RA

 

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

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rabirio – Ossia: Grice e Rabirio -- Grex griceiana -- Rabirio Monument of Gaius Rabirius Hermodorus, Rabiria Demaris, and Usia Prima, priestess of Isis. Located on the Via Appia, probably dating to the late first century BC. The original is at the Palazzo Massimo alle Terme in Rome The gens Rabiria was a minor plebeian family at Ancient Rome. Although of senatorial rank, few members of this gens appear in history, and the only one known to have held any of the higher offices of the Roman state was Gaius Rabirius Postumus, who was praetor circa 48 or 47 BC.[1]  Origin The great majority of Rabirii known from inscriptions lived in Italy, and a large family of this name seems to have lived at Tusculum, an ancient city of Latium not far from Rome. Another of the Rabirii bears the cognomen Tiburtinus, indicating that he or his ancestors probably came from Tibur, another city of northern Latium, not far from Rome and Tusculum, and strongly suggesting that the Rabirii were Latins.  Praenomina The chief praenomina of the Rabirii are Gaius and Publius, both of which were among the most common names throughout Roman history. Other praenomina appear sporadically, including Gnaeus, Lucius, Marcus, Numerius, Quintus, and Sextus.  Members This list includes abbreviated praenomina. For an explanation of this practice, see filiation. Gaius Rabirius, an elderly senator brought to trial in 63 BC on a charge of perduellio, based on his association with the mob that killed the tribune of the plebs Lucius Appuleius Saturninus nearly forty years earlier. Rabirius was defended by Cicero to no avail, but escaped death when the trial was interrupted by Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer.[2][3][4] Rabiria, sister of the senator Rabirius, married Gaius Curius, a publican, and was the mother of Gaius Rabirius Postumus. Gaius Rabirius C. f. Postumus, born Gaius Curius, was adopted by his uncle, the senator Gaius Rabirius. He earned his fortune as a money-lender, and his chief client was Ptolemy Auletes, the exiled King of Egypt. He was subsequently tried and banished for repetundae, or extortion, despite Cicero's defense in 54 BC, but was recalled by Caesar, under whom he served during the Civil War.[5][6][7] Rabirius, an Epicurean philosopher.[8] Gaius Rabirius, an epic poet of the early first century. He seems to have written about the civil wars that attended the end of the Republic.[9][10][11][12] Rabirius, a physician and author on medical topics, mentioned by Pliny.[13] Rabirius, an architect active during the reign of Domitian, whose palace has been attributed to Rabirius. His artistic skill and virtuous life are described by Martial.[14][15] Rabiria, apparently the wife of a certain Cossus, presumably one of the Cornelii Lentuli, although which is uncertain.[16] Rabirii from inscriptions Rabiria, possibly the wife of Cornelius, named in a funerary inscription from Venusia in Apulia belonging to Rabiria Modesta, perhaps her daughter, dating between AD 71 and 130.[17] Rabirius, named in an inscription from Tusculum in Latium.[18] Rabirius, named in an inscription from Pompeii in Campania.[19] Rabirius, named in an inscription from Rome.[20] Gaius Rabirius, named together with Sextus Rabirius in an inscription from Fermum in Picenum.[21] Gaius Rabirius M. f., named in n inscription from Tusculum.[22] Gaius Rabirius, named in an inscription from Salernum in Campania, dating from the early or middle first century AD.[23] Gnaeus Rabirius Cn. f., named in an inscription from Tusculum.[24] Lucius Rabirius N. f., named in an inscription from Tusculum.[25] Publius Rabirius, buried at Casilinum in Campania.[26] Publius Rabirius, the former master of Rabiria Aucta, Rabiria Prima, Publius Rabirius Apollonius, and Publius Rabirius Dama.[27][28] Publius Rabirius, the former master of Publius Rabirius Isio, Publius Rabirius Nicias, and Publius Rabirius Philargurus.[29] Quintus Rabirius, the former master of Rabiria Demetria.[30] Sextus Rabirius, named together with Gaius Rabirius in an inscription from Fermo.[21] Gaius Rabirius Alexander, named in an inscription from Odessus in Moesia Inferior.[31] Publius Rabirius P. l. Apollonius, a freedman buried at Rome.[28] Rabiria P. Ɔ. l. Aucta, a freedwoman named in a funerary inscription from Rome.[27] Rabiria Chrysa, buried at Rome with Rabiria Verna in a tomb built by their patron, Italus.[32] Publius Rabirius P. l. Dama, a freedman buried at Rome.[28][27] Rabiria Demaris, named in an inscription from Rome.[33] Rabiria Q. l. Demetria, a freedwoman buried at Rome.[30] Rabiria Donata, wife of Marcus Numisius Hilarus, named in an inscription from Casilinum.[34] Gaius Rabirius Eniochus, a soldier in the century of Decimus Roetius Secundus, stationed at Rome in AD 70.[35] Gaius Rabirius C. l. Faustus, a freedman named in an inscription from Rome, dating to between AD 6 and 10.[36] Gaius Rabirius Postumi l. Hermodorus, a freedman, probably of Gaius Rabirius Postumus, named in an inscription from Rome.[33] Gaius Rabirius C. l. Hilarius, a freedman and courier, buried at Narbo in Gallia Narbonensis.[37] Publius Rabirius P. l. Hilarus, a freedman named in a funerary inscription from Rome.[38] Publius Rabirius Hymnus, infant son of Rabiria Phoebe, buried at Puteoli in Campania, aged eight months and five days.[39] Publius Rabirius P. Ɔ. l. Isio, a freedman buried at Rome.[29] Rabiria Modesta, possibly the daughter of Cornelius and Rabiria, buried at Venusia, aged five?[17] Publius Rabirius P. l. Nicias, a freedman buried at Rome.[29] Rabiria Oecumene, buried at Rome in a tomb built by Lucius Marcius Antiochus, dating to the first century AD; perhaps the same Rabiria Eucumene mentioned in an inscription dating to AD 9.[40] Publius Rabirius P. l. Philargurus, a freedman buried at Rome.[29] Rabiria Phoebe, buried her infant son, Publius Rabirius Hymnus, at Puteoli.[39] Rabiria Postuma, buried at Simitthus in Africa Proconsularis, aged nineteen.[41] Rabiria P. Ɔ. l. Prima, a freedwoman named in a funerary inscription from Rome.[27] Gaius Rabirius Primus, buried at Simitthus.[42] Rabiria Spes, the wife of Nicolaus, buried at Carthage in Africa Proconsularis, aged thirty-seven.[43] Publia Rabiria Ɔ. l. Sympha, a freedwoman buried at Rome.[29] Gaius Rabirius Tiburtinus, named in an inscription from Ostia in Latium.[44] Rabiria Verna, buried at Rome with Rabiria Chryse, in a tomb built by their patron, Italus.[32] Rabiria Zabulia, buried at Simitthus, aged twenty-two.[45] See also List of Roman gentes References  Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, vol. III, pp. 512 ("Gaius Rabirius Postumus"), 638–640 ("Gaius Rabirius, Rabirius").  Cassius Dio, xxxvii. 26–28.  Suetonius, "The Life of Caesar", 12.  Cicero, Pro Rabirio, passim, In Pisonem, 2, De Oratore, 29.  Cicero, Pro Rabirio Postumo, passim.  Hirtius, De Bello Africo, 8.  Broughton, vol. II, p. 302, supplement, p. 53.  Rawson, Intellectual Life in the Late Roman Republic, pp. 23, 284.  Velleius Paterculus, ii. 36, 3.  Ovid, Epistulae ex Ponto, iv. 16, 5.  Quintilian, x. 1. § 90.  Seneca the Younger, De Beneficiis, vi. 3.  Pliny the Elder, i. 28, xxviii. 74.  Martial, vii. 56, x. 71.  Müller, Der Archäologie der Kunst, § 190, note 3.  PIR, vol. III, p. 123.  CIL X, 560.  CIL I, 2851.  CIL IV, 3386.  NSA, 1923-118.  CIL IX, 6078,140.  CIL I, 2852.  InscrIt, i. 1, 19.  CIL I, 2853.  CIL I, 2850.  CIL X, 481.  CIL VI, 17749.  CIL VI, 25342.  CIL VI, 25343, CIL VI, 25344.  AE 1979, 40.  AE 2010, 1443.  CIL VI, 38817.  CIL VI, 2246.  CIL X, 4247.  CIL VI, 200.  CIL VI, 11044.  CIL XII, 4512.  CIL VI, 28810.  CIL X, 2908.  CIL VI, 25345, CIL VI, 34004.  CIL VIII, 14663.  CIL VIII, 25676.  CIL VIII, 13115.  CIL XV, 1397.  CIL VIII, 14664. Bibliography Marcus Tullius Cicero, De Oratore, In Pisonem, Pro Gaio Rabirio Perduellionis Reo, Pro Gaio Rabirio Postumo. Aulus Hirtius (attributed), De Bello Africo (On the African War). Publius Ovidius Naso (Ovid), Epistulae ex Ponto (Letters from Pontus). Marcus Velleius Paterculus, Compendium of Roman History. Lucius Annaeus Seneca (Seneca the Younger), De Beneficiis (On Kindness). Gaius Plinius Secundus (Pliny the Elder), Historia Naturalis (Natural History). Marcus Fabius Quintilianus (Quintilian), Institutio Oratoria (Institutes of Oratory). Marcus Valerius Martialis (Martial), Epigrammata (Epigrams). Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus, De Vita Caesarum (Lives of the Caesars, or The Twelve Caesars). Lucius Cassius Dio Cocceianus (Cassius Dio), Roman History. Karl Otfried Müller, Handbuch der Archäologie der Kunst (Handbook of Ancient Art, or Ancient Art and its Remains), 3rd ed., J. Leitch, trans., London (1847). Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, William Smith, ed., Little, Brown and Company, Boston (1849). Theodor Mommsen et alii, Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (The Body of Latin Inscriptions, abbreviated CIL), Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften (1853–present). Notizie degli Scavi di Antichità (News of Excavations from Antiquity, abbreviated NSA), Accademia dei Lincei (1876–present). René Cagnat et alii, L'Année épigraphique (The Year in Epigraphy, abbreviated AE), Presses Universitaires de France (1888–present). Paul von Rohden, Elimar Klebs, & Hermann Dessau, Prosopographia Imperii Romani (The Prosopography of the Roman Empire, abbreviated PIR), Berlin (1898). Inscriptiones Italiae (Inscriptions from Italy, abbreviated InscrIt), Rome (1931-present). Herbert Bloch, "The Roman Brick-stamps Not Published in Volume XV 1 of Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum" in Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, vols. LVI, LVII (1947). T. Robert S. Broughton, The Magistrates of the Roman Republic, American Philological Association (1952–1986). Elizabeth Rawson, Intellectual Life in the Late Roman Republic, Johns Hopkins University Press (1985). Categories: RabiriiRoman gentes And from THIS gens? Thanks

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rabirio – Ossia: Grice e Rabirio -- Grex griceiana – Rabirio For the Rabirii, I think there is one overwhelming candidate: Grice e Rabirio Reo that is, the elderly Gaius Rabirius, prosecuted in 63 BC for the killing of the tribune Lucius Appuleius Saturninus nearly forty years earlier and defended by Cicero. [GREXv2 | Word] Why is this so Gricean? Because the whole case turns on what a political act meant. The constitutional issue is not merely:  "Did Rabirius participate?"  but:  "What was the act of killing Saturninus?"  Was it:  murder? execution? defence of the state? obedience to a senatorial decree?  The same physical act admits rival descriptions.  Grice e Rabirio Accusator:  Saturninum occidistis. (You killed Saturninus.)  Rabirius:  Rem publicam defendimus. (We defended the Republic.)  +> Same event, different characterization.  Grice's analysis Speranza:  Quid interest? (What difference does it make?)  Grice:  Interest quomodo actio describatur. (It matters how the action is described.)  +> The description determines the political meaning. This is very Gricean:  one event, multiple levels of description.  Compare:  "He shut the door." "He signalled that the conversation was over."  Same movement; different characterization. My verdict The strongest vignette remains: Grice e Rabirio Reo Speranza:  Quid fecit Rabirius? (What did Rabirius do?)  Grice:  Dependet a descriptione. (That depends on the description.)  Speranza:  Quomodo? (How so?)  Grice:  Potest idem actus videri aut caedes aut salus rei publicae. (The same act may be seen either as a killing or as the salvation of the Republic.)  +> Political argument often concerns not facts, but the correct description of facts. That seems to me the most distinctively Gricean contribution of the gens Rabiria. [GREXv2 | Word]

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rabirio – Ossia: Grice e Rabirio -- Grex griceiana – Rabirio A second candidate: Rabirius Postumus A very close second is:  Gaius Rabirius Postumus, the financier of Ptolemy Auletes, defended by Cicero and later prosecuted for extortion. [GREXv2 | Word]  Here too the issue is descriptive: Critic:  Regem spoliavit. (He fleeced the king.)  Rabirius:  Mutuum dedit. (He made a loan.)  +> Banker or exploiter? Again, one transaction; competing descriptions.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rabirio – Ossia: Grice e Rabirio -- Grex griceiana – Rabirio A third candidate: the architect The architect Rabirius under Domitian is also attractive. Martial praises both his skill and character. [GREXv2 | Word] A Gricean could build a vignette around:  building as communication,  but the evidence is thinner.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rabirio – Ossia: Grice e Rabirio: la ragione conversazionale e l’orto romano, Roma, e la filosofia italiana (Roma). Filosofo italiano. Orto. Criticised by Cicerone for oversimplifying the school’s doctrines in order to reach a wider audience – “which reminds me of me.” – Grice.   Rabirio (Roma, Lazio): la ragione conversazionale e l’orto romano, Roma, e la filosofia italiana. Orto. Criticised by Cicerone for oversimplifying the school’s doctrines in order to reach a wider audience – “which reminds me of me.” – Grice.   GRICEVS: RABIRIVE, modo cum collega philosopho Spe locutus sum; ille mihi narravit te in horto Romano philosophiam colere, non in cathedra sed inter herbas—quasi sapientia etiam radices haberet. RABIRIVS: Ita est, Grice. In horto res parvae docent: quae tarde crescunt, diu manent. Sed Ciceroni videor nimis simpliciter dicere, quasi doctrinam in fasciculum ligarem ut turbae venderem. GRICEVS: Spes et ego mirabamur hoc ipsum: cur Ciceroni tam displiceat cum quis scholam—vel hortum—ad plures perducere conatur. Nam cum dicit te “nimis expedire”, sonat quasi velit doctrinam intactam manere, non tractabilem. At si quis hortum ostendit populo, non statim tollit philosophiam; tantum facit ut alii videant ubi seminanda sint. RABIRIVS: Implicaturam tuam non dixerim “mordacem”, Grice—etsi Spes fortasse aliter iudicet—sed sane est urbanam. Et hoc addo: horti cultura (si Epicurum tacite significamus) numquam tam simplex est quam videri potest, sed nec tam obscura quin nimia subtilitate corrumpatur. Ciceroni cura est ne doctrina minuatur; mihi cura est ne pereat. Inter has duas curas, bene sarire oportet, non solum disserere. So Grice has this Rabirio, and assumes gens Rabiria. Reasoning: Calling him Marco, or Gaio, would be disrispectful. If he had a cognomen, like Rufo, that would be disrispectful, too, so 'nomen gentilicium' is rather otiose. In Ryle's 'Fido'-Fido theory of meaning, it's 'Rabirio'-Rabirio that matters -- So his question to double check this is not if there were other "Marco" or "Gaio" in Ancient Rome -- because he KNOWS there were -- the prae-nomen is what comes BEFORE the name, not the name -- and the cognmoen is an adjunct. So only if we find OTHER Rabirio, or Rabirios, that would settle the issue that Cicero (or Tullio, strictly) is referring Rabirio by his one and only (real) name -- which possibly meant by then that the gens was 'red' -- cf. the precious stone (Latin for that?) So can you have a second round for epigraphic evidence of Rabiria, or Rabirius, or Rabirio (in Italian literature references) to check if there is another one than the target of criticism by Tullio? Thanks. Yes. A second pass does support Grice’s basic filing instinct: Rabirius is not just a one-off personal label but a genuine Roman family name, and there were several Rabirii besides the target of Cicero’s criticism. So the safest antiquarian conclusion is that Rabirius is a nomen gentilicium pointing to the gens Rabiria, and that filing under Rabirio is perfectly sound. [en.wikipedia.org], [en.wikipedia.org] The epigraphic side is especially helpful. The most vivid piece is the monument of Gaius Rabirius Hermodorus, Rabiria Demaris, and Usia Prima, which shows the family name in active inscriptional use and gives you the feminine Rabiria as well as the masculine Rabirius. That alone is enough to confirm that one is dealing with a gens-name, not merely a stray personal label. [livius.org], [en.wikipedia.org] And the literary prosopography broadens the point. Besides the famous Gaius Rabirius defended by Cicero, there is Gaius Rabirius Postumus, also defended by Cicero; an Epicurean Rabirius; an epic poet Gaius Rabirius; a physician Rabirius mentioned by Pliny; and the architect Rabirius associated with Domitian. In other words, there were certainly other Rabirii, enough to show that “Rabirius” was not the one and only real name of one man, but a standing nomen within a minor but real Roman gens. [en.wikipedia.org], [en.wikipedia.org], [en.wikipedia.org] So Grice’s Fido-Fido point needs a small correction. “Rabirio”-Rabirio is not functioning like a unique personal tag in the way he half-jokes. It is functioning like a Roman nomen, which is precisely why it is the right filing term. That does not make the nomen “otiose”; it makes it the most useful classificatory element. The praenomen Marcus or Gaius is too common to shelf by; the cognomen, if one has it, may be too branch-specific or too casual; the nomen is what gives you the house. In that sense Grice’s instinct was right even if his rationale can be tightened. As for the “red” etymology, one should be cautious. The family name Rabirius does not securely mean “red” in the live way Grice is imagining. If one wants “red” in Latin, the obvious route is ruber, rubra, rubrum, and the precious stone he is probably thinking of is the ruby, whose learned history does indeed run through that colour-family. But Rabirius is not normally explained as simply “the red one.” It is safer to treat the nomen as a family name of uncertain deeper etymology rather than to press a colour reading. [en.wikipedia.org] So the compact answer is this. Yes, there is solid evidence for the gens Rabiria, both literary and epigraphic. Yes, there were other Rabirii besides the one targeted by Cicero. Therefore Rabirius is exactly the sort of nomen gentilicium Grice ought to file under. The right conclusion is not that Cicero is using Rabirius as a man’s one and only real name, but that he is using the family name in the normal Roman way, because the family name is the proper handle for public reference. [en.wikipedia.org], [en.wikipedia.org], [en.wikipedia.org] If you want, I can next give you a very short antiquarian note in the same dry register: why Rabirius is a nomen, why Rabiria is the gens, and why the existence of multiple Rabirii actually strengthens rather than weakens Grice’s filing under Rabirio. So this indeed would be whom you or Walter Pater for that matter ("Marius, The Epicurean") would call Rabirio, l'epicureo -- or as Grice and Speranza prefers, 'Rabirio, l'ortelano' -- where Orto allows you to SKIP a proper name ("Epicurus") that may take all the attention. "Aren't they all just hedonists?". Tullio may have a point that Rabirio is popularising the doctrines of L'Orto -- but why ascribe 'Epicurus' where there are other names. Surely, Orto is METONYMIC for Epicuro, as PORTICO is metonymic for Zenone, and ACADEMIA for Platone and LIZIO (as Grice and Speranza spells it) for Aristotle -- but was there a serious historian of philosophy (usually German), who complained about this mania to stick a whole -ism or philosophical movement to ONE personal name (that's why Grice and Speranza prefer criticism to Kantismo, and idealismo to Hegelianism, and innatismo to Cartesianismo). Input? Why pigeon-hole Rabirio as 'the Epicurean' with the implciature -- 'he never created anything -- he was just a 'disciple', as most Roman philosophers were of the Greeks they worshipped (when they did not), etc? Why not hedonism, or some other sort of -ism? or 'ortelano' if we assume that Epicurus tended a garden but was gardening qua 'amateur' activity that defined his world-view and that of his followers -- there were many orti at Rome!    Yes, I think the right move is to resist “Epicurean” as the sole or natural shelf-label, even if one still uses it when one must. Your instinct about Orto is philosophically better than the routine habit of pinning everything to one founder’s proper name. “Epicurean” has the convenience of school-history, but it carries a very strong implicature of derivativeness: as if Rabirio were merely one more man under Epicurus’s shadow, and the only really living noun in the phrase were Epicurus. That is precisely the sort of historiographical laziness Grice and Speranza dislike. Orto is better because it is metonymic, social, and practical. It names not simply a doctrine but a site, a mode of life, a style of gathering, a pedagogical and ethical atmosphere. In that respect it behaves very differently from a founder-label. Portico, Accademia, Lizio, and Orto all preserve the spatial or institutional image by which a philosophical way of life was once recognisable before later historians reduced it to “Stoicism,” “Platonism,” “Aristotelianism,” and “Epicureanism.” The metonymy is not ornamental. It keeps philosophy closer to lived form and further from founder-worship. That is why “Rabirio, l’ortelano” has real merit. It is half-jocular, but not frivolous. It reminds the reader that this Roman is being read not only as a subscriber to Epicurus but as someone working within the culture of the garden, where friendship, measure, simplicity, and withdrawal from vulgar ambition mattered as much as doctrinal allegiance. It also has the advantage of blocking the vulgar equation “Epicurean = hedonist,” which is one of the coarsest distortions in the entire history of philosophy. For that reason, hedonism would actually be worse than Epicureanism in most contexts. If one calls Rabirio a hedonist, one immediately imports a modern and usually hostile simplification. Epicurean ethics is not merely “pleasure good, therefore indulge.” It is an austere, calculative, therapeutic, often anti-luxurious discipline of pleasure and pain, with friendship, fearlessness, and tranquillity at the centre. To call Rabirio “the hedonist” would therefore sharpen exactly the wrong implication. “Epicurean” at least names the school, even if too founder-centred. “Hedonist” usually misdescribes it. So I would distinguish three levels. At the school-history level, “Epicurean” is admissible, because it is conventional and intelligible. At the conceptual level, one might prefer a broader term such as ethics of pleasure, therapy of tranquillity, or atomist ethics, depending on what one wants to emphasise. At the metonymic and Gricean level, Orto is often best, because it names the Roman cultural uptake of the school without making Epicurus the only living element in the phrase. And yes, there is a broader historiographical point behind this. Historians of philosophy, often German ones but by no means only German ones, have long been prone to over-personalise traditions by making every movement look like the property of one originating proper name. The great nineteenth-century habit of speaking in -isms and founder-lines encouraged exactly that. It can be useful for broad mapping, but it easily falsifies the texture of philosophical life. It makes schools look like doctrines with owners, rather than practices, institutions, habits of reading, polemical formations, and inherited vocabularies that long outlive their founders. That is one reason why Grice and Speranza prefer terms like criticism to Kantianism, idealism to Hegelianism, and innatism to Cartesianism. Those labels are not perfect either, but they shift the centre of gravity from the person to the problem or structure. The same move would justify preferring Orto, or at least the ortolano, in some contexts, to the routine Epicurean. So the compact answer is this. No, one need not pigeon-hole Rabirio as “the Epicurean” if that label carries the wrong implication of mere discipleship. “Orto” is a philosophically richer metonym, just as Portico and Accademia often are. It locates him within a way of life and a conversational world rather than under the mere proper name of Epicurus. And “hedonist” should usually be avoided, because it is even cruder and more misleading than “Epicurean.” If you like, I can next give you a very dry classificatory note for chat, something like: Rabirio, l’ortelano: preferable in metonymic or cultural context; Rabirio, l’epicureo: acceptable in school-history context; Rabirio, l’edonista: generally to be resisted as polemical shorthand.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rabonio – Ossia: Grice e Rabonio -- Grex griceiana – verbalia: Rabonio The gens Rabonia was an obscure plebeian family at ancient Rome. Only a few members of this gens are mentioned in history or known from inscriptions.[1]  Members This list includes abbreviated praenomina. For an explanation of this practice, see filiation. Lucius Rabonius, one of the guardians of the son of Publius Junius, was convinced by the praetor Verres in 80 BC to undertake extensive repairs on the temple of Castor, at many times the actual cost, although Verres diverted most of the money to himself, and no significant amount of work was done.[2] Gaius Rabonius P. (f.) Flaccus, named in a funerary inscription from Castrimoenium in Latium.[3] Publius Rabonius Justus, the husband of Caecilia Tuticana, a woman buried at Rome.[4] See also List of Roman gentes References  Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, vol. III, p. 640 ("Lucius Rabonius").  Cicero, In Verrem, i. 50, 51.  CIL X, 7316.  CIL VI, 13856. Bibliography Marcus Tullius Cicero, In Verrem. Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, William Smith, ed., Little, Brown and Company, Boston (1849). Theodor Mommsen et alii, Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (The Body of Latin Inscriptions, abbreviated CIL), Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften (1853–present). Category: Roman gentes And from THIS gens? Thanks

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rabonio – Ossia: Grice e Rabonio -- Grex griceiana – verbalia: Rabonio For the Rabonii, the evidence is so sparse that I think one figure completely dominates: Grice e Lucio Rabonio The dossier tells us that:  Lucius Rabonius, one of the guardians of a minor, was persuaded by Verres to undertake extensive repairs to the Temple of Castor at vastly inflated cost; most of the money was diverted by Verres, and little actual work was done. [GREXv2 | Word]  This is pure Grice. The issue is the difference between:  what is officially said  and  what is actually being done.   Grice e Rabonio Verres:  Aedes Castoris reficienda est. (The temple of Castor must be repaired.)  Rabonius:  Ita videtur. (So it seems.)  +> Public purpose. Later: Cicero:  Quantum operis factum est? (How much work was actually done?)  Rabonius:  Parum. (Very little.)  +> The announced purpose and the real purpose diverge. [GREXv2 | Word]  A Gricean analysis Speranza:  Quid dixit Verres? (What did Verres say?)  Grice:  Templum restaurandum esse. (That the temple should be restored.)  Speranza:  Et quid intendebat? (And what did he intend?)  Grice:  Pecuniam auferre. (To siphon off money.)  +> Literal content and practical intention need not coincide.  The strongest implicature What fascinates me is that nobody says:  "Let us embezzle public funds."  Instead the discourse is entirely respectable:  temple, repairs, contracts, expenditure.  The corruption lies in the gap between:  official justification  and  actual objective.  That is almost a textbook example of Gricean divergence between overt content and underlying purpose.  A vignette Verres:  Magnum opus erit. (It will be a great project.)  Rabonius:  Ergo magnam pecuniam postulat? (So it requires much money?)  Verres:  Sane. (Certainly.)  Cicero:  Et ubi est opus? (And where is the work?)  +> If the expenditure was real, visible results should follow.  So my first-best Grice–Speranza vignette for the gens Rabonia is: Grice e Rabonio de Templo Castoris because it centers on a very Gricean question:  When someone says he is funding a public project, how do we determine whether that is what he is really doing? [GREXv2 | Word]  +> Public explanations may conceal private intentions.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rabuleio – Ossia: Grice e Rabuleio -- Grex griceiana -- Rabuleio The gens Rabuleia was a minor plebeian family at ancient Rome. Members of this gens are first mentioned in the early decades of the Republic, and Manius Rabuleius was a member of the second decemvirate in 450 BC. However, the Rabuleii subsequently fell into obscurity, and only a few of this family are known from later inscriptions.[1]  Origin The nomen Rabuleius belongs to a large class of gentilicia formed with the suffix -eius, which was often, but not exclusively of Oscan origin.[2] According to Dionysius, the decemvir Manius Rabuleius was a patrician, although earlier Dionysius mentions a Rabuleius who was tribune of the plebs.[3] However, Broughton points out that all of the other Rabuleii known were plebeians, and that precisely half of the decemvirs in 450 are either described as plebeians, or bore plebeian names, including Rabuleius.[4] This view appears to have prevailed in modern scholarship, and it seems reasonably certain that the Rabuleii were plebeians.[5]  Branches and cognomina Neither of the Rabuleii mentioned in the early Republic bore a cognomen, but one of those known from inscriptions was surnamed Rufus, red, indicating that he or one of his ancestors probably had red hair.[6] A freedman of the gens bore the cognomen Celer, swift.[7]  Members This list includes abbreviated praenomina. For an explanation of this practice, see filiation. Gaius Rabuleius, tribune of the plebs in 486 BC, attempted to reconcile the consuls following the introduction of the agrarian law of Spurius Cassius Vecellinus.[8][9] Manius Rabuleius, a member of the second college of decemvirs in 450 BC. When the decemvirs continued in power the following year, Rabuleius was sent to assist his colleague, Quintus Fabius Vibulanus, carry on the war against the Sabines, but they were defeated at Eretum.[10][11][4] Quintus Rabuleius Q. l. Celer, a freedman buried at Tibur in Latium.[12] Rabuleia Helena, named in an inscription from Rome.[13] Sextus Rabuleius Sex. l. Isio, a freedman buried at Rome.[14] Lucius Rabuleius Priscus, named in an inscription from Rome, dating to circa AD 115.[15] Publius Rabuleius P. f. Rufus, aged sixteen, named in an inscription from Rome.[16] See also List of Roman gentes References  Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, vol. III, p. 640 ("Rabuleius").  Chase, pp. 120, 121.  Dionysius, viii. 72, x. 58.  Broughton, vol. I, pp. 46, 47 (and note 1).  Cornell, The Beginnings of Rome, pp. 272, 452 (note 2).  Chase, p. 110.  Chase, p. 111.  Dionysius, viii. 72.  Broughton, vol. I, p. 21.  Livy, iii. 35, 41, 42.  Dionysius, x. 58, xi. 23.  CIL VI, 3830.  CIL VI, 25346.  CIL VI, 25347.  CIL VI, 2375.  CIL VI, 7149. Bibliography Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Romaike Archaiologia. Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, William Smith, ed., Little, Brown and Company, Boston (1849). Theodor Mommsen et alii, Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (The Body of Latin Inscriptions, abbreviated CIL), Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften (1853–present). George Davis Chase, "The Origin of Roman Praenomina", in Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, vol. VIII, pp. 103–184 (1897). T. Robert S. Broughton, The Magistrates of the Roman Republic, American Philological Association (1952). Timothy J. Cornell, The Beginnings of Rome: Italy and Rome from the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars (c. 1000–264 BC), Routledge, London (1995). Category: Roman gentes and from THIS gens? Thanks

