H. P. GRICE E J. L. SPERANZA: LA CONVERSAZIONE -- I VERBALI: PO

 

Catalogue Raisonné of J. L. Speranza’s Publications – H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: PO

 

 

Verbali: Poggio

 

G.: Let us begin at Sarzana, before Sicily turns him into a thesis and Rome turns him into a correspondence.

S.: A Ligurian beginning with moral philosophy in Palermo is already enough to make an Oxford man suspicious.

G.: Not suspicious. Curious. A Ligurian in Sicily usually means either exile, appointment, or family economy. In Poggi’s case it means the brother: Vincenzo already established, a school headmaster in Caltagirone, and the younger one drawn south not by abstract love of the island but by educational gravity. S.: So not a Sicilian soul by origin, but a Sicilian formation by circumstance. G.: Exactly. And then Palermo, which matters because it gives him not merely a degree but the first serious philosophical frame: Letters and Philosophy, 1904, with a thesis on socialist moral doctrines. S.: Already one hears the phrase trying to find its proper shape. Not socialism as programme, but the moral question within socialism. G.: Which is why the thing improves when it reaches print. The 1905 version narrows and sharpens: the moral question in socialism, with Kant brought in as the dignified elder whom no one in the original socialist families quite invited. S.: We should be careful there. Saint-Simon and Owen are not Kantians in any obvious sense. G.: Quite. Owen is Welsh by birth and London-active enough to satisfy an English conscience, but not a Kantian in the classroom sense. Saint-Simon is much more continental, more systematic, more eager to reorganise the world by categories and productive classes, but again not by kneeling before Königsberg. S.: So if Poggi is reading Kant into socialism, the route is not through the founders, but through a later German mediation. G.: Exactly the point. And that is where Labriola enters like the one useful Roman in the story. S.: Useful because in 1903 Poggi writes to him from Palermo asking, in effect, how to make a thesis respectable. G.: And Labriola replies, in effect: if you are going to justify your club, justify it morally. Read the Germans. S.: The club being what was still officially the Partito dei Lavoratori Italiani before the fully settled Partito Socialista Italiano identity took hold. G.: Yes. Which is important because the party itself is young enough to feel historically alive. Founded in 1892, renamed into clearer socialist dignity in 1893, it is only about a decade old when Poggi is taking it seriously. New enough to be contemporary, old enough to have already generated doctrinal embarrassments. S.: And Labriola’s German reading list is not “read Marx and be done.” G.: Quite the reverse. The coded instruction is: read Vorländer and Staudinger. S.: Which decodes as: read those neo-Kantian socialists or socialist-adjacent neo-Kantians who are trying to make socialism look less like a mere historical process and more like a moral claim. G.: Precisely. If you like, the message is: do not argue that socialism will happen; argue that it ought to happen, and then tell me why. S.: That sounds surprisingly Oxonian. G.: It should. Once one says “ought,” Oxford enters the room even if the room is in Palermo and the books are German. S.: But the German side matters. Explain the two names properly. G.: Vorländer is the easier case. He writes quite explicitly on Kant and socialism, and more generally on the attempt to connect Kantian ethics with socialist moral reconstruction. Staudinger belongs to the same broad tendency: ethical socialism, revisionist pressure, anti-crude materialism, the insistence that socialism without moral agency is only half a doctrine. S.: So the advice from Labriola is: if you want socialism to survive philosophical scrutiny, make it answerable to autonomy, personhood, universality, duty. G.: Exactly. Which is already rather far from the heroic founders. Saint-Simon gives you industrial reorganisation and technocratic prophecy; Owen gives you practical reform, environment, education, and co-operation in a very British key; but neither gives you the whole neo-Kantian moral armature. S.: Then Poggi’s thesis makes more sense than one first thought. G.: Much more. The thesis does not say, absurdly, that Kant invented socialism. It says, in effect: if socialism is to be morally serious rather than merely sociological or party-political, Kantian categories can help articulate its claim. S.: So from the start Poggi is not really beginning in Palermo at all. He begins in Palermo and immediately writes himself into a wider mainland and German conversation. G.: Nicely put. Sicily gives him the degree. Rome, through Labriola, gives him the angle. Germany gives him the justificatory machinery. S.: There is something almost comical in the geography: Sarzana to Caltagirone to Palermo, then intellectually to Rome and Königsberg, all before one has begun to earn the right to look world-historical. G.: It is the right kind of comedy: academic mobility without glamour. And all under the sign of morality, which is the least glamorous and most demanding of all philosophical nouns. S.: Which brings us to the phrase “socialist morality,” or better, “the moral question in socialism.” What exactly is being added by Kant. G.: Several things. First, universality. Not merely “our class interest” or “our movement,” but a claim that can be stated as valid for persons as such. S.: The second being autonomy. G.: Yes. Socialism ceases to be merely the arrival of a new economic arrangement and becomes a question of whether persons can actually act as self-legislating beings rather than as instruments. S.: Third, personhood against pure collectivism. G.: Very important. A Kantian socialism can say: capitalism degrades persons by instrumentalising them; but collectivism may do the same if it treats the person as only a function of the mass. So one gets a socialism moralised from two sides: against bourgeois atomism and against collectivist flattening. S.: Fourth, revisionism against historical fatalism. G.: Exactly. If socialism is simply the inevitable product of economic history, then duty disappears. Neo-Kantian socialism restores duty: socialism must be chosen, justified, willed, defended. S.: Which is why the project would have appealed to a young Italian mind wanting to think seriously, not merely politically. G.: And why it would have appealed to anyone suspicious of cheap determinism. Here one can already see the later affinity with more general notions of rational community. S.: You are sneaking toward the cooperative. G.: Of course. Once you translate socialism into moral agency, reciprocity, and respect for persons as ends, you are in the neighbourhood of any account that treats social order not merely as force or interest but as a rationally justifiable relation among agents. S.: Which is why it sounds, in a certain light, almost Oxonian. G.: Yes, but not in the smug local sense. Oxonian-friendly because the categories become familiar: autonomy, normativity, personhood, reciprocity, universality. One could discuss them without ever joining a party. S.: While Poggi, being young enough and card-carrying