HTML last revised 25th June, 2003.It is a characteristic Wittgensteinian thought that justifications or explanations pretty quickly come to an end; they give out some way before they have achieved the typical philosopher's goal of demonstrating a correspondence with immutable external reality of some sort or other. So, for instance, Wittgenstein himself remarked of mathematical calculations, "The danger here, I believe, is one of giving a justification of our procedure where there is no such thing as a justification and we ought simply to have said: that's how we do it." (Wittgenstein, 1964, II, # 74). Urging us not to continue these necessarily fruitless efforts, the Wittgensteinian tells us to pay exclusive attention to the actual place in our kind of life of whatever it was we wanted explaining or justifying. Given what we are like and what the world we live in is like, isn't that enough? That is how we do it, what more can you want? Nevertheless, as Pears remarks, it can produce "a sort of intellectual vertigo" (1971, p. 134) to be told that the rules we follow for arithmetic are as ungrounded as dogs' barking (cf. Malcolm's remark quoted by the editors).
There is in any case an undecided question of scope here (cf. Smith, 1993). In our ordinary lives, we do explain and justify some things to each other; and that is presumably to be left undisturbed by philosophical reflection. At some rather indeterminate point, our quotidean justifications try for too much, and the philosopher in us (cf. Kenny, 1982, p. 13) has been trapped by the snares of ordinary language philosophically misunderstood. We can say why a television broadcast of a speech should be believed, but we cannot say why one must adjust beliefs by reference to experience of the world. We can say why a book borrowed from the library should be returned; but we must draw the line at trying to say why one should be moral. When we are told that we have illegitimately extended everyday activities to an impossibly wider issue, we are not often shown precisely where we have gone off the rails. Commentators sometimes suggest a comparatively banal explication: thus Luckhardt (1980) fills in the argument for the meaninglessness of ethical relativism by saying that the original home of morally evaluative language is the appraisal of behaviour, traits, motives and so on; this appraisal is not arbitrary but embodies moral standards; but the standards cannot be appraised in their turn. Why appraisal or moral justification should not be a motley of somewhat different activities - language games as diverse as Wittgenstein thought games themselves (but see Suits, 1978) - among which there would be provision for the rational evaluation of the standards employed in everyday comparatively unreflective moralizing, is a question Luckhardt fails to answer. But at least his story shows how the logical structure of our everyday starting point may constrain possible answers to our philosophical worries.
In other cases the account offered remains at the level of metaphor: frameworks and what lies inside them, or rivers and river-beds. The point of this paper is not primarily to argue that these metaphors are misleading, at least in the particular case of the justifiability of education which will be in focus, but rather to motivate the choice of a different style of philosophizing. When one believes, as Wittgenstein did at least in his earlier work, that many important insights cannot be enunciated, but only 'shown,' it is natural merely to gesture at the limits of our capacities for explanation or justification. For those of us less taken with Zen riddles, one of the tasks of philosophy is to make clear and distinct the structures of our thinking, or of the world as thought about, in the hope that we can spell out the possibilities and impossibilities they leave us with.
It may be that the philosophy of education ought to grapple with the metaphysical issues that the Wittgensteinian is warning us to avoid (cf. Allen, 1989, and other of his writings). But, whether or not that is so, it usually starts, at least, at a less ambitious level, with questions related to the life of children in schools. A prime candidate is one Marshall used for a book title: Why go to School? (1988). I shall try to show that here the Wittgensteinian suggestion, while its content might be correct, fails to reveal the instructive detail of the case. We can say, we like to think, why a pupil should learn elementary algebra in mathematics or read Macbeth as part of an English literature course;1 but we cannot try to say why he or she should get an education.
