The World as I Found It (28 page)

Having endured years of abstinence plying abstract mathematics, Russell found it hard to curb this sudden desire to seize the pulpit and speak baldly from the heart. Wittgenstein was still young. He remained fresh and uncompromising in his fervor, not yet realizing that, at its ecliptic, the mind must bend like the rainbow, stretching always back to earth. And really, it was a difference of style: whereas Russell was the Enlightenment man who felt that everything could be rationally discussed and attained through diligent effort, Wittgenstein, that most impatient of men, was the desert mystic subsisting on bread, rainwater and silence. Professing to expect nothing, preaching only patience and submission, Wittgenstein was like a child peeping through a blindfold, hoping against hope to be granted his guilty metaphysical wishes.

If anything, Russell was incomparably more modest and earthbound in his expectations. Wittgenstein's power, by comparison, was the priest's power, a distillation of abstinence and self-denial. Better, thought Wittgenstein, to fast — to anticipate that meal — than to wolf it down and still be hungry. Better a fresh promise than a bitter afterward, cursing the barren tree.

As Wittgenstein saw it, Russell had broken fast over the holidays, first completing
The Problems of Philosophy
, a popular book on the subject that he had begun that summer, then writing an article entitled “The Essence of Religion.” Russell gave Wittgenstein
The Problems of Philosophy
almost as soon as it came back from the typist. And, predictably enough, Wittgenstein disliked it, feeling it was impossible to provide a popular treatment that wasn't more misleading than illuminating. But above all, Wittgenstein hated the book's final chapter, “The Value of Philosophy.”

How can you
say
that philosophy has a
value?
he asked. This you can
say
no more than a proposition can
say
it is correct. It is not for the proposition to say; it is for the proposition to be judged. With philosophy it is the same. Either a person sees its value or he does not. Philosophy does not need
you
to say it has a value. You only muck it up.

Wittgenstein was even more shocked by “The Essence of Religion.” The moment Russell put the manuscript in Wittgenstein's hands, he knew he had made a mistake. Three hours later, Russell heard an urgent knock. In burst Wittgenstein, the typescript flapping in his hand.

I'm sorry, he said, taking a deep breath. I'm very, very sorry …

You don't like it, said Russell, trying to soften the blow.

Like
it? Wittgenstein threw down his arms.
I detest it!

There was silence then, that trapped, hopeless look as Wittgenstein brought up more words:

It's completely glib — superficial. Your terms — they're wholly inexact. What do you mean,
freedom from the finite self?
What self is this you speak of? Here we work to build a world
based
on something — and then you write
this
! I am very sorry, but, please, you must not print this. Even if they want to publish it, you must not…

As Wittgenstein was making his ultimatum, Russell could hear this same criticism well up from some buried annex within him. In a gush of ego and arbitrariness, Russell felt he should at least defend himself against this onslaught. And yet it was queerly agreeable, like his fantasies of being crushed beneath a train. Later, in his nightly letter to Ottoline, Russell wrote:

So Russell abandoned the book. And with that he began to cede even more to Wittgenstein. To Wittgenstein he would bequeath the purely logical end of their work. Let Wittgenstein undertake those questions which require youth and freshness of approach — that is, the purely philosophical pursuit of what propositions are and what forms they take, as well as the related problem of developing a system of logical notation by which one logical form could never be mistaken for another.

But Russell had another reason for giving ground. He was restless. More and more now, Russell wanted to rove in places where the field was still open, where the sod was not broken by his own repeated attempts. With this in mind, Russell was now interested in taking logic into the realm of matter and epistemology, searching for a more scientific understanding of the great question of whether humans can really
know
anything, and, if so, what?

Not long after the publication of
The Principles of Mathematics
in 1903, Russell had retreated from his belief that every phrase in a sentence achieves its meaning by denoting something that in some way exists. The problem, again, was the one raised by denoting phrases like
the present king of France
, which give rise to those never-never zones where fictions run pell-mell with absurdities.

Russell's theory of descriptions was a method of logical code breaking: it broke down a troublesome expression like
the present king of France
into sensible substatements; or at least made its patent nonsense more apparent. More recently, Russell had tried to take matters a step further — and to a rather different vantage point — by developing a model of the act of judging. As with the theory of descriptions, Russell was partly concerned with problems of nonsense: specifically, how one can judge what is not the case. Unlike the theory of descriptions, however, the theory of judgment was not fully elaborated but rather a still rough sketch of the directions such a theory might take. Yet now, with Wittgenstein freeing him to pursue other things, Russell wanted to rework his judgment theory, the idea being to create a model that could embrace not only the logical relation of, say,
A
=
B
, or even the comparatively uncomplicated acquaintance of an ego with an object. Instead, Russell wanted a theory that could encompass the additional, and still more complex, mental act of
judging
that relation. In this way, Russell hoped to connect the judging mind with logic and the external world, thereby wedding the abstract concept of, say, “greenness” with the physical particulars of real grass — fragrant, new-mown grass redolent of grass and greenness, the whole whiffed through the sensorium of eye, nose and mind. Indeed, this quest had even assumed a certain parallel with Russell's conflict with Ottoline. Russell did not want a rarefied idealist's world that would remain locked like a virgin in the tower of the mind; he wanted Rapunzel to let down her hair, revealing a world that might be climbed, ravished, eaten.

But again Russell was practical. He knew these questions would only be solved progressively, with a theory and then an improved theory, and so on.

Wittgenstein had no such practicality. He put no stock in the notion that he was part of that trumped-up tinker's guild known as a
profession
. He found repugnant the notion that he was to work in fraternal amity and cooperation with learned colleagues who purportedly shared the same general aspirations, and who, with time, would help him perfect his ideas, and even extend them.

