sexta-feira, 6 de agosto de 2004
Perante estas últimas imagens e sons do "Correio da Cassini", as palavras vão perdendo sentido. Podemos tentar uma abordagem poética (como a do post anterior), aquilo que sentimos perante a imagem (tornando-se aqui o poético simplesmente patético), mas a realidade é que a força da imagem é tal que aumenta exponêncialmente o indizível e coloca-nos, mais uma vez neste circuito circular e obssessivo, como um criminoso que regressa sempre ao local do crime, o problema da linguagem. As palavras, a existirem, são sempre apêndice da imagem e perdem espessura, aquilo a que Wittgenstein chamava intenção. A imagem é, neste sentido, um facto atómico: não remete para nenhum juízo.
Suppose someone said: every familiar word, in a book for example, actually carries an atmosphere with it in our minds, a "corona" of lightly indicated uses. Just as if each figure in a painting were surrounded by delicate shadowy drawings of scenes, as it were in another dimension, and in them we saw the figures in different contexts. Only let us take this assumption seriously! Then we see that it is not adequate to explain intention.
For if it is like this, if the possible uses of a word do float before us in half-shades as we say or hear it - this simply goes for us. But we communicate with other people without knowing if they have this experience too.
The meaning of a word is not the experience one has in hearing or saying it, and the sense of a sentence is not a complex of such experiences. The sentence is composed of the words, and that is enough.
Though - one would like to say - every word has a different character in different contexts, at the same time there is one character it always has: a single physiognomy. It looks at us. But a face in a painting looks at us too.
L. Wittgenstein in Philosophical Investigations, Part II, VI