Before embarking on the main argument, it may be useful to forestall a misunderstanding and to place my project more fully in a Wittgensteinian context. A common reaction of trainee teachers, when first presented with the question of justifying education, is to acknowledge that they had never thought of the matter. It is a taken-for-granted of their lives, and of course of many other people's. If the question is seen as deserving an answer, it is then usually answered in what has traditionally been called 'extrinsic' terms: education, or more precisely educational certification, gives people access to better paying jobs, or a middle-class, 'white collar' life-style. Without getting embroiled in the sociological work in this area, we can admit that these are important factors, perhaps especially so for typical teachers. But clearly, this is not the sort of justification being sought. What we are looking for is an account of why anyone should seek an education, whether or not it happens to give them greater power or riches. The story of the ring of Gyges forces Plato's Socrates to face the full difficulty of the question "Why be just?" In a similar way, we might ask our trainees why a prince of the blood, or the daughter of a drug baron, or a slum child destined to cycles of unemployment and deprivation should still prefer to be educated rather than uneducated people.
So much for the kind of issue at stake. Wittgenstein himself seems not to have dealt with this kind of question. Indeed a general problem for his interpreters in education is the fact that his own work, whatever its eschewal of general answers, remained focussed on the highly general problems other philosophers had marked out for their disputations. Again, we have very little, and that as always aphoristic and disdaining explicitness, on philosophical aspects of ethics. Philosophy of education is usually regarded as one of the applied branches of the subject, applied in this case to topics of some specialisation or particularity. This intermediate level of generality, to use our own metaphor, seems to me to preclude the straightforward extrapolation of Wittgensteinian ideas from his context of their use to that of the philosopher of education's. Thus I do not agree with our editors that "the notion of 'form of life' is ... pre- eminently the pedagogical notion," unless, at least, they concede that their notion of pedagogy applies as much to the street children of Rio as to the inmates of Eton or Timber Top. It does not seem helpful to me to run together questions that relate to the universal upbringing of members of our species with questions that concern very specific choices among ways of bringing up people. It is no good telling a teacher who wants to know whether he can properly insist that his pupils try to learn elementary algebra that humans must provide something somehow to their young, else they would not survive.
Of course, as the last but one paragraph suggests, people who read books or become teachers do concern themselves that their children go to school and do well at it. Its justification hardly arises, unlike whether to send a child to Saturday morning ballet or swimming lessons. One may choose among schools, but for most it is unthinkable that children do not go to school. Even if people think it and act on the thought, they will still endeavour to educate their children; they do it at home in the hope of doing a better job than the schools can achieve. It might appear that here we have a 'form of life' of sufficient extent; but to suppose so would be to suppose that the world of people who read simply is the world. Historians of mediaeval Europe often warn us not to make this mistake; my point is merely that it is still a mistake, and one that must not be tolerated in philosophy of education for practising teachers.
Philosophy has been embarrassed by certain values. Philosophers have not in general had problems with the avoidance of pain, with health, or - if they think of them - with wealth or power. These are things that everyone wants - "a perpetuall and restlesse desire of Power after power" (Hobbes, 1929, p. 75). Moral philosophers have centrally focussed their energies on truth-telling, justice, duties and obligations. Not everyone wants these, but at least it is generally agreed that these things make up a morally praiseworthy life; few have seriously argued for the virtues of a Thrasymachus, at least within the pages of Mind. The values I am alluding to are distinct from this second set in being morally neutral - a man is not vicious if he fails to subscribe to them - but they are certainly not socially neutral and the philosophical consensus is unanimously in favour of them.
It will hardly be a surprise to learn that education, or the state of being educated, is one such value. The embarrassment I have alluded to arises from the appalling arguments that have been offered on those rare occasions when a philosopher has ventured to justify the taken-for-granted positive consensus. Mill told us it was better to be Socrates unsatisfied, because competent judges judge so; and how do we know a competent judge? Because he judges it is better to be Socrates unsatisfied. Peters has struggled at length with our question (for instance in his 1973b), and it might still be worth devoting some attention to his work at this late date - it remains one of the few attempts in the philosophy of education to answer Marshall's question. But one part of his answer amounts to little more than supposing that if asking a question presupposes a genuine desire for getting its answer by rational means this can be taken to be a commitment to rational means of answering any and every question that might occur to you. It is not, however, that easy to get from at least one to all (cf. my detailed analysis, 1982c, of a similar argument offered by Finnis, 1977).
