallel with the psychical sciences (roughly equivalent to psychology, social science, and the humanities), meaning that neither one is more basic than the other (although the psychical disciplines may in practice borrow more from the physical sciences than the other way around); and both of these wings of special science are in certain respects dependent on philosophy. Furthermore, heuretic science and practical science are both exemplars of active science, in contradistinction from the science of review, which could also be labelled retrospective science (CP 1.256 [1902]). Peirce occasionally distinguishes two senses of positive philosophy, namely cenoscopic philosophy and synthetic philosophy. In contrast to the former, the latter is not heuretic; rather, it stands at the head of the sciences of review (MS 1334:27 [1905]; EP 2:373 [c. 1906]). Its ultimate objective is to form a ‘philosophy of science’ (EP 2:258–9 [1903]). Nowadays, it might be construed as science studies. The letter is dated 23 January 1905. That is, interpretation permeates experience in the broad sense. In the singular sense, experience is brute, dumb, and as cognitive as being hit by lightning without forewarning. It would be rather easy to criticize Peirce’s notion of ‘everyman’s hourly experience’ (NEM 4:228 [1905–06]) on the ground that this communal ‘everyman’ is a mere abstraction, a disembodied and genderless fiction. Peirce would probably not be stirred by such arguments; if experience were completely individual, then there could be no inquiry in the proper sense. Although the success of science is not a proof that we share at least some experiences, it gives sufficient support to the hypothesis to render it a rational hope. On the other hand, Peirce does at times indicate that common experience is something that requires a certain level of maturity in the individual (see, e.g. MS 1334:24 [1905]; 655:8 [1910]). ‘I shall show why I do not think there can be any direct profit in going behind common sense – meaning by common sense those ideas and beliefs that man’s situation absolutely forces upon him. [. . .] I agree, for example, that it is better to recognize that some things are red and some others blue, in the teeth of what optical philosophers say, that it is merely that some things are resonant to shorter ether waves and some to longer ones. But the difficulty is to determine what really is and what is not the authoritative decision of common sense and what is merely obiter dictum. In short, there is no escape from the need of a critical examination of “first principles”’ (CP 1.129 [c. 1905]).

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Peirce’s classification of the sciences is another topic that I will not discuss in detail in this book; because of the varying principles that guide his classificatory pursuits, and the numerous schemes he presents during different periods, an adequate account of this matter would require an investigation of its own (see Kent, 1987, for the most detailed study to date). Here, I will only consider some of the logic behind Peirce’s classification, insofar as it pertains to the status of semeiotic and its subdivisions, and I will mainly focus on the hierarchical arrangement that he established in the early 1900s, dubbed the ‘perennial version’ by Beverley Kent (1987). In his early philosophy, Peirce usually employs the word ‘representation’ where he later uses ‘sign’, ‘representamen’, or ‘medium’. More confusingly, the early term ‘sign’ appears to be equivalent to the later ‘index’. Arguably, these terminological changes are connected to some noteworthy adjustments or modifications in his philosophy. Obviously, ‘positive science’ has a different meaning in Peirce’s early writings than it has in his later conception of science, where it is practically equivalent to experiential heuretic inquiry (see Chapter 2). In the beginning, the term seems to cover approximately the same area as the later ‘special sciences’. This is not trivial; it may indicate that philosophy (including semeiotic) is not an experiential science for the young Peirce. This is truth in the ‘nominal’ acceptation of correspondence, not in the pragmatic sense discussed in the preceding chapter. However, in view of Peirce’s focus on types of reasoning, it might be more accurate to say that symbolistic logic is concerned with truth-preserving inferences, or with the ways in which one can validly move from one symbol of a real object to another (see W 1:309 [1865]). Peirce later characterizes such investigation as the ‘critic of arguments’. There is only circumstantial evidence that Peirce would have picked up the idea of semeiotic from Locke. The first recorded occurrence of the term ‘semiotic’ in Peirce’s writings does follow on a discussion of Locke, but the term can also be found in medical journals of the eighteenth and nineteenth century (where it is often spelled ‘semeiotic’ or ‘semiotics’ and occasionally defined as a ‘doctrine of signs’) and in books by some less-known authors with whom Peirce might have been familiar. This version of Locke’s definition follows the model of Deely et al. (1986). In later editions of the essay, Locke apparently added an epsilon to the name of the doctrine of signs, giving us the ‘semeiotic’ familiar from Peirce’s writings. The original has ‘with’, which clearly must be a slip of the pen. See Pietarinen, 2006, for illuminating discussions of the connection between Peirce’s theory of signs and his system of existential graphs. Several semioticians influenced by Peirce seem to prefer ‘doctrine’ (e.g. Deely, 1982; Sebeok, 1976). John Deely (1982) claims that ‘the Latin philosophical term doctrina [. . .] expressed with great clarity and richness the notion of a level or type of knowledge which, we can see in hindsight, is critically distinct from scientific knowledge or science (“scientia”) in the modern sense that the term has acquired since Locke’s day’ (p. 127).

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Final causation is another complex topic that will be only partly scrutinized in this book. See Short, 2007a, for a detailed Peircean account of final causation and of its connection to semeiotic (see also Hulswit, 2002; Ransdell, 1981; Short, 1981a, b). At least once, Peirce asserts that the ‘professional’ sense of science is too restrictive, and even adds that he finds it ‘particularly distressing’ personally (EP 2:459 [c. 1911]). This is somewhat peculiar, as he elsewhere argues quite forcefully for this kind of concrete conception, but it may be taken as an acknowledgement of the difficulties that a strict adherence to the professional criterion causes for the classification of the sciences. Peirce connects final causes and purposes with ‘operative desires’ (CP 1.205 [c. 1902]). Such desires are both general, as the object desired is a kind or type rather than a determinate thing, and variable or vague, as the desire need not be rigid. A desire also possesses what Peirce calls ‘longitude’, meaning a certain degree of toleration for compromises; in lieu of absolute truth, an approximation of truth will do for the time being. The end result is that ‘clustering distributions tend to characterize purposive classes’, and ‘it follows that it may be quite impossible to draw a sharp line of demarcation between two classes, although they are real and natural classes in strictest truth’ (CP 1.207–8 [c. 1902]). It is an open question whether semiotics, as it is practiced today, possesses sufficient communal grounding and scientific spirit to render it a proper science in Peirce’s sense. Some (e.g. Short, 2007a) would argue that whatever contemporary semiotics may be, it is not the science envisaged by Peirce; but if we accept the Peircean normative-social approach, then semioticians ought to be viewed at least as proto-scientists, as long as their communal activity is driven by a genuine desire to find out the truth about signs and semiosis. See Kent, 1987, pp. 136–8, for figures of Peirce’s ladder model. Peirce also calls the most abstract philosophical science phaneroscopy, and shows some penchant for this coinage in his final writings. This preference is apparently motivated by a desire to avoid confusion with Hegel’s phenomenology, although Peirce thinks ‘it is essentially the same thing under a somewhat different aspect’ (MS 602:12–13). In this context, I have chosen to stick with ‘phenomenology’, as the more familiar term is evocative of the particular endeavour Peirce has in mind – a study of phenomena or appearances – while ‘phaneroscopy’ seems to lack such associations. A reader familiar with Peircean philosophy soon detects a tell-tale tendency to identify three rungs on each ladder and sub-ladder. Yet, Peirce is noticeably reticent about assigning a visible role to his three categories in the classificatory procedure. While he concedes that there are many significant trichotomies in his classification, he points out that this is not a general rule (EP 2:258 [1903]). If the being of a scientific class is primarily determined by the goal-directed activities of a group of inquirers, then the purported naturalness of the classification would be in doubt if there were a pre-given scheme into which the inquiries had to be fitted. The actual limits of the existing social groups place demands on the classificatory project (cf. MS 655:16–17 [1910]). Therefore, Peirce indicates that it is best to leave the categories out of consideration until the classification is

