VII: The Ghost at the End of the Corridor

The Senior Common Room at St Anselm's had acquired a peculiar atmosphere over recent weeks.

No one mentioned it directly.

But conversations had become more cautious.

Books were opened with greater suspicion.

Even the furniture itself seemed increasingly liable to conceal conceptual machinery.

Rain continued softly against the windows.

Professor Quillibrace sat by the fire reading.

Miss Elowen Stray was writing in the notebook which by now appeared less like a notebook and more like an ongoing archaeological record of conceptual collapse.

Mr Blottisham entered slowly.

Very slowly.

He sat down without speaking.

Quillibrace looked up.

"My goodness."

Miss Stray lowered her pencil.

Blottisham stared into the fire.

"I have been thinking."

Silence followed.

Quillibrace looked alarmed.

"I see."

Blottisham ignored him.

"I think there is another one."

Quillibrace glanced at Miss Stray.

Miss Stray glanced back.

Neither spoke.

Blottisham looked up.

"It has been there all along."

He leaned forward.

"Everything becomes clear if one moves downward."

Silence.

Quillibrace removed his spectacles.

"Oh dear."

Blottisham gestured carefully.

"To understand a machine, one examines its parts."

"To understand language, one examines words."

"To understand biology, one examines chemistry."

"To understand chemistry, one examines physics."

He spread his hands.

"One keeps moving toward simpler things."

"The deeper one goes, the more fundamental reality becomes."

He sat back.

"There."

Long silence settled over the room.

Rain moved quietly against the windows.

Quillibrace folded his hands.

"And why precisely do we do this?"

Blottisham blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"Why proceed downward?"

Blottisham looked puzzled.

"Because one eventually reaches the explanation."

Quillibrace waited.

Blottisham shifted slightly.

"...doesn't one?"

Miss Stray looked up from her notebook.

"The problem itself is familiar."

Blottisham looked at her.

"The world presents overwhelming complexity."

"Countless relations."

"Countless interactions."

"Without some organising principle explanation becomes rather difficult."

Blottisham nodded.

"Exactly."

"So reduction became a solution."

Quillibrace spoke quietly.

"Complex phenomena could be explained through simpler components."

"One could move downward toward foundations."

"Complexity became manageable."

Blottisham sat back with relief.

"There we are."

Quillibrace sighed.

Miss Stray looked sympathetically at the ceiling.

Blottisham closed his eyes briefly.

"No really — what now?"

"Nothing initially."

Quillibrace leaned forward.

"It solved a genuine problem."

"But?"

"There is almost always a but."

Quillibrace gestured gently.

"Where exactly does explanation end?"

Blottisham frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Take a sentence."

"Very well."

"One explains it through words."

"Yes."

"Words through sounds."

"Naturally."

"Sounds through physical processes."

"Yes."

"Physical processes through smaller structures."

"Mm."

"Smaller structures through still smaller structures."

Silence.

Blottisham stared.

"Oh."

Quillibrace nodded.

"The foundations appear strangely mobile."

Miss Stray resumed drawing circles in her notebook.

"There is another difficulty too."

Blottisham looked defeated already.

"Of course there is."

"A melody does not vanish into frequencies."

"A conversation does not vanish into sounds."

"Meaning does not vanish into neural activity."

"Society does not vanish into individuals."

Blottisham frowned.

"But the components are still there."

"Yes," said Miss Stray.

"But the organisation seems to disappear."

Silence settled around the room.

Rain continued softly.

Blottisham stared into the fire for a very long time.

Eventually he counted slowly on his fingers.

"Substance."

"Essence."

"Origin."

"Representation."

"Identity."

"Hierarchy."

"Reduction."

He looked up.

"Quillibrace?"

"Yes?"

Blottisham spoke very quietly.

"I think they know each other."

Silence.

Quillibrace looked thoughtful.

Miss Stray stopped writing.

Blottisham continued.

"I thought we had discovered separate ghosts."

"But perhaps they have been cooperating."

Quillibrace looked into the fire.

"Hm."

"The hidden substance carries identity."

"The identity possesses an essence."

"The essence explains continuity from an origin."

"The origin establishes foundations."

"The foundations produce hierarchy."

"The hierarchy supports reduction."

He paused.

"Oh dear God."

Miss Stray smiled slightly.

"Not a collection of ghosts."

