(1)

If you want to ride a horse, you must first get on its back.
- Charles McGullough, 1st mayor of Greenfield/ North Dakota

(2)

Wisdom is an adult version of shameless curiosity.
- Dave Mumbee, British philosopher, born 1786

(3)

With every girl you meet: Wash! Rinse! Repeat!
- Joe Rocket, pickup artist

(4)

The performativity of language implicates the body in a dynamic process of signification, where meaning is both sedimented and subverted.
- Laura Bennett, critical theorist

(5)

Honesty is the best policy, but insanity is a better defense.
- Anonymous

(6)

If it ain't broke, don't fix it
- Vince Lombardi (fictitious)

(7)

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, followed by a wrong turn.
- Timothy Walker, travel enthusiast

(8)

To err is human; to blame it on someone else requires true leadership.
- Sarah O'Connor, corporate trainer

(9)

Always borrow money from a pessimist. They don't expect it back.
- Nancy Brown, economist

(10)

You can't judge a book by its movie adaptation.
- Peter Clarkson, film critic

(11)

Patience is an adult version of waiting for dessert.
- Diane Miller, family therapist

Misinformation is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Racism is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Woke ideology is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Religious fundamentalism is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Anti-vaxx is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Fake news is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Confirmation bias is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Strawmanning is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Antisemitism is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Conspiracy theories are not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Hypocrisy is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Self righteousness is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Flat earth is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Ufo cults are not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Pseudoscience is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Delusion is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Astrology is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Us vs them is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Homeopathy is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Political populism is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Quackery is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Xenophobia is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Spiritual healing is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Covid denialism is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

Tribalism is not a problem. Beliefs can be corrected. But that hardly ever happens.

So, what’s the problem?

People acquire beliefs and then they can't let go of them.

The first step seems inevitable. The second seems inexplicable. Ideas are sticky. And good ideas do not find preferential treatment.

I don’t have a solution here, only a saying:

If you're standing in shit, you shouldn't prohibit shitting, but clean the drain instead.

This is the fourth installment in my series on power. I will explore the intricacies of power attributions, building upon the perspective of power introduced in the second part of this series. My earlier understanding, henceforth referred to as the coarse-grained view of power, is a useful model but fails to capture the full complexity of power ascriptions.

Throughout this piece, I will illustrate that the coarse-grained perspective is not sufficient to unpack all the subtle nuances involved in attributing power. To demonstrate this, I will present a variety of scenarios that highlight the limitations of this view.

In response to these limitations, I propose an enhancement: the addition of a second conversational background, or what Angelika Kratzer calls an 'ordering source.' By integrating ordering sources into the model, we can use them to further analyze power attributions and thus move towards a more refined, or: fine-grained view of power. This progression is the main goal of this article.

However, it's crucial to acknowledge that this fine-grained perspective isn't necessarily superior to its coarse-grained counterpart. Instead, they supplement each other, each one being more appropriate in different situations or under specific viewpoints.

Given that power attributions can be seen as true according to one view and false under another, it's clear that power is not a wholly objective feature of reality. This point underlines one of the primary arguments I hope to establish: power is an inherently fuzzy concept. The process of attributing power often resembles a negotiation, dependent on the immediate stakes and the strength of the claims involved.

With this understanding, let's delve into what has been proposed so far.

The coarse grained view of power

Statements about power can be reduced to statements about what actions are available to a person or group, i.e. what they can or cannot do. I called this thesis the deflationary definition of power:

(1)

Deflationary Definition of Power: An actor A has the power to do H in w iff A can do H in w.

According to this definition, we can reduce sentences about power to sentences about what can be done. The non-relational “A has power.” can be reduced to “There is something A can do.”

Furthermore, I suggested analyzing statements in the form of “A can do H” (the explanans) through the lens of relative modality, as introduced by Angelika Kratzer.1 In this approach, modal expressions such as 'can' or 'must' are evaluated against what Kratzer describes as conversational backgrounds. These backgrounds encompass implicit and explicit assumptions about our knowledge, norms, typical scenarios, etc.

I proposed that when we’re interpreting "A can do H." in the context of attributing power, the conversational background pertains assumptions about A's scope of action at the situation we are evaluating (i.e. in w).

Kratzer termed this conversational background a ‘modal base’. A modal base comprises propositions that articulate facts about A’s range of actions in the situation or world under scrutiny. Essentially, a modal base is a function that takes a world w (the scenario where A is placed) as an input and produces a set of propositions (assumptions about A’s scope of action in that scenario) as an output. Formally, this can be represented as:2

(2)

Modal Base: f(w) = {P: P is a proposition expressing A’s attributes, resources, positions, connections, situational aspects, abilities, skills, etc., that enable A to perform H in w}

In semantics, it’s customary to employ the concept of possible worlds to represent propositions. Here, a proposition P refers to a set of possible worlds where P holds true. The intersection of the propositions that belong to a modal base, viewed as sets of possible worlds, results in a set of worlds that are consistent with all the assumptions or conditions we consider to be part of w. This set is denoted as ⋂f(w), and is referred to as the modal base set.

This shift from a collection of propositions (modal base) to a modal base set is warranted because the context for evaluating modal statements should satisfy all our assumptions.

Consider an analogy: pondering if we can bake a cake right now. To bake a cake, essential ingredients such as eggs, milk, flour, yeast, and sugar are required. The modal base, in this instance, would be a checklist indicating the availability of ingredients for each day. For example, if eggs, milk, and flour are available on Monday (represented as "w1"), each item corresponds to a proposition like “I have eggs” or “I have milk,” and so on.

Each item, taken individually, holds true on different days. For instance, “milk” might be true on Monday but not on Tuesday. Within this analogy, propositions can be visualized as lists of days. If milk is available on Monday, Thursday, and Saturday, the entry “milk” can be represented as {Monday, Thursday, Saturday}. Similarly, the entry “eggs” could be represented by another list like {Monday, Tuesday, Friday, Sunday}.

If each necessary ingredient is represented as such a list, we can compute the intersection of these lists, generating a final list of days that are common to all ingredient lists. If Monday and Tuesday are common across all lists, the final list (representing our modal base set) would be {Monday, Tuesday}. These are the days when all the ingredients are at hand.

With this groundwork laid, we can elucidate what is meant by “A can do H”. This explanation hinges on the notion of 'truth conditions', which delineate the circumstances under which a statement is true or false. If my definition of power is accurate, it clarifies what it implies for someone to possess or lack power—that is, under what conditions he does or does not have power.

I have already touched upon truth conditions here, but I will reiterate them for clarity. For reasons that become apparent later, I would like to call this explanation of power the coarse-grained view of power:

(3)

Truth Conditions (coarse-grained view of power): [[A can do H]] in w = 1 iff there is a world w' ∈ ⋂f(w) such that [[A does H]] = 1 in w’.

Returning to the cake-baking example, the ability to bake a cake in a specific situation (on a particular day or in a possible world w) hinges on the availability of all the ingredients on that day. This implies that the question can be affirmed for those situations in which this is the case.

If our final list (the base modal set) includes Monday and Tuesday, then these are the days when baking a cake is feasible. On days not on this list (e.g., Saturday), baking a cake is not an option.

In this analogy, the truth condition would state: You can bake a cake on days that are included in your final list (and on other days, you cannot). Therefore, this example clarifies the circumstances under which baking a cake is possible. Correspondingly, if my definition of power is correct, it also explicates under what conditions one has the power to bake cakes. If you have grasped this concept, you have understood my approach thus far.

Susan’s predicament

Consider this scenario: Susan has invited Paul to her apartment for a glass of wine after their second date. The ambiance takes a romantic turn, and Susan is faced with the choice of either allowing the night to progress or asking Paul to leave. Eventually, she gives in to the moment and spends the night with Paul. The following morning, Susan confides in a friend, admitting that she felt unable to ask Paul to leave.

We can represent Susan's statement to her friend as follows (using the third person perspective and ignoring tense):

(4)

Susan can’t send Paul home.

At first glance, it seems that Susan indeed had the capacity to ask Paul to leave. She has the ability to communicate verbally, the mental capacity to make decisions, and the social authority as the host to ask a guest to depart.

Let's dissect whether Susan’s statement is a fabrication or an expression of her experience.

This discussion - just to make this clear - is not an examination of Susan’s conscious or subconscious decision to stay with Paul. The focus is not on her choices or actions. The point is that, despite having the option to act differently, she felt powerless to do so. I hope this distinction will be clear as we continue.

We must recognize that when evaluating an individual's capabilities, our assumptions about their skills and competencies are integral. These form part of the conversational background and should be taken into account when assessing Susan’s power in this situation.

The modal base here is a set of propositions representing the pertinent facts during the conversation between Susan and Paul. For instance:

• P1: Susan communicates fluently and both she and Paul converse in a shared language.

• P2: Susan has the cognitive ability to form intentions and make decisions, including the decision to ask Paul to leave.

• P3: Susan, as the host, has the social authority to request her guest to leave - a norm that both acknowledge.

The modal base set incorporates all scenarios in which P1, P2, and P3 hold true. For instance:

• In world w1, Susan is overwhelmingly attracted to Paul, with her emotions dominating any intention to ask him to leave.

• In world w2, Susan is attracted to Paul but has reservations. After a brief internal struggle, she asks him to leave.

• In world w3, Susan’s attraction to Paul is mild, and she resolutely asks him to leave.

The modal base set is thus:

(5)

⋂f(w) = {w1, w2, w3}

Since this set includes scenarios where Susan does ask Paul to leave (specifically, w2 and w3), statement (4) would be deemed false if we adopt the coarse-grained view of power. In such a case, we would have to conclude that Susan lied to her friend.

However, my intuitions suggest that Susan wasn’t lying. Her emotional state, characterized by arousal, seemingly barred her from accessing a scenario akin to w2 or w3. These scenarios were incongruent with her emotions towards Paul at that moment.

A balanced evaluation of Susan’s predicament would recognize the dual nature of her capacity: theoretically, she could have asked Paul to leave, but emotionally, she couldn't. She could have done it, but still, she couldn’t. Both perspectives hold a measure of truth, contingent upon the lens through which the situation is analyzed.

Indeterminate modal base sets

In analyzing scenarios like Susan’s, it is possible to argue that the spectrum of actions we attribute to her is ambiguous or indeterminate, encompassing various assumptions. We might consider her capabilities and skills, such as her capacity to communicate and make decisions, while also accounting for her emotional states and desires. Whether statement (4) is true or false hinges on our focus.

The proposition that we are toggling between distinct modal bases when evaluating Susan’s range of actions might elucidate our quandary in discerning what is genuinely within her power. Saying that she could have sent Paul home reflects one conversational background, whereas saying she couldn't reflects another.

I don't think this is a good strategy. Firstly, desires and emotions do not define a scope of action. What one is capable of doing at any given moment is not contingent on one's emotional or volitional state. For instance, an intense craving for sushi does not enable one to eat sushi if it is unavailable. Similarly, one can consume noodles despite a distaste for them. This aligns with the coarse grained view of power, according to which power is predicated on what one can do, not what one desires to do.

Additionally, Susan’s emotional state did not create new possibilities but constrained an existing choice. She had the option to either send Paul home or spend the night with him. Her emotional state influenced her preference but did not create these alternatives. Transitioning to a different modal base set is distinct from narrowing an existing modal base set.

So, what we're trying to say here is that given certain circumstances, one of the options became more probable than the other, and not that there were - depending on one's perspective - different types of options, which can be attributed to different sets of assumptions about Susan.

What we are attempting to articulate is that under certain circumstances, one alternative became more likely than the other. This is not indicative of disparate types of options attributable to varying assumptions about Susan.

To aptly express the subtleties in attributing power, we require a mechanism to appraise different alternatives based on certain criteria.

What we are grappling with here is a commonplace phenomenon. While we often have an array of options in most situations, bestowing us with considerable potential power, these options are not all equivalent. Some actions are more accessible, evident, or immediate, while others are demanding, carry grave consequences, or conflict with our self-concept and values.

With regard to this latter cases, there are instances where, contingent upon the circumstances, we might assert that it is beyond our power to execute the corresponding actions despite technically possessing the ability to do so. I believe this is what Susan was trying to convey to her friend.

Entering ordering sources

With the machinery that I have introduced so far, we cannot model such differences and nuances. However, we can do this within the framework provided by Kratzer. She posits that, when interpreting modals, there is a second conversational background, which I have so far neglected: an ordering source. This background allows us to capture finer distinctions.

Both conversational backgrounds play distinct roles when interpreting modal expressions. The modal base set includes a set of possible scenarios or ‘worlds’ consistent with our knowledge or assumptions. The ordering source ranks these worlds based on some standards, norms, likelihoods, or constraints. These also can be expressed as propositions.

Regarding power ascriptions, the ordering source could reflect the degree to which certain circumstances, f.i. A's volitional and emotional state, the social norms A contends with, and perhaps the risks associated with executing H, align with A’s performing H. We can represent this as:

(6)

Ordering Source: g(w) = {Q: Q is a proposition expressing how A's volitional and emotional state, the social norms A contends with, and the risks associated with executing H are aligned with A’s performing H in world w}

Consider Susan again. She is sexually aroused and finds Paul overwhelmingly attractive. This is an important piece of information that should be taken into account in assessing the present case. Let’s, therefore, assume the ordering source g in this situation contains the following proposition Q1:

(7)

g(w) = Q1 = Susan is sexually aroused and finds Paul overwhelmingly attractive.

Now, let's take the intersection of all propositions within g(w), denoted as ⋂g(w), which we call the ordering source set. In our case, g(w) contains just one proposition, so this set includes worlds in which Q1 is true.

We want to use the ordering source set ⋂g(w) to find the “best” worlds within the modal base set ⋂f(w) that align with ⋂g(w). This set of best worlds is denoted as MAX(w, f, g), defined as:3

(8)

Best Worlds: MAX(w, f, g) = {w' ∈ ⋂f(w): ∀w'' ∈ ⋂f(w) (if w'' ∈ ⋂g(w), then w' ∈ ⋂g(w))}.

This means we select worlds from the modal base set that are also in the ordering source set.

To illustrate, let's discuss baking cakes again. I am considering baking a cake. My world contains variables like the ingredients I have at home on different days. These variables create a set of possible scenarios. The intersection of these scenarios, represented as ⋂f(w), is a list of days I have all ingredients for baking a cake, for example, {Monday, Tuesday}.

We introduce the ordering source g(w), which refers to constraints and considerations when deciding to bake a cake, like my schedule and the rule that I can't bake if I have more than 3 appointments. The scenarios aligning with these constraints form ⋂g(w), represented as a list of days with at most 3 appointments.

For example, on Monday, I have the day off and all the ingredients. This scenario is part of ⋂f(w). Because I have no appointments, this scenario also aligns with ⋂g(w). Therefore, Monday belongs to MAX(w, f, g). On Tuesday, I have all ingredients but four appointments. While part of ⋂f(w), it does not align with ⋂g(w). Therefore, Tuesday doesn’t belong to MAX(w, f, g).

MAX(w, f, g) contains scenarios where I can bake a cake, and these scenarios meet the constraints of my schedule and rule about appointments. Here, only Monday fits into MAX(w, f, g), because for any other scenario in ⋂f(w) to be in MAX(w, f, g), it must also exist in ⋂g(w). Only Monday's scenario meets this criterion.

This example illustrates the concept of ‘best worlds’. The set (MAX(w, f, g)) is a subset of the modal base set (⋂f(w)) where the constraints in the ordering source set (⋂g(w)) are met.

Let’s return to Susan. Assume our modal base set includes the worlds w1, w2, and w3, as introduced above. We use Q1 to check whether it is true in w1, w2, and w3. As Q1 is clearly false in w3, w3 doesn’t belong to the set of best worlds. There might be some dispute over w2, as having reservations might not align with finding someone “overwhelmingly attractive.” Thus, Q1 likely isn’t true in w2 either. In w1, however, Q1 is true.

Thus, our set of best worlds contains only one world:

(9)

MAX(w, f, g) = {w1}

The final step to elucidate the fine-grained view of power is to state the truth conditions for "A can do H in w," utilizing the set of best worlds:

(10)

Truth Conditions (fine-grained view of power): [[A can do H]] in w = 1 iff there is a world w' ∈ MAX(w, f, g) such that [[A does H]] = 1 in w'.

This definition captures the intuition that A can do H if (i) A's comprehensive set of resources, capacities, skills, etc., enables A to do H, and (ii) H aligns with constraints relevant for A, f.i. his emotions, the social norms A accepts, and the risks A is willing to take.

Let’s revisit the question of whether I can bake a cake. This is determined by whether there exists a world within MAX(w, f, g) in which I bake a cake.

We established that only Monday aligns with my rules, schedule, and the ingredients that enable me to bake a cake. Thus, Monday falls into MAX(w, f, g), where I have all the ingredients, the day off, and no appointments. This means there’s a day on which me baking a cake is possible, and therefore, “I bake a cake.” is possible.

Note that the truth conditions require this to be true and not just possible. In this example, we only considered a small set of actual days, and didn’t consider every possible course of days. While the analogy breaks down here, the concept should be clear.

What about Susan? Did she lie to her friend? If she did, (4) should be false:

(4)

Susan can’t send Paul home.

Let’s apply our truth conditions to this case:

(11)

“Susan can’t send Paul home.” is true when she had Paul in her apartment after their second date iff “Susan doesn’t send Paul home.” is true in w1.

As this is the case, (4) is true. So, she didn’t lie. This demonstrates that the fine-grained view of power captures our intuitions more effectively, especially in cases where a more nuanced judgement is required.

The role of enabling and constraining conditions

Evidently, these two perspectives – the coarse and fine-grained views of power – differ in the metrics we utilize to assess what someone is capable of. The fact that the set MAX(w, f, g) is a subset of ⋂f(w) implies that a more fine-grained assessment leaves fewer options available than a coarser assessment, thereby reducing power.

This distinction has profound implications in everyday life. Once you acknowledge these differences, you begin to recognize them everywhere. At times, we exhibit a dash of heroic arrogance and boast about our capabilities – thus applying the coarse-grained view of power. Conversely, we occasionally adopt a victim mentality, complaining about our lack of options and frequent failures, thereby utilizing the fine-grained perspective.

Consider an ardent Trump supporter named John, who had to make a choice in the 2020 US presidential election. Technically, John had the power to vote for Biden. This action would merely involve marking his ballot differently. Here, we are taking the broad, coarse-grained view of power, which assesses possibility based on basic prerequisites, while ignoring emotional, psychological, or social factors.

On the other hand, John might find the idea of voting for Biden so abhorrent that he cannot bring himself to do it, despite having the technical ability. This is the fine-grained view of power, which takes into account not just John's physical capacity to vote for Biden, but also his emotional and psychological state, social pressures, and obligations to his chosen identity.

Essentially, within the broad set of all possible worlds that are consistent with the circumstances of the 2020 US predsidential election, ⋂f(w), there might exist a world where John votes for Biden. However, this world may not be part of the narrower set, MAX(w, f, g), which only includes the worlds that are additionally in alignment with John's emotions, social norms, and self-identity.

This distinction resonates closely with our intuitions. We want to make sure - and expect - that every voter can vote for every candidate on the ballot. And we also assume that this is irrelevant for some voters. For them, every day is a Monday, whatever the calendar says.

Now, let's consider Maria, in a similar situation but contemplating starting her own business. For Maria to entertain this idea, certain prerequisites exist. These include her business acumen, financial resources, professional network, societal status, and other situational elements enabling her business venture.

Simultaneously, Maria must contemplate several constraints. Does launching her own business align with her aspiration of self-sufficiency? Is she compliant with societal norms surrounding entrepreneurship? How risk-averse is she? Can she withstand the financial risks involved in entrepreneurship, even if she secures the necessary funds?

Are there considerable obstacles that impede Maria from realizing her goal? Could insurmountable risks, unbearable social pressure, or significant deviations from her plan deter Maria from starting her business, despite possessing the required 'ingredients' or resources?

With the fine-grained view of power, the emphasis lies on those worlds where these elements harmonize in a way that doesn't restrict Maria from accomplishing her goal. Conversely, the coarse-grained view focuses on those worlds where the necessary prerequisites for achieving this goal are fulfilled.

To employ more engaging terminology, I suggest calling the assumptions (propositions) utilized in determining the modal base set "enabling conditions," and the additional assumptions used in establishing the ordering source set "constraining conditions."

Enabling conditions must be met for there to even be a chance of performing H. Constraining conditions, however, vary significantly and can be either strong or weak. These conditions can – in theory – be overcome. You can't win a marathon if you're paraplegic. But if your athletic performance is average? That's debatable!

In what follows, I will discuss three features that can help us understand the nature and characteristics of these conditions:

a) You can, but you can’t

In various examples, I have addressed the question of whether someone possesses the power to perform a specific action. Could Susan have sent Paul home? Could I bake a cake? Could a die-hard Trump supporter vote for Biden? Could Maria start her own business?

In each of these deliberations, the conclusion could be that both scenarios are plausible if the following initial conditions apply: the enabling conditions are fulfilled, but there exist (strong) unmet constraining conditions. Under these circumstances, you can, but can’t.

Consider:

(12)

Susan: “Sure, I could have sent Paul home because he was my guest. But I couldn't. His charm was irresistible.”

Me: “Sure, I could have baked the cake because I had all the ingredients. But I couldn't. Time was against me.”

John: “Sure, I could have voted for Biden. His name was on the ballot. But I couldn't. That would have plunged me into a deep personal crisis.”

Maria: “Sure, I could have started my own business because I had a loan approval. But I couldn't. The financial risk was too high, and I didn't want to risk bankruptcy.”

b) C’mon, you can!

Constraining conditions are more susceptible to criticism than enabling conditions. Often, we justify our inaction by listing reasons that prevented us. These reasons are typically more accepted if we cite unfulfilled enabling conditions. However, if we cite constraining conditions, they are more likely to be challenged.

(13)

Susan: I couldn’t have sent Paul home because I was his guest.
Betty: I understand. You should host the meeting next time!

Susan: I couldn't sent Paul home, because his charm was irresistible.
Betty: C’mon, he's not that charming, and he stutters!

Me: I couldn’t have baked the cake because I had no eggs.
My friend: I understand. Be better prepared next time.

Me: I couldn't have baked the cake because I didn't have time.
My friend: C’mon, it seems other things were higher on your priority list!

John: I couldn’t have voted for Biden because he wasn’t on the ballot.
Mandy: I understand, but I wonder why he wasn’t.

John: I couldn't have voted for Biden because that would have plunged me into a deep personal crisis.
Mandy: C’mon, you're exaggerating. Your vote wouldn't have tipped the election, and you know it!

Maria: I couldn’t have started my own business because I didn’t get a loan approval.
Her husband: I understand. You could approach other banks. Maybe you haven't exhausted all your options yet.

Maria: I couldn't have started my own business because the financial risk was too high for me.
Her husband: C’mon, the risk isn't that high. You're being too pessimistic!

Additionally, constraining conditions can come in many colors, they can be strong or weak, or even not acceptable at all. Consider the following two dialogues:

(14)

Susan: I couldn’t send Paul home after he complimented me.
Betty: That's ridiculous!

John: I couldn't vote for Biden; his name reminded me of someone I dislike.
Mandy: You can't be serious!

This demonstrates that when we talk about constraints, we are in a gray area. Not all the things we perceive to limit our power actually do. The extent of the limitation often depends on the context. A coach of a slightly inferior team won't accept his players giving up; he'll motivate them to try harder. But when there's less at stake, minor constraints can be more acceptable.

c) The hero’s journey

A popular narrative device is the hero's journey, which hinges on the protagonist overcoming multiple obstacles and confronting various challenges. In wrestling with himself and tackling these impediments, the hero exceeds his limitations and eventually achieves his goal.

The story is a power game; our hero aspires to something but initially lacks the power to realize it. He only succeeds after overcoming the obstacles. These could either belong to the enabling conditions or the constraints of his actions. Most of the time, however, obstacles tend to be the latter. While ensuring that enabling conditions are met may seem uneventful, overcoming constraints usually leads to a more gripping story:

(15)

Story 1: It's my wife's birthday, and I want to make her happy. I know she would love a homemade cake. Unfortunately, I had no eggs in the fridge (obstacle). So, I went to the nearest supermarket and bought some. At last, I baked the cake and surprised my wife, much to her delight.

Story 2: It's my wife's birthday, and I want to make her happy. I know she would be thrilled with a homemade cake. My day was filled with important meetings and negotiations, and time was against me (obstacle). It took considerable effort, but I managed to keep the meetings short. The negotiation didn't go as smoothly as planned, but promising to write the minutes helped us conclude earlier than expected. Despite the time crunch, I managed to bake the cake. My wife was thrilled.

Neither story is a literary masterpiece, but that's not the point. The second story seems more engaging, right? Of course, the allure of a story greatly depends on the storyteller's skill. A skilled author can make even the overcoming of enabling conditions a compelling narrative.

Still, I believe that in most stories, the hurdles resemble strong constraints. Maybe this is because constraints inhabit a gray area, and thus it's not always clear whether the hero can overcome them. This ambiguity creates suspense. Enabling conditions, however, are more binary. Either I have eggs in the fridge, or I don't. Once the eggs are there, no additional effort is needed, and the suspense dissipates.

Power is an inherently fuzzy concept

The attribution of power is often a matter of "negotiation" and depending on what is at stake, we bring into play claims of varying strength.

Let's consider an example: Imagine a large, white square piece of paper, representing all potential actions one could undertake. Now, visualize a black circle within this white square, symbolizing the scope of actions a certain actor 'A' can perform within a specific situation. This black circle is a manifestation of A's power.

If this could be done, then the concept of power would behave like an ordinary set. The coarse-grained view of power provides - at least approximately - such an image. The modal base set is a black circle on a white sheet of paper.

My discussion so far has hopefully shown that the matter is not quite so simple. This is because it is often literally not so simple to do something that I - looking at it soberly - could do. The black circle is therefore not a circle with a sharp, but with a blurry edge, a gradient from dark to light, which embodies the varying challenges or obstacles involved in performing certain actions.

The lightest part of the gradient denotes tasks with substantial constraints, mostly outside the sphere of our power. As we move towards the center of the circle, the gradient becomes darker, signifying tasks with decreasing hurdles. Actions at the very center are easily accomplished with little to no effort.

Thus, power can be perceived as a fuzzy set, rather than a binary one. The variegated shades of gray depict the space where we possess some power, yet simultaneously face restrictions. These zones are often the subject of debates, disputes, and intriguing narratives.

Attempting to quantify someone's power is a futile exercise, as the nuances and subjectivity make it impossible to objectively measure. What seems feasible to one might appear impossible to another.

For instance, bending my index finger falls in the black area of absolute power, while time travel is in the unreachable white. Winning a kickboxing championship is a very light grey endeavor for me, suggesting the steep challenges. Conversely, mowing my lawn today would be a darker grey task, relatively easily accomplished.

Furthermore, the distinction between enabling and constraining conditions is itself blurred. What if I choose to bake a cake without milk? In a vegan perspective, this would be an obvious choice. Here, perhaps milk, usually considered an enabling condition, becomes a constraint, while another ingredient like flour is the enabler. This begs the question, is flour truly necessary for a cake? The possibilities are endless and the boundaries fluid.

I hope it's clear where this is going. Figuratively speaking, we can move the gray areas more and more into the white areas, which would mean that we take the stance that more is usually possible than we would assume.

But it also works the other way around. Perhaps what represents an overcomeable constraint for someone is an insurmountable hurdle in my eyes? Perhaps my meetings and negotiations always take longer than expected. Maybe too much depends on me really taking the time for it. And after all, baking a cake requires time. It can't be done without. We are moving the gray areas more and more into the black area. Perhaps I have much less power than I think I have?

These two different attitudes and maneuvers are sometimes called optimism and pessimism. An optimist thinks that more is possible - that more is within our power - than we believe. A pessimist claims the opposite. Who is right? I think, neither of them. Or maybe both!

The deflationary defintion of power - a recap

In my last post on the topic of power, I proposed a deflationary definition of power, according to which the power that a person or group A possesses in a certain situation C is equated with their scope of action in that situation, that is, with what A can do in C:

(1)

A has the power to do H in context C iff A can do H in context C.

If we accept this as a starting point, then attributions of power translate into modal statements of the form "A can do H." We can analyze modal statements more deeply if we look for a semantics that can deal with the variety of interpretations that expressions like can possess. For this purpose, I relied on Angelika Kratzer's theory of relative modalities.1

What affords a modal verb like can such diverse interpretations is - according to Kratzer - the fact that the interpretation depends on a conversational background: what we know in a certain situation, what would be morally required in a certain situation, what range of actions we have in a certain situation, etc. The nature of these various backgrounds then determines the reading of this expression.

A conversational background (or a so-called modal base) can be represented as a function f which maps possible worlds (or situations, or contexts) to sets of propositions, which comprise what is assumed within a certain situation. In the context of power attributions the conversational background includes propositions which express the scope of action an actor has at a certain situation.

Propositions can be modeled as sets of worlds (the ones in which they are true), and the intersection of this set of sets of worlds - represented as ⋂f(w) - is a set of worlds in which all the assumptions made are realized. In this case, it is the set of worlds that comprises the scope of action of a person or a group within a certain situation.

According to this framework, the truth conditions of sentences of the form "A can do H." can be formulated as follows:

(2)

[[Can(Ha)]] = 1 in w iff ∃w' ∈ ⋂f(w) such that [[(Ha)]] = 1 in w’.

A sentence like

(3)

I can bend my index finger.

in which A is me, and H is the action of bending my index finger - then would express something like:

(4)

Among the set of worlds that comprise the actions currently available to me - i.e. my current scope of action -, there is at least one world in which I bend my index finger.

If there is such a possible world among those that comprise my current scope of action, then this sentence is true; and it would therefore - according to my definition - also be correct to say that it is within my power to bend my index finger.

Whether the movement of my index finger represents a trivial or a non-trivial form of power essentially depends on the context. If my index finger is close to the trigger of a weapon pointed at another person's head, then this implies a more significant degree of power than if I am sitting at the kitchen table doing finger exercises in the air, because the consequences of my actions would be very different.

The difference in the consequences of both actions, which at a basic level consist in the bending of the index finger, gives rise to various possibilities of description. While Peter is doing finger exercises at the kitchen table, Paul pulls the trigger, which leads to the death of another person.

In this situation, Paul’s action is more consequential than Peter’s, and this is due to the fact that Paul’s index finger bending can be correctly described as ‘killing someone,’ while Peter’s can’t. Killing a person is, therefore, part of Paul's range of action, while it is not part of Peter's.

With a definition of power that is based on scopes of action, such differences can certainly be mapped. But there seems to be an issue that appears to be more serious. To assert that Paul has the power to shoot someone - by bending his index finger - not only presupposes that Paul hasn't done this yet (but could), but also that Paul has alternative courses of action, i.e. for example, that he could instead refrain from it and lower his weapon.

The possession of alternative actions is an essential characteristic of power. One could perhaps even say that the more alternatives are available to us in a situation, the more power we possess. This is not entirely true, but could serve as a good rule of thumb.

Among the myriad alternative actions we possess in any given situation, some inherently contradict each other. Paul, for instance, cannot simultaneously shoot and abstain from shooting his victim, yet he possesses the power to execute either action. Therefore, when we strive to outline what someone can do as a measure of power, it seems to inherently imply the capability to undertake actions that are mutually exclusive.

How you can do mutually exclusive things

Some actions can be performed simultaneously. Paul talks to his neighbor while he is cleaning his car. Susan buys an ice cream and winks seductively at the seller. Peter loads the dishwasher and sings a song.

However, this doesn't apply to all combinations of actions. Peter throws a dice, and it lands on three. It could not have landed on six at the same time. Paul is playing chess. He can either advance the pawn or move the bishop across the board, but he cannot do both - at least, not if he abides by the rules of chess. A runner in a 100m race cannot both win and lose.

Some actions are mutually exclusive. And this seems to pose a problem for my approach. Let’s see why.

Imagine that an actor A in world w stands at a fork in the road. A could turn left, or he could turn right. Let's say "A turns right." expesses proposition P1, while "A turns left." expresses proposition P2.

Now, we would like to say that both alternatives belong to A’s scope of action: A can turn right, and A can turn left, but if these two propositions both belong to the modal base in w, then ⋂f(w) seems to be empty, because there is no world w' in which A turns right and A turns left at the same time, i.e. the intersection of P1 and P2 is empty.

(5)

f(w) = {P1, P2}
⋂{P1, P2} = ∅

This is a horrible result, because our model would predict that “A can turn left.” f.i. is false, because there is no world in ⋂f(w) in which A turns left, precisely because there’s another alternative available to A. And similar things are true with respect to all possible actions of A in w that are mutually exclusive. How can we deal with the problem of mutually exclusive actions?

One way around this issue could be to understand the modal base not as including both P1 and P2, but as including a broader proposition P3, such as "A turns either right or left." P3 would be true in all worlds where either P1 or P2 is true, and the intersection of the modal base would then include all such worlds.

In other words, instead of (5) we would have (6):

(6)

f(w) = {P3}
⋂{P3} = {w: P3 = 1 in w}

If proposition P3 is true in the set of worlds in which either "A turns right" or "A turns left" is true, the intersection of the modal base, ⋂f(w), would not be empty. This is consistent with Kratzer's theory and allows us to handle situations where there are mutually exclusive possibilities.

The proposition P3 is - in a sense - the union of P1 and P2, and the maneuver to utilize P3 seems just to be a clever way to "smuggle" a union into an intersection. I think, however, there's a deeper point here related to the nature of modality and the way we represent knowledge and possibilities.

In a more real-world context, it's worth noting that the actual determination of what propositions are in the modal base would depend on the specific knowledge and assumptions of the speakers in the situation. If we know that "A will turn right or left", but we don't know which way A will turn, then it is accurate to say that the modal base includes a proposition like P3. This is not so much a trick as it is a reflection of the state of our knowledge: we know that one of the two possibilities (right or left) will occur, but we don't know which.

Including P1 and P2 but not P3 in the modal base would lead to an inconsistent set of propositions, which might not accurately represent the state of our knowledge or assumptions.2 This is not to say that our assumptions can’t be inconsistent. We are human, after all, and we don't always hold perfectly consistent beliefs or assumptions.

If we, however, include inconsistent propositions in the modal base, the intersection of these propositions will be empty, and this essentially means that there are no possible worlds consistent with our assumptions, which doesn't provide a useful foundation for further analysis.

Das große Zelt wuchs mit all seinen Stangen, Schnüren, Haken, Brettern und Bohlen langsam in den Himmel.

Fleißige Hände brachten bunte Lichter an die oberen Balken an. Viele Menschen liefen hin und her, und jeder wusste, was zu tun war.

Dazwischen irrten die Schausteller mit ihren bunten Wagen umher und versuchten hinter der halb aufgebauten Manege einen Platz zu finden. Mit ihren Fahrzeugen stießen sie in den engen Gassen, die sich gebildet hatten, vor und zurück. Und sie feilschten dabei um die besten Stellplätze.

Die Elefanten und die Kamele kamen in großen Wagen an, die von Traktoren gezogen wurden. Der Duft von Stroh und Kot mischte sich unter das Gewusel der bunten Menge.

Und als ob all das noch nicht reichen würde, um die Sinne der Neugierigen und Schaulustigen zu überwältigen, wurde dieses emsige Treiben begleitet vom zackigen Marsch einer Kapelle und dem ewigen Walzer eines Leierkastens, die Schulter an Schulter die Leute wie die Treiber einer aus dem Ruder gelaufenen Jagdgesellschaft mit ihren lauten Rufen über den Vorplatz hin zu den Zirkuskassen trieben.

Ich lief die Straße hinunter und konnte es kaum erwarten, die Manege zu sehen und mich von dem wilden und bunten Treiben in eine andere Welt entführen zu lassen.

„Peng.“ — machte es neben mir. „Peng peng peng.“

Ein kleiner Junge zielte mit seiner Spielzeugpistole auf einen riesigen Mann in einem dunklen Ledermantel, der direkt neben uns den Leierkasten bediente.

„Benny, lass das! Komm schon! Du wolltest dir doch die Tiger und die Clowns ansehen!“

Eine rundlichen Frau zupfte dem frechen Kerl am Ärmel und zog ihn ungeduldig weiter.

Der Leierkastenmann, den Ben eben noch abgeschossen hatte, nickte der Mutter nur freundlich zu, lehnte sich dann wieder in die Kurbel und versuchte gegen die Blaskapelle anzuspielen, die neben ihm auf einer kleinen Bühne gerade den Egerländer Fuhrmannsmarsch aufführte.

Mit seiner großen Gestalt ragte er wie ein Kirchturm über die Köpfe der zusammengewürfelten Menge hinweg. Er versuchte freundlich zu lächeln, und er nickte den Leuten zu, wenn sie ihr Kleingeld in die blecherne Dose warfen, die er vor sich auf dem Kasten platziert hatte.