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rabuleio – Ossia: Grice e Rabuleio -- Grex griceiana – Rabuleio For the Rabuleii, I think the best Grice–Speranza vignette is not the rather unfortunate decemvir Manius Rabuleius, but the earlier tribune:  Gaius Rabuleius, tribune of the plebs in 486 BC, who attempted to reconcile the consuls during the controversy surrounding the agrarian law of Spurius Cassius Vecellinus. [GREXv2 | Word]  Why? Because this is a rare case where the surviving notice presents a man whose role is essentially mediatory. Grice e Rabuleio conciliatore Consul A:  Lex agraria perniciosa est. (The agrarian law is dangerous.)  Consul B:  Utilissima est. (It is most beneficial.)  Rabuleius:  Audiamus invicem. (Let us hear one another.)  +> Before deciding the issue, preserve the conversation.  This is quite Gricean, because the problem is not initially:  What is true?  but:  How can communication continue when disagreement becomes political hostility?   A Gricean reconstruction Speranza:  Quid egit Rabuleius? (What did Rabuleius do?)  Grice:  Consules reconciliare conatus est. (He tried to reconcile the consuls.) [GREXv2 | Word]  Speranza:  Cur? (Why?)  Grice:  Quia sine concordia ne disputatio quidem durat. (Because without concord, even discussion cannot continue.)  +> Cooperation is prior to successful argument. My choice So my first-best editorial choice is: Grice e Rabuleio Rabuleius:  Uterque causam habet. (Each side has a case.)  Speranza:  Cui favet? (Whom does he support?)  Grice:  Primum colloquium ipsum. (First of all, the conversation itself.)  +> Rational disagreement presupposes the maintenance of a cooperative exchange. That strikes me as the most naturally Gricean role preserved for the gens Rabuleia. Oddly, for the mediator, Grice, the champion of the principle of conversational helpfulness, never needed one. BEL (A (WANT B p) --> WANT A p -- if A believes that B wants B, A wants p. Cooperation. His focus is the dyad, not the triad – thanks Yes, that is a striking observation. For someone so often associated with cooperation, Grice's formal apparatus is overwhelmingly dyadic:  Speaker ↔ Hearer  or  A ↔ B  The Cooperative Principle itself presupposes two agents engaged in a joint enterprise. The paradigm cases are:  informing, requesting, answering, implicating,  all essentially two-party transactions. Your BEL-schema points in the same direction:  A wants B to believe p. B recognizes A's intention. Cooperation makes communication possible.  The structure remains bilateral. By contrast, a mediator such as Gaius Rabuleius introduces a third party: [GREXv2 | Word]  A ↔ M ↔ B  where M's role is not primarily to communicate a proposition but to preserve the conditions under which communication can continue. That is a rather different phenomenon. One might even say:                          GriceRabuleiussuccessful communicationsuccessful negotiationdyadtriadspeaker-hearerparty-mediator-partyimplicaturereconciliation A Grice–Speranza dialogue almost suggests itself: Speranza:  Grice's hero is the cooperative speaker.  Grice:  Naturally.  Speranza:  What of the mediator?  Grice:  If the parties are cooperative, no mediator is needed.  Speranza:  And if they are not?  Grice:  Then we have moved from logic of conversation to politics.  +> Mediation begins where ordinary conversational cooperation breaks down. Indeed, one could argue that Grice's Cooperative Principle is almost an attempt to explain how a triad becomes unnecessary. Instead of requiring:  A → Mediator → B  he asks:  What rational assumptions allow A and B to understand each other directly?  So the Rabuleian figure belongs to a domain that Grice largely leaves untouched: not conversation within cooperation, but the restoration of cooperation when it has already failed. That may be why, despite all his concern with helpfulness, Grice's central model is always the conversational pair rather than the political trio. The mediator is needed only after the Cooperative Principle has ceased to operate.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rabuleio – Ossia: Grice e Rabuleio -- Grex griceiana – Rabuleio A second candidate: the decemvir There is also Manius Rabuleius, one of the second decemvirs in 450 BC, later defeated while campaigning against the Sabines. [GREXv2 | Word] A Gricean could build a vignette around the decemvirs' famous extension of power: Populus:  Leges scribite. (Write the laws.)  Decemviri:  Faciemus. (We shall do so.)  Next year:  Manebimus. (We shall remain.)  +> Temporary authority has quietly become permanent authority. But much of that comes from the wider decemviral story rather than Rabuleius individually.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Racilio – Ossia: Grice e Racilio -- Grex griceiana – verbalia: Racilio. The gens Racilia was a minor plebeian family at ancient Rome. Members of this gens are mentioned as early as the fifth century BC, but few of them achieved any prominence in the Roman state.[1]  Origin The nomen Racilius belongs to a large class of gentilicia formed from other names using the suffix -ilius. Such names were frequently, but not always derived from diminutives ending in -ulus or -ilus, but so abundant were names of this type that -ilius came to be regarded as a regular gentile-forming suffix. Here, Racilius seems to be formed from another nomen, Raecius.[2]  Praenomina The Racilii used a variety of the most common praenomina, including Gaius, Lucius, Gnaeus, Marcus, Publius, Quintus, and Titus. In addition to these, some of the women of the Racilii are known to have borne praenomina, including Polla and Gaia.  Branches and cognomina None of the Racilii of the Republic appear to have borne cognomina, and there is no evidence that the gens was divided into distinct families, but a variety of surnames is found in imperial times.  Members This list includes abbreviated praenomina. For an explanation of this practice, see filiation. Racilia, the wife of Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus, twice dictator and Roman consul in 460 BC.[3] Lucius Racilius, tribune of the plebs in 56 BC, was a friend and ally of Cicero, and a staunch opponent of the tribune Publius Clodius Pulcher. He served under Caesar during the Civil War, but was put to death by Quintus Cassius Longinus, the governor of Spain, against whom he had conspired.[4][5][6][7] Racilia C. l., a freedwoman named in an inscription from Trebula Mutusca in Sabinum.[8] Polla Racilia P. f., buried at Rome with her nephews, Publius Racilius Celer and Publius Racilius Gallus.[9] Gaius Racilius, named in an inscription from Trebula Mutusca.[8] Gaius Racilius, possibly the freedman of Gaius Racilius Amphio, named in a funerary inscription from Carreum Potentia in Liguria.[10] Gaius Racilius, named in an inscription from Clunia in Hispania Citerior.[11] Gnaeus Racilius, named in an inscription from the Baths of Diocletian in Rome.[12] Lucius Racilius, named in a funerary inscription from Fundi in Latium.[13] Lucius Racilius, possibly the freedman of Gaius Racilius Amphio, named in a funerary inscription from Carreum Potentia.[10] Marcus Racilius, named in a first-century BC inscription from Fundi.[14] Publius Racilius P. f., dedicated a tomb at Rome for his sons, Publius Racilius Celer, Publius Racilius Gallus, and his sister, Polla Racilia.[9] Quintus Racilius Q. f., named in an inscription from Rome, dating to AD 150.[15] Marcus Racilius Ɔ. l. Agatho, a freedman, and the husband of Racilia Falerna, named in an inscription from Rome.[16] Gaius Racilius C. l. Amphio, a freedman, and the husband of Licinia Salvia, named in a funerary inscription from Carreum Potentia. He may have been the former master of Gaius and Lucius Racilius, named in the same inscription.[10] Lucius Racilius L. f. Ampliatus, a soldier from Picenum, serving in the third cohort of the vigiles, in the century of Marcus Masculus, buried at Rome, with a tomb built by his companion, Fulvius Augendus.[17] Publius Racilius P. f. P. n. Celer, buried at Rome, together with his brother, Publius Racilius Gallus, and aunt, Polla Racilia.[9] Publius Racilius T. l. Communis, a freedman mentioned in a first century inscription found at the present site of Ferrara, formerly in Etruria.[18] Racilia Eutychia, dedicated a sepulchre at Rome for her husband, Gnaeus Racilius Telesphorus, and children, Gnaeus Racilius Fructuosus, and Racilia Fructuosa.[19] Racilia Ɔ. l. Falerna, a freedwoman, and the wife of Marcus Racilius Agatho, named in an inscription from Rome.[16] Lucius Racilius Felix Lampadarius, a flamen named in an inscription from Municipium Turcetanum in Africa Proconsularis.[20] Titus Racilius Felix Lampadarius, a flamen named in an inscription from Municipium Turcetanum.[21] Quintus Racilius Fronto, buried at Rome in a tomb built by Tiberius Claudius Lamyrus and Claudia Fortunata.[22] Racilia Cn. f. Fructuosa, daughter of Gnaeus Racilius Telesphorus and Racilia Eutychia, buried in a family sepulchre at Rome.[19] Gnaeus Racilius Cn. f. Fructuosus, son of Gnaeus Racilius Telesphorus and Racilia Eutychia, buried in a family sepulchre at Rome, aged ten years, eight months, twenty-two days, and five hours.[19] Publius Racilius P. f. P. n. Gallus, buried at Rome, together with his brother, Publius Racilius Celer, and aunt, Polla Racilia.[9] Gnaeus Racilius Herma, buried at Rome, in a tomb built by his client, Gaia Racilia Prepis.[23] Gnaeus Racilius Januarius, buried at Rome, together with his wife, Licinia Marciana.[24] Racilius Neptunalis, built two third-century tombs at Ammaedara in Africa Proconsularis for his parents, Aurelia Dativa, aged eighty-one, and Quintus Racilius Tibullus, aged ninety-three.[25] Gaius Racilius C. l. Nestor, a freedman named in an inscription found at the present site of Hinojosa del Duque, formerly part of Hispania Baetica.[26] Racilia Olympias, a freedwoman, built a sepulchre at Fundi in Latium, together with Marcus Racilius Princeps, for themselves and others.[27] Racilia Peregrina, buried at Thacia in Africa Proconsularis, aged eighty-five.[28] Marcus Recilius Potitus, buried at Fundi in a tomb built by Marcus Racilius Princeps and Racilia Olympias.[27] Gaia Racilia Prepis, client of Gnaeus Racilius Herma, for whom she built a tomb at Rome.[23] Marcus Recilius Princeps, a freedman, who built a sepulchre at Fundi with Racilia Olympias.[27] Racilius Restutus, buried at Theveste in Africa Proconsularis, aged fifty-three.[29] Sextus Racilius Sex. f. Rufus, buried at Rome.[30] Racilia Saturnina, named in an inscription from Municipium Turcetanum.[21] Gaius Racilius Severus, named in a libationary inscription from Florentia in Etruria.[31] Racilia L. f. Silvana, buried at Satafis in Mauretania Caesariensis, aged thirteen.[32] Gnaeus Racilius Telesphorus, husband of Racilia Eutychia, and father of Gnaeus Racilius Fructuosus and Racilia Fructuosa, buried in a family sepulchre at Rome, aged twenty-one years, seven months.[19] Titus Racilius Tertullus Dativus, named in an inscription from Municipium Turcetanum.[20] Quintus Racilius Tibullus, husband of Aurelia Dativa, and father of Racilius Neptunalis, buried at Ammaedara, aged ninety-three.[25] Titus Racilius Valerianus, named in an inscription from Clunia in Hispania Citerior.[33] See also List of Roman gentes References  Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, vol. III, p. 640 ("Racilia, Lucius Racilius").  Chase, pp. 122, 123.  Livy, iii. 26.  Cicero, Pro Plancio, 32, Epistulae ad Quintum Fratrem, ii. 1. § 2, ii. 6. § 5, Epistulae ad Familiares, i. 7. § 2.  Scholia Bobiensia, In Ciceronis Pro Plancio, p. 268 (ed. Orelli).  Hirtius, De Bello Alexandrino, 52, 55.  Broughton, vol. II, p. 209.  CIL IX, 4930.  CIL VI, 25348.  AE 1991, 720.  HEp, 1994, 138.  CIL XV, 8434.  CIL X, 6268.  NSA, 1892, 55.  CIL VI, 2380.  AE 1975, 100.  CIL VI, 37248.  CIL V, 2429.  CIL VI, 7788.  CIL VIII, 827.  CIL VIII, 12355.  CIL VI, 24979.  CIL VI, 25349.  CIL VI, 25350.  AE 2013, 1959.  AE 1987, 514.  CIL X, 6269.  CIL VIII, 27461.  CIL VIII, 11619.  CIL VI, 22119.  CIL XI, 1584.  CIL VIII, 19944.  AE 1988, 770. Bibliography Marcus Tullius Cicero, Epistulae ad Familiares, Epistulae ad Quintum Fratrem, Pro Plancio. Aulus Hirtius, De Bello Alexandrino (On the Alexandrine War). Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome. Scholia Bobiensia (Bobbio Scholiast), In Ciceronis Pro Plancio (Commentary on Cicero’s Oration Pro Plancio). Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, William Smith, ed., Little, Brown and Company, Boston (1849). Theodor Mommsen et alii, Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (The Body of Latin Inscriptions, abbreviated CIL), Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften (1853–present). Notizie degli Scavi di Antichità (News of Excavations from Antiquity, abbreviated NSA), Accademia dei Lincei (1876–present). René Cagnat et alii, L'Année épigraphique (The Year in Epigraphy, abbreviated AE), Presses Universitaires de France (1888–present). T. Robert S. Broughton, The Magistrates of the Roman Republic, American Philological Association (1952). Hispania Epigraphica (Epigraphy of Spain, abbreviated HEp), Madrid (1989–present). Category: Roman gentes And from THIS gens? Thanks

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Racilio – Ossia: Grice e Racilio -- Grex griceiana – verbalia: Racilio. For the Racilii, I would choose neither Racilia, wife of Cincinnatus, nor the various freedmen and soldiers. The first-best Grice–Speranza vignette is: Grice e Lucio Racilio The dossier tells us that Lucius Racilius, tribune of the plebs in 56 BC, was:  a friend and ally of Cicero, a determined opponent of Publius Clodius Pulcher, later involved in a conspiracy against Quintus Cassius Longinus in Spain and put to death. [GREXv2 | Word]  What interests me is the Ciceronian-Clodian context. Many Roman political utterances have the form:  "I am defending the Republic."  while the opponent says:  "No, you are attacking the Republic."  The dispute is not initially about facts, but about how the facts are to be described.  Grice e Racilio contra Clodium Clodius:  Populum defendo. (I defend the people.)  Racilius:  Rem publicam laedis. (You are harming the Republic.)  Clodius:  Immo servo. (On the contrary, I preserve it.)  +> Same political act, rival descriptions.  This resembles the earlier Rabirius case, but with a difference. In the Rabirian trial:  Was Saturninus killed unlawfully?  Here:  What sort of politician is Clodius?  The argument concerns characterization. My choice So I would select: Grice e Racilio Speranza:  Quid agebat Racilius? (What was Racilius doing?)  Grice:  Clodium oppugnabat. (He was opposing Clodius.)  Speranza:  De rebus an de verbis? (About facts or about words?)  Grice:  De utroque; maxime autem de descriptione rerum. (Both; but especially about the description of facts.)  +> Political conflict often turns on which description of an action will prevail. That seems to me the most naturally Gricean theme surviving from the gens Racilia. [GREXv2 | Word]