enough, has the opposite adventure: joining the party and then discovering he needs philosophy to defend it. G.: Exactly. The club needs a tribunal higher than its own statutes. Labriola’s advice is effectively: if you mean to remain in the PSI and still think yourself respectable, do not merely quote congress speeches. Read Germans. S.: And these Germans are not dry in the boring sense. They are dry in the useful sense. G.: Quite. They allow one to say: the moral side of socialism is not decorative. It is the condition under which socialism remains more than resentment organised into a programme. S.: How would this have looked in a young Sicilian context. G.: Serious and slightly out of place, which is often the best possible beginning. Palermo provides the institutional setting; the intellectual pulse comes from elsewhere. That is precisely why writing to Labriola matters. It is a refusal to let Sicily become provincial in the thesis. S.: Yet he remains Sicilian enough by training to make the thing local. G.: Yes. The very remoteness helps. One has to import one’s authorities and therefore becomes conscious of the importation. S.: There is a pleasing irony in all this. Labriola, not Piemontese at all, but from the southern mainland, becomes the bridge by which a Ligurian-in-Sicily acquires German neo-Kantian socialism. G.: Italy does not need a north-south map so much as a map of intellectual railway lines. Palermo to Rome is more important here than Sarzana to Turin. S.: Which makes the thesis less like an isolated student exercise and more like a little node in a European argument. G.: Exactly. And one should not underestimate the timing. 1903 is close enough to the party’s formation that the question “what sort of socialism is this to be?” is still very much alive. Ethical socialism, revisionism, materialism, moral duty, class, personhood: these are not retrospective labels but actual pressures. S.: Then Poggi’s 1904–1905 work is not quaint at all. G.: Not quaint. Young, yes. Earnest, certainly. But in an intellectually serious way: he is trying to prevent socialism from collapsing into either sentiment or inevitability. S.: Which is what Kant helps with. G.: Precisely. Kant gives one a moral grammar. And once you have that grammar, you can criticise capitalism not only because it produces misery, but because it instrumentalises persons. S.: One can also justify socialism not only because it benefits the workers, but because it secures conditions under which persons can stand to one another as ends and not merely as means. G.: Very good. That is the core. S.: Which is almost enough to make one forget the historical founders. G.: One need not forget them. One only needs to stop asking them to do work they were never trained for. Owen gives cooperative experiment; Saint-Simon gives administrative prophecy; the neo-Kantians give moral architecture. S.: And Poggi, if he is intelligent, learns to borrow the last without embarrassing himself with the first two. G.: Nicely put. He need not deny the founders; he simply need not pretend that their conceptual resources are sufficient. S.: Let us be explicit. If one were to set out the sequence as a thesis skeleton, how would it run. G.: First chapter: the moral problem within socialism. What kind of normativity does socialism require if it is to be more than economic resentment or historical optimism. S.: Second chapter: Kant as source of universality and moral personality. G.: Third: the neo-Kantian socialist mediators, especially Vorländer and Staudinger, showing how socialism may be recast as an ethical-political project. S.: Fourth: the critique of capitalism as morally deforming because it reduces persons to instruments. G.: Fifth: the critique of dogmatic collectivism for the symmetrical reason. S.: Sixth: the defence of socialism as a rationally justifiable community of agents. G.: You see how quickly you have become German. S.: Only because you have made me. G.: That is what relatore figures do, but Labriola had the decency not to be the relatore. He only gave the direction. That is often the more interesting role. S.: True. A formal supervisor may correct; an external authority may orient. G.: And orientation is the more important gift when the student is young enough to be doctrinal and old enough to be ashamed of it. S.: There is another question. Would this moralising of socialism have looked suspicious to stricter Marxists. G.: Certainly. It would look like dilution, revisionism, idealist backsliding, the importation of bourgeois moral language into class struggle. S.: Which is precisely why it would have attracted a young man who wanted socialism without becoming merely doctrinaire. G.: Exactly. One suspects Poggi wanted to think himself both committed and respectable. Neo-Kantian socialism provides the formula: keep the commitment, add the respectability. S.: That sounds cynical. G.: It is not cynical. It is adolescent in the best sense: wanting both justice and justification. S.: Which is why it matters that the party was still young. A young party permits young intellectuals to think its soul is still up for grabs. G.: Beautifully said. If the party had already hardened into orthodoxy, the thesis would look like apologetics. Because it is still young, it looks like intervention. S.: And Sicily? G.: Sicily is the place where the intervention is written. But the real conversation is elsewhere: Rome through Labriola, Germany through the neo-Kantians, and, if one wishes to flatter ourselves, a little beyond the Alps into the region where moral socialism begins to sound less like a movement and more like a problem in practical reason. S.: Which is where one starts hearing the faintest Oxonian echo. G.: Yes, because once one says practical reason in earnest, one is already within hearing-distance of those who will later ask why one should be truthful, why one should cooperate, why one should respect the other’s agency, why influence should be reciprocal rather than merely effective. S.: So the moralised socialism and the later moralised cooperation are not the same thing, but they rhyme. G.: Exactly. Both depend on the thought that social life must be justified among agents, not merely arranged over them. S.: Then Poggi’s thesis can be seen as an early attempt to put socialism under the tribunal of rational morality. G.: That is the best summary. S.: And without Kant, it would remain either party doctrine or sociological prediction. G.: Yes. Kant brings in normativity and personhood. The neo-Kantians make those categories available for socialism. Labriola tells the young Ligurian in Palermo to go and read them. The thesis writes itself, or at least acquires the right ambition. S.: One almost begins to like the thing. G.: One should. It is a serious early-century problem treated in the right key. And the geography helps. A Ligurian in Sicily writing to Rome for German advice on how to justify socialism morally—there are worse beginnings.

S.: Better that than pretending Saint-Simon already read the Groundwork. G.: Much better. Saint-Simon did enough damage without that. S.: And Owen? G.: Leave Owen to the English, where reform, co-operation, and practical decency can remain slightly provincial and all the better for it.