Blottisham stared at her.

"No?"

She closed her notebook.

"An ecology."

Silence.

Rain moved gently against the windows.

Blottisham looked around the common room with growing horror.

Then he stood up.

"No."

Quillibrace looked at him.

"No?"

"No."

Blottisham pointed around the room.

"I absolutely refuse to discover that the ghosts themselves emerge through patterns of relation."

Long silence followed.

Then Quillibrace reopened his book.

"A perfectly understandable position," he said quietly.

He turned a page.

"Though I rather suspect the room reached that conclusion some time ago."

VI: Mr Blottisham Organises the Ghosts

The Senior Common Room at St Anselm's had entered a period of increasing conceptual instability.

No one had officially acknowledged this.

But everyone had begun placing teacups down slightly more carefully.

Rain moved steadily against the windows.

Books remained scattered in arrangements whose organising principles had become difficult to determine.

Professor Quillibrace sat reading beside the fire.

Miss Elowen Stray was making notes.

Mr Blottisham entered carrying several sheets of paper and wearing an expression of determined triumph.

"I have solved it."

Quillibrace looked up.

"Oh dear."

"No, truly."

Blottisham sat down and spread his papers across the table.

"I have discovered how reality is organised."

Miss Stray lowered her pencil.

Quillibrace slowly closed his book.

"And how precisely is reality organised?"

Blottisham looked delighted.

"Hierarchy."

Silence.

Blottisham pointed triumphantly at his pages.

"I have made a chart."

Quillibrace looked briefly alarmed.

"A chart."

"Everything fits perfectly."

He pointed enthusiastically.

"Atoms become molecules."

"Molecules become cells."

"Cells become organisms."

"Organisms become societies."

He moved his finger upward.

"Matter becomes life."

"Life becomes mind."

"Mind becomes culture."

He sat back.

"There."

Quillibrace stared at the papers.

Miss Stray leaned slightly forward.

Blottisham looked pleased.

"The lower levels support the higher ones."

"The higher levels emerge from the lower."

"Everything possesses proper order."

Silence settled around the room.

Quillibrace looked at him carefully.

"You appear very happy."

"I am."

"That worries me."

Blottisham frowned.

"Oh for heaven's sake."

Quillibrace folded his hands.

"Tell me — why do we arrange things into levels?"

Blottisham blinked.

"Because reality is organised that way."

"Is it?"

"Obviously."

Quillibrace waited.

Blottisham shifted slightly.

"I mean... otherwise everything would be chaos."

Miss Stray looked up from her notebook.

"That was rather the problem."

Blottisham looked at her.

"What was?"

"The world presents enormous complexity."

She gestured vaguely.

"Countless relations occurring simultaneously."

"Without some organising principle, explanation becomes rather difficult."

Blottisham nodded.

"Exactly."

"So hierarchy became a solution," Quillibrace said.

"Phenomena could be arranged into levels."

"Each level could explain the one above it."

"The world became manageable."

Blottisham sat back comfortably.

"There we are."

Quillibrace sighed softly.

Miss Stray stared into her notebook.

Blottisham looked offended.

"No really, what now?"

"Nothing initially."

Quillibrace leaned forward slightly.

"It solved a genuine problem."

"But?"

"There is almost always a but."

Quillibrace pointed gently toward Blottisham's chart.

"Where exactly does one level end and another begin?"

Blottisham stared.

"What do you mean?"

"Take language."

"Very well."

"Does language emerge from minds?"

Blottisham nodded.

"Naturally."

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

"And minds?"

Blottisham frowned.

"What about them?"

"Do they perhaps emerge partly through language?"

Silence.

Blottisham stared.

"Oh."

Miss Stray spoke quietly.

"Or societies."

"Do societies emerge from individuals?"

"Or do individuals emerge through social relations?"

Blottisham looked from one face to the other.

"Oh no."

Quillibrace nodded sympathetically.

"Quite."

Blottisham stared down at his chart.

"But lower levels determine higher ones."

Quillibrace looked thoughtful.

"Do they?"

He gestured vaguely.

"Social institutions shape individual behaviour."

"Languages shape possibilities for meaning."

"Ecological organisation shapes which organisms survive."

Blottisham frowned.

"Higher levels seem rather busy for derivative things."

"Indeed."

Miss Stray smiled faintly.

"The relations begin looking reciprocal."