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nearly done, in order to avoid the ‘high priori’ method (MS 1343:17 [c. 1902–05]; cf. Kent, 1987, p. 115). I will let the reader judge for him- or herself whether Peirce is being perfectly truthful on this point. It is unclear whether the more general division into heuretic science, practical science, and science of review could be organized according to the hierarchical model; while it seems possible to conceive of a relation of dependency between the broader heuretic science and the narrower practical science, the science of review does not appear to fit the scheme. This term obviously follows the same pattern as ‘cenoscopy’ (philosophy) and ‘idioscopy’ (special science). The ending ‘–scopy’ suggests an emphasis on observation (see CP 1.239–41 [1902]); based on etymology, ‘cenoscopy’ could be characterized as ‘looking to the common’ and ‘idioscopy’ as ‘looking to the peculiar’. Peirce adopted these terms from Jeremy Bentham. The theory of categories is one of the most central topics of Peirce’s philosophical canon, probably the most significant one. In this study, I will take up only a small fraction of the many questions in this key endeavour, bypassing many difficult problems concerning the development of Peirce’s theory, the epistemic status of the universal phenomenon, and the methods of phenomenology. (For informative discussions of various aspects of Peirce’s phenomenology, see, e.g. De Tienne, 1993; Esposito, 1980; Rosensohn, 1974; Spiegelberg, 1956) See Kent, 1976, and Robin, 1964, for illuminating accounts of developments and problems in Peirce’s theory of normative inquiry. However, in ‘A Sketch of Logical Critics’ (c. 1911), Peirce argues that ethics is the only normative discipline that qualifies as a science, if the existence of a concrete group of practitioners is used as a criterion (EP 2:459). This is ‘particularly distressing’ for Peirce the logician. ‘Practics’ is a synonym for ‘ethics’. Peirce experiments with a confusing variety of different names for these branches; instead of ‘grammar’, he sometimes uses ‘originalian logic’ (CP 2.93 [c. 1902]), ‘syntax’ (MS 452:6 [1903]), ‘stecheotic’ (CP 4.9 [1906]), ‘stechiology’ (MS 602:5–7), ‘hermeneutic’ (MS 640:7 [1909]), or ‘analytic’ (NEM 3:207 [1911]). In addition, ‘grammar’ is typically specified by using such adjectives as ‘general’, ‘speculative’, ‘universal’, or ‘formal’. ‘Critic’ is sometimes called ‘obsistent logic’ or ‘logic in the narrow sense’ (CP 2.93 [c. 1902]), while the third branch is known as ‘objective logic’ (CP 3.430 [1896]), ‘transuasional logic’ (CP 2.93 [c. 1902]), or ‘methodeutic’ (e.g. NEM 3:207 [1911]) in addition to ‘rhetoric’. This list is not complete. The reasons for the different uses are rarely explained, and apart from the shift from ‘rhetoric’ to ‘methodeutic’ they seem to be of only minor scholarly interest. I will employ ‘grammar’, ‘critical logic’, and ‘rhetoric’, but will only explain my preference for ‘rhetoric’ over ‘methodeutic’. The in-between level of symbolistic or the ‘logic of symbols’ (accompanied by a ‘logic of icons’ and a ‘logic of indices’ does curiously make at least one reappearance (in 1906; CP 4.9). This is best viewed as an aberration, although Kelly Parker (1998, pp. 142–3) argues that it is Peirce’s final word on the matter. Parker is at least mistaken in claiming that this would have been Peirce’s view during the

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period 1902–14, as Peirce divides logic in the broad sense (semeiotic) into grammar, critic, and rhetoric (methodeutic) in 1903 (EP 2:272), 1904 (EP 2:327), c. 1906 (MS 793), and 1911 (NEM 3:207), to mention just four instances. Peirce’s statement that ‘there is a great advantage in making logic in general, and more especially stechiology [i.e. grammar], embrace in its scope all sorts of signs and representations’ (MS 602:7 [undated, but later than 1902 and earlier than 1908; probably c. 1906 based on terminology used]) repudiates the argument that grammar (as well as critic and rhetoric) would be concerned with symbols merely. Moreover, we do not find Peirce developing the division of semeiotic into logics of icons, indices, and symbols in any substantial way; in the end, Parker (1998, p. 143) submits that the ‘orphaned’ studies of icons and indices must be adopted by the logician as ‘icons and indices are necessary allies to symbolization’, which in effect renders the level between logic and the grammar–critic–rhetoric division pointless. See Liszka, 1996, pp. 53–77, for a useful summary of the principal concerns of critical logic. There are numerous studies of more specific issues in this branch of semeiotic, usually dealing with topics such as reasoning, abduction, and induction. It is not clear, however, that the various modes of inference should be studied strictly within the frame of critic (see Paavola, 2004, for an unorthodox analysis of abduction from the perspectives of grammar, critic, and methodeutic). Statements like these have led Short (2007b, p. 665) to conclude that Peirce’s theory of the interpretant is equivalent to his rhetoric. I believe that to be an oversimplification, albeit the development of Peirce’s concept of interpretant and his conception of rhetoric certainly are intertwined. See CP 2.228 (c. 1897) for a much-debated exception, after which Peirce states that grammar ‘has for its task to ascertain what must be true of the representamen [i.e. sign] used by every scientific intelligence in order that they may embody any meaning’ (CP 2.229 [c. 1897]). With regard to the contentious issue of the semeiotic ground, Short (1982, p. 285; 1985, p. 107) argues that this early conception is replaced by ‘relation of sign to object’ (this point is elaborated in Short, 2007a, in terms of a ‘prior relation’ between sign and object that grounds the ‘significance’ of the sign). This interpretation seems partly plausible, but it would make the study of the grounding relation of signs a matter of critic rather than of grammar. Liszka (1996) suggests another possibility, namely that ‘form’ replaces ‘ground’ and should be understood as the presentation of the object (p. 117). This is also a justifiable interpretation, but it is by no means self-evident; furthermore, the appeal to an occult ‘ground’ or ‘form’ sounds more Platonic than I feel comfortable with. I suspect that Peirce drops the concept of ground simply because it turns out to be superfluous in the mature semeiotic that operates with more sophisticated categories based on the sign as such (qualisign, sinsign, and legisign) and the relation between sign and dynamic object (icon, index, and symbol). However, in light of the way Peirce articulates grammar, it might be feasible to argue that the ground is more broadly interpretable as syntactical form – that is, it is replaced by a set of principles that determines how different ingredients of the sign can be combined.

