How long is the platinum-iridium bar that served as the world’s SI based unit of length, the meter, from 1889 to 1960? It was held at 0 degrees Celsius at the International Bureau of Weights and Measures near Paris, France. That platinum-iridium bar is now preserved as an artifact at the bureau near Paris, France.
About it, in Philosophical Investigations §50, Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote: “There is one thing of which one can say neither that it is one metre long, nor that it is not one metre long, and that is the standard metre in Paris. But this is, of course, not to ascribe any extraordinary property to it, but only to mark its peculiar role in the language-game of measuring with a metre-rule.”
Wittgenstein’s remark relates to the grammatical game we play when we measure something. The bar in Paris was not an object we discovered to be exactly one meter long. It was the thing that gave meaning to “one meter long” to begin with. The question of how long that bar is cannot be answered by measurement. The bar simply occupies the role of a paradigm or a sample.
Wittgenstein cautions against ascribing any “extraordinary property” to the bar. The bar is an ordinary piece of metal with the usual properties that metals have. It could be damaged and could be replaced if necessary. The statement “the standard meter is one meter long” is neither true nor false. It is a tautology, a grammatical remark that fixes the meaning of the term “meter.”
That point generalizes. Many of the things that constitute the “foundations” of knowledge—the standards we define and use—are not themselves objects of knowledge in the usual sense. They are not discovered; they are inventions. They are the fixed points around which the language-game turns. We can use the Paris meter to say whether an object is or not one meter long; we cannot do the same with the meter rod itself. The remark is about the difference between what we say with words and the framework within which the words have meaning.
The current definition of the meter is tied to a universal physical constant (the speed of light), making it precise, reproducible anywhere in the universe, and independent of physical objects that could change over time.
The meter now depends on the fixed numerical value of the speed of light in vacuum, c, to be exactly 299,792,458 m/s (meters per second), where the second is defined in terms of the hyperfine transition frequency of the caesium-133 atom. From that the meter is defined as the length of the path travelled by light in vacuum during a time interval of exactly 1/299 792 458 of a second.
I’ve had an interest in analytical philosophy, as part of my broader interest in philosophy, both Indian and Western. Part of contemporary Western philosophy, analytical philosophy emphasizes clarity, logical rigor, and the analysis of language and concepts.
I found reading philosophy too hard for me. I just don’t have the brains. I had to choose an easier discipline. I chose to follow the “worldly philosophers” like Friedrich Hayek and Ludwig von Mises. I still enjoy reading the works of philosophers like Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Kant and Russell.
Talking of Russell and Witgenstein, I asked grok to summarize their relationship. Here it is.
Summary: Russell launched Wittgenstein’s philosophical career and provided crucial early support, while Wittgenstein challenged and deepened Russell’s thinking on logic—yet the relationship’s intensity and eventual misunderstandings made it bittersweet and ultimately distant.
The relationship between Ludwig Wittgenstein and Bertrand Russell is one of the most fascinating mentor-protégé-turned-peer dynamics in 20th-century philosophy—intense, intellectually electric, personally demanding, and ultimately strained.
It began dramatically in October 1911 at Cambridge. Wittgenstein, then 22 and an engineering student who had become obsessed with the foundations of logic and mathematics, showed up unannounced at Russell’s rooms in Trinity College during tea. He interrupted Russell (who was nearly twice his age, 39) and bombarded him with questions about logic. Russell was initially wary but soon recognized Wittgenstein’s extraordinary talent. In later recollections, Russell described Wittgenstein as brilliant, obstinate, and perverse—but not stupid.
Russell became Wittgenstein’s informal mentor and tutor. He encouraged the younger man enormously at a time when Wittgenstein was tormented by self-doubt, feelings of worthlessness, and suicidal thoughts (he had been in the shadow of suicide for years, partly due to family tragedies). Wittgenstein later said that Russell’s validation and encouragement had been his “salvation,” ending nine years of loneliness and despair.
Russell, who needed a brilliant protégé after his intense work on Principia Mathematica, found in Wittgenstein someone who could push logical theory further. In 1912–1913, they collaborated closely on problems in logic and the philosophy of mathematics, even pursuing what some scholars describe as a “joint philosophical program” on judgment, facts, and propositions.
Their correspondence was voluminous and philosophically rich—Wittgenstein’s letters to Russell (many written from Norway, where he sought solitude) contain crucial early ideas that fed into the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Russell helped Wittgenstein enormously: he supported his studies, assisted with the publication of the Tractatus (providing an introduction for the 1922 English edition), and later facilitated Wittgenstein’s return to Cambridge in 1929, his PhD submission (which was essentially the Tractatus itself), and his receipt of a Trinity College grant.
The relationship was emotionally intense on both sides. Wittgenstein could be demanding, perfectionist, and sometimes abrasive; Russell was patient and generous, though the exchanges drained him. There were sharp quarrels—e.g., a major one in early 1914 that nearly ended contact—but Russell’s kindness usually preserved the bond.
The turning point came in the early 1920s. After Wittgenstein’s release from WWI captivity and the publication of the Tractatus, he believed he had solved all major philosophical problems and withdrew from academia.
When they met again in Innsbruck in 1922, Wittgenstein felt Russell had misunderstood or misrepresented key ideas in the book (particularly around logical form, judgment, and the nature of nonsense). Wittgenstein’s sharp criticisms—especially his 1913 objection that Russell’s theory of judgment involved nonsense—had already influenced Russell profoundly (it contributed to Russell abandoning parts of his multiple-relation theory of judgment). But Wittgenstein came to see Russell’s interpretations as inadequate.
This led to a permanent cooling. Their friendship never recovered its earlier warmth, though it didn’t collapse entirely—they remained in occasional contact over the next decades. Wittgenstein retained admiration for Russell to the end (on his deathbed in 1951, he asked friends to “Tell them I’ve had a wonderful life,” and reportedly still held Russell in high regard). Russell, in his 1951 obituary for Wittgenstein in the journal Mind, called their friendship “one of the most exciting intellectual adventures of my life,” while acknowledging the later distance.
In temperament, they diverged sharply: Russell was outgoing, politically engaged, socially active, married multiple times, and focused on changing the world. Wittgenstein was ascetic, introspective, morally rigorous, and more concerned with personal ethical transformation. These differences amplified the philosophical rift.
It’s all karma. Cheers.
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