"Not merely vertical."

Silence.

Rain moved softly against the windows.

Blottisham stared at the papers for some time.

"So the levels start becoming blurry."

"Mm."

"And influence stops travelling in one direction."

"Mm."

"And the hierarchy begins looking less like reality itself..."

He looked down at his chart.

"...and more like a way of organising complexity."

Quillibrace smiled.

"Very good."

Blottisham looked alarmed.

"No. I know that tone."

Long silence followed.

Blottisham slowly counted on his fingers.

"Substance."

"Essence."

"Origin."

"Representation."

"Identity."

"Hierarchy."

He looked up uneasily.

"Quillibrace?"

"Yes?"

"Do you realise what is happening?"

Quillibrace considered.

"Hm."

"We are steadily dismantling reality."

Miss Stray looked up.

"I don't think so."

Blottisham stared.

"No?"

She looked thoughtfully around the room.

"I think we may be dismantling the scaffolding we mistook for reality."

Silence.

Blottisham looked around nervously.

Then he said:

"I should like it formally recorded that I preferred the scaffolding."

Quillibrace reopened his book.

"An entirely understandable position," he said quietly.

"Though the furniture itself seems increasingly unconvinced."

V: Mr Blottisham Attempts to Remain Himself

The Senior Common Room at St Anselm's had begun to feel faintly besieged.

Not by people.

Nor by weather.

Nor even by philosophy itself.

Rather by the growing suspicion that reality contained considerably more hidden machinery than previously advertised.

Rain continued patiently at the windows.

Professor Quillibrace sat by the fire reading.

Miss Elowen Stray was writing notes in the small notebook that had now become a permanent feature of the room.

Mr Blottisham entered with a determined expression.

"I have decided that enough is enough."

Quillibrace looked up.

"Oh dear."

Blottisham sat down firmly.

"I have tolerated the substance ghost."

He raised a finger.

"I endured the essence ghost."

Another finger.

"I suffered the origin ghost."

A third.

"And I have accepted, under protest, the representation ghost."

Quillibrace nodded solemnly.

"A difficult period."

"But now," said Blottisham, "I have located something absolutely undeniable."

Miss Stray lowered her pencil.

Quillibrace closed his book with slow caution.

"And that is?"

"Identity."

Silence.

Quillibrace stared at him.

Miss Stray stared at him.

Blottisham looked pleased.

"Things remain themselves."

He spread his hands.

"A tree remains the same tree."

"A person remains the same person."

"A nation remains the same nation."

He sat back.

"There."

Quillibrace regarded him quietly.

"I see."

Blottisham frowned.

"You've done the voice."

"What voice?"

"The one suggesting catastrophe is approaching."

"No catastrophe at all."

Quillibrace folded his hands.

"Merely a question."

Blottisham looked suspicious.

"Naturally."

Quillibrace gestured vaguely.

"What exactly remains the same?"

Blottisham blinked.

"The thing."

"The thing."

"Yes."

Quillibrace nodded.

"Let us take a person."

Blottisham looked uneasy already.

"The body changes."

"Yes."

"Memories alter."

"Hm."

"Values shift."

"Possibly."

"Relationships change."

"Certainly."

"Experiences accumulate."

Blottisham frowned.

"Yes."

Quillibrace waited.

Silence stretched.

Blottisham looked uncomfortable.

"Well?"

"What remains unchanged?"

Blottisham stared into space.

"The... person part?"

Silence descended gently upon the room.

Miss Stray looked down.

Quillibrace closed his eyes briefly.

"Oh no," said Blottisham.

"Oh yes," said Quillibrace.

Rain moved softly against the windows.

Miss Stray spoke carefully.

"The problem itself is quite old."

"If everything changes, continuity becomes difficult to explain."

She turned a page in her notebook.

"Bodies transform."

"Languages evolve."

"Relationships reorganise."

"Even mountains alter over time."

Blottisham nodded slowly.

"But we still recognise things."

"Precisely."

"So something seemed necessary beneath change."

"Identity became the solution," Quillibrace said.

"Change could occur while something deeper remained self-identical."

Blottisham looked relieved.

"There we are then."

Quillibrace sighed.

Miss Stray resumed staring at her notebook.

Blottisham looked offended.

"No really, what now?"

"Nothing initially."

Quillibrace leaned back.

"It solved a genuine problem."