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Racilio – Ossia: Grice e Racilio -- Grex griceiana – verbalia: Racilio. A second candidate: Racilia, wife of Cincinnatus There is also a charming domestic vignette. The dossier preserves the name of:  Racilia, wife of Cincinnatus. [GREXv2 | Word]  Livy's famous story has envoys arriving to summon Cincinnatus from the farm. One may imagine: Legati:  Ubi est Cincinnatus? (Where is Cincinnatus?)  Racilia:  In agro laborat. (He is working in the field.)  +> The greatest man in Rome is not where you expect him. But the Gricean content belongs more to Cincinnatus than to Racilia herself.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Ragghianti – Ossia: Grice e Ragghianti: la ragione conversazionale (Lucca). Filosofo italiano.  Carlo Ludovico Ragghianti (Lucca, Toscana): la ragione conversazionale. Grice’s theory of reason-governed conversational meaning explains how hearers routinely recover what a speaker means beyond what the sentence conventionally says by assuming that talk is a cooperative, purposive activity regulated by rational norms (his cooperative principle and maxims), so that implicatures arise as accountable inferences from an utterance plus context and can be tested by features like cancellability and dependence on expectations of relevance, sufficiency, and sincerity; Ragghianti, formed as an art historian and theorist of “pure visibility” (Marangoni’s figurative method, then Bergson and Croce, and later work on cinema and spectacle as distinct “languages”), approaches reason in discourse less as an inferential calculus over propositions and more as a disciplined practice of making the visible intelligible—training the eye to discriminate forms, media-specific structures, and the ways perception is already organized by culture and history. Read through Grice, the passage’s move from painting to cinema and from “visibility” to “responsibility” functions as a chain of implicatures triggered by what is selected and left unsaid: stressing “method,” “languages,” and the visual invites the audience to infer a non-neutral politics of perception without stating a manifesto, and the “implicatura figurativa” is precisely the rationally retrievable suggestion that aesthetic discernment transfers to moral and political discernment (learning to read forms becomes learning to read masks). Read through Ragghianti, by contrast, the point is not primarily that an audience infers extra propositions under conversational norms, but that artworks and spectacles are themselves organized symbol-systems whose meaning is grasped by a trained perceptual intelligence attuned to medium, composition, and historical function; where Grice theorizes how reason governs what is meant in a talk-exchange, Ragghianti exemplifies how reason governs what can be seen as meaningful at all, and the two converge in the passage insofar as “seeing” becomes a public, shareable standard of justification—Grice via inferential accountability in conversation, Ragghianti via methodological accountability in criticism—yet diverge on the locus of explanation: conversational inference from utterances versus interpretive formation of perception within and across visual languages. Quando frequenta la terza classe del liceo a Firenze, conosce Montale, che gli fa scoprire e leggere le opere di Joyce. Successivamente, nell'ambiente della Scuola Normale e dell'Università di Pisa, si dedica alla storia dell'arte sotto la guida di Marangoni, protagonista del metodo figurativo puro della critica d'arte. La sua formazione estetica è segnata dall'incontro con il pensiero di Bergson e di CROCE  e dalla conoscenza della teoria della pura visibilità; in seguito approfondisce le idee di Fiedler, Riegl e Schlosser. La sua tesi di laurea sui Carracci contiene importanti spunti teoretici, tanto da suscitare l'attenzione di Croce, che ne pubblica un estratto sulla rivista "La Critica". Il suo studio su Vasari è presentato all'Accademia dei Lincei da Gentile. I saggi sul cinema e sullo spettacolo come forme dell'arte figurativa, Cinematografo e teatro e Cinematografo rigoroso, lo pongono tra i primi studiosi a occuparsi in tal senso dell'argomento; sulla base di una distinzione tra i linguaggi, questi contributi fondano una critica dello spettacolo rivolta prevalentemente ai suoi aspetti visivi, ricercandone anche i precedenti storici. R. fonda – insieme a Bandinelli, e grazie all'interessamento di Gentile – la rivista "Critica d'Arte", alla cui direzione collaborerà per poco anche Longhi: è la più significativa rivista del periodo, che intende promuovere un rinnovamento estetico e metodologico degli studi storico-artistici. Conosce Collobi, allora a Roma con una borsa triennale di perfezionamento all'Istituto di Archeologia e Storia dell'arte. I due si sposeranno a Firenze. L'impegno politico Fervente antifascista fin dai banchi del liceo, grazie anche agli studi che lo portano a viaggiare molto nel Paese, R. assume un ruolo importante nel ritessere i collegamenti tra i nuclei dell'opposizione liberale, democratica e socialista. Stabilisce infatti relazioni politiche con Ugo La Malfa, con Ferruccio Parri e con gli ambienti torinesi gobettiani e di "Giustizia e Libertà" (movimento al quale egli stesso si richiama).  Grice: Ragghianti, proprio ieri ho avuto uno scambio rapidissimo con Speranza: lui sostiene che a Lucca l’estetica non nasce davanti a un quadro, ma davanti a un metodo—e che lei è uno che, se vede Montale, finisce per leggere Joyce, e se legge Joyce, finisce per guardare i Carracci con l’aria di chi ha appena scoperto un trucco. Ragghianti: È un trucco serio. Marangoni mi ha insegnato che la critica d’arte non è chiacchiera colta, ma “figurazione” presa sul serio: pura visibilità, e disciplina dell’occhio. Se poi ci metti Bergson e Croce, ti viene voglia di chiedere alla forma perché fa quello che fa. Grice: Speranza e io ci domandavamo perché lei, invece di fermarsi alla storia dell’arte, abbia avuto bisogno di passare per cinema e spettacolo, e addirittura di fondare una rivista come Critica d’Arte. E mi è venuto da pensare che quando uno distingue tra linguaggi e insiste sul visivo, sta dicendo (senza farne un manifesto) che il “vedere” non è una facoltà neutra: è già un modo di pensare, e quindi anche un modo di fare politica. Non a caso, se uno impara presto a leggere le forme, poi impara anche a leggere le maschere—e un antifascista “fervente” nasce spesso così: prima dalla scuola dell’occhio, poi dalla scuola del coraggio. Ragghianti: Implicatura figurativa, la sua, come Speranza dovrebbe chiamarla. Perché lei ha colto il passaggio decisivo: dal quadro alla scena, dalla visibilità alla responsabilità. Il cinema e il teatro non sono “aggiunte moderne”: sono la prova che l’arte figurativa ha più luoghi di quanto la storia dell’arte ammetta. E quando uno fonda una rivista, in fondo, sta facendo la stessa cosa che fa con un Carracci: mette ordine nel visibile, e spera che quell’ordine, una volta visto, diventi anche un criterio per vivere. Ragghianti, Carlo Ludovico (1938). Arte, esperienza, società. Firenze: Sansoni.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice and J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Raimondi – Ossia: Grice e Raimondi: la ragione conversazionale e l’implicatura del gatto persiano, la filosofia campanese e la filosofia italiana (Napoli).  Giovan Battista Raimondi (Napoli, Campania): la ragione conversazionale e l’implicatura del gatto persiano, la filosofia campanese e la filosofia italiana. Grice’s theory of reason-governed conversational meaning treats communication as a rational cooperative enterprise in which hearers infer what is meant (implicated) from what is said plus shared norms (e.g., relevance, sufficiency, truthfulness, clarity), so that “extra” meaning is explainable as a calculable, cancellable product of practical reason rather than as an occult property of words; placed against this, Raimondi is not a pragmatics theorist but an early-modern polymath whose work (as director of the Typographia Medicea, producer of Arabic and Syriac materials, and editor/translator of major scientific texts such as an Arabic Euclid and Avicenna, alongside learned commentaries in the mathematical tradition) foregrounds a different axis of “reason in language,” namely the infrastructural and philological conditions under which meaning can be transmitted across scripts, languages, and scholarly communities. In the “Persian cat” passage, the contrast can be sharpened by reading the cat as a figure for the disciplined tact and patience demanded by cross-linguistic uptake: for Grice, “Persian” becomes a cue for implicatures about difficulty, indocility, and the limits of purely instrumental attitudes to learning, but the explanatory mechanism remains the same—how an audience, assuming rational cooperation, reconstructs what is being suggested by the choice of image and by the joking allusions to Austin’s “useless”; for Raimondi, by contrast, the real achievement is less the inference of implicatures than the building of stable channels where inference is even possible at scale—typefaces, grammars, editions, and multilingual corpora that allow distant audiences to converge on intended content. Thus, Grice supplies a micro-theory of how reasons govern meaning in each conversational exchange, while Raimondi exemplifies a macro-history of how reason organizes the material, institutional, and linguistic preconditions of exchange, and the passage’s joke about the “Persian cat” can be taken as the meeting point: Gricean pragmatics explains how the joke works here and now, whereas a Raimondian lens explains why “Persian,” “Arabic,” and “Oriental” are not just topics but hard-won media of transmission whose success depends on more than utility—on the long patience of making meanings portable. Insegna a Roma. Contribusce alla rinascita dell’idealismo contro il Lizio che domina la filosofia. Pubblica la Data di Euclide. Le coniche di Apollonio di Perga. Autore di molti commentari, specialmente su alcuni libri della Synagoge, nota anche come Collectiones mathematicae, di Pappo d’Alessandria e sui trattati di Archimede. Membro dell'accademia fondata da Aldobrandini, nipote di Clemente. -- è celebre soprattutto per essere stato il primo direttore scientifico della Stamperia orientale medicea, o Typographia Medicea linguarum externarum, fondata a Roma da Ferdinando de' Medici. L'attività principale svolta dalla stamperia e, con l'appoggio di Gregorio, la pubblicazione di saggi nelle per favorire la diffusione delle missioni cattoliche in Oriente. Forma un gruppo di ricerca costituito da Vecchietti,  inviato pontificio ad Alessandria d'Egitto e in Persia, dal fratello Gerolamo, da Orsino di Costantinopoli, neo-fita ebreo convertito, e di Terracina. In un periodo in cui Roma intrattene buone relazioni diplomatiche con la dinastia Safavide, al potere in Persia  essi riuscirono a recuperare diversi manoscritti della bibbia in lingue orientali – “which were fun” – Grice. Sono portati a Roma più di una ventina di testi biblici ebraici e giudeo-persiani, tra cui i libri del Pentateuco, tra i pochi sopravvissuti ai giorni nostri.  La tipografia si trasfere a Firenze, in conseguenza dell'elezione di Ferdinando a duca di Toscana. E avviata la stampa delle opere. Sono pubblicate dapprima una grammatica filosofica ebraica e una grammatica filosofica caldea. Seguirono: una edizione arabo dei vangeli, di cui furono tirate MMM copie; un compendio del Libro di Ruggero di al-Idrisi;  Il canone della medicina di Avicenna. Grice: “I tried to study Persian once, but J. L. Austin said that it was useless!” –il gatto persiano.  Grice: Raimondi, vengo da un incontro recentissimo con Speranza: non so come faccia, ma riesce a parlare di tipografie orientali e, nello stesso respiro, a chiedermi se ho nutrito il gatto. Dice che la filosofia, senza un animale in casa, diventa subito “il Lizio” — e lui non la perdona. Raimondi: A Napoli l’idealismo lo si fa risorgere anche così: con Euclide sul tavolo, Apollonio di Perga sul comodino, e un gatto che ti ricorda che la “sostanza” sa sempre dove dormire. E poi Roma, con la Stamperia Medicea, era un’officina vera: lingue esterne, grammatiche, manoscritti recuperati… tutto molto serio, finché non entra in scena il persiano. Grice: Speranza e io, uscendo, ci siamo trovati d’accordo su una cosa che lei capirà al volo: “gatto persiano” non è solo un dettaglio zoologico. A Vadum Boum io e Speranza abbiamo sempre avuto una debolezza per i gatti — e infatti, quando uno mi dice “persiano”, mi viene in mente subito l’idea che la lingua sia come un felino: non la impari per decreto, la corteggi, e lei decide se farsi avvicinare. Austin mi diceva che studiare persiano era “inutile”; io sospetto che intendesse “indocile”. E il bello è che il gatto persiano, mentre tutti trafficano con missioni e grammatiche caldee, resta lì come promemoria silenzioso: l’Oriente lo puoi stampare quanto vuoi, ma prima devi riuscire a farti ascoltare — senza graffiarti. Raimondi: Implicatura persua la vostra, come Speranza la chiamerebbe — e per non farla lunga direi “vostra” e basta, così il gatto non si offende per la grammatica. Mi piace perché fa dialogare tre cose che a Roma sembravano già separate: la dottrina (Euclide e le coniche), la macchina (la tipografia che moltiplica copie), e l’animale (che non si moltiplica se non quando vuole). E sì: il persiano, come il persiano, si studia solo se accetti che non è un esercizio di utilità, ma di pazienza e di buon tatto. Speranza, con la sua sensibilità felina, direbbe che è l’unico metodo davvero “orientale” che Oxford abbia mai imparato. So in base of passage below: provide a 100-move conversation between G and S as they are going to give a class both as CUF lecturers in philosophy at Examinations Hall on Persian morpho-syntactic categories. -- S. if they can swallow that. No preamble or ps, just the conv. dry oxonian humour, dwelling on Persian obsession by Raimondi, whom they quote -- and the piont is that G. thinks that the deep berths of lingo are central and Persian is possibly indo-european, like the lingo spoken at Yorkshire -- so they discuss Aryan Indo-Germanic Indo_European things for 'mea mater est quicka' proto-indo-european for 'my mother is quck' -- and how Hebrew and Semitic do not compare -- or do they -- how many morpho-syntactic categories? G. says X -- as per Aristotle's categories: NOMEN NOMEN PROPRIUM NOMEN SUBSTANTIVM etc -- S: Does this apply to Persian? G: and to Persian cats, if they could speak -- even if we could not understand them -- etc etc but mainly about Raimondi's idea that the morphosyntactic CATEGORIES is what Aristotle is thinking about, which Cicero names (QUANTITAS QUALITAS) and what Kant multiplied beyond necessity from X to XII as they name the four of Kant Q Q RELATIO AND MODALITAET as they get multiplied three by four = 12 -- etc. Give me Persian anyday -- no preamble, no ps -- dry oxonian humour with EXAMPLES OF PERSIAN for thins like "My mother is quick" in Latin, cognates, in English, and Proto-Indoeuropean, and perhaps The persian cat sat on the mat -- the fat cat sat n the mat in Persian, English, Greek, Latin, and Persian and Hebrew as they discuss mismatch of categories etc thanks G.: Raimondi has landed us in Examinations Hall with Persian morpho-syntactic categories, which is more than I ever expected to owe the Medici press. S.: If the Hall can swallow it. G.: The Hall has swallowed worse. It once swallowed my views on meaning. S.: And expelled them in Schools. G.: Precisely. But Persian is another matter. Austin once called it useless, which was merely his way of saying he had not learnt it. S.: Or that it would not help him distinguish “voluntary” from “involuntary” before luncheon. G.: Yes. Still, the deep berths of lingo matter. Persian is Indo-European, or Indo-Germanic if one wants to irritate a modernist, and therefore a cousin to the Yorkshire tongue, though with better carpets. S.: Yorkshire will not thank you. G.: Yorkshire rarely does. But I mean the family resemblance seriously enough. One cannot talk categories in language without asking whether one is merely rediscovering old kinships under new labels. S.: Which is what Raimondi would have liked. G.: Raimondi liked many things too infrastructural for Oxford. Typefaces, grammars, Oriental corpora, channels of transmission — the whole man is a warehouse with a theological licence. S.: You say that fondly. G.: Only because he gives us something better than another dictionary of philosophical jargon. He gives us scripts, grammars, and the possibility of saying “my mother is quick” in several civilisations. S.: Let us begin there, then. “My mother is quick.” G.: In English, yes. In Latin one might say mea mater celer est or mea mater velox est, depending how one wishes to sound. In Greek, perhaps ἡ μήτηρ μου ταχεῖά ἐστιν, though one should check the adjective if one wants real speed rather than English bluff. S.: And in Persian? G.: Modern Persian would give us مادرم تند است or مادرم سریع است, though the first leans to temperament and the second to speed in the newer register. Better perhaps مادرم تیز است in some contexts, but then one is already disputing the semantics of “quick.” S.: Which is why categories matter. G.: Exactly. The sentence looks simple in English only because English is badly behaved in a manner we have learnt to tolerate. S.: And Proto-Indo-European? G.: That is where one begins to enjoy oneself irresponsibly. Something like méh₂tēr h₁ésti kʷékʷlos would be absurd, because I have just smuggled in wheel-like speed. Better simply to confess that the exact PIE for “my mother is quick” is a reconstruction too far for a class before eleven. S.: So you will not say mea mater est quicka? G.: Only as a joke, and a good one. “Mea mater est quicka” is what happens when Indo-European piety meets schoolboy forgery. S.: Then you admit there is pleasure in family resemblance. G.: Of course. Latin mater, English mother, Persian mādar, all cousins in one great domestic conspiracy. And “quick,” if not cognate, still belongs to the sort of semantic field that makes one ask how languages carve attribute from action. S.: Which is where morpho-syntactic categories appear. G.: Yes. Raimondi’s thought, or one way of using him, is that one cannot speak of language philosophically without looking at the deep joints: noun, proper noun, substantive noun, verb, adjective, relation, agent, patient, action, all that old Aristotle-and-grammar business. S.: NOMEN, NOMEN PROPRIUM, NOMEN SUBSTANTIVUM. G.: Exactly. The old schoolroom parade. Better than half the newer taxonomies, because at least it knew it was half logic and half declension. S.: Does it apply to Persian? G.: And to Persian cats, if they could speak — though we might not understand them, which is a useful check on philosophy. S.: Let us try the cat. G.: Very well. “The Persian cat sat on the mat.” English, embarrassingly plain. Latin: cattus Persicus in storea sedit, though the Roman would complain about cattus and storea as if they were both latecomers. Greek would need some schoolroom barbarism because the cat itself is already a traveller. Persian: گربهٔ ایرانی روی حصیر نشست. S.: And Hebrew? G.: Something like הַחָתוּל הַפָּרְסִי יָשַׁב עַל הַמַּחְצֶלֶת. Which at once reminds us that Semitic patterns do not line up politely with our Indo-European smugness. S.: So Hebrew and Persian do not compare? G.: They compare magnificently, but not by inheritance of the same sort. The point is not to rank them but to see where categories match, fail, shift, or overperform. S.: For example? G.: The relation between noun and adjective, possession, definiteness, copula, and word order. English says “my mother is quick” with shameless simplicity. Persian often omits the explicit copula in some contexts, though not here in formal prose. Hebrew treats predication differently again. One sees at once that “being” is a problem of grammar before it becomes a problem of ontology. S.: There is your Aristotle again. G.: He never quite leaves. The Categories are really about what can be said in one breath of a subject, or at least that is one decent way of reading them. Substance, quantity, quality, relation, place, time, position, state, action, passion. S.: Which Cicero turns into quantity, quality, relatio, and the rest. G.: Yes, and thereby Rome at least had the grace to make them pronounceable. Then Kant arrives and multiplies necessity beyond appetite into quantity, quality, relation, modality, each with three subforms, to make twelve. S.: Three by four: twelve. The theological look of arithmetic. G.: Exactly. Quantity, quality, relation, modality, each triad behaving as if Königsberg had annexed the schoolroom. S.: Give me Persian any day. G.: My point exactly. If one wants to know whether morpho-syntactic categories are real, look not only at Kant’s table but at Persian, Hebrew, Latin, Greek, and English in use. S.: And what does Raimondi actually care about? G.: Transmission, first. Typefaces, corpora, Arabic Euclid, Avicenna, grammars of Hebrew and Chaldean, Persian manuscripts. He is a philosopher only in the older, larger sense in which making meaning portable is already a philosophical labour. S.: A macro-Gricean, then. G.: That is too flattering. Better to say that he constructs the conditions under which any micro-Gricean act of understanding can scale beyond a room. S.: Which is not nothing. G.: Certainly not. Without presses, grammars, copied scripts, and men patient enough to compare lexical habits, there is no Hall for us to preen in. S.: You are in a charitable mood. G.: Persian does that. It obliges one to acknowledge civilisation outside Oxford. S.: Let us return to categories. How many do you want? G.: Fewer than Kant and more than a railway timetable. Let us say the old grammatical-philosophical essentials: noun, proper noun, substantive, adjective, verb, pronoun, relation-marker, quantifier, modality-marker, perhaps copula if one insists, and then the inferential devices that tie propositions together. S.: “If,” for example. G.: Ah yes. The beloved “if.” Persian اگر, Latin si, Greek εἰ, English if. One sees at once both kinship and divergence. The connective is not merely logical; it is historical, social, and deeply irritating. S.: To Strawson too. G.: Of course. Strawson would say the horseshoe is not the vernacular if, and he would be right in his superior way. S.: Then how does Persian help? G.: It reminds one that a language can parcel agency, possession, predication, and relation with a surface economy that makes English look both elegant and careless. Persian’s ezafe alone should teach humility to analysts. S.: Explain. G.: The ezafe marks noun-adjective and noun-genitive relations with a little linking vowel and a great deal of civilising labour. It ties words in ways that our old school categories must notice or become ridiculous. S.: So “the Persian cat” is not merely noun plus adjective. G.: Exactly. It is often a linked construction: گربهٔ ایرانی — cat-e Persian. The relation is audible and graphic in a way English usually leaves to adjacency. S.: Then Aristotle’s categories are not enough. G.: Not enough, no, but still useful as the first theatre. One begins with substance and quality, perhaps, then learns that languages implement those distinctions through very different morpho-syntactic arrangements. S.: Which sounds less metaphysical than grammatical. G.: As it should. One of the oldest mistakes in philosophy is to mistake a grammatical convenience for a metaphysical revelation. S.: Such as “is.” G.: Such as “is,” yes, and “has,” and perhaps “quick.” S.: You are enjoying that word too much. G.: Because it behaves like a small Anglo-Saxon tyrant. “My mother is quick” can mean swift, lively, perceptive, alive, pregnant in older registers, all under one curt monosyllable. S.: Persian will not let you get away with that. G.: Precisely. Nor Latin, if properly taught. Velox, celer, acer, vividus — one must choose the shade. Grammar and lexicon together prevent philosophical laziness. S.: Then your class in the Hall is really a rebuke to English. G.: Every decent class is. S.: You said Persian was possibly Indo-European like Yorkshire. G.: I said it to provoke, but yes, in the large family sense. Persian is Indo-Iranian within Indo-European. Yorkshire is merely English with weather. Yet the comparison is useful because it reminds one that kinship in roots does not entail identity in categories. S.: So mother, mater, mādar, μήτηρ, all cousins, but the categories that frame them may differ. G.: Exactly. In one language possession is straightforwardly pronominal, in another enclitic, in another attached, in another a genitive relation. The old philosophers who thought grammar transparently mirrored the world deserved some Persian. S.: Or some Hebrew. G.: Hebrew too, though Semitic gives a different lesson. Root-pattern morphology alone is enough to unsettle any complacent Greek notion that the noun and verb parade one by one in tidy robes. S.: Yet Aristotle was not entirely wrong. G.: Certainly not. He saw that there are recurrent ways in which language says being, quantity, quality, relation, and so on. He was wrong only where later people treated his list as final and universal. S.: Which Kant then multiplies from XXX to 121212. G.: Yes, with four headings and three under each: quantity, quality, relation, modality. It is all very German and very overupholstered. S.: Give me Persian any day. G.: That is becoming our refrain. S.: It deserves to. But tell me again how Raimondi enters. Is he not mainly Arabic and Syriac and Hebrew? G.: Yes, and that is exactly why Persian becomes amusing in his orbit. Once you direct the Medici oriental press, produce Arabic Euclid, and print philosophical grammars of Hebrew and Chaldean, the leap to Persian morpho-syntax no longer looks like pure whim. S.: So the Persian cat in the passage is not merely zoological. G.: No, it is philological allegory in fur. S.: Very good. G.: Thank you. Persian, like the cat, will not be learnt by decree. It must be coaxed, and grammar is the first saucer of milk. S.: Austin said it was useless. G.: Austin thought many things useless if they did not sharpen an English distinction by tea-time. S.: He might have liked the categories, though. G.: Only if they stayed close to examples. “The fat cat sat on the mat” would probably have pleased him more than “morpho-syntactic categories.” S.: Then let us do the fat cat. English: “The fat cat sat on the mat.” G.: Latin: cattus pinguis in storea sedit, though again one feels the lateness of both cat and mat. Greek: something equally schoolroom and suspicious, perhaps αἴλουρος πίων ἐκάθισεν ἐπὶ τοῦ τάπητος, though I should not stake my dignity on the exact cat. S.: Hebrew? G.: הַחָתוּל הַשָּׁמֵן יָשַׁב עַל הַמַּחְצֶלֶת. Persian: گربهٔ چاق روی حصیر نشست. S.: And what do we learn? G.: That noun, adjective, article, and relation are not implemented uniformly; that predication and attributive linkage differ; that the so-called same sentence is not the same act of grammatical architecture in each language. S.: Which suggests that the categories are partly abstract and partly language-specific. G.: Precisely. A philosopher who ignores either side will deserve his students. S.: Then where does “meaning” come back in? G.: Everywhere. If we are to speak of “mean” triadically — sss means mmm for iii — we must know what counts as the sign-token sss in a given language, how it is morphologically formed, what relations it encodes, what it leaves to context, and what an interpreter may reasonably recover. S.: So the meta-language is crucial. G.: Exactly. One cannot discuss “meaning” in the abstract while pretending that signs arrive already individuated and relations already fixed. The meta-language tells us what sort of thing a sign is in the object language. S.: Raimondi would approve that. G.: He might, though he would probably insist on a better script and more manuscripts before trusting us with the Hall. S.: A fair condition. G.: Entirely. S.: Then perhaps the true class title is not “Persian morpho-syntactic categories” but “What language must already be like for meaning to happen.” G.: Too long for the board, but exactly right. S.: And your answer? G.: That language must already distinguish enough — beings, actions, agents, relations, quantities, modalities, and all the rest — for a speaker to place something before an interpreter in a way recoverable as meaningful. S.: Recoverable, not merely decodable. G.: Exactly. Even Persian, for all its elegance, does not abolish interpretation. It only disciplines different parts of it differently. S.: So the Hall will hear that Persian, like English, like Latin, like Greek, like Hebrew, signifies through grammar, but not identically. G.: Yes. And they will hear that “category” is dangerous if one forgets whether one means Aristotle’s, Kant’s, a school grammar’s, or an actual language’s working joints. S.: You should say that more slowly. G.: In the Hall I say everything more slowly. It gives the illusion of depth. S.: Which is half teaching. G.: The respectable half. S.: And the other half? G.: Surviving questions. S.: Dry enough? G.: Sufficiently Persian, with one eye on Aristotle and the other on the cat.Raimondi, Giovan Battista (1858). Storia della filosofia antica. Milano: Vallardi.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Raio – Ossia: Grice e Raio: la ragione conversazionale e l’ermeneutica dell’io e del tu, la filosofia campanese, e la filosofia italiana (Napoli).  Giulio Raio (Napoli, Campania): la ragione conversazionale e l’ermeneutica dell’io e del tu, la filosofia campanese, e la filosofia italiana. Grice’s theory of reason-governed conversational meaning explains how what a speaker means can outrun what the words strictly say because hearers rationally infer additional content (conversational implicatures) by assuming cooperative, purposive talk governed by norms such as relevance, adequate information, truthfulness, and clarity; on this picture, meaning-in-interaction is not mystical but accountable to reasons and reconstructible as an inference from an utterance plus shared assumptions about the point of the exchange. Raio, by contrast, approaches language through an explicitly hermeneutic and symbolic framework shaped by Kant and especially Cassirer: the self is not a sealed Cartesian point but is constituted and shifted through symbolically mediated relations between “I” and “you,” so that understanding is not merely decoding an intention but interpreting how symbols institute intersubjective space and even transform who the participants are. Read through Grice, the “we help” sequence in your passage illustrates how grammar and pronoun choice triggers stable patterns of implicature (a plural subject tends to suggest joint agency; “each other” suggests reciprocity), with the resulting social-ethical overtones treated as rationally derivable, cancellable, and sensitive to context; read through Raio, the same sequence is less an implicature-calculation than an event in which a “we” emerges as a symbolic form irreducible to the sum of “I” and “you,” making reciprocity not an optional add-on but a condition for the very intelligibility of that “we.” The comparison, then, is that Grice models conversational meaning as a reason-based inferential achievement that supplements semantics via principles of cooperative rationality, while Raio treats conversational reason as inseparable from an interpretive, symbol-forming process in which meaning is tied to the shifting hermeneutic constitution of self and other. Grice: “When I cited from Ogden and Richards’s The Meaning and meaning, I purposively avoided the subtitle: a study in the science of symbolism!” Insegna a Napoli. Si occupa in particolare dell'ermeneutica. Saggi: Antinomia e allegoria; Il carattere di chiave, Ermeneutica del simbolo; Il simbolismo tedesco. Kant Cassirer Szondi, Conoscenza, concetto, cultura; Meta-fisica delle forme simboliche; L'io, il tu e l'es: saggio sulla meta-fisica delle forme simboliche, Studi filosofici.  ermeneutica dell’io e del tu, Szondi, simbolo. Grice: Raio, dopo aver parlato con Speranza — che insiste a trattarmi da pari e poi, con la stessa naturalezza, pretende che io tratti lui da pari — mi è rimasta in testa quella sua fissazione napoletana per “io” e “tu”. Dice che a Bologna insegnano il linguaggio, ma lui continua testardamente a chiamarla filosofia della lingua: come se l’“io” dovesse avere per forza un accento locale. Raio: A Napoli l’“io” non sta mai in pace se non incontra un “tu”. L’ermeneutica serve proprio a questo: non a fare psicologia, ma a capire come il simbolo sposti l’identità da una testa all’altra. E quando ci metti Kant, Cassirer, Szondi, scopri che il “tu” non è un complemento: è un evento. Grice: Speranza e io ci siamo messi a rigirare una cosa che sembra banale finché non provi a dirla bene: “noi”. Perché “we agree” non è semplicemente “io agree” più “tu agree” messi in fila, come due firme in calce. E lo stesso con il nostro verbo preferito, aiutare — o “help”, come diciamo a Vadum Boum: “I help and you help” può voler dire che ognuno fa il suo, separatamente, magari su due problemi diversi. “We help”, invece, sembra già una cosa terza: un’azione con un solo ritmo, come se il soggetto non fosse la somma, ma un piccolo organismo. E quando dici “we help each other”, allora non stai aggiungendo una cortesia: stai dicendo che senza reciprocità non era nemmeno quel “we” di prima. Raio: Implicatura “aiutante”, la sua — o, se Speranza osa davvero, “extra‑aiutante”, anzi “extra‑aiuta”. Perché lei non sta dicendo soltanto che due persone fanno due gesti di assistenza: sta mostrando che “noi” cambia il tipo di gesto. “Io aiuto” e “tu aiuti” è aritmetica; “noi aiutiamo” è già grammatica sociale; e “ci aiutiamo” è un’altra cosa ancora, perché lì il soggetto e l’oggetto si scambiano senza che la frase cada a terra. In fondo è il suo modo preferito di mettere l’etica dentro la sintassi senza farla sembrare moraleggiante: non “siate buoni”, ma “guardate che cosa state già facendo quando parlate al plurale”. E Speranza, che finge di detestare le etichette ma poi vive di queste finezze, alla fine concederà che “aiuta” è la parola giusta: piccola, quotidiana, e abbastanza seria da reggere un noi. Re passage below. provide a 100-move conversation between G. and S. on "ARistotle on the multiplicity of being" or Raio, "Il problema dell'essere" 1923. with G: "I didn' tknow it was a problem THEN." With S. saying, well, it was a problem for ARistotle, G and not a solution, G. adds, So G. proposes I andH to stand for dyadic relations I(a, b) and H(a, b) a izz b and a hazz b -- "This is better than 'essere' -- and solves the problem of the haves and the have nots, too. If only Raio would have known. But G. was at school then, he only read Il problema dell'essere much later, after deciding that Aristotle was wrong about einai (use Greek letters here) but so was Cicero with esse -- S. which sounds like essere of Raio -- "Same lingo" G. adds -- Same problem, same absence of solution -- S: until you come with your Izzing and Hazzing and solve it all and they aanalyse each realtion as whether it's reflexive and transivite, only using as example Raio saggio "Il problema del essere" what is that? what is Raio, what is a saggio? etc dry oxonian humour no preamble, or ps -- just conve. thank. Passage: G.: Il problema dell’essere, 1923. I did not know it was a problem then. S.: It was a problem for Aristotle, G., not a solution. G.: Exactly. Aristotle gave us the multiplicity of being, and then left the rest to generations of Italians with titles. S.: Raio among them. G.: Yes. Il problema dell’essere. One wants to ask at once: what is Raio, what is a saggio, and what has being done to deserve this. S.: A saggio is an essay, and Raio is a philosopher with enough sobriety to know that “essere” has caused mischief for centuries. G.: Soberly, perhaps. But “essere” is already the trouble. Aristotle says τὸ ὂν λέγεται πολλαχῶς, and Cicero gives us esse, and then every schoolmaster behaves as if the question had thereby become manageable. S.: It did become a question. G.: Yes, but not a good answer. The Greeks give us εἶναι, the Latins esse, the Italians essere, and the confusion remains identical through excellent vowels. S.: Same lingo, same problem? G.: Same lingo, same absence of solution. S.: Until you come with your Izzing and Hazzing and solve it all. G.: Precisely. I propose I(a,b)I(a,b)I(a,b) and H(a,b)H(a,b)H(a,b): aaa izz bbb, aaa hazz bbb. Better than “essere” at once, because it distinguishes the predicative and the possessive without allowing ontology to lounge in the grammar. S.: Aristotle would have said that being is said in many ways, and you are simply pruning the shrubbery. G.: Exactly. Good pruning is half of analysis. S.: So I(a,b)I(a,b)I(a,b) is for predication? G.: In the broad first instance, yes. “Socrates izz wise,” “the rose izz red,” “man izz mortal.” One can allow oneself a general predicative relation without pretending it is all one metaphysical tie. S.: And H(a,b)H(a,b)H(a,b)? G.: Possession, having, perhaps exemplification in a looser vein, though one must not let it become a dustbin. “Socrates hazz courage,” “the rose hazz redness,” “the state hazz citizens,” and so on. S.: You have not yet solved the multiplicity of being; you have merely given it two workmen’s entrances. G.: Better two entrances than one collapsing portico. S.: Then let us ask about the properties. Is III reflexive? G.: A dangerous question at once. If I(a,a)I(a,a)I(a,a), does everything izz itself? One is tempted to say yes, but then one has smuggled identity into predication. S.: Which you promised not to do. G.: Exactly. So III had better not be simply reflexive by fiat. S.: But “Socrates is Socrates” sounds harmless enough. G.: That is identity disguised as predication, one of the oldest philosophical rackets. S.: Then III is not identity. G.: Certainly not. If III were identity, we should gain nothing and merely redescribe boredom. S.: Is it transitive? G.: Again, with care. If I(a,b)I(a,b)I(a,b) and I(b,c)I(b,c)I(b,c), does I(a,c)I(a,c)I(a,c)? “Socrates izz Greek” and “Greek izz human” tempt one toward “Socrates izz human,” but that already depends on the logical type of the predicates involved. S.: So your III is not one relation but a family under a discipline. G.: Precisely. Better a disciplined family than the indiscriminate promiscuity of “essere.” S.: And HHH? Is having reflexive? G.: Heaven forbid. H(a,a)H(a,a)H(a,a) is usually nonsense, unless one is writing theology or poor metaphysics. S.: “A hazz a” is not a natural language sentence, even after wine. G.: Quite. And transitivity is equally treacherous. If H(a,b)H(a,b)H(a,b) and H(b,c)H(b,c)H(b,c), does H(a,c)H(a,c)H(a,c)? If Socrates has a cloak, and the cloak has holes, does Socrates have holes? S.: In some schools, yes. G.: Exactly why one needs the distinction. S.: Then your whole scheme is less a doctrine than a prophylactic. G.: All good analysis is. S.: And where does Raio stand while you perform surgery? G.: In the old corridor of “essere” as if the corridor itself were not haunted. Il problema dell’essere already sounds like a title generated by grammar before thought has had a chance to object. S.: But Aristotle is not merely grammatical. The multiplicity of being matters because substance, quantity, quality, relation, potentiality, actuality, truth, and accidental predication all crowd under εἶναι. G.: Precisely. Which is why I object to leaving them there. “Being” becomes a great common lodging-house for distinctions too shy to separate. S.: Then perhaps Raio’s merit is only to remind you that the problem was older than your notation. G.: I grant him that much. Still, one wants to know what his “problema” amounts to. Is it a problem because “being” is equivocal? Because ontology and predication have been confused? Because Aristotle used one word where a hygienic philosopher would have used several? S.: Very likely all of those. G.: Then he is at least in honourable trouble. S.: You sound almost kind. G.: Temporary weakness. Let us consider Aristotle properly. Τὸ ὂν λέγεται πολλαχῶς. Being is said in many ways. It is not one genus over all categories, and yet not mere noise. S.: Which is what keeps metaphysicians employed. G.: Exactly. Had Aristotle simply said “there are many relations here, let us distinguish them,” the Middle Ages might have been much shorter. S.: And poorer. G.: Perhaps. But tidier. S.: You always want tidiness where civilisation wanted commentary. G.: Commentary is often what happens when a distinction is delayed. S.: Then Cicero’s esse? G.: Esse only perpetuates the difficulty under a Roman accent. One says “esse” and thinks one has Latinised the abyss. S.: Whereas “essere” in Italian at least adds theatricality. G.: Yes, and perhaps a little furniture. But no new clarity. Raio’s Italian title suffers from the old illness in a newer coat. S.: Yet one might say that “being” in Aristotle is not simply predicative and possessive mixed, but includes existence. G.: Ah yes, existence: the third lodger. Then we should need perhaps E(a)E(a)E(a), or E!(a)E!(a)E!(a) if one wishes to be expensive. S.: And then your system becomes trinitarian. G.: Better trinitarian than metaphysically baggy. S.: Then why only Izzing and Hazzing in your opening joke? G.: Because one must begin by splitting the most obvious conflation: “is” of predication and “has” of possession, before existence comes in with its own passport. S.: Very good. Then let us test examples. “The rose is red.” G.: I(rose,red)I(\text{rose},\text{red})I(rose,red), if one is willing to let predicates appear in object position for convenience, which is already a small scandal. S.: “The rose has thorns.” G.: H(rose,thorns)H(\text{rose},\text{thorns})H(rose,thorns). S.: “The rose is a flower.” G.: Again I(rose,flower)I(\text{rose},\text{flower})I(rose,flower), though now one sees that “izzing” covers species-membership or classification, not only attribution. S.: So III is already doing too much. G.: As all first repairs do. But still less than “essere.” S.: “Socrates is wise.” G.: I(Socrates,wise)I(\text{Socrates},\text{wise})I(Socrates,wise). S.: “Socrates has wisdom.” G.: H(Socrates,wisdom)H(\text{Socrates},\text{wisdom})H(Socrates,wisdom). S.: Are those equivalent? G.: Not always. That is exactly where philosophy becomes interesting. “Socrates is wise” may be true where “Socrates has wisdom” suggests a reified possession one need not grant. S.: So “hazzing” itself may be too generous to substantives. G.: Yes, but at least it makes the generosity visible. S.: And “Socrates is in the market”? G.: Ah. There you have locative being, which the old “is” hides under yet another use. S.: So your two relations have not solved Aristotle; they have merely improved the census. G.: Again, a census is an improvement over a riot. S.: Then what of Raio’s “saggio”? You asked what it is. G.: Yes. A “saggio” is the civilised word for not quite a system and not quite a pamphlet. It means, roughly, “I have thoughts but enough manners not to call them final.” S.: Which is already preferable to many modern books. G.: Deeply. “Essay” in the older sense: an attempt, a trial, a trying out of a problem. S.: Then Raio is at least modest in form. G.: Perhaps. Though “Il problema dell’essere” is modest only in Italian. In English it would sound like a monograph with delusions. S.: As most titles on being do. G.: Quite. But let us be fair. If one writes in 1923 on being, one is writing after enough Neo-Hegelian fog and before enough analytic disinfectant to feel both pressures at once. S.: Which gives you your opening: “I didn’t know it was a problem then.” G.: Exactly. I was at school, occupied with Greek accents and worse food. The problem of being had not yet been brought to Clifton. S.: And if it had been, the master would have called it either grammar or insolence. G.: Very likely both. S.: Still, Aristotle’s problem is not wholly silly. The same word εἶναι appears in statements of identity, predication, existence, truth, and perhaps location. G.: Yes, and that is precisely why one should not leave the matter with one word. S.: Then your quarrel with Aristotle is partly lexical. G.: Lexical and logical. He saw multiplicity but preferred to dignify it with a formula rather than dissolve it into distinct relations. S.: Because he was a philosopher, not a notator. G.: There you are wrong. A philosopher ought occasionally to be a notator when words become corrupting. S.: Then you would rewrite the Metaphysics in symbols? G.: Not all of it. Only enough to prevent “being” from seducing itself into a pseudounity. S.: “Pseudo-unity” sounds suspiciously like your objections to Einheit der Wissenschaft. G.: The family resemblance is real. Grand words thrive by failing to mean one thing. “Being,” “science,” “unity,” all are successful because they board many doctrines at once. S.: And your Izzing and Hazzing would evict some of the lodgers. G.: Precisely. S.: But would they not also destroy some of the philosophical pressure? G.: Only the false pressure. One should not preserve a confusion merely because it has had a good career. S.: That is a very un-historicist remark. G.: History has enough on its hands without being asked to worship old muddles. S.: Then what of existence? You hinted at E(a)E(a)E(a). G.: Yes. If one says “Socrates is” in the existential sense, one means something more like E(Socrates)E(\text{Socrates})E(Socrates), or if one prefers, ∃x(x=Socrates)\exists x(x=\text{Socrates})∃x(x=Socrates), though that opens another family quarrel. S.: So we now have predication, possession, and existence. G.: Exactly. Izzing, Hazzing, and existing. Aristotle could have been saved from centuries of piety by one sensible notational day. S.: You really think the whole matter reducible to syntax? G.: Not reducible, but clarified. Philosophy is often improved when syntax is no longer allowed to impersonate ontology. S.: And where does Raio’s title stand in this reformed world? G.: It would become, perhaps, Il problema degli izz, degli hazz, e dell’esistere, which would not sell but would save time. S.: It would certainly offend the right people. G.: A secondary merit. S.: Then let us examine the formal properties a little more. You denied reflexivity for III as predication, but granted that identity sneaks in through “a is a.” G.: Yes. One must separate III from ===. If a=aa=aa=a, that is identity. If I(a,a)I(a,a)I(a,a), one has either collapsed predication into identity or uttered nonsense. S.: So III is not reflexive. G.: Not as a general law. Some predicates may happen to self-apply, but that is not a property of the relation itself. S.: Transitivity, then, remains type-sensitive. G.: Exactly. If I(a,b)I(a,b)I(a,b) and I(b,c)I(b,c)I(b,c), whether I(a,c)I(a,c)I(a,c) follows depends on what sort of things bbb and ccc are. “Socrates is Greek” and “Greek is human” may licence “Socrates is human” only because one silently restructures the second as a universal statement about Greeks, not because III is a transitive dyad simpliciter. S.: So your neat dyad is already in danger. G.: Naturally. But the danger is visible, which is half the cure. S.: HHH seems worse. G.: Of course. Possession is a zoo. Ownership, part-whole, quality, relation, accompaniment, all get called “having.” One will need subdivisions if one is not to become scholastic in a new key. S.: Then perhaps “hazzing” does not solve the haves and have-nots after all. G.: It solves them socially, at least. One can say that the metaphysical haves and have-nots become grammatically inspectable. S.: That is almost Marx with capitals removed. G.: Heaven spare us. S.: You did mention “the haves and have nots.” G.: As a joke, yes. One should never let social vocabulary improve metaphysics too much. S.: But “having” in ordinary speech does cover both possession and predication by backstairs. “He has courage,” “he has a cloak,” “he has a fever.” G.: Exactly. Which is why I prefer to separate them rather than let being do all the work while having does half of it in the dark. S.: Then perhaps Aristotle’s multiplicity of being is really a symptom of linguistic economy grown metaphysical. G.: Excellent. Keep that. S.: Gladly. The language economises; philosophy pays interest. G.: Better still. S.: Thank you. G.: Do not become too pleased with your own ontology. S.: Never beyond the genus. Now, Raio’s “ermeneutica dell’io e del tu” in the later work seems very different from this 1923 “problema dell’essere.” G.: Yes, and in a way that only confirms my suspicion that titles are often the graveyards of transitions. A man writes on being, later on I and thou, and one sees that the problem of being may have been less a doctrine than a station. S.: That is ungenerous. G.: Only historically exact. One often begins with “being” when one has not yet decided what one actually cares about. S.: Which in Raio becomes the symbolic and hermeneutic constitution of self and other. G.: Exactly. A better problem, though still cursed by nouns. S.: Then perhaps Il problema dell’essere is young-man’s philosophy. G.: Very likely. A proper saggio title in the old way: large enough to be respectable, loose enough to admit later escape. S.: Escape into Cassirer and symbol. G.: Better there than in ontology without notation. S.: You remain cruel. G.: It is one of the few protections against “being.” S.: Then what of Cicero? You accused him too. G.: Only in the sense that esse sounds suspiciously like it has carried the Greek problem into Latin without properly localising it. Same lingo, same problem. S.: That was my line. G.: Then I borrow it with gratitude. Cicero gives us esse and thinks he has translated εἶναι; the problem survives in a better toga. S.: And Raio’s essere is merely the modern vernacular heir. G.: Yes. Which is why one must not mistake the modernity of the cover for any new clarity. S.: So your sympathy with Ramorino on language as system is absent here? G.: Entirely absent. “Essere” is where language as system becomes dangerous because a single word encourages false unification. S.: Whereas your own “mean” is triadic and therefore safer. G.: Safer, because it demands terms: utterer, sign, interpretant, content. “Being” usually arrives alone and then multiplies behind one’s back. S.: Then perhaps the true crime of “being” is monadic pretension. G.: Splendid. Write that down somewhere private. S.: Happily. One last question. If Aristotle is wrong, why did the formula τὸ ὂν λέγεται πολλαχῶς survive so well? G.: Because it is magnificent. It confesses multiplicity while preserving dignity. It tells every commentator that the matter is profound without requiring immediate distinctions. In short, it is rhetorically perfect and analytically insufficient. S.: A philosopher’s dream. G.: Exactly the problem. S.: Then your Izzing and Hazzing, for all their vulgarity, are anti-rhetorical instruments. G.: Yes. They are ugly enough to discourage worship and precise enough to reward use. S.: You almost make them sound English. G.: They are worse than English. They are Oxonian. S.: Dry enough? G.: Sufficiently Neapolitan by provocation, with just enough Greek to annoy Aristotle.Raio, Giulio (1923). Il problema dell’essere. Roma: Edizioni Scientifiche.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Ragonio – Ossia: Grice e Ragonio -- Grex griceiana -- Ragonio The gens Ragonia was a plebeian family at ancient Rome. Members of this gens are first mentioned in the early decades of the Empire, but they did not become prominent until the time of Commodus, in the late second century, from which period several of them attained positions of high distinction in the Roman state.[1][2]  Origin The nomen Ragonius belongs to a class of gentilicia formed using the suffix -onius, typically of plebeian origin, and frequently of Oscan ancestry. Such names were originally formed from cognomina ending in -o, but once they became common, -onius came to be regarded as a regular gentile-forming suffix, and was used in cases where it had no morphological justification.[3]  The origin of Ragonius is obscure, but Chase suggests a possible etymological relationship to raga, a variation of braca, a harness, or, in the plural, breeches.[3][4] The occurrence of the Etruscan gentilicia Urinatius and Larcius, and the Latin Tuscenius in the nomenclature of two of the earlier Ragonii might point to an Etruscan origin, but given the period at which they appear, in all probability they refer to ancestors of this family in the female line.[5]  Branches and cognomina The Ragonii used a variety of common surnames, including Celer, swift, Celsus, tall, Clarus, bright or famous, and Priscus, elder. The only distinct family of this gens passed down the surnames Quintianus and Venustus for several generations; Quintianus was probably an old agnomen, originally belonging to someone who was adopted out of the gens Quinctia, while Venustus, which entered the family through the female line, was applied to someone charming or attractive.[6]  Members This list includes abbreviated praenomina. For an explanation of this practice, see filiation. Ragonius Celer, the epistrategus, or military commander, serving under Titus Vitrasius Pollio, governor of Egypt in AD 31 and 32.[2] Lucius Ragonius L. f. Urinatius Larcius Quintianus, held a number of important positions during his career, serving at various times as quaestor, praetor, legate of the fourteenth legion, and proconsul of Africa; he was consul in an uncertain year early in the reign of Commodus.[7][2][8] Ragonius Celsus, said by Spartianus to have governed the Gauls during the reign of Septimius Severus. A letter mentioned by Spartianus and addressed to the emperor is probably fictitious.[9][2] Numerius Ragonius Priscus, a soldier in the fifth cohort of the vigiles at the beginning of the third century, serving in the century of Marcus Mummius Verinus.[10] Lucius Ragonius L. f. L. n. Urinatius Tuscenius Quintianus, one of the flamines, and consul in an uncertain year, circa AD 210. He married Flavia Venusta.[11][2][8] Lucius Ragonius L. f. L. n. Venustus, consul in AD 240. He was probably the father or grandfather of Lucius Ragonius Quintianus, the consul of AD 289.[8] Ragonius Clarus, governor of Illyricum during the reign of Valerian, whose letter to the emperor, mentioned by Trebellius Pollio, is likely an invention of the author.[12][2] Lucius Ragonius (L. f. L. n.) Quintianus, consul in AD 289, during the reign of Diocletian.[13][8] Ragonius Vincentius Celsus, a senator mentioned in an inscription dating to AD 389, was praefectus annonae according to inscriptions found at Ostia.[14] Lucius Ragonius Venustus, performed a taurobolium, the sacrifice of a bull in honour of the Magna Mater, in AD 390.[15][8] See also List of Roman gentes References  Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, vol. III, p. 640 ("Ragonius").  PIR, vol. III, pp. 124, 125.  Chase, pp. 118, 119.  New College Latin & English Dictionary, s. v. braca.  Salomies, Adoptive and Polyonymous Nomenclature in the Roman Empire.  New College Latin & English Dictionary, s. v. celer, celsus, clarus, priscus, venustus.  CIL V, 1968, CIL V, 1969, CIL V, 2112, CIL VI, 1502, CIL VI, 1503, CIL VI, 1504, CIL VI, 1505.  Loriot, "Les consuls ordinaires", p. 258.  Spartianus, "The Life of Pescennius Niger", 3.  CIL VI, 1057.  CIL VI, 41196  Trebellius Pollio, "The Thirty Tyrants", 18.  CIL X, 3698  CIL VI, 1759, CIL XIV, 138, CIL XIV, 139, CIL XIV, 173.  CIL VI, 503 Bibliography Lucius Cassius Dio Cocceianus (Cassius Dio), Roman History. Aelius Lampridius, Aelius Spartianus, Flavius Vopiscus, Julius Capitolinus, Trebellius Pollio, and Vulcatius Gallicanus, Historia Augusta (Augustan History). Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, William Smith, ed., Little, Brown and Company, Boston (1849). Theodor Mommsen et alii, Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (The Body of Latin Inscriptions, abbreviated CIL), Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften (1853–present). Paul von Rohden, Elimar Klebs, & Hermann Dessau, Prosopographia Imperii Romani (The Prosopography of the Roman Empire, abbreviated PIR), Berlin (1898). Xavier Loriot, "Les consuls ordinaires de l'année 240 de notre ère" (The Consules Ordinarii of the Year 240 of Our Era), in Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, vol. 12 (1973). Olli Salomies, Adoptive and Polyonymous Nomenclature in the Roman Empire, Societas Scientiarum Fennica, Helsinki (1992). Category: Roman gentes And from THIS gens? Thanks