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Perhaps one could on this basis claim that the hope for truth is the only essential precondition of heuretic science; but one might equally well say that it is something that emerges from the natural practice of inquiry. However, Peirce seems to employ such a strategy in his early semeiotic, in particular in ‘On a New List of Categories’. At least, he suggests as much when he admits that he used to reason in a transcendental manner, when he ‘was a babe in philosophy’ whose ‘bottle was filled from the udders of Kant’ (CP 2.113 [c. 1902]). The classification results in a model comprising ten classes of signs, which will not be examined in this book. Peirce later suggests that the classification could be expanded into an arrangement of 66 classes of signs, but he does not follow through on this project (see SS 160–6 for Irwin Lieb’s attempt to reconstruct the full classificatory scheme; see also Jappy, 1989; Sanders, 1970; Weiss and Burks, 1945). The patchy and tentative nature of Peirce’s rhetoric may also explain why grammatical interests, such as the classification of signs, have dominated in studies of semeiotic. For a long time, the third branch was neglected by Peirce scholars (with a few exceptions, such as Krois, 1981; Lyne, 1980; 1982). This seems to be changing, as the number of studies focusing explicitly on rhetoric is growing (see, e.g. Colapietro, 2007; Liszka, 2000; Santaella, 1999; see also Liszka, 1996, pp. 78–108). As in the case of grammar, references to ‘conditions’ in Peirce’s characterizations of rhetoric should not be taken as an indication of a transcendental approach. Peirce does not employ this term, but it is used by some rhetoricians. This suggests a link between rhetoric and the science of review that will not be explored here. By this, I take it that Ransdell refers to Peirce’s general theory of inquiry and science, which comprises the belief-doubt model. At least, Peirce seems to emphasize this aspect of rhetoric when he characterizes it as ‘the study of those general conditions under which a problem presents itself for solution and those under which one question leads on to another’ (CP 3.430 [1896]). Liszka takes this argument one step further in ‘Peirce’s Revolutionary Concept of Rhetoric’, a paper presented at the Applying Peirce conference in Helsinki in June 2007. Liszka argues that ‘formal rhetoric should be the study of inquiry, understood as a practice involving a method of reasoning, embedded in a certain kind of community with certain kinds of norms and presuppositions; as cultivating certain sentiments and virtues in practitioners; as privileging certain forms of communicative practices, and as involving a historical identity and purpose’; and he adds that this shows why speculative rhetoric leads to ethics more clearly than grammar or critical logic. Apart from the unqualified emphasis on presuppositions and the slight bias for methodeutic, I find this perspective supportive of the argument regarding the ordering of the sciences that I am sketching here. In particular, Liszka’s contention that the rhetorical cultivation of certain sentiments, feelings, and norms – a certain pathos and ethos – is vital for higher forms of inquiry is sound in my opinion. In addition, he submits that Peirce’s privileging of certain forms of communication or assertion practices is broadly speaking in agreement with the kinds of normative pragmatics that have been developed by Habermas (1998) and Robert Brandom (1994; 2000), a suggestion that ought to be further explored.

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Colapietro argues that Peirce’s ’rhetorical turn’ (i.e. growing sensitivity to rhetorical perspectives) invalidates the contention that philosophy ought to be a science. According to Colapietro (2007), ‘philosophy is rhetoric, in [. . .] a sense precluding it from being a science in as univocal and uncontroversial sense as Peirce desired’ (p. 34). As a counterargument, I would maintain that the Peircean notion of science is not as narrow and definite as Colapietro seems to assume; at least, I believe that the reconstruction of Peirce’s scientific philosophy presented in Chapter 2 does not exclude rhetorical concerns in the way that Colapietro dreads. However, I do not think that this indicates a deep-seated disagreement between Colapietro’s viewpoint and the perspective of this book; the minor dispute, such as it is, concerns whether the English term ‘science’ must be understood as something that excludes the humanities and social science or not. See Liszka (2000), for an informative and suggestive account of the historical connections of Peirce’s rhetoric. Liszka argues persuasively that Peirce’s viewpoint is original, even revolutionary, in that it succeeds in uniting (critical) logic and rhetoric in one framework, and thus possesses the potential to act as a mediator in one of longest running feuds in Western intellectual history (see, e.g. Ijsseling, 1976; Vickers, 1982). This need for a technical substitute is probably the reason that Peirce introduces the concept of ‘phaneron’. As noted, I have decided to privilege ‘phenomenon’ here as I feel that the new term does not usefully elucidate the matter, while the more familiar word, imperfect as it may be, evokes some informative associations. Arguably, if the ‘phaneron’ is so occult that it cannot be recognized in terms relating to ordinary experience, then something might be amiss in Peirce’s project. Peirce does assert that the phenomenologist needs three capacities: ‘the faculty of seeing what stares one in the face, just as it presents itself, unreplaced by any interpretation, unsophisticated by any allowance for this or for that supposed modifying circumstance’, ‘a resolute discrimination which fastens itself like a bulldog upon the particular feature that we are studying, follows it wherever it may lurk, and detects it beneath all its disguises’, and ‘the generalizing power of the mathematician who produces the abstract formula that comprehends the very essence of the feature under examination purified from all admixture of extraneous and irrelevant accompaniments’ (CP 5.42 [1903]). However, suggestive as this is – particularly as Peirce associates the practice with art and poetry – it is arguably too vague to be of much assistance for the budding phenomenologist. Peirce was trained as a chemist, and often uses chemical analogues and metaphors in his theory of categories. Peirce offers several accounts of various degrees of genuineness and degeneracy of the categories that I will not scrutinize in this book. See Burch, 1991, for an attempt to prove Peirce’s theorems using contemporary logical means. One might object that the word ‘sign’ does not refer to a clearly delimited entity, which could be covered by a single definition, but rather to a set of contingently – perhaps only nominally – connected phenomena of natural and cultural life. In fact, many critics of semiotics have maintained that the apparent connection between such signs as ordinary sentences and natural symptoms is an illusion brought on by linguistic usage and careless analysis; in reality, they have little in