"But?"

"There is almost always a but."

Quillibrace looked at him carefully.

"When we attempt to identify the stable element itself..."

He paused.

"...it repeatedly appears somewhere else."

Blottisham stared.

"We say a thing remains itself because of its identity."

"Mm."

"But identity is whatever remains the same."

"Mm."

Silence.

"...oh."

"Quite."

Blottisham stared into the fire with mounting distress.

"So we explain identity by identity."

"Mm."

"And the stable core keeps moving away."

"Mm."

Miss Stray looked up.

"There is another difficulty too."

Blottisham looked resigned.

"Of course there is."

"Some things survive through change rather than despite it."

She counted quietly on her fingers.

"Languages survive by evolving."

"Communities survive by reorganising."

"Living systems survive by continual adaptation."

Blottisham frowned.

"Meaning change may not threaten continuity at all."

"Exactly," said Quillibrace.

"It may help produce it."

Long silence.

Rain continued its patient work against the glass.

Blottisham counted slowly on his fingers.

"Substance."

"Essence."

"Origin."

"Representation."

"Identity."

He looked around uneasily.

"Quillibrace?"

"Yes?"

"How many ghosts are actually in this room?"

Quillibrace considered.

"Hm."

Miss Stray looked up.

"I suspect we have been asking the wrong question."

Blottisham stared.

"What question should we ask?"

Miss Stray smiled slightly.

"Not how many ghosts are in the room."

A small pause.

"What relations are maintaining them?"

Silence.

Then Blottisham stood abruptly.

"No."

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

"No?"

"No. I absolutely refuse to discover that the ghosts themselves are emergent."

Quillibrace reopened his book.

"A perfectly understandable position," he said quietly.

"Though I fear reality may once again prove disappointingly uncooperative."

IV: Mr Blottisham and the Mirror in the Mind

The Senior Common Room at St Anselm's had acquired an atmosphere of mounting suspicion.

Not suspicion directed toward any person in particular.

Rather suspicion directed toward reality itself.

Rain still worked steadily against the windows.

Books remained arranged in formations suggesting either advanced scholarship or the aftermath of some minor intellectual explosion.

Professor Quillibrace sat reading beside the fire.

Miss Elowen Stray was making notes.

Mr Blottisham entered carrying tea and looking unusually pleased.

"I believe I have finally discovered solid ground."

Quillibrace looked up slowly.

"Oh dear."

Blottisham sat down.

"No, really. I have been thinking about these ghosts."

"An alarming sentence already," said Quillibrace.

Blottisham ignored him.

"We have questioned things."

"Essences."

"Origins."

"Quite enough disturbance for one term."

Quillibrace closed his book carefully.

"And now?"

Blottisham leaned back triumphantly.

"Now I have realised how knowledge works."

Miss Stray lowered her pencil.

Quillibrace stared into the middle distance briefly.

"Go on."

"The world exists outside us."

"Mm."

"Our minds construct pictures of it."

"Pictures."

"Certainly. Images, ideas, concepts, representations."

Blottisham spread his hands.

"We compare these with reality and thereby know things."

Silence settled over the room.

Miss Stray glanced at Quillibrace.

Quillibrace glanced at Miss Stray.

Blottisham narrowed his eyes.

"That expression again."

"What expression?"

"The one suggesting I have entered another conceptual minefield."

"No minefield," said Quillibrace gently.

"Merely a bridge."

Blottisham looked suspicious.

"A bridge?"

"Yes."

Quillibrace folded his hands.

"Tell me — why do we require representations at all?"

Blottisham blinked.

"Because reality is outside us."

"And?"

"And thought occurs inside us."

"And therefore?"

Blottisham looked briefly puzzled.

"One needs something connecting the two."

Miss Stray nodded.

"That was indeed the problem."

She closed her notebook.

"If the world exists independently, and experience appears internal, then how does the world become available to thought?"

Blottisham looked pleased.

"Exactly."

"So representations become the bridge," Quillibrace said.

"Reality produces internal stand-ins."

"Knowledge becomes correspondence between what is in the mind and what exists outside it."

Blottisham sat back comfortably.

"There we are."

Quillibrace sighed.

Miss Stray stared quietly into her teacup.

Blottisham looked offended.

"What now?"

"Nothing initially," said Quillibrace.

"It solved a genuine difficulty."