Never!

For Wittgenstein the work had to be delivered whole and complete! A virgin birth, no more, no less.

He was such a bloody perfectionist — so utterly lacking in that blithe English sense of getting on with it that Russell had in abundance. Refusing to accept compromise of any kind, lashing himself, Wittgenstein was driving himself to the verge of illness with his infernal bucket bearing. It irked Russell that Wittgenstein should persist in this stubborn fast. On the other hand, it sorely irked Wittgenstein to see Russell publish what was less than perfect and indeed often flawed. But in Wittgenstein's reaction there was also more than a hint of jealousy. The truth was, it pained him to see how effortlessly Russell slipped through the world.

Despite appearances, though, Russell was slipping by with mounting difficulty. One big problem was his craving for Wittgenstein's imprimatur, as when he asked Wittgenstein to read the proofs for the third volume of his
Principia Mathematica
. Russell all too readily accepted Wittgenstein's judgment that the book was riddled with errors. If anything, Wittgenstein was more distraught about it than Russell, sick to always be the bearer of bad news. Russell tried to put the best face on it, but for Wittgenstein this only made things worse — he hated Russell's need to put a pleasant face on everything. Surely, Russell said, Wittgenstein could help him put the proofs to right. Yes, Wittgenstein agreed, he
could
. But Wittgenstein also strongly implied that this offended his sense of personal responsibility, his belief that the author alone must deliver the work, and deliver it whole,
without blemish
.

Wittgenstein could be insufferably arrogant about this. So self-righteous as he remonstrated, I can't help you avoid difficulty — or effort.

Having braved the
Principia
, Russell wasn't about to suffer this. He shot back, Tell me this when
you
produce a work. And by
work
I mean something more than two pages!

At this, Wittgenstein burst from his rooms. Russell, fearing the worst, caught him and apologized. Please — it's really not your fault. Nor mine. It's just nerves, don't you see — nothing but nerves.

It's not alone that! Arms akimbo, squeezing himself, Wittgenstein looked as if he were in a straitjacket. Don't you see? The difference is fundamental.
Fundamental!

I'm
tired
, sighed Russell. Can't you see I'm tired? I've read these proofs again and again. My head
swims
when I see them.

Russell managed to calm him down, and for days afterward they tread on cat feet, blistering at the need for this scaly, false politeness. Adversaries had to be easier than this. And hardest of all they had to be not just colleagues but friends, loving and civil. To regain their equilibrium, they would involve themselves in neutral activities. But even when Wittgenstein suggested a seemingly innocent outing, such as helping him select bedroom furniture, these conflicts emerged in another guise.

Wittgenstein was hardly one to flaunt his wealth, but where furniture or aesthetics was concerned, Russell saw that money was no object. Rather, the problem was finding pieces that satisfied Wittgenstein's severe criteria of harmonious balance, purity of line and absence of ornament, not to mention his equally impossible standards of workmanship. They went to one shop, then another. One chest of drawers had legs too long, another had ugly pulls. Another he found sheathed in almost seamless veneer — a scandal, he said, to have one thing masquerade as another.

Good God, groaned Russell. How organic must a form be? Do you expect oaks to grow in the shapes of chairs and bureaus?

See here, said Russell with a conspiratorial eye to the salesman, an older, balding man of uncommon patience. Russell gestured at a dresser, a magnificent piece. Constructed of red cherry, well lacquered, it was a veritable Stradivarius, with slender, tapering legs and drawers that slid silently on hard rubber castors. But immediately Wittgenstein found a flaw. Attached to the back of the dresser was a piece carved in an elegant fan design. This time, however, the salesman was ready:

But see here, sir. It's a quite functional design, ter keep yer things from falling down behind the wall.

Utterly unnecessary, scolded Wittgenstein, moving away. I can pick a penny from the floor.

Well, look here, said the salesman. If you do not like the piece, you can simply remove it like so. Three small screws is all. No one will know, sir.

Please — Wittgenstein was already walking away. I'm sorry. I will not have it.

But sir, pressed the salesman. Three little screws and you'll have what you want. I'll even knock off a quid for the piece you don't want.

Hear him, pleaded Russell.

Wittgenstein looked at Russell in amazement. Do you suppose you can just —
pull
it off? Forever it is fixed. Good day, good day. And off he went, dismissing them both.

Now listen, said Russell, following him out the belled door. All morning we've looked and you've found nothing. Nor will you —

Then I will have nothing. I will go to London.

Go to London! Russell stopped in the narrow lane.
Three screws
.

Three too many!
Wittgenstein resumed walking. God does not grant us limitless chances.

What on earth do you mean,
God?
Standing in the King's Parade with outstretched arms, Russell said, You said you don't even
believe
in God! But when it's expedient, then you drag God into it.

God is
there
, said Wittgenstein, pointing up at the sky.
Here
, he said, snapping his fingers at the ground.
Here
is no God. Still we have God's expectations. And God
expects
perfection — the
first
time.

Well, I wish you well!

It is not
good wishes — nor
God.

Good!
Russell fumed, striking off. Then let
God
make your furniture!

Wittgenstein could be harsh and imperious, but this took its toll on him. Back in Russell's rooms, once they had hastily reconciled, Russell told Wittgenstein, apropos of this furniture, that he must not wait for perfection before publishing. Russell expected a fight, but instead Wittgenstein turned away for shame, his voice wheezing as he blurted, I know. I
know
I will have nothing! But the problems we face, they are
not
nothing — even if I am nothing.