Abstract

Like everyone else, I dislike pinning doctrinal nameplates on myself. For some fifteen years, however, from 1941 until 1955, a sufficiently importunate questioner could push me to admit that I guessed I was some sort or other of a pragmatist. The invitation to reconsider pragmatism was thus for me a chance to reoccupy once familiar ground, to recover positions which once seemed compelling and then no longer did, and to make sure I had not given up the true with the false. I bought out my baker’s stock of madeleines and set off.