Abstract

"Quite otherwise than the scientist, and far more than the historian," writes R. G. Collingwood, "the philosopher must go to school with the poets in order to learn the use of language, and must use it in their way: as a means of exploring one's own mind, and bringing to light what is obscure and doubtful in it." Whereas the poet "yields himself to every suggestion that his language makes," however, the philosopher's words are assembled "only to reveal the thought which they express, and are valuable not in themselves but as a means to that end." On this view, notes Collingwood, philosopher is to poet as lensgrinder is to jeweler: his art must conceal itself.1 And yet, the urge to emulate goes both ways, since...