As if these ambiguities were not enough, there is yet an entirely other class of complications. We have proceeded so far as though language were a kind of proposition-generating machine and the propositions thus generated were simply attempts to state what is the case, modified in some instances by an expression of the proposer's degree of confidence in the accuracy of the statement. We know, however, that language is no such value-free machine and that many sentences convey meanings and intentions other than mere reportage, external or internal.

Take, for example, the sentence "Remember the Maine!" Does it require or ask for assent? Can I decide that I agree with it and thenceforth declare "I know that remember the Maine"? No; that is clearly nonsense. Or take this one: "These are the times that try men's souls." I might say that I agree with the speaker, but I would hesitate to say that I know that these are just that sort of troublous times and not some other kind.Why the hesitation? What sort of agreement would I be offering if I abstain at the same time from granting that such-and-such is the case? Part of the answer is that what I carelessly call my agreement is rather more like sympathy with the sentiment that I detect behind the sentence. Another part of the answer is that the sentence doesn't present a fact; it offers no claim about what is the case that I could either affirm or deny. It is, in other words, not a proposition. It is rhetoric.

Setting aside the many shades of meaning of "know" and "believe" and leaving aside, too, the various social circumstances that lead us to create and then to choose among those shades, let's assume that there is a single, simple, core meaning for each word. What is that meaning? And what determines which one I use in a given case? In other words, when -- under what conditions -- do I say "I know that x," and when -- under what other conditions -- do I say "I believe that x"?

This ought to be easy. I say "I know that x" when, well, I know it. I know that two and two are four. I know that Edinburgh is the capital of Scotland. And so on and on. These are true statements. They state something that is the case, meaning that what they propose corresponds to the actual state of affairs. And I know them -- that is, I possess them in some way, hold them in my mind. In short: I have a true statement in mind, and so I can say that I know something about the world. Easy.

But no. I am left with a big problem, and it isn't the one the philosophers in the crowd are jumping up and down about. They want to say -- scream -- that is all too, too simple-minded and begs any number of enormous questions. They are right, of course. How, for example, did I get to the point ot having a proposition that could claim to say something about the world? And how was the judgment made that it is a true proposition? How do I know "what is the case" apart from the proposition that states it? What does it mean to say that some verbal formula (such as these black marks on paper: "Edinburgh is the capital of Scotland") corresponds to some state of affairs in the world (such as that certain persons or institutions reside in the physical city called Edinburgh)? These are tough questions that for now I'm quite happy to sidestep. (I'll continue to sidestep them in that I certainly won't solve them and in that they do not affect our practical concerns much. I will return to them later, though, for they are an important part of the backdrop against which the practical business of knowing plays out.)

The problem I want to think about is this: What if I am wrong? What if, in the terms we've adopted here, I have some proposition x in mind and x is not the case -- what it asserts does not correspond to the actual state of affairs in the real world -- but I treat it as though it is and does? Suppose the proposition is "Moscow is the capital of the Soviet Union" and that I possess this proposition, hold it in mind, accept it as a true statement. I will then say, if prompted, "I know that Moscow is the capital of the Soviet Union." Is there any sign, any warning label for consumers of propositions, that marks this one as anything other than true and one that should be handled with care? Something that offsets my "I know that..."? No, of course not. It is an unfortunate but inescapable fact that propositions, most of them, just sit there, and unless we have some particular reason not to, we accept them, take them in and give them a home. When we do -- and here is my point -- we treat them all alike. This may be a good policy toward pets or children, but it does poorly with propositions.

Think of what you're saying.
You can get it wrong and still you think that it's all right.
--Lennon and McCartney

There is another way to treat propositions, one that in fact we use fairly frequently, and that is not to adopt them outright but to take them in, as it were, on probation. We treat them as possible adoptees -- interestingly, we sometimes say that we "entertain" such propositions, recognizing their tentative and guest status. We can then go on to apply various tests of pedigree and employment prospects and so on, perhaps eventually to accept it fully into the family.

But I am setting that approach aside, too, for now in order to concentrate on the special but by no means unusual case in which I have (with or without a prior probationary period) accepted a proposition, taken it in, made it mine. I know that x; but -- outside my knowledge -- x is false.

