I tell you now that my intention, the intention of the author, does not matter for understanding what I write. The next sentence, the sentence you’re reading now, claims the opposite: that the intention of the author does matter for understanding what is written. What’s going on here? The opposition between these two claims rests on an ambiguity in the notion of intention. I can tell you what the ambiguity is and I will now: (1) References to the “intention of the author” can point to a mental state – what’s going on in the mind of the writer – which seems to be something inaccessible and thus irrelevant to understanding. (2) But such references can also point to something said by the author which is expressed by the (linguistic and contextual) conventions the author uses. In the second sense, the intention is not inaccessible but something expressed by conventions accessible to everyone who is familiar with these conventions. Sounds neat, doesn’t it? Yet, I fear that understanding the ambiguity of intentions by distinguishing between the senses of (1) and (2) won’t resolve the problem. Why? Because both senses are real and matter as much as their disambiguation.

Let’s work through an example: If I tell you “I’m not feeling well today”, you don’t understand what I mean. You literally have no idea what I’m going through and what makes me say this! The upshot of what is known as Wittgenstein’s private language argument is that invoking my intentions in the sense of (1) doesn’t help with the meaning of the expression used. What does the trick, instead, is that you understand what I say by understanding the convention of using the expression “I’m not feeling well today”; that would be a reference to “intentions” in the sense of (2). But why doesn’t falling back on (2) settle the issue? Because our communication does not consist in (understanding) conventions. Rather, communication consists in swinging back and forth between (1) and (2). For even if intentions taken as (1) don’t provide meaning, they have a set of communicative functions.

It’s true, trying to understand “I’m not feeling well today” in the sense of (1) won’t work. It won’t provide the meaning of the expression. Trying to look into my head won’t work, not even for me. But the point of going for (1) is not “getting it”; the point is to aspire to get it. Here, (1) works like a teaser for the listener. We cannot get at the mental state. But the (supposed) inaccessibility of the mental state has a function in its own right. Obviously, it gets us started. Obviously, it doesn’t get us where we aspire to be. Instead, it might make us ask questions like “what’s wrong with you?”, while making us resign to a conclusion such as “oh, you probably won’t join the party then?”

However, you will retort, asking such questions and resigning to such conclusions just is going through the conventional motions in the sense of (2). That’s right, I answer. But we don’t aspire to express conventions or respond to them. Arguably, our aspirations are driven by (1). I really want to be understood, even if I have to resign to the fact that this is not even an option for me in a determinate way.

To use an analogy: (1) and (2) are like water versus water frozen into ice cubes. Only ice cubes can be counted but they are still water. If I want to count water, I’m doing the wrong kind of thing. If I want to get at determinate meanings by asking for mental states, thus taking intentions in the sense of (1), I’m like someone who wants to count water. By contrast, if I think that only ice cubes matter for counting, I’m forgetting that ice cubes are a different state of water. Communication (and understanding) is not just about getting at fixed meanings, but also about aspiration. And here it’s (1) that matters most, exactly because intentions in the sense of (1) cannot be saturated.

What can we learn from this ambiguity? I said earlier that the problem cannot be resolved by disambiguation. I can now express more clearly why that is. It’s because intentions in the sense of (1) affect intentions as conventions in the sense of (2) and vice versa. Aspiring to access inaccessible mental states is a set of conventions, too. Countless poems thrive on it, but they inform our daily communication, too. “I can’t express what mean” is a conventional way of saying the unsayable. Such utterances had no meaning if we didn’t experience the frustrated aspiration of saying something unsayable every now and then.

Why does this matter, though? You might say that it only matters for philosophy of language nerds. What does disambiguating intentions do for the rest of us, then? First, it can help us understanding (the frustrations of) communication a bit better. The swinging back and forth between aspiring to access the inaccessible and settling for understanding conventions is clearly at work when we aspire and fail to say something. Someone responds to us by saying “oh, do you really mean that?” and we realise that we missed the appropriate convention. We’re misunderstood and we know that we failed to express ourselves properly. But if communication and understanding content were exhausted by getting conventions, we could not make sense of such failures.

Let me close with two examples: Especially online communication on social media is full of such frustrations. Here, things get messy precisely because conventions are unstable. The quick pace of the turn-taking between interlocutors follows the conventions of spoken language, but the fact that it’s written suggests the conventions of writing. Often when interlocutors accuse each other for misconstruing their Tweets, what in fact happens is that one of them applies conventions conforming to the casual nature of spoken language, while the other one construes the exchange by the more robust conventions of writing. Naturally, the aspirations related to written communication are much stronger, enabling way more depth, than the quickness of spoken exchange allows for. Try thinking through exchanges and their failings with these differences in mind, and miscommunications begin to appear in a new light.  A second example is the eternal misconstrual of reading old texts as getting at the intention of the author. Working out these issues in more detail is currently beyond me, though.

Student: “Hi, I want to write my thesis on what Leibniz and Chalmers think about qualia.” 

Professor: “Why?”

Student: “Well, I want to study what Leibniz thinks and then compare that with Chalmers’ view. Then I’m going to see what I like better and write my conclusion.”

Professor: “I see. But why?”

Student: “OK, I could pick Chalmers and Dennett on consciousness instead.”

Professor: “Right! But why?”