"But?"

"There is almost always a but."

Quillibrace leaned slightly forward.

"If all access to reality occurs through representations..."

He paused.

"...how exactly do you compare the representation with reality itself?"

Blottisham frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"You said knowledge consists in checking whether internal pictures correspond with reality."

"Yes."

"So how do you inspect reality directly?"

Blottisham stared.

"Well..."

He paused.

"I compare the picture with..."

Silence.

"...oh no."

Quillibrace nodded sympathetically.

"Quite."

Miss Stray smiled faintly.

"You may compare one representation with another."

"But reality itself seems to retreat."

"The bridge begins producing another gap."

Blottisham sat very still.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

After a while he spoke again.

"Wait."

"Mm?"

"If representations explain knowledge..."

"Yes?"

"...what explains representations?"

Quillibrace smiled.

"Excellent."

Blottisham looked alarmed.

"No, I dislike it when you say that."

Miss Stray looked amused.

"Take words."

"How does a sound become about something?"

"How does a mark on paper become meaningful?"

"How does a neural pattern become knowledge?"

Blottisham frowned.

"The representation represents something."

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

"Yes."

Blottisham stared.

"Oh, that's awful."

"Quite."

"We are explaining representation using representation."

"Mm."

Silence settled around the room again.

Blottisham stared into the fire with the expression of a man gradually discovering that every staircase in the house had become circular.

"So another ghost."

"Mm."

"And we simply assume thought works by reflecting reality."

"Mm."

Blottisham counted slowly on his fingers.

"Substance."

"Essence."

"Origin."

"Representation."

He looked up uneasily.

"Quillibrace?"

"Yes?"

"These ghosts seem increasingly organised."

Quillibrace looked thoughtful.

"They do rather."

Miss Stray closed her notebook.

"Perhaps they are not separate ghosts at all."

Blottisham stared.

"What do you mean?"

She hesitated.

"Perhaps some of them were quietly holding the doors open for the others."

Silence.

Rain moved softly against the windows.

Then Blottisham said:

"No."

Quillibrace looked at him.

"No?"

"No. I absolutely refuse to discover there is a hierarchy of ghosts."

Quillibrace returned to his book.

"A perfectly understandable position," he said quietly.

"Reality, unfortunately, has never shown much respect for it."

III: Mr Blottisham Seeks the Beginning

The Senior Common Room at St Anselm's had entered its evening state of gentle philosophical decay.

Books had migrated from shelves onto chairs, from chairs onto tables, and from tables into stacks whose structural integrity appeared to depend largely upon hope.

Rain continued its patient negotiations with the windows.

Professor Quillibrace sat beside the fire reading.

Miss Elowen Stray was making notes.

Mr Blottisham entered with the expression of a man carrying a revelation.

"I have discovered the difficulty with all this ghost business."

Quillibrace looked up.

"Have you?"

"Certainly."

Blottisham sat down heavily.

"We have been approaching matters from the wrong end."

Quillibrace waited.

"What we require," Blottisham continued, "is the beginning."

Silence.

Miss Stray slowly lowered her pencil.

Quillibrace removed his spectacles.

"The beginning?"

"Precisely."

Blottisham leaned back confidently.

"Everything becomes perfectly clear if one simply identifies where it all started."

Quillibrace stared at him.

"I'm afraid you'll have to narrow it down somewhat."

Blottisham waved vaguely.

"Everything."

"The universe?"

"Certainly."

"Language?"

"Naturally."

"Society?"

"Of course."

"Meaning?"

"Obviously."

Quillibrace looked at Miss Stray.

Miss Stray looked back.

Blottisham narrowed his eyes.

"That expression again."

"What expression?"

"The one suggesting I have accidentally wandered into another trap."

"No trap at all," said Quillibrace mildly. "Merely curiosity."

He folded his hands.

"Tell me, why do you suppose beginnings are so important?"

Blottisham blinked.

"Because explanations require them."

"Do they?"

"Certainly."

He looked faintly astonished.

"If I ask why something happened, one naturally explains what caused it."

"And before that?"

"What?"

"The cause itself."

Blottisham frowned.

"What about it?"

"What caused that?"

Blottisham paused.

"Something earlier."

"And that?"

"Something earlier still."

Quillibrace nodded.

"And so on."

Blottisham's expression gradually altered.

"Oh."