Ich ließ mich weiter treiben. Am Eingang kaufte ich mir dann eine Eintrittskarte. In die Tierschau. Dort streichelte ich die Pferde, versuchte dem Esel bei den Ohren zu fassen und stand ehrfürchtig vor den Käfigen der Tiger.

Ich schaute zu, wie sich ein Elefant auf der Wiese entleerte. Und wie das kleine Hängebauchschwein, das in der Vorstellung nicht mitspielen durfte, im Schatten vor sich hin döste. Es schien gerade seinen Schönheitsschlaf abzuhalten.

Ich stieß mich von Zaun ab, um den anderen Besuchern Platz zu machen und wollte gerade zur Kasse zurück gehen, da wurde ich fast umgerempelt.

Ein großer Mann mit einem Hut, unter dem seine langen, lockigen Haare hervorquollen, und einem schwarz-braunen Mantel, der ihm fast bis auf die Füße reichte, schritt hastig an mir vorbei.

Ich war ihm eben schon einmal begegnet. Auf dem Vorplatz. Der Leierkastenmann. Er blickte sich nur kurz um, grummelte etwas und lief dann mit großen Schritten weiter zu einem in der Nähe stehenden Wagen.

Eine Tür an der Giebelseite war über drei hohe Stufen zu erreichen. Ohne mir weitere Aufmerksamkeit zu schenken, erklomm er die Stufen und war gleich darauf im Inneren des Wagens verschwunden.

Noch etwas benommen von der Rempelei lief ich ihm hinterher. Ich schaffte es nicht, ihn einzuholen, und stand vor der geschlossenen Tür.

Ein weißes Schild war daran befestigt. Auf dem stand mit großen Buchstaben:

Ich zögerte kurz, aber dann tat ich es. „Einen kleinen Moment bitte!“, ertönte es aus dem Inneren. Nach einer Weile ging die Tür auf und der Mann stand mit einem lächelnden Gesicht vor mir und blickte auf mich herab.

Den Hut, den Mantel und die Stiefel hatte er abgelegt. Er trug jetzt weite, freundliche, helle Gewänder und hielt eine Brille mit rotem Rahmen in der Hand.

„Sie wünschen, meine junge Dame?“

„Sie haben mich fast umgestoßen!“

„Oh. Ach du meine Güte! Das tut mir sehr leid. Das habe ich gar nicht bemerkt. Hast du dir denn etwa weh getan?“

„Ich? Mir? Nein! Aber ich finde schon, dass Sie sich wenigstens entschuldigen sollten!“

„Ja. Das stimmt. Natürlich. Ich habe es, wie ich schon sagte, gar nicht bemerkt. Also Entschuldigung.“

„Schon gut.“

„Ich heiße übrigens Rollo. Rollo Wolkenschieber.“

„Hab ich gelesen. Ich heiße Lili. Lili Strich. Sie sind ein Prophet, steht hier?“

„Ja, ganz genau!“

„Gibt es denn überhaupt noch Propheten? Oder spielen Sie das nur in der Manege?“

„Ich bitte dich, wo denkst du hin? Natürlich gibt es noch Propheten! Sogar echte! Und sonst spiele ich hier nur den Leierkasten und kümmer mich ein wenig um die Tiere. In der Manege bin ich nicht engagiert.“

„Was machen Sie denn dann? Als Prophet meine ich?“

„Nun ja, ein Prophet verkündet eine Botschaft, die er von einer höheren Macht empfangen hat. Früher, als die Leute noch alle dasselbe glaubten, gab es sozusagen einen Propheten für alle. Heute glaubt ja jeder an etwas anderes. Daher braucht es auch die verschiedensten Propheten. Da kommt man mit einem nicht mehr aus.“

„Und welcher sind Sie?“

„Willst du nicht rein kommen?“

Rollo setzte sein breitestes Lächeln auf, steckte sich die Brille hoch in sein langes Haar und trat ein wenig beiseite.

„Willkommen im Reiche des Propheten!“

Zögernd stieg ich die Stufen hinauf und betrat dann den hölzernen Wagen. Dort roch es nach Salbei und Fichtenharz. Der Rauch brannte mir ein wenig in den Augen. Ich blickte mich um und versuchte zu ergründen, wo der Geruch her kam.

„Das Rauchwerk fördert die Intuition. Die Intuition kann weitaus mehr erfassen als der Verstand. Sie ist mit den tiefsten Schichten unseres Seins verbunden.“

„Achso“, sagte ich kurz und setzte mich ohne zu fragen auf einen der Sessel, die um einen kleinen, flachen Tisch gruppiert waren. Rollo schloss die Tür, nickte mir lächelnd zu und trat an den Küchenschrank, der sich gleich gegenüber der Sitzgruppe befand. Er öffnete ein Türchen.

„Kräuter oder Früchte?“

„Ohne Zimt. Und auch nicht mit Minze oder Kamille.“

Rollo nahm zwei kleine Tassen aus dem Regal

„Weißt du, du darfst nicht alles glauben, was sie dir erzählen!“

Er setzte seine Brille mit dem roten Rahmen auf seine Nase und schüttete ganz vorsichtig etwas Tee aus einer altmodischen, grünen Metalldose in ein kleines Sieb. Dann legte er es in eine der beiden Tassen.

„Wir leben hier in einer Art Matrix.“

Rollo öffnete einen Karton und zog einen Teebeutel raus. Den legte er in die andere Tasse.

„Das geht schon seit Jahrhunderten so. Mächtige, einflussreiche Familien, die niemand kennt, und die im Verborgenen die Strippen ziehen.“

Er füllte einen kleinen weiß emaillierten Topf mit Wasser und zündete mit einem Streichholz die Flamme an.

„Man muss die Welt so sehen, wie sie wirklich ist. Nicht so, wie sie uns von außen vorgegeben wird. Man muss zum Ursprung zurück und hinter den Vorhang schauen. Da sieht man, was hier so abläuft. Auch das mit den Dinosauriern ist so eine Geschichte.“

Er füllte das heiße Wasser in die beiden bereit stehenden Tassen.

“Erst neulich haben sie einen neuen Flugsaurier erfunden und einen Film drüber gedreht. Die sind ja schon so weit, dass sie den wie echt aussehen lassen können.”

Er brachte die beiden Tassen zum Tisch und stellte sie vorsichtig auf die bereit stehenden Untersetzer. Dann setzte sich Rollo in einen der freien Sessel.

„Wollen Sie etwa sagen, die Dinosaurier gab es gar nicht?“

Ich schaute in das vom langen Haar umrahmte ovale Gesicht, das von der Designerbrille genau in zwei Hälften geschnitten wurde. Oben und unten.

„Genau! Das gehört alles zur Matrix. Einfach alles. Wenn du das erstmal kapiert hast, dann wundert dich nichts mehr.“

Er lehnte sich zurück und hielt vorsichtig seine Tasse in der Hand.

„Auch die Kamele und das Hängebauchschwein?“

Mir fiel es schwer, Rollo zu folgen.

„Na die vielleicht jetzt nicht.“

Die Augen hinter den großen Gläsern gingen leicht nach oben.

„Woher wissen Sie das alles?“

Rollo stellte seine Tasse zurück auf den Untersetzer und legte beide Hände übereinander auf seine Brust.

„Man muss auf seine Intuition hören. Die tieferen Wahrheiten erkennt man nur im Innen. Das ist alles schon angelegt.“

„Kann jeder so ein Prophet werden wie Sie?“

„Ja, natürlich. Du musst nur die höhere Macht, die schon in dir steckt, sprechen lassen. Du musst auf deine innere Stimme hören und alles von dir abwehren, was von außen kommt und von der Matrix vorgegeben wird. Es gibt da auch Kristalle, die mit Abwehrenergien aus Atlantis aufgeladen sind. Die wirken wie ein Schutzschild.“

Ich nippte vorsichtig an dem noch heißen Tee. ‚Apfel und Honig‘ stand auf dem kleinen Etikett, das an einem Faden über den Tassenrand hing. Ich überlegte, ob es Apfel-und-Honig-Tee gibt, oder ob der auch zur Matrix gehörte.

Angestrengt hörte ich in mich hinein. Nichts. Nur meine Zunge brannte ein wenig von der heißen Flüssigkeit. Gehört meine Zunge schon zu meiner inneren Stimme? Dazu fiel mir nichts ein.

Dann dachte ich an Dinosaurier. An einen dicken, fetten Brontosaurus, der gierig ein Büschel Schachtelhalme in sich hinein schlang. Er kaute und schmatzte und schluckte den ganzen großen Haufen Grünzeug mit einem Male runter. Dann fuhr sein Kopf mit dem langen Hals langsam nach oben, und er schaute sich nach seiner Herde um. Neben ihm grasten noch weitere, tonnenschwere Kolosse.

Halt! O je. Ich sollte doch auf meine innere Stimme hören! Und die erzählte mir jetzt etwas von grasenden Riesenseekühen mit langen, dünnen Hälsen. Gab es die nun, oder nicht?

Rollo, der von all dem nichts bemerkte, lehnte sich entspannt zurück, lächelte mich liebenswürdig an und steckte sich seine Brille wieder hoch ins Haar.

Hinter ihm stand jetzt etwas. Ein Engel! Ein echter. Hier im Zirkus kann einem ja sonstwer über den Weg laufen. Aber der war mit Sicherheit echt. Es schillerte als hätte jemand die Festbeleuchtung angeknipst. Seine Flügel waren ausladend, und sie vibrierten noch leicht.

Der Engel stand einfach so da. Als das Vibrieren aufhörte richtete er seinen Blick auf Rollo, zog seine Stirn in Falten und donnerte los:

„Ich habe dir doch letztens schon gesagt, dass du damit aufhören sollst, die Leute mit solchem Firlefanz zu belästigen! Warum macht ihr Menschen das immer und immer wieder? Ich erzähle euch das schon seit Jahrtausenden. Nichts hat sich geändert.

Hesekiel musste ich dreimal erscheinen, bevor er endlich Ruhe gab. Und zweitausend Jahre später nannte sich dann so ein Spaßvogel ‘Nostradamus’. Wegen dem habe ich die Gicht erfinden müssen. Der wollte überhaupt nicht mehr aufhören.

Könnt ihr das nicht einfach mal lassen? Ihr pfuscht mir ins Handwerk! Ich kann doch nicht jedes Mal, wenn sich einer von euch Faselhänsen irgendeinen Zinnober einfallen lässt, meine ganzen Pläne umschmeißen! Weißt du eigentlich, wie anstrengend das ist?

Ich sage es dir, Ronny, jetzt zum letzten Mal. Sollte ich noch einmal mitbekommen, dass du dir eine Geschichte über Dinosaurier aus der Nase ziehst, dann schicke ich dir so einen dicken, fetten, hungrigen Vorfahren eines Gockelhahns direkt vor deine Schaustellerwagentür.

Und wenn du dir noch einmal einfallen lässt, dass irgendwelche eingebildeten Schwingungen auf irgendein Brimborium hindeuteten, dann wirst du bis an dein Lebensende Eintrittskarten einreisen müssen! Dann kannst du dir die Langeweile früh aufs Brot und abends wieder aufs Brot schmieren! Jeden verdammten Tag!

Und wenn du irgendwann noch einmal etwas über Intuition oder Verstand herumlabern solltest, dann bist du beides für immer los. Endgültig! Hast du das verstanden! Höre endlich auf damit! Ich möchte nicht noch einmal erscheinen! Das nervt total!“

Wie die Gestalt erschienen war, so verschwand sie auch plötzlich wieder. Sie löste sich einfach in Luft auf. Das Leuchten erlosch. Als hätte jemand den Stecker aus der Partylichterkette gezogen.

Rollo hatte sich bis jetzt nicht einen Millimeter bewegt. Er saß einfach da.

„Du heißt gar nicht ‚Rollo‘?“

„Nein. Ich heiße ‚Ronny‘. Das hat er doch gesagt. Ich heiße auch nicht ‚Wolkenschieber‘, sondern ‚Frühauf‘. ‚Ronny Frühauf‘. Wie kann man sein Kind nur ‚Ronny‘ nennen?! So heißt doch keiner! ‚Ronny Frühauf!‘ Wer hört einem denn zu, mit so einem Namen? Da kann ich mich ja gleich den ganzen Tag an die Kasse setzen.

Da will auch niemand etwas von mir wissen. Schaut mich aber wenigstens erwartungsvoll an. So ein Name muss überzeugend klingen. So wie ‚Hieronymus‘ zum Beispiel. Das wär’s gewesen!“

„Und das mit den Dinosauriern?“

„Tja, da habe ich mal was drüber gelesen. War total spannend. Stell dir mal vor, das ist alles erfunden. Wie in einem Film, richtig mit Schauspielern und so. Die drehen ständig neue Folgen. Jedes Jahr erfinden sie eine neue Art. Jetzt gibt es sogar Kinderfilme. Und kleine Spielfiguren. Dinosaurierkuscheltiere!“

„Und warum machen die das?“

„Na, um uns alle abhängig zu machen. Um uns zu kontrollieren. Was hätte das denn sonst für einen Sinn?“

„Wäre es da nicht einfacher gewesen, sich etwas mit Außerirdischen und so auszudenken? Die hinterlassen wenigstens keine Knochen. Oder Eier.“

„Außerirdische? Pah! Die sind doch schon lange da. Hier auf der Erde. Seit Millionen von Jahren. Das kommt jetzt immer mehr ans Tageslicht.“

Ronny blickte mich an und senkte dann seinen Kopf.

„Naja, vielleicht ist es auch umgekehrt. Ich bin grad einfach nicht so richtig in meiner Mitte.“

„Und was machst du jetzt, Ronny?“

Ich stand schon auf den Stufen vor der Tür.

„Was schon? Drehorgel spielen. Mich von Kindern abschießen lassen. Dem Esel frisches Wasser bringen. Aufpassen, dass sich das Schwein nicht den Bauch in der Sonne verbrennt. Und die Eintrittskarten am Eingang ins Zelt einreißen, wenn die Besucher am Abend zur letzten Vorstellung erscheinen. Und dann durchfegen.“

„Und Prophet willst du jetzt keiner mehr sein?“

Er zuckte mit den Schultern.

„Was spielt das noch für eine Rolle? Ich könnte ja versuchen, den Kamelen ein paar Tricks beizubringen. Vielleicht lässt mich dann der alte Alfons auch mal in die Manege. Vors Publikum.“

Rollo versuchte zu lächeln.

„Mach‘s gut, Ronny!“

Ich stieg die Stufen hinunter und wünschte leise, dass er es schafft. Da war ich aber schon auf dem Weg zur Kasse.

Ich wollte die Manege sehen und mich von dem wilden und bunten Treiben in eine andere Welt entführen lassen.

Our world is full of gaps. Something is missing everywhere. We have holes in our socks. There are gaps in arguments. Shadows. Trenches are gaps in the ground. Valleys are places where the mountain is missing. Silences are stretches of time in which nothing is said. Talking about what is not there belongs in our conversations like the gaps in a picket fence. Something is missing after every slat.

We owe a peak of grotesque-comic poetry to Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914), the master of eccentricity. His famous poem "Der Lattenzaun" (The picket fence), published in the Galgenlieder (Gallows songs) in 1905, is less about the peculiarities of the instrument for garden or property demarcation, than about the withdrawal of "nothingness" - so to speak:1

Memories also have gaps and do not differ so much from picket fences. Some pickets are prominent, jutting out like sore thumbs, while others are smaller, blending in with the background. The gaps between the pickets can be vast and wide, leaving plenty of room for forgetfulness or uncertainty. Our identity - what we believe ourselves to be - is like a continuous fence built by trying to fit the pickets and gaps together to delimit a field in which an I is at home.

Everyone's picket fence is different. Some people have many pickets closely spaced, while others have pickets that are far apart. My own fence of memories has few pickets that are loosely connected by large areas of nothingness. At times, this can be a curse, making it difficult to tell stories about myself since there is little material to work with. However, it can also be a blessing, as the baggage is lighter, and it's easier to move the fence when I need to.

One incident that I still vividly recall dates back to the 1980s, around 1986 or 1987. Allow me to share the story with you.

A conversation at the beach

One beautiful summer day, a few friends from my high school class decided to go for a swim together. As we lay on the beach, we found ourselves contemplating the meaning of a "hole." I can no longer recall how the topic came up, whether it was prompted by one of us digging a hole in the sand or meditating on a slice of cheese or or maybe someone was wondering why trouser legs have an inside and an outside. Whatever it was, the question had taken hold of us and refused to let go.

At first glance, holes seem like such a simple phenomenon, made up of conceivable simple components, easy to identify. You can see them, point to them, even describe and depict them because right there, where something is missing, there is a hole. That's the frustrating thing about holes. How can there be something that is not?

Holes certainly exists. They are a part of our world. They have a certain size and spatial topography. They have a dimension both in space and in time. Holes can arise and disappear. We are able to point to them, count them. We can create and destroy holes. Holes are a part of the causal network of our world. We can dig, punch, drill, or cut them. They collect water or let light in.

Holes have already existed long before us. And holes are useful: sieves, funnels, handles on beer cases, windows, doors, and trouser legs. How could we even exist without holes? Holes are not fictions but real. They are everywhere. Physics even speaks of "black holes," but that's another story.

What then are holes? We came up with various possibilities. A hole - we started with the obvious - is something where there is nothing. But this seemed contradictory. Something cannot be nothing!

Another one was that a hole is something that is (partially) enclosed by something else. Holes are things that have a boundary. That also seemd obvious and sounded much better. But then we saw a ball floating on the water. Obviously, this was something (a ball) that was partially enclosed by something else (water). But there was no hole. Just a ball in the water.

The ball, however, made a dent in the surface of the water - we also saw dents as holes. If we could freeze the water in its current state and remove the ball, then we would see a hole, in a certain sense.

Holes can be filled, but not every filling is acceptable. Holes are picky. We then thought that it could have to do with the density of the materials. A hole exists when a denser material partially encloses a less dense material. The "dimple" in the water is a hole because water is denser than air and partially encloses the air.

But that can't be right either. We can make a hole in Styrofoam and then pour water into it. We would still have a hole in the Styrofoam, but the filling (the water) is denser than what surrounds it (the Styrofoam).

If I remember correctly, we finally agreed that if we assume that there are only three states of matter (gaseous, liquid, solid) that are ordered in this sequence, then a hole is a region consisting of a substance in a lower state of matter than the substance that partially surrounds it.

Clouds that consist partly of liquid water are therefore not holes, but they can have some, if the water is missing. If we submerge a solid object in water, we don't have a hole at that point. A hole would only exist if we’d replace the solid object with air (provided that the water remains in the same configuration). A drop of oil floating on the water surface and making a small dent is also not a hole. And if we stuff an apple-filled goose at Christmas and then roast it, it doesn't have a hole, but a filling.

This definition seemed useful to us and we moved on to the more mundane things that young people do at the beach in good weather.

Today I think, that our reasoning had some weaknesses. We weren’t talking about holes, but about something else. The most obvious problem is that a hole is not identical to what it fills. If we go into the garden and dig a hole with a spade, then we substitute one volume of earth with one volume of air. But the hole is not that air! We could fill it with water afterwards, another substitution, but this doesn’t change the identity of the hole. It remains the same.

The second problem is that holes are also not identical to what surrounds them. A hole in a piece of cheese is where cheese is missing. A piece of non-cheese, so to speak. So we had tried to characterize holes by what they are not.

Let’s call the thing or material that surrounds a hole the host of a hole. The host is what the hole is “in”. Every hole is inside something, as all holes are filled with something.2 Let's call that filling the guest of the hole. A hole - every hole, therefore, has a host as well as a guest, but it is neither one nor the other. A hole is where there is a host that can accommodate a guest. It’s a gap, a possibility of substitution.

In most cases, it is easy to locate a hole. It is there, and yet, it is not what it consist of. Are holes (or shadows, moments of silence, valleys, the gaps of a picket fence) therefore nothing? Places that are defined by the absence of something? Nonthings that exist?

Piggeldy’s plan

The probably most philosophically interesting (and interested) pigs in children's literature, Piggeldy and Frederick, have extensively circled around holes.3 “What are holes?” the piglet Piggeldy asks his big brother Frederick, after which the peripatetic but equally clueless Frederick invites his little brother for a walk with the words: "Nothing easier than that. Come with me."

The two set out and first try to approach the problem phenomenologically, searching for examples of holes (sock holes, mouse holes, puddles) and their qualities (you can fall into them).

But Piggeldy is dissatisfied with the result of the search. Because in the puddle there is water, in the mouse hole there is a mouse, and in the sock hole there is still more sock than hole. “Always a hole is something where something else belongs,” he complains, “a hole is never just a hole.”

To which his brother Frederick replies: “There will never be a hole without something around it." "Aha,” Piggeldy rejoiced, “a hole is only a hole because there is always something around it.” Frederick nodded. He could have quoted Kurt Tucholsky to support his insight:4

There is no such thing as a hole by itself, as sorry as I am to say.

“When I grow up,” said Piggeldy ignoring his bigger brother as well as Tucholsky, “I will invent a hole without anything around it.”

Piggeldy seems to have an absurd plan, and his remark makes us smile. I think, however, Piggeldy might be onto something. We could make a distinction between a criterion for holes, which could include their host, and what holes themselves are - as holes, ontologically speaking.

Without a host, we cannot identify holes, but they themselves are something else. Think of a mother. It is not possible to identify a mother without considering her offspring. A mother is always a mother of someone. There is no such thing, Frederick and Tucholsky would say, as a mother by herself.

But wait a moment! Isn't a mother herself a female person who exists at a specific space-time location, independent of her offspring? This example highlights the difference between identifying mothers and defining what mothers are, in and of themselves.

Similar things apply to holes. To identify a hole in a cheese, we need to consider the cheese. But not a single particle of a hole in a cheese is made of cheese! It seems, therefore, that Piggeldy wouldn't need to invent holes without something around them. Holes already are excluding the stuff that surrounds them. But, hey, what the heck are we talking about here?

Having clarified this, the question remains: What are holes? Unsurprisingly, there is a philosophical debate about this issue. There are always philosophical debates. But this one is especially interesting. Let’s dive in.

Hole Ontologies

If we assume that there are holes, then they seem to be specific to a certain place and time, similar to concrete physical objects like mountains or pencils, and unlike abstract entities such as numbers or values. They possess a particular shape, size, and location, and they have origins and histories. They can undergo changes and be subject to various events.

If we view holes as particulars (lets call this position naive realism about holes), which seems to be an obvious move, then we run into a diffuculty: holes are different from more familiar particulars. Holes seem to be immaterial, not made of matter but rather made of nothingness, if they are made of anything at all.

To accept a naive realism about holes, therefore, means to acknowledge the existence of concrete immaterial objects (let’s call them nothings).5 Given this challenge, most philosophers lean towards a reevaluation of commonly held beliefs abut holes rather than accepting a straightforward realist view.

So we are now entering the field of the ontology of holes, where all kinds of fruits grow. Some of these fruits could be given classical names, such as nominalism, materialism, physicalism, or universalism, as they recycle ideas from these currents. I will not discuss these positions as such, but will only examining the different strategies for avoiding the assumption of concrete nothings and what costs these strategies have. There are always some costs …

Holes don’t exist

What if there are no holes at all, but only perforated objects? Instead of saying that a cheese has a hole, we could just as well say that it is perforated. That would imply that there is cheese. Perhaps that it has properties, such as being yellow, having a certain weight, or being perforated. It would, however, not imply that there are holes. Certainly not that there are nothings!

That’s the old strategy of nominalism. If I say that my sock has a hole, then I am referring to my sock only. And my utterance would be true, if it would be correct to apply the predicate “has a hole” or “is perforated” to my sock. Let's imagine two sheets of paper. Now, let's take a hole puncher and perforate one of them. In what way do the two sheets differ? Instead of saying that one has a hole and the other does not, we could say instead that one is perforated and the other is not.

One might object that these predicates can only be correctly applied if there really is a hole in my sock or in the sheet of paper. A nominalist would respond that we do not need to assume this, but can simply stop at establishing norms of language usage.

This strategy comes down to the claim that all sentences that seem to imply the existence of holes could be rephrased to eliminate the implication of the existence of holes, while still being able to serve the same purposes as the original sentences.

The philosophical debate about holes started in 1970 when David Lewis and his wife Stephanie published a paper about this problem.6 This paper was presented in a unique format - that of a fictitious dialogue between two philosophers named Argle and Bargle, who engage in a thought-provoking discussion about the holes in a piece of Gruyère cheese.

Argle defends the position of nominalism:

When I say that there are holes in something, I mean nothing more nor less than that it is perforated. The synonymous shape-predicates “… is perforated” and “there are holes in …” – just like any other shape-predicate, say “… is a dodecahedron” – may truly be predicated of pieces of cheese, without any implication that perforation is due to the presence of occult, immaterial entities.

Argle doesn't hold out for long, however. Bargle points out that we can count holes and compare the number of holes with other, more common objects. While we could paraphrase a sentence like "The cheese has two holes" as "The cheese is doubly perforated," we would have to assume that our language has an infinite number of such predicates (doubly perforated, triply perforated, etc.) to account for all holes. Besides this, we would have to explain how we could learn such a language that includes so many words. This leads to a dead end.

Moreover, we can compare the number of holes in a cheese with the number of other ordinary objects, such as the crackers on the plate next to it: "The cheese has the same number of holes as there are crackers on the plate." A nominalist should prohibit such sentences. And that is the price we would pay if we deny the existence of holes. We would have to restrict our language concerning holes massively, and this would probably render it useless.

Holes are portions of spacetime

Another strategy is to hold that holes are just regions of spacetime rather than material objects. Wake, Spencer, and Fowler, for instance, argue that the traditional view of holes as objects with a physical boundary is problematic because it raises questions about what exists on either side of the hole's boundary. By contrast, the authors propose that a hole should be understood as a region of spacetime in which the properties of matter and energy differ from the surrounding spacetime.7

According to this view, a hole is not a thing, but rather a region in which the properties of things are different.

One could object that we want to know more about these different properties. Not every region of spacetime that differs from the surrounding region is a hole. In front of me is a chest. It occupies a certain region of spacetime and its properties differs from its surroundings. But my chest is a chest and not a hole.

Remember our day at the beach? We spoke about regions with different properties as well and were pondering what this difference consists in (density or state of matter for instance).

This criticism is, however, not entirely fair, as we could argue that the exact nature of these differences only matters in identifying holes, not in determining what holes are. Once we have identified a hole, what it is, could be just a region in space and time.

This means that there is nothing special about the portions of spacetime that constitute a hole, compared to other portions of spacetime that are occupied by ordinary material objects. It is not fundamentally more difficult to determine the conditions under which a portion of spacetime should be considered a hole than it is to determine the conditions under which it should be considered a pencil, a mug of coffee, or any other kind of object.

A more important objection to this position has to do with the fact that regions of spacetime can overlap or that one region can be part of another region. Let's take a toilet paper roll. It has a hole. Now let's turn it clockwise. The hole moves with it. We could now insert another, narrower toilet paper roll into this one and turn it counterclockwise. The spacetime region of the hole in the smaller roll is a part of the spacetime region of the larger roll. Does the smaller hole now rotate both clockwise and counterclockwise?

The problem - expressed more generally - is that regions that overlap cannot have mutually exclusive qualities in the area where they overlap. If one region is completely black and another is completely white, they do not overlap; they cannot have common parts. This has to do with the identity of regions of spacetime.

Holes, however, can contain other holes, and it seems that it doesn't matter whether the properties of the individual holes exclude each other or not. Does it follow that holes are, therefore, not spacetime regions?

Holes are ordinary things

Argle has another card up his sleeve. Holes are ordinary objects, he says:8

The matter isn’t inside the hole. It would be absurd to say it was: nobody wants to say that holes are inside themselves. The matter surrounds the hole. The lining of a hole, you agree, is a material object. For every hole there is a hole-lining; for every hole-lining there is a hole. I say the hole-lining is the hole.

Be prepared: Argle isn’t claiming that this is what we would say. A hole in a cheese is where there is no cheese. We would say that the host doesn’t belong to the hole. The hole starts where the host ends.

What Argle is proposing instead, is that we should say that a hole is identical with its lining. This would avoid the assumption of concrete nothings, but presumably preserves everything what we want to say about holes, because there’s a 1:1 relation between a hole and its host.

What would it mean to identitfy holes with their hosts? First of all, we could no longer say that hosts (partially) surround or enclose a hole. “Surround” and “enclose” would mean something else (“identity”) when we speak about holes.

Then, we would have to change our language with regard to to what we say about what’s inside a hole. A point on a hole-lining would then be inside the hole, but the filling wouldn’t.

Moreover, ordinarily speaking, holes and hole-linings often have different volumes. When we were children at the seaside, we sometimes looked for so-called chicken gods. These were stones that had one or more holes. Often the stones were more voluminous than the holes they had. If a hole is the same as the surrounding material - here the stony material - then we would have mostly been wrong in our assessment of the size of the holes back then.

Or let's imagine we make a small hole in a piece of paper. Then we cut off some of the paper outside the hole. Have we made the hole smaller by that? Would expanding the hole-lining amount to enlarging the hole?

The next difficulty concerns counting. Suppose we have a piece of cheese with two holes. Wouldn't Argle have to say that there is only one hole and not two? That it is impossible for a connected thing - a sieve, for example - to have multiple holes? Argle could respond - and he does - that we do not have one piece of cheese in front of us, but rather two pieces of cheese that overlap each other. Each one is identical to a hole. With a sieve, there would be more overlaps accordingly.

But how do we decide how many overlappings there are? Look at a roll of toilet paper. How many holes does it have? One? Two? Three? How many overlapping parts does the roll consist of? It's hard to say.

It seems that identifying holes with material things is even more costly than simply denying their existence altogether.

Holes are mind-dependent things

In the article "What Angles Can Tell Us About What Holes Are Not," P.J. Meadows challenges the idea that holes can be understood as individual objects or things in their own right.9 He argues that holes are better understood as properties or relations between objects, rather than as entities that exist independently.

Meadows explores the role of angles in understanding holes, arguing that the way we perceive holes is shaped by the angles of the surrounding objects. He suggests that holes are not objective features of the world, but are instead mind-dependent in the sense that they are created through our perceptions and interpretations of the world.

It might be worth noting that Meadows' focus on angles as a key factor in understanding holes may not be universally applicable. The way we perceive holes may also be influenced by other factors, such as lighting, color, texture, and depth perception, among others. But we’re not talking about perceiving holes here.

The central problem with this view, in my opinion, seems to be that the conclusion that Meadows draws isn’t following from his premises. While it is true that our perception of holes is influenced by our surroundings, it does not necessarily follow that holes, therefore, cannot be understood as objects in their own right. For example, one could argue that a hole in a bucket is a physical object and the cause of the water running out, even if its existence is dependent on the material around it. Even if we can’t perceive the hole in the bucket without perceiving the bucket.

Holes are real but not quite

Maybe, there’s some middleground. Maybe that there are not only things that exist and things that don’t. Some things could be more or less real. And possibly holes are such sorts of things.

McDaniel, for instance, examines the concept of almost nothingness and argues that it is a meaningful and important aspect of human experience.10 He suggests that although we often focus on the substantial and concrete aspects of reality, such as physical objects and events, there are also many instances where we encounter something that is not quite nothing, but also not quite something in a substantial sense.

McDaniel tries to clarify his view that holes are things with a kind of diminished reality. Considering the nominalist project, he writes:11

Suppose that we cannot paraphrase statements about holes and other almost nothings in terms of statements about ‘positive’ entities alone. Perhaps this is because of the limits of our language: there are no infinitely long sentences in English, and the only way to paraphrase talk about holes would be via infinitely long constructions. However, suppose we can conceive of how such a paraphrase might go in an augmented version of English. I think this is the case with holes. If we think this augmented version of English would be a metaphysically better language to speak than ours, … then we have a reason to think that holes are mere beings by courtesy. Ontological reduction, on this picture, amounts to identifying some entity as a mere being by courtesy. Ontological elimination, by contrast, consists in denying any sort of reality to the entity in question.

Assuming that it makes sense to talk about different types of things that are differently real, and that holes belong to the things that exist but not quite (beings by courtesy), in contrast to chairs or mountains, then it seems that we can have our cake and eat it too. We could calm our skepticism regarding the existence of immaterial things without having to assume that holes don’t exist or aren’t entities in their own right.

Another possibility is that holes are genuine absences or negative spaces in the world. While they are not physical objects or properties, they can still have an impact on our understanding of the world. C.B. Martin, for instance, argues that entities are not the only things that exist in the world.12 We can conceive of absences and voids as ‘ways things are not,’ and that they can be just as real and important as entities.

He uses the example of a hole in the ground to illustrate his point, arguing that the hole is not just the absence of dirt, but a real and meaningful part of the world. Martin contends that recognizing the ontological status of absences and voids can help us to better understand and explain certain phenomena, such as the behavior of subatomic particles in quantum mechanics.

McDaniel and Martin's views lead to an inflated ontology, where everything that is not present is treated as a separate entity. That makes the question of the existence of holes appear like a decision.

That reminds me a little bit of my six-year-old daughter. She's afraid to go to her room at night when the light is off. That's completely normal at her age. She says there are ghosts in her room. Sometimes I suggest that we could just check to see if that's true. And then she says: Ghosts can't be seen because they're only there in the dark. So ghosts are "almost nothings." They're there, but not really. Not like chairs or socks that we can see even in the light.

Which language do you speak?

If I'm to be completely honest, none of the approaches presented just now impresses me, not even naive realism. Don't get me wrong: I wouldn't say they're wrong with regard to holes. It’s rather that they introduce different ways of speaking. And we are free to chose one. We could roll the dice and deceide to speak as each individual author presented and thereby accept the costs that would come with that.

Alternatively, we could go back to the beginning of the story and see if we've made a mistake somewhere along the line. I think we have.

Let's think again of a sheet of paper with a hole cut into it. If we could give a complete physical description of the sheet, including the hole, we wouldn't find anything astonishing. Molecules, atoms, and subatomic particles are in various relationships to each other and are in different states.

Perhaps the sheet has not only a hole but also a fold and a small dirt stain somewhere. Surely, it's not cut completely straight, the edges are a bit frayed here and there. While this will make our physical description more complicated, it doesn't mean that we would discover any strange entities that don't fit into our physical description.

With this type of description, the sheet itself is no more or less real than the hole in its center. This is because, when we speak about "the world" in our daily lives, we rely on abstractions. When we talk about sheets, we leave out all the folds, holes, indentations, unevenness, etc. in which different things, which we also call sheets, differ from each other. Once we've abstracted over these differences, we can bring them back into the picture by making more detailed descriptions. And this is where slits, gaps, folds, holes, etc. come into play.

Similar considerations apply to mountains. No mountain is like any other. Physically speaking, the concept of a mountain is an abstraction. That's practical. If we want to know more, we bring valleys, cuts, slopes, etc. into play. But that doesn't mean that valleys are less real than mountains. It's just more practical to talk about mountains and valleys than to make a complete physical description of a section of the world.

Holes are like folds or frayed corners - concepts that compensate for the idealizations we've made with other concepts. If I go into the garden and dig a hole, I "transform" a prototypical garden into a less prototypical garden. Strictly speaking, there are neither prototypical gardens nor holes. Or, there are in a certain sense.

We could start with more complicated geometric constellations instead of flat surfaces. Suppose we start with undulating surfaces. A prototypical garden would then look like a stormy ocean. Instead of digging holes, I could then go out and remove accumulations that have formed on its surface. I probably wouldn’t dig a hole then. I would say that this way of categorizing things would result in a less efficient language, but it wouldn't change the world one bit.

Our everyday language is an efficient way of talking about the world, but it's certainly not the only way. We could divide the world according to other criteria and make corresponding - different - adjustments.

So to summarize, holes are deviations from an ideal that exists just as little and as well as the ideal itself. A gap in an argument is a deviation from an ideal argument. A gap in a garden fence is a deviation from the ideal of a continuous, fully closed surface. A hole in a sheet of paper is a deviation from an ideal sheet of paper. One could just as well say that a sheet of paper is an ideal hole filled with cellulose - provided that we adjust our language accordingly in other areas too.

Naive realism about holes is not naive because it assumes the existence of immaterial objects, but because it regards the way we categorize the world in everyday life as unalterable. And nominalism is not rejected because it denies the existence of certain things which seem to “be there,” but because it sees our everyday way of dividing the world as fundamentally wrong. As if it were possible to distinguish a "correct" way of division from a less correct one.

Are holes real now? I would say that this is not a meaningful question. A sheet of paper with a hole is just as real as a sheet of paper without a hole. They are simply two differently filled regions, or - rather - two regions with different correct descriptions within the same language.

What we could do is to consider what kind of deviation holes are. After all, there are not only holes. We also know gaps, shadows, silences, dents, valleys, and so on. As a final suggestion to contribute something constructive here, I would propose the following:

A hole is a spaciotemperal region R such that

(i) R is a real part of a larger region R*,
(ii) R and R* consist of different largely homogeneous stuff S and S*, and
(iii) S is more easily substitutable by another stuff S’ compared to S*.