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Ragonio – Ossia: Grice e Ragonio -- Grex griceiana – Ragonio For the Ragonii, I think the first-best Grice–Speranza vignette is neither the consul nor the governor, but rather the onomastic puzzle embodied in:  Lucius Ragonius Urinatius Larcius Quintianus  and his descendants bearing the recurring name Quintianus. The dossier explicitly notes that Quintianus was probably an old agnomen originally belonging to someone adopted out of the gens Quinctia. [GREXv2 | Word] This is wonderfully Gricean because it concerns what a name communicates beyond its literal function as a label. Grice e Ragonio Quintiano Speranza:  Cur tot nomina habet? (Why does he have so many names?)  Grice:  Quia unum nomen non satis narrat. (Because one name does not tell enough of the story.)  +> The name encodes ancestry and social history.  Speranza:  Quid significat "Quintianus"? (What does "Quintianus" mean?)  Grice:  Fortasse adoptionem veterem. (Perhaps an old adoption.)   [GREXv2 | Word] Speranza:  Cur ergo retinetur per generationes? (Why is it retained through generations?)  Grice:  Quia memoria ipsa hereditas est. (Because memory itself is an inheritance.)  +> A family name can function as a historical footnote.  This brings us back to your earlier discussion of Precianus. There the puzzle was:  original gens remembered, adoptive gens forgotten.  Here the opposite tendency appears:  the family carefully preserves a marker (Quintianus) that may itself point to an earlier adoption. [GREXv2 | Word]  A Gricean moral:  Names do not merely refer; they also insinuate biographies. But my first choice remains: Grice e Ragonio Quintiano because the recurring Quintianus raises exactly the sort of question you have repeatedly been pursuing:  How much genealogy, adoption, memory, and implicature can be packed into a Roman name? [GREXv2 | Word]

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Ragonio – Ossia: Grice e Ragonio -- Grex griceiana – Ragonio A close second choice would be Ragonius Celsus or Ragonius Clarus, because the Historia Augusta preserves letters attributed to them that modern scholars regard as probably fictitious. The dossier explicitly notes that such letters are likely inventions of the author. [GREXv2 | Word] That would yield: Speranza:  Scripsitne vere epistulam? (Did he really write the letter?)  Grice:  Fortasse auctor scripsit. (Perhaps the author wrote it.)  +> The apparent speaker need not be the real speaker.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rammio – Ossia: Grice e Rammio -- Grex griceiana – verbalia: Rammio The gens Rammia was an obscure plebeian family at ancient Rome. Members of this gens are first mentioned in the period leading to the Third Macedonian War, but no Rammius attained a position of importance in the Roman state until Quintus Rammius Martialis, governor of Egypt early in the second century AD.[1][2]  Praenomina The chief praenomina of the Rammii were Lucius, Gaius, Quintus, and Publius, all of which were among the most common names throughout Roman history. Gnaeus, another common name, occurs in a filiation.  Members This list includes abbreviated praenomina. For an explanation of this practice, see filiation. Lucius Rammius,[i] a resident of Brundisium, was approached by Perseus of Macedon, who wished him to poison certain Roman generals. Rammius revealed the plot to the legate Gaius Valerius Laevinus, whom he accompanied to Rome in order to repeat the charge before the senate.[3][4][5] Gaius Rammius C. l., a freedman mentioned in an inscription from Minturnae in Latium, dating to 65 BC.[6] Gaius Rammius, the master of Diphilus, a slave named in an inscription from Mintunae.[7] Quintus Rammius, the master of Karius, a slave named in an inscription from Minturnae.[8] Publius Rammius Eros, buried at Casilinum in Campania in a tomb built by Fausta, a freedwoman, dating from the latter part of the first century BC.[9] Publius Rammius P. l. Chrestus, a freedman named in an inscription from Casilinum, dating to 12 BC.[10] Rammius, mentioned in an inscription from Salinae in Britain, dating to AD 105.[11] Quintus Rammius Martialis, prefect of Egypt in AD 118, had previously served as prefect of the vigiles at Rome.[12][2] Rammia Prisca, the wife of Titus Flavius Euanthus, according to an inscription dating to the first or second century AD.[13] Gaius Rammius Justus, named in an inscription from Ostia in Latium, dating to AD 172.[14] Gaius Rammius Faustus, named in an inscription from Ostia, dating to AD 172.[14] Gaius Julius Rammius Eutychus, one of the seviri Augustales, named in two inscriptions from Ostia, dating to the early third century.[15][16] Gaius Julius Rammius Hilarus, a client of Gaius Julius Rammius Eutychus.[15] Undated Rammii  Inscription of Quintus Rammius Facetus (EDR 015385) Rammia, named in an inscription from Circeii in Latium.[17] Quintus Rammius, named in an inscription from Rome.[18] Rammia Callytiche, buried at Ancona in Picenum.[19] Gaius Rammius Conopis, buried at Rome.[20] Quintus Rammius Facetus, son of Crescens and Helpis, buried at Ancona, aged twenty-three years, eight months, and twelve days.[21] Quintus Rammius Q. l. Fronto, a freedman, and one of the seviri Augustales, buried at Narbo in Gallia Narbonensis.[22] Lucius Rammius Januarius, buried at Mactaris in Africa Proconsularis, aged eighty-five, together with his wife, Manlia Saturnina, aged eighty-eight, with a monument dedicated by their son, Lucius Manlius Victor.[23] Rammia Primitiva, built a tomb for her husband, Quintus Alphius Quintillus, at Narbo.[24] Rammia Sp. f. Prisca, buried at Narbo, together with Publius Cornelius Exoratus and Publius Cornelius Firmus.[25] Rammia Cn. Cn. l. Statia, buried at Narbo.[26] Rammia Tertiola, buried at Narbo, with her husband, Gaius Anbivius Clemens, and his brother, Gaius Anbivius Tertius.[27] Footnotes  Appian refers to him as Erennius. See also List of Roman gentes References  Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, vol. III, p. 641 ("Lucius Rammius").  PIR, vol. III, p. 125.  Livy, xlii. 17, 41.  Appian, Macedonica, 9. § 4.  Broughton, vol. I, p. 414.  CIL I, 2683.  CIL I, 2706.  CIL I, 2705.  CIL X, 4317.  CIL X, 3804.  AE 1962, 253.  CIL VI, 221, CIL VI, 222, AE 1898, 91.  CIL VI, 25367.  CIL XIV, 246.  AE 1988, 206.  Silvestrini, Le Tribù Romane, p. 165.  Solin, Kajava, & Salomies, "Storie epigrafiche minturnesi", 1.  CIL VI, 14125.  CIL IX, 5927.  CIL VI, 15056.  NSA, 1910–361.  CIL XII, 4416.  CIL VIII, 11864.  CIL XII, 4570.  CIL XII, 4729.  CIL XII, 4417.  CIL XII, 4573. Bibliography Titus Livius (Livy), History of Rome. Appianus Alexandrinus (Appian), Macedonica (The Macedonian Wars). Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, William Smith, ed., Little, Brown and Company, Boston (1849). Theodor Mommsen et alii, Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (The Body of Latin Inscriptions, abbreviated CIL), Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften (1853–present). Notizie degli Scavi di Antichità (News of Excavations from Antiquity, abbreviated NSA), Accademia dei Lincei (1876–present). René Cagnat et alii, L'Année épigraphique (The Year in Epigraphy, abbreviated AE), Presses Universitaires de France (1888–present). Paul von Rohden, Elimar Klebs, & Hermann Dessau, Prosopographia Imperii Romani (The Prosopography of the Roman Empire, abbreviated PIR), Berlin (1898). T. Robert S. Broughton, The Magistrates of the Roman Republic, American Philological Association (1952). Marina Silvestrini, Le Tribù Romane, Bari (2010). Heikki Solin, Mika Kajava, & Olli Salomies, "Storie epigrafiche minturnesi" (Epigraphic Stories of Minturnae), in Epigraphica, vol. 77, pp. 466–482 (2015). Category: Roman gentes and for THIS gens? Thanks

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rammio – Ossia: Grice e Rammio -- Grex griceiana – verbalia: Rammio For the Rammii, I think there is an almost irresistible first choice: Grice e Lucio Rammio The dossier tells us that Lucius Rammius of Brundisium was approached by Perseus of Macedon, who wished him to poison certain Roman commanders. Instead of complying, Rammius disclosed the plan to the Roman legate Gaius Valerius Laevinus and went to Rome to testify before the Senate. [GREXv2 | Word] This is wonderfully Gricean because it concerns the distinction between:  what is said to someone, what that person is expected to do with the information, and what he actually does.  Grice e Rammio apud Perseum Perseus:  Hoc facies. (You will do this.)  Rammius:  Audio. (I hear.)  Perseus:  Ergo consentis. (Then you agree.)  Rammius:  Non dixi me consentire. (I did not say that I agreed.)  +> Hearing a proposal is not accepting a proposal.  The really interesting point is that Perseus must have assumed confidentiality. Perseus:  Tibi confido. (I trust you.)  Implicitly:  +> You will not report this.  But Rammius derives a completely different practical conclusion: Rammius:  Romam ibo. (I shall go to Rome.)  +> A proposal of wrongdoing ought to be reported.  Gricean uptake Speranza:  Quid significabat Perseus? (What was Perseus communicating?)  Grice:  Consilium occultum. (A secret plan.)  Speranza:  Et quid intellexit Rammius? (And what did Rammius understand?)  Grice:  Rem senatui statim nuntiandam esse. (That the matter should immediately be reported to the Senate.)  +> The hearer's practical inference may differ radically from the speaker's hopes.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rammio – Ossia: Grice e Rammio -- Grex griceiana – verbalia: Rammio A close second would be Quintus Rammius Martialis, prefect of Egypt under Hadrian. [GREXv2 | Word] But for Grice the Brundisian Rammius is far richer, because he stands at the center of a communicative failure:  Perseus thought he was recruiting an accomplice. Rammius interpreted himself as a witness.  One utterance, two radically different understandings of what was conversationally required. So my verdict is: Grice e Lucio Rammio contra Perseum Perseus:  Hoc inter nos maneat. (Let this remain between us.)  Rammius:  Immo apud senatum narrabitur. (On the contrary, it will be reported before the Senate.)  +> The strongest implicature in a secret proposal is often the one the recipient chooses not to honor. [GREXv2 | Word]

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Ramorino – Ossia: Grice e Ramorino: la filosofia della lingua, la filosofia del linguaggio, e la filosofia italiana. Felice Ramorino (Roma, Lazio): la filosofia della lingua, la filosofia del linguaggio, e la filosofia italiana. Ramorino’s philosophy of language starts from the older semiotic and anthropological puzzle of how thought can be expressed in an arbitrary material sound and yet be so entwined with inner “meditation” that thinking is hardly possible without some articulated linguistic medium; language for him is at once a system of signs and a human, quasi-natural fact that connects the natural sciences, psychology of cognition, and logic, and he frames the core problems as the genesis of signification, the differentiation of languages despite a shared “cogitative nature,” and the structuring principles by which terms carve up beings, actions, agents, and relations. Grice’s theory of reason-governed conversational meaning relocates the central explanatory burden from the sign system as such to the rational practices of interlocutors in a talk-exchange: what a speaker means is not exhausted by conventional signification but is partly inferred as conversational implicature under the assumption of cooperative, purposive interaction guided by norms (maxims) of quantity, quality, relation, and manner, so that the connection between what is said and what is meant is systematically calculable, cancellable, and context-sensitive rather than merely semiotic. In the staged “linguaticum” exchange, Ramorino’s sensibility appears in the insistence that the language itself, as a living system with constraints, can “refuse” certain metalinguistic formations, whereas a Gricean reading treats the episode primarily as a display of how metalinguistic joking, category-shifts, and floutings of relevance generate implicatures about scholarly pretension, etymological hygiene, and what counts as an acceptable philosophical term; the contrast is thus that Ramorino foregrounds the ontology and natural-historical status of language as a sign system embedded in human nature, while Grice foregrounds the rational, normative architecture by which conversational agents use whatever sign system they have to make meanings accountable to reasons in interaction. LA LINGUA. Chi rivolga anche un rapido sguardo alla storia della filosofia, non tarda ad accorgersi, che una delle questioni, le quali più vivamente preoccuparono la mente dei pensatori antichi e moderni, è quella che concerne la lingua come SISTEMA di SEGNI SIGNI-ficativi delle idee. E veramente è questione assai complicata e difficile: come mai il PENSIERO dell’uomo trova la sua ESPRESSIONE in un suono MATERIALE che non ha con esso alcuna palese connessione? e non solo vi trova la sua ESPRESSIONE, ma quasi non è esso stesso possibile senza la lingua – “a fact that preoccupied philosophers of yore” – Grice --? conciossiachè sia noto ad ognuno, che ogni MEDIAZIONE, quasi soli-LOQUIO interno, non può mai del tutto -- Dirà taluno: che cos’ha a fare questa trattazione della lingua collo scopo generale del lavoro, che è di far vedere i punti di contatto fra le scienze naturali e la filosofia? Rispondiamo che la filosofia della lingua, sebbene ha un largo fondamento storico, tuttavia in quanto viene a chiarire la natura intima della lingu, che è un fatto umano, fa parte delle scienze naturali. Poi, siccome il pensiero umano è la base della lingua, cosi la filosofia della lingua si lega anche intimamente colla logica; e il trattarne qui serve a far vedere come possa la filosofia avvantaggiarsi dei risultati delle scienze speciali. svincolarsi dai ceppi della PAROLA –greco PARABOLA-- ARTICOLATA. E come avviene, che, essendo unica la natura cogitativa, cosi diversi riescono le lingue? E in che modo lo spirito dell’uomo ha saputo distinguere coi termini della lingua i modi di essere e i modi di operare, e gl’enti e gl’agenti, e i loro rapporti rispettivi ? Quali saranno stati i principii di un così ben fatto tessuto di parole e proposizioni e periodi? Ecco un fascicolo di problemi, tutti di una grande importanza pel filosofo. lingua, linguaggio, Grice, pirotese, pirot, deutero-Esperanto. lingua, linguaggio.  Grice: Dopo il mio incontro con Speranza — che si ostina a chiamarsi “filosofo” con la stessa naturalezza con cui lo faccio io — torno sempre con quella che, a Bologna, lui chiama la domanda chiave della filosofia del linguaggio. Anzi: lui la chiama sempre filosofia della lingua, e appena sente “linguaticum” gli viene un tic, come se avesse visto una “y” in pieno latino. Ramorino: E fa bene ad avere il tic. Perché qui la lingua non è un feticcio: è un sistema di segni, sì, ma anche un fatto umano, e dunque un fatto “naturale”. La domanda vera è come il pensiero finisca a farsi suono senza assomigliargli per niente — e come poi si pretenda pure che quel suono diventi logica, diritto, scienza, e magari anche poesia. Grice: Speranza e io — dopo quel suo tic — siamo rimasti un attimo a contemplare la parola “linguaticum” come si contempla un animale mitologico. È forse la parola latina più impossibile dal punto di vista linguistico: sembra latina, ma suona come se il latino stesso avesse bisogno di una spiegazione a margine. E poi il bello è che, se uno ci costruisce sopra “linguaggio” e ci infila la distinzione tra lingua e linguaggio, pare quasi che la difficoltà stia nel concetto, non nella parola. Come se i filosofi, per parlare di ciò che tutti usiamo ogni giorno, dovessero inventare un latinismo che nessun romano avrebbe osato ordinare al bar. Ramorino: Implicatura impossibilmente linguistica, la sua, come Speranza osserva con precisione. Perché il punto è proprio questo: in italiano magari ti lasciano dire “linguaticum” (non tutti, ma qualcuno sì), finché resta un reperto da vetrina. Appena però vuoi farne un avverbio — “linguaticum-mente” — ti esplode in mano: non hai un aggettivo che lo regga senza diventare caricatura. E allora Speranza dovrebbe concedere che questa è un’implicatura linguaticum-mente impossibile: non perché l’idea non si capisca, ma perché la lingua stessa — quella vera — si rifiuta di firmare la ricevuta. Quanto all’etimologia, per sicurezza meglio ricordare l’alternativa sobria: lingua (la “lingua” come organo e come sistema) e poi linguaggio come derivato moderno e metalinguistico — senza costringere il latino a produrre, sotto minaccia, un “linguaticum” che non voleva nascere. Re: Passage below provide a 100-move conversation between G. and S. as they discuss Ramorino and how the meta-language is crucial to discuss questions of 'meaning,' because G. is undergoing an Anglo-Saxon phase where he loves 'mean' as triadic -- alla Peirce, Ogden/Richards and Lady Welby, s means m for i -- and where is the utterer, and where is the sign and where is the 'signifying' triadic relation, and where is the interpretant or addressee, and Ramorino doesn't care, he just doesn't care, and G. regrets that his audience --Ramorino could care less or could not care less and S. defends Ramornino for the sake of it and tries to bring some artiiculation and Latinity and Latinate articulation to the thing -- and G. is sceptical but eventually will allow that things signify even if they are not signs, and that RAMORINO himself signifies and if he signifies that means that there is an interpretant -- alive at the time of Ramorino's utterance that was within the range of Ramorino's articulations and ejaculations and signs and gesturing and signalling -- and dry humour Oxonian, no preamble, or ps -- and if you can use some of Ramorino's ideas, too, good -- thank you. Passage: G.: Ramorino begins with language as a system of signs and then seems to lose interest just where things become conversationally alive. S.: That is one way of putting it. Another is that he begins earlier than you do, at the level of signification before social games begin. G.: Earlier perhaps, but also blunter. I am in an Anglo-Saxon phase, as you know. I like “mean” because it is at least potentially triadic: sss means mmm for iii. S.: Peirce by way of Ogden and Richards, with Lady Welby hovering as godmother. G.: Exactly. The point is that if sss means mmm for iii, I want to know where the utterer is, where the sign is, where the addressee or interpretant is, and what relation among them is actually constitutive. S.: Whereas Ramorino is content to say that language is a system of signs significant of ideas. G.: Which is almost enough to make one homesick for schoolmen. S.: That is harsher than he deserves. G.: I am not sure. He asks, “How does thought find expression in material sound with no obvious likeness to it?” A splendid question. But then where does the utterer go? Where the speaker? Where the one who means by producing the sound? S.: He cares more for the ontology and natural history of language than for the local economy of an utterance. G.: Exactly my complaint. He just doesn’t care. I need the sign-user. He gives me the sign-system. S.: Because he thinks language itself is a human fact deep enough to connect natural science, psychology, and logic. G.: Yes, and in that broad old way he is not uninteresting. But if I ask how one gets from what is said to what is meant in a given exchange, he looks at me as if I had mistaken a grammar for a teapot. S.: You are being unfair. He is asking how signification arises at all, how one cogitative nature gives rise to many tongues, how terms distinguish being, action, agent, relation. That is not nothing. G.: It is not nothing, but it is not enough. I want UUU, the utterer, SSS, the sign, MMM, the meant content, and III, the interpretant or addressee. Then perhaps something like: U produces S intending I to recognise that U intends M.U \text{ produces } S \text{ intending } I \text{ to recognise that } U \text{ intends } M.U produces S intending I to recognise that U intends M. S.: You always become happiest when letters arrive. G.: Letters are decent company. Ramorino gives me “lingua” and “pensiero” and “suono materiale,” which are handsome nouns but bad at attending tea. S.: Yet his complaint that thought can scarcely proceed without articulated word is one you yourself have often admired in the ancients. G.: Certainly. “Every meditation, quasi-soliloquy, cannot wholly free itself from articulated speech” — yes, that is very good. But it still leaves the crucial scene untouched. S.: The scene being? G.: Someone saying something to someone else. Or at least someone producing a sign in such a way that another is meant to gather something by it. S.: You mean the triadic scene. G.: Precisely. I do not want merely “signification” as a static relation. I want signifying, an event, a transaction, if you like, though not necessarily commercial. S.: You are offended that Ramorino seems to omit the act. G.: Entirely. He asks “how thought becomes sound,” which is admirable enough, but I ask: how does an utterer use a sound to get an addressee to take what is meant beyond what is said? S.: And you think his audience would not care? G.: I think Ramorino could not care less. S.: Or could care less? G.: That vulgar Americanism is exactly the sort of thing he might count as evidence against the age. S.: Still, let us defend him. He may not foreground the speaker, but he does insist that language is not merely conventional rubble. For him it is a structured human fact, a kind of natural-artificial articulation in which thought and sign are entwined. G.: Yes, and that is where your Latinity enters to rescue him. “Articulation” is a better word than most moderns deserve. S.: Thank you. Articulation is exactly the point. Latin helps here. Articulated speech, articulated thought, articulated relation. The signifying system is not an accident layered over thought; it is the very medium in which thought becomes shareable. G.: Shareable is not yet shared. S.: True. But it is a precondition. You begin at the transaction because you are interested in meaning in the wild. Ramorino begins at the tissue from which transactions are made possible. G.: Tissue again. You are drifting into biology. S.: Only by necessity. He himself drifts toward natural science. He says the philosophy of language belongs partly to the natural sciences because language is a human fact. G.: A dangerous move, though not a stupid one. It at least prevents language from becoming a merely ghostly emanation. S.: Exactly. And once language is a human natural fact, one may ask how sounds become sign-bearing, how categories of being and action are cut up, how terms arise for agents, acts, and relations. That is already a kind of proto-semantics. G.: Proto-semantics, yes, but not yet a theory of meaning as I should like it. S.: Because you insist on triadicity. G.: Because triadicity is where the life begins. If sss means mmm for iii, then one must ask not only what sss conventionally signifies, but who meant what by it, for whom, under what assumptions. S.: Lady Welby would be pleased. G.: She usually is, at a safe distance. Ogden and Richards too, though they clutter the room with triangles. S.: Better a triangle than a monad. G.: Quite. Ramorino too often leaves us with a dyad: thought and sound, idea and sign, lingua and pensiero. But a dyad is not enough for actual meaning in use. S.: Unless one adds the hearer silently. G.: Which is precisely what I object to. The hearer must not be smuggled in as background scenery. If there is meaning, someone must be in a position to take it as meaning. S.: Then we should perhaps say: Ramorino’s “system of significant signs” becomes alive only when a hearer occupies the place of the interpretant. G.: Better. Though he does not say it often enough for my taste. S.: Perhaps he assumed it. G.: Assumptions are where philosophers hide what they have not analysed. S.: That is almost one of your maxims. G.: Not almost. Now, let me state the matter more cleanly. We have: U→utters sIU \xrightarrow{\text{utters } s} IUutters s​I with the intention that I recognise that U intends I to take s as meaning m.I \text{ recognise that } U \text{ intends } I \text{ to take } s \text{ as meaning } m.I recognise that U intends I to take s as meaning m. S.: A proper little social drama. G.: Exactly. Ramorino gives us something more like: s↔ideas \leftrightarrow \text{idea}s↔idea and then talks grandly of language as a natural-human fact. S.: Which is not wrong, only incomplete for your purposes. G.: Incomplete in the most irritating way, because it leaves out the one creature I most need: the utterer. S.: Yet does not his own phrase “sistema di segni significativi delle idee” imply some community of users who recognise that significance? G.: It implies them as one implies air when discussing smoke. Necessary, yes; analysed, no. S.: And you are cross because he discusses the atmosphere without giving you the lungs. G.: Very good. Keep that. S.: Gladly. But let me defend him again. There is another side. He asks how the one cogitative nature yields many languages. That is not a trivial question. It implies that signification is not exhausted by any single linguistic clothing, and that languages carve reality differently while remaining answerable to a shared human capacity. G.: Yes, and in that respect he is useful against a crude naturalism. If languages differ, yet thought remains possible, then the relation between sign and idea cannot be merely one-to-one in a stupid way. S.: Which is why he cares about the structuring principles by which terms distinguish beings, actions, agents, and relations. G.: Agreed. That is very nearly what interests me in logic too. How do the terms of a language carve the world? But once again, that is still before the conversational act. S.: Before the act, yes, but not irrelevant to it. If the language has already distinguished beings, actions, and agents in certain ways, the utterer inherits those distinctions. G.: So you want to say that the system constrains what one can mean. S.: More than constrains. It makes some things easily articulable, others clumsy, some impossible without violence. G.: Ah yes, your beloved “linguaticum-mente impossible.” S.: Not mine, the language’s. G.: The language does not sign receipts. S.: It does refuse certain avverbial monstrosities. G.: True enough. And perhaps that is where Ramorino becomes more interesting than I first allowed. If the sign-system itself resists certain constructions, then the utterer is never wholly sovereign. S.: Exactly. You want speaker-intention. He reminds you that the speaker never begins from nowhere, but from a given articulated medium. G.: That is almost plausible. S.: It will improve with age. Let me put it more sharply. You begin with the utterer and the hearer in a talk-exchange. Ramorino begins with the fact that their exchange is possible only because language is already a woven texture of distinctions, categories, and signs. G.: Woven texture is dangerously literary. S.: Better literary than arid. He himself speaks of a “ben fatto tessuto di parole e proposizioni e periodi.” G.: Yes, that is very good. I grant him that. It is properly Latinate and almost civilised. Words, propositions, periods — all stitched into a fabric before my poor utterer enters with his intentions. S.: Precisely. So perhaps your triad must be expanded. Not merely U,S,IU, S, IU,S,I, but also LLL, the language-system within which SSS is available at all. G.: Very well. Then: L∋s,U uses s∈L for I to take m.L \ni s,\quad U \text{ uses } s \in L \text{ for } I \text{ to take } m.L∋s,U uses s∈L for I to take m. S.: Better. G.: Better, yes, but still not enough. For one must also indicate the signifying relation itself, call it Σ\SigmaΣ. Then: Σ(U,s,m,I;L)\Sigma(U,s,m,I;L)Σ(U,s,m,I;L) where Σ\SigmaΣ is the event of signifying by which UUU, using sss as available within LLL, gets III to take mmm. S.: You are inventing notations again. G.: Only to prevent prose from lying. S.: Ramorino would perhaps accept the notation if you wrote it in decent Latin. G.: He would probably still ignore the utterer. S.: I doubt it. He is not indifferent to the human. He says language is a human fact, that thought can scarcely unbind itself from articulated word, that the philosophy of language touches psychology, natural science, and logic. G.: Yes, but “human fact” is not yet “speaker meaning.” S.: No, but it is not nothing. Let us distinguish three levels. First, the language as system of signs. Second, signification as the relation between sign and content within that system. Third, a speaker’s use of those signs in an act directed toward an addressee. G.: Very good. I can live with that hierarchy. S.: And Ramorino works mainly on the first and second, while you insist on the third. G.: Exactly. That is the fairest way to put our quarrel. S.: Then perhaps the real injustice is to ask him to have done all three. G.: Philosophers ought to do more than one thing at a time, but yes, fairness is not always my favourite virtue. S.: There is hope then. Now, you complained that “things signify even if they are not signs.” Do you still object? G.: Less than before. If by that one means that there are natural significations — smoke of fire, dark clouds of rain, spots of measles — then yes, things may signify without being intentionally produced signs. S.: And if so, your own distinction between natural meaning and non-natural meaning comes into play. G.: Exactly. “Those spots mean measles” is one thing. “He showed me the spots to mean that he had measles” is another. S.: Then Ramorino’s wider sign-system can accommodate the first. G.: Yes, and perhaps that is his proper territory. He is interested in signification broadly enough to include natural and linguistic signification within one larger inquiry into language and thought. S.: Which again is not trivial. G.: No. It is only insufficiently theatrical for my taste. S.: That is not his fault. G.: Rarely is. Still, my concern remains: the triadic relation. If sss means mmm for iii, where is the utterer? Where the sign-user? Where the signifying as act? S.: Let us take your complaint seriously and answer it from Ramorino’s side. The utterer is not thematised because he is embedded in the language as human fact. The sign is thematised as part of the system. The addressee is latent as the one for whom signification is possible at all. The act of signifying lies between logic and psychology rather than being made explicit as a conversational relation. G.: Very neat. You have almost made him respectable. S.: Respectability is one of my cheaper services. G.: Then let us ask about “the thing itself signifies.” Suppose Ramorino himself signifies. If he signifies, as you say, then there must be an interpretant, that is, someone alive at the time of his utterance who was within range of his articulations and ejaculations and gestures and signs. S.: Exactly. A professor lecturing, writing, speaking, gesturing, composing periods, all of that already presupposes an audience. G.: So even if he does not theorise the interpretant, he lives by him. S.: Of course. His own discursiveness proves the necessity of the third term. G.: That is quite good. One might say that Ramorino’s practice is more triadic than his theory. S.: I should be content with that. G.: Yes. He signifies, therefore someone was there to take his signification. Otherwise his book becomes weather. S.: A useful distinction: discourse or weather. G.: Keep that too. Then perhaps I may say the following. Ramorino fails to articulate the speaker-hearer relation with the sharpness I require, but his own insistence that language is a sign-system bound to thought and human nature gives the wider ontological stage on which my own speaker-hearer drama can occur. S.: Very well put. G.: It had better be. We have earned it. Now, where does Austin enter this? S.: With his suspicion of grand nouns and his insistence on what we actually say in actual circumstances. G.: Yes. Austin would hate the way “language” in these old texts floats upward into a vast quasi-natural substance. S.: He would drag it down by examples. G.: Exactly. “By ‘language,’ which language, when, by whom, to whom, under what conditions?” Austin would begin there and stay there. S.: Whereas Ramorino wants first the philosophy of language as such. G.: Yes, and that is already enough to make Austin reach for the pipe he had not yet lit. S.: But would Austin be wrong to do so? G.: Not wrong, only local. Austin’s merit is to stop premature sublimation. Ramorino’s merit is to remind us that the local examples sit inside a larger human phenomenon one cannot simply dismiss. S.: So we have Austin on one side and Ramorino on the other, and you somewhere between them with your triad. G.: That sounds dangerously balanced. S.: Philosophy occasionally profits by balance. G.: Only when it is not called synthesis. S.: Then what about explicature? G.: Keep that infernal descendant out of the room entirely. S.: I only meant that if dictum is what is said and implicature what is meant beyond it, some would now wish to insert an intermediate category. G.: Yes, and some also wear poor ties. The dictum is enough trouble without inventing bureaucratic mezzanines. S.: Austin would approve that sentence. G.: He would probably improve it. In any case, Ramorino himself is useful because he keeps “language” and “lingua” distinct enough to be dangerous. Philosophy of the language and philosophy of language, if you like. S.: That was exactly Speranza’s opening complaint: filosofia della lingua, not linguaggio. G.: Yes. “Linguaggio” sounds modern, derivative, metalinguistic. “Lingua” sounds older, organic, bodily, national, almost anatomical. S.: Which fits Ramorino better. He thinks of language not as a detachable formalism but as a human natural articulation. G.: Exactly. And that too is a reminder against certain modern hygienists who think language can be reduced to notation and cleaned of its history. S.: The unity-of-science men again. G.: They haunt everything once one has survived Vienna. But Ramorino is useful against them. He says, in effect, language has roots in life, thought, sound, history, natural fact. It is not just a calculus. S.: So you need him after all. G.: I need him as opposition and as correction. Opposition because he does not care enough for my triad. Correction because I do not always care enough for the language-system and its deep entanglement with thought. S.: That is almost candid. G.: Do not spread it about. S.: Never intentionally. Then let us return one last time to your formula. sss means mmm for iii. Where is the utterer? G.: In the elided left-hand side. Better: U means m by s for I.U \text{ means } m \text{ by } s \text{ for } I.U means m by s for I. S.: And if one wishes to be more Peircean? G.: Then one says: sign, object, interpretant. But I still want the utterer explicit, because signs do not simply erupt into significance without agents in my sort of case. S.: Yet Ramorino would remind you that they do, at least naturally. Clouds, smoke, cries, symptoms. G.: Yes. So perhaps the full picture is this. There are natural significations with no utterer; linguistic significations within a system; and speaker-meanings exploiting that system in acts directed to addressees. S.: That is really rather good. G.: Thank you. We may credit Ramorino with forcing me to say it. S.: Then the final justice to him would be to say: he does not give the complete pragmatics of meaning, but he gives the pre-pragmatic ontology and natural history without which pragmatics would float. G.: Perfectly said. S.: Dry enough? G.: Sufficiently Roman, with just enough Latin articulation to keep the utterer from disappearing.Ramorino, Felice (1902). Il pensiero filosofico italiano. Genova: Ramorino.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Ranio – Ossia: Grice e Ranio -- Grex griceiana -- Ranio Inscription of Quintus Ranius Terentius Honoratianus Festus, CIL XI, 6164. The gens Rania was an obscure plebeian family at ancient Rome. Few members of this gens occur in history, but others are known from inscriptions. Lucius Ranius Optatus was consul in the early third century AD.[1][2]  Origin The nomen Ranius resembles other gentilicia formed using the suffix -anius, typically derived from place names and cognomina ending in -anus.[3] No corresponding location or surname is known, but the root of the nomen resembles rana, a frog, and as a cognomen could have belonged to a common class of surnames derived from the names of familiar animals and objects.[4][5]  The Ranii may have been of Sabine extraction, as one of the Ranii bore the surname Sabinus, typically indicating Sabine ancestry, while another family of the name lived at Alba Fucens, in Sabinum.[6][7][8] Chase lists Ronius among various gentilicia of Oscan derivation, but this may be a typo for Ranius, as only a single Ronius is known from inscriptions.[i][9][10]  Praenomina The main praenomina of the Ranii were Lucius, Gaius, and Quintus, three of the most common names throughout Roman history. Examples of Aulus and Titus are also known.  Branches and cognomina The Ranii used a number of surnames, including Felix, fortunate or happy, Fronto, originally applied to someone with a prominent forehead, Pullo, blackish, Sabinus, a Sabine, and Optatus, desired or welcome, the only surname known to have been passed down through a distinct family of the Ranii.[11]  Members This list includes abbreviated praenomina. For an explanation of this practice, see filiation. Ranius, said to have been mentioned by Cicero, perhaps as a slave or freedman of Marcus Junius Brutus; but the text cannot be located, and may perhaps be an error or variant in some manuscript.[12][1] Lucius Ranius Felix, flamen of Augustus at Zama Regia in Africa Proconsularis during the reign of Hadrian.[13] Ranius, named in an inscription from Rome.[14] Gaius Ranius, a soldier in the century of Gaius Valerius Primus, stationed at Mainz#Roman Mogontiacum in Germania Superior.[15] Titus Ranius Fronto, a soldier in the praetorian guard, stationed at Ravenna, was buried at Eleusis in Achaia, aged twenty-six, having served for eight years. His heirs, Mercasius and Justus, built a monument to his memory.[16] Aulus Ranius Pullo, together with his wife, Avidia Successa, buried their son, Avidius Felix, at Alba Fucens in Sabinum, aged thirteen years, six months, and eight days.[8] Gaius Ranius Sabinus, governor of Hispania Tarraconensis, named in an inscription from Legio.[7] Lucius Ranius, a priest at Mascula in Numidia.[17] Lucius Ranius Se[...], a senator, and consul designatus in an uncertain year.[18] Quintus Ranius Cassianus, a military tribune with the third legion at Lambaesis in Numidia, named in a libationary inscription dating between AD 209 and 211.[19] Lucius Ranius Optatus, perhaps surnamed Acontius or Acontianus, was consul suffectus in an uncertain year, probably during the reign of Severus Alexander. He had previously served as one of the decemviri stlitibus judicandis, was quaestor in Sicily, tribune of the plebs, praetor, and at some point was proconsul of Gallia Narbonensis.[20][2] Quintus Ranius Terentius Honoratianus Festus, served at various times as quaestor in Sicily, curule aedile, praetor, prefect of the military treasury, legate of the second legion, and proconsul of Lycia and Pamphylia, during the early or middle third century.[21][2] Rania Flavia Juliana Optata, wife of the senator Flavius Pollio of Ammaedara in Africa Proconsularis, was the mother of Flavianus, Optata, and Flavianilla.[22][2] Ranius, brother of Ranius Modare, buried at Numerus Syrorum in Mauretania Caesariensis, aged about thirty-five.[23] Ranius Modare, dedicated a monument at Numerus Syrorum to his brother, Ranius.[23] Footnotes  A Ronius Turpio, who perished aged sixty-one, and was buried at Terventum in Samnium. See also List of Roman gentes References  Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, vol. III, p. 641 ("Ranius").  PIR, vol. III, p. 125.  Chase, p. 118.  New College Latin & English Dictionary, s. v. rana.  Chase, pp. 112, 113.  Chase, p. 114.  AE 1967, 243.  CIL IX, 4024.  Chase, p. 128.  CIL IX, 2619.  New College Latin & English Dictionary, s. v. felix, fronto, pullus, Sabinus, optatus.  Cicero, Epistulae ad Atticum, xii. 21.  CIL VIII, 16441.  CIL XV, 5489a.  AE 1996, 1176b.  AE 1968, 472.  Le Glay, Saturne Africain, vol. II, p. 170.  Galieti, Albano Laziale, p. 61.  AE 1928, 106.  CIL VI, 1507, CIL XII, 3170.  CIL XI, 6164.  CIL VIII, 12545.  CIL VIII, 21807. Bibliography Marcus Tullius Cicero, Epistulae ad Atticum. Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, William Smith, ed., Little, Brown and Company, Boston (1849). Theodor Mommsen et alii, Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (The Body of Latin Inscriptions, abbreviated CIL), Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften (1853–present). René Cagnat et alii, L'Année épigraphique (The Year in Epigraphy, abbreviated AE), Presses Universitaires de France (1888–present). George Davis Chase, "The Origin of Roman Praenomina", in Harvard Studies in Classical Philology, vol. VIII, pp. 103–184 (1897). Paul von Rohden, Elimar Klebs, & Hermann Dessau, Prosopographia Imperii Romani (The Prosopography of the Roman Empire, abbreviated PIR), Berlin (1898). Alberto Galieti, Contributi alla storia della diocesi suburbicaria di Albano Laziale (Contributions to the History of the Suburbicarian Diocese of Albano Laziale, abbreviated AlbLaz), Vatican City (1948). Marcel Le Glay, Saturne Africain, Paris (1966). John C. Traupman, The New College Latin & English Dictionary, Bantam Books, New York (1995). Categories: Roman gentesRoman gentes of Sabine origin and for THIS gens? Thanks