As noted above, we do in everyday life offer successful justifications. I am thirsty; I have cold water and a cold beer in the fridge. Can I not justify choosing the water? Perhaps by reference to comparative contributions to my health. Could I not justify the beer, by reference to taste, perhaps? These are deliberately unimpressive examples; they are somewhat less involved than Wittgenstein's own engineering example of an unexceptionable justification - justifying the size and shape of a bridge by performing loading tests on its materials (PI I, # 267). But they allow us to see the structure of one standard model of justification.
In this standard model, the context for a question of justifying X involves a person faced with a choice of X or not-X, where the latter might be made up of several definite alternatives or be left unspecified. A successful justification can be viewed as an argument to show that overall X is preferable to not-X for that person. (I am ignoring as secondary or parasitic the imperialistic cases, common enough in educational thought, where we regard a justification of X for A as successful when we have shown that X is preferable for some other person.) Once we note explicitly that this sort of justification involves justifying something for a particular person, it is clear that a question of identity or self-identification or self-definition is presupposed. Any normal argument for John, say, to prefer X to Y will assume that John with X is identical with John with Y: the same person in different circumstances but with the same values, wants, and preferences. Suppose in choosing between a car and a motor-bike, we are given that John wants to be able to transport bulky shopping purchases; then it would seem that there is a reason for him to buy a car. That consideration only works if we can assume that John with a bike will still want to transport bulky purchases; if he didn't its force would be annulled. Or rather, if John with a car would still have that want and John without wouldn't, it cannot be used to make the choice; the prior decision is whether John wants to keep that want or not. To model my choice between beer and water we assume that it is the same me faced with the alternatives, and that it will be the same me afterwards.
Similarly in another major type of justification - an appeal to moral considerations - we assume identity of person between the good and the bad action. We assume that moral considerations continue to weigh with the person, whichever way he chooses. The horror of the psychopath is that for him or her moral considerations simply don't count; his or her behaviour is as indifferent as Mother Nature's. One danger of persistent vice is that it erases the force of these considerations; following Aristotle on becoming good or bad by performing good or bad actions, we should not simply assume that what works for an individual choice works for a long series of such choices. But we do assume that moral considerations cannot be totally erased; they may not be noticed but when pointed out they may, and should, regain their force - hardened criminals can still be brought to a just realization of their guilt. We should note that we assume these things; but they are actually empirical claims of a somewhat involved sort. One expression of the kind of assumption I am talking about can be found in this remark by Sutton on Kant's views: "in Religion within the Bounds of Reason Alone life can be a vicious spiral of increasing degeneration, but a man can never completely shake off the feeling of a duty to rehabilitate himself" (1974, p. 27). The point I am focussing on is that everyday justification assumes identity of persons, or what might be better called 'self-concepts,' had not the social psychologists got there first. The linguistic quibble arises because it would be good to avoid a term that carries the usual connotations of 'personal identity' for philosophers - continuities of bare memory such as united the cockcroach and the human in Kafka's famous story, and which Locke used in his account of personal identify, or sheer spatio-temporal continuity of body such as suits recent phlosophers inspired by Aristotle; in neither case attending to the detail of our being-in-the-world that matters to us (cf. Hollis, 1977, ch. 5). However, one contributor to the current philosophical debate about personal identity gave in his earliest paper (Parfit, 1971) an account of being a person which stressed an element of choice with respect to one's boundaries, a choice to be based on the more substantive elements of one's make-up: character traits, memories, intentions, hopes, etc. For my purposes, he may be seen as shifting the question from "would that still be me?" to "would I want to count that as my survival?" By way of acknowledgement, I shall speak here of a 'parfitson' when I wish to contrast a meatier, more substantive identity of character with the bare bones of Lockean or Aristotelian analyses, or to focus on the idea of a self-defining person. (To be accurate, I have pushed Parfit further than in fact he went. For Parfit, survival is linked directly to one's actual memories. Kafka's character should certainly have reckoned that he survived as a cockroach; the point I want to stress is that he could still have said it would be so different a mode of survival as to be worth the same as death. "That won't be me" would have been an understandable reaction, if anyone had asked him to consider possibilties in his future cockroach state.)
