purplecat24/Russel · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 74
description, so that it might seem as if no difficulty would arise;
but as soon as we try to be more precise our troubles begin. Although
I believe that the table is 'really' of the same colour all over, the
parts that reflect the light look much brighter than the other parts,
and some parts look white because of reflected light. I know that, if
I move, the parts that reflect the light will be different, so that the
apparent distribution of colours on the table will change. It follows
that if several people are looking at the table at the same moment, no
two of them will see exactly the same distribution of colours, because
no two can see it from exactly the same point of view, and any change in
the point of view makes some change in the way the light is reflected.

For most practical purposes these differences are unimportant, but to
the painter they are all-important: the painter has to unlearn the habit
of thinking that things seem to have the colour which common sense says
they 'really' have, and to learn the habit of seeing things as they
appear. Here we have already the beginning of one of the distinctions
that cause most trouble in philosophy--the distinction between
'appearance' and 'reality', between what things seem to be and what they
are. The painter wants to know what things seem to be, the practical man
and the philosopher want to know what they are; but the philosopher's
wish to know this is stronger than the practical man's, and is more
troubled by knowledge as to the difficulties of answering the question.

To return to the table. It is evident from what we have found, that
there is no colour which pre-eminently appears to be _the_ colour of the
table, or even of any one particular part of the table--it appears to
be of different colours from different points of view, and there is
no reason for regarding some of these as more really its colour than
others. And we know that even from a given point of view the colour will
seem different by artificial light, or to a colour-blind man, or to a
man wearing blue spectacles, while in the dark there will be no colour
at all, though to touch and hearing the table will be unchanged. This
colour is not something which is inherent in the table, but something
depending upon the table and the spectator and the way the light falls
on the table. When, in ordinary life, we speak of _the_ colour of the
table, we only mean the sort of colour which it will seem to have to a
normal spectator from an ordinary point of view under usual conditions
of light. But the other colours which appear under other conditions
have just as good a right to be considered real; and therefore, to avoid
favouritism, we are compelled to deny that, in itself, the table has any
one particular colour.

The same thing applies to the texture. With the naked eye one can see
the grain, but otherwise the table looks smooth and even. If we looked
at it through a microscope, we should see roughnesses and hills and
valleys, and all sorts of differences that are imperceptible to the
naked eye. Which of these is the 'real' table? We are naturally tempted
to say that what we see through the microscope is more real, but that in
turn would be changed by a still more powerful microscope. If, then, we
cannot trust what we see with the naked eye, why should we trust what we
see through a microscope? Thus, again, the confidence in our senses with
which we began deserts us.

The shape of the table is no better. We are all in the habit of judging
as to the 'real' shapes of things, and we do this so unreflectingly that
we come to think we actually see the real shapes. But, in fact, as we
all have to learn if we try to draw, a given thing looks different
in shape from every different point of view. If our table is 'really'
rectangular, it will look, from almost all points of view, as if it had
two acute angles and two obtuse angles. If opposite sides are parallel,
they will look as if they converged to a point away from the spectator;
if they are of equal length, they will look as if the nearer side were
longer. All these things are not commonly noticed in looking at a table,
because experience has taught us to construct the 'real' shape from the
apparent shape, and the 'real' shape is what interests us as practical
men. But the 'real' shape is not what we see; it is something inferred
from what we see. And what we see is constantly changing in shape as we
move about the room; so that here again the senses seem not to give us
the truth about the table itself, but only about the appearance of the
table.

Similar difficulties arise when we consider the sense of touch. It is
true that the table always gives us a sensation of hardness, and we feel
that it resists pressure. But the sensation we obtain depends upon how
hard we press the table and also upon what part of the body we press
with; thus the various sensations due to various pressures or various
parts of the body cannot be supposed to reveal _directly_ any definite
property of the table, but at most to be _signs_ of some property which
perhaps _causes_ all the sensations, but is not actually apparent in any
of them. And the same applies still more obviously to the sounds which
can be elicited by rapping the table.

Thus it becomes evident that the real table, if there is one, is not the
same as what we immediately experience by sight or touch or hearing. The
real table, if there is one, is not _immediately_ known to us at all,
but must be an inference from what is immediately known. Hence, two very
difficult questions at once arise; namely, (1) Is there a real table at
all? (2) If so, what sort of object can it be?