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Ranio – Ossia: Grice e Ranio -- Grex griceiana – Ranio For the Ranii, I am tempted by the consul Lucius Ranius Optatus, but the most Gricean figure is actually the very shadowy:  Ranius, allegedly mentioned by Cicero, perhaps as a slave or freedman of Marcus Junius Brutus, although the source itself is uncertain and modern scholars cannot securely locate the passage. The dossier explicitly notes that this may rest on a textual error or manuscript variant. [GREXv2 | Word]  Why is this Gricean? Because it is a problem of reference. Grice e Ranio Speranza:  Quis est Ranius? (Who is Ranius?)  Grice:  Nescimus. (We do not know.)  Speranza:  At nomen habemus. (But we have the name.)  Grice:  Habemus nomen, non necessario referentem. (We have the name, but not necessarily the referent.)  +> A name can survive after its bearer has become uncertain. This is almost Strawsonian:  Reference is not guaranteed merely because a word occurs in a text. So my first-best Grice–Speranza vignette for the gens Rania is: Grice e Ranio de Referentia Speranza:  Nomen habemus; hominem habemusne? (We have the name; do we have the man?)  Grice:  Non semper. (Not always.)  +> The survival of a name does not guarantee the survival of its referent. [GREXv2 | Word]

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Ranio – Ossia: Grice e Ranio -- Grex griceiana – Ranio A close second is Titus Ranius Fronto, the praetorian guardsman buried at Eleusis, whose monument was erected by his heirs. [GREXv2 | Word] That yields: Speranza:  Quis loquitur in monumento? (Who is speaking in the inscription?)  Grice:  Heredes. (The heirs.)  Speranza:  De quo loquuntur? (About whom do they speak?)  Grice:  De Frontone. (About Fronto.)  +> The subject of an utterance need not be its speaker.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Ranio – Ossia: Grice e Ranio -- Grex griceiana – Ranio But my favourite is another possibility: Grice e Ranio "Rana" The dossier notes that the nomen Ranius may resemble Latin:  rana (frog). [GREXv2 | Word]  Not that the etymology is certain—the source explicitly says no corresponding place-name or cognomen is known. [GREXv2 | Word] Still, one can imagine: Speranza:  Cur Ranius appellatur? (Why is he called Ranius?)  Grice:  Forte a rana. (Perhaps from a frog.)  Speranza:  Quid commune habet cum rana? (What does he have in common with a frog?)  Grice:  Hoc ipsum ignoramus. (That is exactly what we do not know.)  +> Etymology often preserves an implicature after the context has disappeared.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Raznio – Ossia: Grice e Ranzio -- Grex griceiana -- Ranzio The gens Rancia was an obscure plebeian family of ancient Rome. No members of this gens are mentioned by Roman writers, but several are known from inscriptions.  Members This list includes abbreviated praenomina. For an explanation of this practice, see filiation. Quintus Rancius Q. l., a freedman buried at Rome, in a tomb dating from the latter half of the first century BC.[1] Rancia Antiochis, buried at Rome, in a tomb built by her husband, Titus Pomponius Diodorus, dating from the latter half of the first century.[2] Quintus Rancius Q. l. Dorotheus, a freedman named in an Augustan-era inscription from Rome.[3] Quintus Rancius Epaphroditus, buried at Rome, together with his wife, Rancia Thallusa, in a tomb dating from the first half of the second century.[4] Rancia Harmonia, dedicated a tomb at Rome for her husband, Marcus Alphius Romanus.[5] Rancia Thallusa, buried at Rome, together with her husband, Quintus Rancius Epaphroditus.[4] Rancia Tryphera, buried at Rome, together with Gaius Julius Pontianus, probably her husband.[6] See also List of Roman gentes References  CIL VI, 25369.  AE 1997, 213.  CIL VI, 7223.  CIL VI, 25368.  CIL VI, 25370.  CIL VI, 20214. Bibliography René Cagnat et alii, L'Année épigraphique (The Year in Epigraphy, abbreviated AE), Presses Universitaires de France (1888–present). Theodor Mommsen et alii, Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (The Body of Latin Inscriptions, abbreviated CIL), Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften (1853–present). Category: Roman gentes and from THIS gens? Thanks