In the standard models of justification, the identity of person involved is much more than minimal personal identity, or Parfit's survival. What matters in these assumptions are the circumstances, preferences, wants, interests, etc., upon which a parfitson would normally base decisions about whether some possible person should count as him or her. As we noted, it matters that John would still want to transport bulky goods, whether he buys a car or a bike, not just that he preserves the same body or consciousness. We might note here also that Peters' example of ordinary justification (choosing between business or medicine, 1973b, p. 252) is itself somewhat problematic, at least to the extent that these careers are likely to lead to comparatively profound changes in a parfitson's outlook and values. My suggestion is that one source of the awkwardness of the kinds of values I have focussed on is that they cannot be fitted into the standard model since they are precisely matters which give a parfitson reason to declare himself different. When education results in a transformation of the ways things are conceived, when it opens up ranges of experience "beyond the ken of the uneducated" (Peters, 1973b, p. 248), educated John is not the same parfitson as uneducated John; going to college rather than getting a job might not be the same sort of choice as buying a Ford rather than a Harley Davidson. To the extent that this is so, the justification of education would therefore involve giving a reason for preferring to be this sort of person rather than that. And this changes the game; the standard moves cannot find a toe-hold here. But since the standard models are standard, we commonly find attempts to skirt the problem either by offering reasons everyone is supposed to accept (thus assimilating education to one of the comparatively unproblematic values like health or power I mentioned at the beginning) or by assimilating it to a moral virtue, as Peters seems to have done. In the first kind of case (e.g., knowledge is power; education as self-liberation ...à la Freire) all persons, so àa fortiori all parfitsons, want these goods, so the substantive change of parfitson involved in becoming educated would not matter. But unfortunately, as Anderson (1962) for one clearly stressed, education in Peters' distinctive sense is certainly not something everyone wants, so this sort of argument goes off the rails somewhere. If we adopt the second sort of solution, we can risk our faith in the assumption of identity in moral judgement, but only by grossly distorting our perception of the kind of value this education has.
The two kinds of response come together in Peters' argument. In briefly characterizing his paper, Peters says "various considerations are discussed that support the claim that the possession and pursuit of knowledge make life less boring, and a rationale is finally attempted for Socrates' contention that the unexamined life is not worth living" (1973a, p. 7). He also notes that his approach is "more from the standpoint of ethics". This may suggest that Peters would not accept my claim that education is a morally neutral value, for the flavour of some of his discussion is certainly of the morally praiseworthy educated man2 and his brutish uneducated counterpart who will think of a glass of wine as simply a way of satisfying thirst, who will "regard a woman as a necessary object for satisfying his lust; ... [and] be indifferent to her idiosyncracies and point of view as a person" (1973b, p. 263). I think it is true that while Peters recognizes other values and their possible greater importance he does nonetheless regard the uneducated as evaluatively deficient, if one may so phrase it, if not morally deficient. The beliefs and cognitive procedures of ordinary people, not now conceived as brutish but simply unreflective, are "ultimately ... inappropriate to the demand that they are meant to serve" (1973b, p. 255). But here we find once again that indulgence in the naturalistic fallacy that is pervasive in educational thought and which Peters explicitly says he is avoiding: while ordinary human existence bears witness to "the demands of reason" to a certain extent, all that an appeal to "man as a rational animal" can extract is precisely that amount of reasoning and reflecting, not a jot more. But the conclusion Peters wants is that to say "that men ought to rely more on their reason, that they ought to be more concerned with first-hand justification, is to claim that they are systematically falling down on a job on which they are already engaged" (1973b, p. 255). Either Peters is appealing to the human facts, in which case he cannot extract more reflection than we actually find, or he is invoking an evaluatively coloured picture of human life, in which case he begs the question at issue - as Kleinig for one claims, "What Peters speaks of baldly as 'human life' trades on an implicitly normative understanding of 'human'. It is a life in which the activities for which reason is a prerequisite are held to be not simply necessary, but valuable" (Kleinig, 1982, p. 87).