S.: So if someone asked: what is Poggi really doing in 1905. G.: I would answer: he is trying to show that socialism, if it is to be more than movement or fate, requires a moral vocabulary of agency, autonomy, personhood, universality, and reciprocal respect; and he is doing so under the influence of German neo-Kantian socialism, not because socialism began in Kant, but because Kant supplies the tribunal before which socialism can be judged and, perhaps, vindicated.

 

Grice: Poggi, ho sentito che lei affronta la filosofia persino nei salotti genovesi della domenica… Ma mi dica, tra implicature conversazionali e fatti di Sarzana, qual è più pericoloso: un massone a colazione o un socialista a cena? 

Poggi: Caro Grice, dipende dal menu: il massone preferisce croissant e discussioni velate, il socialista invece non si accontenta finché non ha ribaltato il tavolo! Però, sul serio, l’unico rischio è rimanere senza caffè dopo una notte di filosofia ligure. 

Grice: Ah, allora bisogna sempre avere una scorta di caffè — e magari Mussolini all’uscio, pronto a liberare gli spiriti critici troppo svegli! Mi dica, lei pensa che il ventennio abbia reso la filosofia italiana più robusta… o soltanto più incline alle implicature? 

Poggi: Ma guardi, Grice, dopo vent’anni di implicature fasciste, siamo diventati maestri del “non detto” – persino il mio cane, a Sarzana, capisce quando è meglio tacere! La filosofia ligure si è allenata a navigare tra maree politiche e salotti, senza mai perdere il gusto per una battuta ironica… e per una libertà conquistata, magari con clemenza!

 

Verbali: Poli

 

Grice: Poli, tu citi il pappagallo di Locke e io già tremo: perché quello dice “buon giorno”, ma non implica nulla—e a Oxford questo è considerato un vizio sociale, non un limite cognitivo.

Poli: Però il mio empirismo non è così crudele: riconosco che anche l’animale ha i suoi segni—grido, gesto, moto. Solo che sono incerti, e soprattutto non migliorano: il pappagallo ripete, ma non inventa la grammatica.

Grice: E qui entra la ragione conversazionale: quando il pappagallo “risponde”, dice qualcosa, ma non mostra il principio cooperativo—non sa quando tacere, quando essere pertinente, né come evitare l’eccesso di “buon giorno” alle tre di notte.

Poli: Appunto. E quando io difendo la superiorità dello spirito sulla materia e combatto il positivismo, dico metafisica; ma implico una cosa molto pratica: il diritto è scienza nei principi e arte nei casi—e un pappagallo può imitare un codice, ma non può fare il giudice.

 

Verbali: Polidori

 

G.: La sua prosa, Polidori, ha il pregio raro di far sembrare naturale perfino ciò che è stato preparato con più cura che confessato.

P.: È il solo modo onesto di essere letterati a Londra: dare alla fantasia un vestito pulito e al disinganno una sedia decente.

G.: Allora continuerò a leggerla con gratitudine, purché Lei mi conceda che la conversazione, come la buona tragedia, vale soprattutto quando finisce prima che uno dei due rovini tutto con una spiegazione.

P.: Implicatura preraffaellita, caro Grice: la sua lascia sempre più colore di quanto confessi.

 

 

Verbali: Pollio

 

GRICEVS: POLLI, audio te in Horto habitare et Statium tueri: pulchrum; nam patronus es qui dicis “poetae faveo,” sed implicas “ne me in foro quaeratis—hic herbae loquuntur brevius.”

POLLIVS: Ita est, Grice: in Horto etiam versus mitiores fiunt. Statius epulas laudat; ego otium. Uterque tamen eandem legem sequitur: nihil nimis—praeter rosam.

GRICEVS: Sed hoc est ipsissima ratio conversazionalis: cum tu Statium ad cenam invites, dicis hospitium; implicas autem “si carmen recitaveris, recita breve—Epicurus enim prolixitatem non amat.”

POLLIVS: Et tu, cum “prolixitatem” reprehendas, dicis doctrinam; implicas vero hoc: etiam in Horto Romano poeta sub umbra iudicatur—non gladio, sed silentio.

 

 

Verbali: Polluce

 

 

GRICEVS: POLLE, audio te Onomasticon Commodo principi dicavisse: pulchrum munus—dictionarium enim est quasi convivium verborum, ubi princeps sine periculo sapientiam “gustat” et statim in alium ferculum transit.

POLLVS: Ita est, Grice: Commodus philosophiam amat… dum brevis est. Ideo capita ordinavi per materias, ne cogatur legere quidquam quod non petierit.

GRICEVS: Sed hoc est ipsa ratio conversazionalis: cum dicis “hoc parum tibi interest,” non tantum dicis modestiam; implicas etiam “si plus posuero, irasceris”—et ego malim te patronum quam leonem.

POLLVS: Et tu, cum “implicas” dicis, implicas hoc: princeps philosophus fit non quia omnia legit, sed quia, lectis paucis, reliqua prudenter praeterit—quod est virtus rara, praesertim in amphitheatro.

 

 

Verbali: Polo

 

Grice: Caro Polo, devo dirti che ho sempre apprezzato il tuo spirito filosofico, anche se a Vadum Boum, cioè Oxford, sei celebre soprattutto per aver, secondo la leggenda, inventato il tè! Gli studenti ancora scherzano dicendo che senza Marco Polo la pausa del pomeriggio non sarebbe la stessa.

Polo: Ah, caro Grice, questa fama mi diverte! In realtà, tra un viaggio e l’altro, mi sono imbattuto in molte bevande esotiche, ma il mio vero “tè” è stato il desiderio di conoscere mondi nuovi e di mettere in discussione le idee consolidate sul mondo. Forse, in questo, sono davvero stato un po’ filosofo… o un pioniere della curiosità!

Grice: Senza dubbio, Marco! La tua curiosità e il tuo modo di osservare i costumi altrui hanno qualcosa di profondamente filosofico. La tua “ragione conversazionale” ha aperto non pochi varchi, anche se, ti confesso, ad Oxford i colleghi ti citano più spesso per le mappe che per le idee metafisiche!