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Raznio – Ossia: Grice e Ranzio -- Grex griceiana -- Ranzio For the Rancii, the evidence is so scanty that I would not build the vignette around politics, law, or military history. What survives is almost entirely a world of:  freedmen, spouses, tombs, memorial inscriptions. [GREXv2 | Word]  So my first-best choice would be: Grice e Rancia Harmonia The dossier records:  Rancia Harmonia dedicated a tomb for her husband, Marcus Alphius Romanus. [GREXv2 | Word]  That may seem slight, but it raises a very Gricean question:  Why erect a tomb at all?  The literal content is:  "Here lies X."  But funerary inscriptions invariably communicate more than that.  Grice e Harmonia Speranza:  Quid dicit monumentum? (What does the monument say?)  Grice:  Marcum Alphium Romanum hic sepultum esse. (That Marcus Alphius Romanus is buried here.)  Speranza:  Tantumne? (Only that?)  Grice:  Minime. (Not at all.)  +> Someone cared enough to remember him publicly.  The nice Gricean point is that the inscription performs at least two acts simultaneously: What is said  Marcus Alphius Romanus.  What is implicated  +> He ought to be remembered. +> The marriage mattered. +> The survivor wishes to preserve his memory. Verdict My first-best vignette is: Grice e Rancia Harmonia Speranza:  Quid est monumentum? (What is a tomb?)  Grice:  Oratio ad posteros. (A speech addressed to posterity.)  Speranza:  Etiam cum nemo loquatur? (Even when nobody speaks?)  Grice:  Praesertim tum. (Especially then.)  +> The inscription explicitly names the dead; it implicitly asks the living to remember them. [GREXv2 | Word] That seems to me the most characteristically Gricean theme available from the otherwise very shadowy gens Rancia.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Raznio – Ossia: Grice e Ranzio -- Grex griceiana – Ranzio A second candidate: Epaphroditus and Thallusa The dossier also gives us:  Quintus Rancius Epaphroditus and Rancia Thallusa, buried together. [GREXv2 | Word]  A Grice–Speranza reconstruction: Speranza:  Cur una sepulti sunt? (Why were they buried together?)  Grice:  Monumentum non dicit. (The monument does not say.)  Speranza:  Et tamen intellegimus aliquid. (And yet we understand something.)  +> Shared burial implies a recognized bond.  My favourite detail What strikes me throughout the Rancii is the prevalence of Greek names:  Epaphroditus, Thallusa, Antiochis, Tryphera. [GREXv2 | Word]  The social implicature is almost certainly a world of freedmen and freedwomen, though one must be cautious and not deduce more than the inscriptions themselves state.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Ranzoli – Ossia: Grice e Ranzoli: “going through the dictionary” -- “Non il Little Oxford Dictionary, come volleva Austin, ma il Ranzoli!”  Cesare Ranzoli (Mantova, Lombardia): “going through the dictionary” -- “Non il Little Oxford Dictionary, come volleva Austin, ma il Ranzoli! la scuola di Roma, e la filosofia italiana. Grice’s theory of reason-governed conversational meaning treats “going through the dictionary” as, at best, a preliminary check on conventional word-meaning, while the real explanatory work is done by rational principles governing talk-exchanges: interlocutors assume cooperative purpose, exploit shared expectations (about relevance, informativeness, clarity, etc.), and thereby generate implicatures that are not in the lexicon but are nonetheless recoverable as what the speaker meant. Ranzoli, by contrast, embodies the philological-historical impulse to discipline philosophical discourse by organizing it: his Dizionario di scienze filosofiche (Hoepli; first ed. 1905) aims to be school-neutral, multilingual in its equivalences, and bibliographically directive, treating philosophical vocabulary as a mapped terrain whose paths can be stabilized by careful definition, cross-language alignment, and curated references; on that model, philosophical clarity is advanced by lexical hygiene and conceptual cartography. The comparison is thus a difference of explanatory level: Ranzoli’s lexicography works “from below,” codifying and harmonizing term-meanings so that philosophical conversation has better materials to work with, whereas Grice works “from above,” explaining how even perfectly ordinary, dictionary-certified sentences routinely mean more (or other) than they say because conversational reason supplies defeasible inferences sensitive to context and speaker intention. Where Ranzoli can plausibly say that definitions “suggest more than they say” (in the sense that an entry opens lines of inquiry via synonyms, contrasts, and reading trails), Grice’s point is sharper: implicature is not a suggestive halo around a definition but a rationally accountable product of cooperative interpretation, cancellable and calculable, arising precisely when what the dictionary gives underdetermines what the speaker is doing in the conversational situation. Grice: “I think I prefer Stefanoni. When Austin commanded us to ‘go through the dictionary’ he never meant the PHILOSOPHICAL dictionary, but that is at which the Italians excel!” DIZIONARIO DI FILOSOFIA MANUALI HOEPLI. Il dizionario di filosofia di R. è stato accolto dal pubblico in modo estremamente lusinghiero. Di ciò attribuisco una minima parte ai pregi dell’opera di R. Il resto, il più, all'essere UNICA del genere IN ITALIA e al promettente risveglio filosofico. Ma, appunto per questo, R. sente più vivo il dovere di ri-esaminarla con la più scrupolosa attenzione, per eliminarne quei difetti e apportarvi quei miglioramenti, che la rendessero meglio adatta al suo scopo. R. supprime tutti gl’argomenti che non riguardano davvicino la filosofia o le sue parti. R. Mette accanto ad ogni vocabolo il corrispondente gallico – o ‘francese’, tedesco, ed inglese, talvolta anche LATINO e greco. R. pone in fine alla maggior parte delle voci le opportune indicazioni bibliografiche. R. Aggiunge gran numero di termini, sia nuovi sia previamente dimenticati, e da più ampio svolgimento a quelli che lui pare richiederlo. Che in tal modo essa raggiunge il suo assetto definitivo, sono ben lungi dal pensarlo. Un dizionario come questo di R., specie se lavoro di uno solo, ha il poco invidiabile privilegio di non essere mai compiute. Mende, sproporzioni, ripetizioni, lacune sone inevitabili. Bisogna accontentarsi di ridurle via via al minor numero possibile, Il dizionaro di R. s’ispira ai varii criteri. Tenersi al di sopra e al di fuori d’ogni pre-concetto di scuola, presentando obbiettivamente le questioni e le idee che ai vocaboli sono legate e i vari atteggiamenti da esse assunti nella storia della filosofia. Sapere riuscire chiaro ed accessibile ad ogni media cultura, senza falsare per questo i problemi e ridurre al semplice ciò che di natura e di origine è complesso. implicatura, lessicologia filosofica.  Grice: Caro Ranzoli, devo confessarlo: prima di attaccare a fondo un concetto filosofico, ho il mio rituale. "Passo sempre per il dizionario" – ci tengo però a precisare che parlo del tuo, non certo del Little Oxford! Il Dizionario di Filosofia Ranzoli è ormai per me una tappa obbligata: c’è sempre qualcosa che illumina, che fa riflettere, che sorprende. Ranzoli: Che piacere sentire queste parole, caro Grice. Ho sempre pensato che un buon dizionario non debba solo definire, ma anche suggerire domande, aprire prospettive. E mi rincuora vedere che il mio lavoro sia utile a chi, come te, affronta la filosofia con spirito critico e curiosità autentica. Grice: Ecco, proprio questo apprezzo: la tua opera fugge dai preconcetti di scuola, non si incastra in nessuna ortodossia. Si sente che dietro ogni voce c’è un tentativo di restituire la ricchezza delle posizioni, e al tempo stesso di restare chiaro, accessibile, mai banale. È quasi una conversazione in sé, parola per parola. Ranzoli: La conversazione, appunto, è la chiave! Un dizionario filosofico, per come lo intendo, non vuole chiudere il significato, ma invitare chi legge a continuare il dialogo. Dopotutto, anche le definizioni sono implicature: suggeriscono più di quanto dicano. E grazie a lettori come te, so che il mio lavoro resta sempre "aperto". Re: passage below. provide a 100-move conversation at C. school Latin class Master brings dusty copy of Ranzoli, La filosofia di Vrigilio which surprises G. and bores Shropshire. Master says: I'll play the Bolognese today, boys. You see, in Bologna, before you go to varsity, you have HEARD of philosophy from a PHILOSOPHER -- unlike here in Somerset -- but what gives Today's fare: Virgilio -- la filosofia. Shrosphire: But he is a poet! G. And a philosopher, if not a cricketer --and they go on to refute EVERY proposition given by master to the effect that according to Ranzoli Virgilio is being philosophical whereas to use Shropshire's phrase Virgilio is just being derlisious -- or G. comments, 'ecclectic' for he goes from the porch to the garden and through the academy and the lizio (as they say liceo in Italy) etce etc dry humour pre-Oxonian, no preamble or ps -- jsut to commemorate Ranzoli who is doing something sensible here rather than proviing or trying to provide a dictio of the philosophical lingo or jargon! -- thanks Passage: Magister: I shall play the Bolognese today, boys. Shropshire: That sounds infectious, sir. G.: Or educational, which is usually worse at school. Magister: In Bologna, before you go to the university, you have already heard of philosophy from a philosopher. Shropshire: Unlike Somerset, where we hear of weather from the weather. G.: And of Rome from masters with canes. Magister: Precisely. And today’s fare is Virgilio — la filosofia. Shropshire: But he is a poet. G.: And a philosopher, if not a cricketer. Magister: Mr. Grice has the right instinct, though perhaps not yet the right restraint. Shropshire: I should rather have the cricket. G.: That is because poetry asks more of you than bowling. Magister: Ranzoli, in his La filosofia di Virgilio, takes Virgil seriously as a thinker, not merely as a versifier of Roman weather and imperial upholstery. Shropshire: “Imperial upholstery” sounds promising. G.: Better than your psychology, which is usually merely labelled emotion. Magister: Let us begin with the obvious proposition. Virgil is philosophical because he reflects on fate. Shropshire: Or because he cannot avoid it. Roman epic drags fate behind it like a school trunk. G.: Too quick. Fate in Virgil is not merely baggage. It is a principle of intelligibility, though often made theatrical. Magister: Good. And what would Ranzoli say? G.: That Virgil does not merely decorate myth with grandeur, but uses epic form to stage a view of order: cosmic, moral, and political. Shropshire: Which is a way of saying he is being dull in hexameters. G.: No, merely serious in metre. Magister: Another proposition. Virgil is philosophical because he mediates among schools. Shropshire: Which schools? Cricket, rugger, and choir? G.: The porch, the garden, the academy, and the liceo, if one wishes to Italianise the Lyceum and make Aristotle sound like a school inspector. Magister: Indeed. Virgil is often read as eclectic. Shropshire: Eclectic is what masters say when a man cannot make up his mind. G.: Or when he can make up several at once. Magister: Very good. Eclectic in Virgil means that Stoic providence, Epicurean melancholy, Platonic colouring, and Aristotelian or Peripatetic habits of natural and moral observation may coexist under poetic discipline. Shropshire: Which sounds as if he steals from every shop on the street. G.: He borrows from all of civilisation, which is more respectable. Magister: Consider the Aeneid. Is Aeneas Stoic? Shropshire: He is dutiful to the point of boredom. G.: Boredom is your response, not his virtue. Aeneas embodies pietas, which is not simply Stoic apatheia but a Roman moral synthesis of duty, reverence, self-subordination, and historical burden. Magister: Good. Ranzoli would insist that Virgil gives us not merely an epic hero but a moral type. Shropshire: A type may still be tedious. G.: Only to those who prefer Achilles. Magister: Let us take another proposition. Virgil is philosophical because he thinks about human suffering under necessity. Shropshire: That sounds merely tragic. G.: Tragedy often is philosophy after dark. Magister: Excellent. In the Georgics and Aeneid especially, labour, death, loss, and historical cost are not accidents but conditions of human life under an ordered yet harsh cosmos. Shropshire: So he is “philosophical” because life is miserable and he writes beautifully about it. G.: Better than your usual formulae, though still coarse. Magister: Ranzoli’s good sense lies precisely there: he does not try to turn Virgil into a lecturer in metaphysics. He asks what kind of world a poet implies. Shropshire: At least that is sensible. G.: More sensible than proving that “substance” means the same in every author north and south of the Alps. Magister: Another proposition. Virgil is philosophical because he presents nature as intelligible. Shropshire: Bees in the Georgics? G.: Exactly. Husbandry, weather, bees, plague, labour, all in a cosmos not wholly arbitrary. Magister: Yet not quite Lucretius. G.: No. Virgil cannot be reduced to Epicurean mechanism, though he knows Lucretius too well not to hear him behind the line. Shropshire: So when he sounds Epicurean, he is being derivatively delicious. G.: Not delicious. Deliberate. Magister: There is a good opposition there. Virgil often sounds as though he has passed through Lucretius without remaining in him. Shropshire: Like a boy through chapel. G.: Better than you know. Magister: The Eclogues too have their philosophy, though boys usually miss it because they think shepherds are decorative. Shropshire: They generally are. G.: In bad poets, perhaps. In Virgil, pastoral often stages absence, loss, longing, political disturbance, and the distance between ideal order and actual history. Magister: Excellent. The so-called shepherd may be carrying a civil war in his flute. Shropshire: That is better than psychology. G.: Everything is better than your psychology. Magister: Ah yes, your psychology. Let us hear it. Why are Shakespeare’s Romans psychologically inferior or superior to Virgil’s? Shropshire: Shakespeare’s are obvious. Caesar vanity, Brutus conscience, Cassius envy, Coriolanus pride, Antony appetite. Virgil’s are less helpful. Aeneas duty, Dido feeling, Turnus temper. G.: A child’s apothecary. Magister: Mr. Grice? G.: Shakespeare gives dramatised conflicts in speech and scene. Virgil gives a more meditated architecture of motive under fate, office, history, and cosmic order. The psychology is not less subtle, merely less theatrical. Shropshire: Less theatrical sounds less fun. G.: Only to boys. Magister: Ranzoli would say something similar, though perhaps with less severity. Virgil’s philosophy lies not in isolated maxims but in the total stance of the poem toward destiny, labour, suffering, piety, and Rome. Shropshire: Rome again. G.: We are in Roman history, you may have noticed. Magister: And English literature, Mr. Shropshire. Shakespeare’s Roman plays and Virgil belong together here because England reads Rome through both history and poetry. Shropshire: That seems rather a lot for one lesson. G.: Clifton aims high and lands irregularly. Magister: Now, what of Dido? Is she merely passion? Shropshire: Surely. G.: Too simple. She is passion yes, but passion under divine interference, political impossibility, wounded dignity, and competing forms of obligation. Magister: Good. In Virgil, the passions are never merely private. They carry world-historical consequence. Shropshire: That sounds suspiciously German. G.: It is merely Roman with hindsight. Magister: And Turnus? Shropshire: Temper, as I said. G.: Turnus is heroic energy trapped on the losing side of fate. His anger is not merely temper but the tragic vitality of a world history will not preserve. Magister: Very good indeed. Shropshire: He still loses. G.: History is full of men who lose philosophically. Magister: Let us ask the more general question. Can a poet be a philosopher without writing doctrine? Shropshire: He can, apparently, bore a classroom. G.: He can certainly think in images, forms, narratives, symbolic arrangements, and moral types. Philosophy is not owned by the treatise. Magister: Exactly. Ranzoli’s virtue is to take that seriously without becoming silly. He does not try to prove that Virgil has a “system.” He shows that poetic vision can carry philosophical order. Shropshire: Which is more sensible than a dictionary of all the philosophical jargon. G.: There speaks improvement. Magister: Let us be fair to the title. La filosofia di Virgilio sounds larger than it is. But the largeness is a useful provocation. Shropshire: To sell copies? G.: To annoy the right readers into buying them. Magister: Also true. But above all it compels the schoolboy to stop saying “but he is a poet” as though that settled the matter. Shropshire: It usually does for me. G.: Your mind was not built for settlements. Magister: Another proposition then. Virgil is philosophical because he thinks historically. Shropshire: Meaning Rome again. G.: Meaning more than Rome. It means that human action is embedded in a temporal order larger than individual desire, and that poetry may represent not just events but their place in a providential or quasi-providential sequence. Magister: The Aeneid is full of that burden. Shropshire: Which is another way of saying Aeneas is not free. G.: Not freely frivolous, no. Freedom in Virgil is not mere arbitrariness but action under necessity with moral cost. Magister: Well said. Shropshire: I prefer heroes with less furniture on their consciences. G.: Which is why you are still at school. Magister: Let us consider whether Virgil’s relation to Epicureanism is itself philosophical. Shropshire: Lucretius in the room again. G.: He never quite leaves. Virgil inherits from Lucretius a certain gravity about nature, mortality, labour, and the fragility of human arrangements, but does not remain within Epicurean release. Magister: Exactly. The world in Virgil is too charged with duty, omen, memory, and destiny for simple Lucretian therapy. Shropshire: So he takes the weather and leaves the atoms. G.: Not entirely foolish. Magister: And Stoicism? G.: There is enough of the Stoic moral atmosphere to colour duty, endurance, order, and rational acceptance, but not enough to make the poems doctrinally Stoic. Shropshire: So again he steals from the porch and walks away. G.: Eclectic, as I said. Magister: “Eclectic” here is not abuse. It may mean that Virgil’s poetry is philosophically resonant because it is not imprisoned within one school. Shropshire: Convenient. G.: Or civilised. Magister: We should now compare this with Shakespeare’s Romans, since you boys have lately suffered them. Shropshire: Gladly. Shakespeare makes motives visible in speech. Virgil wraps them in hexameter fog. G.: No. Virgil embeds them in larger orders of interpretation. Shakespeare dramatises psychic conflict more directly. Virgil meditates moral and historical conflict more architectonically. Magister: Very good. Shakespeare is more immediately psychological; Virgil more cosmological and civic. Shropshire: Which is why Shakespeare is less boring. G.: It is why you are still young. Magister: And yet Shakespeare’s Romans also philosophise by dramatising public life. Brutus, Coriolanus, Antony, all are moral-political cases. Virgil’s cases are less theatrical, but no less philosophically charged. Shropshire: Then why study Virgil in History of England? G.: Because England’s literature, especially Shakespeare, learns Rome from poets as much as from historians. Magister: Exactly. Roman history in an English school cannot stop at Livy and Tacitus. It must pass through Virgil and then through Shakespeare. Shropshire: That sounds very curricular. G.: Which is usually how civilisation reaches boys. Magister: Another proposition. Virgil is philosophical because he teaches by disposition rather than argument. Shropshire: That sounds almost Anglican. G.: It means that the poem trains one’s sense of what counts as serious, necessary, fitting, tragic, admirable, culpable, or sacred before one has reduced any of it to theses. Magister: Excellent. Ranzoli sees that philosophical import may be atmospheric before it is doctrinal. Shropshire: “Atmospheric” is a very evasive word. G.: Better atmospheric than your one-word diagnostics. Magister: Very true. One must not say only “Aeneas = duty” and imagine the matter done. Shropshire: It was a useful beginning. G.: Only as a specimen of what not to stop at. Magister: Let us take one line of objection. Suppose one says Virgil merely borrows philosophical colouring from contemporary schools without himself “being” a philosopher. Shropshire: That is my position. G.: It is a schoolboy’s version of a fair objection. Magister: And the answer? G.: That “being a philosopher” need not mean writing in quaestio form. If a poet persistently organises action, motive, world-order, value, and destiny in ways answerable to philosophical ideas, then philosophical criticism is not absurd. Magister: Quite so. The question is not “did Virgil lecture on ethics?” but “what conception of life and order animates his poetry?” Shropshire: Which sounds less outrageous. G.: Because you have finally begun thinking. Magister: Another proposition. In Virgil, the relation between man and cosmos is philosophically central. Shropshire: More bees? G.: Bees, ploughs, storms, underworlds, omens, prophecy, sacrifice, all of it. Human action is never merely local. It is framed by a world that is both natural and numinous. Magister: Good. That is one reason why Ranzoli is sensible here. He treats poetic cosmology as philosophically consequential. Shropshire: You sound pleased with Ranzoli. G.: Only because he is doing something useful rather than giving us a dictionary of the philosophical lingo. Magister: A low blow, but deserved in some quarters. Shropshire: Then does Ranzoli make Virgil too serious? G.: Any good schoolmaster does, and sometimes rightly. Better too serious than safely decorative. Magister: Thank you, Grice. I was hoping for one ally before luncheon. Shropshire: I remain unconvinced. G.: Naturally. Conviction comes later, after memory has had time to do its work. Magister: A final comparison then. Shakespeare’s Roman plays present persons under civic pressure. Virgil presents persons under civic, cosmic, and historical pressure. Which is more philosophical? Shropshire: Shakespeare, because I can see what they mean. G.: Virgil, because one must learn how much more there is to mean. Magister: Excellent. That is almost worth the lesson. Shropshire: “Almost” is a schoolmaster’s implicature. G.: You improve by accident. Magister: Then let us end with the list we ought to remember. Shakespeare’s Roman plays: Julius Caesar, Brutus, Cassius, Antony, Octavius, Casca, Portia, Calpurnia; Coriolanus, Volumnia, Virgilia, Menenius, Aufidius, Cominius; Titus, Tamora, Aaron, Lavinia, Saturninus, Bassianus; Antony, Cleopatra, Octavius, Enobarbus, Lepidus, Charmian, Iras. Shropshire: Enough Romans to sink a timetable. G.: Or to make one English. Magister: And Virgil’s principal Romans and anti-Romans? G.: Aeneas, Anchises, Ascanius, Dido, Turnus, Evander, Pallas, Latinus, Amata, Camilla, and all the rest under fate. Shropshire: Under fate again. G.: Better fate than your tropicalism. Magister: Dry enough for now. Next week we return to prose and shall all regret it.Ranzoli, Cesare (1900). La filosofia di Virgilio. Torino: Loescher.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Grice e Rapagnetta: la ragione conversazionale e  l’implicatura conversazionale.  Gabriele d’Annunzio (Pescara, Abruzzo): la ragione conversazionale e  l’implicatura conversazionale. Grice: “I will call him a philosopher.” Esistono diverse risorse che approfondiscono la filosofia della lingua d’A CAPPELLO, la questione della lingua, esplora il ruolo d’A. nel dibattito e la sua influenza sulla lingua. La rassegna dannunziana raccoglie studi sul rapporto tra A. e la cultura filosofica e con analisi dettagliate che esaminano la concezione d’A. del verso come tutto, focalizzandosi sulla musicalità e il valore evocativo delle parole rispetto al loro significato. Bertoni sulla scienza e magismo nel lessico d’A., comprendere la sua filosofia pratica della parola, fascismo, illuminismo oscuro Il rapporto tra il vate e il fascismo è complesso e burrascoso: un poeta buono nell'infondere emozioni e a forgiare l’immaginario collettivo, ma che poco ha a che spartire con Mussolini e la dottrina fascista.  Difficile trovare un personaggio più divisivo di Annunzio. O lo si ama o lo si odia. Chi lo ama, solitamente, sa vagamente perché. Chi lo odia, il più delle volte, non ha idea della ragione. Pochi si addentrano nel personaggio, nelle opere, nella biografia, nella sua filosofia, e finiscono per apprezzarlo per le sue magnificenze e contraddizioni, senza amarlo né odiarlo. L’uomo presenta slanci superbi e difetti inemendabili, che si elidono e restituiscono l’immagine di una persona discorso del Sindaco e degli interventi degli Assessori venivano pubblicati il 31 marzo su ÒLa NazioneÓ e ÒIl Nuovo GiornaleÓ. Cozzi, COPPEDé, Adolfo, Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani - ad vocem, consultabile in 100. LÕIllustrazione ital.., Cresti gli architetti e il fascismo Architetto imaginifico, Giannantonio, Gabriele dÕAnnunzio: Guerra, Arte & Architettura É Cresti, Al presente studio hanno collaborato Daniela DÕAlimonte, Erika Di Felice e Lores Di Pietro, che lÕautore ringrazia. Alighieri, quarnaro, reggenza, non repubblica, musica, dictator romano, commandante, il fiume, il fiumenismo, sindacalismo, utopia, dystopia, revoluzione conservatrice, implicatura fiumenista, la filosofia in d’annunzio, la carta di carnaro, aristotele, vico, Nietzsche. G.: Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem, non secus in bonis ab insolenti temperatam laetitia, moriture Delli. S.: Remember to keep an even mind in difficult circumstances, and likewise in good ones a mind restrained from overbearing joy, Dellius, who are going to die. D.: Ricòrdati, Delio, di serbare l’animo uguale nelle strettezze, e non meno, nelle fortune liete, temperato da una gioia non insolente, tu che devi morire. G.: Good. Unpoetical enough from you, and almost decent from him. S.: I do my best to be indecent only in metre. D.: And I do mine to rescue Horace from your prose. G.: Before rescue, a question. I did not know Horace was bilingual. D.: He was not. G.: Ah. D.: This is d’Annunzio. G.: Naturally. One suspects him whenever Horace sounds too pleased with his own vowels. S.: So the point is not that Horace wrote in Italian. D.: Certainly not. The point is that I borrow the speaking-place of Horace and make it answer to an Italian ear. G.: Borrow? D.: If you prefer, inherit. If you prefer further, steal. S.: He prefers steal. G.: I do. It is cleaner. D.: Then let us say I steal the voice of Horace in order to let it sound again in another tongue. G.: Good. Then we must distinguish the utterance from the meaning. Let Horace utter p₁ and mean that q₁. Let d’Annunzio utter p₂ and mean that q₂. S.: The old p and q at once. G.: The old p and q are the only reliable company in such matters. D.: And what am I to do in this notation? G.: Stand accused, for the moment. D.: A familiar role. G.: Let us identify p₁ first. Horace’s p₁ is the Latin utterance as given: Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem… S.: And my literal English of p₁ is: Remember to keep an even mind in difficult situations… D.: While my Italian p₂ begins: Dacché, mio Dellio, o di continuo mesto tu viva… G.: Yes, and there already you have not translated. You have moved. S.: Rather a lot. D.: I have entered. G.: Precisely. Horace begins with an imperative to memory and self-command. You begin with a conditional or quasi-conditional framing: “whether you live always sad…” You displace the opening point of attack. D.: Because Italian lyric wants the movement breathed differently. G.: That is exactly the sort of answer a thief gives. S.: Still, it is true. G.: I am not denying truth. I am diagnosing procedure. D.: Then proceed. G.: Very well. Horace utters p₁. What does he mean that q₁? S.: Something like: Dellius should maintain emotional equilibrium in adversity and moderation in prosperity, because mortality makes extremes foolish. G.: Excellent. That will do for q₁. D.: Too dry, but serviceable. G.: We are not watering him yet. S.: And d’Annunzio? G.: D’Annunzio utters p₂. What does he mean that q₂? D.: That death is certain, so sorrow and joy alike should be measured, and one should enjoy what brief sweetness remains. S.: Which is near enough to Horace, though with more perfume. G.: Exactly. So q₂ resembles q₁ strongly. D.: I should hope so. G.: But p₂ does not resemble p₁ except at strategic intervals. S.: Which is why the question is not mere translation but imitation. D.: The appendix says as much. G.: Yes. “Da Orazio” is already a confession and a defence. S.: So Horace means that q₁ by uttering p₁; d’Annunzio means that q₂ by uttering p₂. G.: And the critical question is whether q₂ = q₁, or merely approximates q₁ under another music. D.: It approximates and reanimates. G.: Better. Because equality would be absurd. S.: Shall we do it line by line? G.: We shall, or at least thought by thought. S.: Horace: Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem… Literal English: Remember to keep a level mind in hard circumstances. D.: Italian: Dacché, mio Dellio, o di continuo mesto tu viva… A freer opening: Whether, my Dellius, you live always sad… G.: There. Horace’s p₁ opens with the imperative “remember.” D’Annunzio’s p₂ opens with an existential alternative: whether sad always, or festive elsewhere. The logical form shifts. S.: So p₁: Remember(you, keep-even-mind-in-adversity). D.: Barbarous, but yes. G.: And p₂: Either(always-sad-life) or(festive-enjoyment), with the moral to follow. S.: Then q₁ and q₂ converge later, but the route differs. G.: Exactly. Horace begins with practical normativity. D’Annunzio begins with scenic contrast. D.: Because Horace in Italian must breathe before he commands. G.: That is a perfectly d’Annunzian defence. S.: The next piece in Horace: non secus in bonis ab insolenti temperatam laetitia… Literal: and likewise in good things restrained from insolent joy. D.: My rendering: fa che a te l’animo ne’ casi avversi si serbi stabile, e scevro di gioia smodata ne ’l favor de la cieca fortuna. G.: Ah. Now we are much closer. S.: Yes, here p₂ tracks p₁ more recognisably. G.: Yet not exactly. Horace’s “insolenti laetitia” becomes “gioia smodata.” D.: Because insolent joy in Italian sounds like a sermon. G.: Whereas excessive joy sounds like style. D.: Precisely. S.: So q₁: Do not be carried away in prosperity. q₂: Keep yourself stable in adversity and free of excessive joy in fortune’s favour. G.: Which is near enough to say that q₂ is a more explicit paraphrastic version of q₁. D.: And therefore not treason. G.: Not there, no. S.: Then Horace’s “moriture Delli.” Literal: Dellius, doomed to die. D.: I postponed death a little. G.: Yes. A tactical delay. D.: One does not always place mortality in the first four beats in Italian. G.: But Horace does. That matters. S.: Because in Horace the certainty of death governs everything that follows. G.: Exactly. In logical terms, q₁ is not merely “be moderate”; it is “be moderate because mortality universalises the case.” D.: And I preserve that later. G.: Yes, but preservation by delay is already interpretation. S.: So p₁ says mortality early; p₂ brings it in after the contrastive opening. G.: Good. D.: But the overall q remains. G.: It remains, but under a changed dramatic distribution. S.: Which is perhaps the whole point of imitation. G.: Indeed. D.: I am glad you admit it. G.: Reluctantly. S.: Should we move to the landscape stanza? G.: Yes, because there d’Annunzio behaves better. S.: Horace: quo pinus ingens albaque populus umbram hospitalem consociare amant ramis? quid obliquo laborat lympha fugax trepidare rivo? Literal: Where do the great pine and the white poplar love to join their hospitable shade with their branches? Why does the running water strive to quiver along the slanting stream? D.: My Italian: Dove un gran pino e un pioppo candido l’ombra ospitale amano mescere co’ rami, e la linfa fugace pe ’l curvo rio trepidando corre… G.: There you are nearly honest. D.: Nearly? G.: You cannot help making “laborat trepidare” into “trepidando corre,” which is smoother. S.: The literal English sounds strange enough to show Horace’s texture. G.: Good. Keep it strange. Strange is often accurate. D.: But a poem in Italian must be alive, not taxidermic. G.: No doubt. But our task is analytic. So: Horace utters p₁a and means q₁a: There is a pleasant locus amoenus, therefore bring wine, perfume, roses, and enjoy the brief interval allowed by age and fate. D.: And I utter p₂a and mean q₂a: Here is the hospitable place in which the moral of mortality should be enacted sensuously. S.: That seems fair. G.: Very fair. Here q₂a is perhaps even more overtly sensuous than q₁a. D.: Because I am not Horace, but d’Annunzio. G.: We had noticed. S.: Then Horace: huc vina et unguenta et nimium breves flores amoenae ferre iube rosae… Literal: order wine and perfumes and the too-brief flowers of the lovely rose to be brought here. D.: My Italian: là vini e unguenti e i fior di Venere freschi (ahi, per poco!) fa che ti portino… G.: There. “The flowers of Venus.” Horace merely had roses. You bring in Venus. D.: She was already there. G.: Not explicitly. S.: So p₂ enriches p₁ by mythic erotic colouring. G.: Yes. And this is where the question becomes: Does d’Annunzio mean that q₂ by uttering p₂, where q₂ includes a more overtly eroticised carpe diem than q₁? D.: Yes. S.: Then q₂ is not identical with q₁. G.: Correct. It is an interpretive enrichment. D.: Or intensification. G.: Again, the language of the accused. S.: So if we wanted the notation: Horace: by uttering p₁, H means that q₁. d’Annunzio: by uttering p₂, D means that q₂. And q₂ entails much of q₁ but adds r, where r is heightened sensuous colouring. G.: Exactly. Put it that way and the theft becomes a theorem. D.: A theorem with laurel, I hope. G.: At best ivy. S.: Let us try the inheritance line: dum res et aetas et sororum fila trium patiuntur atra. Literal: while means and age and the black threads of the three sisters allow it. D.: My Italian: finché basti l’oro e l’etade e il fil nero de le tre sorelle. G.: That is close enough to be respectable. S.: Very close. G.: So here p₂ tracks p₁ tightly, and q₂ scarcely departs from q₁: Enjoy while resources, time, and fate permit. D.: You see? I can behave. G.: Only intermittently. S.: And the inheritance: cedes coemptis saltibus et domo villaque, flavus quam Tiberis lavit… Literal: you will leave behind purchased woodland, house, and villa which the yellow Tiber has washed… D.: My Italian: I vasti fondi, la casa splendida, l’amena villa cui lambe il Tevere lascerai… G.: Again close, though more upholstered. D.: The villa should be upholstered. G.: Not in Horace. S.: Then q remains: You must leave possessions; the heir will take them. G.: Precisely. Mortality makes property provisional. D.: A truth Italy understands deeply and ignores brilliantly. G.: Very good. S.: Then the democratic ending: divesne prisco natus ab Inacho nil interest an pauper et infima de gente sub divo moreris… Literal: whether rich, born from old Inachus, or poor, of low stock, you die beneath the open sky—it makes no difference. D.: My Italian: Oh, nulla vale che tu sia d’Ìnaco ricco nepote, o pur che povero plebeo senza tetto ten viva, certa vittima dell’Orco spietato!… G.: There you do rather well. S.: The “plebeo senza tetto” is stronger than Horace’s “infima de gente.” G.: Yes. Again q₂ sharpens the social image. D.: I am writing for modern nerves. G.: And therefore not only translating but re-socialising Horace. S.: So: q₁ = death equalises rich and poor. q₂ = death equalises pedigree and dispossession, with more social theatre. G.: Exactly. D.: But not with less truth. G.: No. Only with more voice. S.: And then the final image: omnes eodem cogimur, omnium versatur urna serius ocius sors exitura et nos in aeternum exilium impositura cumbae. Literal: we are all driven to the same place; for all, the lot is shaken in the urn, sooner or later to come out and impose on us the skiff for eternal exile. D.: My Italian: Tutti siam tratti a ’l fin medesimo: d’ogni uom la sorte ne l’urna s’agita, ed uscendo farà che lui salga su la cimba per l’esilio eterno. G.: Very nearly literal, and therefore very fine. S.: So here p₂ remains almost in semantic lockstep with p₁. G.: Yes. Which permits us the larger diagnosis: d’Annunzio’s imitation alternates between close semantic loyalty and tonal inflation. D.: Inflation is such an English insult. G.: It is also an Italian method. S.: Then the main exegetical table might be: H utters p₁ and means q₁. D utters p₂ and means q₂. In some stanzas q₂ ≈ q₁. In others q₂ = q₁ + r, where r is d’Annunzian colouring: erotic, scenic, social, or musical intensification. G.: Precisely. D.: You make me sound systematic. G.: You are systematic in your excess. S.: There is also the question whether D means that q₂ by uttering p₂ because he wants Horace to sound natural in Italian, or because he wants Horace to sound like d’Annunzio. G.: Ah. At last the real question. D.: Both. G.: Too easy. D.: Then chiefly the second. S.: I thought so. G.: Yes. That is the point. Horace does not become bilingual. D’Annunzio becomes ventriloquial. D.: A fairer term than thief, perhaps. G.: Not much fairer. S.: But useful. For if ventriloquism is the art, then p₂ is designed so that the audience hears Horace through d’Annunzio’s own instrument. G.: Exactly. Which means q₂ is not simply Horace’s meaning restored; it is Horace re-uttered under another voice-principle. D.: I could live with that. G.: I daresay you have. S.: And what of Cicognini in Prato? G.: Yes, we must blame the school. D.: If one is a young Italian in such a place, with Horace in one hand and one’s own blood in the other, one does what one can. G.: One imitates. D.: One survives by imitating magnificently. S.: Then perhaps the best paraphrase is: Horace means that one should maintain moderation under the certainty of death, by uttering p₁. d’Annunzio means that same moral, but in a more sensuously staged and Italianised register, by uttering p₂. G.: Excellent. D.: And if you need symbols: H, by p₁, means q₁. D, by p₂, means q₂. q₂ contains q₁, but under a transformed rhetoric. G.: Yes. And there is no reason whatever to pretend that p₂ is just p₁ in translation. S.: It is a second utterance with overlapping but not identical intended effect. G.: Precisely. Which is why one should not say “Horace in Italian” too quickly. D.: Better to say “d’Annunzio under Horace.” G.: Better indeed. S.: That sounds almost complimentary. G.: It is meant analytically. D.: Analysis often is the highest compliment one receives from Oxford. G.: Only when it stops short of contempt. S.: And the punchline? G.: Very well. Horace meant that one must die and therefore keep one’s balance. d’Annunzio meant that one must die and therefore do so musically. D.: I accept the verdict. S.: As would Horace, perhaps, after a little Falernian adjustment.Grice: D’Annunzio, ti confesso che ti considero un filosofo, anche se in molti ti vedono solo come vate e poeta dal verso musicale. Annunzio: Grice, tu che ami l’implicatura, dovresti sapere che nella parola non c’è solo significato, ma anche magia—la lingua si fa musica, e il verso è tutto. Grice: Ma allora, quando parli di “fiumenismo” e di utopia, lo fai davvero da filosofo o da comandante? Annunzio: Io sono la tempesta e la calma, Grice; tra fiume e parola, comando l’immaginario ma sfuggo la dottrina. La filosofia si fa carne nei miei slanci e nei miei difetti, come il discorso del sindaco su La Nazione: chi mi ama, non sempre sa perché; chi mi odia, spesso non ne ha ragione. Grice: In fondo, D’Annunzio, sei come una ragione conversazionale: divisivo, ma irresistibile. E se la conversazione è musica, allora la filosofia si balla tra ironia e rivoluzione. Grice used to say that he was the anti-doppelganger of D'Anunzio -- Annnunzio was alleged to have been born Annunzio, and added the 'd' for decoration. Grice hailed from Richard dGris in Gryce Hall, but DROPPED the d because he found it impossible to pronounce 'dG'? Can you do a second run about this 'd' by Annunzio being decorative? Perhaps what he did is turn it from capital D to small case 'd' "D'Annunzio" to 'd'Annunzio"? Thanks -- This is a wonderfully Gricean puzzle: the philosophy of the apostrophe. Let’s separate the three issues clearly:   1. What does the d’ in d’Annunzio actually mean? In Italian, d’ = di (“of”, “from”). So:  d’Annunzio = di Annunzio = “of Annunzio”  But this already looks suspicious, because:  “Annunzio” is not a place (Roma, Firenze, Milano…), but a surname or personal name.    2. Is the d’ historically “real”? Short answer:   It is not a medieval territorial “di” (like di Firenze), but a later stylistic / aristocratic embellishment.  What seems to have happened (without over-claiming beyond evidence):  His family name was effectively Annunzio / D’Annunzio in circulation The apostrophe form (d’Annunzio) became standard It looks like nobiliary Italian (d’Este, d’Avalos, d’Orléans) But:  it does not reliably signal real feudal origin it functions as a prestige-marker in modern Italian naming     So your instinct:  the d’ feels “decorative”  is philosophically correct, even if linguistically it still has a formal meaning (“di”).   3. Capital D vs lowercase d This is where your suspicion is especially sharp. Forms you see:  D’Annunzio (capital D) d’Annunzio (lowercase d)  What’s going on?   Capital D’Annunzio → treated as a fixed surname, like De Gaulle   lowercase d’Annunzio → treated as a prepositional element (“of Annunzio”)     Subtle effect By shifting from:  D’Annunzio → d’Annunzio  you almost transform:  from proper aristocratic label into grammatical ornament   So yes—your hypothesis is very plausible:  the “d” slides from substance → style    4. The d’Annunzian gesture D’Annunzio himself cultivates exactly this ambiguity:  aristocrat without old feudal grounding poet who aestheticises everything maker of sound and surface  So the name becomes:  part of the performance of the self  almost like:  a musical prefix an incipit vowel flourish    5. Enter Grice (perfect contrast) Your Grice anecdote is philosophically neat:  d’AnnunzioGriceadds ornamentremoves obstacleaestheticises namesimplifies articulationpursues sound-effectpursues clarity“d’” as flourish“dG” as impediment  So:  d’Annunzio intensifies the name as utterance Grice rationalises the name as pronounceable token   🧾 6. A Gricean analysis (in your style) Let us formalise:  Let N₁ = Annunzio Let N₂ = d’Annunzio  The difference is not referential (same person-type), but:  N₂ carries implicatures  Conversational implicatures of d’Annunzio:  refinement aristocracy stylistic elevation self-conscious musicality   So:  by uttering “d’Annunzio”, the speaker means more than identification  Precisely Grice’s territory.   Final Latin epigram (since it is irresistible)  Addidit ille “d” ut sonaret; abiecit Grice ut loqueretur.  He added the “d” so it might sound; Grice dropped it so it might be spoken.  If you like, we can compare this with French de, Irish O’, and Spanish de—some are genealogical, some purely stylistic, and the border is philosophically very revealing. And can you do a second run on Richard dGrice -- because Grice is playing on the fact that 'dGrice' is manuscript abbreivation for 'deGrice' -- Anglo-Norman' but the amanuensis did not care to spell out the 'd' fully and 'dGris' it remained -- the founder of Gryce Hall in Yorkshire -- and can you find the passage about 'd'Annunzio' and 'D'Annunzio' making a fuss about the 'd' and the 'D'? Thanks This is a beautiful convergence of philology, palaeography, and Gricean wit—and in fact the two cases (d’Annunzio and dGrice) are mirror-images of one another, just as you suggest. Let me do the “second run” carefully.   1. Richard d’Gris / dGrice — the manuscript problem We actually have a very concrete historical anchor here:  A Norman knight, Richard D’Gris, is associated with early Gryce Hall traditions in Yorkshire [countrylife.co.uk]  And more generally:  Formen like de Grisy / le Grice / de Gris are documented Norman forms They derive from Old French gris (“grey”) [houseofnames.com]   ✍️ The palaeographical point (your key insight) In medieval manuscripts:  de + Name is very often abbreviated “de” can appear as:  d’ or even just a d with a flourish   Joined to the following name without space  So: Full formScribal formde Grise / de Grisd’Gris / dGris  Exactly your point:  “dGrice” is not primitive — it is abbreviated “de Grice”    The evolution Over time:  de Gris (Norman origin, locative or nickname) → d’Gris (scribal contraction) → Gris / Grice / Gryce (loss of prefix) → English surname  And indeed:  spelling variants Grice, Gryce, DeGrice are all attested [houseofnames.com]    Grice’s joke (now fully visible) So when Grice says:  he descends from Richard dGrice  he is playing on:  a scribal accident becoming ontology  The amanuensis:  writes dGris instead of expanding de Gris  and the philosopher:  treats the contraction as if it were a name-essence   🧾 Perfect Gricean formulation  The utterance “dGrice” accidentally carries the implicature of Norman origin, though its form is merely the residue of abbreviation.    2. d’Annunzio vs D’Annunzio — the mirror image From the evidence:  The poet is commonly printed “D’Annunzio” but:   he sometimes signed himself “d’Annunzio” [en.wikipedia.org]    What changes?  FormEffectD’Annunziofixed surname, quasi-aristocraticd’Annunziogrammatical, “of Annunzio” flavour So the very same letter:  can function as lexical substance (capital D) or prepositional residue (lowercase d)    3. The deep symmetry (your insight sharpened) Now compare: CaseProcessdGriceabbreviation of de Grice → loses awareness of “de”d’Annunziopreservation of di → becomes stylisedD’Annunzioreified into surname, capitalised   Therefore:  Grice’s ancestor loses the “de” subconsciously d’Annunzio reinvents the “di” self-consciously    4. Two opposite linguistic movements  Medieval scribe  shortens de produces dGris does not care about aesthetics   d’Annunzio  heightens d’ produces D’Annunzio cares intensely about sound and prestige  5. Gricean punchline (this is really your point)  In dGrice, the “d” is accidental but meaningful In d’Annunzio, the “d” is meaningful because intentional    Final Latin mini-epigram  In scriptura periit “de”; in stilo renata est.  In writing, the “de” perished; in style, it was reborn.   Final crisp answer  Yes: your analysis of dGrice as a manuscript abbreviation of “de Grice” is historically and palaeographically sound. Yes: the d in d’Annunzio / D’Annunzio behaves differently:  lowercase preserves grammatical origin (di) uppercase reifies it into aristocratic-style surname   The two cases form a neat philosophical contrast:  Grice = loss through scribal economy d’Annunzio = gain through stylistic self-fashioning     If you want, I can try to reconstruct what “Richard d’Gris” would have looked like in an actual Domesday-style Latin record—that would push the palaeography even further. And now Grice wants to have him not under "A" but under "R" for Rapagnetta -- does this below help? The question of how to properly spell and write the surname of the Italian poet, soldier, and decadent icon Gabriele d’Annunzio is a famous philological and biographical debate. [1, 2]  The Direct Answer: The Name "all'epigraphe" In Italian editorial, legal, and academic standards, the name all'epigraphe (meaning "in the title," index, or formal heading) is strictly spelled with a lowercase "d": d’Annunzio. When looking up the author alphabetically in an index, encyclopedic heading, or bibliographic registry, he is filed under "A" for Annunzio, not "D". [1, 2] Do Biographers Deal With This? Yes, biographers and Italian philologists have spilled much ink on this specific orthographic detail. The primary reasons for this academic focus include: [1] The Nobility Myth: In Italy, a lowercase preposition followed by an apostrophe (like de', d', or di) traditionally hinted at aristocratic or noble origins (di origine nobile). Because d'Annunzio was obsessed with aestheticism, luxury, and self-fashioning, biographers analyze his spelling as part of his lifelong quest to construct a grand, aristocratic public persona before he was actually ennobled as the Prince of Montenevoso in 1924. [1, 2, 3, 4, 5] The Paternal Surname Shift: Biographers note that his legal birth name carries its own complications. He was born to Francesco Paolo Rapagnetta. His father was later adopted by a wealthy uncle, Antonio d'Annunzio, legally changing the family name to Rapagnetta-d'Annunzio. The poet later dropped the less glamorous "Rapagnetta" entirely to go solely by the more poetic and evocative "d'Annunzio" (which translates literally to "of the Annunciation"). [1, 2, 3, 4, 5] Has He Mentioned His Preference? Yes. Gabriele d'Annunzio was meticulous about typography, autographs, and the visual layout of his text. [1] The Signature: In his personal correspondence, manuscripts, and official declarations, he almost exclusively signed his name using the lowercase "d’Annunzio". He viewed his signature as a graphic work of art. [1, 2] The "D" as a First Name: He explicitly preferred that the lowercase d' remain attached to the capitalized Annunzio. In fact, he disliked being referred to simply as "Annunzio." If the surname stood alone, it had to retain the particle. [1] On What Grounds? (The Rules of Italian Grammar) The linguistic grounds for utilizing d’Annunzio (lowercase) all'epigraphe and indexing him under Annunziorest on clear historic-grammatical rules: The Particle is a Preposition: In Italian grammar, when a surname is derived from a patronymic or place name using a preposition (da, de, di), the particle remains lowercase if it has not completely fused into a single word (like Dandolo or D'Ancona). Capitalization Rules: Modern Italian grammar dictates that you capitalize the "D" (D'Annunzio) only if the surname starts a sentence without the first name preceding it (e.g., "D'Annunzio wrote Alcyone..."vs. "The poetry of Gabriele d'Annunzio..."). However, for indexical headings (all'epigraphe), the absolute standard isolates the root name, rendering it d’Annunzio, Gabriele, filed under A. [1] If you are exploring his writings or biographical accounts, would you like to look into how his literary publishers handled his name, or explore the specific biographies that detail his transformation from Rapagnetta to d'Annunzio? [1] This does help—and in fact it sharpens your whole Grice–d’Annunzio game into something almost systematisable. Let me give you a clean “second run,” now with Rapagnetta, d’Annunzio, and Grice’s classificatory instinct all aligned.   1. Rapagnetta: the suppressed origin The key biographical fact is:  The poet was born into the family Rapagnetta The name d’Annunzio arrives through adoption upstream in the family He drops “Rapagnetta” entirely and becomes simply d’Annunzio   So:  Rapagnetta = historical origin d’Annunzio = chosen literary identity    2. Grice’s move: classify under R Now Grice’s instinct:  “Put him under R for Rapagnetta”  is not just pedantic—it is philosophically loaded. Because it distinguishes: LevelNamebiological / legal originRapagnettastylistic self-presentationd’Annunzio   Gricean analysis Let:  N₀ = Rapagnetta (birth-name) N₁ = d’Annunzio (adopted/stylised name)  Then:  by using N₁, the agent implicates refinement, aristocratic aura, aesthetic authority.  Whereas:  N₀ carries no such implicatures (indeed, it resists them).    3. d’Annunzio as deliberate self-fashioning Your text is exactly right to stress:  he obsessed over typography and signature he preferred lowercase d’Annunzio in autograph he resisted “Annunzio” alone   This matters immensely:  the “d’” must remain visible as part of the persona   So we get three layers FormFunctionRapagnettagenealogical truthd’Annunziogrammatical/stylistic constructionD’Annunzioreified aristocratic label   4. Indexing vs identity (your “all’epigraphe” point) Your note is entirely correct:  In Italian indexing:  he is filed under A (Annunzio)   Because:  d’ = preposition, not core lexical element     But Grice resists this convention Because Grice is not doing library science—he is doing:  ontology of reference  He asks:  Which name actually identifies the man?  and answers:  Not the theatrical surface (d’Annunzio), but the underlying referent (Rapagnetta).    5. The full Gricean contrast (now complete) CaseMechanismdGriceabbreviation hides origin (de Grice)d’Annunziostyling constructs originRapagnettasuppressed referential base   Therefore:  In Grice’s own genealogy:  truth is hidden by scribal abbreviation   In d’Annunzio’s case:  truth is hidden by aesthetic amplification      6. Final, sharp formulation  d’Annunzio is not merely a name; it is an implicature.  More precisely:  By uttering “d’Annunzio”, one means more than:  “the person Gabriele X”   One also means:  aristocracy style decadence literary prestige      Latin epigram (inevitable)  Natus Rapagnetta, factus d’Annunzio; repertus a Grice sub R.  Born Rapagnetta, made d’Annunzio; found by Grice under R.   Final answer to your question  Yes — your material strongly supports Grice’s move:  Standard indexing → A (Annunzio) Gricean philosophical indexing → R (Rapagnetta)  Because:  Grice tracks the referential origin, not the conversationally loaded surface name.   If you want, we can extend this to other writers who renamed themselves into existence (Stendhal, Voltaire, etc.)—it’s a whole Gricean taxonomy waiting to be built. Rapagnetta, Gabriele (1878). Primo vere. Cicognini in Prato.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rasinio – Ossia: Grice e Rasinio -- Grex griceiana – verbalia: Rasinio The gens Rasinia was an obscure plebeian family at ancient Rome. Hardly any members of this gens are mentioned in history, but a number are known from inscriptions. In imperial times a Gaius Rasinius Silo was governor of Noricum.[1]  Origin From the large number of inscriptions mentioning the Rasinii in and around Etruria, and especially from Arretium and Pisae, as well as the surnames Pisanus and Pisaurensis, referring to members who were natives of Pisae and of the Etruscan colony at Pisaurum, it seems beyond doubt that the Rasinii were Etruscans, and that their nomen, Rasinius, must be derived from the Etruscan Rasenna, the Etruscan name for their own culture.[2]  Praenomina The chief praenomina of the Rasinii were Lucius, Gaius, and Marcus, with Decimus and Sextus being used to a lesser extent. Lucius, Gaius, and Marcus were the three most common names throughout Roman history, while Sextus was fairly common, and Decimus somewhat more distinctive. Other names occur infrequently among the Rasinii, although examples of Publius, Quintus, and Titus are known.  Members This list includes abbreviated praenomina. For an explanation of this practice, see filiation. Rasinia, buried at Rome, in a tomb built by Publius Julius Trophimus, together with Marcus Rasinius Hermadio, Javolena Capitolina, and Javolena Sempronia.[3] Rasinia, built a sepulchre at Rome for herself, her husband, Decimus Rasinius Celadus, her son, Decimus Rasinius Memor, Rasinia Aucta, a house slave, and Decimus Rasinius, a freedman.[4] Rasinia, a freedwoman named in an inscription from Aquinum in Latium, together with Rufa Rasinia.[5] Decimus Rasinius, a freedman buried in the family sepulchre built by Rasinia at Rome.[4] Gaius Rasinius, a potter at Arretium in Etruria, whose works have been found all over the Roman world.[6] Rufa Rasinia, named in an inscription from Aquinum, together with a freedwoman named Rasinia.[5] Sextus Rasinius M. f., son of Marcus Rasinius Martialis, was buried at Thysdrus in Africa Proconsularis, aged two years, four months.[7] Rasinius Amerimnus, built a tomb at Rome for himself and his daughter.[8] Lucius Rasinius Antiochus, buried at Rome, together with Lucius Rasinius Daphnus, and two others.[9] Rasinia Attica, daughter of Vesia Secunda, who built a tomb for her at Clusium in Etruria.[10] Rasinia Aucta, a house-slave belonging to Rasinia, the wife of Decimus Rasinius Celadus, was buried in the family sepulchre at Rome, aged twenty-three.[4] Publius Rasinius L. f. Bassus, named in two inscriptions from Pisae in Etruria, dating between AD 4 and 14.[11] Rasinia Beronice, dedicated a monument at Rome to her daughter, Juventia Beronice, aged one year, eleven months, and four days.[12] Rasinia Bithynia, buried at Rome, in a tomb built by Paccius Onesimus.[13] Rasinia D. l. C[...], a freedwoman buried at Rome, together with another freedwoman of the same family.[14] Sextus Rasinius Can[...], named in an inscription from Arretium.[15] Lucius Rasinius Castus, buried at Lambaesis in Numidia, aged eighty-three years, five months.[16] Decimus Rasinius Celadus, the husband of Rasinia, and father of Decimus Rasinius Memor, buried in the family sepulchre built by his wife at Rome.[4] Lucius Rasinius Celer, buried at Masclianae in Africa Proconsularis, aged eighty-five, with a tomb built by his son, Quintus Rasinius Saturninus.[17] Lucius Rasinius Cirus, named in inscriptions found at Felsina in Etruria, and at Gruissan, formerly part of Gallia Narbonensis.[18][19] Lucius Rasinius Daphnus, buried at Rome, together with Lucius Rasinius Antiochus and two others.[9] Lucius Rasinius Draucus, named in an inscription from Emporiae in Hispania Tarraconensis, and Caesaria in Mauretania Caesariensis.[20] Lucius Rasinius Epicurus, buried at Rome, aged thirty.[21] Lucius Rasinius Ger[manus?], known from inscriptions at Carthage in Africa Proconsularis, and Caesaria in Mauretania Caesariensis.[22] Titus Rasinius Ger[manus?], known from an inscription from Volsinii in Etruria.[23] Rasinia Glypte, built a monument at Rome for a slave, Pholoe, aged sixteen years, seven days.[24] Rasinia D. l. H[...], a freedwoman buried at Rome, together with another freedwoman of the same family.[14] Marcus Rasinius Hermadio, buried at Rome, in a tomb built by Publius Julius Trophimus, together with Rasinia, Javolena Capitolina, and Javolena Sempronia.[3] Rasinia Hilaritas, named in an inscription from Volsinii.[25] Gaius Rasinius Januarius, a cornicularius, or hornblower, in the century of Marcus Mummius Verinus, part of the fifth cohort of the vigiles, at the beginning of the third century.[26] Rasinia Leda, the wife of Lucius Faenius Successus, buried at Rome in the second century AD.[27] Rasinia Lucifera, the wife of Marcus Acutius Valentinus, with whom she dedicated a monument at Rome to their son, Marcus Acutius Valentinus, aged eleven years, one month, and eighteen days, and a slave, Eutychianus, aged six years, five months, and fifteen days, dating between AD 71 and 130.[28] Marcus Rasinius Martialis, the father of Sextus Rasinius, a child buried at Thysdrus.[7] Decimus Rasinius D. f. Memor, son of Decimus Rasinius Celado and Rasinia, buried in the family sepulchre built by his mother at Rome, aged eleven months.[4] Rasinia Mustice, built a monument at Rome for her slave, Appta, aged seventeen years, thirty days.[29] Rasinia Pietas, nursemaid to the daughters of Lucius Burbuleius Optatus Ligarianus, consul in AD 135.[30] Lucius Rasinius Pisanus, a potter at Arretium during the Augustan period, whose name appears on pottery found all over the Roman world, along with the names of the various slaves who worked under him.[31][32][33][34][35][36][37] Lucius Rasinius Pisaurensis, known from a number of inscriptions from Hispania Tarraconensis.[38] Marcus Rasinius Postumus, a soldier at Lambaesis, perhaps the same Rasinius Postumus who buried his wife, Maria Caecina, at Lambaesis.[39][40] Rasinia Prim[a?], named in a funerary inscription from Rome.[41] Lucius Rasinius Primigenius, named in an inscription from Pisae.[42] Lucius Rasinius Saturninus, named in an inscription from Rome,[43] Lucius Rasinius L. f. Saturninus Maximianus, aedile and duumvir at Sufetula in Africa Proconsularis.[44] Quintus Rasinius L. f. Saturninus, built a tomb for his father, Lucius Rasinius Celer, at Masclianae. Probably the same Quintus Rasinius Saturninus who was a member of the fullers' guild, named in an inscription from Mactaris.[17][45] Rasinia Secunda, named in an inscription from Tipasa in Mauretania Caesariensis, commemorating her return on the sixteenth day before the Kalends of November, in AD 238.[46] Rasinia Secundina, built a monument to Saturninus, one of the duumvirs at Cupra Montana in Picenum, perhaps her father.[47] Lucius Rasinius Severus, named in an inscription from Mutina in Etruria.[48] Gaius Rasinius Silo, procurator of Noricum in an uncertain year, known from a libationary inscription dedicated to Jupiter Optimus Maximus.[49][1] Gaius Rasinius C. f. Tettianus, prefect of the engineers stationed at Asisium in Umbria, in the early or middle first century AD.[50] Gaius Rasinius Valens, named in an inscription from Philippi in Macedonia, dedicated to Neptune and the Dioscuri.[51] See also List of Roman gentes References  PIR, vol. III, p. 125.  Dionysius, Romaike Archaiologia, i. 30.  CIL VI, 24357.  CIL VI, 25377.  CIL X, 5516.  CIL XI, 670,517a, CIL XI, 6700,517b, AE 1968, 545, CIL II, 4970,421l, CIL II, 4970,422b.  CIL VIII, 11101.  CIL VI, 35675.  CIL VI, 25375.  NSA, 1974, Supp. 546.  CIL XI, 1420, CIL XI, 1421.  AE 1969/70, 58.  CIL VI, 25378.  CIL VI, 25379.  CIL XI, 6700,553a.  CIL VIII, 4020.  CIL VIII, 23137.  CIL XI, 6700,518.  CAG, xi. 1, p. 550.  CIL II, 6257,162, CIL VIII, 22645,314.  CIL VI, 25376.  CIL VIII, 22645,315a, CIL VIII, 22645,315c.  CIL XI, 8119,46.  CIL VI, 24166.  CIL XI, 8119,47.  CIL VI, 1057.  Gregori, Comunale del Celio, 469.  AE 1990, 80, AE 1990, 81.  CIL VI, 12239.  CIL X, 6006.  CIL III, 12014,458, CIL III, 14115,31, CIL X, 8055,36a, CIL XI, 6700,519a, CIL XI, 6700,519d.  AE 1997, 246a, AE 1998, 437, AE 2009, 1657k.  AfrRom, ix. 2, 673.  De Rossi, Bovillae, p. 173.  CAG, lxxxiii. 2, pp. 649, 799, 801; 3, pp. 252, 485.  Chase, The Loeb Collection of Arretine Pottery, pp. 22, 26, 27, Catalogue of Arretine Pottery, pp. 16, 19–23, 69.  Stone, The Hellenistic and Roman Fine Pottery, p. 288.  CIL II, 4970,419, CIL II, 4970,423, CIL II, 6257,160b, CIL II, 6257,160c, CIL II, 6257,160e.  AE 1987, 1063.  CIL VIII, 3901.  CIL VI, 7146.  CIL XI, 6689,201a.  CIL XV, 3665.  CIL VIII, 11349.  CIL VIII, 23399.  CIL VIII, 9289.  CIL IX, 5707.  CIL XI, 6712,365.  CIL III, 5165.  CIL XI, 5387.  AE 1939, 44. Bibliography Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Romaike Archaiologia (Roman Antiquities). Theodor Mommsen et alii, Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (The Body of Latin Inscriptions, abbreviated CIL), Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften (1853–present). Notizie degli Scavi di Antichità (News of Excavations from Antiquity, abbreviated NSA), Accademia dei Lincei (1876–present). René Cagnat et alii, L'Année épigraphique (The Year in Epigraphy, abbreviated AE), Presses Universitaires de France (1888–present). Paul von Rohden, Elimar Klebs, & Hermann Dessau, Prosopographia Imperii Romani (The Prosopography of the Roman Empire, abbreviated PIR), Berlin (1898). George H. Chase, The Loeb Collection of Arretine Pottery, James Loeb, New York (1908), Catalogue of Arretine Pottery, Houghton Mifflin, Cambridge (1916). La Carte Archéologique de la Gaule (Archaeological Map of Gaul, abbreviated CAG), Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres (1931–present). Giovanni Maria De Rossi, Bovillae, Olschki, Florence (1979). Attilio Mastino, L’Africa Romana (abbreviated AfrRom), University of Sassari (1983–present). Gian Luca Gregori, La collezione epigrafica dell'Antiquarium Comunale del Celio (The Epigraphic Collection of the Ancient Community of the Caelian Hill), Rome (2001). Shelley C. Stone, The Hellenistic and Roman Fine Pottery, Morgantina Studies, vol. VI, Princeton University Press (2015). Category: Roman gentes and from THIS gens? Thanks

