Words, Things, and Thoughts
Where language is contradictory and the world is in flux, only thought is absolute
How does language relate to the mind and the world? Does meaning come from features of the world or thoughts in the mind?1
This article will seek to explain the nature of the relationship between the mind, language, and the world and how true absolutes fit in a changing reality. A warning for abstractness.
Intuitively, we think that our statements refer to something out in the world. If I say, "San Fransisco is in California" or "Donald Trump is rich," I would be describing the physical city and physical person. Whether my descriptions of them are true or false depends on whether such descriptions correspond to reality. We test the sentence against reality when judging its truth. And we don't need to care about mental states for this task. Language is seen as corresponding to the world, irrespective of what's going on in our heads.
Thoughts are subjective, obscure, and unobservable. Language and reality, meanwhile, are objective and definite. We can examine sentences and be in physical contact with the world. To the extent our thoughts fail to correspond to the world, our thoughts are the ones that should change—for "the world is everything that is the case.”2 Thoughts outside of the world are nonsense. As ideal language philosophers had argued, our sentences should seek to be logically coherent to reflect actual reality.3
However, this widespread understanding is backward. Only thoughts are truly definite—not matter. Matter is always changing, and language is indefinite. Meaning, meanwhile, is fixed and definite. When we say something, we mean something objective. We have a concrete thought that we’re trying to convey. As such, meaning couldn't be found in reality or language, but only in mind.
Because matter is in constant flux, it cannot be absolute. In fact, the only "absolute" of matter is change. The world is only ever a series of changing events, as opposed to stable things, as described by Heraclitus: "No man ever steps in the same river twice. For it's not the same river and he's not the same man." Our discoveries into the nature of atoms are a metaphorical illustration of Heraclitus's wisdom—the fundamental units of matter are in constant flux. The stability of the world is an illusion.4
We should appreciate Heraclitus's maxim fully. Heraclitus is often only quoted as saying that man can't step in the same "river" twice. But people tend to leave out that "man" is also changing. Neither the river nor the man are the same. Change isn't just fundamental to things we can see in motion, like rivers, but all of matter—including ourselves. The stability of the physical world is only a construction. Persistence is how we understand the world, but decay is its true nature.
Because of this change, the world can't be a source of meaning. So, is meaning found in our words? Isn’t it true that when we make statements, the words and structure of our statements carry content that others can grasp?
Yet our statements are filled with contradictions and levels of vagueness, which we still manage to comprehend. We are not computers demanding scripts of code to process data. We can understand contradictory or vague statements like "less is more" or "We'll meet with him something next week," just fine. We can even grasp meaning beyond the content of the sentence. Take the philosopher Paul Grice's example: Imagine that you are a philosophy professor, and you get asked about one of your student's abilities in philosophy. You respond only by saying: "He has nice handwriting." Your response isn't actually about the student's handwriting but about how he's a dullard in philosophy. Yet you wouldn't know that from looking only at the content of the response.
The search for objective meaning in sentences is futile—as revealed by the failed hopes of the "ideal language" philosophers. Although we may expect a language that lacks logical structure to lead to confusion and misinterpretations, we can still understand one another. There must be something definite if we still manage to give meaning to our words, notwithstanding contradictions in our speech.
So, how do we give our words meaning if the world always changes and our sentences are unclear? If meaning derives from matter and matter is always changing, shouldn't our meaning then change along with it? And if meaning derives from our language, and language lacks clarity, how can we convey clear thoughts?
Here is the answer: While the world is in constant flux and our language is indeterminate, our thoughts are absolute and definite. These thoughts make sense of this material world in flux, and these thoughts are represented by our words. Our ideas are our absolute representations of the world. Our words are therefore representations of representations.
Sense and Reference
When we say “New York City is crowded,” we aren't actually sending any New York City stuff to our interlocutor to make this statement. No "New York City" type matter is used in conversation. New York City is only the reference of our statement. In addition to the reference, the statement also contains a "thought" about New York City, the thought that it is crowded—which is the “sense” of the statement. “
“Sense” is what we can grasp from statements. A sense may refer to something in the world, but “sense” itself is independent of that actual thing. “Sense” is the thought we have about the thing, not the thing itself. We can even talk about the fictional Gotham City the same way we talk about New York City. I can say “Gotham City is Crowded” to convey a similar thought as to “New York is crowded.”
Talk of this DC universe city, as opposed to talking to NYC, may fail to refer to an actual city, but we can still convey real thoughts about this fictional city as if we were talking about the real-world New York City. What matters about statements isn't their reference (as such references may or may not exist) but their senses—which is what we grasp. So long as our interlocutor grasps what we mean by a statement, we’ve said something meaningful.
The “sense” may be positive or negative, true or false, or any other possible property of a thought. But this sense gives meaning to our statements—the thought beyond the words. Sense is what's being transferred from one mind to another. So whether we're talking about New York City or Gotham City, we can convey a sense so long as that sense is definite. If it's not definite, it's not a thought and, therefore, would be meaningless—remember the Liar's Sentence. Although the referent of “This sentence is false,” exists (the sentence itself), it lacks a sense. Describing a statement as both true and false is nonsense (see the article for an explanation), like describing a “3-sided square.” No such thought exists.