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common, and should not be forced into the same conceptual framework (see, e.g. Scruton, 1981, pp. 32–3; Wells, 1977, p. 5). I will not address this issue fully in this book, but I believe that the rhetorical approach I propose provides a plausible reply to Rulon Wells’s (1977, p. 1) criticism that Peirce’s semeiotic would be largely vitiated by empty and sterile generalizations. This would approximately encompass the period from 1902 to 1906. Peirce also indicates that the sign may be a species under the genus representamen, or that the representamen could be understood as the thing or vehicle acting as a sign. I will discuss some implications of these usages in the following chapter. Peirce adopted the term ’representamen’ from William Hamilton. For the same reason, I do not agree with Colapietro’s (1995) contention that ‘Peirce’s general theory of signs is unintelligible apart from his doctrine of the three universal categories’ (p. 32). The categoreal scheme can be of great heuristic aid in semeiotic, but there is no reason why the theory of signs could not be comprehensible on its own; the value of the categories is that they purportedly render the theory clearer and more systematic. They are not necessary presuppositions of semeiotic. In ‘On a New List of Categories’ (1867) Peirce uses a Kantian or quasi-Kantian method to derive the categories, on the basis of the ‘established theory’ that ‘the function of conceptions is to reduce the manifold of sensuous impressions to unity’ (W 2:49). The derivation proceeds by assuming that the generic union of understanding (being) is predicative – that is, expressible as the copula – after which it is shown that three intermediate ‘conceptions’ (i.e. categories) – quality, relation, and representation – are necessarily required in order to reduce impressions (substance) to ‘the unity of a proposition’ (W 2:49–50). The in-between categoreal conceptions are predecessors of firstness, secondness, and thirdness, respectively. However, in view of Peirce’s turn to phenomenology, it is not feasible to conceive of the ‘New List’ as foundational in a strong sense; at best, it provides a few fibres to the argumentative cable supporting the theory of categories (cf. CP 5. 265 [1868]). However, it is worth noting that some scholars (e.g. Ransdell) consider the ‘New List’ derivation to be the firm and unchanging foundation of Peirce’s philosophy, and in particular of his semeiotic. This is disputable on several grounds, but I will not delve into the developmental controversy here (see Bergman, 2003 and 2007, for some critical remarks on Peirce’s early approach; cf. Short, 2004; 2007a). Here, it is sufficient to note that Peirce does not appeal to the ‘New List’ approach in his later characterizations of phenomenology – which is peculiar indeed, if the original derivation is as complete and foundational as has been claimed. Peirce does speak approvingly of the propositional strategy in a few later manuscripts (MS 403 [1893]; 1135 [c. 1897]), but these seem to be aberrations. This is practically equivalent to experience in the restricted sense (see Chapter 2). Peirce sometimes characterizes secondness in terms of narrow experience, which is certainly not wrong, but can be misleading (see, e.g. SS 25–6 [1904]). Also, it should be noted that the term ‘brute’, which Peirce often employs, is not intended pejoratively; it merely means that there is no reason or purpose in that which is described, taken by itself. That is, ‘bruteness’ entails ‘the absence of any reason, regularity, or rule, which should take part in the action as a third or mediating element’ (CP 2.84 [c. 1902]).

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This is a bottom-up perspective because it sets out from the concrete ‘ground’ of common experience and moves towards the abstract and general. Short (2007b, p. 667) refers to this approach as the ‘path of discovery’, and argues that the naturalistic approach he has developed in detail (in Short, 2007a) is a ‘path of knowledge’ that presupposes the aforementioned path. In other words, Short strives to construct a systematic account of signs by working his way from nonsemiotic processes towards semiotic processes, in effect delimiting sign and semiosis as natural phenomena of a certain (teleological) kind. In this sense, he is also pursuing a bottom-up approach; he ‘grounds’ the sign in teleology. Albeit his approach can seem like a rival to the perspective articulated in this book, I feel that they are more complementary than contradictory. In ‘The Basis of Pragmaticism’ (MS 283), Peirce suggests that the method could be called ‘logical analysis’, but he notes that that is not quite accurate since the analysis is phenomenological (EP 2:389 [c. 1906]). According to one widespread interpretation of the pragmatistic tradition, Peirce and Schiller are polar opposites, the one embracing realism and formal logic while the other opts for subjectivism and anti-formalism (see, e.g. Haack, 2006; Pihlström, 2004). This standard reading is not false as far as it goes, but it misses a curious fact; Peirce often suggests that Schiller is the pragmatist closest to himself, with the possible exception of Royce. The reason for this is that Peirce approves of the anthropomorphic drift in Schiller’s humanism, in particular as it accepts the reality of purposiveness. In fact, Peirce asserts that Schiller succeeds in capturing the ‘soul of pragmatism’ because purpose is ‘the vital spot in pragmatism’ (MS L390; cf. CP 8.322 [1906]). In a letter to Schiller, Peirce even submits that pragmatism is only ‘a particular offshoot of humanism’ (MS L390 [1905]). As Short (2007b, p. 668) notes, some of Peirce’s metaphysical and cosmological writings stretch anthropomorphism beyond what is justified, especially as they postulate a ‘Law of Mind’ that is purportedly operative throughout the universe. I agree with Short that anthropomorphism should be applied with caution; hypotheses should be tested in various ways, and not merely postulated.

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‘Representation, by which I mean the function of a sign in general, is a combinant, or trifile, relation; since it subsists between the sign, the object represented, and the interpretant or sign of the same object determined by the sign in the mind of the person addressed, or in other field of signification’ (MS 145s:11). This quote is taken from an entry in the Prescott Book dated 28 October 1909. Arguably, it is not. The closest we can come is a tone as a quality of feeling, in perfect abstraction from anything else – even the idea that there is anything else. It is not by coincidence that Peirce sometimes uses the alternative names ‘tone’ and ‘tuone’ for the qualisign. Furthermore he argues that nothing ‘can be a sign of itself except as a part common to two different wholes of which one is a sign of the other’ (MS 849:6 [1911]; cf. MS 634:21 [1909]).