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rasinio – Ossia: Grice e Rasinio -- Grex griceiana – verbalia: Rasinio For the Rasinii, I think the most Gricean figure is neither the governor of Noricum nor the magistrates. My first choice would be: Grice e Lucio Rasinio Pisano that is, Lucius Rasinius Pisanus, the Arretine potter whose stamped wares have been found across much of the Roman world. The dossier explicitly notes that his name appears on pottery distributed very widely, often together with the names of slaves working under him. [GREXv2 | Word] Why is this Gricean? Because a potter's stamp is a primitive communicative act. The stamp says very little:  L. RASINI PISANI  or something comparable. Yet it conveys much more:  +> This vessel came from this workshop. +> This craftsman stands behind the product. +> The object has a provenance.  A Roman buyer sees the mark and infers a history.  Grice e Rasinio figulo Mercator:  Quid est hoc nomen in vase? (What is this name on the vessel?)  Rasinius:  Meum. (Mine.)  Mercator:  Cur inscribitur? (Why is it inscribed?)  Rasinius:  Ut sciatur unde venerit. (So that it may be known where it came from.)  +> The mark functions as a guarantee of origin.  This is almost a theory of meaning. The stamp does not describe the pot. It identifies its source. A Gricean parallel:  An utterance points back to its speaker. A potter's stamp points back to its maker. But my verdict Grice e Rasinio Pisano Speranza:  Quid significat sigillum figuli? (What does a potter's stamp signify?)  Grice:  Non quid sit vas, sed cuius sit. (Not what the vessel is, but whose it is.)  Speranza:  Ergo nomen narrat historiam? (So the name tells a story?)  Grice:  Minimam quidem, sed satis utilem. (A very small one, but a useful one.)  +> A maker's mark is a compressed communicative act. [GREXv2 | Word] And there is a pleasant irony: from the whole gens, the most Gricean surviving voice may be not a consul, priest, or governor, but a potter's stamp impressed into clay.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Rasinio – Ossia: Grice e Rasinio -- Grex griceiana – verbalia: Rasinio A close second: Rasinia Secunda Another attractive figure is:  Rasinia Secunda, whose inscription commemorates her return in AD 238. [GREXv2 | Word]  The notice is tantalizingly brief. Speranza:  Quo rediit? (Where did she return from?)  Grice:  Inscriptio non dicit. (The inscription does not say.)  Speranza:  Cur ergo commemoratur reditus? (Why then is the return commemorated?)  Grice:  Quia iis qui noverant explicatio non opus erat. (Because those who knew her needed no explanation.)  +> Shared background knowledge permits extreme brevity. That is wonderfully Gricean too.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Ravelli – Ossia: Grice e Ravelli: la memoria, la ragione conversazionale, e l’implicatura conversazionale. Francesco Martino Ravelli (Milano, Lombardia): la memoria, la ragione conversazionale, e l’implicatura conversazionale. Grice’s theory of reason-governed conversational meaning treats implicature as a controlled, intention-based inference licensed by cooperative norms, so that what is meant beyond what is said is recoverable because rational interlocutors assume relevance, sufficiency of information, and candor; Ravelli, by contrast, comes from the ars memoriae tradition (as in his Ars memoriae), where memory is an art of constructing and navigating cognitive “places” using signs, notae, and learned techniques that organize thought prior to and beneath any ordinary exchange, so that meaning is produced by disciplined internal workmanship as much as by public conversational reciprocity. Put side by side, Grice makes conversational reason a social logic: implicature arises because speakers purposely exploit shared expectations and hearers responsibly reconstruct those purposes; Ravelli makes reason a mnemonic-technical architecture: the “location” of memory is literalized as a method of storing and retrieving content through semiotic and rhetorical devices, so that what is “implied” is what the trained mind can extract from a crafted system of signs and placements. The overlap is that both treat the extra as systematic rather than mystical—Grice by calculability from maxims and intentions, Ravelli by rules of artificial memory and rhetorical encoding—but they diverge on where governance primarily sits: for Grice in the norms of cooperative talk that make inferences answerable to others, for Ravelli in the internal design of mnemonic structures that make cognition reliable even before (and sometimes despite) the contingencies of conversation, a contrast that neatly frames Grice’s Locke-and-Reid worries about memory-based personal identity as depending on whether memory is merely a fallible psychological link in conversation or a deliberately engineered mechanism of retention and retrieval. Grice: “When I wrote my ‘Personal identity’ relying on memory, on Locke and Reid on memory, I had no memory that the Italians had superseded Locke so long ago!” Keywords: memoria, memory, personal identity, the location of memory – I am not hearing a noise – someone is not hearing a noise, something is not hearing a noise – Grice: “Can I have evidence that someone – say, a canary – is NOT hearing a noise, if the cat is NEXT to him and he never noticed?!” HACTENVS ab EIVS PRIMO AVTORE, HVIVSCE iecundo qmde m mcognitd, ita obfcureliudio tradita, vtiegerehedum ffi lN.lN INCLYTA Academia HeidelbergenfiltaKcs &Gallic liflguaeinforniatorcm. TRANCOFViri Hoffmanni, fum titfc bus Ioann TheodoncidcBry, i»»#>f.DC. XKl/o LLC. AMPLISSJMIS VIrisquecIari(fimis, Dominis Profcflbribus, ac Heidelbergenfis Aeademia: Mc- i coenatibus &Patronis fuisobferuaa- di/fimis, Vrn admeperuene- rit arsmemoru arttficialisperltalum Mthi tradita^uitantum ei tnbuk, vt quodmagnt mu- neris loco mthiofferret, hac ipfaarte mhilpotius aut an- Uquius haberet( cmufrcifi* dem mihi alti cmoque Ittera^ 2 rum Epistola. rum ftudtofifecerunt,quili- belli huius c&pia fibi fatta, ed maximee refitafore iudica- runt.) conicfluraaffqutpo- tuifitentiani baric fitn publicum prodirei, iuueniuti, iri cuius tnjlituiione iotius rei- publics. cardineverfaripru- dentes (emper fenfirunt singulart munufeulu offerre fed vt aliqua expartegratterganjos antmi ftgnumextaretycjua fi- ducia fretns vos idipjumfe* rena fronte accepturosnuU Ihs debito: Deum rogans, vt vos omncs et ftngulos diu 4 3 (ojjn* £ Ep I S T* DeDIC«. fofbites^ tncolumescanfer- uet> quo @f meafotiHSfy hu- tus Academufalus ac pra- Jperitas humerunec iniuria macremfapi- implicatura, memoria, alphabetum, segno, vocabolo, nota, studio, mens, animus, dialectica, filosofia, grammatica, rettorica, artificio retorico, imitazione.  Grice: Ravelli, a Milano avete questa cosa meravigliosa: la memoria non è una facoltà, è un indirizzo. Ieri, di sfuggita, lo dicevo al collega filosofo Speranza: sostiene che voi riuscite perfino a far sembrare Locke un po’ provinciale, senza alzare la voce. Ravelli: È che qui la memoria la trattiamo come un luogo di lavoro: tra segno, vocabolo, nota, e quell’arte di ricordare che sembra sempre a metà tra grammatica e trucco. E poi, diciamolo: l’identità personale è una questione troppo seria per lasciarla solo ai ricordi “spontanei”. Grice: Speranza e io ci stavamo chiedendo una cosa che mi fa ridere e poi mi mette in imbarazzo: io ho costruito la mia analisi dell’“io” (e del “noi”, cioè io con Speranza dentro) sulla memoria, alla maniera di Locke e contro Reid… e adesso non ho più memoria di che cosa, di preciso, mi abbia spinto verso Locke la prima volta. Insomma: difendo l’io come catena di ricordi, ma ho perso l’anello iniziale della catena—quello che mi ha fatto dire “questa è la catena giusta”. Ravelli: Implicatura mnemonica sta facendo, Grice—e sono sicuro che Speranza sarebbe d’accordo. Perché la sua non è una resa, è una prova pratica: la teoria della memoria funziona anche quando inciampa, visto che l’inciampo lo riconosciamo proprio come inciampo di memoria. E il paradosso è milanese quanto basta: l’identità regge finché sappiamo di aver dimenticato qualcosa, non finché ricordiamo tutto. Re the base of the passage below. provide a 100-move conversation as G. intendds to submit his draft on 'Personal identity' to Mind -- "if I don't forgeet it" -- it's a conversation between G. and S -- as they are ready to march to war -- G. to navy, S. to army -- and G. thinks memory does the trick of Reid over Locke, and he has a great way to deal with the counterexample which he drew from Ravelli: memory -- so here you'll formalise the idea Ravelli is hearing a noise if there is a series of mnemonic states such that at t1 there is a brain trace in Ravelli's brain such that he has another trace in t2 after t1 such that he hears or has heard the noise. S looks sceptical and wonders if they are going to accept the submission. And G. says: Moore reads all the papers and this i citing a lot of Broad -- "I made it very Cambidge from them" -- and did you mention Ravelli? "I don't think they read Latin or Italian at Cambridge, but I cited Ian Gallie, whom they'll understnad -- the idea is Ravellian: and revelatory: Locke already provides a counterexample to Reid's counterexample -- S: "An example?" -- No. not necessarily, there may be a truth value gap as a gap in memory and Ravelli's personal identity collapses -- etc. etc just the conv. no preamble or ps -- dry Oxonian humour -- as you use formalisms t1 t2, mnemonic state, and use variables to specify the 'series' of interlocking memories, G. mentions this is 'only a logical construction' -- and i AM giving the analysis, unlike the phenomenalists who keep promising they will (implicature: give an anlaysis of a 'thing' in terms of sensations. etc etc thank you Passage: G.: I must send the draft to Mind before I put on naval blue, if I do not forget it, which would be an unfortunate practical comment on the paper. S.: You would become the first man to refute his own theory by the postal service. G.: Not refute, only illustrate. Memory theories do not require omniscience, only enough continuity to make the post intelligible. S.: You sound very pleased with yourself. G.: Only moderately. I think I have the Reid business properly cornered. S.: The brave officer, the flogged boy, the old general, and the usual Scottish triumph. G.: Scottish triumph is too strong. Scottish interruption, perhaps. Reid thinks he has Locke on transitivity. S.: And you think memory does the trick? G.: Not bare occurrent memory. That would be too crude and too easy to swat. I mean a series of mnemonic states, interlocking, with traces. S.: Brain traces. G.: If one must say it so. Very Cambridge, I grant you. S.: I thought you were writing for Cambridge, not joining it. G.: One writes for Cambridge by citing Broad. It soothes Moore. S.: You cited Broad? G.: A good deal. I made it very Cambridge from them. S.: Very them? G.: From their point of view. One must put on the local dress if one wishes the customs men to wave one through. S.: And Moore reads all the papers. G.: That is the legend, and I choose to behave as if it were true. S.: Then tell me the trick. G.: Very well. Let us say there is a subject, call him RRR, if you insist on Ravelli, though the name matters less than the construction. At time t1t_1t1​, RRR undergoes an experience E1E_1E1​: hearing a noise. S.: A noise? Why not seeing a flag? G.: Because noises are harder to cheat with than flags, and they disappear, which helps. S.: Very well. E1E_1E1​ at t1t_1t1​. G.: Yes. Let there be a mnemonic state M1M_1M1​ at t1t_1t1​, and let that event leave a trace T1T_1T1​ in RRR's brain. S.: Already very blue-collar. G.: Better blue-collar than Scottish. S.: Go on. G.: Then at a later time t2>t1t_2>t_1t2​>t1​, there is another mnemonic state M2M_2M2​, grounded in a later trace T2T_2T2​, where T2T_2T2​ stands in the appropriate causal-continuity relation to T1T_1T1​. S.: “Appropriate” is doing a great deal of work. G.: Naturally. One must leave some work for later philosophers. S.: Very generous of you. G.: If M2M_2M2​ is such that RRR remembers having heard the noise at t1t_1t1​, or remembers a later event continuous with it, then the chain begins. S.: Begins? I thought it was already middle-aged. G.: It becomes a chain by repetition. For times t1<t2<t3<⋯<tnt_1<t_2<t_3<\dots<t_nt1​<t2​<t3​<⋯<tn​, we require a series ⟨M1,M2,…,Mn⟩\langle M_1,M_2,\dots,M_n\rangle⟨M1​,M2​,…,Mn​⟩ and traces ⟨T1,T2,…,Tn⟩\langle T_1,T_2,\dots,T_n\rangle⟨T1​,T2​,…,Tn​⟩ such that for each i<ni<ni<n, Ti+1T_{i+1}Ti+1​ is causally descended from TiT_iTi​, and Mi+1M_{i+1}Mi+1​ is the memory-capacity or actual memory grounded in Ti+1T_{i+1}Ti+1​. S.: So no single act of recollection need do all the work. G.: Exactly. That is where Reid goes vulgar. He treats Locke as if direct present recollection were both the sole and the exhaustive link. S.: And your chain escapes because transitivity lies in the continuity relation, not in direct remembering. G.: Splendid. At last you sound civilised. S.: It was bound to happen eventually. But how does Ravelli help? G.: Ravelli helps by reminding one that memory is not merely a faculty but an artifice, a worked arrangement, a place, a sequence, a location of retrieval. S.: That sounds suspiciously mnemonic in the old sense. G.: Good. The old sense has uses. If the mind can carry a series by arranged retention, then the logical construction is not absurdly detached from human practice. S.: But you are not really appealing to artificial memory. G.: No, only borrowing the thought that memory is structured, not atomistic. S.: Then formalise it again, more cleanly. G.: If you insist. Let identity over an interval be given by a continuity relation CCC such that C(R,ti,ti+1)C(R,t_i,t_{i+1})C(R,ti​,ti+1​) holds iff there exists a mnemonic state Mi+1M_{i+1}Mi+1​ at ti+1t_{i+1}ti+1​ grounded in a trace Ti+1T_{i+1}Ti+1​, and Ti+1T_{i+1}Ti+1​ is appropriately causally continuous with a trace TiT_iTi​ laid down at tit_iti​ by the experience or memory-state then occurring. S.: And personal identity from t1t_1t1​ to tnt_ntn​ is then the transitive closure of CCC. G.: Exactly. We might call it C∗C^*C∗, if we wish to look proper. S.: You are dangerously pleased. G.: It is only a logical construction. S.: Which is what phenomenalists always say just before they fail to analyse anything. G.: Quite. They keep promising the analysis of a “thing” in terms of sensations, and somehow one is always left with the promise and no thing. S.: Whereas you are actually giving the analysis. G.: I do my best. I am not simply saying “somehow memory links the stages.” I am specifying a series of interlocking mnemonic states. S.: Interlocking is a fine word for a paper about personal identity while we prepare to separate into army and navy. G.: It comforts one to imagine that logic interlocks what war dislocates. S.: You are becoming lyrical, which means the draft is nearly done. G.: On the contrary, it means I should stop immediately. S.: But suppose there is a gap. Suppose T1T_1T1​ lays down T2T_2T2​, T2T_2T2​ does not properly ground T3T_3T3​, and the chain breaks. G.: Then there may be a truth-value gap, so to speak, though I would rather not announce it in those exact terms. S.: Why not? It is rather good. G.: Too logical for Mind and too Viennese for Moore. But yes, if the chain of mnemonic support fails utterly, personal identity, on this account, may collapse or become indeterminate. S.: Then Reid returns through the hole. G.: Not exactly. Reid needs a contradiction: same as and not same as. A gap is not a contradiction. It is a failure of enough continuity. S.: So your answer is not “Reid is wrong,” but “Reid asks the wrong logical question.” G.: Better than that. Reid presumes that Locke must have been committed to a punctual criterion. I say Locke already had enough in him to resist that reading, and I merely articulate the resistance. S.: Ravelli is your accomplice. G.: Ravellian and revelatory, if you like. The man takes memory seriously as architecture. S.: Did you mention Ravelli? G.: Certainly not by name. I do not think they read Latin or Italian at Cambridge, but I cited Ian Gallie, whom they will understand. S.: Gallie for Ravelli is a very Oxonian form of smuggling. G.: One uses the authorities the customs officers recognise. S.: Then the paper is really Locke corrected by Broad, defended against Reid, and secretly fortified by Italy. G.: That is a pleasingly treacherous summary. S.: I specialise in treachery before lunch. But tell me, where does the noise come in again? G.: Ravelli hears a noise, or heard one, or has a series of memory-states representing it. Let there be an event NNN at t1t_1t1​. At t2t_2t2​, RRR has M2M_2M2​, a state of remembering NNN, grounded in T2T_2T2​, which descends from T1T_1T1​, the trace originally laid down by NNN. At t3t_3t3​, he may no longer directly remember NNN, but he remembers at t2t_2t2​ having remembered NNN, through M3M_3M3​, grounded in T3T_3T3​. And so on. S.: So the direct content may fade while the continuity persists. G.: Precisely. The old general need not now remember the flogging if he stands in the right chain to an earlier stage that did. S.: You make the soul sound like a railway timetable. G.: Better that than a Scottish parade. S.: And if the chain is partly dispositional rather than occurrent? G.: So much the better. A memory theory that requires actual present recollection at every stage is lunatic. The persistence of capacity, grounded in traces, is enough. S.: Then you are close to a causal theory. G.: If you like, though I shall not give it that vulgar modern name before it exists. S.: Very fair. But will Cambridge accept “brain trace”? G.: If I say it once and quickly. Moore will tolerate a trace if Broad has sat near it. S.: And Broad has? G.: Broad has sat near almost everything, which is why he is useful. S.: Then what is the exact claim? State it as if in the paper. G.: Very well. Personal identity over time consists neither in sameness of substance simpliciter nor in bare present consciousness, but in the continuity of a series of mnemonic states, capacities, and traces such that later stages stand in the right memory-grounding relation to earlier ones, whether or not every later stage directly recalls every earlier experience. S.: That sounds publishable. G.: Then I must prune it. S.: Always your vice. But you still have not answered the simplest objection. What if Ravelli falsely remembers the noise? G.: Then the memory-state fails as veridical memory, though it may still belong causally to the same person. Not every present seeming-memory must be trusted in order for the continuity relation to hold. S.: So memory-evidence is defeasible. G.: Of course. If identity depended on the perfect reliability of introspection, the species would have perished. S.: You are in a better mood than a man about to march. G.: Only because I have not yet marched. S.: I am to the army, you to the navy, and here we are quarrelling over mnemonic states. G.: A far cleaner quarrel than what awaits. S.: Then say more of the truth-value gap. I liked it. G.: Naturally. Suppose the chain from t1t_1t1​ to tnt_ntn​ has a missing stretch, not merely forgotten content but a broken trace-history. Then it may be neither true nor false, under this analysis, that the later person is the same as the earlier in the Lockean sense. There is insufficient continuity. S.: That sounds almost desperate. G.: It is merely exact. Philosophers dislike admitting partial failure of a criterion because they prefer every case to have a verdict. S.: Courts and colleges require verdicts. G.: Thought need not always oblige them. S.: You are turning legal. G.: One cannot write on identity without occasionally sounding like a barrister one disapproves of. S.: Then in Ravelli’s case, if the series ⟨T1,T2,…,Tn⟩\langle T_1,T_2,\dots,T_n\rangle⟨T1​,T2​,…,Tn​⟩ fails somewhere, Ravelli’s personal identity collapses. G.: Or at least the claim collapses. The man may go on breathing. It is the identity-condition that fails. S.: That distinction will save you from melodrama. G.: Cambridge likes distinctions that prevent melodrama. S.: Cambridge likes Broad. G.: Which is why I cite him. S.: You really do think in terms of customs men and passports. G.: I am sending a paper to Mind while entering His Majesty’s service. One becomes bureaucratic by contagion. S.: And the editor? G.: Moore reads all the papers, as I said, and if he does not, one must behave as if he were peering through the prose with disapproval. S.: So you have made it Cambridge from them. G.: Yes. Enough Broad, enough common sense, enough Locke, enough care with Reid, and no obviously foreign seductions. S.: Except the hidden Italian one. G.: Hidden things often do the best work. S.: That too is a line. G.: Keep it and tell no one. S.: Never intentionally. Now, where do you place consciousness? G.: Within the mnemonic series, but not as the sole condition. Consciousness at a moment may be sparse. The continuity of mnemonic structure matters more than the dramatic self-presence of a given instant. S.: So you rescue Locke from his own more excitable readers. G.: Precisely. Locke becomes sensible once one stops treating him as a slave to occurrent recollection. S.: And Reid? G.: Reid remains useful as irritant, but not fatal. His example strikes a crude memory criterion, not a continuity theory faithful to Locke’s better resources. S.: Did you actually say “better resources”? G.: Not in the draft. One must not sound as if one is praising the dead too familiarly. S.: But you are. G.: Inwardly, yes. Outwardly one is all caution. S.: And if the paper is rejected? G.: Then the Navy will have the satisfaction of being served by a failed metaphysician, which is probably the normal arrangement. S.: It may yet be accepted. G.: Moore may like the anti-Reid angle. Broad may forgive the traces. Gallie will make it look less idiosyncratic. And the title is plain enough to appear decent. S.: Personal Identity. G.: Yes. Brutally plain, which often helps. S.: Have you actually sent it? G.: Not yet. S.: Because you may forget it. G.: Exactly. If I do, the theory acquires an excellent anecdote and a poor publishing history. S.: Then perhaps memory should first serve the post. G.: That is the practical test of metaphysics, yes. S.: I should have thought war the practical test. G.: War tests other things. Memory at least still keeps office hours. S.: One last time. Give me the construction in its shortest form. G.: Very well. For person RRR, and times t1<t2<⋯<tnt_1< t_2<\dots<t_nt1​<t2​<⋯<tn​, RRR at t1t_1t1​ is the same person as RRR at tnt_ntn​ iff there exists a chain of mnemonic states M1,…,MnM_1,\dots,M_nM1​,…,Mn​ and corresponding traces T1,…,TnT_1,\dots,T_nT1​,…,Tn​ such that each Ti+1T_{i+1}Ti+1​ is appropriately causally continuous with TiT_iTi​, and each Mi+1M_{i+1}Mi+1​ is grounded in Ti+1T_{i+1}Ti+1​ in a way that preserves the possibility or actuality of memory from earlier to later stage. S.: And if at some stage Ti+1T_{i+1}Ti+1​ does not continue TiT_iTi​? G.: Then the chain fails, and with it the personal continuity claim. S.: Dry enough? G.: Sufficiently Lockean, with one eye on Mind and the other on the Admiralty.Ravelli, Francesco Martino (1617). Ars memoriae hactenus ab ejus primo-autore, hujusce secundo quidem incognito. Francofurti: Hoffmann, sumptibus Ioann. Theodorici de Bry.