Miss Stray smiled.

"The difficulty is rather old," she said.

"Every explanation seems to invite another question."

"Why this?"

"Because that."

"Why that?"

"Because something else."

Blottisham stared into space.

"And one could continue forever."

"Precisely," said Quillibrace.

"Without some point of closure, explanation begins retreating endlessly."

Blottisham nodded slowly.

"So one invents an origin."

"One identifies a beginning," said Miss Stray.

"A first cause."

"An initial event."

"A foundation."

Blottisham looked relieved.

"There we are then."

Quillibrace sighed softly.

Miss Stray stared at the ceiling.

Blottisham looked irritated.

"No, really, what is wrong with that?"

"Nothing initially," Quillibrace replied.

"It solved a genuine problem."

"But?"

"There is almost always a but."

Quillibrace gestured lightly.

"Once one possesses origins, one begins applying them everywhere."

He counted quietly on his fingers.

"Childhood explains adulthood."

"Founding events explain institutions."

"Original meanings explain language."

"First causes explain outcomes."

Miss Stray nodded.

"The beginning gradually acquires explanatory authority."

"What came first becomes what matters most."

Blottisham frowned.

"Doesn't it?"

Quillibrace looked thoughtful.

"Sometimes."

He closed his book.

"But tell me — when precisely did language begin?"

Blottisham looked surprised.

"Well..."

"The first word?"

"Possibly."

"The first symbol?"

"Perhaps."

"The first meaningful distinction?"

"Hm."

"The first social practice?"

Blottisham sat very still.

"Oh dear."

Quillibrace nodded encouragingly.

"Quite."

Miss Stray leaned forward.

"The same difficulty appears repeatedly."

"When did a species begin?"

"When did a culture begin?"

"When did a self begin?"

"Processes unfolding gradually often resist singular starting points."

Blottisham stared into the fire.

"So the beginning starts becoming... blurry."

"Very good."

"And even if one finds a beginning..."

Quillibrace waited.

"...it does not necessarily explain everything afterwards."

Quillibrace smiled.

"Excellent."

Blottisham looked alarmed.

"I've done it again, haven't I?"

Miss Stray nodded sympathetically.

"A founding event does not contain an entire history."

"Initial conditions do not eliminate transformation."

"What comes first does not automatically remain most important."

Silence settled around the room.

Rain moved softly against the windows.

Blottisham looked troubled.

"So origins are another ghost."

"Mm."

"And we simply assume explanations require beginnings."

"Mm."

Blottisham glanced uneasily around the room.

"So at present we have a ghost of substance hiding in the furniture..."

"Yes."

"...a ghost of essence wandering around beside it..."

"Yes."

"...and now a ghost of origin."

"Yes."

A long pause followed.

Then Blottisham said quietly:

"Quillibrace?"

"Yes?"

"Are we certain St Anselm's isn't actually haunted?"

Quillibrace looked around the room thoughtfully.

"At this point," he said, "I am becoming increasingly uncertain what would count as evidence against it."

II: The Companion Ghost

The Senior Common Room at St Anselm's possessed that curious evening atmosphere in which silence had ceased to be an absence of conversation and had instead become a form of furniture in its own right.

Rain had progressed from tapping politely at the windows to pursuing a more determined campaign.

Professor Quillibrace sat beside the fire with a book resting unopened on his lap.

Mr Blottisham entered carrying tea and an expression of triumph.

"I have solved it."

Quillibrace looked up.

"Oh dear."

"The substance matter."

"The substance matter."

"Yes. You said things perhaps weren't self-contained entities carrying properties around like luggage."

"I said something approximately adjacent to that."

Blottisham sat heavily.

"But there is an obvious answer."

"Splendid."

"Essence."

Quillibrace closed his eyes briefly.

Miss Elowen Stray looked up from her notebook.

"Essence?"

"Exactly."

Blottisham looked delighted.

"The tree remains the same tree because it possesses treeness."

Silence settled gently around the room.

Quillibrace looked into the fire.

Miss Stray lowered her pencil.

At length Quillibrace said:

"I see."

Blottisham nodded confidently.

"One can alter details without changing what something fundamentally is."

Quillibrace regarded him.

"And where precisely does treeness reside?"

Blottisham blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"Is it in the leaves?"

"No."

"The bark?"

"No."

"The roots?"

"No."

"The branches?"