Of course, the dramatis personae can be changed in various ways, but you haven’t been long enough in academia, if you haven’t encountered this kind of conversation. The kind of paper is ubiquitous and it has a typical structure: An all too brief Introduction is followed by Chapter 1 on author X, Chapter 2 on author Y, Chapter 3 comparing X and Y, and a tentative conclusion on why Y seems perhaps a bit superior. To keep the reader “in suspense”, such pieces commonly do not reveal the preference offered in the conclusion until the last moment and in fact they often seem to be written without any inkling as to what will be in the conclusion. As I see it, this is a very bad practice. So what’s wrong with it? Although I’ve done this sort of thing myself and although I think it’s really problematic, I find it difficult to pin down clearly what exactly is wrong with it. Let’s try then.

First off, though, let me stress that a lot of comparisons are fine. And even those that might seem close to the typical structure mentioned above are often ok. The problem is not owing to comparisons as such but to illusions about neutrality (presenting all items or authors in apt length) and a lack of a proper point of contact or aspect of the comparison (i.e. a proper tertium comparationis). What’s hard about telling good from bad comparisons is that the assessment of what actually is a proper aspect is not obvious. But let’s not get ahead of schedule.

Order of exploration versus presentation. – Generally, the order in which you explore a topic does not need to follow the order in which you present it. It’s crucial to see that comparisons guide our understanding. The “oh, this is like that” impression is what allows us to relate something new or unknown to what we already know. Seeing similarities in different things (and seeing differences in what we take to be alike) is how we acquire access to new things. Once we realise that Leibniz treats issues that we discuss under the label of consciousness it’s natural to relate it to what we know about consciousness. If we then move on to the fancy discussions in Chalmers, why not relate the two? There is nothing wrong with that. That’s how we learn and explore a field of discussion. However, understanding something (better) by comparison does not entail that the comparison sheds any light on the ongoing discussion about consciousness or Leibniz’ or Chalmers’ views. That we recognise a relation between between things does not of itself make it relevant to talk about our way of recognising it. Now, don’t get me wrong! Of course, you are free to talk about anything you like. But usually your talking about something is directed at a listener or reader or a broader audience. Presenting something to an audience supposes that it’s relevant to your audience. But not everything that is relevant to your understanding something is relevant to your audience. Likewise, it’s not relevant to someone eating what you cooked for them to witness your preparation of the meal. So ask yourself how what was relevant to your understanding might be different from what is relevant for your audience. This is what is called motivating the presentation of a topic. You motivate your presentation not in terms of your means of understanding but in terms of the state of the art.

How do you tell the difference between these orders? – There is no magic trick to tell these orders apart. Sometimes the relation is really interesting (to the audience); sometimes it’s just a tool for your own thinking. In the latter case, you should ask yourself what precisely you find enlightening for your discussion of, say, consciousness. A technical term or concept? A metaphor? An example? A whole argument? Most of the time, you’ll find that it’s just one particular aspect. But to introduce such an aspect, you usually don’t need to write a whole chapter on author X, striking out in all directions, to enlighten something in Y. Apply Ockham’s Razor! Once you realise which aspect you’re interested in, the need for a comparison of X and Y falls away. What you really want to talk about is the particular aspect in Y. For the structure of your presentation, this means that you can skip chapters 1 and 2, and start with chapter 3. But instead of a comparison, you just focus on the particular aspect in Y.

But what about …? – Planning essays with students, it’s typically at this suggestion that certain assumptions kick in. Some of the following reactions are likely: (1) “But then I don’t have enough to say!” Beginners often think that working through a given question is not enough. Rest assured, though. Once the question is broken down into subquestions, there will likely be rather too much than too little to say. (2) “But I have to give an apt account of all the positions involved!” No, you don’t! What you have to cover is the relevant aspect. Yet, there is a widespread assumption that, in order to pick an aspect from X, you have to show how that aspect figures in X’s overall work. Behind this are two related worries: The worry that you get the aspect wrong when you ignore the rest or the worry that the presentation of the aspect is not adequate if it is stripped of its context. The first worry is, again, a matter of exploration, not of presentation. The second worry goes deeper. It’s an art to present something both concisely and adequately. But unless a holistic understanding of the aspect is the precise topic, this is the point to rely on literature. Most often you’ll find that there is ample literature on some related aspect in X. – The upshot is: Address these worries by relying on literature rather than trying to figure out everything by yourself. Like everthing else, philosophy is team work. The bottom line is: Focus on the aspect in Y, not in X. Invoke X only if you need this as a context that sheds light on the aspect in question.

What if you actually want to present a comparison? – While most issues can be tackled by focussing on one part of an initially planned comparison, sometimes there actually is something to compare. This is the case when you think that X has actually influenced Y or when X promises to shed new light on the understanding of Y. Of course, in this case the focus will be on an aspect or a set of aspects, too. But rather than a mere tool for learning, the comparison is actually itself an advancement of the state of the art. In this case, it’s crucial to begin by focussing on the motivation first. Why or in what respect would this be relevant to our joint understanding? If you can’t answer that question, it’s better to apply Ockham’s Razor again. If you can, you will probably have no reason to adhere to the boring structure of presenting X and Y before you actually move to the comparison. At most, you will coinfine yourself to how they treat the aspect in question. But whatever you do, don’t leave the question of what you think about the issue for the conclusion. Your “opinion” is not an addition to the comparison. It’s what drives the comparison in the first place. So figuring out the aspect in question and why it is relevant to make the comparison just is your opinion. Thus, it’s not a matter for the conclusion but for the introduction where you motivate why the comparison is relevant.