To know is one thing, and to know for certain that we know is another.
--William James

We become aware of such cases in retrospect. Something occurs to show us that x is false; x, which we held so dear. We were wrong. I've been trying to think of a personal example by way of illustration, but evidently I shall have to make something up. Suppose that up until last Tuesday I held to the proposition that Elvis was born in Memphis, Tennessee. Somehow, sometime, I had encountered that proposition and had embraced it, taken it in as a true statement about the world. (Actually, I may never have encountered that proposition. I may have confused two different propositions or in some other way misremembered.) I may or may not have subjected it to a probationary period, but if I did it had long since passed and the proposition had become a member of the family. On Tuesday, though, perhaps while watching a PBS special, I encountered a conflicting proposition: Elvis was born in Tupelo, Mississippi. Because I am a reasonable person, the PBS endorsement pretty much forces me to accept this new proposition as true, as fact. (I may, again because I am a reasonable person but also perhaps because I don't really give up that easily, double-check in my nearby encyclopedia.) OK, so Elvis was from Tupelo, not Memphis. Live and learn. But what now of the proposition "Elvis was born in Memphis"? And, more interestingly, what has been my relationship to it? That is, what of "I know that Elvis was born in Memphis"?

It's easy enough for me to say now "I know that Elvis was not born in Memphis." But that's not the same proposition; it is what logicians call the contrary. Watch what happens when I try to state my present relationship to the original proposition: I say "I no longer believe that Elvis was born in Memphis." I could say "I no longer know that...." but I don't. In distancing myself from it I also change verbs. Because it is not a true statement I cannot now know it, and I seem to be acknowledging -- now -- that I never did know it, though I thought that I did. (And what is going on with that word "thought"? Where did it come from? I didn't just think that I knew it back then; I knew it.) This is a tough family -- you're OK while you're in, but once you're out we don't even know you.

If I reflect on my state of mind before Tuesday, and if I am honest, I have to admit that I knew it. That is, I accepted it completely and without question. If I place the proposition "Elvis was born in Memphis" alongside one that says "I was born in St. Louis," I must acknowledge that they had fully equal standing, that they were truly siblings. Two true statements about the world. That was then.

And now? One of them I still know in exactly the same way, and it feels exactly the same to me as it did before. The other I now want to disavow and to own up, tacitly, that I didn't really know it then, I only believed it. But it didn't seem so then. Was there no way to distinguish between the two, between the knowing and the believing, back then? It might be suggested that the Elvis proposition came to me from outside sources and that I might prudently have held it off at arms' length, as at least possibly unreliable, and thus kept the proposition under probation longer. (How long? Or would it have to have been permanent?) But I have to admit that the other proposition came to me also by way of report -- parents and other relatives consistently said it was so, and I have still a piece of official-looking paper that says so. And I have to concede that, at least in principle, they could all have been mistaken or been conspiring to mislead me. Having so admitted and conceded, however, I still know that I was born in St. Louis. (Well, I believe I know I was, anyway.)

The Old-Fellow was one day in Dingle buying tobacco and tasting spirits, when he heard news which amazed him. He did not believe it because he never trusted the people of that town. The next day he was selling herrings in the Rosses and had the same news from them there; he then half-accepted the story but did not altogether swallow it. The third day he was in Galway city and the story was there likewise. At last he believed it believingly....
--Flann O'Brien

I make the concession of saying that I believe it, I think, because I am temporarily abashed by the Elvis thing. I was wrong. I have harbored error, like a traitor or at least a wayward relative, in my inner home. For the moment, anyway, I'm aware of my own fallibility and eager to avoid a repetition. This feeling will pass, and tomorrow, if you ask me if I know where I was born, I will say "Yes, of course I do!" Would any number of Elvis-like experiences teach me to say instead "Well, I'm pretty sure I do"?

The philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein made the characteristically curious observation that "If there were a verb meaning 'to believe falsely,' it would not have any significant first person present indicative." What he meant was simply that it is not possible for me to be in the position of saying "I believe x" while knowing at the same time that x is not true. (Occasions when I may intend to deceive are a different matter.) But what happens, apparently, is that when I am in a position to say "I believe x," thereby implying that I know x to be true, then I want to jump directly to saying "I know x," forgetting that the first instance of knowing, the one that permits the belief, may be mistaken. Maybe it's the going public that is the problem.

Go on to the next section.

© 1998, 1999 by Robert McHenry