The idea of a sense can make us uneasy. We believe that a certain combination of words has a concrete meaning, independent of what's happening in our heads. What's to stop a sentence from meaning anything? This would defeat the point of language. Ideal language philosophers (like Ludwig Wittgenstein) intended to give language a clear, formal structure so as to prevent chaos in our discourse. Yet, as ordinary language philosophers (like Ludwig Wittgenstein) understood, we're able to make sense of that chaos in language.
We don't have to give language coherence because we give language coherence. We can use an inner sense-making apparatus to help us make sense of sentences that appear self-contradicting or unclear on their face. Semantics and grammar are just a collection of arbitrary rules and symbols from which we can convey and receive meaning. So, we shouldn't look to words or sentence structure to find meaning, but this sense-making apparatus—our minds.
Yet the mind is an uncomfortable place to examine. The physical world is considered fundamental and absolute, and our language is logical and consistent, while our minds are only fickle and personal. Yet, changing this perspective will allow us to answer longstanding philosophical puzzles.
The relevant unit of analysis for philosophy is not reality—which is the domain of science—nor language—the domain of linguistics. Rather, philosophy analyzes subjective thoughts, which are the only true absolutes.
Thought is absolute because we mean something objective in discourse—our words carry a true meaning. This article means something definite and objective. And any critiques of it would also be definite and objective. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be thoughts. I would challenge the reader to provide a meaningful statement that isn’t definite. The definite nature of thought is self-justifying.5
The Ship of Theseus
One of philosophy's most famous thought experiments is the "Ship of Theseus." Imagine a ship made of wooden planks. Over time, each of its original wooden planks is replaced by a new plank. The question is, once all of the ship's wooden planks are replaced, does the Ship of Theseus still exist?
We'd like to say that the Ship of Theseus continues to exist; it just has new planks. And we'd think it strange if someone stopped referring to it as the "Ship of Theseus" just because its original planks were replaced.
As a physical object, we'd identify the Ship of Theseus by its physical components. Once it loses those components, wouldn't it lose its identity? But that can't be right since we still refer to a physical object in the same way even when its physical structures are replaced. How is the ship still the “Ship of Theseus” when it has none of the same physical properties as the original ship? We run into the "meaning paradox," where a supposed incomprehensible thought is comprehended. How can two physical things which are completely different physically still be the same?
First, we must admit that the Ship of Theseus changes into another physical entity. Even when only replacing a single plank, the "Ship of Theseus" is no longer physically identical to the "Ship of Theseus" that existed when it still had that plank. As a matter of fact, the ship is constantly changing. As the ship moves in the water, as it’s exposed to the environment, as it passes through time, and even as its atoms are in motion, the "Ship of Theseus" transforms into an infinite variety of physical entities. However small you can break up time is how many different ships you have.
The physical metamorphosis could be something perceptible, like a new plank, or invisible, like a movement in its molecules. However, change is change, no matter how small. The Ship of Theseus at "Time 1" is not identical to the Ship of Theseus at "Time 2."
But if this is correct, aren’t we wrong to call the ship the "Ship of Theseus" not just after its planks are replaced but any time after it comes into existence (and out of existence in that same moment)? The “Ship of Theseus” could be said to constantly go out of existence and be created anew over infinite moments.6
But this is wrong, because the name "Ship of Theseus" does not track the physical object, but the sense or meaning that the "Ship of Theseus" represents. As I've argued previously, words don't have a fixed, unchanging meaning based on something external in the world, as semantic externalists may argue. And the meanings of these words don’t change as the world changes—which is always. What is fixed is the objective meaning we're transmitting from one mind to another.
It always uses a concept to represent things in the physical world, regardless of whether the words used are identical to their definitions. What we mean when we refer to things like "water," "milk," or "woman"(the examples that my past article provided) depends on what sense of the term we’re using. Something can be both water and not water, both milk and not milk, both a woman and not a woman—so long as water, milk, and woman are used in different senses.
We can describe a "Y," as being both "X" and not "X" without contradiction because we are using X in different senses. Call each of these senses "X1" and "X2." Y can be referred to using either X1 or not X2. And Y could even be referred to in X3, X4, X5, etc. There is no limiting principle on how many senses a thing in the world can be. So long as a speaker knows what you mean when you use when you use a sense of X—whether its X7 or X193 —to describe Y, then that sense is correctly used. If we know what we mean when we use a word, we aren't using that word wrong. So let’s not worry about technically illogical terms like "Irregardless.”
I'll call reality "things-in-the-world" and thoughts "senses-in-the-mind" to further explain. The "things-in-the-world" can contain many different "senses-in-the-mind." These "senses-in-the-mind" are what is expressed in language and is understood by the interlocutor. A word (as used in context) only prompts for the "sense-in-the-mind," into the mind of another. Language is a transmission system. So words signify “senses-in-the-mind” rather than “things-in-the-world.” Words don't attach to reality. They attach to the mind.