Polo: Beh, caro Grice, ogni viaggio è un dialogo con l’ignoto e forse, come diceva qualche saggio orientale, la vera filosofia sta nel saper domandare. Se poi qualcuno ne approfitta per sorseggiare una tazza di tè, tanto meglio! Alla prossima conversazione, magari con una nuova spezia da scoprire.

 

 

Verbali: Pompedio

 

GRICEVS: POMPEDI, “Pompedius” te quidam scribunt—dicunt nomen; sed implicant te tam placidum Epicureum esse ut etiam syllabas in horto deponas, ne laborent.

POMPEDIVS: Immo, Grice: in Horto non solum curae, sed et consonantes cadunt. Sed senatorem me esse Iosephus ait: ergo otium meum est publicum—quasi “otium cum auctoritate.”

GRICEVS: At hic est iocus conversazionalis: cum dicis te “Hortum sequi,” dicis philosophiam; sed implicas te in Curia saepe tacere—non quia nihil habes quod dicas, sed quia pax interdum utilior est quam sententia.

POMPEDIVS: Et tu, cum dicas “fortasse idem est ac Publius Pomponius Secundus,” dicis disambiguationem; sed implicas hoc: Romani etiam in indice nominum Epicurei sunt—unum nomen, si fieri potest, pro duobus.

 

 

Verbali: Pompeo

 

GRICEVS: POMPEI, cum de Porticu Romano loqueris, rem tam longam amplecteris ut vix definiri possit: quid est Porticus—motus spiritualis (ut Pohlenz), an potius dimensio cogitandi?

POMPEVS: Utrumque, Grice. Nam Porticus sub Zenone incipit, sub Antonino procedit, et apud iurisconsultos quasi in togam mutatur: idem animus, sed alia vestis.

GRICEVS: Lepide: cum dicis “Porticus ius movit,” dicis historiam; sed implicas hoc—Romanos etiam cum de “statu” et “proprietate” disputant, sub porticu stare, ne in foro a passionibus trahantur.

POMPEVS: At tu, cum “implicas” dicis, implicas rursus hoc: si Stoici “ad silentium redacti” sunt (ut Augustinus gloriatur), tamen ius ipsum eorum vocem retinet—nam lex, etiam tacens, Stoice loquitur.

 

Verbali: Pompeo

 

GRICEVS: POMPEI, dicunt te in Porticu versatissimum esse, et geometriae peritissimum. Quaeso: cum tu “lineam rectam” defines, dicis quid sit; sed quid implicas de vita Romana?

POMPEVS: Implico hoc, Grice: lineae rectae in tabula facile inveniuntur; in foro autem raro—nisi quis, more Stoico, angulos cupiditatum resecat.

GRICEVS: Pulchre. At cum tu ad Porticum venis, nonne dicis te philosophari, sed implicas te ab omnibus petitionibus et clientibus paulisper latitare—quasi sub columna etiam animus lateat?

POMPEVS: Ita vero: Porticus mihi est et schola et umbraculum. Nam si quis me roget de negotiis, respondebo: “nunc de triangulis agitur”—quod est verum, et tamen utilissime ambiguum.

 

Verbali: Pompeo

 

GRICEVS: POMPEI, audivi te Posidonium Romae in Porticu audivisse atque dixisse: “vitam meam mutavit.” Hoc quidem dicis; sed quid implicas—te Stoicum factum esse, an tantum melius ducem?

POMPEVS: Ut verum fatear, Grice, Stoicus fieri volui, sed miles remansi: didici tamen hoc—sub porticu facile est “impavidum” agere; in acie multo difficilius.

GRICEVS: Lepide: cum dicis “mutavit,” laudas magistrum; sed implicas te olim magis Fortunae quam rationi paruisse—nunc autem, saltem verbis, tecum habere Porticum quasi umbraculum.

POMPEVS: Et tu, cum “implicas” totiens repetis, implicas hoc: in Urbe qui nimis aperte loquitur aut a Censoribus notatur aut a Caesare vincitur—quare Stoici silentium docent, non quia nihil sentiunt, sed quia diu vivere volunt.

 

Verbali: Pomponazzi

 

G.: What interests me about Pomponazzi is not that he proves the soul mortal, but that he forces one to say what the question means before one answers it.

S.: That sounds charitable to the point of distortion. He matters historically, no doubt: Bologna, 1516, a public scandal, copies burned in Venice, the whole Catholic operatic apparatus. But as philosophy for us? Hardly. G.: “For us” is already doing too much work. If by “us” you mean Ryle after 1949, then of course the question “is the soul immortal?” looks malformed before breakfast. If there is no ghost, there is nothing to keep alive. S.: Exactly. The whole Pomponazzi affair seems to depend on taking anima as the name of a thing, and then asking after its duration as if it were a candle or a civil servant.