There are as many holes in a region R* as there are unconnected regions R1, R2, … that fulfill conditions (i) to (iii).

The most interesting part of this account is condition (iii) which is about substitutability (or removability). A hole contains stuff that that can be removed easily compared to its surroundings. The chest in front of me is not a hole in the space which surrounds it. It is easier to substitute the air around the chest than the chest itself. Imagine a sheet of paper within a larger region R*. It’s usually difficult to replace the space the sheet lives in with something else. So, the space the sheet fills out is not a hole.

But we could make a wooden box that can precisely accommodate the sheet inside. In this case, it would be easier to replace the space occupied by the sheet with something else - another sheet of paper for instance - than to replace the space occupied by the box. In this case, the space occupied by the sheet of paper could be considered a hole.

Condition (iii) also adds a modal dimension to holes. Holes are regions in which replacement or substitution is (easily) possible. For water to flow out of a bucket, there needs to be a spot on the surface of the bucket that can be easily replaced by water. If we dig a hole in the garden, we can fill it with potatoes. If there were still soil in the spot, it would be difficult bring in the potatoes.

It would certainly be interesting to investigate this type of modality further. I suppose it won't be quite so easy, and I won’t do it here. Instead, I would like to test my suggestion a little bit. It is, of course, an empirical hypothesis about our language usage, and not about what our world is made of.

It can, nevertheless, turn out to be false. With the assistance of a set of questions, I recently tested my hypothesis. My objective was to determine whether substitutability is a valid criterion for identifying holes. As a guest at a large party, I distributed a questionnaire containing the following items. (The percentage figures refer to the relative frequency with which the respective answers were selected by the guests.)

Imagine we have a piece of styrofoam, about 10 mm thick and as large as an A4 sheet. Now we cut a circular hole in the center of the styrofoam with a knife. Consider the following cases:

1. We insert a wooden rod with the same diameter as the hole and about 50cm long into the hole and move it back and forth.

A) The hole still exists. (57%)
B) The hole no longer exists. (35%)
C) I don't know what to say. (7%)

2. We now shorten this rod to 1cm length, insert it into the hole so that the ends exactly match the edge of the styrofoam, and leave it in place.

A) The hole still exists. (57%)
B) The hole no longer exists. (35%)
C) I don't know what to say. (7%)

3. We remove the wood and take a round, transparent glass rod of 1cm length and insert it into the hole so that we can see through it.

A) The hole still exists. (64%)
B) The hole no longer exists. (29%)
C) I don't know what to say. (7%)

4. We remove the glass and insert the cut-out piece of styrofoam into the hole.

A) The hole still exists. (36%)
B) The hole no longer exists. (50%)
C) I don't know what to say. (14%)

5. Now we take out the styrofoam again, smear the edges with glue, put it back into the hole, and wait for the glue to dry.

A) The hole still exists. (14%)
B) The hole no longer exists. (86%)
C) I don't know what to say. (0%)

6. We take a new, similar piece of styrofoam and cut another hole into it. Now we slit the styrofoam from one side so that the slit reaches from the edge of the styrofoam to the edge of the hole.

A) The hole still exists. (64%)
B) The hole no longer exists. (36%)
C) I don't know what to say, (0%)

7. Now we also slit the styrofoam from the other side so that this second slit reaches from the opposite edge of the styrofoam to the other edge of the hole. We could separate the two sides of the styrofoam, but we keep them together.

A) The hole still exists. (43%)
B) The hole no longer exists. (57%)
C) I don't know what to say. (0%)

8. Now we take the two sides of the styrofoam apart and lay them on the table at some distance.

A) The hole still exists. (14%)
B) The hole no longer exists. (86%)
C) I don't know what to say. (0%)

9. A new piece of styrofoam. We cut another hole into it. At some distance from it, we cut a second hole. Now we take a knife and slit the styrofoam from one hole to the other, connecting them.

A) The first hole still exists. (86%)
B) The first hole no longer exists. (14%)
C) I don't know what to say. (0%)

10. We create another hole. Then we take the knife and cut away a piece from the edge of the hole all around, making it larger - for example, 20 mm in diameter.

A) The original hole still exists. (50%)
B) The original hole no longer exists. (43%)
C) I don't know what to say. (7%)

The first thing that should strike you is that the concept of a hole - like most everyday concepts - is vague. That means that the intuitions of different speakers can differ slightly from each other, especially in borderline cases.

In questions 1 through 5, I tested the effects of the presence of a "solid" guest on our conception of holes. Slightly more than half of the participants indicated that a wooden filling - regardless of whether it fitted the host or not - had no impact on the continued existence of the hole. A transparent filling slightly increased this tendency.

When the filling, however, was the same material as the host, significantly fewer participants assumed that the hole would continue to exist than that it would disappear. If the filling was difficult to substitute (case 5), then most participants changed their assumption from the existence of a hole to its absence.

I have a suspicion that the correlation between the answers to case 1 and case 2 could be explained by consistency considerations. Some of the participants told me that they found it difficult to answer the questions. It might have been better, therefore, to distribute several different questionnaires to neutralize this effect. However, this would have required more participants than I had.

I find the comparison between case 4 and case 5 interesting. Even if the hole has the same filling, the easiness of substitutability seems to be crucial for the conception of holes. If the guest is firmly attached to the host, only very few people seem to want to consider the presence of a hole.

I have no idea how to explain the significant difference in the answers between case 6 and case 9. In both cases, the host is partially penetrated and either connected to its edge or the edge of another hole. While in the first case only 64% assumed that the hole would continue to exist, in the latter, it was a whopping 86%. This was a big surprise.

What surprised me as well - albeit to a lesser extent - is the difference between 6 and 7. Similar case 10. There is - at least in German - a linguistic ambiguity regarding the situation as described in 10. If we remove stuff from the edge of the host a bit, we can express this activity in two different ways:

a) We create a larger hole.
b) We make the hole bigger.

In the fist description we assume that the resulting hole is another hole than the one we started with. The second description assumes a continuity of the hole. The answers to case 10 might reflect this ambiguity more or less.

What this shows is that a hole is not simply a region, but perhaps rather a maximally extended sub-region that possesses a certain characteristic. For people who prefer the second description, a property of the hole has changed (its size). For people who would rather use the first formulation, the identity of the hole has changed, which would mean that the size was not seen as a feature, but as a criterion for the identity of holes.

I had a conversation about this topic with some of the guests (a qualitative field study, so to speak). Most of them had not thought about holes and could not tell me exactly what they are and how they can be individuated. One conversation partner said that, "for him," there are only holes when the host is solid and the guest is gaseous. When I asked if he meant that there are also holes in clouds, he denied it. Another guest said that there are only holes where something is "broken." A woman believed that holes always had to be continuous, with two "entrances." If something only had one exit, like a cave, then it was not a hole in the rock, but rather a pit.

This small experiment shows that there is no consistent everyday theory about holes. This is not surprising. After all, there is also no consistent everyday theory about chairs, containers, or porridge.

This also shows that it doesn't make much sense to ask what holes are. I tried to explain how it comes about that we use this concept. We use it because, when we speak, we initially overlook details and use concepts that contain abstractions and idealizations. Holes are therefore interruptions of "things" because such interruptions are not initially provided for the things we talk about.

We live like Platonists in a world full of ideal forms: an ideal stone has no dents; an ideal leaf has no fringes, and an ideal bucket has no holes. Ideal stones, ideal leaves, and ideal buckets, however, do not exist. Therefore, we need holes (dents, gaps, scratches, bumps, creases) too.

Welcome back to my series on power relations! In my first post, I delved into the nature of authority. Today, I will explore the concept of power.

The notion of power is essential in both empirical and normative investigations. Empirical questions, such as whether a country is controlled by a power elite, whether employers hold power over employees, or how power dynamics are structured within political groups, require a clear conceptual framework for the concept of power. This framework allows us to evaluate such issues empirically.

Normative inquiries regarding power, such as whether power and freedom can coexist, whether power equality should be pursued, and whether justice can be achieved in a society shaped by power dynamics, also rely on a clear understanding of the concept of power.

To embark on empirical and normative inquiries into power, it is crucial to perform a conceptual analysis to understand the essence of power and its fundamental components. Two different questions arise in this context. The first question is conceptual: What is power? The second one is empirical: How can power be assessed?

As we cannot answer the second question without having a good understanding of the concept of power, let us start with the first question. The discussion of assessing power relations must wait for another installment.

Defining power

Having power in the most general sense may seem to imply the ability to achieve something. Someone who achieves something can be considered powerful, to some extent, and someone who achieves more than others can be seen as more powerful.

Another way to articulate this idea is to say that power is control. The more control you possess, the more power you have. Accomplishing something makes you feel powerful. On the other hand, if you continually fail despite your efforts, or if you anticipate failure, you lose control and feel powerless.

One could challenge the notion that power solely belongs to those who achieve something, as true power lies with those who achieve what they desire or want. This voluntative aspect seems to be an essential component of the concept of power.

However, this view is both true and false at the same time. For instance, consider a shareholder who wishes for a stock price to rise in the near future, and the price of that stock rises rapidly. In this case, the shareholder has achieved what he wanted. But it does not necessarily mean that the shareholder has power or control over the stock price.

Simply achieving what one wants does not always equate to power, as a person who adjusts their desires to realistically achievable things may be rational but not necessarily powerful.

Therefore, analyzing the concept of power should not be limited to actual desires and achievements. It must also consider what someone could achieve if he had certain desires, regardless of whether he currently has them or not.

Asserting that someone has power does not necessarily mean that he typically achieves what he wants. Rather, it means that the powerful person could achieve what he desires, regardless of his current wants or desires.

This is why volitions do not play a crucial role in the analysis of power. The more someone can achieve, the greater their power, regardless of their desires.

Another objection could arise by observing that one can achieve a multitude of trivial objectives. For instance, one could make one’s right index finger bend or move a teapot on one’s kitchen table two centimeters to the left. If power is equated with what one can do, then perhaps there is an excess of power in the world, more than what is typically assumed.

However, it would be premature to deny that there are situations where considering such trivial cases of power may be beneficial. When a child feels overwhelmed by its own powerlessness, highlighting the many things it can do and control could be helpful.

Furthermore, whether an action is considered trivial or not depends on the context. For example, let's imagine that Hannes Longfinger has a gun pointed at someone's head and his finger is on the trigger.

In this situation, simply bending his index finger could have severe consequences for his victim. Hannes holds a significant amount of power and can make a life or death decision.

It is highly unlikely that we can identify certain situations that lead to significant exercises of power while others do not. Therefore, it may not be beneficial to differentiate between significant and trivial exercises of power when defining power.

This leads to a simple definition of power: Someone has power if and only if he can achieve something. Denoting anything one can do or achieve as "H," the general definition of power can be expressed as an equation:

(1)

A has the power to do H in context C iff A can do H in context C.

The sentence "A can do H" expresses a possibility and is a modal statement that should be analyzed as a relative modality, according to Angelika Kratzer.1 This means that the modality expressed by the modal adverb "can" is interpreted against a conversational background.

As we discussed earlier in the context of authority, sentences expressing relative modalities can be analyzed in a model of the form:

(2)

M = <X, W, f, V>

where X is a set of persons, W is a set of possible worlds, V is an evaluation for each atomic sentence, and f is a function that assigns to each possible world w a set of propositions {pⱼ}, representing the conversational background relevant in the context of an utterance in w.

Let us assume that the scope of action available to a person, x, in a given situation is relevant to the conversation regarding their power. The set of propositions that are the value of f, consists then of all propositions according to which x performs the actions available to him/her given the circumstances in the situation.

The scope of action, in this sense, can be expressed as:

(3)

f(x,w) = {pⱼ: x performs actions within the limits of x’s scope in w}

Since each proposition pⱼ is a set of possible worlds, the intersection of these sets will give us a set of worlds in which x performs all the actions available to him/her:

(4)

∩f(x,w) = ∩{pⱼ: x performs actions within the limits of x’s scope in w}
= the set of worlds in which x performs what is in x’s limits of scope

The truth conditions of sentences of the form "A can do H" can then be formulated as follows:

(5)

[[Can(Ha)]] in M, w = 1 if and only if there is a world w' ∈ ∩f(a,w) such that w' ∈ [[(Ha)]].

= “Can(Ha)” is true in a world w iff there is a world w’ which belongs to the worlds that comprise the scope of action of a in w and a does H in w’.

Looking at power in this way places the responsibility of explaining power on the function f, which determines the scope of action available to a person in a particular situation. While my definition of power offers a framework for modeling power, it does not provide information on what f actually looks like or how we can assess an actor's power.

It is worth noting that while this analysis provides a definition of power, it is not an all-encompassing theory of power. While a definition guides the development of a theory, the real challenge is to construct the theory itself rather than merely defining power.

However, a definition of power is still useful, as it provides a framework for the development of a theory of power. It allows us to model power, identify factors that might affect power, and avoid shortcuts in analyzing power relations.

Many of the "theories of power" currently in the intellectual marketplace offer only a limited view of power. Theories of political power, economic power, structural power, institutional power, and interpretive power are interesting in their own right, but they offer only partial insights into the phenomenon of power.

My definition of power also has a critical aspect. We can evaluate claims about power relations by examining whether these claims are consistent with our judgments about what someone can and cannot do in a given situation.

For example, if someone claims that women are structurally oppressed in our society and have less power than men, this claim can only be true if it can be shown that women have fundamentally fewer options for action than men. It is not enough to demonstrate that there are more men than women in managerial positions in certain fields or that there is a gender pay gap.

Instead, it must be demonstrated that women have fewer opportunities to attain leadership positions or negotiate higher salaries. I do not claim that this cannot be done, but I want to emphasize that a definition of power enables us to better assess claims and justifications for the existence of power imbalances.

Defining power may seem simple, but assessing power in a given situation is much more complex. What determines the scope of action available to a particular person or group in a given situation? I cannot answer this question here, and I doubt that there is a simple answer, but I will discuss some possible misunderstandings and explore some implications of my deflationist definition of power.

Abilities and skills

I have proposed that the power of an individual or a group in a specific context is equivalent to their capacity to act within that context. However, this approach may be perceived as reducing power to a mere set of skills and capabilities, which may seem overly simplistic and incomplete. Although an individual's abilities and skills can contribute to their power, there are - of course - many other factors at play, including social status, cultural norms, institutional structures, relationships between individuals and groups, and much more.

This misunderstanding arises when assuming that "A can do H" simply means that A is able to perform H or has the necessary skills to do so. However, the modal auxiliary "can" has various interpretations, including epistemic, deontic, dispositional, and entitlement.

Regarding power, "can" has what we can refer to as a scope-of-action reading. For instance:

(6)

Putin has the power to end the war between Russia and Ukraine.

- is quivalent to:

Putin can end the war between Russia and Ukraine.

- is equivalent to:

Given the scope of action available to Putin, it is possible for him to end the war between Russia and Ukraine.

When evaluating someone's scope of action, it's essential to consider a wide range of factors, including his abilities and skills, social structures, cultural norms, physical laws, dynamics of relationships and interactions between individuals and groups, and many others.

This deflationist view of power, as we may call it, shifts the burden of a theory of power from its definition to its assessment, which is a more reasonable approach. Attempting to define power based on factors that influence an actor's ability to act in a given situation would be hasty. Such an approach would, at best, result in a partial definition of power, and at worst, lead to overlooking important aspects of power due to an overly narrow perspective.

Ubiquity of power

Unless you are comatose or deceased, you always have some agency. You are never completely powerless. Therefore, power is ubiquitous.

The more we can accomplish, thanks to personal growth, technological advancements, favorable environmental conditions, and political liberties, the more power becomes accessible to us.

At every moment of our lives, we face countless options and choices. Even if we choose not to act on them, our potential for action and power remains significant.

This is not to imply that there are no discrepancies in power among individuals or groups, quite the contrary. Nonetheless, it demonstrates that each of us possesses more power than we might recognize.

Neutrality of power

Power often carries a negative connotation. It is often associated with oppression, inequality, abuse, and manipulation. Although these associations have a basis, they do not necessarily define the nature of power.

One may argue that the expansion of opportunities for action has its positive sides too. Those who possess knowledge and technology that can cure certain diseases have more power, and this benefits many. When one has the power to increase the well-being and happiness of others, it is a positive manifestation of power.

The misconception that power is inherently negative because people tend to exploit it may lead us to believe that it would be better to contain and restrict it.

However, this could come at the expense of our well-being. Power is not a zero-sum game. Limiting the power of one person or group does not automatically transfer that power to others. In many cases, it would be more advantageous to increase power in a targeted way, rather than limiting it.

If we expand our overall scope for action, we all become capable of achieving more. Power is not a finite resource, and it is not always a matter of how the pie is divided fairly. We can expand the cake as a whole, so that everyone gets a larger share.

Increased opportunity leads to more power, which can lead to both good and bad outcomes. Power as such is neutral, and it is up to us to use it wisely.

Degrees of power

Power is not a singular entity, but instead exists in varying degrees. The more one can accomplish in a given situation, the more power one possesses in that moment. This suggests that power is, in principle, measurable and comparable.

However, it is difficult to determine how powerful someone is in a given situation. How many units of power does one gain upon graduating from college, climbing the corporate ladder, or winning the lottery? How many units are lost due to aging or illness? These questions are difficult, if not impossible, to answer.

This is because the scope of action in any given situation is influenced by a vast array of factors that cannot be easily reduced to a formula.

When we compare power, we do so with the assumption of ceteris paribus - that all other things are equal. For instance, if Susi and Marie meet at a fair and Susi has one Euro more in her pocket than Marie, then Susi has slightly more power. She has more options available to her. She could maybe do two laps on the carousel instead of just one.

However, in reality, everything is never equal. Susi and Marie differ in many ways - in their skills, intelligence, social networks, appearance, health, and attire, among other factors. All of these differences affect their respective abilities to act in any given situation.

We may argue that Susi and Marie have different economic power, but economic power is only one aspect of the power available to them when they attend the fair. Therefore, we cannot draw any definitive conclusions about the power dynamic between Susi and Marie based solely on the difference in their pocket money.

Reach of power

Power is not a timeless attribute; rather, it is dynamic and mutable, capable of being augmented or diminished over time. At any given moment, an individual or group may have the capacity to attain certain objectives, while at other times, they may not.

Power, therefore, cannot be considered an inherent trait of a person or group in general, but rather a feature that they possess at a specific moment or over a certain period of time.

Furthermore, power not only concerns what can be done now but also how actions today can influence the future. When we say that a person or group A has power at time t1 concerning a matter E at time t2, we imply that A can bring about E at t2 through their actions at t1. Let’s call this the temporal reach of power.

This temporal aspect of power raises several intricate issues that relate to the relationship between t1 and t2. It is not apparent, for instance, whether A must be capable of ensuring that E occurs at t2 at all times between t1 and t2 to claim power over E at t1.

We are constantly confronted with considerations of the reach of power, as in the climate debate. Can what we do today affect the lives of future generations? Is it in our power to stop global warming? These are difficult questions, requiring valid theories and models, as well as an accurate assessment of our current situation.

What is clear is that we have the power to influence the future. However, our judgments about how what we can do will play out in the future become weaker the further the effects of our actions lie in the future.

It is unclear how long the period between t1 and t2 can be to apply the concept of power meaningfully. For example, can we say that a 10-year-old holds power over a particular issue in the distant future if it is conceivable that they can achieve goals linked to that issue in adulthood? Should he or she care about grades?

The spatial range of power is another issue. In the past, it might have been possible to escape the sphere of influence of a principality and its courts simply by getting a few hundred kilometers away from them. With the availability of telephones, cars, developed roads, airplanes, and international cooperation, this is no longer so easy. Our scope for action has greatly increased.

We could call the temporal and spatial dimensions of power a sphere of influence that becomes increasingly opaque with distance. The sphere of influence of any particular person, group, or humanity as a whole depends on how what can be done here and now will work out in a then and there. While knowledge and technology extend the range of our power, we cannot specify precise boundaries of power in time and space.

Intransparency of power

Not all the consequences of our actions are clear to us. Often, we are unaware of the effects that our actions might have. Additionally, our assessment of our own abilities is not always accurate since we might not know all the circumstances surrounding a particular situation. As a result, a significant part of the power that we possess is opaque to us.

For example, while we could start a business or invite friends over for dinner, there is no guarantee of success or attendance. Similarly, questions about colonizing Mars, curing cancer, winning a war, or doing a handstand are complex and dependent on many factors, making the outcome uncertain.

Since power is dependent on various factors that we cannot fully appreciate, it is often diffuse and elusive. While knowledge can help to make power more transparent, a complete theory of power is impossible. Instead, our understanding of power benefits from knowledge gained in other areas.

Forms and dimensions of power

Saying that having power means being able to do things does not preclude an examination of specific achievements in a particular field, nor does it prohibit comparisons.

Perhaps the most intriguing type of power is social power, which refers to the ability to affect the behavior of others. We humans are social creatures, and the ability to influence behavior, especially during interactions, occupies us from morning till night.

Power can have both negative and positive effects in this context as well. When we consider propaganda, manipulation, bribery, violence, and other such phenomena, we usually focus on the negative aspects of social power.

Conversely, when we examine the lighter side of social power, we see that it can manifest in therapy, assistance, empathy, love, and cooperation.

I refer to these phenomena as the various forms of power, which I will delve into in a future post.

There are various domains of power, including political, diplomatic, elite, interpretive, economic, negotiating, and many more.

These dimensions of power differ from the forms of power in that they are not focused on specific forms of interaction but on the interplay between different resources and their impact on the potential for action in a particular area.

A significant portion of the discourse surrounding power centers around these matters, and I do not intend to duplicate existing work in this area. My definition of power does not preclude such analyses and only makes a minor contribution to them.

Opportunity costs

Paradoxically, one way to diminish your power is by engaging in an activity. When you commit to something, you lose the opportunity to pursue other alternatives that could have been more beneficial. In economics, this is known as an opportunity cost.

The concept of opportunity costs emphasizes the importance of making wise choices about our actions. We must invest our power in activities that provide us with the most benefit and avoid wasting it on frivolous pursuits.

To this end, one effective strategy is to engage in activities that will increase our power. We can enhance our skills, learn new things, prioritize our health through diet and exercise, cultivate new relationships, or invest in our future. By doing so, we can expand the realm of our possibilities and ultimately increase our power.

However, we must also be mindful of the opportunity costs associated with these activities. If we solely focus on expanding our possibilities and fail to take advantage of them, our efforts will have been in vain. Reading is an excellent example of an activity that both expands and utilizes our abilities, making it a highly recommended pursuit.

What I want to reiterate, once more, is that I did not assert that the scope of action is the foundation of power. Rather, I stated that it is power. Consequently, any declaration of an individual's power is equivalent to a declaration of their capabilities and potential achievements.

As such, the term power does not indicate a specific area of phenomena, but rather encompasses the diverse range of actions we, as agents, can take in particular circumstances. In principle, we could consider abandoning the concept of power altogether. However, in practice, the notion of power makes it easier to have meaningful discussions about what we can accomplish or achieve. It facilitates a more efficient and streamlined discussion of these phenomena.

Ultimately, therefore, the term power serves as a linguistic shortcut.

Ich befand mich im ‘Laboratorium’. Hier hatte er seine Mikroskope aufgestellt. Das waren messingfarbene Instrumente. Am unteren Ende befand sich ein kleines Tischchen, auf das man etwas drauflegen konnte. Die Probe. Darüber befand sich eine bogenförmige Halterung, an der ein Tubus befestigt war, der über dem Tischchen begann und dann nach oben hin immer dünner wurde. Als hätte man das Fernrohr, mit dem Captain Flint am Ufer der Schatzinsel übers Meer schaute, an den Arm einer antiken Tischlampe geschraubt.

An einem dieser Instrumente stand Ferdinand Kaltenthal jetzt. Angestrengt blickte er hinein. Seine ausgestreckten Arme hielten seine hagere Gestalt über dem Okular.

Er trug wie immer ein weißes Hemd und eine schwarze Fliege um den Hals. Auch hier bei seiner Arbeit. Dazu dunkle Stoffhosen und Sandalen, durch die man seine gemusterten Socken sah.

„Onkelchen!“, rief ich vorsichtig.

Nichts.

„Onkelchen!“ Nun etwas lauter.

„Moment Lili. Warte mal.“

Ferdinand beugte sich über einen Notizblock und schrieb etwas hinein. Dann schaute er wieder in das Okular. Nach einer Weile drehte er sich um und sah mich in der Tür stehen.

„Hallo Lili, was machst du denn hier?“

„Ich wollte dir zum Geburtstag gratulieren!“

„Zu welchem Geburtstag?“

„Na zu deinem! Heute ist der 5. Dezember. Du hast Geburtstag, Professor Onkelchen von Kalthenthal.“

„Na so was! Haben wir denn jetzt Dezember?“

Ferdinand lächelte mich an und dann nahm er mich in den Arm.

„Schön, dass du da bist. Ich habe eben eine große Entdeckung gemacht.“

„Die machst du doch immer. Willst du nicht wissen, welches Geschenk ich für dich habe?“

„Hm. Du willst mir etwas schenken? Ach so, du meinst zum Geburtstag? Was hast du denn? Sag schon!“

Ich griff in meine Jackentasche und zog dann die Packung Kaugummi heraus, die ich mitgebracht hatte.

„Zum Abgewöhnen!“

„Na du bist mir ja eine. Ich glaube aber nicht, dass das reicht!“

Ferdinand lachte. Er wohnte hier ganz allein in seinem Schloss. Aber das schien ihn nicht weiter zu stören. Er sagte immer, dass er Ruhe brauche für seine Studien. Ständig müsse er nachdenken.

Er sei ein Forscher, der das ganz, ganz winzig Kleine, das Unsichtbare untersuchte. Die Dinge, die er hier erforschte, hatte noch nie jemand so gesehen wie er. Außer vielleicht ich.

Manchmal besuchte ich Ferdinand in seinem Schloss. Dann schaute ich ihm über die Schulter, oder schlenderte in der Bibliothek herum und schaute mir die dicken Bände dort an. Vieles davon verstand ich nicht.

Eines Tages jedoch entdeckte ich die Sternentagebücher — ganz in der unteren Ecke der großen Bibliothek. Stundenlang saß ich auf dem Fußboden und konnte mich gar nicht satt lesen an den Abenteuern von Ijon Tichy.

Onkel meinte zwar, das seien keine “richtigen” Bücher, aber ich war da anderer Meinung. Und was soll das überhaupt heißen, dass manche Bücher “richtig” sind und andere nicht? Am Ende entscheidet das doch der Leser, also ich. Und nicht Ferdinand!

„Was hast du denn heute entdeckt?“

Ferdinand ging um den schweren Eichentisch mit den vielen großen und kleinen Instrumenten herum und dann zu einer grünen Wandtafel, die sich an der gegenüberliegenden Seite der großen Fenster befand. Sie war immer mit vielen Zahlen und Buchstaben vollgeschrieben.

Er wischte die Kreide ab und winkte mich heran.

„Pass mal auf Lili,“ fing er an, „stell dir vor, wir haben ein winzig kleines Ding. Zum Beispiel eine Laus. Wenn wir die nehmen und unter ein Mikroskop legen, dann sehen wir, was alles in einer kleinen Laus drin ist. Das ist eine ganze Menge und sieht sehr hübsch aus. Wenn wir nun ein noch größeres Mikroskop nehmen, dann können wir uns ansehen, woraus das besteht, was in der Laus drin ist. Und so können wir das immer weiter treiben.“

Während er sprach, malte Ferdinand einen großen Kreis an die Tafel, vor der wir beide jetzt standen. Das war wohl die Laus, von der er sprach. In diesen Kreis malte er kleinere Kreise hinein. Und in diese kleineren Kreise noch kleinere. Dann hatten nur noch Punkte Platz.

„Auf jeden Fall,“ so sprach er weiter, „kommen wir dann immer und immer wieder zu noch kleineren Teilchen, oder aber,“ und jetzt machte er eine kleine Pause, „wir kommen irgendwann zu einem Ende.“

Ferdinand sah mich erwartungsvoll an. Ich wusste nicht, was ich dazu sagen sollte, und rang mich zu einem „Und?“ durch.

„Und es ist doch klar, dass es nicht bis ins Unendliche immer noch kleinere Teilchen geben kann! Das geht nicht. Das ist nicht möglich. Es folgt also …“ und jetzt machte er wieder eine Pause.

„Was?“

Ich betrachtete die Punkte an der Tafel und dachte an ein Gebirge aus Kreide.

„Na, es folgt, dass letzten Endes alles aus Nichts besteht. Die Tische. Die Stühle. Ich. Du. Das Schloss. Die ganze Welt. Dass es nichts davon wirklich gibt!“

Ich schaute meinen Onkel mit großen Augen an.

„Wie meinst du das, es gibt uns gar nicht?“

„Na ich meine, dass wir gar nicht existieren! Das geht nämlich nicht.“

„Aber du bist doch jetzt hier. Und ich auch!“

„Das stimmt schon Lili. Das ist, wie wir die Welt erfahren. Es scheint dir so, als stünde ich jetzt hier. Und du dort. Aber in Wirklichkeit ist da nichts. Was sollte da auch sein? Das ist gar nicht so schwierig zu verstehen. Wenn du ins Kino gehst und dir einen Film anschaust, dann siehst du doch auch die Landschaft und die Leute, die die Landschaft durchschreiten, sich miteinander unterhalten, lachen, weinen, lieben. All das scheint wirklich da zu sein. Und trotzdem gibt es das gar nicht. Wenn das Licht an geht, ist das alles weg. Puff. Aus und vorbei.“

„Ach Onkelchen, du immer mit deinen Ideen!“

Ich setzte mich auf den schweren Tisch und lachte Ferdinand an.

„Wer sagt denn, dass es so ist? Man kann sich ja vieles ausdenken. Vielleicht sind wir ja in Wahrheit Regenwürmer, die gerade träumen, sie seien Strichmenschen!? Wer weiß schon, wie es wirklich ist?“

„Na na na, liebe Lili. Es stimmt schon, dass wir nicht alles glauben sollten, was sich irgendjemand bloß ausgedacht hat. Aber hier ist es anders. Ich habe wirklich BEWIESEN, dass es so ist. Dass die Welt und alles, was auf ihr herum kraucht, überhaut nicht existiert. Schau doch bitte hier rein und sage mir, was du siehst!“

Ferdinand zeigte auf das große Mikroskop, durch das er so angespannt geschaut hatte, als ich herein kam. Ich ging zu ihm hinüber und zog einen Hocker unter dem Tisch hervor. Darauf stieg ich und schaute von oben in die Linse hinein.

„Irgendetwas Verschwommenes. Schwarz und weiß.“

„Du musst natürlich scharf stellten! Das kleine Rädchen, rechts unten am Tubus.“

Ich griff also nach dem Scharfsteller und drehte daran herum.

„Ah, jetzt. Das sieht aus wie ein fettes, dunkles Rohr. Und an der Seite ragen viele Stacheln heraus.“

„Das ist ein Fliegenbein. Stark vergrößert. Jetzt dreh am linken Rad. Damit kannst du die Probe noch stärker vergrößern.“

Ich drehte. Das Rohr wuchs an und wurde größer. Dann war alles dunkel.

„Dreh weiter!“

Ich drehte weiter. Jetzt wurde es wieder heller. Dann tauchten viele kleine kissenartige Objekte auf. Dunkle Ränder und innen hell.

„Dreh weiter!“

Ich drehte das Rädchen, bis eines der kleinen Kissen die gesamte Sichtfläche ausfüllte. Jetzt sah ich, dass es aus kleinen Kügelchen bestand. Dann ging es nicht mehr weiter. Der Tubus war ganz oben.

„Und jetzt? Was soll das für ein Beweis sein?“

„Naja, das sind die Grenzen der Technik. Du bist jetzt bei ungefähr 130 Nanometern. Das ist zwar schon so winzig, dass du dir das nicht mehr vorstellen kannst, aber weiter kommst du mit so einem Gerät nicht.“

Er zupfte mir ein Haar aus und sagte „Lass uns in den Keller gehen!“

Wir verließen den Raum, durchquerten einige Korridore. Das Schloss war alt und ein wenig unübersichtlich. Wenn man nicht aufpasste, dann landete man im falschen Flügel. Das ist mir schon oft passiert.

Es war auch sonst kein ganz gewöhnliches Schloss. Statt Schlafzimmern gab es Bibliotheken. Statt Tanzsälen Labore. Der Festsaal war das ‘Laboratorium’. Hier standen seine Mikroskope und unzählige andere Apparate.

Über Korridore und Durchgangszimmer kam man von einem Saal in den nächsten. Dann gelangten wir in eines der beiden größeren Treppenhäuser. Hier ging es nach unten. Zwei Etagen. Dann durch eine schwere Tür weiter in den Keller.

Ferdinand knipste das Licht an und ging voraus. Die Gänge waren nur spärlich durch Wandlampen beleuchtet. Jedes Mal, wenn wir an einer vorüber kamen, stand der hagere Schatten von Onkel Ferdinand erst neben mir an der Wand, rannte dann aber schnell nach vorn und überholte den Wissenschaftler genau auf Lampenhöhe. Danach zischte er nach vorne weg. Dann kam ein neuer Schatten von hinten an.

Schließlich standen wir vor einer sehr neu aussehenden Tür.

„Hier kommt jetzt dein Haar rein.“

Ferdinand schloss die Tür auf und machte Licht. Der Raum war sauber und hell. In der Mitte stand ein hoher Tisch aus Metall. Mit einer runden Platte. Im Zentrum dieser Platte gab es ein Loch, das verglast war. Dort hinein legte er mein Haar. Sorgfältig zog Ferdinand eine ebenfalls durchsichtige Klappe darüber, die das Loch von oben abschloss.

Über diesem Tisch hing eine riesige Linse, die in einem Metallrohr hing, das an der Decke angebracht war. In ihrer gebogenen Oberfläche spiegelte sich der Rest des Raums, der viel größer wirkte als er tatsächlich war.

Ferdinand und ich sahen darin aus wie Ameisen, die am Boden herum krochen und nach dem Ausgang suchten.

„So, das war’s. Jetzt müssen wir wieder nach oben.“

Wir gingen jetzt einen anderen Kellergang entlang, der in einer Wendeltreppe mündete, die sich um den metallenen Tubus des riesigen Apparats wand.

„Ab hier wird gezählt. Es sind genau einhundertdreiundachtzig Stufen. Das lässt sich nicht teilen, weil es eine Primzahl ist. Du kannst also nicht in der Mitte stehen bleiben.“

Ich verdrehte nur die Augen, sagte aber nichts. Wieder ging ich Ferdinand hinterher, der für sein Alter ziemlich schnell hinauf ging. Die Wendeltreppe war sehr schmal. An der rechten Seite gab es ein kleines Geländer. Links ging Metall von unten nach oben. Der Tubus.

Jedes mal, wenn Ferdinand unten im Keller eine neue Probe aufgelegt hatte, musste er erst die Treppe erklimmen, damit er diese oben im Okular untersuchen konnte. Das riesige Mikroskop, das vom Keller bis unter das Dach reichte, war sein Meisterwerk. Er hatte jahrelang daran gebaut.

„Einundachtzig, zweiundachzig, dreiundachtzig. Primzahl. Geschafft.“

Ferdinand blieb auf der letzten Stufe stehen und keuchte ein wenig.

„So, hier herein bitte.“

Wir gingen durch eine schwere Rundbogentür mit zwei Flügeln. Das Turmzimmer war ein fensterloser Raum, in dessen Mitte der Tubus knapp über dem Boden endete. In einer extra Halterung war ein weiterer Tubus angebracht, der in der Hauptröhre steckte und mit zwei Rädern links und rechts hoch und runter gedreht werden konnte. Dazwischen war das Okular befestigt, das aussah wie ein abgesägtes Fernrohr, das jemand an das Notventil des Wasserwerks angeklebt hatte.

Ferdinand knipste eine winzige Lampe an, die von einem grünen Tuch abgedeckt wurde. Durch den Stoff kam ein wenig Licht. Gerade so viel, dass man sich im Raum orientieren konnte, ohne irgendwo dagegen zu stoßen.

Dann machte er sich an den Rädern zu schaffen. „Hier kann man die Vergrößerung einstellen.“ erklärte er, während er an den beiden Rädern drehte und durch das Okular schaute. Der obere Tubus fuhr nach unten. Als es nicht weiter ging, winkte er mich heran.

„Komm her und schau!“

Ich stellte mich vor die Apparatur und sah hindurch. In der Mitte ihres Sehfeldes befand sich ein dunkler Streifen.

„Jetzt dreh!“

Ich begann. Langsam schob sich der Tubus wieder nach oben. Der Streifen verbreiterte sich, nahm den ganzen Raum ein und löste sich dann auf. Dann erschien — wieder in der Mitte — ein weiterer dünner Streifen. Auch dieser wurde breiter, je mehr ich an den Rädern drehte.