Back to the Ship of Theseus. As explained above, the Ship of Theseus contains many senses, and whether or not the ship may be classified as the "Ship of Theseus" depends on which sense we're using. We could be using it in the sense of its architectural design, its use as a ship, or its ownership by Theseus. So if the ship's design changed substantially, if it stopped being used as a ship, or if Theseus stopped owning the ship, we may not describe the "object" as the Ship of Theseus (under the applicable sense) since the thing would fail to satisfy the sense we're using.
The sense of "Ship of Theseus" is whatever relevant properties we mean when we say "Ship of Theseus." We don't stop calling a ship a certain way just because all of its parts were replaced—even if we understand that its a completely different physical being. Since words derive from thought, words mean what we say they mean—and what we mean is an objective thought. This view is both extremely relativist and extremely objective.
There is no limit to the possible senses of the object; what matters is the meaning conveyed in context. We likely would not use the "Ship of Theseus" in a purely physical identity sense, where it loses its identity once its physical structure changes. Although people could refer to the object that way, they often don't, unless they're writing a philosophy article to illustrate how strange it would be.
Meaning is Both Relative and Absolute
A sense is a possible way to understand a referent. It is our thought about that referent. While this thought is subjective, its defined nature and its being publicly understood make it objective. These thoughts are distinct entities—certain ways that the referent is represented in mind. It is these distinct senses that give our statements meaning. Our words represent senses and senses represent the world. This is the relationship between language, thought, and reality.
For example, I can refer to "Homer Simpson" either as a fictional character, a father, a middle-aged man, a cultural icon, a lazy employee at a nuclear power plant, or by his voice actor, "Dan Castellaneta.” The Simpsons viewers can think of countless more senses of the character.
Yet, on their face, these properties are mutually incompatible. How can a lazy nuclear power plant employee be a cultural icon? How can "Homer Simpson" be "Dan Castellaneta"? And how can we even talk about Homer Simpson if he doesn't actually exist?
If meaning is in words, then what can explain the inconsistency of the above description? If we look for meaning in the words themselves, we may find indeterminancies and contradictions. Our statements can be vague or self-conflicting on their face. But it's not the words that we should look to for meaning. Rather, it's the thought. In this case, its the general thought of "Homer Simpson." We can think of him as a man living in Springfield, as a cultural symbol, or as whoever his voice actor is. Each of these can be different yet definite senses about the fictional cartoon character, who does not actually exist mind-independently. The supposedly contradictory descriptions make sense if we look at the idea of the referent we’re using instead of the referent itself.
This is also how we can explain statements about "Homer Simpson." Some have argued that these statements would fail to refer because "Homer Simpson" doesn't actually exist; such propositions about fictional entities lack a referent. Yet the referent doesn’t have to exist, only the sense does, which exists relative to each of us. And this relative sense is what’s objective.
As I've argued, meaning is not solely in our words. Rather, "meaning" is composed of thoughts. Our words represent these thoughts, but they are not the thoughts themselves. Our words are just prompts to generate our thoughts in the minds of our interlocutors. It's the transmitted subjective senses of ideas that are definite and absolute.
The Sorites paradox (or the Paradox of the Heap) can also be understood through the above analysis. This question asks how many grains of sand constitute a “heap” of sand. 2 grains of sand isn’t a heap, but 100,000 grains often would be. So, how many grains of sand does it take for a bunch of sand to become a “heap”?
The key is to recognize that the concept of "heap" doesn't derive from an indefinite material world. Rather, "heap" stands in our minds, independent of reality. We impose the meaning of "heap" we have in our heads onto the world.
What makes the Sorities paradox such a paradox is thinking that the idea of "heap" is an objective manifestation out in the world. Rather, "heap" is a construction we impose. We don’t get “heap” we give “heap.” It means whatever we say it means.
Whether others share that construal in context determines whether we use the term "heap" correctly. That subjective construal needs to be shared—and this sharing of a subjective construal is what makes it objective. We would be running a fool's errand to try to find the correct amounts of sand that would constitute a heap. But once we look at the problem differently and examine thought rather than the world or language, philosophical puzzles begin to make sense.
Conclusion
Our language represents our thoughts, and our thoughts represent the world. Language is indeterminate and internally illogical. The world is in chaotic flux. But our thoughts are defined and absolute, capable of giving meaning and understanding to each. Thought is the unit of analysis for philosophy. But so far, I have only asserted the definite nature of thought. The next article will prove this point.
The former view is represented by the family of thoughts known as “semantic externalism,” where factors external to a speaker are argued to play a role in meaning construction.
Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Translated by C.K. Ogden, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1922.
Readers may associate this idea with logical positivism. While this viewpoint has gone out of favor with philosophers, such that few would call themselves "logical positivists," its arguments still have widespread appeal among many who are skeptical of arguments that are neither empirically verifiable nor analytically true.
Our understanding of quantum mechanics further underscores matter's non-definite nature.
See Aristotle’s argument for the law of non-contradiction on this point.
This is the implication of four-dimensionalism, as critiqued by Judith Jarvis Thomson.