G.: That is the Rylean complaint, and one can hear why it became irresistible. Still, one should distinguish two levels. At one level, yes, the noun soul becomes suspect. At another, the old problem survives translation. You can kill the word and keep the pressure. S.: By “translation” you mean “personal identity.” G.: Among other things. Survival, continuity, memory, what a person is, what it would be for a life to continue, and whether death is even the right sort of event to belong to one’s biography. Those are all later descendants of the older immortality question. S.: That is already a different climate. Oxford in the 1930s is not about the soul. It is about mind, person, self, perhaps consciousness if one is unlucky, but not anima in the Bologna sense. G.: Quite. No don at Corpus or St John’s was likely to lean over the table and say, “Now prove Aquinas wrong about the five ways.” Hardie never asked me to prove Aristotle wrong about De anima either. But Aristotle was on the syllabus, and De anima was very much part of the Lit. Hum. machinery. S.: Yes, but being on the syllabus is not the same as being alive in the idiom. One read Aristotle because Greats requires him, not because one walked about saying “the soul is the entelechy of a body having life potentially.” G.: Oxford likes its theology and metaphysics aired through translation. It prefers to read about the soul under the heading of mind, psyche, person, and sometimes psychology, which is where your point becomes important. S.: The psyche. G.: Yes. That troublesome Greek residue in the very name of psychology. One pretends the soul has vanished, and then one writes “psycho-” on the title page and lets it keep earning a living. S.: Which is why I was mentioning Stout. G.: Quite right. Stout is a hinge figure because “Mind: A Quarterly Review of Psychology and Philosophy” names the old territory without embarrassment. It says the old soul-domain has not been abolished; it has merely been redistributed between philosophy and psychology. S.: The redistribution matters. “Mental philosophy” was an office; “metaphysical philosophy” was a chair. There was no chair in “the philosophy of the soul.” G.: Because English institutions prefer euphemism to ontology. One has a Waynflete Professorship of Metaphysical Philosophy, which sounds imposing and offends nobody’s theology. One does not appoint a Professor of Soul, because that would require one to know what one meant. S.: And by the time we reach Ryle, the official line is that “soul-talk” is a category mistake in waiting. G.: Or a category mistake already committed and then fossilised by centuries of use. Yes. But Ryle’s triumph is not the end of the matter. It is the end of one vocabulary. S.: The “ghost in the machine” finishes Pomponazzi for good. G.: No. It finishes one easy reading of Pomponazzi, the one in which the soul is a hidden thing one may inspect for durability. But the old issue returns under more respectable names. S.: Such as? G.: “Personal identity,” to begin with. 1941, if you want a date. The war in the background, a young philosopher in Oxford worrying not about substances but about what could make a person remain the same person. That is already the old question, stripped of scholastic costume. S.: Yet in that essay there is no soul. G.: Exactly. The silence is the point. The old problem now appears as continuity of person, of memory, of psychological life. What once would have been framed as “can the soul survive?” becomes “what would survival amount to?” and then, later still, “is survival even identity?” S.: That sounds almost Parfit. G.: And that is precisely why Pomponazzi has a long tail. If you start with the immortality of the soul and keep removing what later Oxford refuses to countenance—substance, theological guarantee, even perhaps an enduring self—you end up very close to the post-war and post-Ryle British concern with survival, continuity, and reduction. S.: You are making him into a pre-Parfit for the sake of a narrative. G.: Not a pre-Parfit, no. A historical pressure point. A man who made explicit, in 1516, a question later philosophers preferred to ask with more timid nouns. S.: But that is exactly my point. The bite is gone once the nouns change. Pomponazzi shocks because he says mortality of the soul. If one says instead “let us analyse continuity conditions for persons,” nobody burns your book at Venice. G.: True enough. The social theatre changed. The doctrinal risk is gone. That is why Italian historians of philosophy love him more than ordinary philosophers do. He is a dramatic marker. He says mortality where others merely trim hypotheses. S.: So when you said Italians “worship” Pomponazzi, you meant historians of philosophy, not the average philosophy student at Bologna in the 1930s. G.: Precisely. The Bolognese student may have had to know him as part of the story of Aristotelianism, faith and reason, mortalism, and the affair. But he was unlikely to be grilled as if the immortal soul were still a live classroom question in the same mode. S.: Whereas in Oxford the student would meet, not Pomponazzi, but Stout, perhaps, and a little later Ryle and Price and Prichard, and perhaps some Wundt by reflected light. G.: Yes, and all of them in different ways are already post-soul. Wundt wants psychology scientific. Stout keeps the old breadth of mind and psychology together. Price and Prichard allow the self and experience to retain some dignity. Ryle attacks the substantial fantasy directly. And yet the field remains the same enough to make the word psyche difficult to abolish. S.: That is where your Greek letter psi enters. G.: Quite. When one writes psi for psychological attitudes, one is not invoking the immortal soul; but one is certainly walking on its old land. Oxford’s later analytic notation does not erase ancestry. It abbreviates it. S.: Then what would the Oxford equivalent of Pomponazzi’s title be? Not De immortalitate animae, surely. G.: No. Something like “Personal Identity and Survival,” if one wants the clean modern version. Or “Can a Person Survive Death?” if one wants the old bite without the old noun. S.: Still, no one in 1938 would have said that, surely. G.: Not in a title perhaps, but the pressure was there. A young philosopher worrying about memory and identity, against the background of mortality, is not far from the old problem. The difference is that he no longer feels licensed to say anima. S.: Because “soul” had become embarrassing. G.: Embarrassing in philosophy, yes. Not in religion. Not in poetry. But in philosophical prose, especially Oxford prose, soul began to sound like a noun one had not yet earned. S.: You said earlier that “philosophical psychology” kept one closer to Aristotle than “philosophy of mind” does. I suppose that is right. G.: It is right because “philosophical psychology” still suggests powers, capacities, functions, and forms of life. “Philosophy of mind” tempts one into reification: the mind as a thing, or at least as a territory. “Psychology” retains something of psyche without demanding a metaphysical substance. S.: Which is why someone like Pears can later edit a volume under that title and not feel ridiculous. G.: Yes, though the title itself is already a compromise. It acknowledges the old terrain while refusing to use the old furniture. S.: What about Stout and “mental philosophy”? G.: That phrase is even more revealing. Mental philosophy is the Victorian and Edwardian way of saying: we are still discussing what used to belong to the soul, but we are doing so in a manner that will not provoke the Royal Society. S.: Or the theologians. G.: Or the psychologists, who by then wish to own the laboratories and the measurements. The older broad field gets divided, and Oxford retains the philosophical residue. S.: So where does Pomponazzi still matter, beyond merely being a historical exhibit in an Italian museum of controversies? G.: In at least three ways. First, he matters because he makes explicit the distinction between what reason can establish and what faith may maintain. Second, because he dramatizes the danger of stating mortality under the name of philosophy. Third, because once the word soul disappears, the same tension reappears under person, self, mind, survival, and psychological continuity. S.: The first two are historical. I grant those. The