Und so folgte ein Streifen nach dem anderen. Irgendwann jedoch hörte das auf. Ich drehte noch eine Weile an den Rädchen, aber es passierte nichts mehr. Das Sehfeld blieb weiß. Dabei konnte der Tubus bis zur Decke noch mindestens einen Meter ausfahren.

„Siehst du,“ sagte Ferdinand, „nichts! Irgendwann ist da nichts mehr. Du hast eben dein Haar betrachtet. Dann hast du dessen Bestandteile gesehen. Und dann die Teile der Teile und so weiter. Aber ich hatte ja schon gesagt, dass das nicht endlos so weiter gehen kann. Es gibt keine kleinsten Teile, aus denen alles andere aufgebaut ist. Die müssten ja wieder aus irgendetwas bestehen. Etwas noch Kleinerem. Und so weiter. Wenn man sich die Dinge so stark vergrößert anschaut wie hier, dann sieht man, dass es irgendwann einfach nichts mehr gibt. Das hast du eben gesehen. Und das heißt, dass wir nicht existieren. Dass nichts existiert. Aber das hatte ich ja schon gesagt.“

Ich schaute wieder in das Mikroskop und drehte an den Rädern herum. Das kann doch nicht sein!

„Was sind das hier für Zahlen?“

An dem beweglichen Tubus waren kleine Zahlen angebracht.

„Das sind die Nanomenter. Und dann darunter die Pikometer.“

Ich drehte bis gerade so nichts mehr zu sehen war. Die Anzeige stand jetzt bei 203. Ich fuhr weiter hoch. Jetzt 150. Weiter. 100. Nichts veränderte sich. Hier schien wirklich nichts mehr zu sein. Ich drehte weiter. Angestrengt schaute ich in das Okular.

Dann bei 87 war mir, als ob ein Schatten vorbei gehuscht wäre. Da war doch irgend etwas! Langsam drehte ich zurück. Da wieder. 88. Nichts. Zurück auf 87. Auch nichts. Aber irgendwie war da eine Erscheinung. Ich spürte es.

87,5 Pikometer. Da. Da war es. Ich sah ein Auge. Es stand ungefähr in der Mitte des Sichtfeldes und schaute mich an. Ich schrie leicht auf und wendete mich ab.

Als ich mich beruhigt hatte, schaute ich wieder hinein. Da war tatsächlich ein Auge. Ganz eindeutig. Es blinzelte und bewegte sich leicht. Ich sah jetzt, dass es keine Lider hatte. Und trotzdem blinzelte es. Es veränderte einfach seine Form. Erst war es ungefähr rund, und dann wurde es ruckartig schmal, und dann wieder rund. Ein Blinzeln.

Die Pupille, unter der die Linse saß, war schwarz und undurchdringlich. Dann kam die Iris, die irgendwie türkis schimmerte und von einem unregelmäßigen dunklen Rand umgeben war. Die weiße Lederhaut war von vielen feinen Linien durchzogen.

Das Auge schaute mich an. Ich spürte das. Es sah irgendwie nachdenklich aus. So, als wollte es etwas sagen.

Ich wusste nicht, warum ich das dachte. Ich wusste gar nicht, was ich denken sollte. Wieso gab es hier ein Auge? Dort, wo nichts mehr war? Im Reich des undenkbar Kleinen? Sicher hat das noch nie jemand gesehen. Verwirrt wendete ich mich wieder ab.

„Ich glaube, da ist doch etwas.“, flüsterte ich Ferdinand zu.

Der zog nur seine Augenbrauen hoch und ging zum Okular. Er blickte hinein und zog scharf die Luft durch den Mund.

„Das gibt‘s doch nicht!“ Ferdinand war schockiert und zugleich begeistert.

„Ist ja irre. Wir sehen hier bei einem Linienabstand von 87,5 Pikomentern ein Auge. Es lässt sich nicht vergrößern. Wenn wir den Abstand nur geringfügig verkleinern oder vergrößern, dann ist es nicht mehr da. Das lässt vermuten, dass es keine Ausdehnung hat. Phänomenal.“

Ferdinand ging auf und ab. Hin und wieder schaute er nach, ob es das Auge noch gab, aber es verschwand nicht.

„Was hat das zu bedeuten? Das kann doch gar nicht sein. Ein echtes Auge kann niemals so klein sein. Und es muss irgendeine Ausdehnung haben.“

„Vielleicht sind wir ja in einem Film!?“, schlug ich vor.

Ferdinand schüttelte leicht den Kopf.

„Warte hier,“ sagte er dann. „Ich muss jetzt erst einmal nachdenken.“

Ferdinand verließ hastig das Turmzimmer, stieg die Wendeltreppe hinab und bog dann beim ersten Absatz in einen Gang ein, der zum Rauchzimmer führte.

Das Rauchzimmer hatte er so belassen, wie es ursprünglich war. Die schwere Tür mit den Bändern, die die einzelnen Planken zusammen hielten, war beidseitig mit Malereien verziert. Weinblätter mit Ranken waren darauf dargestellt, vor rotem oder hellblauem Hintergrund.

Die Wände waren mit Holz vertäfelt. Am oberen Rand verlief eine Bordüre mit einer Zickzacklinie und Punkten. Darunter befanden sich ebenfalls Weinblätter mit kreisförmigen Ranken in hell abgesetztem Holz.

Es gab hier zwei Fensternischen, in denen jeweils zwei sich gegenüber stehende Sitzbänke eingelassen waren. Von hier aus hatte man einen herrlichen Blick über den Park und das Torhaus, das früher mal zum Schloss gehörte.

Ferdinand zog sich hier hin zurück, wenn er mal nicht weiter wusste. Dann setzte er sich auf eine der Bänke, zündete sich eine Pfeife an und überlegte. Manchmal saß er eine ganze Stunde so da. Und dann ging er zurück in eine Bibliothek, in ein Labor oder schaute durch ein Mikroskop.

So sollte es auch jetzt sein. Er öffnete die metallisch beschlagene Tür mit den Weinblatt-Ornamenten und trat ein. Im Schrank an der Seite lag seine Pfeife und verschiedene Sorten Tabak. Er hatte noch eine halbe Dose Dannemann. Den nahm er sich. Der machte ordentlich Qualm.

Dann setzte er sich auf eine der altertümlichen Bänke am Südfenster und zündete die Pfeife mit einem langen Streichholz an. Und dachte nach. Er versuchte es.

Nach kurzer Zeit stand er wieder auf und ging grübelnd hin und her. Dann setzte er sich wieder. Er war aufgeregt und klopfte mit seinen Fingern auf dem Tisch herum. Klopf klopf. Klopf klopf klopf. Klopf. Es qualmte. Aus der Pfeife und aus ihm heraus.

Dann stand er auf, drückte seine Pfeife aus und ging in Richtung Bibliothek.

„Morsen. Das ist ein Morsecode“, sagte er im Laufen. „Es spricht mit uns. Es ist ein lebender Telegraf!“

Hastig betrat er die Bibliothek. Er ging zur Abteilung ‚Elektrik und Elektrotechnik‘. Es ist ein Code. Das Blinzeln hat eine Struktur. Es ist, als ob man eine Taschenlampe ein und aus schaltet und dazwischen verschieden lange Abstände lässt. Kurz-lang-kurz-kurz. Kurz-kurz. Kurz-lang-kurz-kurz. Kurz-kurz. Das hatte er gesehen.

Er zog den dicken Wälzer aus dem Regal, in dem sich alle Tabellen und Umrechnungen befanden. Dann nahm er ein Stück Kreide und ging zurück ins Turmzimmer.

„Lili, ich hab‘s. Es ist ein Code. Geh bitte zum Okular und achte darauf, wie das Auge blinzelt. Wenn die Zwischenzeiten lang sind, dann sagst du ‚lang‘, wenn sie nur kurz sind, dann ‚kurz‘. Hast du das verstanden?“

Ich nickte und tat, was Ferdinand ihr sagte.

„Kurz-kurz-kurz-kurz.“, fing ich an.

Ferdinand malte mit Kreide vier Punkte an die Tafel. Dann kam kurz-lang. Punkt-Strich. Und so ging es weiter, bis die Tafel voll war.

„Du kannst aufhören“, sagte Ferdinand, „ich glaube, es wiederholt sich jetzt.“

Ich löste mein Gesicht von dem Apparat und rieb mir die Augen.

„Was sagt es denn?“

„Ich weiß es noch nicht. Warte bitte einen Moment.“

Ferdinand blätterte in dem dicken, braunen Buch hin und her und schrieb etwas in seinen Notizblock. Immer wieder schaute er zur Tafel und zurück ins Buch.

„Ich glaube, ich hab’s“, sagte er nach einer Weile.

„Da steht …“ Ferdinand Kaltenthal zögerte ein wenig, dann blickte er in sein Notizbuch und las vor.

Hallo Lili, ich bin das Auge, das dich sieht. Ich sehe die Landschaft, durch die du gehst. Die Leute, die du triffst. Wie du dich mit ihnen unterhältst. Wie du lachst. Wie du weinst und liebst. Und all das. Das alles passiert wirklich, weil ich es sehe. Deshalb existierst du.

Ich schaute noch immer die mit Strichen und Punkten verzierte Tafel an. Dann an mir herunter.

“Mach jetzt bitte nicht das Licht an, Ferdinand. Sonst sind wir weg.”

Ferdinand kritzelte schon wieder etwas in sein Notizbuch und schüttelte leicht mit dem Kopf.

“Vielleicht irrst du dich, Lili. Ich bin auch noch da. Vermute ich. Lass uns das mal überprüfen.”

Dann zog er sich ein Haar heraus.

Welcome to the first installment of a series on power relations. I find power to be a fascinating topic because it is complex and integral to our social structures. Although I am uncertain how many posts this series will include, I promise to keep you updated.

We often discuss power, but seldom do we take the time to fully explore its complex and multifaceted nature. Therefore, let us delve deeper and clarify what we mean when we use the term "power."

At its core, power refers to the ability to influence or control others. However, two distinct concepts of power are at play here.

The first, which I consider more fundamental, is the execution of power, whereby an individual asserts their will over others. Power can be executed in various ways, such as coercion, violence, persuasion, manipulation, or bribery.

On the other hand, there is the possession of power, where an individual may not necessarily execute power but has the potential to do so. This is often referred to as the power of influence.

I would like to begin this series by exploring authority, which refers to the power to perform important tasks, such as enacting laws or settling religious disputes.

Authority is a specific form of power and can have two different meanings: executing authority, which means carrying out authorized actions, and having or possessing authority, meaning the ability to do what others cannot.

Both concepts are intertwined and closely related to each other, but I will mainly concentrate on the first concept of authority: What does it mean that someone is authorized to do a range of things?

The reasons why I believe it is more productive to concentrate on influencing instead of having influence will become clearer in later installments. For now, let's start with a closer examination of authority.

Defining authority

Authority is the power or right to make decisions, give orders, and enforce obedience.

It is often associated with positions of leadership, such as a government official, a manager, a captain of a pirate ship or a priest, but can also refer to someone who has expertise or knowledge in a particular area.

Authority can be based on a variety of factors, such as legal or institutional power, social status, or personal qualities like charisma or expertise.

Authority is present in many different fields and contexts. It is an important aspect of social organization, as it allows individuals and institutions to exert control and influence over others in a structured and legitimate way.

It is also an essential part of social institutions and plays a significant role in shaping the norms and values of society.

The exercise of authority can have an impact on individuals and society, and its legitimacy is often a subject of debate and scrutiny.

I will not concern myself with what authority is based on or why it is respected. Those are interesting topics. Here, I want to focus on what authority is, or more specifically: what it means for someone to be authorized to do something.

Here are some examples of actions that require authoriy from various fields:

• Government: The President of the United States issuing an executive order that carries the force of law.

• Education: A teacher setting classroom rules and expectations, and enforcing consequences for breaking them.

• Parenting: A parent setting boundaries and rules for their child's behavior, and enforcing consequences for disobedience.

• Business: A manager making decisions about hiring, firing, promotions, and other personnel matters.

• Law enforcement: A police officer arresting and detaining suspects, and using force if necessary to maintain order and protect the public.

• Religion: A religious leader interpreting and teaching religious doctrine, and making decisions about matters such as marriage, divorce, and excommunication.

These are just a few examples. What they show is that having authority means that you’re entitled to perform certain actions that can bring about specific states or situations.

These states often have a normative status, meaning that certain rights or obligations are linked to the outcomes of authorized actions. For instance, entering into a contract, getting married, convicting a defendant, or being granted custody of a child are all examples of such actions having normative consequences.

The fact that someone has authority, therefore, includes two different aspects: he or she is firstly entitled to perform a specific range of actions (in a certain context), and the consequences or norms brought about by those actions are accepted as “binding” in a certain sense:

(1)

A person a has authority to do H in context C iff

(i) a is entitled to do H (in C), and
(ii) the consequences of H are accepted (in C).

Both conditions are necessary. Let's imagine a mutiny on a pirate ship. A gang of three sailors has conspired against captain Whitebeard, overpowering him and tying him to a mast.

They call the crew together, and the strongest of the three - called “Blackbeard” - orders in a commanding tone, "Set the sails!" The crew hesitates for a moment, but they are intimidated and begin to set the sails.

This means that the conspirator's words are interpreted as an order to set the sails in this situation. If the ship's cook - Sam Teaspoon - had shouted the same thing in a sunny afternoon, it would not have had any binding force and would have been interpreted at best as a playful role-playing game.

So, Blackbeards's words had normative consequences without him yet having the authority to give orders to his crew. He only exercised power over the other members of the crew through his physical strength and demonstration of his determination.

He could acquire authority in the next few days by declaring himself captain, and the others might accept it. But it is also possible that he may not succeed, and someone might throw him overboard to end the mutiny.

Although Whitebeartd tied to the mast still is entitled to give orders at this point, if no one follows him, his words do not count as orders to the crew. Entitlement alone doesn’t install authority.

I suspect that both conditions are sufficient for authority. If someone actually is entitled to perform a certain range actions (in a certain social context), and the consequences of those actions are accepted, then they have authority in that area. Let's examine the interplay between these factors in the following examples:

• Legal authority: A judge has authority in a courtroom if (a) he is entitled to issue a sentence and (b) that sentence counts as legally binding.

• Academic authority: A professor has authority in a classroom if (a) he is entitled to grade assignments and (b) those grades count as a measure of student achievement.

• Managerial authority: A manager has authority in a workplace if (a) he is entitled to make hiring decisions and (b) his decisions count as the official hiring decisions.

• Parental authority: A parent has authority in a household if (a) he is entitled to to set rules and (b) those rules count as expectations for behavior.

• Political authority: A government has authority in a country if (a) it is entitled to to enact laws and (b) those laws count as binding regulations.

• Religious authority: A religious leader has authority in a religious community if (a) he is entitled to interpret scripture and (b) his interpretation counts as the official doctrine.

• Scientific authority: A researcher has authority in a field if (a) he is entitled to conduct experiments and (b) his findings from those experiments count as evidence.

In each of these examples, a person - such as a captain, coach, priest or manager - is granted the right to take specific actions within a particular context, and those actions result in a particular state of affairs or a socially binding norm.

To better understand the concept of authority, we must, therefore, analyze the relationships referred to in the two conditions. We need to examine what it means for a person to have the right to perform a range of actions within a specific context. Additionally, we must comprehend what it means for a particular action to be considered as setting a social norm.

Let's address these questions in this order.

Entitlement

Another way to express that someone has the right or entitlement to do something is by stating that he or she can do it. A judge can issue a verdict, but a lawyer cannot. The government can enact laws, but the local bowling club cannot.

To say that someone can do something involves using a statement with a modal force: it is possible that he or she does it, based on various circumstances and assessments.

Entitlements have certain analogies to permissions, obligations, or abilities. The following comparison clarifies this:

(2)

Peter can conclude the building society contract.

a. For all we know, Peter concludes the building society contract.
b. Peter is allowed to conclude the building society contract.
c. Peter is able to conclude the building society contract.
d. Peter is entitled to conclude the building society contract.

The paraphrases (2.a) to (2.d) suggest that the modal adverb can has not only the well-known epistemic (2.a), deontic (2.b), and dispositional interpretations (2.c), but also an interpretation in which it signifies having the right or entitlement to do something (2.d).

However, this does not yet establish whether entitlement is a distinct concept or not. It could be argued that entitlement is a particular form of permission or that it is similar to the ability to perform an action.

To explore this further, we need to examine whether entitlement constitutes an independent modal category alongside deontic and dispositional modality.

To begin with, it is important to clarify that permissions and entitlements are distinct from each other. Having permission to do H does not necessarily imply having the right to do H, and vice versa.

Makinson (1986, 408) examines a scenario where having the entitlement to do something does not entail having permission to do it:1

... consider the case of a priest of a certain religion who does not have permission, according to instructions issued by the ecclesiastical authorities, to marry two people, only one of whom is of that religion, unless they both promise to bring up the children in that religion. He may nevertheless have the power to marry the couple even in the absence of such a promise, in the sense that if he goes ahead and performs the ceremony, it still counts as a valid act of marriage under the rules of the same church ...

The other case, in which someone is allowed to do something he or she is not entitled to do, arises in all those cases where someone acts on behalf of another person.

The director of the institute, for instance, is authorized to invite the members of the institute to a council meeting. The act of inviting the members to the meeting may, however, be carried out by his secretary, as far as it is apparent that she is acting on behalf of her boss.

This is one of many cases where someone has permission to do something without being entitled to carry out such actions in general. It is not within the power of the secretary to convene an institute council meeting, although she is allowed to do so in certain situations.

The practical ability to perform actions that have a normative situation as a consequence is, again, neither a sufficient nor a necessary condition for being entitled to perform such actions.

An actor may have the practical ability to marry a couple (for example, because he knows how to perform the ceremony) without being entitled to do so. His acting would not count as marrying the couple, because of his lack of entitlement.

It is, on the other hand, possible for someone to be empowered to do something - for instance marrying a couple - without being practically able to do it (cf. Jones & Sergot 1997, 351):2

... one may imagine circumstances in which it is not practically possible for the priest to marry the couple (because, say, he is sick or otherwise incapacitated), although he is still empowered to do so.

Both the actor and the priest could express themselves in a slightly paradoxical manner: "I can marry you, but I can't." However, they would convey different meanings.

The actor would mean, "I am capable of performing the ceremony, but I am not entitled to marry you." The priest, on the other hand, would mean, "I am entitled to marry you, but I am not capable of performing the ceremony." Saying that someone is entitled to do something, seems - therefore - to be a genuine case of modality.

Let's revisit the example we discussed earlier, "Peter can conclude the building society contract." Suppose we interpret this sentence deontically to mean that he is allowed to conclude the contract. In this case, can expresses the modal force of possibility, and a natural rephrasing would be:

(3)

Given the things that Peter is allowed to do: it is possible for him to conclude the building society contract.

Under this interpretation, the modal operator it is possible that quantifies over a subset of possible worlds that is established by the context. This phenomenon is known as relative modality and has been extensively explored by Angelika Kratzer in a series of papers. According to her view, modal operators depend on different types of intensional contexts and are sensitive to the context of their use:3

Modals are context-dependent expressions since their interpretation depends on a conversational background which usually has to be provided by the utterance situation. Only occasionally do we use phrases like in view of what is known … for referring to conversational backgrounds in an explicit manner. (Kratzer 1981, 42)

Our examples can, therefore, be analyzed such that in (1.a) to (1.d), the modality expressed by the modal adverb can is interpreted against different conversational backgrounds. In (2.a), the context is what we know, in (2.b) it is determined by the actions that Peter is allowed to perform, in (2.c) it is determined by what Peter is capable of doing, and in (2.d) it is determined by what Peter is entitled to do:

(4)

Peter can conclude the building society contract.

a. In view of what is known ...
b. In view of what Peter is allowed to do ...
c. In view of what Peter is capable of doing ...
d. In view of what Peter is entitled to do …

… it is possible that Peter concludes the building society contract.

A conversational background is a kind of entity which might be referred to by an utterance of a phrase like in view of what is allowed. What is allowed is different from one situation to another. What is allowed in a certain situation could be represented as a set of propositions. If we consider the different situations as possible worlds, then Kratzer's approach assumes that a conversational background is be construed as a function which assigns sets of propositions to possible worlds.

The meaning of “what is allowed” will then be that funktion from the set of possible worlds W into the power set of of the set of propositions, which assigns to any world w of W the set of all propositions which are allowed in w.

Let's consider the truth conditions of sentences of the form (2.d). From a semantic perspective, such sentences can be analyzed in a model of the form:

(5)

M = <X, W, f, V>

Here, X is a set of persons, W is a set of possible worlds, V is an evaluation for each atomic sentence, and f is a function that assigns to each possible world w a set of possible propositions {pⱼ}, each construed as a set of worlds in which a person x does what he or she is entitled to do in w. This set of propositions, therefore, comprises all the actions that x is entitled to do in a given situation.

The conversational background for a modal utterances expressing entitlements could, therefore, be written as:

(6)

f(x,w) = {pⱼ: x does what x is entitled to do in w}.

Each proposition pⱼ is a set of possible worlds (the worlds in which pⱼ is true). So, interpreting the modal will involve generalizing over the following set of worlds:

(7)

∩f(x,w) = ∩{pⱼ: x does what x is entitled to do in w}
= the set of worlds in which x is entitled to do everything x does

The truth conditions of sentences of the form "A is entitled to do H" can then be formulated as follows:

(8)

[[Entitled(Ha)]] in M, w = 1 iff there is a world w’ ∈ ∩f(a,w) such that w’ ∈ [[(Ha)]].

Assuming, for instance, we live in a world where building society savings are possible, and if Peter is one of the eligible people, then there is a possible world in which Peter concludes the society savings contract. This then makes it true that he can get building society savings, i.e. that he is entitled to conclude such a contract.

Different contexts and worlds generate different functions of the type F. This might not seem exciting, but it is interesting nevertheless because it lets us see that such a function is the sole nature of entitlement.

An institution, whether formalized or not, consists - at least - of a set of roles that are associated with specific actions, and an assignment mechanism that determines who can perform those actions based on their role within the institution.

In informal institutions like family and friendship, roles are typically determined by tradition and mutual expectations. For instance, in a family gathering, the host is typically responsible for inviting the guests, while the guests do not have the authority to do so. Similarly, in a friendship, certain privileges like using informal language may only be extended to close friends and not outsiders.

In semi-formalized institutions like marriage, the assignment of roles as husband or wife requires a formal act, and certain actions are governed by law, such as financial assistance and tax sharing. However, other actions are based on customs and tradition.

In formalized institutions like private companies and public authorities, the assignment mechanism is based on employment contracts and promotions, and the roles are clearly defined in job descriptions and organizational charts. Each role comes with a specific set of actions that can be performed by individuals who occupy that role.

Overall, the assignment of roles and associated actions in an institution can be formal or informal, depending on the context, and the assignment mechanism determines who has the authority to perform certain actions based on their role within the institution.

Formal institutions such as hospitals, for instance, have many different roles, each with specific sets of actions and responsibilities.

Physicians, for instance, diagnose and treat patients. Nurses provide care to patients and assisting physicians in the treatment process. They may administer medication, monitor vital signs, and provide emotional support to patients and their families.

Technicians are responsible for performing various medical tests and procedures, such as X-rays, MRIs, and blood tests. They may also maintain and operate medical equipment, such as ventilators and dialysis machines.

The designation process for these various roles in an hospital involves job interviews, hiring decisions, and promotions.

Pirate ships, on the other hand, were informal institutions that operated outside of the law and were typically organized around a hierarchical structure with a captain at the top. He was the leader of the pirate ship and was making decisions about the ship's course, managing the crew, and overseeing raids.

The quartermaster was managing the ship's supplies, including food, water, and ammunition. He also oversaw the distribution of loot and was responsible for maintaining order among the crew.

The navigator was plotting the ship's course and ensuring that the ship did not run aground or collide with other vessels. He also kept track of the ship's speed and distance traveled.

The gunner was managing the ship's weapons, including cannons and firearms. He oversaw the loading and firing of the ship's guns during raids.

While pirate ships were not as formalized as hospitals, they did have a system of roles and responsibilities that were critical to their success. These roles were designated based on experience, skill, and performance.

The function f, therefore, can be construed as a representation of a certain institutional setting. A number of actions are endowed with entitlements (conprised into roles) and these roles are assigned to specific people.

As one person can be simultaneously assigned to different roles in different formalized and non-formalized institutions, a function of type F can be thought of as a representation of all actions that are part of roles to which a person is assigned in a certain world w.

Functions of type F therefore describe the basic structure of institutions. And these institutions in turn define who is entitled to do what in a certain situation. Institutions, however, involve more than just roles, assignments, and entitlements that follow from them.

My account of authority does not require a comprehensive account of institutions or institutional structures. My hypothesis only requires that there are institutional structures, whether formalized or not, and claims that entitlements rely on them.

The importance of these elements becomes apparent when the legitimacy of authority is a subject of debate. There are at least three different scenarios in which authority can be critizised.

Authority may, firstly, be questioned when a role no longer exists. For instance, after the Russian Bolsheviks overthrew Tsar Nicholas II in February 1917, the position of the Tsar no longer existed, and this meant that Nicholas II was for instance no longer authorized to collect taxes from peasants or give orders to his guard.

Additionally, it is possible to question whether the role in question included a particular action. For instance, in some countries, doctors are authorized to assist terminally ill patients in dying, while in others, they are not. This means that the role of a doctor is codified differently in different countries, and this usually changes over time.

And finally, it is possible to question whether a person is properly assigned to the role that includes a particular action. For example, when Blackbeard tied Whitebeard to the mast, he was not yet the captain. Therefore, when he commanded the crew to set the sails, he was technically doing something he was not yet authorized to do and could be critizised for doing it.

However, on a pirate ship, the processes of role assignment are usually informal, so the crew members may have been uncertain about whether Blackbeard had already inherited the role of Whitebeard. In such a situation, telling someone that he has no say because he is just a cabin boy and not the captain could be dangerous if the matter has already been settled without you noticing.

If we were satisfied at this point, it would mean that authority and entitlement are the same. A person would then have the authority to do what they were entitled to do. This is, however, not the case.

Acceptance

The legitimacy of an action can be disputed based on the underlying institutional framework, as seen in the three previous instances. However, there is also a fourth scenario to consider.

Even if the institutional structure is acknowledged by all parties and the roles are properly defined, the establishment of authority ultimately depends on whether the involved individuals accept the consequences of the action. In other words, even if the rules are clear, it is crucial to consider how the decision will impact the people it affects and whether they are willing to comply with it.

Let's revisit the scenario of Whitebeard being bound to the mast. Despite his status as captain and his entitlement to issue orders, Blackbeard and his allies disregard this and restrain him anyway. As a result, the remainder of the crew may follow suit, effectively rendering Whitebeard's words meaningless.

However, it is important to note that this does not necessarily mean that he has lost his position as captain. Rather, his authority has been temporarily undermined, and it will be up to him to regain control and reaffirm his leadership.

Institutional contexts differ in terms of the effort required to establish authority. Let's think of a classroom. Every teacher is entitled to set classroom rules and expectations, for instance. His or her authority within this settting can be measured by the degree by which those rules really count as expectations for behavior. So you could say that various teachers - despite equal entitlements - are endowed with varying degrees of authority by their students.

What we see in such and similar examples simply has to do with the fact that an institutional structure - even if it is recognized as such - cannot magically turn words into commands or rules. There is no automatism here. Power or authority, even if legitimate, must be enforced.

Entitlement - as I see it - relates to having a right to do something, while authority relates to having the power or control to enforce it.

Authority is, however, not the same as having the power to do something. It refers to the legitimacy to exercise power or control over others, often based on one's position or role. It implies that the actions of a person in authority are generally considered legitimate and appropriate.

Social power, on the other hand, also refers to the ability to exert control over others, but it doesn’t exclude brute force or coercion. It can come from a variety of sources, such as physical strength, wealth, or influence. Unlike authority, power does not necessarily have to be legitimate or accepted by those being governed.

Authority is, therefore, a form of power more closely tied to legitimacy and acceptance, while social power is more about the ability to control others, regardless of whether that control is accepted or legitimate.

Assuming that having authority means having legitimate power, we can understand the "legitimate" aspect of this concept through an analysis of entitlement. Power, on the other hand, is closely related to the ability of the person who holds a right to enforce it.

This ability is influenced by both the individual's own traits and the systemic conditions of the environment in which they operate. For instance, a person's level of determination, assertiveness, and resourcefulness may impact their ability to exercise their rights effectively.

At the same time, external factors such as social norms, legal frameworks, and political structures may facilitate or hinder the individual's authority. When assessing power, it is essential to consider both the personal qualities of the individual and the broader societal context in which they operate.

Consider again the situation in a classroom. The students willingness to accept the teacher’s authority can be influenced by several internal factors, such as knowledge, confidence, and communication skills. External factors such as social norms, political and social structures, school policies, and parental involvement can also have a significant impact on a teacher's ability to establish their authority in the classroom. Similar things apply to Whitebeard and his crew.

We can observe that in some cases, individuals accept a statement and act accordingly, while in other cases, they do not. Ignoring the factors that influence the acceptance of authority, what is the nature of this acceptance?

It cannot be simply reduced to the affected person's compliance. Consider, for example, the following utterance:

(9)

Get off the phone and get to work!

Depending on the context of the interaction, this statement can be perceived as a friendly reminder, an order given under threat, or a direct instruction.

In the first case, a friend may say this to another friend who is distracted while working, and the recipient may see it as a well-intentioned suggestion and start doing their job voluntarily.

In the second case, a gangster may say this to a cab driver after putting a gun to his head, and the recipient may comply out of fear for his life.

In the third case, a supervisor may say this to an employee who is wasting time, and the recipient is expected to accept it as a legitimate demand and start doing his job as part of his work duties.

In all three situations, there’s a compliance of the affected person, but only the third case involves an interaction characterized by authority. The supervisor has the right to give instructions to their subordinates and expect them to be followed. Neither a friend, nor a gangster have a legitimate reason to enforce a certain request or command.

Therefore, accepting authority can be understood as agreeing to receive a legitimate demand from a person or institution that has the right to give it, while not accepting authority means refusing to comply with such demands.

This is my final hypothesis in this post. Let’s summarize this discussion in an updated version of the definition above:

(10)

A person a has authority to do H in context C iff

(i) there is an institution in C according to which H is one of the actions that make up a particular role,
(ii) a holds that role in C,
(iii) a series of claims, legitimized by (i) and (ii), are associated with H and directed at an audience, and
(iv) the audience agrees to these claims through their behavior in response to H.

I'm not entirely satisfied with this definition, mainly for aesthetic reasons. But I believe it contains the essential ingredients. I consider it a little miracle that there is any authority at all, and that it is so easy for people to establish it.

It only takes a group of three hikers, with one - John - being particularly knowledgeable about the area. Once the three agree to consider John as their leader, they have established an institution. Leading a hiking group means determining which path the three will take. And as long as John can do that without anyone complaining, he exercises legitimate power and possesses authority.

Authority is practically everywhere, in the family, in kindergarten, in school, at the doctor's office, at work, on the bus, train, and taxi, in travel groups and choirs. It permeates our entire social life by making cooperation predictable and, therefore, efficient.

Without authority, every encounter with a stranger would be highly marked by uncertainty. Without authority, no ship would ever leave a port, and it probably wouldn't have been built in the first place.

The exercise of authority is an exercise of power. But it is by no means the only form of exercising power. Therefore, I will address the exercise of power separately again. But not now and not here.

The age-old question of which came first, the hen or the egg, goes like this …

Consider first a hen, scratching its head and pondering its own existence. If the hen came first, did it appear out of thin air? Surely not, there must have been an egg it hatched from!

Now look at the second scenario: the egg came first. Where did it come from? Did it fall from the sky like a meteorite? Surely not. It needed a hen to be laid, after all!

While the question of which came first, the hen or the egg, may seem like an unsolvable riddle at first glance, the root of the problem lies in our tendency to shift our focus from one egg to another.

In the first scenario, we focus on a specific hen and assume the egg it hatched from must have existed first. In the second scenario, we shift our focus to the egg that the hen laid and realize that the hen had to exist first before it could lay an egg.

By doing so, we create a loop-de-loop that appears to have no clear answer. However, if we stay focused and avoid this error, we can easily unravel this mystery.

In fact, there are only four possible relationships between an egg and a hen.

a) If we focus on a specific hen and the egg it hatched from, then the egg came first.

b) If we focus on a specific egg and the hen that laid it, then the hen came first.

c) If we're considering a hen and an egg that are not related in either of these ways, then we can easily determine which came first based on their individual "hatching" moments.

d) If we're talking about chickens and eggs in general, then we know that eggs have been around for millions of years, long before chickens even existed. So in that sense, the egg definitely came first.

While the answer to the question "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" may seem elusive, it is in fact quite simple. There's no need to get too scrambled about this puzzle.

The German word nicht is akin to the on/off switch on a television set - using it is not much different. If you are watching a TV show, it is best to refrain from employing it:

(1a)

Ich schaue fern.
I watch TV.

If, however, you wish to stop watching the TV show, simply press the switch once:

(1.b)

Ich schaue nicht fern.
I don’t watch TV.

If you change your mind, simply press the switch again and the screen will turn back on:

(1.c)

Ich schaue nicht nicht fern.
It's not that I don’t watch TV.

The German word nicht is a means of negation, and it can be used repeatedly. Germans use this small word every day and it is one of the most frequently used words in the language. If you want to negate something, it may seem that there is nothing simpler than utilizing nicht and you're well on your way.

However, nicht is more peculiar than you might think, and that is what I aim to illustrate here.

Let's begin with the observation that nicht happily occurs below, but not above, indefinite object DPs such as jemand (someone), etwas (something), or ein Mann (a man):1

(2.a)

? John hat nicht jemanden angerufen.
John has not someone up-called
√ nicht>jemand: John didn’t call anyone.

√ John hat jemanden nicht angerufen.
John has someone <not> up-called
√ jemand>nicht: There is someone, whom John didn’t call.

(2.b)

? John hat nicht etwas gegessen.
John has not something eaten
√ nicht>etwas: John didn’t eat anything.

√ John hat etwas nicht gegessen.
John has something not eaten
√ etwas>nicht: There is something, which John didn’t eat.

(2.c)

? John hat nicht einen Mann angerufen.
John has not a man up-called
√ nicht>ein Mann: John didn’t call any man.

√ John hat einen Mann nicht angerufen.
John has a man <not> up-called
√ ein Mann>nicht: There is a man, whom John didn’t call.

The first sentences in (2.a) to (2.c) are not ungrammatical, but they do sound unusual when heard without appropriate context. Native German speakers can often distinguish between the first and second sentences in the examples given above. The pattern can be generalized as follows:

? [CP … Subject … [IP … nicht … Object … [ … VP … ]]]
√ [CP … Subject … [IP … Object … nicht … [ … VP … ]]]

Why does it sound weird when sentential negation appears in front of an indefinite object DP but not after it? Explaining this pattern is no easy task. In the following sections, I will consider three different explanations in terms of word choice, anti-licensing, and focus.

Bad word choice

At first glance, there appears to be an easy explanation for this phenomenon. Consider, for instance, the phrase nicht jemand (not someone), which is pretty clumsy. A German speaker would prefer to use the word niemand (no-one) instead.

We could, therefore, assume that the reason for the clumsiness of the examples in (2) is bad word choice: We shouldn’t negate positive expressions such as jemand (someone) or etwas (something), if negative expressions such as niemand (no-one) or nichts (nothing) could be used instead whithout changing the meaning of the sentence:

(3.a) nicht (not) + jemand (someone) → niemand (no one)

√ John hat niemaden angerufen.
John has no-one up-called
√ nicht>jemand: John didn’t call anyone.

(3.b) nicht (not) + etwas (something) → nichts (nothing)

√ John hat nichts gegessen.
John has nothing eaten
√ nicht>etwas: John didn’t eat anything

(3.c) nicht (not) + ein (a/n) → kein (no)

√ John hat keinen Mann angerufen.
John has no man up-called
√ nicht>ein Mann: John didn’t call any man.

The differences in word choice appear to explain the (slightly) ill-formed nature of the examples in (2), as opposed to the acceptable nature of the examples in (3).

The scopal readings preferred in these instances suggest that negation has a wider scope than the indefinite DP. It may therefore be hypothesized that negative elements are a composition of a negation phoneme and an indefinite determiner at the base level, allowing the negative item to c-command (or dominate) the indefinite.

A similar phenomenon occurs with disjunctive DPs in object position:

(2.d)

? John hat nicht London oder Paris besucht.
John has not London or Paris visited
? nicht>oder: John didn’t visit neither London nor Paris.

√ John hat London oder Paris nicht besucht.
John has London or Paris not visited
√ oder>nicht: John didn’t visit either London or he didn’t visit Paris.