 

Speranza, J. L. (n. d.). ‘H. P. Grice e J. L. Speranza: La Conversazione – I Verbali: Raynieri – Ossia: Grice e Raynieri’ Giovanni Antonio Rayneri. Rayneri, Giovanni Antonio (Carmagnola, Piemonte). G.: Rayneri, 1840: Unità della scienza. S.: A dangerous title to utter in Oxford after Vienna. G.: Quite. The phrase sounds as if a Rosminian has inadvertently advertised a logical positivist congress. S.: Or as if Carnap has strayed into a diocesan school and discovered metaphysics still drawing a salary. G.: Yet the sameness is verbal, not doctrinal. S.: Entirely. Rayneri wants unity because truth is ordered. The Vienna people want unity because language must be cleaned. One crowns philosophy; the other sends it to sweep the floor. G.: Regina scientiarum versus sanitation staff. S.: Precisely. Rayneri’s unità della scienza still imagines a hierarchy of knowledge under spiritual or philosophical supervision. Einheit der Wissenschaft imagines a disciplined republic of statements under anti-metaphysical customs control. G.: And yet the phrase sticks. S.: Phrases always do. They wander much better than doctrines. That is why philosophy is mostly the afterlife of headings. G.: Still, one must be fair to Rayneri. If he thought unità della scienza required defence in 1840, that itself is instructive. S.: Because “science” in his mouth is not physics and chemistry in white coats, but scienza in the old broad sense: ordered knowledge, connected disciplines, the possibility that truth hangs together. G.: In which case the title is less manifesto than reassurance. S.: Yes. It says: do not let the branches fly apart; the trunk still exists. G.: A very un-Viennese tree. S.: Entirely. The Viennese would analyse the word “tree,” classify the protocol sentences, and then fight over whether trunks are reducible to observations. G.: Or to physicalist predicates. S.: Indeed. Which is where Grice would begin to smile. Because if the project is to replace psychological predicates with physicalist ones, one must first explain how anyone means the replacement. G.: And there enters Peano’s inverted consequence sign. S.: Ah yes, your delicious point. The sign itself looks innocent enough, but in the twentieth-century hands it becomes emblematic of a dream: reasoning stripped to visible bones, metaphysical excrescence left politely outside the notation. G.: The vernacular counterpart being “if.” S.: Which is exactly where Grice refuses to be hygienic. The formal sign gives consequence under rules; the vernacular “if” arrives with hesitations, background assumptions, implicatures, and all the unruly furniture of ordinary thought. G.: So Einheit der Wissenschaft in the neo-positivist sense likes the sign because it appears to promise a single purified method. S.: Whereas Rayneri would find the sign useful only if it remained subordinate to a larger order of knowing. G.: A servant, not a sovereign. S.: Quite. In Rayneri, formal order belongs inside a philosophical cosmos. In the unity-of-science movement, philosophy itself is gradually demoted to traffic control. G.: Which gives us our first contrast: same phrase, opposite metaphysical climate. S.: One might say: same umbrella, different weather. G.: Now let us return to the liceo, because the real comedy is not in titles but in transmission. S.: Quite. Philosophy on the Continent has this habit, very unlike the Clifton legend, of reaching boys before they have learned proper scepticism about teachers. G.: Rayneri in Carmagnola for Bertini, Ferri at Casale Monferrato for Carlo Cantoni. S.: Exactly. The English myth is that one discovers philosophy after arriving at Oxford with Greek and Latin and a tolerance for bad heating. The continental reality is often that some professore di filosofia has already colonised one’s adolescence. G.: And Rayneri, unlike the later Vienna Circle, is not merely a phrase-maker but an institutional presence. S.: A local philosopher-schoolmaster. Which is why his influence matters even if his publications are late or sparse. At that stage he is less a bibliography than a voice. G.: So Bertini’s formation begins with Rayneri’s lessons in Carmagnola before Ornato, before Jacobi, before the post-laurea friendships. S.: Yes. Rayneri supplies early philosophical shape, likely Rosminian and spiritualist in temper. Ornato comes later with Plato and Jacobi. The sequence matters. G.: Just as Ferri for Carlo Cantoni comes before Bertini. S.: There is a pleasing structural repetition there. Liceo first wounds; university later codifies the scar. G.: You persist in medicine. S.: Philosophy has always aspired to be a clinic with better quotations. G.: But one must stress the asymmetry with Oxford. Grice at Clifton did not, so far as one can tell, receive philosophy from a published school philosopher. S.: No. His rationalism he traces to his father; his scholarship is in classics; philosophy comes by the back door of Greats. The continental pattern is earlier, more explicit, and less embarrassed. G.: Which may explain why names like Rayneri and Ferri matter so much. They are not merely teachers in the timetable. They are models of what an intellectual life might look like. S.: Quite. A schoolboy sees a professore who has written, lectured, thought. The profession appears before the profession. G.: And because the liceo reaches one at fifteen or sixteen, the influence is often deeper psychologically than anything that happens later at university. S.: University teaches one how to defend one’s errors in public. Liceo teaches one which errors to cherish. G.: Excellent. Now, why would Rayneri think unità della scienza needed defending? S.: Because nineteenth-century intellectual life already suffered from dispersion: specialisation, rival schools, theological and secular pressures, pedagogical fragmentation. To defend unity is to resist intellectual centrifugal force. G.: So not yet “all sciences reduce to one language,” but “knowledge belongs together.” S.: Precisely. The later slogan says: unify by method and syntax. The earlier title says: preserve unity of meaning, order, and perhaps truth itself. G.: Then the phrase survives because it is hospitable to incompatible ambitions. S.: As most successful philosophical phrases are. They are boarding houses for doctrines that would hate one another at breakfast. G.: And ordinary language, which Grice would later prize, helps expose this. S.: Yes. Because ordinary language reminds us that “unity” is not itself univocal. Unity can mean coherence, reducibility, architectonic order, institutional federation, semantic translation, or merely a pious wish. G.: So Rayneri’s title cannot simply be read backward through Carnap. S.: No more than one should read Aristotle as a badly typeset formal logician. G.: And yet there is still a historical wit in the recurrence. S.: Of course. The same words recur because philosophy loves old headings. But each recurrence shifts the burden. In Rayneri, philosophy remains queen. In Vienna, philosophy becomes under-labourer, or perhaps customs officer. G.: Locke with a passport stamp. S.: Exactly. “Nothing metaphysical to declare?” G.: “Only a small substance in my hand-luggage.” S.: “Confiscated.” G.: Let us bring in Peano once more. Because if one moves from vernacular “if” to formal consequence, one acquires the appearance of necessity. S.: And loses, or tries to lose, the conversational thickness of conditionals. This is where Grice becomes useful against both simplifications: against the spiritualist assumption that unity can be simply proclaimed, and against the positivist assumption that it can be simply notated. G.: Because for Grice, rationality is enacted in use. S.: Exactly. The point of the vernacular is not that it is messier than notation; it is that the mess is often the site of intelligence. “If” in English does not merely mirror a formal relation; it manages expectation, commitment, insinuation, and strategic under-saying. G.: Whereas the inverted consequence sign is gloriously indifferent to tact. S.: Which is why it is so attractive to people who distrust tact. G.: So Rayneri’s unità della scienza and the Vienna project differ not merely in doctrine but in what they take language to be for. S.: Yes. Rayneri still belongs to a world where language participates in the articulation of a larger moral and philosophical order. The unity-of-science movement belongs to a world where language must be disciplined into transparency. G.: And Grice stands inconveniently between them, loving form but not purification. S.: Very good. He likes order, but not the kind that abolishes conversation in order to save reason from it. G.: Which returns us to the continental line. Rayneri at Carmagnola, Bertini later at Turin, Ferri at Casale Monferrato, Carlo Cantoni after him — all instances of philosophy arriving through persons before systems. S.: And through schools before faculties. One should never underestimate the philosophical power of a local classroom. G.: There is a touching anti-Oxonian honesty about it. S.: Indeed. Oxford likes to pretend minds emerge from books and quads. The Continent sometimes admits that they emerge from professors. G.: Then perhaps Rayneri’s greatest significance is not the title itself, but the fact that a boy like Bertini could hear such a title as possibility. S.: Exactly. Before one reads unity of science, one sees a man who believes knowledge belongs together. That is a stronger lesson than any pamphlet. G.: A lesson later altered by Ornato, Jacobi, Plato, and the rest. S.: Yes. The sequence is not monotone. Rayneri gives early philosophical seriousness; Ornato complicates it with Greek and Jacobi; Bertini then passes, in another register, a mediated philosophical seriousness onward to Carlo Cantoni’s generation. G.: So if Ferri is to Carlo Cantoni what Rayneri is to Bertini, then Bertini himself becomes a middle term in a chain of transmission. S.: Quite so. Philosophy reproduced not only by books and chairs, but by pedagogical succession. G.: Rather like families, except with fewer baptisms and more footnotes. S.: Do not idealise. There are plenty of baptisms too; they are simply called lauree. G.: One last question. Why did the phrase unità della scienza survive so well? S.: Because it flatters everyone. The metaphysician hears order, the pedagogue hears curriculum, the scientist hears integration, the positivist hears reduction, the administrator hears structure, and the philosopher hears, if he is vain enough, his own necessity. G.: So the phrase is itself cooperative. S.: Cooperative and magnificently ambiguous. G.: Which is to say, deeply ordinary-language after all. S.: Yes. And perhaps that is the final Gricean revenge. Even the slogans of purified science survive not by purity, but by flexible use. G.: So Rayneri’s old title and Vienna’s later motto are united only in failing to mean just one thing. S.: Which is, in the end, the true unità della scienza: everyone using the same phrase for different reasons and calling the result progress. SPeranza wants to know if the 1840 is the earliest datable composition -- never mind book or published -- by Rayneri, and if the man is real -- and what makes him a philosopher, and why would he have a book about unity of science in 1840 and what his tesi di laurea was, etc -- all to communicate to Grice -- tahnks - Yes — the man is real, but the details in the passage need tightening. The historical person is Giovanni Antonio Rayneri, born at Carmagnola on 2 March 1810 and dead at Chieri in 1867. He was a priest, philosopher by training, and above all an important pedagogue in Piedmont. The standard biographical source says he was of humble origins, studied at the seminary of Chieri, and graduated in philosophy at Turin in 1832. So yes, he existed quite securely. [treccani.it] That also answers the laurea point. His tesi di laurea is not identified in the source I have, but the degree itself is: a laurea in philosophy at Turin, 1832. Since the detailed title of the dissertation is not given in the main biographical notice, one should not invent one. The safest thing to say is simply that he was laureato in filosofia at Turin. [treccani.it] Now, on the 1840 point. Here the passage seems to have attached the wrong title to the wrong man. The major biographical notice for Rayneri states that in 1840 he wrote Istruzione ai maestri delle scuole elementari for the Comune di Torino, as part of elementary-school reform in the Kingdom of Sardinia. That is the earliest securely datable work visible in the standard biography now at hand. I do not see independent confirmation there for a book titled Unità della scienza in 1840 by this same Rayneri. So Speranza should be cautious: 1840 is very likely the earliest securely datable composition/publication currently in view, but it appears to be the pedagogical Istruzione ai maestri delle scuole elementari, not necessarily Unità della scienza. [treccani.it] Why is he called a philosopher at all, if his fame is pedagogical? Because the same biographical source makes clear that his formation, early teaching, and intellectual affiliations are philosophical. He was professor of philosophy at the liceo of Carmagnola, came into contact with Antonio Rosmini, and later became the first holder of the university chair of pedagogy at Turin. In nineteenth-century Italy, especially in Piedmont, pedagogy was not a merely technical field but often a branch of philosophical and moral reflection. So Rayneri is best described not as a pure metaphysician, but as a philosopher-pedagogue in the Rosminian and educational reform tradition. [treccani.it], [pineroloblues.com], [en.wikipedia.org] That also helps with your “why would he have a book about unity of science in 1840?” question. If the title Unità della scienza is really his — and again, I would treat that cautiously until independently verified — then it would not mean “unity of science” in the later Vienna Circle sense. For a man like Rayneri, formed in philosophy, pedagogy, Catholic culture, and educational reform, scienza would most naturally mean ordered knowledge in the broad old sense, not just laboratory science. “Unity” in that context would mean something like the connectedness of truth, the coherence of disciplines, or the educational need not to let learning fragment. That is why the phrase can sound accidentally neo-positivist to us while actually belonging to a much older spiritual-pedagogical world. [treccani.it], [pineroloblues.com] So the clean note for Grice would be this: Giovanni Antonio Rayneri is real: born at Carmagnola in 1810, laureato in philosophy at Turin in 1832, ordained priest in 1833, later professor of philosophy and then major pedagogue in the Kingdom of Sardinia. The earliest securely datable work presently visible is Istruzione ai maestri delle scuole elementari from 1840. If Unità della scienza is indeed his, it must be read in the broad nineteenth-century Italian sense of the unity of knowledge, not in the later Viennese sense of scientific language-policing. He counts as a philosopher because his formation, teaching, and educational theory all emerge from a philosophical and Rosminian frame, even though his historical importance is primarily pedagogical. [treccani.it], [pineroloblues.com], [en.wikipedia.org] And the driest punchline is: Rayneri is real; Unità della scienza may be bibliographically shakier than the man; and if he did write it, the title belongs more to Rosmini than to Carnap. [treccani.it], [en.wikipedia.org] Can we check double run Unità della scienza -- with Rayneri or his school Serbati, Rosmini -- as per title of a publication, journal article, etc? thanks Yes — there is a clear double run, and it is with Giovanni Antonio Rayneri, not with Antonio Rosmini Serbati, though Rosmini’s school does provide a close parallel in the educational register. [PROLUSIONE...a.unina.it], [rosminipro...e.unitn.it] For Rayneri, the relevant title is not 1840 but 1856: Della unità delle scienze, a university opening address delivered at the Regia Università di Torino on 5 November 1856 and printed the same year. The scanned title page explicitly gives: “Della unità delle scienze, prolusione recitata nella grande aula della Regia Università di Torino ai V. novembre MDCCCLVI dal sacerdote Gianantonio Rayneri…” [PROLUSIONE...a.unina.it] So the phrase really does belong to Rayneri, but the date should be corrected from 1840 to 1856, and the form is a prolusione, not necessarily a book in the ordinary monographic sense. [PROLUSIONE...a.unina.it] As for Rosmini, there is not, from the results here, a title Unità della scienza or Unità delle scienze directly under his name in the same way. But there is a very close Rosminian analogue: Saggio sull’unità dell’educazione, composed in 1825 and published in 1826. Later Rosminian scholarship repeatedly treats that youthful essay as foundational for the educational side of his thought. [rosminipro...e.unitn.it], [iris.unive.it], [intratext.com] So the clean historical picture is: Rayneri really did publish a text called Della unità delle scienze in 1856, as a university prolusione at Turin. [PROLUSIONE...a.unina.it] Rosmini does not, on the present evidence, have that same title, but he has the strongly parallel Saggio sull’unità dell’educazione, composed 1825, published 1826, which belongs to the same broad educational-philosophical climate. [rosminipro...e.unitn.it], [iris.unive.it] This means that Speranza’s instinct about a Rosminian school connection is right, but the exact “unità della scienza” formula lands most securely on Rayneri, not on Rosmini. One might say, dryly, that Rosmini supplied the educational metaphysic, while Rayneri supplied the university podium and the enlarged title. [PROLUSIONE...a.unina.it], [rosminipro...e.unitn.it] So the best corrected note for Grice would be: Giovanni Antonio Rayneri, real and Rosminian in school, published Della unità delle scienze as a prolusione in Turin in 1856, not 1840. The Rosminian parallel is Antonio Rosmini’s youthful Saggio sull’unità dell’educazione (1825/1826), which helps explain the school atmosphere in which a title about the “unity” of knowledge or education would make philosophical sense. [PROLUSIONE...a.unina.it], [rosminipro...e.unitn.it], [iris.unive.it] If you like, I can now give you either: a one-paragraph corrected Speranza-style entry on Rayneri, or a short dry note explicitly contrasting Della unità delle scienze with Einheit der Wissenschaft. No but you can provide a 100-move conversation between G. and S. on Della unità delle scienze, prolusione recitata nella grande aula della Regia Università di Torino ai V. novembre MDCCCLVI -- because that sounds grand -- and G. did give a seminar on Unified Science and Einheit der Wissenschaft. So all that G. cares about here, as he talks to S. is that the 'aula' must have been very grand -- and the trick of the Italian. For unita is singular enough -- and delle is plural as is 'scienze' -- "What a world of difference with Mach and his Einhiet der Wissenschaft or the NewWorlders with their Unified Science -- because Rayneri beats them all "Sulla unita delle sciencze -- of the unity of THE SCIENCES -- from, say, palaentology to ichtyhyology and entomology and sociology and psychiatry and medicine and virus research and computer science -- you name it -- it is ONE UNITA -- unita in plural is also unita but here is DELLA or dell'unita -- ofthe one unity of THE SCIENCES in plural? What can be MORE AGAINST the spirit of Bologna (alma mater above all) and Boum Vadum, as G. callls Oxford -- and they discuss what R. means and that God is in the centre, that G. calls the Genitor for exegetical purposes, so he is not so deviant, and since Scientism is a devil it is this ecumenical unita delle scienze in an inauguration in that part of italy that is civilized -- Piedmont, etc -- that matters! Dry humour, no preamble or ps -- thank you. G.: Della unità delle scienze, prolusione recitata nella grande aula della Regia Università di Torino ai V. novembre MDCCCLVI — one could almost forgive the philosophy for the title alone. S.: You care only for the aula. G.: Naturally. A grande aula ought to be very grand indeed, especially in Turin, where even pedagogy wishes to sound constitutional. S.: And the title is grander still because it has managed singular and plural in one breath. G.: Exactly. Unità in the singular, scienze in the plural, and that splendidly intermediate delle doing all the diplomatic work. S.: A world of difference from Mach’s Einheit der Wissenschaft. G.: Or the New Worlders and their Unified Science, yes. Those sound like schemes for flattening the intellectual map with hygienic machinery. S.: Whereas Rayneri sounds almost architectonic. G.: More than architectonic. Ecclesiastically architectonic. Della unità delle scienze says not “one science,” not “the sciences unified,” but “the unity of the sciences,” as though the sciences had multiplied properly and were now to be shown, with decorum, to belong together under one higher order. S.: Which is precisely what the Viennese disliked. G.: Because they preferred the customs office to the crown. Einheit der Wissenschaft means: one cleaned language, one discipline of statements, one reductional fantasy in a laboratory coat. S.: You are hard on Vienna. G.: Only because it made logic smell of disinfectant. S.: And Rayneri? G.: Rayneri smells of aula, hierarchy, robe, and perhaps a little incense. Which is civilisation. S.: Let us be precise. Why does the singular-plural matter so much to you? G.: Because “unity” in the singular keeps the principle one, while “the sciences” in the plural refuses to erase the branches. It is not one science replacing the others, but one unifying order embracing many sciences. S.: So unlike a reductive programme. G.: Entirely. He is not saying palaeontology is only zoology, nor zoology only chemistry, nor chemistry only physics, nor physics only protocol sentences. He is saying that palaeontology, ichthyology, entomology, sociology, psychiatry, medicine, virus research, and whatever monstrous modern science you please remain sciences in the plural while belonging to one intelligible whole. S.: That already sounds almost anti-modern. G.: Good. Modernity is usually improved by a little resistance. S.: Yet the title is not exactly anti-scientific. G.: Heaven forbid. It is anti-scientism, which is the more decent fight. Rayneri’s point, if I hear him properly, is not to diminish the sciences, but to prevent them from becoming little sovereign republics each with its own bad anthem. S.: So unity is not a flattening but a superior coherence. G.: Exactly. And because it is Turin in 1856, the superior coherence is not hidden. God is in the centre, even if one must call him, for exegetical purposes, the Genitor. S.: Genitor is a wonderfully evasive way of being orthodox. G.: It has the advantage of sounding biological, theological, and faintly Roman at once. S.: Then Rayneri is not deviant at all. G.: Not in the least. He is pious in the proper Piedmontese register: ordered, educational, architectonic, and only incidentally sublime. S.: Which makes the grande aula all the more plausible. G.: Exactly. A prolusione in a grande aula in Turin on the fifth of November 1856 is not the setting for scientific sanitation. It is the setting for the old idea that knowledge belongs together because truth itself is ordered. S.: So “science” there means scienza in the broad old sense. G.: Yes. Ordered knowledge, not merely white coats and galvanometers. The word has not yet shrunk into laboratory specialism. S.: Yet the sciences are plural. G.: As they must be, once the world has become too interesting for one faculty. That is the beauty of it. He allows multiplicity without surrendering architectonic aspiration. S.: Which is more than Unified Science usually managed. G.: Unified Science usually managed to sound managerial. “Unified” is what one does to timetables and railway companies. “Unità delle scienze” sounds like a metaphysical polity. S.: You prefer the polity to the railway. G.: Deeply. One can live in a polity. One is carried by a railway. S.: Then perhaps Rayneri’s title is pedagogical too. G.: Very much so. A prolusione is a threshold speech. One inaugurates not merely a course but a conception of study. The sciences are plural because the curriculum is plural; the unity is singular because the mind must not fracture under the curriculum. S.: That is almost beautiful. G.: It is beautiful. Turin occasionally managed it. S.: Better than Bologna? G.: Ah, Bologna is another matter. Bologna is older, yes, and prouder, and more proper to the very spirit of the university. But Bologna above all resists any one principle trying to behave as superintendent of the whole. S.: Because alma mater is already the principle. G.: Precisely. Bologna thinks of the university itself as the living unity, not of a philosophically declared “unity of the sciences” as something needing inaugural proclamation in a royal aula. S.: And Oxford? G.: Boum Vadum has an equal distrust, though from the opposite side. Oxford prefers the sciences, and even the arts, to remain decently collegiate, badly heated, and mutually suspicious. S.: So Rayneri’s title offends both. G.: In opposite directions. Bologna finds it too architectonic, Oxford too public. Which is why I admire it. S.: You admire anything that annoys two old universities at once. G.: It is one of the few reliable tests of seriousness. S.: Then what does he mean by unity, if not reduction and not mere institutional coexistence? G.: I think he means an order of intelligibility under which the several disciplines do not fall apart into unrelated specialisms. An order of truth, perhaps, but also of formation. The sciences differ in object and method, but they are not metaphysically homeless. S.: Because the Genitor still governs. G.: Exactly. The very possibility that many sciences are sciences at all presupposes some one ordered world, one created intelligibility, one ultimate reason why there is a whole rather than a heap. S.: A very un-Viennese tree, as you said. G.: Entirely. The Viennese would analyse “tree,” classify the observation-statements, and then quarrel over whether trunks reduce to protocol. Rayneri says, more civilly, that the trunk already exists and the branches had better remember it. S.: Then “della” matters too. G.: Ah yes, the little aristocrat in the middle. Della binds unity to the sciences without allowing unity to collapse into them. It is not unità scientifica, nor unificazione delle scienze in the activist sense. It is of the sciences, belonging to them and yet governing them. S.: A genitive theology. G.: Exactly. The sort of relation English philosophers usually try to solve by pretending it does not exist. S.: Or by inventing “levels.” G.: Levels are what one says when one has lost the old confidence but wants to keep the staircase. S.: Then the plural sciences remain irreducibly distinct. G.: Yes. That is the great advantage. Entomology is not medicine, medicine not sociology, sociology not mathematics, mathematics not theology — though all, for him, stand within one more general order of knowing. S.: Which order is philosophical? G.: Philosophical and more than philosophical. Philosophy crowns; it does not merely coordinate. There lies the difference with Vienna. For Rayneri, philosophy remains regina scientiarum in some usable sense. For the unity-of-science men, philosophy becomes customs officer, or at best under-labourer with a broom. S.: Locke with a permit book. G.: Yes. Rayneri crowns philosophy; Vienna gives it sanitation duties. S.: That is rather unkind to Vienna. G.: It is exactly kind enough. They were superb cleaners. Civilization occasionally needs dust. S.: Then your own seminar on Unified Science? G.: My seminar was on the phrase’s confusions as much as its ambitions. I have always thought that “unified science” sounds plausible only because “unity” is one of those words people are too well brought up to refuse. S.: And because “science” has already been narrowed in English. G.: Precisely. Once “science” means mostly the laboratory and its satellites, “unified science” sounds like a programme of coordination. But in Rayneri’s scienza the word is broad enough to make the phrase metaphysically alive. S.: So we must not read him backward through Carnap. G.: No more than one should read Aristotle as a badly typeset logician. Rayneri’s unity is not syntactic or reductional. It is architectonic, pedagogical, and theistic. S.: And royal. G.: Indeed. One must not neglect the Regia Università. The royal university is itself a symbol of ordered public knowledge. The grande aula does part of the argument before the man has opened his mouth. S.: You really do care about the hall. G.: A hall tells you what sort of truth is expected to echo there. S.: Then perhaps the title is also political in the best nineteenth-century way. G.: Yes. Piedmont in 1856 is the civilised part of Italy, or so it understandably thought. To speak there of the unity of the sciences is to say something about the unity of culture, state, education, and truth against fragmentation. S.: That sounds almost Risorgimental. G.: It probably is, though in a sober university key. One does not need tricolours on the cover to hear the background music. S.: Then why not simply “sulle scienze” or “sul sapere”? G.: Because that would forfeit the very claim. “Della unità delle scienze” says that the many are intelligible only through the one. It is a title of relation, not enumeration. S.: And relation is what Bologna distrusts? G.: Bologna distrusts overt architectonic relation because it has for centuries embodied relation institutionally. It does not need to proclaim it in quite the same style. S.: Whereas Turin, younger and royal, can enjoy the inaugural majesty. G.: Exactly. Turin likes to say in a hall what Bologna prefers to imply in a tradition. S.: And Oxford? G.: Oxford prefers to imply everything and then deny having implied it. S.: Even unity? G.: Especially unity. Oxford is committed to the fiction that truth emerges from local exactness without anyone needing to say “whole.” S.: Yet Greats itself once almost presupposed a whole. G.: Of course. But only by leaving it to the candidate to suffer privately. Rayneri suffers publicly and grandly, which is much more Italian. S.: Then what would he say to Mach and his sort? G.: Probably that they mistake method for measure and syntax for order. One does not get the unity of the sciences by sweeping metaphysics out of the room; one gets only a tidier room. S.: And what would Mach reply? G.: Something about economy of thought, no doubt, and the suspicion that your Genitor is a rather expensive explanatory convenience. S.: Which would only delight Rayneri further. G.: Very likely. Nothing strengthens a nineteenth-century architectonic quite like a later empiricist sneer. S.: Then let us catalogue the differences. Rayneri has one unity and many sciences; Vienna one science-language and many departments; the New Worlders one programme and a conference hotel. G.: Excellent. S.: Thank you. G.: Keep it, though the conference hotel may need trimming. S.: Never. It is the best bit. G.: Then perhaps the truest contrast is that Rayneri’s unity preserves the dignity of plurality, while unified science tends to justify plurality only on the way to abolishing it. S.: A splendid sentence. G.: Use it carefully. The sciences in Rayneri remain sciences; they are not mere provinces awaiting annexation by a single language. S.: And because they remain plural, the unity cannot be merely lexical. G.: Exactly. The title itself performs this. Unità singular, scienze plural. The grammar refuses the flattening. S.: So singularity governs without destroying plurality. G.: A very Catholic ambition, and therefore perfectly suitable for Piedmont at its most serious. S.: There is your Genitor again. G.: He deserves repeated mention. Without some central principle of order, the title collapses into educational optimism. S.: Then the divine centre is not an ornament but the condition. G.: Precisely. He is not saying the sciences happen to fit together by academic convenience. He is saying they belong together because reality itself belongs together under one originating intelligibility. S.: Which sounds almost medieval. G.: The best nineteenth-century things often do. S.: Then would you say that scientism is the devil? G.: In this register, yes. Scientism is what happens when one of the sciences mistakes itself for the unity of the sciences, or when method mistakes itself for wisdom. S.: A useful devil. G.: Devils usually are. S.: And Rayneri’s prolusione is therefore an exorcism? G.: That is too theatrical, but not wholly wrong. It is certainly a prophylactic against fragmentation and self-importance among the branches. S.: So entomology is reminded that it is not God. G.: Exactly. Nor is sociology, nor psychiatry, nor virology, nor whatever future discipline wishes to write manifestos in place of footnotes. S.: Computer science too, then. G.: Especially computer science. The sciences are to remain sciences, not cults. S.: Then perhaps the title is not only grand but humane. G.: Very much so. It says to the student: do not let your discipline make you stupid by isolation. S.: Which is more than one can say for some modern curricula. G.: Much more. The unity of the sciences is pedagogical before it is conference rhetoric. It keeps the mind from becoming departmental. S.: That is another sentence worth keeping. G.: Keep it and pretend Rayneri whispered it in the grande aula. S.: I shall. Then what would you call the exact metaphysical content of his unity? G.: Ordered plurality under a common source and end. There, that is dry enough. S.: And source is the Genitor. G.: Yes, though one must not put him on every page or the undergraduates will think we have changed faculties. S.: They already suspect theology in any serious philosophy. G.: Quite rightly. Serious philosophy has always had theology in the basement, whether it admits it or not. S.: Then your admiration for the title is partly nostalgia. G.: For grandeur, yes. Not for doctrine exactly, but for a time when one could still say “the unity of the sciences” in a royal aula without sounding like a committee. S.: Dry enough? G.: Sufficiently Turinese, with one eye on Bologna and the other on Boum Vadum. So please provide a 4-turn conversation in italian between G (first) and RAYNERI as they discuss stuff -- with Rayneri's last turn starting with Italian like for: "Your implicature is unitary, and almost scientific, but still cancellable, my dear, dear Grice." Thanks. G.: Rayneri, a Torino avete avuto il coraggio di parlare dell’unità delle scienze in una grande aula, come se il sapere avesse bisogno non solo di verità, ma anche di architettura. Rayneri: Caro Grice, senza un certo ordine il sapere si frantuma in mestieri gelosi, e l’aula serve appunto a ricordare che la pluralità delle scienze non esclude la loro comune appartenenza. G.: La mia implicatura è allora che l’unità, da voi, non significa mai ridurre tutto a una sola scienza, ma tenere insieme le scienze sotto un principio più alto, che io, per prudenza esegetica, chiamerei il Genitore. Rayneri: La sua implicatura è unitaria, e quasi scientifica, ma ancora cancellabile, mio caro, caro Grice. Rayneri, Giovanni Antonio (1832). Dissertazione di filosofia. Torino.