To put it in terms of one of Peters' examples, if an ordinary person who enjoys a glass of wine, but without the sophistication of an educated taste, counts as evaluatively deficient, Peters surely owes us a reason for agreeing with him; whereas if such a person passes the evaluative test, what has become of the educatedness Peters is trying to justify? An educated palate may be a nice thing to have, but to lack one does not of itself make one deficient - in that sense it is morally neutral. There is swinish swilling at the trough; there is ordinary unsophisticated enjoyment of food; and there is the special approach of the gourmet. Peters, like Mill before him, oversimplifies his problem by ignoring the middle ground. At times, the force of Peters' argument comes close to a case for preferring the middle ground to pre-human savagery (when he says that "civilization begins when conventions develop which protect others from the starkness of such 'natural' behaviour" (1973b, p. 248)) but all human societies display such conventions - "People who live in a state of complete nudity are not unaware of what we call modesty: they define it differently" (Lévi-Strauss, 1976, p. 374) - and Peters has already alerted us to the distinctive sense of 'education,' much narrower than socialization, which is his target.
We can see the traces of the same fallacy if we note the irrelevance of Marshall's appeal from Wittgensteinian thoughts about rule-governed social life (similar to those offered by the editors) to any programme for the philosophy of education he might wish to advocate (1988, p. 93 et seq.). The rules embodied in our social life at its most basic level (our language, say) may be malleable and derive their power from shared practices rather than authoritarian diktat, but the fact that we speak a common language does not make the police or the military disappear. If education takes place in a community, it does; all of it, the repressive, 'contradictory' schooling Marshall deplores just as much as the liberating dialogue he endorses. Certainly Wittgenstein's rules are not restricted to the type of rules issued to pupils and their parents by traditional schools; one might enlighten someone who thought that the latter were the only conceivable kind of rule; but traditional repressive unimaginative schooling is just as much part of a form of life, a social interaction (pace Dewey, 1966), as any other. There is nothing in the Wittgensteinian insight to tell us that what goes for learning your mother tongue (cf. Marshall, 1983) should be extended to what goes on in school.
To return to our diagnosis of the problem with justifying education, let me conclude this section with an acknowledgement of work which has uncovered and explicitly presented a different problem for the standard models of justification. Schelling and Elster have recently focussed attention on a range of cases in which we might be tempted to think of two (or more) characters competing for present command of a person: Odysseus having himself tied to the mast to frustrate what he would soon want on hearing the syrens' song. As Schelling puts it, "people behave sometimes as if they had two selves, one who wants clean lungs and long life and another who adores tobacco.... The two are in continual contest for control" (1984, p. 58). After reviewing a range of cases, in some of which we tend to find a basis for preferring one of the competing characters, Schelling claims that for other cases we must simply take sides - there is no rational basis for preferring one to the others. With the kind of more settled but equally diverse characters we have unearthed in trying to justify becoming educated, I suspect the situation is the same. At least, Elster has written, concerning this possibility, "I would say that the mark of a successful education is that the child comes to see that no such justification is possible, but that the parents nevertheless had to make some (unjustified) choice" (1979, p. 47).
The argument has been that we cannot use the standard models of justification in the case of education because education is a matter of changing one of the parameters whose stability is taken for granted by these models. This, if correct, seems somewhat more illuminating than simply being told that here justification breaks down and all we have is initiation into a form of life.
Appeal to our form of life may be persuasive when that form of life is universally shared, or even better when an alternative is, for all practical purposes, inconceivable. But of course, the challenge Marshall uses as his title is not pitched at such an exalted (or such a basic) level. Our societies offer a whole range of possible futures for growing parfitsons. The fact that they are growing up as humans and not mosquitoes or bats does not provide enough constraints to answer the teenager who genuinely wants to know why he or she should keep going to school. The career of a Homeric warrior or a Shinto priest may not be practically accessible for a pupil in Barbados in 1993, but still an amazing variety of options do remain open. The different ways of life bring with them changes sufficient for a parfitson to deny trans- way of life identity. In such circumstances, it is clear that simply being told to do your way of life's thing is to be told nothing. By the earlier argument, we cannot try to impute a moral flavour to the question; and simple observation tells us that we cannot assume that everyone does want to be educated.