The oddity of the first sentence can be attributed to poor word choice. If one wishes to establish a reading in which the negative item has wider scope, it is preferable to use the negative composite weder ... noch (neither ... nor) rather than directly negating oder (or). This will yield better results:

(2.e)

√ John hat weder London noch Paris besucht.
John has neither London nor Paris visited
√ nicht>oder: John didn’t visit neither London nor Paris.

I am not entirely convinced by this argument. There are at least two cases in which it fails to hold.

The first has to do with specificity. Sentences with clausemate negation and indefinite object DPs are typically ambiguous, although the inverse scope readings (the indefinite dominates negation) are often dispreferred. The inverse scope of indefinite object DPs, however, varies with the level of descriptiveness of the indefinite.

The likelihood of being interpreted specifically or non-specifically parallels with the degree of descriptional poverty or richness. Naked etwas (something), for instance, never has inverse scope. Sentences with "heavier" indefinites, such as etwas Bestimmtes (something particular) or etwas, das ich mag (something that I like), in object position are ambiguous between a specific and a non-specific reading and can be interpreted in two different ways:

(4.a)

√ Niemand hat jemanden, mit dem ich zur Schule ging, angerufen.
No one has someone, with whom I to school went, up-called

√ niemand>jemand: No one called anyone.
√ jemand>niemand: There is someone, whom no one called.

(4.b)

√ Niemand hat etwas Bestimmtes gegessen.
No one has something particular eaten

√ niemand>etwas Bestimmtes: No one ate anything.
√ etwas Bestimmtes>niemand: There is something, which no one ate.

This observation can be easily extended to all the examples in (2.a) to (2.c). As the descriptiveness of the indefinite increases, a wide scope reading becomes more prominent:

(2.e)

? John hat nicht einen Mann, den er gestern gesehen hat, angerufen.
John has not a man, whom he yesterday seen has, up-called

? nicht>ein Mann: John didn’t call any man he saw yesterday.
√ ein Mann>nicht: There is a man, John saw yesterday, and John didn’t call him.

(2.f)

? John hat nicht etwas, das ich mag, gegessen.
John has not something, which I like, eaten

? nicht>etwas: John didn’t eat anything I like.
√ etwas>nicht: There is something I like, which John didn’t eat.

If you, however, use another negative element instead of combining nicht with an indefinite object, you loose one of the readings:

(3.d)

√ John hat keinen Mann, den er gestern gesehen hat, angerufen.
John has no man, whom he yesterday seen has, up-called

√ nicht>ein Mann: John didn’t call any man he saw yesterday.
* ein Mann>nicht: There is a man, John saw yesterday, and John didn’t call him.

(3.e)

√ John hat nichts, das ich mag, gegessen.
John has nothing, which I like, eaten

√ nicht>etwas: John didn’t eat anything I like.
* etwas>nicht: There is something I like, which John didn’t eat.

This demonstrates that combining "not+indefinite" results in a distinct meaning from using an indefinite negative element such as nichts (nothing), niemand (no one), or kein (no). The latter transforms the specific reading of an indefinite element (if it is prominent) into a non-specific one.

If the indefinite expression is short, its lack of detail increases the probability of a non-specific interpretation, where no notable difference exists. However, as the descriptive richness increases, specificity grows, and the distinction between the two examples' meanings becomes apparent.

It is evident that the slightly problematic readings of (2.e) and (2.f) cannot be attributed to inadequate word choice. The negative element that is part of niemand, nichts, or kein serves as a marker for non-specificity, whereas simple negation (nicht) does not.

Secondly, the phenomenon of odd nicht is not restricted to indefinite DPs. It also affects other types of object DPs, such as definite descriptions, proper names, and pronouns. These expressions sound unnatural when positioned below sentence negation.

(5.a) definite descriptions: der Mann

? John hat nicht den Mann angerufen.
John has not the man up-called

√ John hat den Mann nicht angerufen.
John has the man not up-called

(5.b) proper names: Maria

? John hat nicht Maria angerufen.
John has not Maria up-called

√ John hat Maria nicht angerufen.
John has Maria not up-called

(5.c) pronouns: er

* John hat nicht ihn angerufen.
John has not him up-called

√ John hat ihn nicht angerufen.
John has him not up-called

Since there are no other simple negative expressions that could substitute for "nicht Maria" or "nicht ihn," which would be an unusual characteristic of any language, the odd interpretations cannot be attributed to poor word selection. Thus, there must be another explanation.

Polarity and anti-licensing

An idea is that the unusual readings are not a peculiarity of nicht, but rather stem from certain types of noun phrases not being permitted within the scope of negation.

It is widely recognized that many languages have polarity items, which are sensitive to the linguistic environment in which they are used.

A polarity item is a lexical item that is intrinsically connected to either affirmation or negation. More specifically, a positive polarity item (PPI) is associated with affirmation, while a negative polarity item (NPI) is linked to negation.

The context in which a polarity item is used is known as its licensing context. While an affirmative statement generally serves as a licensing context for a PPI, negation usually licenses an NPI. This implies that negative polarity items (NPIs) can only appear in clauses that are negative (in a sense that will be explained below), whereas positive polarity items (PPIs) can only occur in clauses that are affirmative.

The most common examples of polarity items are the English determiners any and some. As an NPI, any is acceptable under negation, but it results in ungrammaticality if used in a plain affirmative clause:

(6)

√ I didn’t call anyone.
* I called anyone.

Conversely, some is grammatical in affirmative clauses, but unacceptable in negative ones. When some is used with negation, the sentence is slightly ill-formed, but not ungrammatical, and a wide scope reading is strongly preferred. Crucially, some cannot be interpreted within the semantic scope of negation; only a reading in which the indefinite takes wide scope over negation is available:

(7)

? I didn’t call somebody.

* not>somebody: I called nobody.
√ somebody >not: There is somebody who I didn’t call.

The contrast between any and some is commonly explained by the notion that negation licenses NPIs like any, while anti-licensing PPIs like some. This concept has been extensively discussed in the literature on polarity items.

The discussion of polarity items has focused on identifying the factors that create a negative context. In the late 1970s, William Ladusaw, building on the work of Gilles Fauconnier, found that the majority of English NPIs are licensed in downward-entailing environments, a hypothesis known as the Fauconnier-Ladusaw hypothesis.2 Consider the following entailment:

(8)

John isn’t is a farmer. ⇒ John isn’t a sheep farmer.

Although normally having the more specific property of being a sheep farmer entails having the more general property of being a farmer, in negative contexts the direction of implication is reversed.

Normally, entailment moves upwards, from a smaller set (such as sheep farmers) to a larger set (such as farmers). However, in the case of (8), the entailment involves moving downwards, which is why it is known as downward entailment. Downward entailment can be defined as:3

A function f of type <σ,τ> is downward entailing iff for all x, y of type σ such that x ⇒ y: f(y) ⇒ f(x).

In a downward entailing context, you can safely make inferences from sets to subsets. The examples mentioned above give rise to downward entailing contexts:

(9)

? John hat nicht jemanden angerufen. ⇒ ? John hat nicht eine Frau angerufen.
(John didn’t call anyone. ⇒ John didn’t call any woman.)

? John hat nicht etwas gegessen. ⇒ ? John hat nicht einen Apfel gegessen.
(John didn’t eat anything. ⇒ John didn’t eat any apple.)

? John hat nicht einen Mann angerufen. ⇒ ? John hat nicht einen großen Mann angerufen.
(John didn’t call any man. ⇒ John didn’t call any big man.)

? John hat nicht London oder Paris besucht. ⇒ ? John hat nicht London besucht.
(John didn’t visit London or Paris. ⇒ John didn’t visit London.)

In German, disjunctions and indefinites may act as polarity-sensitive items (PPIs), meaning their acceptability in certain contexts depends on the scope of negation.

If negation has wide scope over the indefinite or disjunction, these expressions may be considered anti-licensed, resulting in ungrammaticality. However, if negation has narrow scope with respect to an indefinite or disjunction, they appear outside of the anti-licensing context and become acceptable, which is exactly what we observe.

I'm skeptical that such an explanation can succeed. The absence of licensing for indefinites or disjunctions under negation is not consistently observed in other downward-entailing contexts. Take for instance the case of nie (never), which also creates downward-entailing contexts:

(10)

√ John hat nie jemanden geliebt. ⇒ John hat nie eine Frau geliebt.
(John never loved anyone. ⇒ John never loved any woman.)

Here are parallel examples to those in (2.a) to (2.d), and all of them are grammatically correct:

(11.a)

√ John hat nie jemanden geliebt.
John has never someone loved
√ nie>jemand: John never loved anyone.

(11.b)

√ John hat nie etwas verheimlicht.
John has never something kept-secret
√ nie>etwas: John never kept anything secret.

(11.c)

√ John hat nie einen Mann angerufen.
John has never a man up-called
√ nie>ein Mann: John never called any man.

(11.d)

√ John hat nie Paris oder London besucht.
John has never Paris or London visited
√ nie>oder: John never visited Paris and never visited London.

We observe similar results with ohne (without), which also creates a downward entailing context:

(12)

√ John kam ohne Blumen. ⇒ John kam ohne Rosen.
(John came without flowers. ⇒ John came without Roses.)

The data exhibits the same pattern as we observed with nie:

(13.a)

√ John schwieg, ohne jemanden anzusehen.
John was-silent without someone to-glance-at

√ ohne>jemand: John didn’t glance at anyone.

(13.b)

√ John kam ohne etwas Besonderes.
John came without something special

√ ohne>etwas Besonderes: John came without anything special.

(13.c)

√ John verspätete sich, ohne einen Ausrede zu haben.
John came-late himself without an excuse to have

√ ohne>eine Ausrede: John came late without having any excuse.

(13.d)

√ John kam ohne Freunde oder Verwandte.
John came without friends or relatives

√ ohne>oder: John came without friends and without relatives.

Another relevant category is Strawson-decreasing operators, such as oft (often) or nur (only). These operators also create anti-licensing contexts for positive polarity items, but their relationship to downward entailment is less clear:

(14)
Only Jones is a farmer. -/-> Only Jones is a sheep farmer.

The invalidity of the inference in (14) is due to a presupposition that interferes with downward entailment.

In the case of only, it is typically assumed that the exclusive meaning component is asserted, while the truth of the prejacent (the clause without only) is presupposed. The inference from left to right is valid if we assume that Jones is a sheep farmer, but otherwise, we have a presupposition failure.

If we add the presupposition of the prejacent as an additional premise, we obtain a valid type of inference. For example, the sentence "Only Jones is a sheep farmer" presupposes that "Jones is a sheep farmer," therefore:

(15)

Only Jones is a farmer. & Jones is a sheep farmer. ⇒ Only Jones is a sheep farmer.

This leads to a generalization of downward entailment, known as Strawson downward entailment, named after philosopher Peter Strawson who was the first to bring presuppositions into the forefront of semantical analysis:4

A function f of type <σ, τ> is Strawson downward entailing iff for all x, y of type σ such that x ⇒ y and f (x) is defined: f(y) ⇒ f(x).

Strawson downward entailing contexts are created by various presuppositional items such as oft (often), nur (only), the antecedent of conditionals, and factive verbs like bedauern (regret), among others.

The following examples demonstrate that German indefinites and conjunctions can occur in Strawson downward entailing contexts without any licensing issues:

(16.a)

√ John hat oft jemanden angerufen.
John has often someone up-called

√ oft>jemand: It happened often, that John called someone.

(16.b)

√ Nur John hat einen Freund angerufen.
Only John has a friend up-called

√ nur>ein Freund: Only John called any friend.

(16.c)

√ Nur John hat London oder Paris besucht.
Only John has London or Paris visited

√ Nur>oder: Only John has been to London or Paris.

(16.d)

√ Wenn wir jemanden anrufen, dann sind wir verloren.
If we someone up-call, then are we doomed

√ conditional>jemand: If we call somebody or other, we are doomed.

(16.e)

√ Wenn wir einen Arzt oder einen Apotheker anrufen, dann sind wir verloren.
If we a physician or a druggist up-call, then are we doomed

√ conditional>oder: If we call a physician or a druggist, we are doomed.

(16.f)

√ Ich bedauere, dass John eine kluge Frau angerufen hat.
I regret that John an intelligent woman up-called has

√ bedauern>jemand: I regret that John called an intelligent woman.

These examples demonstrate that indefinites and disjunctions are generally licensed in downward entailing contexts and in Strawson entailing contexts. Based on this data and the preceding arguments, it appears that we can confidently conclude that neither indefinites nor disjunctions function as PPIs in German.

Instead, the slightly unacceptable readings where nicht (not) appears above the object DP are likely due to some idiosyncrasy of nicht and do not stem from anti-licensing. Thus, it appears that we are dealing with a specific peculiarity of nicht rather than a systematic feature of indefinite DPs or negative operators more broadly.

More data

Before exploring alternative explanations for the oddity of nicht, I would like to present three additional sets of data.

Firstly, quantifier phrases, plural indefinites, and bare plurals appear to be more comfortable in the scope of negation. When it comes to post-object nicht, however, the situation is reversed:

(17.a) quantifier phrases: alle Männer

√ John hat nicht alle Männer angerufen.
John has not all men up-called

? John hat alle Männer nicht angerufen.
John has all men not up-called

(17.b) quantifier phrases: mehr als drei Frauen

√ John hat nicht mehr als drei Frauen angerufen.
John has not more than three women up-called

? John hat mehr als drei Frauen nicht angerufen.
John has more than three women not up-called

(17.c) plural indefinites: zwei Männer

√ John hat nicht zwei Männer angerufen.
John has not two man up-called

? John hat zwei Männer nicht angerufen.
John has two man not up-called

(17.d) bare plurals: Kirschen

√ John hat nicht Kirschen gegessen.
John has not cherries eaten

* John hat Kirschen nicht gegessen.
John has cherries not eaten

Secondly, the appearance of nicht before an indefinite object DP is acceptable if nicht is stressed and thereby focused.

The following dialogues illustrate this point, with nicht appearing before the object DP in a focused position. The oddity of pre-object negation disappears, while sentences with post-object negation are unacceptable. (The capitalized letters indicate the focused element):

(18.a)

A: Du hast irgendjemanden angerufen! Gib’ es doch endlich zu!
You called someone or other! Go on, admit it!

B: Das ist nicht wahr! √ Ich habe NICHT jemanden angerufen!
That is not true! I have not someone up-called!

√ nicht>jemand: I didn’t call anyone.
* jemand>nicht: There is someone, whom I didn’t call.

B: Das ist nicht wahr! * Ich habe jemanden nicht angerufen!
That is not true! I have someone not up-called!

* nicht>jemand: I didn’t call anyone.
√ jemand>nicht: There is someone, whom I didn’t call.

(18.b)

A: Du hast doch etwas versteckt! Zeig’ es endlich her!
You hide something or other! Go on, show it to me!

B: Das ist nicht wahr! √ Ich habe NICHT etwas versteckt!
That is not true! I have not something hidden!

√ nicht>etwas: I didn’t hide anything.
* etwas>nicht: There is something I didn’t hide

B: Das ist nicht wahr! * Ich habe etwas nicht versteckt!
That is not true! I have something not hidden!

* nicht>etwas: I didn’t hide anything.
√ etwas>nicht: There is something I didn’t hide.

These examples demonstrate that focus is a crucial factor. When pre-object negation is focused, the oddity typically disappears. However, there is one exception with regard to pronouns: they need to be focused themselves to avoid ungrammaticality:

(19.a)

√ John hat NICHT jemanden angerufen.
John has not someone up-called

(19.b)

√ John hat NICHT etwas gegessen.
John has not something eaten

(19.c)

√ John hat NICHT einen Mann angerufen.
John has not a man up-called

(19.d)

√ John hat NICHT den Mann angerufen.
John has not the man up-called

(19.e)

√ John hat NICHT Maria angerufen.
John has not Maria up-called

(19.f)

* John hat NICHT ihn angerufen.
John has not him up-called

√ John hat nicht IHN angerufen.
John has not him up-called

Finally, it is worth noting that the oddity of pre-object negation also disappears when negation is related to certain sentence adverbials and particles, such as sofort (immediately), auf der Stelle (straight away), or doch (adverbial but/after all):

(20.a)

√ John hat nicht sofort jemanden angerufen.
John has not immediately someone up-called

(20.b)

√ John hat ja doch nicht Paris oder London besucht.
John has prt after all not Paris or London visited

(20.c)

√ John hat nicht auf der Stelle etwas geantwortet.
John has not straight-away something answered.

While similar patterns are observed with definite descriptions and proper names, this phenomenon does not hold true for pronouns:

(21.a)

* John hat nicht sofort ihn angerufen.
John has not immediately him called-up.

Furthermore, neither focus nor sentence adverbials resolve the issue of post-object nicht sounding odd when the object is a quantifying phrase, plural indefinite, or bare plural. The oddity remains regardless of whether negation is focused or accompanied by sentence adverbials or particles:

(22.a)

? John hat alle Männer NICHT angerufen.
John has all men not up-called

(22.b)

? John hat mehr als drei Frauen NICHT angerufen.
John has more than three women not up-called

(22.c)

* John hat Kirschen NICHT gegessen.
John has cherries not eaten

(22.d)

? John hat alle Männer nicht sofort angerufen.
John has all men not immediately up-called

(22.e)

? John hat zwei Männer ja doch nicht angerufen.
John has two man after all not up-called

(22.f)

* John hat Kirschen nicht auf der Stelle gegessen.
John has cherries not straight-away eaten

To summarize our findings so far, German nicht displays a rather complicated preference pattern when it comes to the placement of an object DP (ODP). Let's use NO as shorthand for 'nicht precedes ODP', and ON for 'ODP precedes nicht':

1. If ODP is a pronoun, then ON is preferred, and NO is ungrammatical. This can only be avoided by putting the pronoun in focus.

2. If ODP is a singular indefinite, a nominal disjunction, a definite description, or a proper name, then ON is preferred, and NO is odd but not ungrammatical. This can be avoided by focusing on either nicht or ODP, or when nicht is immediately accompanied by certain sentence adverbials.

3. If ODP is a quantifier phrase, a plural indefinite, or a bare plural, then NO is preferred, and ON is odd but not ungrammatical. This cannot be avoided by focus or other means (as far as we know).

4. Scopus usually follows overt word order, with specific indefinites being an exception. Word orders which involve odd readings, however, are not necessary for marking scopus. Special negative determiners such as niemand, nichts, kein, etc. can be used instead.

5. These patterns are specific to nicht, as they are absent when considering other downward-entailing operators, such as nie (never), ohne (without), nur (only), and so on.

I think the most plausible explanation for these patterns involves an interacton between focus and negation. Let me explain this.

Focus and constituent negation

Before considering focus, let’s start with the observation that multiple negations can appear in a sentence at the same time without canceling each other out.

This feature has been called negative concord. The basic idea of negative concord is that when there are multiple negative elements in a sentence, they combine to reinforce the negative meaning, rather than cancelling each other out as they would in standard grammar.

For example, in English, the sentence "I don't have no money" is an example of negative concord, where the two negative elements "don't" and "no" work together to mean "I have no money," rather than cancelling each other out to mean "I have some money."

In German, negative concord is known as "doppelte Verneinung" (double negation) and is a feature of some dialects, particularly those spoken in southern regions. In these dialects, multiple negative elements, such as "nicht" (not) and "kein" (no), are used to create a single negative meaning.

Consider for instance the following example of negative concord in Bavarian (which is a southern dialect of German):

(23.a)

√ I hob ned koa Wiaßwiaschd ned g'essa.
I have not no white sausage not eaten.
(I haven’t eaten any white sausage.)

Now consider Standard German, where negative concord is rarely used:

(23.b)

? John hat keinen Mann nicht angerufen.
John has no man not called-up
? (John did not call anyone.)
? (John called everyone.)

This sentence is not ungrammtical, but difficult to interpret. It has two possible interpretations: “John did not call anyone,” and “John called everyone.” According to the first interpretation, the double negative is interpreted as an example of negative concord, where the two negative elements keinen and nicht are working together to create a negative meaning.

In Standard German, multiple negative elements are typically interpreted independently. For instance, sentence (23.b) would usually mean "Peter did not fail to call anyone." When multiple negatives are used, they cancel each other out, and the sentence ends up meaning the opposite of what the initial negation implies.

The standard explanation for the distinction between the dependent (negative concord) and independent readings of negative items in a sentence is as follows: if multiple instances of negative items within a clause are bound together, with the first negative item dominating the others, then negative concord is observed. However, if they are not bound together, they are interpreted independently and cancel each other out.

Interestingly, if negative elements are emphasized, the independent reading becomes more prominent, making the sentence as a whole more acceptable:

(23.c)

√ John hat KEINEN Mann NICHT angerufen. Die Liste war lang, aber er hat sie alle erreicht.
John has no man not called-up. The list was long but he has them all reached.
* (John did not call anyone.)
√ (John called everyone.)

This again demonstrates that odd nicht cannot be attributed to word choice issues. More importantly, this example illustrates that even if a base position exists within a sentence where the negative particle nicht typically occurs, it may also appear in two or more positions within that same sentence if it is stressed and thereby placed into focus.

It can therefore be assumed that nicht has a preferred (unmarked) position, as well as several more marked positions, which give rise to focus-induced interpretations.

It appears plausible to assume that nicht usually appears within the IP-projection immediately above the VP-projection. In German matrix sentences, the verb appears in second position (V2) with an SVO order. If there is no object, adjective, or prepositional phrase, nicht appears at the end of the sentence (and the VP shell is empty apart from some bound traces):

(24.a)

√ John schnarcht nicht.
John snores not
(John doesn’t snore.)

[CP John-1 … [IP … schnarcht-2 … nicht [VP … t2 … t1 …]]]

It is a common assumption that the subject and the verb move out of the VP, which comprises almost all semantically significant lexical items (such as the verb, nouns, adjectives, and prepositional phrases) to an CP or IP-position for checking case or tense.

In German, when a verb consists of more than one element (such as including a prefix), the finite verb remains in the second position while the other parts go to the end of the clause. German grammarians refer to this as "Satzklammer" (sentence bracket). If the finite verb has a separable prefix, the prefix goes to the end, but nicht appears before it:

(24.b)

√ John ruft nicht an.
John calles not up
(John doesn’t call.)

[CP John-1 … [IP … ruft-2 … nicht [VP … an-t2 … t1 …]]]

Another example of an additional element is a past participle, which is used to form the present perfect tense. In this case, the finite verb is the auxiliary haben, which stands in the second position, while the past participle appears at the end of the clause, presumably within VP:

(24.c)

√ John hat nicht angerufen.
John has not called up
(John didn’t call.)

[CP John-1 … [IP … hat-2 … nicht [VP … t2 … angerufen … t1 …]]]

When in its base position, nicht is primarily utilized as a sentential negation operator. This notion is supported by the fact that a negated, non-stressed sentence can form a grammatically correct answer to a yes-no question:

(25.a)

√ Schnarcht John? Nein, John schnarcht nicht.
Snores John? No, John snores not.
(Does John snore? No, he doesn’t snore.)

However, that is not the only use of nicht. It can also be employed to denote a contrast to a focused element.

Focus is the highlighting or emphasis given to a particular word or phrase in a sentence, frequently to communicate new or essential information. German uses various methods to indicate focus, including word order, stress, intonation, or the use of specific particles or constructions.

The premise is that if nicht is linked to a focused element, it is used as constituent negation and implies the presence of significant new information. Let's refer to this as contrastive negative focus.

Here are some examples. The first illustrates a situation in which nicht is connected to a focus on the verb phrase. Although it (presumably) remains in its base position, a different interpretation is conveyed:

(25.b)

√ John SCHNARCHT nicht. Er rasselt wie ein Bär.
John snores not. He rumbles like a bear.
(John doesn’t snore. He rumbles like a bear.)

(25.c)

√ NICHT JOHN schnarcht. Maria schnarcht.
Not John snores. Maria snores.
(John does not snore. Maria does.)

(25.d)

√ John hat nicht JEMANDEN angerufen, er hat die ganze Firma verrückt gemacht.
John has not anyone up-called, he has the whole company crazy droven.
(John didn't call ANYONE, he drove the whole company crazy.)

(25.e)

√ John hat nicht TOM (IHN), sondern Brigitte (SIE) angerufen.
John has not Tom (HIM) up-called, but Brigitte (SHE) up-called.
(John didn't call TOM, but Brigitte instead.)

Thus, we can conclude that nicht has at least two distinct functions. When it is in its base position and no constituent is emphasized, it indicates sentential negation. However, if it is linked to a focused element, it can appear at various other positions, serving as constituent negation and signaling previously unrevealed new information that contrasts with the emphasized element.

In a sense, the listener is tasked with determining which word to substitute for the highlighted element in order to arrive at a true sentence.

Focus particles such as ja doch, nur, sogar, etc., are another way of emphasizing specific elements, and when combined with nicht, they can draw attention to alternatives:

(26.a)

√ John hat JA DOCH NICHT Paris oder London besucht. Er war in Rom.
John has prt after all not Paris or London visited. He was in Rome.
(John didn't visit Paris or London after all. He was in Rome.)

√ nicht>oder: John visited neither Paris nor London.

The phenomenon of odd nicht can be explained as follows: if nicht is not in its base position and is not bound to a focused element, the absence of stress makes the sentence sound odd. Thus, it is not strictly a grammatical issue but rather a complex phenomenon at the intersection of information structure, grammar, and prosody.

This is my final hypothesis. I did not examine complement sentences here. I did not discuss the positions in a syntactic tree where nicht appears. And I didn’t bother with focus-sensitive particles in any detail. However, one thing that still perplexes me somewhat is the phenomenon observed in the examples in (17). To illustrate, let me repeat one of them here:

(17.a)

? John hat alle Männer nicht angerufen.
John has all men not up-called

At first glance, it appears that nicht occupies its base position above the VP, and there is no specific element being emphasized in the sentence. However, despite this, (17.a) sounds awkward.

Neither stress nor focus-sensitive particles seem to alleviate the issue:

(22.a)

? John hat alle Männer NICHT angerufen.
John has all men not up-called

(22.d)

? John hat alle Männer nicht sofort angerufen.
John has all men not immediately up-called

One possible explanation is that quantifying phrases, plural indefinites, and bare plurals may not move out of the VP for some unknown reason.

If this were the case, nicht would not be in its base position, resulting in ungrammatical sentences. This could also clarify why focus does not improve the awkwardness of these sentences. However, this is purely speculative, and currently lacks any supporting data or evidence from my side.

In spite of my attempts to elucidate the matter, certain elements remain shrouded in mystery.

Epilogue

After finishing this article, I found myself pondering whether there might be alternative explanations that I had not yet considered. Given the helpfulness of ChatGPT on prior occasions, I decided to seek its assistance once again. However, despite my hopes, ChatGPT was unable to provide any novel insights on the matter, offering ideas similar to those already explored in the article.

One such possibility was the potential for poor word choice as a contributing factor:

The reason why this construction sounds slightly odd is that it is not the most natural or common way to express negation of a countable noun phrase in German. The more common way is to use the indefinite article "kein" (no) instead of "nicht einen", as in "John hat keinen Freund angerufen.”

I attempted to explain to ChatGPT why this wouldn't work, and to its credit, ChatGPT at least offered an apology for not being more helpful in that regard:

You are correct that using "kein" or other similar determiners would not be appropriate to negate the sentence "John hat nicht Klaus angerufen" (John did not call Klaus) in German. I apologize for any confusion caused by my earlier responses.

Now, let's consider the NPI and licensing idea:

The sentence "John hat nicht einen Freund angerufen" is an example of a negative polarity item (NPI) construction in German. NPIs are words or phrases that can only occur in negative contexts, such as "not" or "never" in English. In German, the NPI "nicht einen" (not a) is used to express negation of a countable noun phrase, such as "Freund" (friend) in the sentence you provided.

Upon highlighting that the given statement was nonsensical, I received a prompt response:

You are correct that the phrase "ein Freund" (a friend) is not an NPI in German. I apologize for the confusion in my previous response.

Lastly, ChatGPT presented the idea that focus, emphasis, and intonation could potentially play a role in the matter at hand:

The acceptability and naturalness of the sentence "John hat nicht Klaus angerufen" can depend on several linguistic and contextual factors, including:

1. Syntax and word order: The position of the negation particle "nicht" can affect the meaning and interpretation of the sentence. For example, "John hat Klaus nicht angerufen" (John did not call Klaus) has a different focus and emphasis than "John hat nicht Klaus angerufen" (John did not call Klaus).

2. Prosody and intonation: The way a sentence is spoken can also affect its acceptability and naturalness. The use of stress, pitch, and rhythm can signal different meanings and pragmatic effects. For example, the sentence "John hat nicht Klaus angerufen" may sound more acceptable with a rising intonation, which can signal a question or a confirmation-seeking tone.

3. Semantic and pragmatic context: The meaning and interpretation of a sentence can depend on the larger context of the conversation or discourse. For example, if the speaker has been discussing John's phone calls to various people, the sentence "John hat nicht Klaus angerufen" may be more easily understood and accepted than if it is presented out of context.

4. Speaker variation: Different speakers may have different preferences for syntactic structures and word choices in German, based on their dialect, regional variation, or individual linguistic style. For example, some speakers may prefer to use the indefinite article "einen" (one) in the sentence, as in "John hat keinen/einen Freund angerufen" (John did not call a friend).

In summary, the acceptability and naturalness of the sentence "John hat nicht Klaus angerufen" can depend on a range of linguistic and contextual factors, and may vary among different speakers and situations.

Based on the information presented, I believe this to be an accurate summary and will conclude the discussion at this point.

Die schriftliche Kommunikation zwischen Verwaltungen und Bürgern ist in vielen Fällen asymmetrisch, wobei den Verwaltungen die Rolle von Experten und dem Bürger die Rolle des Laien zukommt. Die Kosten solcher Asymmetrien sollten beim Experten und nicht beim Laien liegen. In der Kommunikation mit Verwaltungen liegt diese Last jedoch regelmäßig auf den Schultern der Bürger.

Die Kosten asymmetrischer Kommunikation lassen sich durch die Nutzung großer Sprachmodelle effektiv verringern. Ich schlage in diesem Zusammenhang eine Praxis doppelter Anschreiben vor, in der Fachdokumente von Behörden durch automatisch generierte Erläuterungen ergänzt werden.

Verwaltungsdokumente sind eine Form asymmetrischer Kommunikation

In der Interaktion zwischen Verwaltungen und Bürgern spielen postalisch zugestellte Dokumente wie Anträge, Auskunftsgesuche, Bescheide, Vorladungen oder Urteile eine zentrale Rolle.

Diese schriftliche Form der Kommunikation zwischen Verwaltungen und Bürgern ist asymmetrisch. In solche Schreiben gehen Kenntnisse von Verwaltungsprozessen, konkreten Abläufen und Entscheidungsmustern aus dem Verwaltungsalltag ein. Die Angestellten sind geschult in den jeweils zugrunde liegenden rechtlichen Vorgaben und wenden diese tagtäglich an.

Das bringt einen zuweilen enormen Wissensvorsprung gegenüber den Adressaten mit sich. Solange der Bürger nicht selbst vertiefte Spezialkenntnisse in diesen Bereichen besitzt - was nur sehr selten der Fall ist - haben wir es systematisch gesehen mit einer Kommunikation zwischen Experten und Laien zu tun.

Asymmetrische Kommunikation kommt in vielen Bereichen vor. Denken wir beispielsweise an Gespräche zwischen einem Facharzt und seinen Patienten, an das Verhältnis zwischen Lehrern und Schülern oder an die Kommunikation zwischen Wissenschaftlern und einer interessierten Öffentlichkeit.

Asymmetrische Kommunikation kann leicht scheitern. Wenn das Wissensdefizit nicht reflektiert und - in Bezug auf das Ziel der Kommunikation - ausgeglichen wird, ist eine erfolgreiche Kooperation, bei der die Mitwirkung des Laien erforderlich ist, in vielen Fällen nicht möglich.

Die Last für diesen Ausgleich liegt normalerweise beim Experten und nicht beim Laien. Die Gründe dafür sind offensichtlich. Laien ist der Fachjargon von Experten meist nicht geläufig, weshalb sie nicht in der Lage sind, die Aussagen von Experten in eine ihnen verständlichere Sprache zu übersetzen. Laien machen schnell Fehler oder unterliegen Missverständnissen, die sie nur schwer erkennen oder ausgleichen können. Laien können die Folgen und Implikationen des Gesagten schwer einschätzen usw.

Das Gelingen der Interaktion in asymmetrischen Kommunikationssituationen hängt also zu großen Teilen vom Experten ab. Diese Norm ist in unserer Kultur stark verankert, und es gilt als unhöflich oder arrogant, wenn sich Experten gegenüber Laien nicht um Verständlichkeit bemühen. Und doch geschieht genau das oft nicht in der schriftlichen Kommunikation zwischen Verwaltungen und Bürgern.

Ich möchte ein konkretes Beispiel dafür zitieren. Es handelt sich um ein Schreiben, welches ich Anfang März 2023 vom Kreisbauamt Meißen erhalten habe. Darin heißt es (leicht gekürzt):

Nach erster Prüfung teilen wir Ihnen mit, dass die eingereichten Unterlagen nicht vollständig sind. Wir bitten Sie, uns die folgenden Unterlagen bis zum 06.04.2023 zuzusenden.

- Nachweis zur rechtlichen Sicherung hinsichtlich Zufahrt zur öffentlichen Straße „Hauptstraße“ entweder öffentlich-rechtlich: Baulasteintragung im Baulastenverzeichnis des Landkreises Meißen; oder privat-rechtlich: Grundbucheintrag als Grunddienstbarkeit (§ 1018 BGB) und als beschränkt persönliche Dienstbarkeit (§ 1090 BGB) zugunsten der Bauaufsichtsbehörde im Grundbuch (vgl. § 2 Abs. 11 SächsBO).

- Baulastunterlagen: Antrag auf Baulasteintragung, amtliche Flurkarten (max. 1⁄2 Jahr alt), Lagepläne (1:500) mit Grünschraffur der belasteten Fläche, unbeglaubigte Kopie des Grundbuchauszuges vom belasteten Flurstück (max. 1⁄2 Jahr alt), zusätzliche vollständige Ausfertigung der Antragsunterlagen (für Beteiligung Träger öffentlicher Belange).

Erreichen uns die nachgeforderten Unterlagen in vorgenannter Frist nicht, gilt der Antrag als zurückgenommen (§ 69 Abs. 2 SächsBO). In diesem Falle senden wir Ihnen den unvollständigen Bauantrag kostenpflichtig zurück.

Es gibt zahlreiche Fachausdrücke, die in dem Dokument verwendet werden, jedoch wird keiner von ihnen verständlich erklärt. Es gibt auch keine Hinweise darauf, wie man die angeforderten Dokumente beschaffen kann oder an wen man sich wenden sollte, um Hilfe zu bekommen. Es wird lediglich auf Paragraphen aus verschiedenen Gesetzestexten verwiesen, deren Inhalt und Relevanz nicht transparent sind. Zusätzlich wird eine Frist für die Kooperation festgelegt, die mit drakonischen Strafen verbunden ist.

Der Empfänger eines solchen Schreibens hat verschiedene Möglichkeiten. Er kann entweder Zeit aufwenden, um sich selbst in die Materie einzuarbeiten, oder aber andere Experten wie Notare, Anwälte und Architekten beauftragen, das an seiner statt tun. In beiden Fällen trägt er die Kosten der Interpretation selbst. Die Frustration darüber ist durchaus berechtigt.

Ich behaupten daher, dass die schriftliche Kommunikation zwischen Verwaltungen und Bürgern nicht nur asymmetrisch ist, sondern dass der Lastenausgleich regelmäßig in der Pflicht des Laien liegt, was eine Normverletzung darstellt.

Verwaltungen arbeiten im Spannungsfeld zwischen Politik und Gemeinwesen

Wie kommt es, dass in der Kommunikation zwischen Verwaltung und Bürgern die Lasten der Asymmetrie regelmäßig auf den Laien abgewälzt werden? Sollten Behörden nicht bürgernäher arbeiten, da sie doch in einem gewissen Sinn auch Dienstleistungsunternehmen sind, die (hauptsächlich) von Steuergeldern bezahlt werden? Wäre es vor diesem Hintergrund zu viel verlangt, sich um mehr Bürgernähe zu sorgen und die Reibungsverluste solcher Interaktionen zu berücksichtigen, zu verringern oder zu vermeiden?1

Es sind verschiedene Ursachen für diesen Zustand denkbar. Vielleicht kommen historische Gründe in Betracht. Die Forderung nach mehr Bürgernähe ist ein relativ modernes Verwaltungskonzept, das in traditionelleren Kontexten nur eine untergeordnete Rolle gespielt hat. Möglich wäre auch, dass die Dynamik von Verwaltungsprozessen zu höherer Komplexität und damit zu höheren Bedarfen für Übersetzungsleistungen führt, deren Aufarbeitung hinter dem Druck zur Differenzierung hinterherhinkt.