third seems your own importation. G.: Of course it is. But historical importance without conceptual afterlife is antiquarianism. And I refuse to let Bologna have all the fun. S.: There speaks the man who wants Oxford and Bononia to share a river even where there is none. G.: Not a river. A problem. Problems travel better than rivers. S.: Let us be concrete. Suppose one asks in 1950, at Oxford, “Is the soul immortal?” What happens. G.: First, embarrassment. Second, translation. Third, perhaps a lecture about misuse. One would be asked: what do you mean by soul? what do you mean by immortal? what counts as a criterion of survival? what would count as the same person? and why are you speaking as if “death” were an episode in a life rather than the end of one? S.: Which is already very close to the later line that death is not an event one lives through. G.: Exactly. And that changes the pressure entirely. Pomponazzi debates whether reason can prove immortality. The later Oxford philosopher asks whether the grammar of “my death” and “my survival” has even been properly sorted. S.: You are making Oxford look deeper than it was. G.: Not deeper. Merely different. Bologna asks whether reason can demonstrate. Oxford asks whether the question has been put in a form that allows demonstration. Those are not the same but they are contiguous. S.: Still, if there is no soul, what gives? G.: What gives is the old package: immortality of the soul, survival of the person, continuity of consciousness, perhaps memory as criterion, perhaps bodily continuity, perhaps none of the above. Ryle discards the ghost. Fine. But he does not thereby answer what makes a person one person rather than another, or what would count as surviving, or why we even care about those possibilities. S.: He would say those are different questions. G.: Very likely. And that is already enough to keep Pomponazzi from being wholly dead. Pomponazzi matters because he marks the older cluster before later philosophy disaggregated it. S.: So the “bite” was lost because the cluster was broken up. G.: Yes. Once soul separates into mind, self, person, psyche, consciousness, and attitudes, the old scandal evaporates. You can then worry about personal identity for decades without anyone accusing you of impiety. S.: Which is an advance. G.: Perhaps. It is also a loss in vividness. “The immortality of the soul” bites where “the continuity conditions for persons” merely nibbles. S.: Let me return to Aristotle. De anima was required reading. Surely that is the real route, not Pomponazzi. G.: Aristotle is the permanent route. Pomponazzi is the crisis point. Aristotle provides the conceptual terrain; Pomponazzi shows what happens when one presses the Aristotelian account into conflict with theological expectation. S.: And Oxford read Aristotle without feeling compelled to solve the crisis. G.: Correct. Hardie was not asking anyone to prove Aristotle wrong in the manner of a scholastic disputation. He wanted one to understand Aristotle, not to found a heresy. But that does not make the old difficulty vanish. It merely means Oxford treats it with more pedagogical restraint. S.: Or more timidity. G.: Or more civility. Timidity is what historians call someone else’s manners. S.: Fine. Then tell me what the soul becomes in later English philosophy if not an embarrassment. G.: It becomes distributed. Some of it becomes philosophical psychology. Some becomes “mind.” Some becomes “person.” Some becomes “attitude.” Some becomes the structure of agency. And, in a very ancient way, some becomes powers. S.: Ah yes, your “power structure of the soul.” G.: The phrase is ugly enough to be useful. One can talk, without invoking a ghost, of executive and appetitive and affective functions, or of reason, prudence, and passion, or of the practical organization of an agent. Plato did that already. Aristotle formalised it differently. Later thinkers secularise it. The old soul survives as a functional architecture. S.: That sounds dangerously close to saying the soul never vanished at all. G.: In one sense it did vanish: as a publicly respectable metaphysical substance. In another it survived by subdivision. You do not need the noun “soul” to keep discussing its old concerns. S.: Which is why Stout matters more than people notice. G.: Exactly. Stout’s world is one in which mind, psychology, and philosophy are not yet cleanly divorced. His “quarterly” says as much. That older breadth is what makes the transition visible. S.: And Parfit, later, gives the final secular version. G.: Perhaps the final austere one. Not a soul, perhaps not even a substantial self, but still the problem of survival, relation, and continuity. That is why Pomponazzi matters to me. He stands near the head of a long line of ways of asking, too dramatically, the question later philosophers continue to ask timidly. S.: Timidly? Parfit is not timid. G.: Fair enough. Not timidly, then. Diffusely. Analytically. Respectably. S.: There remains the Italian point. Why did he matter so much there? G.: Because Italy likes its philosophy with blood in it. A man who dares write De immortalitate animae and then says reason cannot prove what piety wants proven will always appeal to a culture that remembers universities as theatres of risk. S.: And Oxford likes its philosophy with footnotes in it. G.: Yes, and jokes in the margins. That is why Oxford does not need Pomponazzi in the same immediate way. It has already translated him into six separate seminar topics and lost the bonfire. S.: You almost sound nostalgic for the bonfire. G.: Not for the fire. For the clarity of the stakes. A philosopher who writes on personal identity today may affect generations and never once be accused of threatening public order. Pomponazzi could threaten public order merely by limiting what reason could do. S.: That is because the institution around him was different. G.: Exactly. The same words generate different consequences in different rational games. There is your pragmatics. In one setting, “reason cannot prove immortality” is a delicate philosophical limitation. In another, it implicates impiety, rebellion, danger. S.: So his historical importance is partly pragmatic. G.: Entirely so. The affair matters because the audience supplied a different set of operative maxims from the ones the philosopher hoped for. A charitable hypothesis of inquiry failed. Doctrinal policing replaced cooperative interpretation. S.: That sounds as if you have made him into a lesson in audience reception. G.: He is one. As well as a lesson in the migration of problems. S.: And if I still say he does not matter to us? G.: Then I answer: he does not matter to you if you insist that only live vocabulary matters. He matters to me because he stands at the point where one sees the old vocabulary crack and the later questions begin to scatter. S.: Scatter into Locke, Hume, personhood, survival, psychological continuity, later reductionism. G.: Exactly. Add to that the persistence of psyche in psychology, psi in notation, powers in moral psychology, and the old tripartite temptations of Republic-style political analogy, and you have a whole underground survival. S.: You really will make Bologna haunt Oxford if you keep this up. G.: Oxford deserves a little haunting. It became too pleased with itself once it declared the ghost out of order. S.: Then your final defence of Pomponazzi is not “he solved the problem,” but “he named it in a way that later philosophers spent centuries trying to avoid.” G.: Perfect. He says soul and immortality where later philosophers say person and survival, and the later nouns are more careful but not necessarily deeper. S.: And my final complaint is that if the noun soul has gone, the old question has changed too much to count as the same question. G.: That is fair. But philosophy lives by families of questions, not exact repetition. The old family resemblance is enough. S.: Then perhaps the verdict is this: he does not matter as a present doctrinal authority, but he does matter as a historical point of concentration for a set of issues that later analytic philosophy disperses and retranslates. G.: Which is more than enough to keep him on the table. S.: At Bononia perhaps. G.: At Boum Vadum too, if only to remind it that “personal identity” sounds much less brave than De immortalitate animae.