"No."

Quillibrace folded his hands.

"I see."

Blottisham frowned.

"No, you're doing something."

"I assure you I am merely asking where the treeness is kept."

"The tree possesses it."

"Indeed."

Miss Stray smiled faintly.

"The problem itself is rather old," she said.

Blottisham looked suspicious.

"Is it?"

"Very."

She turned a page in her notebook.

"No two trees are identical. No two birds are identical. No two people are identical."

Blottisham nodded.

"Obviously."

"And yet we recognise them as belonging to kinds."

"Yes."

"So variation itself created a problem."

Blottisham frowned slightly.

"A problem?"

"If every instance differs," said Quillibrace quietly, "then what permits us to recognise continuity across difference?"

Blottisham stared into space.

"Hm."

"Something appeared necessary beneath variation," Miss Stray continued. "Some stable principle preserving identity while superficial characteristics shifted."

"And that became essence," said Quillibrace.

Blottisham looked relieved.

"There we are then."

Quillibrace sighed softly.

Miss Stray looked sympathetic.

Blottisham narrowed his eyes.

"You're both making that face again."

"What face?"

"The one suggesting I've accidentally walked into philosophy."

"Have you?"

Blottisham ignored this.

"What exactly is wrong with essence?"

Quillibrace leaned back.

"Nothing at all initially."

Blottisham looked startled.

"Really?"

"Certainly not. It solved a genuine problem."

"But?"

"There is almost always a but."

Quillibrace gestured lightly.

"Once one possesses essence, one begins using it everywhere."

He counted gently on his fingers.

"People possess true selves."

"Cultures possess defining characteristics."

"Species possess intrinsic natures."

"Concepts possess hidden meanings."

Miss Stray nodded.

"The solution stops being an answer to a particular question."

"It becomes a model for reality itself."

Blottisham stared thoughtfully.

"But things do seem to possess natures."

"Do they?" said Quillibrace.

He pointed vaguely into the room.

"Take language."

Blottisham looked uneasy.

"I'd rather not."

"What is its essence?"

Blottisham opened his mouth.

Paused.

Closed it.

"The communication part."

Quillibrace stared.

"The communication part?"

"Yes."

"What precisely is that?"

Blottisham frowned.

"No, wait."

Miss Stray looked down to conceal a smile.

Quillibrace continued gently.

"Languages change."

"They acquire words."

"They lose words."

"They alter grammatically."

"They divide and merge."

"And yet they remain recognisable."

Blottisham stared into the middle distance.

"Hm."

"And individuals alter across life," Miss Stray added.

"Societies change."

"Species evolve."

"The supposedly stable essence behaves in a rather unstable fashion."

Blottisham sat very still.

"So every time we attempt to locate the essence..."

"...it retreats," Quillibrace said.

Silence.

Rain moved across the windows.

Finally Blottisham spoke.

"So the tree is a tree because of its treeness..."

"Mm."

"...which means we are explaining trees using tree."

"Mm."

Blottisham looked pained.

"Oh, that's deeply irritating."

"Quite."

Miss Stray had resumed drawing circles and lines in her notebook.

"So perhaps recognisability never required hidden defining cores beneath variation."

Blottisham looked at her.

"Then what stabilises things?"

She considered.

"Patterns."

"Patterns?"

"Relations."

A pause.

"What appears stable may simply be relatively enduring organisation."

Blottisham stared into the fire for some time.

Then:

"Quillibrace?"

"Yes?"

"Last week we discovered a ghost in the furniture."

"Yes."

Blottisham looked around the room uneasily.

"And now we appear to have found another one standing beside it."

Quillibrace nodded gravely.

"Yes."

Silence again.

Then Quillibrace glanced around the common room.

"One hesitates to ask how many more are in here."

Blottisham put down his teacup.

Rather carefully.

I: The Ghost in the Furniture

The Senior Common Room at St Anselm’s had acquired the warm stillness peculiar to late afternoon. Rain traced idle paths down the windows while books accumulated around armchairs in arrangements suggesting either scholarship or geological process.

Professor Quillibrace sat beside the fire examining a biscuit with faint suspicion.

Mr Blottisham had just completed a large gesture with his teacup.

"No, no, I simply cannot see the difficulty," he declared. "The world consists of things. Perfectly straightforward. Trees, rocks, chairs, people. Things are obviously there."