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Using Susanne Langer’s (1957, pp. 79–102) distinction, we might say that music is a presentational rather than discursive form. This is not the place for a comparison between Peirce and Langer’s philosophy of ‘symbolism’; suffice it to say that there is a rough analogy between iconicity and presentational forms, on the one hand, and between symbolicity (in the Peircean sense) and discursive forms, on the other. Langer’s framework is not well suited for a consideration of indexicality. ‘[The] parts of a sign, though they are signs, may not possess all the essential characters of a more complete sign’ (MS 7:1 [c. 1903]). However, Peirce does not adhere consistently to the anti-surrogational viewpoint; unfortunately, this is one issue that cannot be explained by appeal to his development, for the idea of the sign as a surrogate crops up in several late manuscripts. In what would have been a preface to Studies in Meaning, he asserts that every ‘Sign represents or is [. . .] some sort of substitute for an Object’ (MS 634:19 [1909]). Yet, I maintain that Peirce would not – or at least should not – accept the kind of surrogational semiotics characteristic of Charles Morris (see Morris, 1946, p. 6; cf. Greenlee, 1973, pp. 55–6; Wells, 1977, pp. 6–8). William Alston’s (1964, pp. 51–61) reading of Peirce may be singled out as an example of how the Peircean position can be misconstrued when the notion of ‘standing for’ is taken to be the most central semeiotic conception, in addition to being interpreted in the terms of behaviourist semiotics. The risk for mix-ups is amplified by the confusing variety of contemporary uses of the term ‘representation’, for example, in cognitive science. While I agree with Short that we should not interpret Peirce’s concept in the manner of the Buchlerians, I would argue that very little is won by insisting on the broad acceptation of ‘representation’, except as an explication of some of Peirce’s characterizations. Notably, in his recent book, Short (2007a, pp. 160–8) crafts a definition of sign that avoids the term. Furthermore, by qualifying the representative requirement we in effect neutralize the sharpest edge of the kind of criticism that would reduce the Peircean position to a representationalist viewpoint or a ‘symbol model’ (see, e.g. Stewart, 1995; 1996; cf. Bergman, 2007). This applies primarily to Peirce’s later philosophy; in the early writings, the term ‘subject’ is employed in a variety of acceptations, for example, as a predecessor of ‘interpretant’. Also, Peirce is not consistent in his condemnation of the ‘German’ usage; he does occasionally speak of the ‘subject’ in the sense of person or sign user. This can be characterized as the sense of hitting and being hit, or ‘the sense of collision or clash’ (CP 8.43 [1885]). It is the non-cognitive recognition of resistance that forces us to acknowledge the external world or something independent of our selves, which amounts to a commonsensical argument against scepticism; a ‘man may walk down Wall Street debating within himself the existence of an external world; but if in his brown study he jostles up against somebody who angrily draws off and knocks him down, the sceptic is unlikely to carry his scepticism so far as to doubt whether anything beside the ego was concerned in that phenomenon’ (CP 1.431 [c. 1896]). According to Peirce, neglecting this aspect of experience is the gravest error of the Hegelians, besides the tendency to postulate unfounded abstractions.

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Peirce struggles to find appropriate names for these objects. For instance, in the Logic Notebook, he declares that he would say ‘representer as external’ and ‘representer as internal’, or better ‘representer as real’ and ‘representer as imaginary’, were it not for certain unwanted associations; therefore, he chooses to characterize the objects as ‘active’ and ‘passive’ (MS 339:274 [1906]). This ‘strong realist interpretation’ may be something of a straw man. However, it is quite common to see casual remarks to the effect that the dynamical object is a real object. This is not completely false in view of Peirce’s terminology, but as we shall see, the claim needs to be qualified. In the manuscript posthumously christened ‘On Signs’, Peirce describes the unity of the objects as follows: ‘those characters of the Real Object which are essential to the identity of the Sign constitute an ens rationis called the “Immediate Object”’ (MS 793:11 [c. 1906]). Modifying this, I would say that the immediate object is the rational or intelligible side of the object, while the dynamical object is the narrowly experiential aspect of the object. This analysis is admittedly simplistic. The universe in question connects to other discursive universes, such as the actual history of Denmark and related works of fiction, in ways that almost infinitely complicate the matter. Therefore, it seems feasible to argue that there are signs that have only a dynamical object, or at least that there are semiotic events in which the immediate aspect is of minimal importance; but this does not provide a counterargument to the view defended here. A warning shouted out without reflection would be an example of a sign with a predominantly dynamic object, but that does not mean that the object of the sign in question would necessarily be real in any substantial sense. Peirce occasionally characterizes the interpretant as ‘significance’ (see EP 2:494 [1909]). In this discussion, the term will be employed in Short’s sense. To support his criticism, Hulswit cites Short’s (1981b) assertion that ‘Peirce’s theory of signs [. . .] exhibits the continuity of the human mind with the rest of nature’ (p. 220). However, the context clearly shows that by ‘nature’ Short means ‘living nature’. Further, Hulswit notes that in ‘Peirce’s Concept of Final Causation’ Short appears to attribute teleology to all processes that tend towards an end state. In this case, Short (1981a) chooses to ignore an important Peircean distinction between finious and teleological processes (p. 171). However, in ‘What’s the Use?’, Short (1998, pp. 46–51) uses this division in his argument against the view that would expand semiosis to the physical world, and against the opposite position according to which signs are inherently connected with human consciousness. Peirce uses some alternative names for this concept, such as ‘subject’, ‘correspondent’, and ‘interpretand’, but overall his usage is fairly consistent. The expansion of Peirce’s conception of interpretant is connected to his correspondence with Welby; many of his most incisive discussions of the varying kinds of interpretants are to be found in letters addressed to her. Peirce greatly appreciated Welby’s What Is Meaning?, which he reviewed soon after its publication in 1903. In the book, Welby proposes a distinction between three kinds of significant entities or effects – sense, meaning, and signification – that Peirce, with his penchant for triadic distinctions, no doubt found stimulating. Although the evidence is