Allerdings glaube ich, dass diese beiden Aspekte nur einen Teil des Problems ausmachen. Es gibt auch strukturelle Gründe, warum Verwaltungen bürgerunfreundlich sind. Ich möchte die These aufstellen, dass dies hauptsächlich mit den Anreizsystemen zusammenhängt, innerhalb derer Verwaltungsangestellte handeln.

Verwaltungen spielen eine wichtige Rolle als Vermittler zwischen Politik und Gemeinwesen. In dieser Vermittlungsrolle müssen sie zwei teilweise divergierende Funktionen erfüllen. Einerseits sind sie Teil der Exekutive und zuständig für die Prüfung und Durchsetzung rechtskonformen Verhaltens in denjenigen Bereichen, die juristischen Beschränkungen unterworfen sind. Und in diesem Kontext ist oft durchgreifendes Verhalten gefordert, was durchaus auch gegen die Interessen einzelner Bürger oder Unternehmen gerichtet sein kann.

Verwaltungen sind darüber hinaus auch Dienstleistungszentren für Bürger und Unternehmen, die Leistungen für einen privaten Kundenstamm erbringen. Das Ausstellen von Genehmigungen und Zulassungen, sowie die Vergabe öffentlicher Gelder und Leistungen haben eine wichtige Funktion in einem funktionierenden Gemeinwesen. Und in diesem Kontext ist bürgernahes Arbeiten entscheidend, und das hat etwas mit Akzeptanz und Effizienz zu tun.

Akzeptanz: Bürgernahe Verwaltungen fördern die Akzeptanz politischer Entscheidungen; “bürgerferne” Behörden vermindern diese. In einer demokratischen Gesellschaft spielt die Akzeptanz politischen Handelns durch den Bürger eine entscheidende Rolle. Rechtskonformes Verhalten von Bürgern wird häufiger, wenn Normen bürgerfreundlich umgesetzt werden. Der Polizist, der seinen Namen nennt. Das verständliche Schreiben vom Bauamt.

Effizienz: Gemeinden, Kreise oder Länder konkurrieren um Ressourcen und wirtschaftliche Vorteile. Und in diesem Kontext sind effektiv arbeitende, bürgernahe Verwaltungen ein entscheidender Standortvorteil. Schnelle Entscheidungen, kurze Verwaltungswege, transparente und faire Entscheidungsprozesse erleichtern Investitionen und Innovationen und erweitern damit den wirtschaftlichen Spielraum einer Gemeinde, einer Stadt oder eines Bundeslands.

Verwaltungen sollten daher Interessenverteter des Staates und der Bürger und Unternehmen zugleich sein - und so erfolgreiches und effizientes Handeln jeder Seite ermöglichen. Der Staat braucht seine Bürger und Unternehmen mit im Boot. Verwaltungen agieren in diesem Spannungsfeld und müssen sich in diesem positionieren:

Nun stammen - und das ist vielleicht erst einmal kontraintuitiv - die Anreize für bürgernahes Arbeiten nicht aus den Eigeninteressen von Verwaltungen, sondern aus den Interessen der politischen Akteure.

In einem privatwirtschaftlichen Umfeld dient kundenorientiertes Arbeiten (Marketing im weitesten Sinne) den wirtschaftlichen Interessen eines Unternehmens. Im öffentlichen Sektor hingegen sind die Dinge anders gelagert. Es existiert kein freier Markt von konkurrierenden Verwaltungsunternehmen, weshalb es keine unmittelbaren finanziellen Anreize für kundenorientiertes Verhalten gibt. Der Bürger kann den Anbieter nicht wechseln, falls ihm der Preis zu hoch erscheint, die Freundlichkeit der Mitarbeiter zu wünschen übrig lässt oder wenn er regelmäßig Schreiben erhält, für deren Interpretation er zivile Experten zu Rate ziehen muss, die er aus seiner eigenen Tasche bezahlt.

Die Dienstleistungsfunktion von Verwaltungen lässt sich meiner Ansicht nach nicht primär auf wirtschaftliche Interessen, sondern auf politische Bedürfnisse zurückführen. Politische Akteure wie Parteien, Interessenverbände oder Bürgermeister setzen sich für mehr Bürgernähe ein und thematisieren dieses Thema besonders im Wahlkampf. Denn freundliche und effektive Verwaltungen zahlen sich politisch aus.

Nehmen wir als Beispiel eine Gemeindeverwaltung, die aus dem Bürgermeister, dem Gemeinderat und verschiedenen Verwaltungsangestellten besteht. Der Bürgermeister wird gewählt, während die Verwaltungsangestellten über Dienstverträge gebunden sind.

Die Chancen des Bürgermeisters auf Wiederwahl hängen auch davon ab, wie bürgerfreundlich und effizient "seine" Verwaltungsangestellten arbeiten. Denn freundliche Mitarbeiter erhöhen die Akzeptanz der Beschlüsse des Gemeinderats und eine effektive Verwaltung zieht Wirtschaft und damit auch Finanzen in die Gemeinde. Dies generiert eine höherer Prosperität und wirkt sich indirekt auch auf die Wiederwahl des Bürgermeisters aus.

Dem typischen Verwaltungsangestellten sind diese politischen Motivationen jedoch fremd. Sein Erfolg hängt vielmehr davon ab, ob er rechtlich korrekt handelt und etablierten Verwaltungsprozessen folgt, und weniger davon, wie freundlich er ist. Bürgernähe ist für den Bürgermeister von Bedeutung, nicht jedoch für den Kämmerer.

Entscheidend für das Handeln von Behörden sind jedoch in erster Linie die Anreize für die Angestellten und nicht die Bedürfnisse von Politikern, die oft selbst Laien sind und in wechselnder Besetzung an ihnen vorbeiziehen. Es sind die Verwaltungsmitarbeiter, die mit den Bürgern interagieren, und deren Interessen beeinflussen die Art und Weise dieser Interaktionen.

Für den typischen Verwaltungsangestellten haben die beiden Funktionen der Verwaltung ein unterschiedliches Gewicht. Aus seiner Sicht sieht es meistens so aus:

Diese Gewichtung ist kein ehernes Gesetz. Verwaltungsangestellte gibt es in verschiedenen Farben und Funktionen, und die Gewichtungen von regulatorischen und politischen Motivationen können schwanken.

Die konkrete Verwaltungskommunikation ist ein Spiegel der Gewichtung dieser beiden Aspekte. Je stärker das Pendel in die regulatorische Richtung ausschlägt, desto asymmetrischer und bürgerferner gestaltet sich die Interaktion.

Die Kunst der Verwaltung besteht darin, eine ausgewogene Balance zwischen diesen beiden Aspekten zu finden und die Bedürfnisse der Bürger im Auge zu behalten, ohne die rechtlichen und regulatorischen Vorgaben aus den Augen zu verlieren. Denn letztendlich dient die Verwaltung dem Wohl der Bürger und nicht nur den politischen Bedürfnissen einzelner Akteure.

Lösungswege

Es gibt verschiedene Ansätze, um mit dieser Problematik umzugehen:

Beibehaltung des Status quo: Obwohl es die gängige Praxis zu sein scheint, erscheint diese Lösung unbefriedigend aus Sicht der Laien und indirekt auch aus Sicht der politischen Akteure.

Änderung der Anreize für das Verwaltungshandeln: Eine Möglichkeit wäre, klare Kriterien oder Kennzahlen für bürgerfreundliches Handeln einzuführen, die in Verwaltungsprozessen berücksichtigt werden. Allerdings könnte dies zu einer Überlastung der Verwaltung führen und Verwaltungsmitarbeiter müssten sich nicht nur um Rechtssicherheit, sondern auch um Wissensvermittlung kümmern, abhängig von der Vorbildung der Klientel. Das Ausmaß der Asymmetrie ist jedoch diffus, da es in der Realität keine durchschnittlichen Bürger gibt.

Finanzielle Entlastungen: Ämter könnten die Kosten für zivile Vermittler wie Notare und Anwälte übernehmen. Allerdings würde dies entweder zu Ineffizienzen oder zu einer Kostenexplosion führen, da die Bedarfe der Bürger von Fall zu Fall verschieden sind. Finanzielle Ausgleiche sollten daher nur in Härtefällen zur Anwendung kommen und jeweils geprüft werden, was zu weiteren Gesetzen, Anträgen, Bescheiden und darauf spezialisierten Verwaltungsakten führt. Eine Flatrate demgegenüber führt zu hohen und oft unnötigen Kosten, die vom Steuerzahler zu begleichen wären.

Künstliche Assistenten: Eine innovative Lösung könnte in der Ausnutzung Künstlicher Intelligenz liegen, insbesondere durch große Sprachmodelle (Large Language Models, LLMs). Diese Tools könnten eine effizientere Lösung für die Ausgleichung der Ungleichgewichte in der Kommunikation mit Verwaltungen darstellen. Daher argumentiere ich im Folgenden für den Einsatz von KI-Assistenten in der Verwaltung. Zunächst muss jedoch ihre Eignung für diese Aufgabe geklärt werden.

Große Sprachmodelle als Übersetzer von Fachtexten

Im Moment herrscht ein regelrechter Hype um große Sprachmodelle wie ChatGPT, GPT-4, LaMDA und PaLM. Die Anwendungsmöglichkeiten für diese Modelle sind äußerst vielfältig und reichen von der Textzusammenfassung und -vereinfachung über die Erstellung von personalisierten E-Mails, Code und Excel-Formeln bis hin zur Korrektur von Grammatikfehlern, Übersetzungen und sogar der Erstellung von Geschichten, Gedichten und wissenschaftlichen Texten. Die tatsächliche Leistungsfähigkeit dieser Sprachmodelle in all diesen Bereichen ist jedoch noch nicht endgültig geklärt, da die Entwicklung in diesem Bereich rasant voranschreitet.

Fest steht jedoch, dass diese Modelle eine hervorragende Performance bei der Analyse von Texten und der Erläuterung technischer, juristischer oder wissenschaftlicher Konzepte aufweisen. Warum also nicht das oben genannte Anschreiben des Kreisbauamts in ChatGPT hochladen und analysieren lassen?

Genau das habe ich gemacht. Ich habe ChatGPT gebeten, mir die Fachbegriffe aus dem obigen Dokument zu erklären, die zugehörigen Gesetzestexte zu zitieren und zu erläutern, Handlungsoptionen vorzuschlagen und mir Kontaktdaten für verschiedene Ansprechpartner wie das Bauamt, das Landratsamt, Notare, Anwälte und Architekten anzugeben:

Das ging erstaunlich schnell. Ich kann den ganzen Dialog nicht zitieren, da er zu lang wäre. Hier ist ein kurzer Auszug daraus (meine Eingaben - prompts - sind fett hervorgehoben):

In welchen Fällen sind Baulastunterlagen erforderlich?

Baulastunterlagen sind in der Regel dann erforderlich, wenn für ein Bauvorhaben eine Zufahrt zu einer öffentlichen Straße benötigt wird und es für diese Zufahrt keine gesicherten Rechte gibt. In diesem Fall muss nachgewiesen werden, dass eine rechtliche Sicherung für die Zufahrt besteht. Dies kann entweder durch einen Eintrag im Baulastenverzeichnis des zuständigen Landkreises oder durch eine Grunddienstbarkeit im Grundbuch zugunsten der Bauaufsichtsbehörde erfolgen. Wenn für die Zufahrt bereits gesicherte Rechte bestehen, sind keine Baulastunterlagen erforderlich.

Welches der angeforderten Dokumente lässt sich am leichtesten beschaffen?

Das hängt von der individuellen Situation ab und kann nicht pauschal beantwortet werden. Wenn die Flurstücke bereits unter einer laufenden Nummer im Grundbuch eingetragen sind, kann eine unbeglaubigte Kopie des aktuellen Grundbuchauszugs am leichtesten beschafft werden. Wenn jedoch noch keine rechtliche Sicherung für die Zufahrt zur Hauptstraße vorliegt, müssen entweder eine Baulasteintragung oder eine private Dienstbarkeit eingetragen werden, was mit mehr Aufwand verbunden ist. Es empfiehlt sich, die Anforderungen des Kreisbauamts sorgfältig zu prüfen und gegebenenfalls professionellen Rat einzuholen.

Wie kann ich eine Baulasteintragung veranlassen?

Eine Baulasteintragung kann beim zuständigen Bauamt beantragt werden. In der Regel ist dafür ein schriftlicher Antrag erforderlich, in dem die Art und der Umfang der Baulast sowie die betroffenen Flurstücke genau beschrieben werden müssen. Die erforderlichen Unterlagen für den Antrag können von der jeweiligen Baubehörde angefordert werden und können je nach Bundesland und Gemeinde unterschiedlich sein.

Die Baulasteintragung kann entweder öffentlich-rechtlich oder privatrechtlich erfolgen. Bei einer öffentlich-rechtlichen Baulast wird die Last im Baulastenverzeichnis des Landkreises oder der Gemeinde eingetragen. Bei einer privatrechtlichen Baulast wird die Last im Grundbuch als Grunddienstbarkeit oder beschränkt persönliche Dienstbarkeit eingetragen.

Die Beantragung einer Baulasteintragung kann mit Kosten verbunden sein und es kann eine längere Bearbeitungszeit in Anspruch nehmen. Es empfiehlt sich daher, frühzeitig mit der zuständigen Baubehörde in Kontakt zu treten und sich über die genauen Anforderungen und Verfahrensweisen zu informieren.

Wie und wo kann eine private Dienstbarkeit eingetragen werden?

Eine private Dienstbarkeit kann im Grundbuch des betreffenden Grundstücks eingetragen werden. Dazu müssen die betroffenen Eigentümer einen entsprechenden Vertrag abschließen und diesen notariell beurkunden lassen. Anschließend kann der Notar den Eintragungsantrag beim zuständigen Grundbuchamt stellen.

Der Vertrag muss die Art und den Umfang der Dienstbarkeit sowie die betroffenen Grundstücke genau beschreiben. Außerdem müssen die Rechte und Pflichten beider Parteien festgelegt werden. Es empfiehlt sich daher, den Vertrag von einem Rechtsanwalt oder Notar prüfen und aufsetzen zu lassen.

Die Eintragung der privaten Dienstbarkeit im Grundbuch kann mit Kosten verbunden sein. Die genauen Kosten hängen von verschiedenen Faktoren ab, wie beispielsweise dem Wert des betroffenen Grundstücks und den Kosten des Notars. Es empfiehlt sich daher, vorab bei dem zuständigen Grundbuchamt nach den genauen Kosten zu fragen.

Es ist erstaunlich, wie gut ChatGPT bei der Analyse des Dokuments des Kreisbauamts abgeschnitten hat. Obwohl es einige kleine Fehler gab, waren die meisten Erklärungen sehr hilfreich. Es scheint, dass die Verwendung von großen Sprachmodellen tatsächlich dazu beitragen kann, Informationsdefizite in der Kommunikation mit Behörden zu verringern. Mit ein wenig Prompt Engineering könnte dieses Vorgehen noch verbessert und mit einer klugen Implementierung sogar automatisiert werden.

Doppelte Anschreiben

Der proof of concept ist also erbracht. Aber wie sollte dies in der Praxis umgesetzt werden? Ich schlage vor, diesen Prozess nicht in die Hände des Bürgers, sondern in die Hände der Verwaltungen zu legen. Hier sind drei Gründe, warum dies sinnvoll ist.

Erstens lassen sich Effektivitätszuwächse durch Skalierung, Automatisierung und Feinabstimmung zentral besser steuern. Die Qualität der Antworten hängt stark von der Qualität der Eingaben ab. Es erfordert Erfahrung und Mühe, um die optimalen Formulierungen zu finden, Fragen richtig zu stellen und Automatisierungsoptionen zu nutzen. Der Bürger sollte sich nicht selbst mit solchen Dingen befassen müssen.

Zweitens machen Laien häufiger Fehler und sind weniger in der Lage, diese zu erkennen und zu korrigieren. Die Überwachung der Qualität der Antworten sollte daher in den Händen von Experten liegen, um Fehler zu minimieren.

Drittens geht es um mehr Bürgernähe und Akzeptanz. Wenn am Ende eines Verwaltungsdokuments nur ein Hinweis auf die Nutzung von Tools wie ChatGPT steht, falls Fragen zum Text bestehen, dann signalisiert das weniger Bürgernähe. Um die Akzeptanz und Zufriedenheit der Bürger zu erhöhen, sollten Verwaltungen selbst gut aufbereitete Hintergrundinformationen bereitstellen.

Denkbar in diesem Zusammenhang wären doppelte Anschreiben - wie ich es nennen würde. Hierbei handelt es sich nicht um ein zusätzliches Schreiben, das einer Verwaltung an einen Bürger schickt, um den betreffenden Sachverhalt zu erläutern. Stattdessen könnte das Original-Dokument vor dem Versand an eine webbasierte Schnittstelle gesendet werden, die den Text auf einer verschlüsselten Webseite speichert. Dort könnten automatisch mithilfe eines großen Sprachmodells Erläuterungen und ein QR-Code mit einem Link zu dieser Seite erstellt und dem Originaldokument angehängt werden.

Im Bedarfsfall könnte der Empfänger dann leicht auf die Erläuterungen zugreifen, weitere Anfragen stellen und mithilfe einer Zufriedenheitsskala qualitative Rückmeldungen an die Verwaltung geben. Auf diese Weise könnten die beiden Funktionen von Verwaltungen in ein Gleichgewicht gebracht werden, ohne das bestehende System unnötig zu belasten:

Es sind vielfältige andere Implementierungen dieses Ansatzes denkbar. Wesentlich aber ist, dass mit diesem Vorgehen eine win-win-Situation geschaffen wird.

Der Bürger hat durch Nutzung dieses speziell zugeschnittenen Informationsangebots einen erheblichen Mehrwert. Eigene Recherchen und frustrierte Telefonate könnten entfallen, und vielleicht kann er auch hier und da auf privatwirtschaftlich arbeitende Spezialisten verzichten.

Aber auch Verwaltungen würden davon profitieren. Die Anzahl unnötiger Nachfragen und Telefonate verringert sich, und sie können sich besser auf ihre Kernaufgaben konzentrieren.

Stärken und Schwächen

Doppelte Anschreiben haben eine Reihe von Stärken und natürlich auch spezifische Schwächen.

Stärken/Chancen

Konservativität: Das System der doppelten Anschreiben erfordert keine Änderung wesentlicher Verwaltungsprozesse und lässt sich in kleinem Umfang testen (zum Beispiel in einem Kreisbauamt). Die Akzeptanz durch den Bürger ließe sich z.B. durch Zufriedenheitsskalen messen, was eine wichtige Rückmeldung für den Erfolg der Implementierung darstellt.

Lerneffekte: Ein interessanter Aspekt sind die Lerneffekte, die sich aus der Bewertung der generierten Daten ergeben. Diese können als Inputs für weitere Lernschritte zur Verbesserung des verwendeten Sprachmodells genutzt werden. Das bedeutet, dass wir es mit einem sich selbst verbessernden System zu tun hätten, dessen Optimierung sich automatisieren lässt.

Erweiterbarkeit: Das zweite Anschreiben könnte um zusätzliche Dienste erweitert werden. Zum Beispiel könnten die Öffnungszeiten und Kontaktdaten relevanter Ämter angezeigt, Navigationshilfen erstellt oder Busfahrpläne eingebunden werden. Es wäre auch möglich, Empfehlungen für externe Dienstleister wie Notare, Anwälte oder Architekten zu geben. Eine Chatfunktion, über die direkte Anfragen abgewickelt werden können, wäre ebenfalls denkbar.

Nutzen: Es gibt einen eindeutigen Mehrwert sowohl für Verwaltungen als auch für den Bürger. Reibungsverluste und Asymmetrien werden vermindert, was zu einer größeren Effizienz und Bürgernähe führt.

Technologie: Das Verfahren basiert vollständig auf bereits existierenden und nutzbaren Technologien.

Kosten: Die laufenden Kosten dürften sehr gering sein. Die Anfangsinvestitionen - Programmierleistungen - sollten ebenfalls vergleichsweise gering sein.

Automatisierung: Durch eine intelligente Implementierung lassen sich die Prozesse bei der Erzeugung des zweiten Anschreibens weitgehend automatisieren, so dass für die Verwaltung kaum Mehraufwand entsteht.

Verfügbarkeit: 24/7

Schwächen/Risiken

Eigentumsrechte: Die verwendete Technologie ist Eigentum eines privaten Unternehmens mit Sitz in den USA. Es ist noch unklar, wie die Lizenzierung aussehen würde. Es wäre wünschenswert, dass es Module für Spezialaufgaben gibt, aber im Moment gibt es noch keine. Darüber hinaus ist es derzeit nicht möglich, dass externe Unternehmen diese Technologie mit proprietären Daten trainieren.

Datenschutz: Wenn sensible Daten (wie amtliche Dokumente) online gespeichert werden, dann muss sicher gestellt werden, dass diese nicht von Dritten ausgelesen werden können.

Fehleranfälligkeit: Die Verwendung großer Sprachmodelle birgt bekannte Einschränkungen hinsichtlich Erklärbarkeit, argumentativer und sachlicher Richtigkeit, Anfälligkeit für Voreingenommenheit durch Trainingsdaten sowie Nachvollziehbarkeit. Daher kann nicht garantiert werden, dass die bereitgestellten Informationen immer korrekt sind.

Autorschaft: Es ist unklar, wer bei fehlerhaften Inhalten und den daraus resultierenden Konsequenzen zur Verantwortung gezogen werden kann. Es ist daher wichtig, dies klar zu kommunizieren und eine rechtlich sichere Implementierung zu gewährleisten.

“Piep piep piep piep piep,” erklang es jeden Abend hinter Loni Halbvogels Haus. “Piep piep piep piep piep.” Loni trieb ihre Hühner in den Stall.

Die Hennen Arwen, Freya und Runa nahmen wie jeden Abend auf der unteren Stange Platz. Der stolze Hahn Torin thronte über ihnen und gab vor, sie in der Dunkelheit bewachen zu wollen. Loni füllte das Wasser in der Trinkschale auf und legte noch einen Rosenquarz hinein, um es zu reinigen und zu energetisieren. Sie tätschelte jedes Huhn leicht am Schnabel. Dann verschloss sie die Tür.

Loni lebte vegan. Sie aß nichts vom Tier. Früher hatte sie mal eine Katze. Die kam eines Tages nicht mehr wieder. Die Hühner und den Hahn hatte sie von einem Bauern erworben, der sie schlachten wollte. Seitdem lebten sie bei ihr in einem kleinen Stall hinter dem Haus.

Freitags war Eiertag. Da verschenkte Loni die Eier ihrer drei Hennen an die Leute hier im Minzgässchen. Lili, die gleich gegenüber wohnte, holte sich immer zwei Eier bei ihr ab. Auch Frau Krause und Herr Silberling kamen regelmäßig bei ihr vorbei. Loni Halbvogel glaubte an eine bessere Welt und war der Meinung, dass man dazu nur etwas mehr auf sein Herz hören müsse.

Heute ist Freitag. Lili steht vor Lonis Tür und klingelte.

“Hallo Lili, wie geht’s dir denn? Arwen und Runa haben die Mauser. Sie legen schlecht. Es tut mir leid. Es sind heute einfach keine Eier da.”

Lili zog ihre Stirn in Falten und blickte Loni leidvoll an. Aber nicht wegen der Eier.

“Ich habe seit gestern solche Kopfschmerzen. Es zieht und hämmert, so als wollte mir jemand den Schädel aufhacken. Ich hoffe, das gibt sich bald wieder.”

“Ach du Arme,” sagte Loni, “das muss schrecklich sein! Ich habe auch manchmal Migräne. Da möchte ich mich am Liebsten unter der Bettdecke verkriechen und nie mehr hervor kommen. Das ist schlimmer als betrunken sein. Irgendwann weißt du nicht mehr, wo oben und unten ist.”

Lili nickte leicht.

“Weißt du was, Lili? Ich glaube ich habe da etwas für dich: Excrementum caninum! Das hat bei mir total geholfen. Ich nehme das immer bei Migräne. Es soll aber auch gegen Heuschnupfen helfen!”

“Heuschnupfen?”

Lilis Gesicht sah noch immer leidend aus.

“Naja, du kannst das ja einfach mal probieren. Schaden kann es nicht.”

Loni ging ins Haus und kam dann mit einem durchsichtigen Röhrchen zurück, in dem sich viele kleine, weiße Kügelchen befanden.

“Globuli”, sagte sie. “Das bedeutet ‘Perlen’. Aber das siehst du ja selbst. Echte Wundermittel! Ich habe hier eine C12. Das ist gleich eine hohe Potenz. Früh und abends eine. Langsam auf der Zunge zergehen lassen.”

Loni strahlte Lili an.

“Wir sollten zwar erst einmal deine Konstitution abchecken, aber in so einem akuten Fall machen wir das gleich so. Wir sehen ja, ob es anschlägt.”

Lili sah Loni etwas skeptisch an, sagte dann aber ‘“Okay. Wenn’s bei dir geholfen hat!?”

“Ja, immer. Meine Mutter nimmt das jetzt auch. Die war anfangs auch nicht überzeugt.”

Lili steckte das kleine Röhrchen ein und bedankte sich bei Loni. Eier hätte sie jetzt sowieso keine runter gekriegt.

“Also danke erstmal, liebe Loni. Ich probier’s mal aus.”

Sie drehte sich um und stand nach drei Schritten wieder auf dem Minzgässchen. Ein lauer Herbstwind wehte ihr ins Gesicht. Das tat gut. Sie hielt den Kragen ihrer leichten Jacke zu und sehnte sich ein wenig nach dem Winter. Sie wollte sich nicht vorstellen, wie es wäre, wenn ihr jetzt die Sonne auf den Kopf knallte.

Lilis Haus hatte die Nummer 10. Bis dahin waren es nur ein paar Schritte. Die Rose am Eingang hatte nur noch wenige Blüten, die der kälter werdenden Luft trotzten. Sie zog ihre Schuhe aus und ging ins Badezimmer. Der Besuch bei Loni hatte sie angestrengt. Sie hielt das kleine Röhrchen gegen die Lampe und schaute sich das jetzt genauer an. Die Kügelchen sahen aus wie kleine, weiße Liebesperlen  —  und sie hießen ja auch so. Perlen. Auf dem kleinen Aufkleber stand nur ‘“Excr. caninum C12”.

‘Schaden kann es ja nicht’, dachte sie und öffnete den Verschluss. Ganz vorsichtig schüttete sie ein winziges Kügelchen auf ihre Handfläche. Dann leckte sie mit ihrer Zunge über die Stelle und nahm es in den Mund. ‘Langsam zergehen lassen!’ Es schmeckte süßlich, so als hätte sie an einem Traubenzuckerbonbon gelutscht. Dann war es weg.

Lili setzte sich in ihren Ohrensessel und schloss die Augen. Es fühlte sich an, als ob die Welt um sie herum sich leicht drehen würde. Im regelmäßigen Takt zog sich ihre Kopfhaut zusammen und dann stach jemand mit einer Nadel in ihre Schläfen.

“Autsch!” Es fühlte sich schrecklich an. Je länger sie so saß, desto schlimmer wurde es. Kleine blaue und rote Blitze tauchten hinter ihren Augenlidern auf. Dann zuckte sie wieder zusammen, wegen des stechenden Schmerzes. Sie fuhr mit ihrem Ohrensessel Karussell. Vorwärts. Rückwärts. Dann eine schwungvolle Drehung. Dann stach jemand mit einer Nadel auf sie ein, und die Lichter blinkten in verschiedenen Farben.

Lili stand wieder auf. Sie schwitzte leicht. Ihr war übel. Langsam ging sie zur Tür, dann nach draußen, dann über die Straße, dann quälte sie sich die Treppe zu Lonis Haustür hoch und klingelte. Loni öffnete und erschrak.

“Du bist ja ganz blass, Lili! Was ist denn los?”

“Ich weiß nicht. Mir platzt der Kopf.”

“Komm doch bitte rein. Du kannst doch nicht hier stehen bleiben!”

Sie gingen in die Küche.

“Setz dich hin! Und hier trink erstmal was.”

Loni reichte ihr ein Glas Wasser.

“Danke Loni! Ich habe vorhin so ein Kügelchen genommen. Und dann ist es schlimmer geworden. Ich halte das kaum noch aus.”

Loni strahlte Lili an.

“Das ist ein gutes Zeichen! Die Erstverschlimmerung! Das zeigt, das es angeschlagen hat. Wenn es schlimmer wird, dann ist es gut! Da weiß man, dass sie helfen.”

Lili zog vor Schmerz eine Grimasse.

“Wie meinst du das? Wenn es schlimm ist, ist es gut!?”

“Na, wenn du etwas nimmst, das so ähnlich ist wie dein Leiden, dann kann sich dein Körper von selber heilen.”

“Was habe ich denn genommen?”

“Excrementum caninum C12. Nehme ich auch immer.”

“Was ist das?”

“Das ist Lateinisch.”

“Lateinisch was?”

Lili konnte kaum noch sprechen.

“Im Deutschen sagen wir dazu ‘Hundekacki’.”

“Hundekacki? Ich habe Hundekacke gegessen?”

“Nein, nein, nein. So ist das nicht.”

“Mir ist schlecht!”

Lili nahm einen großen Schluck Wasser.

“Das ist doch C12”, sagte Loni, “eine ganz hohe Potenz! Da muss man damit rechnen, dass es stark wirkt.”

Lili sah ihre Freundin verständnislos an.

“Eine ganz hohe Potenz!?”

“Ja, C12 bedeutet, dass die Urtinktur unglaublich stark verdünnt wurde.”

“Die Hundekacke?”

“Ja, aber du darfst das nicht so sehen! Da ist keine Hundekacke mehr drin.”

“Keine Hundekacke mehr drin?! Ach Loni, kannst du mir bitte noch etwas Wasser geben?”

“Ja, klar.”

“Das ist eine alte Weisheitslehre”, sagte Loni, als sie Lili das Wasser reichte. “Das ‘C’ steht für ‘hundert’. Du musst also die Ursubstanz mit ganz viel Wasser mischen und schütteln. Dann nimmst du davon etwas ab, mischst es wieder mit ganz viel Wasser und schüttelst. Und das machst du dann genau zwölf Mal.”

“Und?”

“Na, das heißt, dass da am Ende überhaupt keine Hundekacki mehr drin ist! Das ist so als trinkst du aus einem Ozean, der von hier bis zur Sonne reicht. Brauchst dir also keine Gedanken machen!”

Lili nahm einen Schluck aus ihrem Glas und versuchte sich den Riesenozean vorzustellen. Vielleicht hatte irgendein Hund hier in der Nähe mal irgendwann ins Wasser gemacht? Herr Silberling hatten einen Dackel. Der war schon älter und vielleicht … Ihr wurde übel und sie stellte ihr Glas wieder auf den Tisch.

“Es sind die Erinnerungen”, sagte Loni jetzt. “Das Wasser erinnert sich. Man muss es nur richtig schütteln.”

Sie blickte Lili an und merkte, dass irgendetwas nicht stimmte. Lilis Gesicht war jetzt kreideweiß, und ihre Augen blickten durch sie hindurch. Plötzlich gab es einen Knall. Bummm! Wie, wenn man mit einer Nadel in einen Luftballon sticht.

Lilis Strichs Kopf platzte auf. Einfach so. Loni Halbvogel schrie. Eine dickflüssige Masse spritzte aus Lili heraus und verteilte sich überall im Zimmer. Ihr Kopf sah jetzt aus wie ein kaputter Luftballon. Mehrere schlaffe Lappen hingen an ihren Schultern herunter. Das war mal ihr Kopf. Von da abwärts sah jedoch alles normal aus. Lili saß noch immer auf dem Stuhl. Nur der Kopf war weg.

Der Gallert, der jetzt in größeren und kleineren Tropfen und Lachen in der Küche verteilt war, hatte eine hellrosa Farbe und glänzte leicht. So als ob ganz feiner Goldglitter darin schweben würde. Ihr Küchentisch sah jetzt aus wie ein Gemälde von Pollock, das sie vor Kurzem in einer Galerie gesehen hatte. Ein Wirrwarr von schillernden Flecken und Linien, so als hätte jemand einen großen Pinsel in einen Farbeimer getaucht und dann wahllos auf der Platte herumgekleckst.

Die Wände, die sich weiter weg befanden, sahen aus, als wären rosa Kristalle mit einer Schneemaschine durch das offene Fenster herein geblasen worden. Es glitzerte und schimmerte überall. Auch Loni hatte es getroffen. Ihre Brust. Die Arme. Ihre Haare und ihr Gesicht. Alles glibberte in Rosa und in Gold.

Loni drückte mit ihrem Finger leicht in einen der Glibberbatzen hinein. Er gab an dieser Stelle nach und beulte an der gegenüberliegenden Seite aus. Der Goldstaub wanderte von ihrem Finger weg. Die gesamte Szenerie wirkte ein wenig unwirklich. Die Glitzerwelt war wie in Watte gepackt. Es war still. Die beklemmende Stimmung mischte sich jetzt mit ein wenig Faszination. Loni stand einfach nur da und wusste nicht, was sie tun sollte.

Dann klingelte die Haustür schrill in die Stille hinein. Loni Halbvogel erstarrte schon wieder. Vor der Tür standen zwei Männer. Sie trugen dunkle Anzüge. Und weiße Hemden. Der größere hatte kurze blonde Haare. Sein Gesicht sah etwas geschwollen aus. Die Augen waren klein und hell und standen eng beieinander. Er trug eine rote Krawatte mit weißen Hunden. Der kleinere Mann war hager. Er hatte dunkles, langes Haar, das ihm glatt bis auf die Schultern hing. Beide hielten kleine Köfferchen in der Hand. Es sah aus, als kämen sie gerade vom Flughafen und hätten nur ihr Handgepäck dabei. Vielleicht wollten sie ja nur wissen, wo hier die nächste Bushaltestelle ist.

“Erschrecken Sie bitte nicht!”, sagte der größere der beiden. “Wir kümmern uns nur um die Zwischenfälle. Sind sie Frau Halbvogel? Wir haben gehört, dass es hier einen Zwischenfall gab. Dürfen wir eintreten?”

Loni bekam es mit der Angst zu tun. Sie dachte an ihre Küche und an Lili ohne Kopf. Was sollte sie bloß tun? Sie öffnete die Tür und wollte den beiden sagen, dass sie sich geirrt haben müssen. Sie kam jedoch nicht dazu, irgendetwas zu sagen. Ohne sie weiter zu beachten, gingen die beiden an ihr vorbei und betraten das Haus.

“Wo ist es passiert?”, frage jetzt der Kurze.

Loni zeigte mit dem Finger in Richtung Küche. Da gingen sie jetzt hin. Der Kurze voraus. Der Große hinterher. Loni schluckte. ‘Jetzt ist alles vorbei!’, dachte sie. Die beiden Männer schauten sich um.

“Strauß, so wie der Vogel.”, sagte der Große und tippte mit dem Finger auf ein kleines Schildchen, das an seinem Anzug befestigt war. Loni hatte das noch gar nicht bemerkt.

“Wann ist das passiert?”

“Jetzt eben.”

“Gab es irgendetwas Ungewöhnliches? Vorher? Ein Leuchten? Ein Knistern?”

“Nein. Nichts. Lili hatte nur Kopfschmerzen.”

“Aha. Lili also. Und weiter?”

“Strich.”

Der Kleine hatte seinen Koffer abgesetzt und schrieb etwas mit einem kurzen Bleistift in sein Notizbuch.

“Was war mit den Kopfschmerzen? Erzählen Sie mal!”

“Naja, die hatte Lili schon vorher. Als sie sich Eier holen wollte. Aber Runa und Arwen haben die Mauser. Jedenfalls habe ich ihr dann Globuli gegeben. Und dann kam sie wieder. Ich dachte an die Erstverschlimmerung. Und irgendwann hat es geknallt.”

“Was haben Sie ihr denn gegeben?”

“Excrementum caninum.”

“Hundekacke?”

“Ja, ähm — nein. Da war ja keine mehr drin.”

Der Kleine notierte sich alles.

“Na gut.”, sagte jetzt der Große mit der roten Krawatte, der Herr Strauß hieß.

Er stellte seinen Koffer auf den Boden, öffnete ihn und holte ein altertümlich wirkendes Gerät heraus. Es sah aus wie ein nostalgischer Fotoapparat, den er auf einem Dreibein montierte. Ein kleiner Blasebalg kam aus einem Kasten heraus. Vorn war etwas befestigt, das wie eine Linse aussah, aber keine war. Eine kleine rot glänzende Scheibe mit einem winzigen Loch in der Mitte.