Professor Quillibrace looked up.

"Obviously?"

"Entirely obviously."

"I see."

Blottisham leaned back with the satisfaction of a man who had mistaken the opening move for victory.

Miss Elowen Stray looked up from her notebook.

"Perhaps," she said carefully, "the interesting question is why it feels obvious."

Blottisham frowned.

"Because I can see them."

Quillibrace nodded gently.

"Indeed. Though one notices that many ideas become invisible precisely because they become successful."

Blottisham blinked.

"Ideas?"

"Substance," said Quillibrace. "The assumption that reality is fundamentally composed of self-contained things."

Blottisham stared.

"My dear Quillibrace, things are not assumptions."

"No? Then tell me: why do we suppose that a thing remains the same thing through change?"

Blottisham waved vaguely.

"Because it does."

Quillibrace waited.

Blottisham shifted.

"It simply... remains itself."

"Ah."

Quillibrace returned his attention to the biscuit.

"That answer turns out to conceal rather a lot."

Miss Stray leaned forward.

"The problem isn't trivial," she said. "Take a tree. Across years almost everything changes. Leaves come and go. Branches alter. Cells die and regenerate."

"Still the same tree," said Blottisham immediately.

"Yes," said Miss Stray. "But what exactly remains?"

Blottisham opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"The... tree part."

Silence briefly settled over the room.

Quillibrace regarded him thoughtfully.

"The tree part."

"Yes."

"The essential treeness."

"The very thing."

"And what is that composed of?"

Blottisham frowned.

"No, you've gone too fast."

Quillibrace placed the biscuit down.

"This was precisely the historical problem. Change seemed to require some underlying continuity. If characteristics altered while identity remained, then perhaps something deeper persisted beneath appearances."

Miss Stray nodded.

"And that became substance."

"A hidden carrier," said Quillibrace. "Something remaining stable while properties changed."

Blottisham looked relieved.

"There we are then."

"There we are where?"

"Problem solved."

Quillibrace folded his hands.

"Except for a minor difficulty."

Blottisham looked suspicious.

"What difficulty?"

"What precisely is this substance?"

Blottisham blinked.

"The thing underneath."

"Underneath what?"

"The properties."

"I see. And how do we describe it?"

Blottisham frowned.

"Well..."

He paused.

"By the properties it supports."

Quillibrace watched him quietly.

Miss Stray tilted her head slightly.

Blottisham looked from one face to the other.

"Oh, damn."

Quillibrace nodded approvingly.

"Quite."

Blottisham sat down heavily.

"So substance becomes the thing we invent to explain properties, but which we can only explain using properties."

"Very good."

"That's rather annoying."

"Philosophy often is."

Miss Stray had begun drawing circles and arrows in her notebook.

"There is another difficulty too," she said.

Blottisham looked wary.

"If things exist independently first, and relations come afterwards, then relations become secondary additions."

"Naturally."

"But many things do not seem to work that way."

Blottisham frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Language, for example."

She looked up.

"Does language exist independently of speakers?"

"Well..."

"Do speakers exist independently of language?"

Blottisham hesitated.

"Hm."

"Or individuals and societies," she continued. "Or meanings and systems of distinction."

Quillibrace smiled faintly.

"The supposedly independent entities begin behaving rather badly."

Blottisham stared into the fire.

"So we begin with things because they seem obvious..."

"Yes," said Quillibrace.

"...but perhaps they only seem obvious because we inherited a way of solving a very old problem."

Quillibrace nodded.

"The solution eventually became part of the furniture."

Blottisham looked around the room uneasily.

"I dislike the suggestion that reality may contain conceptual furniture."

"Oh, it almost certainly does."

Silence again.

Rain tapped against the windows.

At length Blottisham said:

"So if one abandons substance..."

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

"...one does not lose trees?"

"No."

"Or mountains?"

"No."

"Or chairs?"

"No."

Blottisham looked relieved.

"Good heavens."

Miss Stray smiled.

"The question simply shifts."

"To what?"

She considered.

"Not 'What things exist?'"

A small pause.

"But rather: 'What patterns of relation make distinguishable things possible?'"

Blottisham stared into the middle distance.

"Good Lord."

Quillibrace resumed inspecting his biscuit.

"Yes," he said quietly. "One occasionally discovers that what looked like solid ground was merely an extremely old answer."