Providing greater opportunity to make what (the dominant group in) the society reckons a success of your life may not seem sufficiently intrinsic a reason for pursuing education, or simply for staying on and 'doing well' at school; but can we honestly find a better reason to offer the disenchanted young? Nor should we be surprised if they don't bother when the resulting opportunity remains pretty minimal.
Before concluding, it might be worth stressing that the failure of uniqueness applies not only, as is patently obvious, to the normal results of schooling but also to whatever people are talking about under the heading of 'moral education.' A recent article by Kazepides (1991) supports my earlier contention that appeal to our form of life needs uniqueness, since he draws a parallel between the 'river-bed' propositions Wittgenstein characterised in On Certainty and some of our moral beliefs. He claims that "the fundamental principles of morality occupy a position akin to the river-bed propositions with regard to our moral development" (p. 267) and goes on to make the startling claim that "no-one ever chooses his or her own moral code" (p. 268). He borrows from Wittgenstein a contrast between 'our' attitudes to a mediocre tennis player and to someone who behaves like a beast. 'We' are not inclined to say, "oh well, it's OK to be a beast." The problem is that while it is only in the odd asylum that we will find people who do not believe the earth existed before their birth, we find people behaving in an atrocious fashion every day, and we find other people condoning them. It is perhaps high time to complain about the insularity of the professional philosopher. At least Plato brought Thrasymachus on stage. His well-educated, reasonably decent intellectual descendents writing from such a position to others within it have usually taken its values for granted (the 'naturalness' of the distinctly unnatural3) and have not seen any need to argue in their favour - so much for the unexamined life! (I have adverted elsewhere to the way in which people, including professional philosphers most of the time, operate within frameworks of ideas and how this can undermine the pretensions of their philosophical arguments: 1982a; 1982b. See also my 1987, ch. 4, for some further remarks about the optional nature of moral thinking.)
I have been stressing the obvious diversity of the ways of life open to our young. Some, but not all of them, involve the kind of cognitive transformation that Peters focussed on in his early accounts of education. All I have needed for the argument is the fact of a transformation profound enough for a parfitson to deny 'identity.' But it is perhaps worth digging a little deeper into the cognitive transformation account of education to reveal a further clash with the world in which we live. Gellner, who has insisted on the diversity already mentioned, has also noted that the cognitive perspective demanded by the modern world undercuts its own social existence: it denies special status to anything, but yet a group of people cannot live without investing something with special status. "We must needs live with the help of some culture" (1989, p. 207). Part of the trick, he suggests, is not to take the culture too seriously. The conjectural, critical cognitive stance he envisages here demands coherence and consistency; its cognitive ethic requires commitment to track reliability. Such is not the typical product of school systems that mandate religious instruction, that glorify national achievements and call it history, or that avoid political or social discussions.
If we look, then, beyond what is conventionally regarded as educational success to seek an embodiment of the cognitive ideals ostensibly espoused by many educators, what we find is something profoundly alienated, déraciné. If we do not move beyond the conventional, should we continue to try to tie the acquisition of socially useful certification with truth, beauty, and goodness? Are these tattered ideals necessary for the all-but universal misrecognition of its activity that Bourdieu atttributes to the educational system?
We have got some way from Wittgenstein on arithmetic. The thrust of the preceding reflections is to recommend educators to become more aware of the distinctive, partisan nature of education as it is commonly explicated. Just as no political party ever really gets unanimous support, so education - as commonly conceived - will not get everyone's commitment. I have tried to show in some detail why the case of education is different from less ambitious examples of attempted justification. It is unjustifiable in terms of the two main models of justification. One challenge is whether there is some other kind of justification that can get a grip on the issue. The failure of the standard models allows us also to see why attempts to justify education tend to move to some features shared by educated and uneducated John, and thus to arguments that assume universally shared aims. But for these to get a grip on the distinctive, often minority and élitist conceptions involved, it must seem perverse for any man or woman, as such, to reject them, and so we veer towards the moral tone of the other type of argument. But just to want to move about is not a reason that will serve to decide a person's transportation question, and it is nearer that level of lack of specificity that we have to justify education if we can. It is after all fairly easy to 'justify' it for the élites who typically succeed.
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