Auch der Kleine hatte jetzt seinen Koffer geöffnet. Das Ding, das er daraus hervorkramte, sah aus wie ein kleiner Lampenschirm, der an einem Griff befestigt war, an dessen Ende ein langes Kabel heraus hing. Er steckte das Ende des Kabels in den Kasten mit dem Blasebalg und der roten Scheibe. Jetzt stellten Sie sich nebeneinander auf und richteten ihre Geräte auf die Überreste von Lili.

Es sah aus als kämen sie von der Presse und wollten ein Verbrechen dokumentieren.

Kleines Mädchen ohne Kopf!!! Überall Blut!!!

Dann machte es klack und der kleine Lampenschirm blitzte auf. Die Szenerie verschwand in einem blendenden Licht. Loni kniff ihre Augen zusammen, aber es war zu spät. Eine Weile sah sie nichts weiter als ein grelles Weiß, auf dem bunte Flecken herumtanzten.

Als sich die bunten Flecken auflösten und sie das Zimmer wieder sehen konnte, sah sie nichts. Alles sah aus wie vorher. Keine rosa Grütze an den Wänden. Keine kopflose Lili auf dem Küchenstuhl. Keine mysteriösen Reporter mit merkwürdigen Geräten. Alles sah aus, wie vor zwei Stunden noch. Als wäre nichts passiert. Die letzten Minuten kamen ihr nun vor wie ein Traum. Ihr Herz hüpfte noch etwas unruhig in ihrem Brustkorb herum, aber der Anblick der gewohnten Umgebung beruhigte sie doch ein wenig. Erschöpft setzte sie sich hin.

Schon wieder klingelte es an ihrer Haustür. Loni beschloss, sie auf keinen Fall zu öffnen. Es klingelte wieder. Zweimal. Dann hörte sie “Loni? Bist du zu Hause? Ich komme wegen der Eier.”

Lilis Stimme. Eindeutig. Wie war das möglich? Loni Halbvogel schluckte und stand auf. Sie hoffte so sehr, dass sie sich nicht verhört hatte. Als sie die Tür öffnete, fiel die ganze Spannung von ihr ab. Es war wirklich und eindeutig Lili, die jetzt vor ihr stand.

“Hallo Loni”, sagte sie.

“Hallo Lili, wie geht es dir? Leider haben die Hühner gerade die Mauser und legen schlecht. Ich fürchte ich habe heute gar keine Eier für dich da.”

Lili zog ihre Stirn in Falten und sah Loni leidvoll an.

“Oder warte mal!”, sagte Loni jetzt. Sie hatte eine Idee. “Warte kurz! Ich bin gleich zurück!”

Loni rannte durchs Haus, riss die Tür in den Garten auf und rannte dann zum Hühnerstall. ‘Vielleicht!’, dachte sie. Sie öffnete die Gittertür und sah hinein. Tatsächlich! Runa saß auf einem Nest und sah sie treuherzig an. Dann zupfte sie sich mit ihrem Schnabel an der Brust herum und steckte eine kleine Feder in den Rand ihres Nestes. Ganz vorsichtig griff Loni mit beiden Händen unter ihre Henne. Ja wirklich! Ein Ei! Sie hob Runa vom Nest und nahm das warme, runde Ding an sich.

“Tut mir leid. Aber das muss jetzt sein.”

Mit Freude strahlenden Gesicht rannte sie zurück.

“Hier Lili, das ist für dich. Es ist doch eins da. Runa muss es eben gelegt haben. Es ist noch ganz warm.”

“Du bist echt die beste Freundin, die ich habe, Loni! Ich habe gerade mächtige Kopfschmerzen, aber das geht bestimmt bald vorbei. Und so eine Freundschaft, die bleibt. Ich danke dir! Mach’s gut.”

Lili ging die Treppen runter und stand dann im Minzgässchen. Ein lauer Herbstwind wehte ihr ins Gesicht.

Das Auffälligste an Rufus Milchbart ist, dass er keinen Milchbart trägt. Er heißt zwar so, mit Nachnamen, doch das bedeutet nicht, dass er einen hat. Manchmal nehmen das die Leute nicht so genau. Wie so vieles. Eines Tages zum Beispiel kam er an eine Grenze.

“Da kann ja etwas nicht in Ordnung sein!”, sagte es hinter dem Sprossenfenster des Zollhäuschens.

Der Beamte hielt seinen Passport in der Hand. Auf dem Bild war ein älterer Herr zu sehen. Mit Fältchen um den Augen und einem riesigen weißen Vollbart, der vom linken Ohr bis zum rechten Ohr reichte. Das ganze Gesicht war zugewuchert. Unter dem Bild des bärtigen Mannes stand ‘Rufus Milchbart’. ‘Milchbart’, nicht ‘Vollbart’! Da gab es überhaupt keinen Zweifel.

“Der Pass muss gefälscht sein! Sie können hier nicht weiter gehen. Tut mir leid. Die Schranke bleibt unten. Das muss ich jetzt melden!”

Rufus stöhnte und versuchte es zu erklären.

“Wenn jetzt unter dem Bild ‘Vorgesetzter’ stehen würde, dann wäre das eindeutig falsch, da ich ja gar nicht ihr Vorgesetzter bin, sondern ein Kinderbuchautor. Mit ‘Milchbart’ aber ist das ganz anders. So heiße ich nun mal, auch wenn ich schon lange keinen mehr habe. Können sie mir da folgen? Ich weiß, es ist nicht so einfach, aber vielleicht heißen Sie ja ‘Pfeife’ und sind gar keine.”

Der Beamte sah ihn ungläubig an und wirkte unentschlossen. Rufus Milchbart merkte, dass er wieder etwas gesagt hatte, was andere nicht verstehen. So geht es ihm ständig. Das strengte ihn an.

“Wie heißen SIE denn?” frage er dann.

“Obermeister Kuckuck.”

“Und, haben Sie schon einmal ‘Kuckuck’ gemacht?”

Der Beamte schüttelte leicht seinen Kopf, drückte etwas widerwillig den Dienststempel ins Dokument und hob die Schranke an. Rufus Milchbart durfte passieren.

Zu Hause angekommen bemerkte er, dass sich schon etwas Laub unter dem Wetterschenkel der Eingangstür angesammelt hatte. Der Wind hatte es von der großen Linde, die jetzt im schönsten Goldgelb glänzte, hierher geblasen. Vorsichtig schob er es mit dem Fuß beiseite. Dann trat er ein. Hier war er zu Hause. Hier in seinem kleinen Schriftstellerhäuschen am Rande von Priesenitz. Kleines Schlafzimmer. Winziges Bad. Große Wohnküche. Kein Flur. Er nannte es liebevoll seine “Hütte”.

Den Schlüssel warf Rufus in das Körbchen auf der Ablage neben der Tür. Er zog seine Schuhe aus, legte den Mantel ab, füllte Wasser in einen kleinen Pfeifkessel und nahm sich eine Tasse aus dem Schrank. Er stellte sie auf den Küchentisch. Das wird sein Willkommenskaffee. Auf den hatte er sich schon die ganze Reise über gefreut. Er trank ihn heiß und türkisch. Ungefiltert. Man konnte nicht einen Vollbart tragen und dazu gefilterten Kaffee trinken. Fand er.

Da sah er den Brief. Er konnte sich nicht erinnern, dass vor seiner Reise ein Brief auf dem Tisch lag.

An Rufus Milchbart in Priesenitz, Am Steingut 3 stand vorn drauf.

Er drehte ihn um. Hinten war der Absender vermerkt.

Lili Strich, Taubenheim, Minzgässchen 10

Sein Puls schlug schneller. Hielt er tatsächlich einen Brief von Lili in den Händen? Er konnte sich gar nicht erinnern, ihr das Schreiben beigebracht zu haben. Wie war das möglich? Er war doch ihr Schöpfer!?

Rufus hatte erst spät im Leben mit dem Schreiben begonnen. Da hatte er schon lange keinen Milchbart mehr. Eines Tages wusste er nicht mehr so richtig, wer er war. Etwas in seinem Leben war ihm abhanden gekommen. Doch wie man so schön sagt, öffnet sich eine Tür, wenn sich eine andere schließt.

Rufus Milchbart war zwar nicht abergläubisch, aber hier stimmte das. Er ging durch eine Tür. Die fiel plötzlich zu. Eine Weile stand er im Flur herum und wusste nicht, wohin er gehen sollte. Er lief eine Weile auf und ab und sah sich die Türschilder an. Büro für ungeklärte Anliegen, Schuldirektor Semmelholer, Bretter, Nägel, Schrauben und andere nützliche Dinge und Alois Winkelknecht. Ihr Advokat für alle Lebenslagen las er.

Und dann Lili Strich. Weiter stand nichts auf dem Schild. Kein Hinweis darauf, wer oder was diese Lili war. Rufus blieb stehen. Dann klopfte er vorsichtig an. Nichts. Noch einmal.

“Ich kann grad nicht”, hörte er.

Noch einmal. Klopfen. Er ließ nicht locker. Irgendwann ging die Tür auf und sie stand vor ihm. In einem gepunkteten Sommerkleid. Lili Strich. Plötzlich war sie da. Sie stand in der Tür und sagte “Ja bitte?” “Ja!” Und “Bitte!”

Das war gefühlt vor einem Jahr. Und jetzt das hier! Er legte den Brief wieder auf den Tisch zurück. Den Absender nach unten. Ein bisschen wunderlich war ihm schon zumute. Lili war ja nur eine Idee, ein Wort sozusagen, und er war ihr Herr Zebaoth. Was kann sie von ihm wollen?

Der Pfeifkessel pfiff. Er stellte den frisch gebrühten Kaffee vor sich hin. Dann nahm er Lilis Brief und schnitt ihn mit einem Messer vorsichtig auf. Im Umschlag befand sich ein mit einer feinen Handschrift beschriebener Bogen Papier. Das muss Lilis Handschrift sein! Rufus goss etwas Milch in den Kaffee. Dann zog er den Bogen heraus, faltete ihn auseinander und glättete ihn mit der flachen Hand auf der Tischplatte.

“Sehr geehrter Herr Milchbart,” stand da, “ich weiß nicht richtig, wie man seinen Schöpfer anspricht. Schließlich habe ich das noch nie gemacht. Vermutlich sollte ich einfach ‘Hallo!’ oder ‘Guten Tag!’ sagen. Sicher wundern Sie sich, dass ich Ihnen schreibe. Ich hatte in den letzten Tagen nicht so viel zu tun. Wahrscheinlich waren Sie gedanklich anderweitig beschäftigt. Und da habe ich begonnen, über mich und die Welt nachzudenken. Sie wissen schon. Wer ich wirklich bin? Ob es mich irgendwann nicht mehr gibt? Wo, wer oder was ich vorher war? All diese Fragen. Das erste, woran ich mich erinnern kann, war ein Pochen. Poch, poch. Poch, poch. Und dann saß ich bei Frau Dachboden auf der Gartenbank. Sie tat so, als bemerkte sie mich nicht und roch dabei etwas süßlich.”

Rufus hielt inne. Ja, stimmt. Er hatte sich die verstaubte alte Dame ausgedacht, um Lili zeigen zu können, dass sich die größten Wunder zu Hause, direkt vor ihrer Nase, abspielen. Aber wie kam Lili nur darauf, dass Dolores Dachboden ‘süßlich’ roch? Er las weiter.

“Ich war damals so naiv. Und dann Carl Schnitter. Der Sensenmann. Erst war ich stinksauer auf ihn, aber später war da so ein Gefühl. Als ob kleine Bläschen aufstiegen, wie in einem Glas mit Mineralwasser, aber schwer zu greifen. Ich wusste nicht, was ich tun soll und rannte einfach weg.”

Er schluckte. Ihm stand diese Szene immer noch vor Augen. Carl war ein interessanter Typ. Nur dass ihn niemand leiden konnte. Lili sollte das entdecken. Hatte er ihre Gefühle wirklich so genau beschrieben?

“Ich fühle mich so echt”; stand da, “Alles ist so real. Ich habe Hunger. Ich habe Durst. Ich bin gereizt. Traurig. Müde. Belustigt. Freudig erstaunt. Und noch mehr dazwischen. Hier, vor mir steht eine Schüssel voll Wasser. Ich kann es berühren. Es ist kalt. Und nass. Wenn ich die Hand hinein tauche, dann spüre ich den Temperaturunterschied. Und einen leichten Druck und Auftrieb. Wie kann es denn sein, dass ich nicht ich bin? Nur das Produkt eines anderen Geistes? Ist das alles gar nicht echt? Was wird aus mir, wenn Sie mal nicht mehr da sind? Ich sitze jetzt hier und schreibe Ihnen diesen Brief. Wollen Sie etwa behaupten, dass Sie sich - jetzt in diesem Moment - selber einen Brief schreiben? Wer glaubt denn sowas? Und wer glaubt das überhaupt? Vielleicht gibt es Sie ja gar nicht!?”

Rufus zog die Stirn in Falten, hob seine Tasse an und trank einen Schluck. Der Kaffee war jetzt nur noch lauwarm und schmeckte nicht so, wie er es gewohnt war.

“Lieber Herr Milchbart, bitte helfen Sie mir weiter! Geben Sie mir ein Zeichen! Ich weiß nicht mehr, was ich eigentlich denken soll. Herzlichst, Ihre Lili Strich.”

Für Lili war Herr Milchbart ein Gott. Sie nur etwas Ausgedachtes. Eine Idee. Ein Wort auf einem Blatt Papier. Aber war das wirklich so? Nein, das konnte nicht so sein. Ein Wort war sie nicht! Das kam gar nicht in Frage! Nur ein Wort will niemand sein!

Rufus legte den Brief wieder auf den Tisch, schob seine Tasse beiseite, zog sich die Schuhe und seinen Mantel wieder an. Er musste jetzt gleich nach Taubenheim gehen! Sofort. Zu Lili. Er musste ihr sagen, dass sie echter war als irgendjemand. Echter, als sie selbst es glaubte. Dass er ja auf sie gestoßen sei, als es sie schon gab. Dass er sich die Geschichten nicht nur aus der Nase zog. Er griff nach der Klinke und trat nach draußen.

Hui! Rufus erschrak und stolperte rückwärts ins Zimmer zurück. Da, vor seiner Tür, befand sich kein Weg mehr. Keine Wiese. Keine Linde. Und die Blätter, die er eben noch beiseite geschoben hatte, waren auch weg. Es war schwarz. Überall schwarz. Durch die Luft bewegte sich eine riesige spitzwinklige Figur aus mehreren farbigen Lichtstreifen. Die Ecke der Figur rauschte von hinten heran, wechselte ihre Farbe von grün in rot, und es sah so aus als wollte sie sich im nächsten Moment in die Wohnküche stürzen. Der Türrahmen glimmte kurz auf und dann war sie verschwunden.

Rufus schloss die Tür, so schnell er konnte. Atemlos stand er da. Was war hier plötzlich los? Jetzt sah er es auch in den Fenstern. Hinter den noch geschlossenen Gardinen blinkte es in Rot, dann in Blau, und dann in Orange. So als hätte sich draußen eine ganze Armada von verschiedenen Einsatzfahrzeugen versammelt, die lautlos mit eingeschalteten Warnlichtern da standen. Als wäre über ihm ein Großbrand ausgebrochen. Aber es gab kein ‘über ihm’! Nur die kleine Hütte, ganz am Rande des kleinen Dorfes Priesenitz. Vor dieser Hütte hätte nicht ein einziges Einsatzfahrzeug Platz gehabt.

Rufus trat an eines der Fenster und zog vorsichtig den Vorhang beiseite. Draußen war es schwarz. Die riesige Leuchtfigur bewegte sich jetzt in einem Band paralleler Linien von links oben nach rechts unten und schoss dann mit hoher Geschwindigkeit am Fenster vorbei. Es fühlte sich an, als befände er sich im Inneren eines riesigen, nostalgischen Bildschirmschoners. Wie gebannt blickte er hinaus. Es gab da nichts. Nur dieses überdimensionale Gebilde. Es waren eigentlich zwei, wie er erst jetzt bemerkte. Manchmal bekam er eines ganz in den Blick. Ein unregelmäßiges Viereck aus farbigen Linien, das aussah, als torkelte es im Raum umher und wechselte dabei seine Farben.

Plötzlich war wieder alles schwarz. Dann begann etwas zu wachsen. Weit hinten und kaum zu sehen. Es mussten Rohre sein, mit Verdickungen, an denen sie die Richtung wechselten. Mit großer Geschwindigkeit breiteten sie sich aus. Stück für Stück wucherte der Raum mit Rohren zu. Manchmal bewegten sie sich von ihm weg, und manchmal auf ihn zu. Erst weiß, dann orange, dann grün. Die Abstände zwischen den Rohren wurden immer kleiner. Es bildeten sich richtige Rohrdickichte aus. Sie krochen über ihn hinweg, unter ihm hindurch, oder direkt am Fenster vorbei.

Als es schien, dass das gesamte schwarze Weltall, in dem er sich befand, von wurmartigen Rohrleitungen durchzogen war, so dass kaum noch eine Hand irgendwo hindurch gepasst hätte, verschwand alles wieder. Wieder nur schwarz.

Jetzt fing es an zu regnen. Wie dünne Bindfäden kamen endlose Nullen und Einsen von oben herab. Die einzelnen Ziffern waren kaum zu erkennen, aber es waren nur Nullen und Einsen. Da war er sich sicher. Sie schimmerten grünlich vor dem schwarzen Hintergrund. Es gab größere und kleinere Lücken zwischen ihnen. So als ob verschieden dicke Regentropfen eine Scheibe hinunter liefen und dabei verschieden lange Spuren hinterließen. Es war ein Code, der über dem Bildschirm lief und sich endlos immer wieder neu erfand.

Rufus Milchbart zog den Vorhang wieder zu. Benommen setzte er sich an den Küchentisch. Im Sitzen zog er seine Schuhe aus und hängte seine Jacke über die Lehne des Stuhls. Er breitete ein Blatt Papier vor sich aus und nahm einen Stift zur Hand.

“Liebe Lili,” schrieb er. “weißt du, mir geht es nicht viel anders als dir. Ich denke manchmal, dass ich auch nur eine Figur in einer Geschichte bin. Vielleicht gibt es ja viel mehr als nur unsere Strichmenschenwelt. Und vielleicht gibt es dich ja wirklich, liebe Lili. Vielleicht bin ich nur eine Idee. Nur ein ‘Wort’, wie du schreibst. Genau weiß ich das jetzt nicht. Ich bin auch ein wenig ratlos. Aber wenn es dich wirklich gibt, Lili, dann bitte tue mir einen Gefallen. Geh zur Grenze und frage dort nach Obermeister Kuckuck. Ich habe dort kürzlich meinen kleinen braunen Lederkoffer stehen lassen. Gib dich bitte als meine Tochter aus und nimm ihn an dich. Bewahre ihn sicher auf, aber bitte öffne ihn nicht. Niemals. Ich denke, das Ganze hier hat etwas mit diesem Koffer zu tun. Ich hätte ihn nicht dort vergessen sollen, aber nun ist es zu spät! Ich weiß nicht, ob ich wieder von hier weg komme. Falls du Obermeister Kuckuck persönlich antriffst, dann bitte sag ihm auch, dass es mir leid tut. Er hatte recht mit seinem Zweifel. Der Bart war nicht echt. Vielleicht war auch alles andere nicht echt. Ich weiß es nicht. Ich hab dich lieb! Dein Rufus.”

Er faltete das Papier und steckte es in einen Umschlag. “Für Lili” schrieb er vorn drauf. Dann ging er zur Tür, bückte sich, und schob den Umschlag vorsichtig durch den Schlitz zwischen Tür und Fußboden. Es zischte leise, und ein kleines rotes Licht leuchtete hinter der Tür auf. Dann verschwand auch dieses. Der Weltraum hatte seine Gedanken gefressen. Vielleicht spie er sie irgendwann wieder aus. Vielleicht auch nicht. Für Rufus gab es jetzt nichts mehr zu tun.

Meet Klaus, a man who values his independence and chooses to remain single. However, his aunt Ursula has left him a substantial inheritance in her will, but with a catch: he must be married by the age of 30 to receive it. In need of money, Klaus finds a solution by marrying Berta, a fellow adventurer who shares his passion for archaeology and frequently travels abroad, allowing Klaus to maintain his desired lifestyle.

Consider Klaus' solution to his financial predicament. While it may seem reasonable, we must question its true value. To do so, let's examine the following statements, with the constituent in focus indicated in square brackets:

(1)

It is good that Klaus married [Berta].

(2)

It is good that Klaus [married] Berta.

In Klaus' situation, it seems that (1) holds true while (2) is false. These two sentences, despite their identical wording, convey different meanings.

To understand why, we can explore the reasons behind them. Perhaps, (1) is true because Klaus married Berta, who is frequently away from home, allowing him to maintain his single lifestyle. However, (2) is false because Klaus, a self-proclaimed bachelor, should not have married anyone at all.

These two value statements are related to different reasons, despite their similar wording. Essentially, (1) is equivalent to (3), while (2) is equivalent to (4):

(3)

Given the various people he could have married: it is good for Klaus that he chose to marry Berta.

(4)

Given his commitment to a single lifestyle: it is good for Klaus that he chose to marry Berta.

Assuming we are correct so far, it seems reasonable to suggest that the focus of a statement works to relativize a value statement to a particular set of reasons, which are tied to the emphasized constituent and further specified by the surrounding context.

However, standard semantics cannot account for the nuanced difference in meaning between sentences (1) and (2). Therefore, we require a non-standard semantics capable of accommodating focus-related meanings.

Two theories, in particular, could be applied: the theory of structured meanings, mainly developed by A. von Stechow, and alternative semantics, developed by M. Rooth. For the sake of simplicity, I will utilize the former theory.

The theory of structured meanings proposes that isolating one or more constituents of a sentence through focus partitions the sentence's meaning into two distinct sets: a background meaning and a thematic meaning. The background meaning is obtained through lambda abstraction over the focused constituents, while the thematic meaning is defined as the value of the focused constituents.

By applying this theory to sentences (1) and (2), we can display their focus-related meanings as an ordered pair in the format <background meaning, thematic meaning>. The expressions are as follows ([[α]]f represents the focus-induced meaning of α):

(5)

[[“Klaus married [Berta]”]]f = <λy. marry'(k,y), b>

[[“Klaus [married] Bertha”]]f = <λP. P'(k, b), λxy. marry'(y,x)>

What role do focus-related meanings play in determining the truth conditions of value statements?

Consider example (1), where the focused component, Berta, implies a comparison to all other viable marriage candidates, represented by λy. marry'(k,y). Consequently, the truth conditions of (1) attribute special qualities to Berta that justify Klaus' favorable view towards her.

On the other hand, in example (2), the component "to marry" defines the thematic meaning and necessitates the distinction of all other alternative relationships between Klaus and Berta represented in the background meaning.

If Klaus valued no other relationship with Berta more than marriage, it would justify his desire to marry her. However, as this is not the case, such a sentiment would be unwarranted, which is why (2) is deemed false, in accordance with our intuition.

What is the technical significance of these insights? How can we express the truth conditions of value statements? To begin, we can use the following formula as a useful starting point:

(6)

[["It is good that S"]] in w1 = 1 iff there is a world w2 and a subject a such that

1. [[S]] in w1 = 1 (factivity condition);

2. [[Φ(a, S)]] in w2 = 1, where Φ is a pro-attitude and w1 and w2 are broadly similar (essential condition); and

3. it is appropriate to have a pro-attitude with content p (appropriateness condition).

Condition (1) captures the factivity of propositional value statements. When you utter a sentence of the form “It is good that p.”, you presuppose that p is true. Therefore, the sentence “It is good that the earth is flat.” is neither true nor false because its presupposition that the earth is flat isn't satisfied.

Condition (2) captures the essential requirement for something to be valuable. Namely, there must be someone who values it - i.e. has a pro-attitude towards something described by S.

However, this is not always strictly required. Values don't cease to exist just because nobody values them at a particular moment. Values are dependent on but not identical to appreciation.

For this reason, I added another broadly similar world w2: actual appreciation is not always required, but it should not be an outlandish attitude within the situation under consideration.

You might be wondering why condition (3) is necessary. The proposition p is not specified, and it is unclear how p relates to S. Aren't values simply the things we appreciate?

Unfortunately, this is not always the case. We could appreciate something wrongly that is not worth valuing. Values require justification; they don't appear out of thin air. This is what condition (3) aims to capture.

To further clarify, we can rely on our previous discussion of focus-induced meanings. Assuming background meaning α and thematic meaning β, a plausible assumption would be the following:

(7)

It is appropriate to have a pro-attitude with content p iff: if [[S]]f = <α, β>, then there is a good reason for α(β) = p, such that it there is no good reason for any other proposition α(γ), with γ ≠ β.

The third condition is crucially based on the focus effect, stating that there is an appropriate pro-attitude only towards the proposition that is the object of a value statement, but not towards alternative propositions that we get when we substitute the focus position with other entities of the same type.

In the case of (1), this would mean that Klaus has a good reason to marry Berta (since he gets the inheritance and can still live mostly alone), but no good reason to marry Luise, Andrea, or Brigitte instead.

However, upon closer inspection, this approach turns out to be inadequate. The truth of (1) does not rule out the possibility that it might have been just as desirable for Klaus to marry Hannah instead of Berta, for instance, if Hannah is a famous marine biologist who is never around. Thus, the condition is too strong.

It seems that both Berta and Hannah would be good marriage candidates for Klaus. This, however, does not imply that choosing one necessarily rules out the other.

We must allow for other alternatives, for which equally good reasons could be found. We can do that by weakening (7) to (8):

(8)

It is appropriate to have a pro-attitude with content p iff: if [[S]]f = <α, β>, then there is a good reason for α(β) = p, such that this good reason doesn’t exist for another proposition α(γ), with γ ≠ β.

This suggestion, however, makes sentences like (1) too easily true. For instance, imagine Klaus and all potential marriage candidates are archaeologists, and one of them, Brigitte, is ruled out as a marriage candidate because she is a lesbian.

Under such circumstances, the mere existence of Brigitte would make (1) true since Klaus can't find good reasons for a marriage proposal with her.

This is not the desired outcome, and it shows that (8) is too weak.

To address this issue, we can refine condition (8) by adding a relevance requirement, as follows:

(9)

It is appropriate to have a pro-attitude with content p iff: if [[S]]f = <α, β>, then there is a good reason for α(β) = p, such that it there is no such good reason for any other proposition α(γ), where γ is a relevant alternative to β but ≠ β.

This means that the alternatives must be not only undesirable but also relevant to the value statement in question. This condition strikes a balance between being too weak and too strong, as it allows for appropriate pro-attitudes to be context-dependent and sensitive to the relevant alternatives.

This analysis renders (1) true only if Klaus has a reason to marry Berta that he would not have with respect to other women who are marriage candidates, because they would stay home more often instead.

The presence of an alternative marriage candidate like Hannah, who is too similar to Berta, would not count as a relevant alternative. Brigitte, on the other hand, would not count as an alternative at all, as she is not a marriage candidate.

For (2), (9) would render it true only if Klaus has a reason to marry Berta that he would not have if he married someone else. Since this is not the case, (2) would turn out to be false, as expected.

If we were to exclude focus-induced meanings from our analysis of value statements, then the third condition could be simplified to:

(10)

It is appropriate to have a pro-attitude with content p iff [[S]] = p, and there is a good reason for p.

Let’s assume:

(11)

It is good that Klaus married Berta.

Based on my analysis so far, (11) would be true if (a) Klaus married Berta, (b) marrying Berta isn't undesirable in general, and (c) he had good reasons for doing so.

While all three conditions are fulfilled, this explanation isn't entirely satisfying because the reasons for marrying someone are typically a mixed bag. Klaus likely had reasons for and against marrying Berta, and another person might have been a better match for him.

This creates what I call the "Mixed Bag Problem" (MBP).

The MBP cannot be easily resolved. If the reasons for doing something are mixed, it means there are good reasons for both p and non-p.

Strengthening (10) by requiring there are no good reasons for non-p would result in too few valuable things.

Requiring there be no alternative to p for which there are good reasons would be even worse, as there would be at most one valuable thing, and likely none at all.

Intuitively, if p is good or valuable, then there should be better reasons for p than for non-p. All things considered, it's better for Klaus to marry Berta. He can have his cake and eat it too. This idea is captured in (12):

(13)

It is appropriate to have a pro-attitude with content p iff [[S]] = p, and there are better reasons for p than for non-p, all things considered.

While the initial impression may seem positive, upon closer examination, I believe it falls short. Let us assume that propositions are sets of possible worlds, where p denotes all possible worlds where p is true. The set of possible worlds where non-p is true is enormous.

What could happen to Klaus in these worlds where he doesn't marry Berta? All kinds of extremely positive and extremely negative outcomes could occur, along with everything in between. What reasons could there be for choosing p-worlds over non-p-worlds given such vast sets of possible worlds?

I don't know, honestly.

It appears that utilizing focus in value statements makes the semantics more complex and the decision-making process simpler. Conversely, forgoing emphasis has the opposite effect.

In practice, decisions are critical, not semantics. Therefore, it is advisable to use focus to narrow down the relevant alternatives.

“Verflixt.”

Vorsichtig berührte er seinen Bauch. Es brannte schon, wenn er mit dem Finger die leicht die gerötete Stelle berührte. Bald würden sich hier kleine Bläschen bilden, die erst wie ein Stückchen Glut auf der Fingerspitze brannten und später dann juckten, als hätte man sich Juckpulver mit Chili ins Gesicht gerieben.

Besonders schlimm war es, wenn er die Kutte überzog. Der grobe Leinenstoff mit den vielen kleinen, harten Härchen, die aus ihm heraus sprießten, scheuerte über die entzündliche Haut. Der Schmerz war überwältigend. Das Sternenmeer, das ihm dann vor den Augen tanzte, ließ sich nur langsam weghecheln. Stern für Stern. Einzeln.

Er litt an einer starken Sonnenallergie und mied das Tageslicht. Nur nachts machte er Spaziergänge durch Taubenheim oder Heiligendorf. Wenn es lange warm war, ging er auch mal bis nach Stockwen oder sogar bis nach Priesenitz.

Er war darauf bedacht, dass er auf seinen Spaziergängen niemandem begegnete. Das war ihm ganz wichtig. Menschen konnte er nicht leiden. Schon als kleiner Junge nicht. Wegen seines Namens wurde er von den Kindern und von vielen Erwachsenen nur der ‚Kahlschneider‘ genannt, worüber er immer sehr traurig war.

Jetzt lebte er allein in der Nähe des Sees, der sich auf halbem Wege zwischen Taubenheim und Heiligendorf befand. Hier störte es niemanden, dass er keinen Klimmzug konnte und nicht die Stange hoch kam. Niemand klopfte bei ihm an der Tür. Er musste niemandem erklären, dass er eine Sonnenallergie hatte. Und niemand konnte ihn den ‚Kahlschneider‘ nennen. Hier bei sich zu Hause fühlte er sich sicher. Er mochte die Leute nicht. Und die Leute mochten ihn nicht.

Sein Name war “Carl”, “Carl Schnitter”. Er war der Sensenmann.

Zum Frühstück aß er ein Milchbrötchen mit Honig und trank dazu einen warmen Kakao.

Kaum hatte er den letzten Bissen runter geschluckt, da klingelte auch schon der Apparat. „Ring ring.“ „Ring ring ring.“

Carl starrte das große, schwarze Gerät an, das auf der Kommode stand und aufdringliche Geräusche machte. Jetzt schon wieder. „Ring ring.“ Wie er das hasste! Er redete sehr ungern mit jemandem. Und dann das! In ein schwarzes Ding hinein sprechen zu müssen, aus dem dann eine Stimme heraus gekrochen kam — aus etwas, das aussah, als hätte man ihm einen Knopf in den Mund gesteckt. Sieben Löcher zum Annähen. Dann auf das unvermeidliche „Wie bitte?“ zu warten, das ihm aus dem Hörer entgegen kam, nur um alles noch einmal sagen zu müssen.

Telefone waren so ungefähr das Zweitschlimmste, was es auf der Welt gab. Gleich nach der Sonne, die ihre heißen Strahlen bis in jeden Winkel der Erde schickt, wenn sie niemand davon abhält und die Vorhänge zu zog. Unfähig etwas zu tun, stand er vor dem Apparat und hoffte, dass der Anrufer sich verwählt hatte und bald wieder Stille einziehen würde.

„Ring ring ring.“

Er zuckte zusammen. Er nahm den Hörer von der Gabel, führte ihn nach oben und sprach sein „Schnitter“ hinein.

„Strich“ hallte es aus dem Knopfmund heraus. „Spreche ich mit CARL Schnitter?“

„Ja-a“, presste Carl in das Ding.

„Hallo Herr Schnitter, hier spricht Lili Strich. Ich rufe aus Stockwen an. Ich habe eben mit Frau Sorgleben gesprochen. Sie sagte, dass gestern Nacht der Sensenmann umgegangen sei. Und nun befürchtet sie, dass jemand stirbt. Wenn der Sensenmann kommt, dann — so heißt es ja — muss jemand sterben. Vielleicht trifft es ja diesmal ihren Ehemann! Oder ihren Hund Alexander! Oder am Ende vielleicht sogar Frau Sorgleben selber!“

„Und?“ stöhnte Carl.

„Nun ja, sie sagte auch, dass sie etwas Rotes unter der Kapuze gesehen hätte. Und dann fragte sie sich, ob das vielleicht etwas mit Ihnen, Herr Schnitter, zu tun haben könnte. Sie sind der Einzige hier weit und breit, der solche roten Haare hat. Können Sie mir dazu etwas sagen?“

Carl Schnitter hätte jetzt am Liebsten aufgelegt, doch er ahnte, dass das zu nichts führen würde. Der Apparat würde wieder sein aufdringliches Geräusch machen. Er wusste nicht, was er sagen sollte. Wenn er einfach „Nein.“ sagte, dann stimmte das ja nicht. Natürlich konnte er etwas zum Sensenmann sagen.

Und Schwindeln fiel ihm noch schwerer als Reden. Er hasste es, wenn sich jemand irgendeine Geschichte aus der Nase zog und dann so tat, als sei sie wahr. Und wenn er statt dessen „Ja.“ sagte, dann hatte er diese Lili Strich auf dem Hals. Das ist bestimmt noch schlimmer!

Hin und her gerissen schwieg er in den Hörer. „Carl?“, rief dieser nach einer Weile. „Sind sie noch dran?“

„Ja, ähm — nein. Ach verdammt! Ich weiß es auch nicht! Ich kann jetzt nicht reden!“

„Wie bitte?“, kam ihm aus dem Apparat entgegen.

Mit verzerrtem Gesicht quetschte Carl ein „ICH KANN JETZT NICHT REDEN!“ in den Hörer hinein.

Ruhe. Längere Ruhe.

„Wann können Sie denn reden?“, kam schließlich.

„Morgen.“

„Wann morgen? Morgen Mittag?“

„Nein. Es geht nur nachts. Ich habe eine Sonnenallergie. Ich hasse telefonieren!“

Wieder Ruhe.

„Ähm, dann schlagen Sie doch etwas vor!“

„Um zehn. Nachts. An der Habichtwiese. Dort, wo die Eichen stehen.“

Kaum hatte er das vorgeschlagen, da machte es ‚klack‘. Das Gespräch war vorbei.

Carl legte den Hörer auf, welcher vor Nässe glänzte, als säße er in der Badewanne und spielte damit Boot.

Lili stand bei den Eichen und wippte mal mit dem einen Bein und dann mit dem anderen. Hin und her. Her und hin. Es war dunkel und von Carl Schnitter war nichts zu sehen.

Ob er noch kommt? Es klang gestern nicht so, als würde er sich auf das Treffen freuen.

Lili wippte weiter, mal mit dem einen Bein, mal mit dem anderen.

„So ein Mist!“, machte es plötzlich hinter ihr.

Sie zuckte zusammen und drehte sich um. Da stand eine dunkle Gestalt. Etwas kleiner als sie.

„Ich hab’s ja gewusst! Diese verfluchte Kutte treibt mich in den Wahnsinn!“

Vom Klang der Stimme her musste es sich um Carl Schnitter handeln. Vom Aussehen her stand vor ihr der Sensenmann.

„Also doch! Sie waren das! Können Sie sich eigentlich ausmalen, welche Sorgen sich die Leute ihretwegen machen? Mit dem Tod ist doch nicht zu spaßen!“

Lili kam gleich zur Sache. Carl nestelte an seiner Kutte herum und sagte: „Verdammt. Kannst du mir mal helfen, dieses Ding auszuziehen? Mein Bauchnabel juckt fürchterlich!“

Lili schüttelte den Kopf, doch dann hielten beide die Kutte fest und zogen sie Carl gemeinsam über die Schultern.

Mit rotem Kopf und nacktem Bauch stand er jetzt vor ihr.

„Warum machst du das?“ setzte Lili ihren Monolog fort.