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scant, I would surmise that Welby’s trichotomy opened his eyes for the possibility of a new development in his theory of signs. Liszka (1996, p. 122) suggests that the first indications of the coming transformation can be discerned in 1902; but as the Essential Peirce shows, Peirce mentions Welby’s book in the Lowell lectures of 1903, which in turn is accompanied by the Syllabus, where the occurrence Liszka has in mind is to be found (see EP 2:255–6; 2:275). However, Peirce does not adhere consistently to this position; for instance, he asserts that ‘it is plain that a sign not recognized is not a sign at all’ as late as 1907 (MS 318:44–5). This is best treated as an inconsequential slip, or perhaps as a conflation of sign and semiosis. See Liszka, 1996, pp. 122–3, for an extensive (but not exhaustive) list of names Peirce uses for various interpretants. The dates in Peirce’s Logic Notebook are very unclear; the entry in question might be from 1908. According to Johansen (1993a, p. 166) and Liszka (1996, p. 122), the year is 1906. This may suggest that the aspectual approach should also be applied in the case of the interpretant. However, I am inclined to think that that would be a bad move, although I must admit that this is based on nothing stronger than a sense that it would not be conducive to the development of semeiotic to interpret the interpretant in such a manner. For instance, John Fitzgerald divides the dynamical interpretant into emotional, energetic, and logical; while Short applies that trichotomy to every member of the immediate–dynamical–final trichotomy, giving a systematic classification of nine interpretant types. Lalor refers to the emotional–energetic–logical trichotomy presented in ‘Pragmatism’. According to current knowledge, the correct year is 1907. These modalities can also be expressed as may-be, is, and would-be. In one of the few discussions of the interpretant that appears to bear any direct relation to the excerpt cited, Peirce states that his account omits the intended interpretant; so far as the intention is betrayed in the sign, it belongs to the immediate interpretant, and so far as it is not betrayed, it may be the interpretant of another sign, but it is in no sense the interpretant of the first sign (MS 339:276 [1906]). However, it is not clear whether this ‘intended interpretant’ should be seen as a synonym of the intentional interpretant. Alternatively, one might speak of ‘signification’ as Peirce argues that if ‘we fully set before ourselves all that is involved in this action [of a sign in bringing its interpreter into relation with its object], we shall see that signification, meaning the action of a sign, covers all connexions of this description’ (NEM 4:297 [c. 1903]). However, this term is problematic in two senses: it is usually treated as a synonym of ‘meaning’ and it is in itself no more descriptive than ‘semiosis’. In many cases, it is difficult to say whether Peirce is using ‘mediation’ for the third category, in the way that he employs ‘representation’ in his early philosophy, or if it is meant as a synonym for ‘sign’ (see, e.g. CP 2.89–92 [c. 1902]). Nor does an emphasis on mediation necessarily entail an exclusion of representation (see, e.g. EP 2:5 [c. 1894]). Compare this to the example of giving in Chapter 3.

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We might consider employing the term ‘medium’ for the concrete subject of semiosis instead of ‘representamen’ or ‘sign vehicle’ as has been proposed. ‘Medium’ suggests concrete materials as well as a means of effecting or conveying something. However, in ‘Pragmatism’ Peirce also contends that ‘the essential nature of a sign is that it mediates between its Object, which is supposed to determine it and to be, in some sense, the cause of it, and its Meaning, or as I prefer to say, in order to avoid certain ambiguities, its Interpretant, which is determined by the sign, and is, in a sense, the effect of it; and which the sign represents to flow as an influence from the Object’ (MS 318:14–15 [1907]). This seems to capture all three concepts – determination, mediation, and representation – in one definition. However, while this characterization weakens the surrogational implications by portraying representation as something professed by the sign, it would still take some twisting of the term to make it cover signs that primarily draw attention to objects in the field of experience.

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Peirce articulates this notion of rhetorical grounding in an analysis of assertion. However, the discussion reveals that he conceives of asserting as a paradigmatic semiotic act, which is the first thing to which grammar needs to attend. This is a reference to Ernst Schröder, the German logician who adopted several of Peirce’s ideas in logical algebra. Peirce frequently chides Schröder for being overly formalistic. In MS 805, a manuscript that also outlines the rhetorical approach, Peirce defends the formally deficient method on the grounds that ‘this very imperfection, because it is essential and ineluctible, measures the truth and depth of the method which sinks its plummet beyond those superficial parts of the mind which are alone susceptible of exact definition’. In the following discussion I will use Peirce’s terms ‘utterer’ and ‘interpreter’ for the central communicative roles. These are not necessarily individual persons; they can be moments of the self or social entities. Still, Peirce maintains that there are ‘virtually two parties’ in all discourse and reasoning (MS 25:2 [1897]). We might speak of ‘quasi-utterer’ and ‘quasi-interpreter’, but in this case I simply use the shorter versions as space savers. See Chapter 2 for the distinction between two senses of experience. This ‘union of minds’ bears an obvious resemblance to the fusion of horizons in hermeneutic philosophy. Again, it is important to remember that ‘utterer’ and ‘interpreter’ are employed as anthropomorphic tools in this context; it would not be too far-fetched to construe a text – or, rather, the complex object determining the text – as a Peircean quasi-utterer (or quasi-mind) on one level of analysis. This does not exclude treating the author as an utterer as well. Peirce adopted the term ‘universe of discourse’ from Augustus De Morgan, the pioneer of the logic of relations. In Peirce’s writings, ‘universe of discourse’ is a technical term that occurs mostly in connection with the system of existential

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graphs. However, it is defined in such a way that it is more broadly applicable in semeiotic. A famous real-life example is Orson Welles’s 1938 radio adaptation of H. G. Wells’s The War of the Worlds. Presented as a series of news bulletins, the beginning of the broadcast was widely interpreted as a discourse about actual reality, leading to some outbreaks of panic as parts of the audience believed that Martians had invaded the United States. See Brock, 1969, for the most thorough discussion of Peirce’s theory of logical indeterminacy to date. As might be expected, Peirce uses a rather bewildering variety of terms for the diverse kinds of determinacy and indeterminacy; at times, he also seems to simply conflate different types. Here, I will mostly ignore these difficulties, although they may be indications of real tensions and vacillations in Peirce’s theory. Peirce also offers a ‘more scientific’ definition of indefiniteness and generality in terms of the laws of contradiction and excluded third. I will bypass that approach here, as I do not believe it captures the full scale of indeterminacy in the Peircean sense; in particular, connecting indefiniteness to the inapplicability of the principle of bivalence does not seem viable if a sentence such as ‘some man wrote The Man without Qualities’ is deemed to be indefinite, as it is also true for all relevant purposes. However, see Lane, 1999, for an illuminating discussion of Peirce’s ‘entanglement’ with these logical laws. Compare this to the discussion of truth in Chapter 2. Peirce’s pragmatic take on quantification has also been interpreted as a precursor of game-theoretical semantics. For discussions of this issue, see for example, Hilpinen, 1983; 1995; Pietarinen, 2006. It is not surprising that the critics have missed this, because Peirce’s most developed account of indefiniteness is found on fragmentary variant pages of the manuscript ‘The Basis of Pragmaticism’. On the basis of the nature of the immediate object, Peirce occasionally divides signs into (1) indefinite (MS 806) or vague (MS 339; 499s) signs, (2) singular (MS 339; 806) signs, and (3) general (MS 339; 806) or distributive signs (MS 339; 499s). In one passage (MS 530:17 [c. 1903]), Peirce states that every proposition must refer to something singular, and that indefiniteness ensues only when the utterer speaks of an object with which the interpreter is not familiar. This would limit indefiniteness to the actual interaction between utterer and interpreter; but as has been noted, a sign that is sufficiently determinate to serve certain communicative purposes is almost inevitably indeterminate in other respects. It seems, then, that Peirce’s requirement of singularity must be tempered; the subject needs to be singular only in respect to a certain discursive context and to certain purposes. The requirement of a perfectly singular reference would in effect make communication impossible; the communicative process could never properly begin, because the parties would be involved in a virtually never-ending process of referential determination. See the 1867 article ‘Upon Logical Comprehension and Extension’ (published in W 2) for a fuller discussion of breadth and depth.