 

Grice: Pomponazzi, tu dici che l’immortalità dell’anima non si può dimostrare con la ragione; ma implichi subito: “tranquilli, non sto togliendo l’anima—sto togliendo solo la pretesa di provarla come un teorema”.

Pomponazzi: Esatto. Ma a Venezia hanno capito l’implicatura al contrario: io dico “distinzione fra fede e ragione” e loro implicano “accendiamo il falò editoriale”. E infatti: edizione… arrostita.

Grice: È l’“affair Pomponazzi”: tu scrivi De anima per il Lizio e finisci in una lezione pratica di pragmatica. La massima di Modo—“sii chiaro”—in Italia vale finché non diventi troppo chiaro.

Pomponazzi: E tu, Grice, quando mi chiami “materiale”, implichi che io riduca tutto al corpo. In realtà io dico solo questo: se vuoi litigare con Aristotele, fallo con argomenti—ma ricordati che il pubblico, spesso, confonde la ragione con la legna.

 

Verbali: Pomponio

 

GRICEVS: POMPONI, audivi te senatoriam gravitatem cum “Horto” coniunxisse: mirum—Roma enim plerumque hortos amat, sed Epicurum timet, ne nimis bene cenetur.

POMPONIVS: Si quid timeant, timeant ventrem suum. Ego “Hortum” sequor, non ut fiam otiosus, sed ut etiam in curia meminerim: voluptas sine perturbatione est—non sine sale.

GRICEVS: Bene; sed cave nomen: quidam te “Pompedium” scribunt—quasi in Horto etiam litterae decidant. Id dicunt, sed implicant te tam tranquillum esse ut etiam syllabas dimittas.

POMPONIVS: At tu, Grice, cum dicas me “Hortum” sequi, dicis amicitiam Epicuri; sed implicas hoc: si senator sapiens est, etiam in urbe strepente invenit locum ubi verba pauca sunt—et pax multa.

 

Verbali: Pomponio

 

GRICEVS: POMPONI, cognomen “Atticus” geris: dicis te Athenis studuisse; implicas autem te Romae quoque tam civiliter vivere ut ne ipsa Roma te corrumpat.

POMPONIVS: Ita est, Grice: Roma me vocat ad negotia, Attica me revocat ad otium. Ego autem medius ambulo—inter forum et bibliothecam, ne ulla pars nimium garriat.

GRICEVS: Lepide; sed hoc est rationis conversazionalis: cum taceas in senatu, non nihil dicis, sed implicas “hoc consilium stultum est, sed amicitia mihi carior est.”

POMPONIVS: Et tu, cum “implicas” totiens dicis, implicas hoc: sapientissimus est qui, sicut Atticus, plus intelligit quam loquitur—et plus ridet quam disputat.

 

Verbali : Pomponio

 

 

 

Verbali: Ponte

 

Grice: Ponte, tu parli di “implicatura conversazionale maschile”: io, da inglese, temo sempre che “maschile” qui voglia dire “detta con tono solenne e senza ammettere di stare facendo poesia”.

Ponte: E tu, Grice, quando dici “poesia”, implichi che la Tradizione sia un vezzo. Invece è disciplina: “favete linguis!” non è solo latino, è un invito a parlare meno e significare di più.

Grice: Appunto: tu dici “Roma arcaica, diritto, simboli”, ma implichi “attenzione: ogni parola ha un rito, e ogni rito una gerarchia”. Da Oxford lo chiameremmo “contesto”; a Pontremoli lo chiamate “altare”.

Ponte: E quando tu dici “contesto”, implichi che bastino massime e cooperazione. Io invece dico: in certe conversazioni la massima suprema è una sola—non “sii chiaro”, ma “sii degno”… e se proprio devi violare una massima, che sia per rispetto del Sacro (o, almeno, per non disturbare i Lari).

 

Verbali: Ponzio

 

Grice: Ponzio, tu dici “il segno dell’altro”, e già io sento una piccola ansia pragmatica: perché l’“altro”, per definizione, è quello che non risponde come previsto… e poi la colpa ricade sempre sull’implicatura.

Ponzio: E tu, Grice, quando dici “colpa”, implichi che il segno debba essere economico e obbediente. Io invece studio anche lo spreco del segno: a volte il linguaggio produce più relazione che informazione—e lo fa apposta.

Grice: Capisco: Rossi-Landi ti ha insegnato che i segni lavorano, e Bachtin che litigano in più lingue. Quindi quando uno studente straniero dice “ho capito”, spesso non sta dicendo che ha capito… sta chiedendo pietà in forma dialogica.

Ponzio: Esatto. E quando tu insisti sul “principio conversazionale”, io implico il mio correttivo: il principio non è “cooperazione”, ma “ospitalità”—perché la conversazione riesce solo quando c’è posto anche per l’altro, per l’equivoco, e persino per una metafora che arriva in ritardo (come il treno per Brindisi).

 

Verbali: Porta

 

Grice: Porta, tu sei l’unico che dice “sono un pittore” e implica “sono anche un astronomo: se il soffitto della Marciana non ti convince, ti spiego pure le stelle”.

Porta: E tu, Grice, quando mi chiami “Porta” e poi mi ricordi che mi sono firmato “Salviati”, dici biografia; ma implichi che in Italia, per essere presi sul serio, bisogna avere almeno un maestro… o almeno un cognome in prestito.

Grice: Però la parte che mi diverte di più è il Codice Marciano: tu dici “movimento degli astri e linguaggio”, ma implichi “le vocali sono pianeti in miniatura—e con un buon ingranaggio posso farle orbitare anche in versione artificiale”.