„Was?“

„Na den Sensenmann spielen und den Leuten Angst einjagen!“

„Ich gehe doch nur spazieren! Dass die Leute ängstlich sind, das ist doch nicht mein Problem! Und sterben müssen sie ja sowieso. Das hat doch nichts mit mir zu tun!“

„Der Tod macht jedem Angst! Tue nicht so, als wäre das bei dir anders!“

Lili zog die Augenbrauen zusammen.

„Und wo ist eigentlich deine Sense?“

„Die ist mir abgebrochen. Schon lange her. Unhandliches Ding. Wer braucht schon eine Sense? Und überhaupt. Das hier ist meine Aufgabe,“ protestierte Carl. „So etwas kann man nicht einfach so aufgeben! Das will richtig durchdacht sein. Die Menschen verstehen den Tod nicht, und sie wollen sich das irgendwie erklären. Ist ja schließlich ne ganz große Nummer. Kannst du dir eigentlich vorstellen, auf welche Ideen die Leute kommen würden, wenn einmal klar ist, dass es gar keinen Sensenmann gibt? Dass es nur Carl Schnitter ist, der einen Spaziergang macht und seine Kapuze aufgesetzt hat?“

Darüber hatte Lili noch nicht nachgedacht.

„Und du, hast schon mal darüber nachgedacht?“ wollte Lili nun wissen.

„Ich hab’s versucht.“

„Und?“

„Und was?“

„Warum kann Frau Sorgleben nicht mehr schlafen? Warum hat sie Angst vorm Sensenmann? Wäre es nicht besser, wenn es den gar nicht erst gäbe?“

„Nein,“ sagte Carl Schnitter, „das wäre es nicht. Wenn etwas erst Mal weg ist, dann heißt das noch nicht, dass es besser wird. Ohne mich hätten die Leute noch mehr Angst vor dem Tod. Als ob das irgendwas zu bedeuten hätte!“

„Wie meinst du das? Der Tod ist doch etwas Schreckliches!“ Lili sah Carl fassungslos an.

„Wieso? Bist du schon mal gestorben?“

„Nein, natürlich nicht. Ich lebe ja noch.“

„Siehst du. Du weißt nichts vom Tod und sprichst so, als sei hier alles klar wie Kloßbrühe. Ist es aber nicht! Du bist ja wie alle anderen.“

Lili wollte, dass der Sensenmann nicht mehr kommt, denn die Menschen hatten Angst vor ihm. Die Menschen. Naja, sie ja irgendwie nicht.

Sie schaute Carl an und hatte, ehrlich gesagt, sogar etwas Mitleid mit ihm. Wie er so vor ihr stand, mit seinem rot schimmernden Haar und seiner bleichen Haut, die keine Sonne zu sehen bekam. Rot und weiß.

„Was denkst du denn darüber?“, sagte sie dann, ein wenig leiser.

„Worüber?“

„Na über den Tod! Niemand will sterben. Das kannst du doch nicht einfach so wegwischen!“

„Das Problem ist,“ — Carl wandte sich von den Bäumen ab und ging ein Stück über die Habichtwiese — „dass es mehr gibt, als wir uns vorstellen können.“

Er ging noch ein Stück weiter und bückte sich dann. Langsam fuhr er mit der Hand über das Gras. Dann schloss er seine Augen, wartete einen Moment und griff mit der flachen Hand ein Stück weit unter die Oberfläche der Wiese. Dann hob er sie an, wie die Ecke eines Betttuchs. Langsam schlug Carl ein tuchähnliches Stück Wiese beiseite, das auf der Unterseite leicht schimmerte.

Sie blickten jetzt auf eine Art Loch in der Wiese. Oder irgendetwas. Ob es sich tatsächlich um eine Öffnung handelte, war nicht zu erkennen. Es war einfach so, als hätte jemand eine dünne Schicht Farbe abgezogen, und darunter trat, wie bei einem alten Gemälde, eine weitere Farbschicht zutage. Deren Oberfläche schimmerte sacht in vielen verschiedenen Farben, die bunte Schlieren bildeten. So als hätte jemand einen Tropfen Öl ins Wasser gegeben und mit einem Zahnstocher drin rum gerührt.

„Sieh selbst,“ sagte er jetzt.

Lili stand wie versteinert da. Was war das denn?

„Was ist das?“

„Das Tor zu einer anderen Welt. Spring hinein!“

Lili zog die Augenbrauen hoch und sagte: „Bist du übergeschnappt? Wie kann ich denn wissen, was mich da erwartet? Das macht mir Angst!“

Carl, der einen halben Kopf kleiner war als Lili, grinste sie jetzt von oben herab an und sprang hinein. Die bunten Schlieren wirbelten etwas herum und dann war Carl Schnitter weg. Vom Erdboden verschluckt. Lili holte tief Luft und sprang hinterher.

Es kribbelte ein wenig, so als ob sie mit der Zunge an einer Batterie leckte, nur überall. Und dann stand sie wieder neben Carl vor einer schillernden Öffnung auf einer Wiese. Es sah genau so aus, wie eben auf der Habichtwiese. Als wäre überhaupt nichts geschehen.

„Soll das ein Scherz sein? Wo sind wir?“

„Schau nach oben!“, sagte Carl.

Lili richtete ihren Blick in den Himmel. Wie eben noch sah sie einen schönen, kräftigen Halbmond über sich. Doch Moment mal! Sie erschrak. Etwas darüber befand sich, rund und heller, noch ein weiterer Mond.

„Krass!“

Carl schien das nicht weiter zu stören. Er stand neben den Eichen, genoss die Landschaft und sagte nur „Siehst du!“

Lili Strich konnte nicht glauben, wie schön es hier war. Von hier oben aus hatte man einen wunderbaren Blick. Von Osten her schlängelte sich ein kleiner Fluss durch eine kleine Schlucht, floss dann dicht an einem Ort vorbei, so dass man einige der Vorgärten nur über eine kleine Brücke erreichen konnte. Nach Westen hin ergoß er sich dann über eine Wiese, und bevor er sich in ein stehendes Gewässer verwandeln konnte, verkroch er sich in einem dichten Mischwald, in dem man ihn mit dem bloßen Auge nicht mehr nachverfolgen konnte.

Die Häuser im Ort zündeten jetzt wie die Glühwürmchen vor ihr auf der Wiese nach und nach ihre Laternen an, und schon bald verwandelte sich die Szenerie in zwei dunkelblaue Streifen, auf denen goldene Pünktchen tanzten. Unten die Lichter der Häuser und der Insekten und oben die Strahlen der glitzernden Sterne, getrennt nur durch eine am Horizont sich hinziehende Hügelkette, die unbeleuchtet war.

Über allem krönten die zwei Monde wie zwei fette Stücken Käse. Der eine groß, rund und gelb, sah aus, als hätte man ihn mit einem Messer in zwei gleich große Teile geteilt. Die eine Hälfte war gut sichtbar am Himmel ausgelegt, die andere ging zurück ins Kühlhaus, nur um später als Ergänzung auch in die Auslage zu kommen. Der andere, weiß und rund, stand ein wenig höher und sorgte in der nächtlichen Idylle für schöne Schatten, die wie vergossene Ziegenmilch über dem Boden dahin flossen.

Carl sah aus wie ein Botschafter des runden Ziegenkäseplaneten und passte gut in die Landschaft. Er trug jetzt ein schwarzes Hemd, über dem sein bleiches Gesicht thronte, was von einer Korona aus rotem Haar umgeben war.

„Weißt du,“ begann er, „es ist jedes Mal eine andere. Du kommst nie in derselben Welt raus. Beim letzten Mal schien die Sonne. Nachts. Wahrscheinlich gab es zwei. Bevor ich zurück konnte, war der Bauch verbrannt. Ich denke, mit dem Sterben ist es so ähnlich. Du fällst einfach in eine andere Welt und zack, weg bist du. Einfach so. Die anderen, die da bleiben, wissen nicht, was los ist. Die begreifen das einfach nicht. Und dann denken sie sich allerlei Sachen aus, wo du plötzlich hin bist. Weil sie es nicht ertragen können, nichts zu wissen. Sie reden von der Seele, die zum Himmel steigt. Von Walhalla. Von der Wiedergeburt. Vom Kharma. Von verborgenen Inseln. Von der Unterwelt. Von der Hölle und vom Paradies. Von verborgenen Flüssen. Und von was weiß ich nicht alles. Niemand hat je irgendetwas davon gesehen. Nie. Carl Schnitter spielt Harfe im Himmel. Carl Schnitter säuft in Walhalla. Carl Schnitter fährt Boot in der Unterwelt. Das ist doch lachhaft. Alles nur ausgedacht! Aber das hier,” er blickte um sich, “das ist real! Verstehst du das?“

Lili blickte sich um. Und dann vor sich hin. Auf einen nicht vorhandenen Punkt irgendwo vor ihr in der Luft. Sie fuhr sich durchs Haar und schien nachzudenken. Nach einer Weile sah sie Carl an, blickte in sein Mondgesicht und sagte: „Ich glaube, ich mag dich, Carl! So, wie du bist.“

Sie küsste ihn leicht auf die weiße Wange, drehte sich um und rannte so schnell sie konnte den Berg hinab in Richtung Taubenheim — oder wie auch immer der Ort, der vor ihr lag, in dieser Welt genannt wurde.

Carl Schnitter stand am Rande der Wiese bei den Eichen und traute sich nicht zu atmen. Das hatte noch nie jemand zu ihm gesagt. Er wollte, dass die Zeit stehen bleibt. Dass alles so bleibt, wie es jetzt gerade war. Mit den zwei Monden, mit ihm, mit Lili. Doch die rannte weiter. Immer weiter.

Carl bewegte sich nicht. Er stand nur da und verfolgte sie mit seinen Blicken. Manchmal verschwand sie hinter einem Baum oder einem Busch. Nach einer Weile tauchte sie wieder auf. Irgendwann jedoch verschmolzen die doppelten Schatten der Gärten und der Häuser mit der immer kleiner werdenden Lili Strich. Die neue Welt hatte sie verschluckt und atmete jetzt ihren Duft.

Sollte Carl einfach in dieser Welt bleiben? Und nie wieder in seine alte zurückkehren? Was würde er schon verlieren? Niemand wartete dort auf ihn. Carl lief langsam los. Dann blieb er wieder stehen. Aber was würde dann aus Frau Sorgleben werden? Und all den anderen Menschen? Würden sie einfach weiter an den Sensenmann glauben, auch wenn er dort nie wieder auftauchen würde? Wie an all die anderen Dinge, an die sie glaubten? Würden Sie diese Geschichte gedankenlos immer weiter erzählen? Auch wenn er nie mehr käme?

Carl Schnitter kannte die Antwort. Er hob seine Kutte auf, trug sie zu der schillernden Öffnung und warf sie hinein. Dann drehte er sich um und lief ganz langsam die Böschung hinab. Das hier war das Reich des Sensenmanns. Des ehemaligen Sensenmanns.

Larson (1988, 1990)1 and subsequently Chomsky (1993, 1995)2 proposed that the VP projection should be regarded as a VP-shell of the following form:

In this discussion, I will assume this thesis and explore whether the German clause-structure aligns with this framework. I find that fitting it into this structure is not straightforward. While it is possible with some effort, it appears rather cumbersome.

V-to-I movement

At first glance, Larson’s and Chomsky’s hypothesis about a universal VP structure seems applicable to the German clause structure. One could assume the presence of a head final IP above the VPs, and that V moves first to light v and then to the I-head (V-to-I movement). This results in the standard word order of embedded clauses in German:

(A)

[IP [vp Subj [v’ t [VP IO [V’ t DO]]]] [I’ Verb + I]]

This structure, however, does not account for complex VPs that include modal auxiliaries. The order of the modal-auxiliary-main verb complex in German, at least in finite clauses, is a mirror image of English. Consider the following examples of embedded German clauses with auxiliaries and modals:

(1)

… dass er es gegessen haben könnte.
… that he it eaten have may.
… that he may have eaten it.

(2)

… dass er betrunken war.
… that he drunken was.
… that he was drunk.

(3)

… dass er betrunken gewesen ist.
… that he drunken been has.
… that he has been drunk.

(4)

… dass er kommen wird.
… that he come will.
… that he will come.

These patterns are noteworthy. Modals or inflections select a bare infinitival verbal form, either an auxiliary or a main verb. An auxiliary such as haben, sein, or werden selects a past participle (known as Partizip II). This selection process involves choosing a complement and thus determining a hierarchical order. At first glance, V-projections appear to be head final in German. Therefore, the initial proposal (A) cannot be accurate.

Head-final VPs

Looking solely at the structure of the German clause, we can see that it exhibits a head-final VP-structure as exemplified in the following sentence:

(5)

.. dass die Frau geküßt worden sein wird.
... that the woman kissed been have will.
... that the woman will have been kissed.

While this proposal seems plausible, it contradicts a general argument put forth by Richard Kayne:3

… the human language faculty is in fact rigidly inflexible when it comes to the relation between hierarchical structure and linear order. Heads must always precede their associated complement position. Adjunctions must always be to the left, never to the right. That is true of adjunctions to phrases and it is true of adjunctions to heads.

This principle is known as the Linear Correspondence Axiom (LCA). It asserts that grammatical hierarchies in natural language must follow a universal order, namely specifier-head-complement branching order.

LCA is based on X-bar theory and posits that any phrase whose surface order is not specifier-head-complement must have undergone syntactic movements that disrupt this underlying order.

If Kayne's theory is correct, then the second proposal is problematic as it relies on a head-final structure. If German does exhibit a head-final structure on the surface, which is ruled out by LCA, we need to account for this through movement.

The first proposal, which involves simple movement to an IP-head, cannot explain German clause structure. It seems, however, that there are at least two more possible explanations for the fundamental clause structure of German, both of which involve V-movement.

Movement to functional heads above VP

Instead of assuming that German has a head-final VP structure, we could postulate the existence of functional heads above VP that display a reverse order, similar to what we see in English. Perhaps all Vs in German must move to these heads due to strong features or some other reason.

If we assume this hypothesis, the resulting structure would look like (B) with FP standing for some functional projection:

(B)

[FPpass-part …[FPpast-part …[FPbare-inf …[IP …[VPbare-inf …[VPpast-part …[VPpass-part …]]]]]]

Although this structure would be consistent with the LCA, there is little evidence in favor of this analysis. There are also several issues with this proposal:

(i) It is difficult to provide empirical evidence for it because the finite verb or a corresponding modal almost always appears at the end of the clause. There is nothing behind it that could be analyzed as an intervening constituent uncovering a head-V-movement.

(C)

… [FP verbal head [IP … [… ? … [VP trace]]]] …

(ii) If all functional heads (including IP) are V-projections, as this hypothesis assumes, then all arguments of the main verb and all adjuncts would also have to move, since they always appear in front of the Vs and never after them. In addition, VP-related adverbs like adverbs of manner always appear before the Vs and never after them. This is not consistent with what we observe in German:

(6)

... dass die Frau nur zaudernd / nicht geküßt worden sein wird.
*... dass die Frau geküßt worden sein wird nur zaudernd / nicht.

(iii) Assuming that all V-heads move out of VP would require many movements of arguments and adjuncts, which is not well-motivated and lacks empirical evidence.

Functional Projections within VP

A less ambitious proposal is to suggest that, while the IP is head-final, there are functional projections within the VP that the verbal heads move to. The structure could look something like:

(D)

[IP [VP [FPpass-part … [FPpast-part … [VPbare-inf … [VPpast-part …[VPpass-part … ]]]]]] I]

In this proposal, only the selected past and passive participles move, and the bare infinitive could move to I (out of VP), if there is no modal in that position. This solves problem (ii), but problems (i) and (iii) persist.

Additionally, all arguments of the main verb and all adjuncts would still have to move because they always appear in front of the Vs, never after them. Assuming all these movements seems unwarranted and lacks empirical support. Moreover, the clause in (7) is still ungrammatical:

(7)

*... dass die Frau geküsst worden sein nur zaudernd / nicht wird.

Oddities

I won't delve into the details of each proposal, but I would like to highlight two peculiarities that arise in all four of them.

(i) The first oddity concerns infinitival embedded clauses. In German, the equivalent of the Infl-position in English appears in front of the infinitive (here: zu sein):

(8)

Sie versucht, geküßt worden zu sein.
She tries kissed been to have.
She tries to have been kissed.

At first glance, this seems to support proposal (D). However, I would argue that instead of having a verbal position after Inf, the complex expression 'zu sein' is lexically generated and not syntactically derived properly, so it can sit with the bare infinitival in the I-projection.

To support this, I rely on composed infinitivals, i.e., verbs that have a prefix like zu, ab, auf, and so on. The infinitival marker 'to' appears between the prefix and the verb. For example:

(9)

Sie versucht, es abgeschrieben zu haben.
She tries it copied to have.
She tries to have it copied.

(10)

Sie versucht, es abzuschreiben.
She tries it to copy.
She tries to copy it.

I claim that the two words 'zu haben' in example (9) are actually not two components but one, which has the same position as abzuschreiben in example (10).

(ii) The second oddity, which is more complex, arises with CP-complement taking verbs, as these complements (and only these) always follow their V-head! To illustrate this with an embedded clause, we need to look at double embedded clauses:

(11)

... dass die Frau geglaubt haben wird, dass jemand sie küsste.
... that the woman believed have will that somebody her kissed.
... that the woman will have believed that somebody kissed her.

Although the following is also possible, it is clearly derived by topicalization movement:

(12)

... dass die Frau, dass sie jemand küsste, geglaubt haben wird.

This feature (that a CP-complement remains after all VPs) would also have consequences for the fourth proposal, which I repeat here:

(D)

[IP [VP [FPpass-part …[FPpast-part … [VPbare-inf …[VPpast-part …[VPpass-part …]]]]]] I]

If we stick to this structure, we would have to assume that the finite main verb doesn’t move to the I-head, because in this case, it would appear after the V-complement.

This alone wouldn't be too bad if we assume that the first position isn’t quite a VPbare-inf but a position where a base-generated finite verb could sit, so that its features could be checked by the I-head without movement (if it had weak features).

However, this assumption cannot be correct either. We can see this by looking at modals, which are not VP but IP-heads:

(13)

... dass die Frau glauben soll, dass jemand sie küßte.
... that the woman believe should that somebody her kissed.
... that the woman should believe that somebody kissed her.

(14)

*... dass die Frau glauben, dass jemand sie küßte, soll.
... that the woman believe that somebody her kissed should.
... that the woman should believe that somebody kissed her.

After considering all the factors, it appears that the German VP-system may actually align with the unpleasant third proposal. This would entail postulating numerous movements, including V-head movement, Aux-head movement, movement of all VP-related adverbials, and movement of most complements, except for CP-complements.

Furthermore, all DP-complements but no CP-complements would need to move, and even PP-adjuncts, which are supposed to appear in VP-adjunctions, would have to move out of VP.

Empirical testing of this structure is difficult, but the main reason for assuming it is the fact that CP-complements always follow the verb. While this is a reasonable feature of German clause structure, it raises questions about PPs, which are supposed to check their case internal to the PP.

Overall, this structure appears to be ad hoc and aesthetically unpleasing. To be truthful, it's a mess.

Well, well, well, look at us fancy modern hikers with our ultra-light gear and high-tech gadgets. Back in the old days, we didn't have any of that fancy stuff - we had to rely on pack animals to carry our stuff for us!

But hey, maybe those old-timers were onto something. While we're out here sweating bullets with our featherweight backpacks, they were chillin' like villains, letting their trusty mules and donkeys do all the heavy lifting. Talk about hiking in style!

Sure, our gear may be ultralight and waterproof, but can it bray and wag its tail? I think not. And while we may be fast and nimble on our feet, those pack animals had their own special kind of agility - ever seen a donkey navigate a rocky mountain trail like a pro? It's truly a sight to behold.

So maybe we should take a cue from our furry four-legged friends of the past and embrace the pack animal lifestyle. Who needs fancy gear when you have a donkey named Burrito carrying all your stuff?

There’s an old German word for this practice: Säumen, which you could literally translate as walking with pack animals, such as a mule, donkey or a horse. It goes back to the word “Saum,” which has been a unit of weight. It was often used in the context of pack animals, such as horses or mules, which were commonly used to transport goods over long distances in the medieval and early modern periods. The Saum was a measure of the weight of goods that could be carried by these pack animals.

For example, a pack animal could typically carry a load of one Saum, which would equate to approximately 120 kilograms of weight. This was an important consideration when planning long-distance trade routes or military campaigns, as the amount of goods that could be transported was a key factor in determining their success.

In this way, the unit of measurement "Saum" was closely tied to the praxis of using pack animals for transportation, and played an important role in the economic and military activities of the time.

The practice of transporting goods by pack animals has undergone significant changes over time, as advances in transportation technology and infrastructure have rendered it less necessary.

In the medieval and early modern periods, pack animals were the primary means of transporting goods over long distances. Pack trains, consisting of several animals laden with goods, were a common sight on trade routes and military expeditions.

However, with the advent of wheeled vehicles such as carts and wagons, the use of pack animals gradually declined. The Industrial Revolution brought further changes, as railroads and steamships made it possible to transport goods over much greater distances in a shorter amount of time. This made pack animals largely obsolete for long-distance transportation.

Today, pack animals are still used in some parts of the world for local transportation of goods. But what about hiking? You may think that hauling your gear around in a sleek, modern backpack is the way to go, but have you ever considered the benefits of using a trusty mule instead?

For one thing, mules are the ultimate heavy-lifting champions. While you're struggling to hoist your measly 15kg load, a mule could easily carry a whopping 120kg without breaking a sweat. Talk about gains, am I right?

But that's not all! Mules are also like the four-legged ninja warriors of the animal kingdom. They can handle rough terrain with ease, making them the ideal choice for transporting goods in the great outdoors. And let's not forget their eco-friendliness - unlike your gas-guzzling vehicle or high-tech gear, a mule's fuel source is all natural.

And let's face it, mules are pretty darn cute too. Who wouldn't want a furry, floppy-eared companion to accompany them on their outdoor adventures? A mule just might be the secret weapon you never knew you needed.

I absolutely love hiking, but I hate the thought of lugging around all the gear I need for a multi-day adventure. So, I had a brilliant idea: why not enlist the help of a trusty mule to carry my stuff while I get to enjoy the scenery and fresh air?

Of course, that was easier said than done. I had absolutely zero experience with horses or mules, and let's face it, those big, demanding animals can be pretty intimidating. But then I got to thinking ... what better way to challenge myself than by embarking on an epic journey across the Alps with a pack mule by my side?

Sure, it might be a bit of a daunting task, but it's definitely more exciting than saving up for a new car or splurging on a tropical vacation. And who knows? With a little bit of patience, practice, and a whole lot of determination, I just might become a seasoned mule-packing pro.

And thus, I've hatched a hilariously quirky plan to bring this adventure to life!

Step one: Get myself a mule. Although it sounds challenging, I might just wander out into the wilderness and call out "Here, muley-muley!" until one comes trotting up to me.

Step two: Introduce myself to my new friend. I could speak in a calm, soothing voice and offer lots of treats. I might even sing a mule-themed song, like "Donkey Riding" or "The Mule Song."

Step three: Teach my mule some hiking tricks. I could start with simple commands like "go" and "stop" and work my way up to more advanced maneuvers like "jump over that log" and "find us a great campsite." If my mule proves to be stubborn, I can bribe it with some tasty snacks.

Step four: Hit the trails! With my trusty companion by my side, I'm ready to take on any adventure. I'll pack plenty of snacks, and I won't be surprised if my mule ends up leading the way.

I was pretty excited to see where this adventure will take me, and I couldn’t wait to bond with my new friend.

As expected, my funny plan didn't quite work out as I had hoped. I did manage to take the first step and acquire a trusty mule, but little did I know that was the easy part. Step two proved to be much more challenging - it turns out that the key to winning over a new mule friend is patience, respect, and gentle handling. While I like to think I've finally mastered this, it definitely took longer than I anticipated.

Now, I find myself halfway through step three and it seems like there's still a long way to go before we can truly have some fun together and move on to step four. But hey, I'm not one to give up easily, and I'm excited to see where this new adventure will take us.

Our four-legged friends

Right now, we've got our hands full with three furry companions: Socke, our trusty mule who's supposed to carry all our luggage; Sonne, the pony we enlisted to give our little ones a break from hiking; and last but not least, Sokrates - the mischievous little colt who's always up for a good time.

Our lofty goal? To cross the Alps with this motley crew by our side. Of course, it goes without saying that this adventure will require a lot more time and preparation than we initially thought. But hey, who needs to plan everything out perfectly when you've got a mule, a pony, and a playful colt to keep you company? We're ready for whatever challenges come our way, even if that means a few unexpected detours and plenty of laughs along the way.

Socke

Meet Socke, our trusty mule gelding who was born in the beautiful country of France back in 2010. Standing at around 150cm at the withers, he may not be the tallest of his kind, but he's got a big personality to make up for it. Although he still needs a bit of training, we're confident that with time and patience, he'll become the ultimate pack animal.

Sure, he can be a bit timid at times, but who can blame him? Hiking in the great outdoors can be a scary thing, especially when you're used to the comforts of a cozy barn. But that's not stopping us - we've been taking him on short and long hikes around our neighborhood, slowly building up his confidence one step at a time.

And soon, we'll be adding a pack saddle to his repertoire. Who knows, maybe one day he'll be carrying our entire luggage across the Alps like it's no big deal. Watch out, world - Socke the mule is on the move!

Sonne

Say hello to Sonne, our beautiful Coloured Irish Cob mare who hails all the way from the Emerald Isle herself. Born in Ireland in 2012, this majestic creature is a real gem of a find. When we first acquired her, we had no idea she was pregnant. But in January 2023, she surprised us with a precious colt whom we affectionately named Sokrates.

These days, Sonne is our trusty companion on our hiking adventures. Not only is she a joy to be around, but she's also responsible for carrying our tired children when their little legs just can't take it anymore. Who needs a stroller when you have a trusty steed to do the heavy lifting, am I right?

But don't let her sweet demeanor fool you - Sonne is one tough cookie. She never complains (unlike some people I know), and we feel lucky to have her as part of our adventure squad.

Sokrates

Sokrates was born on our farm on January 1st 2023. He's a cute and lively colt who enjoys exploring and playing around. He often runs and jumps around the fields, showing off his energy and curiosity. He's not old enough to carry anything or anyone yet, but we hope that he'll eventually grow into a strong and reliable companion for our hikes. For now, he's just happy being himself, and providing us with endless entertainment and joy.

In 2018, Christie's auction house made history by selling the first-ever painting created by an AI. The piece, called "Portrait of Edmond de Belamy," not only fetched a cool $432,500, but also showed us that machines can be quite the artists these days! Who knows, maybe one day we'll be hanging AI-generated masterpieces in our living rooms.

AI art is on the rise and we've seen some pretty impressive advancements in the field in recent years. One exciting area is text-to-image models, and some big players are leading the charge. OpenAI's DALL-E made headlines in January 2021 for releasing a series of stunning images, while Google Brain's Imagen and Microsoft's NUWA-Infinity have also made strides in this area.

Interestingly, Google has opted not to release their models due to concerns about biases in the generated data. But fear not, art lovers, DALL-E 2 has been made available through the OpenAI website and has already been adopted by various online service providers. Who knows what kind of AI-generated art we'll be admiring in the future!

On August 22nd 2022, StabilityAI took a major step forward by open-sourcing their Stable Diffusion model. This means that anyone can access the code to train and run the model, as well as an instance of the model that has seen a massive dataset of over 5 billion image/text pairs (LAION-5B). And get this - it fits on consumer hardware, so now everyone can run it locally!

This shift towards open-source AI art tools is a game-changer, allowing independent creators to explore the possibilities of AI-generated art without relying on larger software corporations. Who knows where this wave of AI art will take us, but 2022 may very well be remembered as the year when the AI Art Renaissance began. This movement will force us to rethink our relationship with both art and machine intelligence, and it could even lead to a cultural shift similar to the Renaissance. As artificial intelligence continues to permeate every aspect of our society, our culture will undoubtedly be reshaped in profound ways.

AI art is increasingly being created through the use of diffusion models, which have been rapidly advancing in recent years. But how do these models actually work, and how can they be used to generate visual art?

How does a diffusion model work?

Diffusion models are generative AI models used to create data similar to the data on which they are trained. These models work by destroying training data, such as images, through the successive addition of Gaussian noise. Then, the model learns to recover the data by reversing this noising process.

The diffusion process involves repeatedly adding small amounts of noise to an image in small steps. The final output has no visual resemblance to the original image. While there are several mathematical approaches to this process, the focus here is on understanding how AI "makes" art.

The goal of diffusion models is to learn a function that reverses the noise-adding process. This means that the model can turn noise into images. The more steps the model takes, the clearer the image becomes.

Diffusion models that create images or texts out of noise have been around for some time. This Person Does Not Exist is an example of such a model. The model was trained on pictures of faces and generates random pictures of nonexistent people when the page is reloaded.

An unguided diffusion model creates images or texts without any influence from the user. To create specific images, guided diffusion models are used. All text2image models, including DALL-E 2, Imagen, Midjourney, and Stable Diffusion, are guided diffusion models.

Adding context

Adding context can significantly improve the output of diffusion models, such as Stable Diffusion and other text-to-image models. These models are trained not only on removing noise from images but also on a contextual input, which can be provided in the form of an image or text, known as a “prompt.” By providing a prompt, the diffusion model knows where to retrieve information from within the so-called latent space.

It's important to note that these models work not on images or texts directly, but on embeddings, which are numerical representations of compressed data. These embeddings get created by sending data through encoders, and are stored in the latent space. The latent space can be thought of as a vast multidimensional room, in which bits of information are stored throughout.

To provide context to the model, we can input a prompt which will guide the diffusion process towards a specific region in the latent space. This prompt is not a command, but rather a search query or an arrow pointing to a certain region in an n-dimensional space. With each step, the model denoises random noise into a coherent image that lies close to the prompt's region in the latent space. In this way, the model is guided by the contextual input, rather than simply guessing what is in the image.

The fun stuff

Now that you have a general understanding of how guided diffusion models can be used to create works of art, it's important to know how to utilize them. To generate an image with a guided diffusion model, you need to input a noisy pattern of pixels called a seed, as well as a string of words describing the image you wish to create, which is called a prompt.

The seed is a number that controls the randomness during the image generation process. By using the same seed and settings, you can recreate the exact same output multiple times. However, changing the seed will result in a completely different output.

In essence, the image you generate is primarily determined by the seed and prompt. The seed sets the starting point for the creation process, while the prompt determines the direction. The final image is the result after a certain number of iterations, referred to as runtime.

To illustrate this, consider the three images created with Stable Diffusion version 1.5:

Prompt: “happy native american chieftain portrait, dark fantasy, red, by zdzisław beksiński and wayne barlowe”

Seed: 581706

Prompt: “angry native american chieftain portrait, dark fantasy, red, by zdzisław beksiński and wayne barlowe”

Seed: 581706

Prompt: “angry native american chieftain portrait, dark fantasy, red, by zdzisław beksiński and wayne barlowe”

Seed: 101131

In the second image, the prompt was changed slightly by replacing "happy" with "angry," while holding the seed constant. In the third image, a different seed was used with the same prompt. Both changes produced different but similar images. Changing the prompt while keeping the seed constant maintains the size, place, and shape of the elements, but alters their contents. Alternatively, changing the seed while keeping the prompt constant maintains the contents of the image but alters the shapes and placement of the elements. Therefore, both the seed and prompt must be considered to achieve a desired image or effect.

The creative process of visual art has evolved over time. Initially, artists had to physically apply paint to a flat surface, while later, digital artists had to master software and pixel manipulation. Nowadays, artists must also master the craft of manipulating seeds and prompts to feed various AI models. While each of these forms of art require different skills, the general tendency is to free human creativity from the time-consuming aspects of the creation process.

Examples

Below you’ll see a small set of images I created using Stable Diffusion version 1.5 (KML_S sampling, 50 iterations).

Prompt: “a beautiful surreal illustration of rouge highly detailed, liquid oilpaint, doug chiang, gustave dore, leonardo da vinci, industry, lucid and intricate, rectilinear, digital art, octane, redshift, vray, 8 k, 6 4 megapixels, hypermaximalist, well rendered”

Seed: 482093

Prompt: “a horrifying sphere of meat and eyeballs, by zdzisław beksinski and greg rutkowski, surreal, horror, oil on canvas, dark, nightmare fuel, highly detailed, hd”

Seed: 472392

Prompt: “a huge gladiator by beksinski and tristan eaton, dark neon trimmed beautiful dystopian digital art”

Seed: 527328

Prompt: “a portrait of an old weather beaten woman with a grim look, a worn but tough old washing women, fisherboat; tom bagshaw, gustav dore, dark smoke in background, photorealistic, lifelike, unreal engine, sharp, sharpness, detailed, 8K, film noir”

Seed: 928879

Prompt: “a japanese sci fi horror girl with big eyes, character portrait, portrait, close up, concept art, intricate details, highly detailed, vintage sci-fi poster, in the style of chris foss, rodger dean, moebius, michael whelan, and gustave dore”

Seed: 849500

Prompt: “a beautiful surreal illustration of an insatiable vietnamese woman, highly detailed, liquid oilpaint, doug chiang, gustave dore, leonardo da vinci, industry, lucid and intricate, rectilinear, digital art, octane, redshift, vray, 8k, 64 megapixels, hypermaximalist”

Seed: 36778

Is truth truly valuable? Assuming we are talking about practical usefulness here, one could argue that truth is valuable because it helps us navigate the world more effectively. For example, if we have accurate information about a situation, we can make better decisions and take appropriate action. On the other hand, if we have false or misleading information, we may make mistakes that could have serious consequences.

We could also look at specific instances where truth has played a role in improving outcomes. For example, scientific discoveries and technological advancements have been made possible by the pursuit of truth and the desire to uncover new knowledge. Similarly, in personal relationships, honesty and transparency are often seen as essential components of building trust and strengthening bonds.

There seems to be some evidence to suggest that truth is generally beneficial and worth pursuing. You may be surprised, dear reader, but I believe that the matter is not so simple.

So far, we have talked about "the truth" as if it were clear what that even means. In order to avoid making things too complicated - and perhaps unanswerable - we could look not at the value of truth itself, but at the value of individual instances of truth - concrete truths, so to speak.

If truth is valuable (practically, epistemologically, perhaps even morally...) in general, then concrete instances of truth should be valuable as well. Isn't that right? For example, if we assert that 'It is true that p', and this assertion is itself true with respect to some specific proposition p, then it must be valuable or good, if truth were generally valuable.

To explore this idea, let's examine some concrete value judgments related to facts (1.a), knowledge (1.b), and truth (1.c):

(1)

(a) It's good that it's raining.

(b) It's good to know that it's raining.

(c) It's good that it's true that it's raining.

Statements (1.a) and (1.b) are well-formed and common. In fact, there may be situations in which (1.a) is false but (1.b) is true. For example, we might be indoors and not need to worry about getting wet. But (1.c) is more interesting, as it challenges the so-called truth conditional:

(2)

Truth conditional: It is true that p if and only if p.

By applying the truth conditional to (1.c), we arrive at (1.a), meaning that (1.c) is true if and only if (1.a) is true. In other words, if it's good that it's raining, then it's good that it's true that it's raining.

This might seem like a circular argument, as it suggests that the value of truth is derived solely from the things we value firsthand, rather than being an intrinsic value. To put it another way:

(3)

The value of truth: If p is good, then it is good that it is true that p.

This raises the question of whether we truly value truth as an abstract concept. Could it not be the case that we do not value truth as such, but that what we really care about are beliefs? Should we not strive to possess true beliefs and avoid false ones?

After all, we make better decisions when our beliefs are accurate. When our beliefs are wrong, it can lead to all sorts of negative consequences. So, perhaps it's not the value of truth as such that we should be concerned with, but rather the value of true beliefs. Let's examine this claim in more detail with a specific example - an instance of a true belief, so to speak:

(4)

It is good that the belief that it rains is true.

If the belief that it rains is true, then this seems to be valueable. But this is not what (4) says. It appears as if (4) is only true if it is good that it is raining - and that has nothing to do with the value of truth or the value of true beliefs, but with the value of rain.

Let’s again have a closer look on some principles that should apply here:

(5)

True beliefs: The belief that p is true iff p.

Applying the principle “True beliefs” to (4), we can derive the following:

(6)

It is good that the belief that it rains is true iff it's good that it's raining.

That's what we already suspected: the supposed value of a true belief consists in the value of what it is about. This can be summarized as follows:

(7)

The value of true beliefs: If it is good that p then it is good that the belief that p is true.

And this shows that true beliefs don’t have value in themselves. It’s the things we value, and not (true) beliefs about them.

There are no controversial assumptions in this discussion, and it is not overly complex. It simply combines value statements with two different forms of the truth conditional without heavy use of logical machinery.

Yet, the conclusions are surprising. Are we willing to accept that neither truth nor true beliefs hold any value in themselves? Contrary to what most of us might assume?