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Here, Peirce uses Royce’s term ‘idea’; however, in light of Peirce’s criticism of Royce, ‘sign’ or ‘symbol’ would be more appropriate. This may sound more like John Dewey than Peirce; I am here deliberately emphasizing some ignored implications of the Peircean approach. It is admittedly a somewhat one-sided reading that ought to be tempered by the cautionary or conservative viewpoint that Peirce defends in the lectures of 1898 (see RLT). Peirce is not an activist in the Deweyan sense; but neither is his conception of philosophy quite as anti-melioristic as some of his proclamations may suggest (cf. the discussion of theory and practice in Chapter 2).

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Index

abstraction 45–7, 53, 63, 66–7, 79, 82–7, 114, 125 Almeder, R. 24, 26–7 Alston, W. 180n. 6 ambiguity 150–1 anthropomorphism 88–91, 92, 113, 116, 123, 125, 179n. 53–4, 183n. 6 architectonic 48, 70 belief-doubt model of inquiry 15–18 Benedict, G. 95–6 Bentham, J. 174n. 18 Brandom, R. 177n. 36 Brock, J. 156–7 Buchler, J. 97 categories 67–74, 79–81 see also firstness; phenomenology; secondness; thirdness Chisholm, R. 112 clarity or clearness (degrees of) 25, 83–4, 164–5, 170n. 23 Colapietro, V. 3, 7, 22–3, 79, 84, 99, 127, 145, 177n. 37, 178n. 48 collateral experience 85–6, 98, 101–2, 106–8, 140–3, 153 collateral observation see collateral experience commens 124–5, 138–40, 147 common ground 125, 139, 144–5, 147, 151, 158 communication as basic and derivative conception 1–2 characterized by indeterminacy 146–7, 155–8 conceptualized in terms of significate outcomes 138–9 distinguished from transmission 129, 158

as focus of rhetoric 62–4 ideal end of 126–7 requires shared understanding and common ground 124–5, 139–40, 143–5 as transmission of form 132–4 Comte, A. 51 concrete reasonableness 165 critic (as logic in the narrow sense) 40–1, 43, 45, 58–61, 64–5, 172n. 4 see also grammar; rhetoric critical commonsensism 36, 89, 125, 157 Deely, J. 172n. 9 De Morgan, A. 183n. 7 designation (as subindex) 142–3 determination (semiotic) as causal process 130–4 communicative 124–5, 131–2, 138–55 construed as constraint 99–101, 110, 135 discursive 152–5 distinguished from causation 110 distinguished from representation 130–1 as effect on habits 127 formal 76–7, 95 as function of utterer 86 of the interpretant 75, 87, 116–18, 127, 131–3, 136, 183n. 31 objective 152–4 relative to purpose 153–4 of the sign 87, 99–101, 131, 136, 183n. 31 de Waal, C. 70 Dewey, J. 185n. 19 Eco, U. 118 esthetics 52, 54–9

194

Index

ethics 52, 54–9, 174n. 21, 176n. 36 ethics of terminology 39 experience broad sense of 32–3, 139 communal 35, 143, 171n. 32 criticism of James’s conception of 68 distinguished from phenomenon 68–9 distinguished from sensation and impression 32 human limits of 89, 170n. 20 singular or narrow sense of 32–3, 102, 146 two scientific senses of 34 see also collateral experience experimentation 16–17, 22, 46–7, 53, 164–5, 167n. 7, 169n. 18 explication (as reduction of vagueness) 151, 155, 157 fallibilism 14–15, 20, 31, 35–7, 45–6, 56, 79, 90–1 firstness 53–4, 58, 79–80, 178n. 49 Fisch, M. 2–3, 47, 93, 115, 166n. 1 Fitzgerald, J. 182n. 23 form (in mediation) 131–5 formalism 43–4, 65–6, 76–81 generality (as mode of indeterminacy) 147–8, 150–2, 154, 173n. 12, 184n. 11 Goodman, N. 102 grammar associated with the ground of the sign 60 branch of logic or semeiotic 43, 59 distinguished from logic 39 focus on syntax of signs 59–62, 64 hierarchical function of 74 not a theory of meaning 60–1 rhetorical grounding of 84, 137–8 in service of rhetoric 65–6 see also critic; rhetoric Greenlee, D. 97, 127 ground 60, 111, 175n. 27 Haas, W. 32–3 Habermas, J. 2, 177n. 36

habit change of 122, 163–5 connection to belief 15–16 conservation of 19–21 as goal of communication 126–7 improvement of 17, 23, 56–8, 66, 135–6, 164–5 two senses of 169n. 13 Hamilton, W. 178n. 47 Hesse, H. 3 Houser, N. 44–5, 48 Hulswit, M. 108, 110, 114, 181n. 16 indefiniteness 78, 148–58, 184n. 11 indesignance 150–1, 153–5 indeterminacy 36, 78, 146–55, 184n. 16 see also ambiguity; generality; indefiniteness; indesignance; vagueness indication (in communication) 141–6 interpretant 75 emotional-energetic-logical 119, 121–4, 162–4 formal triad of 123–4 immediate-dynamical-final 119–24, 126 intentional–effectual– communicational 120, 124–7, 138 as interpretative effect or significate outcome 119 not necessarily a sign 75, 122 as sign or representation 117–19 ultimate 122, 126–7, 162–4 as vital ingredient of interpreter 86–7 Jakobson, R. 118 James, W. 28, 33, 68, 81, 169n. 14 Johansen, J. D. 105 Joswick, H. 3 Joyce, J. 126 Kant, I. 26, 48, 81, 88–9 Kent, B. 44, 172n. 1 Ketner, K. 6, 167n. 3 Ladd-Franklin, C. 144 Lalor, B. 123, 182n. 24 Langer, S. 180n. 4

Index Liszka, J. J. 63–5, 175n. 27, 176n. 36, 177n. 38, 182n. 18 Locke, J. 40, 172nn. 5–6 logic deductive 44–5 divisions of 59–60 extension of 40–2, 45 formal 43 narrow and broad sense of 43 as normative science 54, 56–9 as objective symbolistic 39–40 as semeiotic 43, 45–6 logica utens 21, 46, 82 mathematics 31, 43, 52–3, 69–72, 83–4, 144, 170n. 25 meaning associated with interpretant 60–1, 87, 115, 119–22, 161 associated with object 86, 158 as breadth, depth, and information 159–60 as complete conveyed significance 87 emotional-existential-logical 161–2 as habit and habit-change 162–5 internal-external 159–60 plurality of 161–2 pragmatic 22–3, 160–2 systemic 101–2 mediation 75, 79, 99, 127–9, 136, 182n. 28 medium of communication 128–9, 131, 133–4 see also representamen; sign methodeutic 62–4, 66, 83 see also rhetoric Misak, C. 25, 56 Morris, C. 61, 180n. 6 Munch, E. 126 Murphey, M. 69, 79 natural classification 48–50, 173n. 12 normative science 24, 52, 54–9, 61–2, 69 see also esthetics; ethics object dynamical 86, 98, 103–7, 109, 135, 139, 152–3, 181nn. 11–12, 14