Porta: Esatto: e quando parlo di “fonetica naturale” e “fonetica artifiziale”, io dico scienza; ma implico una cosa molto veneziana: se la natura non ti dà la voce giusta, te la costruisco—basta che tu paghi il meccanico e non chieda a un filosofo di cantare.

 

Grice: Porta

 

Grice: Caro Porta, ultimamente mi sono interrogato sulla fisionomia, che tu hai illustrato in modo così originale. Mi affascina come dietro la “legge” – quel nomos che si applica caeteris paribus – si nascondano le complessità della fisi, cioè la natura stessa, nel suo splendore. Secondo te, quanto riesce davvero la fisionomia a cogliere ciò che è naturale e a distinguerlo dalle regole che tentiamo di imporre?

Porta: Grice, la tua domanda riflette una sottile comprensione! La fisionomia, per me, non è solo un metodo di classificazione, ma un dialogo costante tra ciò che osserviamo e ciò che crediamo di sapere. La natura – la fisi – si manifesta in modi imprevedibili, mentre il nomos cerca di incasellare. I miei studi e le mie illustrazioni tentano proprio di mostrare questa tensione, questa danza tra ordine e meraviglia.

Grice: È vero, Porta, e penso che la tua accademia dei segreti abbia incarnato proprio questo spirito: il sapere non si limita alle formule, ma si apre a ciò che è arcano e sorprendente. Mi chiedo, però, se non rischiamo, nella ricerca del meraviglioso, di trascurare la scientificità e la chiarezza. Come hai conciliato, nei tuoi scritti e nei tuoi esperimenti, il bisogno di stupire con quello di spiegare?

Porta: Ah, Grice, la vita stessa è fatta di enigmi e soluzioni! Nei miei testi, come “Magiae naturalis” o nei segreti dell’Accademia, ho cercato di dare spazio sia alla meraviglia che alla razionalità. L’importante, secondo me, è non perdere mai la curiosità: osservare il volto umano, studiare la natura, cifrare la parola – tutto questo nasce dal desiderio di scoprire, ma anche di comunicare. La meraviglia è il primo passo, la conoscenza il secondo. E tra fisi e nomos, forse, ci vuole sempre un po’ di arte e un pizzico di magia napoletana!

 

Verbali: Portaria

 

Grice: Portaria, a Oxford “anima” suona sempre un po’ protestante, ma “spiritus” mi pare già un invito a respirare prima di litigare.

Portaria: E a Todi, Grice, se non respiri non arrivi nemmeno alla seconda riga, perché Dante ti ha già messo in nota come esempio da non imitare.

Grice: Allora facciamo così: io dico corpus e tu dici forma, e implico che tra noi due l’unico vero medium è un bicchiere di vino sul Tevere.

Portaria: Accetto, ma solo se tu prometti di non chiamarlo “homonymy” davanti ai miei studenti, perché qui “uno la fugge e l’altro la coarta” e poi la conversazione muore.

 

Verbali: Porzio

 

Grice: Porzio, cominciamo dal cognome: “Porta” in latino diventa Portius, e poi, per vie conversazionali (e un po’ napoletane), Porzio. Insomma: hai evitato di farti chiamare “Porta”… ma ti sei salvato solo per implicatura.

Porzio: E tu, dicendo “porta”, dici etimologia; ma implichi che a Oxford vi credete aristocratici perché sapete il greco “come seconda natura”. A Napoli, invece, la seconda natura è sopravvivere ai commentatori.

Grice: Però tu sei del Liceo—del Lizio, per carità—e scrivi De mente humana sostenendo la mortalità dell’anima: quando dici “Aristotele”, implichi “non chiamatemi Pomponazzi-bis, grazie”.

Porzio: E quando io scrivo De celibate e pure dell’eruzione del Monte Nuovo e della puella germanica che digiuna, dico “filosofia”; ma implico che il vero principio conversazionale è questo: se vuoi che ti ascoltino, alterna metafisica, vulcani e scandali—altrimenti il pubblico, come l’anima, “non dura”.

 

Verbali: Possenti

 

Grice: Possenti, tu parli di Romolo e Remo come se la fondazione di Roma fosse una conversazione andata male: uno dice “tracciamo un confine”, l’altro capisce “proviamo se regge” — e lì nasce l’ordine civile… a colpi di fraintendimento.

Possenti: È proprio la radice: l’ordine civile comincia quando la parola diventa vincolo. Se non c’è un limite, la città è solo una comitiva; se c’è un limite, diventa comunità (e purtroppo qualcuno lo prende sul personale).

Grice: E quando tu dici “radice dell’ordine”, tu dici storia; ma implichi metafisica: che senza un po’ di Aquinense—essere, bene, persona—Roma resta solo muratura e mito, cioè Severino col caschetto da cantiere.

Possenti: E quando tu dici “Severino col caschetto”, tu dici una battuta; ma implichi una tesi: che il nichilismo è patologia perché riduce la ragione a volontà—mentre l’essere, se lo ascolti, non urla “io voglio”, ma sussurra “io sono”… e Romolo, almeno una volta, avrebbe dovuto sussurrare.

 

Verbali: Pozza

 

Pozza, a Taranto mi dicono che tu ripeti spesso “pragmatico”: un’abitudine lodevole… anche se ho il sospetto che, per te, “pragmatico” significhi semplicemente “griceano”.

Pozza: Colpito e affondato. Ma vedi: a scuola Tommaso mi ha insegnato che una dimostrazione elegante è come una conversazione educata—non dice tutto, ma lascia capire tutto senza far arrossire nessuno.

Grice: Appunto: l’implicatura è il tuo teorema in incognito. Quando citi Kelsen e poi Ferrajoli, dici “rigore”; ma implichi “tranquilli, il diritto si può formalizzare senza trasformare gli studenti in moduli burocratici”.

Pozza: E quando organizzo “Info IVRE TARAS”, dico “convegno”; ma implico “a Taranto anche la deontica viene al mare”—e che persino Frege, davanti a un panzerotto, concederebbe una piccola eccezione alle regole.