It will help us in considering these questions to have a few simple
terms of which the meaning is definite and clear. Let us give the name
of 'sense-data' to the things that are immediately known in sensation:
such things as colours, sounds, smells, hardnesses, roughnesses, and
so on. We shall give the name 'sensation' to the experience of being
immediately aware of these things. Thus, whenever we see a colour,
we have a sensation _of_ the colour, but the colour itself is a
sense-datum, not a sensation. The colour is that _of_ which we are
immediately aware, and the awareness itself is the sensation. It is
plain that if we are to know anything about the table, it must be

description, so that it might seem as if no difficulty would arise;

but as soon as we try to be more precise our troubles begin. Although

I believe that the table is 'really' of the same colour all over, the

parts that reflect the light look much brighter than the other parts,

and some parts look white because of reflected light. I know that, if

I move, the parts that reflect the light will be different, so that the

apparent distribution of colours on the table will change. It follows

that if several people are looking at the table at the same moment, no

two of them will see exactly the same distribution of colours, because

no two can see it from exactly the same point of view, and any change in

the point of view makes some change in the way the light is reflected.

For most practical purposes these differences are unimportant, but to

the painter they are all-important: the painter has to unlearn the habit

of thinking that things seem to have the colour which common sense says

they 'really' have, and to learn the habit of seeing things as they

appear. Here we have already the beginning of one of the distinctions

that cause most trouble in philosophy--the distinction between

'appearance' and 'reality', between what things seem to be and what they

are. The painter wants to know what things seem to be, the practical man

and the philosopher want to know what they are; but the philosopher's

wish to know this is stronger than the practical man's, and is more

troubled by knowledge as to the difficulties of answering the question.

To return to the table. It is evident from what we have found, that

there is no colour which pre-eminently appears to be _the_ colour of the

table, or even of any one particular part of the table--it appears to

be of different colours from different points of view, and there is

no reason for regarding some of these as more really its colour than

others. And we know that even from a given point of view the colour will

seem different by artificial light, or to a colour-blind man, or to a

man wearing blue spectacles, while in the dark there will be no colour

at all, though to touch and hearing the table will be unchanged. This

colour is not something which is inherent in the table, but something

depending upon the table and the spectator and the way the light falls

on the table. When, in ordinary life, we speak of _the_ colour of the

table, we only mean the sort of colour which it will seem to have to a

normal spectator from an ordinary point of view under usual conditions

of light. But the other colours which appear under other conditions

have just as good a right to be considered real; and therefore, to avoid

favouritism, we are compelled to deny that, in itself, the table has any

one particular colour.

The same thing applies to the texture. With the naked eye one can see

the grain, but otherwise the table looks smooth and even. If we looked

at it through a microscope, we should see roughnesses and hills and

valleys, and all sorts of differences that are imperceptible to the

naked eye. Which of these is the 'real' table? We are naturally tempted

to say that what we see through the microscope is more real, but that in

turn would be changed by a still more powerful microscope. If, then, we

cannot trust what we see with the naked eye, why should we trust what we

see through a microscope? Thus, again, the confidence in our senses with

which we began deserts us.

The shape of the table is no better. We are all in the habit of judging

as to the 'real' shapes of things, and we do this so unreflectingly that

we come to think we actually see the real shapes. But, in fact, as we

all have to learn if we try to draw, a given thing looks different

in shape from every different point of view. If our table is 'really'

rectangular, it will look, from almost all points of view, as if it had

two acute angles and two obtuse angles. If opposite sides are parallel,

they will look as if they converged to a point away from the spectator;

if they are of equal length, they will look as if the nearer side were

longer. All these things are not commonly noticed in looking at a table,

because experience has taught us to construct the 'real' shape from the

apparent shape, and the 'real' shape is what interests us as practical

men. But the 'real' shape is not what we see; it is something inferred

from what we see. And what we see is constantly changing in shape as we

move about the room; so that here again the senses seem not to give us

the truth about the table itself, but only about the appearance of the

table.

Similar difficulties arise when we consider the sense of touch. It is

true that the table always gives us a sensation of hardness, and we feel

that it resists pressure. But the sensation we obtain depends upon how

hard we press the table and also upon what part of the body we press

with; thus the various sensations due to various pressures or various

parts of the body cannot be supposed to reveal _directly_ any definite

property of the table, but at most to be _signs_ of some property which

perhaps _causes_ all the sensations, but is not actually apparent in any

of them. And the same applies still more obviously to the sounds which

can be elicited by rapping the table.

Thus it becomes evident that the real table, if there is one, is not the

same as what we immediately experience by sight or touch or hearing. The

real table, if there is one, is not _immediately_ known to us at all,

but must be an inference from what is immediately known. Hence, two very

difficult questions at once arise; namely, (1) Is there a real table at

all? (2) If so, what sort of object can it be?

It will help us in considering these questions to have a few simple

terms of which the meaning is definite and clear. Let us give the name

of 'sense-data' to the things that are immediately known in sensation:

such things as colours, sounds, smells, hardnesses, roughnesses, and

so on. We shall give the name 'sensation' to the experience of being

immediately aware of these things. Thus, whenever we see a colour,

we have a sensation _of_ the colour, but the colour itself is a

sense-datum, not a sensation. The colour is that _of_ which we are

immediately aware, and the awareness itself is the sensation. It is

plain that if we are to know anything about the table, it must be