195 essential part of sign relation 96–9 as final cause or purpose 109–10 immediate 86, 98, 103–7, 135, 152–4, 181nn. 12, 14 intra-systemic 101–2 not identifiable by descriptions merely 140–1 real 43, 77, 98, 103–6, 181nn. 11–12 vital ingredient of the utterer 86

paper doubt 16–17, 23, 34 Parker, K. 70–1, 174–5n. 24 Parmentier, R. 129–35 Pearson, K. 169n. 14 phaneron see phenomenon phaneroscopy see phenomenology phenomenology 53–4, 67–70, 72, 74, 79–81, 83–4, 173n. 15, 177n. 40, 178n. 49 phenomenon 53–4, 67–9, 177nn. 38–9 philosophy and application 20, 23–4 autonomy of 21 cenoscopic and synthetic 170n. 29 as rhetoric 177n. 37 as science 6, 14–15, 19–22, 31–2 seminary 6, 10, 14, 167n. 1 as study of everyday experience 31–7 Pietarinen, A.-V. 139 Potter, V. 170n. 21 practics see ethics pragmatic elucidation 8, 25, 31, 39, 83–4, 163–4, 170n. 24 see also clarity, degrees of pragmatics 61–2, 176–7n. 36 pragmatism 14, 22, 28, 41, 83–4, 88, 159, 165, 170n. 21, 179n. 53 precept 105, 142, 146 psychic and psychological facts 44 psychologism and anti-psychologism 44, 75, 88, 112, 168–9n. 12 qualisign 98–9, 152, 179n. 3 Ransdell, J. 3, 4, 12, 30, 48, 64, 92, 97–8, 108–11, 113–16, 118, 122–3, 166n. 2, 176n. 35

196 reagent 142–3 representamen 61, 75, 77–8, 95–7, 99, 119, 122–3, 128, 178n. 46 see also sign representation as category 178n. 49 endless process of 102, 117 function of sign in general 179n. 1 not an essential part of semiosis 95–9 relation of 60, 75 ‘standing for’ relation 94–5 as synthesizing process 130–1 ubiquity of 94 see also representamen; sign; surrogational theory of signs rhetoric as art and science 63 associated with the interpretant of the sign 60, 175n. 26 branch of logic or semeiotic 43, 59, 175n. 24 distinguished from logic 39 divisions of 63 focus on interpretation and communication 59–62 functions of 63–4, 155–6, 163, 165 ‘the highest and most living branch of logic’ 59, 137 not reducible to rhetoric of science 156 primacy of 62, 64–7, 137–8, 176n. 36 see also critic; grammar; methodeutic rhetorical evidence 66, 137–8 rhetorica utens 63, 82 Robin, R. S. 36 Rorty, R. 14, 168n. 11 Royce, J. 159–60, 179n. 53 Santaella, L. 63 Schiller, F. C. S. 28, 81, 88–90, 179n. 53 Schröder, E. 137, 183n. 2 science classification of 41, 48–52, 173–4n. 16 dependent on practice 21, 23 as development from natural needs 10, 17, 168n. 8 essence of 9–10, 14

Index heuretic 8–10, 18–19, 22, 49, 174n. 17 normative character of 9–13 practical 8, 30–1, 174n. 17 pure 18–20 of review 8, 174n. 17 as social inquiry 8–9, 11–13 three senses of 7–8 scientific intelligence 11, 31, 35, 45–7, 56, 77, 156 scientific man 9, 13, 18–19, 167n. 5, 168nn. 9–10 scientism 6–7, 171n. 27 secondness 32, 53–4, 79–80, 102, 178nn. 49–50 self-control 23, 57, 135–6, 164 semeiotic development of 4, 40, 118–19 distinguished from semiology and semiotics 166n. 1 divisions of 43, 59–67 doctrine of signs 40, 45–7, 50, 172n. 9 general and special 47–8 as logic in the broad sense 24, 40–3, 45, 51, 58 as philosophy of communication 67, 92 as science 39, 47, 49–51 see also critic; grammar; methodeutic; rhetoric semiosis autonomy of 64, 108–9, 116, 118 coexistent with purposive action 111–13 definition of 93–4 as delivery of form 133 distinguished from automatic regulation 94 as double relative determination 136 fundamental conception of semeiotic 93, 115–16 plurality of 126 teleological character of 108 unlimited 118, 130 see also determination; mediation; representation semiotic hermeticism 97, 110 semiotic idealism 97–8, 106, 110, 114–16, 118, 122–3, 126

Index sentimentalism 21–2 Short, T. L. 3, 4, 65, 69, 79, 88, 90, 98, 99, 105, 108, 110–16, 118, 119, 120, 124, 125, 126, 127, 145, 159, 166n. 2, 175nn. 26–7, 179nn. 51,54, 180n. 7, 181n. 16, 182n. 23 sign abstracted from communicative experience 83–8, 90–1, 114–15 common conception of 75, 77–9, 91, 96 definition of 61, 67, 75–9, 87, 94–7, 110, 116–17, 131–2, 183n. 31 as mediator 134 not a substitute 96, 99 not a vehicle 129, 134 as surrogate 94–5 as thirdness 80 see also medium of communication; representamen; semiosis significance, Short’s conception of 111–12, 119, 120, 175n. 27 singularity 147, 151–3, 155, 184n. 16 ‘sop to Cerberus’ 77, 87, 95, 119 summum bonum 55–7, 59 surrogational theory of signs 94–5, 127, 129, 180n. 6 symbolistic 39–40, 43, 174–5n. 24 synechism 18

197

theory vs. practice 17–22 thirdness 54, 67, 75–6, 79–80, 178n. 49 transparency as semiotic ideal 129, 132–6 truth as convergence 25–8 as correspondence 25 as final opinion 25–6, 28–9 goal of inquiry 9, 13–14, 23 as hope 26–9, 60, 176n. 28 independent of human thought 170n. 23 with a little ‘t’ and a large ‘T’ 29–30 positive and ideal 170n. 25 public 29 universe of discourse 105–6, 142, 144–5, 146, 151–4, 183–4n. 7 vagueness 39, 77–8, 146–51, 154–8, 173n. 12 Valla, L. 66 vehicle 128–9, 132–5, 178n. 46 Welby, V. 87, 181–2n. 18 Welles, O. 184n. 8 Wells, H. G. 184n. 8 Wells, R. 178n. 44 Williamson, T. 149, 151

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