A Critical Introduction To Knowledgehow J Adam Carter Blair Ted Poston

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A Critical Introduction To Knowledgehow J Adam Carter Blair Ted Poston
A Critical Introduction To Knowledgehow J Adam Carter Blair Ted Poston
A Critical Introduction To Knowledgehow J Adam Carter Blair Ted Poston


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Critical Introduction to Knowledge How.indb 1 12/15/2017 8:19:38 AM

A Critical
Introduction to
Knowledge-How
Critical Introduction to Knowledge How.indb 1 12/15/2017 8:19:38 AM

BLOOMSBURY CRITICAL INTRODUCTIONS TO
CONTEMPORARY EPISTEMOLOGY
Series Editor:
Stephen Hetherington, Professor of Philosophy, The University of
New South Wales, Australia
Editorial Board:
Claudio de Almeida, Pontifical Catholic University of Rio Grande
do Sul, Brazil; Richard Fumerton, The University of Iowa, USA;
John Greco, Saint Louis University, USA; Jonathan Kvanvig, Baylor
University, USA; Ram Neta, University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill,
USA; Duncan Pritchard, The University of Edinburgh, UK
Bloomsbury Critical Introductions to Contemporary Epistemology
introduces and advances the central topics within one of the most
dynamic areas of contemporary philosophy.
Each critical introduction provides a comprehensive survey to an
important epistemic subject, covering the historical, methodological,
and practical contexts and exploring the major approaches, theories,
and debates. By clearly illustrating the changes to the ways human
knowledge is being studied, each volume places an emphasis on the
historical background and makes important connections between
contemporary issues and the wider history of modern philosophy.
Designed for use on contemporary epistemology courses, the
introductions are defined by a clarity of argument and equipped with
easy-to-follow chapter summaries, annotated guides to reading,
and glossaries to facilitate and encourage further study. This series
is ideal for upper-level undergraduates and postgraduates wishing
to stay informed of the thinkers, issues, and arguments shaping
twenty-first century epistemology.
Titles in the Series Include:
A Critical Introduction to the Epistemology of Memory,
Thomas D. Senor
A Critical Introduction to Formal Epistemology, Darren Bradley
A Critical Introduction to Scientific Realism, Paul Dicken
A Critical Introduction to Skepticism, Allan Hazlett
A Critical Introduction to Testimony, Axel Gelfert
Critical Introduction to Knowledge How.indb 2 12/15/2017 8:19:38 AM

A Critical
Introduction to
Knowledge-How
J. ADAM CARTER AND
TED POSTON
Bloomsbury Academic
An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
LONDON • OXFORD • NEW YORK • NEW DELHI • SYDNEY
Critical Introduction to Knowledge How.indb 3 12/15/2017 8:19:38 AM

Bloomsbury Academic
An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square 1385 Broadway
London New York
WC1B 3DP NY 10018
UK USA
www.bloomsbury.com
BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
First published 2018
© J. Adam Carter and Ted Poston, 2018
J. Adam Carter and Ted Poston have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the Authors of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or any ­information storage or retrieval system, without prior
permission in writing from the publishers.
No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or
refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication
can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the authors.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: HB: 978-1-4725-0710-5
PB: 978-1-4725-1492-9
ePDF: 978-1-4725-0757-0
ePub: 978-1-4725-0987-1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Carter, J. Adam, 1980- author.
Title: A critical introduction to knowledge how / J. Adam Carter and Ted Poston.
Description: New York : Bloomsbury Academic, 2018. | Series: Bloomsbury critical
­introductions to contemporary epistemology | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017030575 (print) | LCCN 2017044598 (ebook) | ISBN 9781472509871
(ePub) | ISBN 9781472507570 (ePDF) | ISBN 9781472514929 (hardback: alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Knowledge, Theory of. | Philosophy of mind.
Classification: LCC BD181 (ebook) | LCC BD181 .C265 2018 (print) | DDC 121–dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017030575
Series: Bloomsbury Critical Introductions to Contemporary Epistemology
Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India
Critical Introduction to Knowledge How.indb 4 12/15/2017 8:19:38 AM

Contents
Acknowledgements  vi
1 A brief history of knowledge-how  1
2 The case for intellectualism  29
3 Knowledge-how and epistemic luck  61
4 Knowledge-how and cognitive achievement  85
5 Knowledge-how and testimony  113
6 Knowledge-how and knowledge of language  135
7 Knowledge-how: Normativity and epistemic value  165
8 Knowledge-how: Future directions  191
Notes  215
Bibliography  232
Index  243
Critical Introduction to Knowledge How.indb 5 12/15/2017 8:19:38 AM

Acknowledgements
W
e are grateful for the feedback on this project at multiple stages
from Samuel Baker, Caleb Cohoe, Bolesław Czarnecki, Trent
Dougherty, Emma C. Gordon, John Greco, Josh Habgood-Coote,
Stephen Hetherington, Anne Jeffrey, Lorraine Keller, Kevin Meeker,
Andrew Moon, Jesús Navarro, Duncan Pritchard and Jason Stanley.
We owe a special debt of gratitude to Stephen Hetherington for his
wise guidance throughout this project.
Critical Introduction to Knowledge How.indb 6 12/15/2017 8:19:38 AM

1
A brief history of
knowledge-how
Our familiarity with the universal, a cognitive state,
overflows of itself into an activity which is practical. This is
just what we call an intelligent action. Perhaps, it is a pity
that the theory of knowledge and the theory of conduct
have fallen into separate compartments. It certainly
was not so in Socrates’ time, as his interest in the
relation between eidos and techne bears witness. If we
studied them together, perhaps we might have a better
understanding of both.
(PRICE 1946, 36)
W
hat makes an action intelligent? Suppose that professional
golfer Phil Mickelson holes a ten-foot putt on a sloped green
through great skill, while an unskilled novice, Fil Nickelson, sinks the
same putt by amazing luck. Phil’s act is intelligent; Fil’s act is just
lucky. What accounts for the difference between these two acts? It
is not success, after all, because both putts go in the hole. It must
thus be something else, something about the way Phil but not Fil
performed – but at this point, things become controversial quickly.
Granted, Phil seems to know how to do what he just did, whereas Fil
doesn’t. But in virtue of what, exactly?
Critical Introduction to Knowledge How.indb 1 12/15/2017 8:19:38 AM

2A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
The contemporary debate over the nature of knowledge-how is an
attempt to provide a philosophical theory of the nature of intelligent
action. The contemporary landscape is populated, on the one hand,
by intellectualists who hold that knowledge-how is propositional
knowledge and, on the other hand, by anti-intellectualists who
hold that knowledge-how is distinct from propositional knowledge.
Intellectualists claim that knowing how to perform some action just
is knowing some fact. Anti-intellectualists claim that knowing how
to perform an action is a different kind of knowledge from knowing
some fact. Our goals in this book are to layout the issues that
motivate this debate and to offer a sustained argument in favour of
anti-intellectualism.
In this introductory chapter we set the stage for the contemporary
debate. The debate over the nature of intelligent action begins with
Gilbert Ryle’s book The Concept of Mind (1949). Ryle is concerned
to rebut a view of the nature of intelligent action that he finds in
Descartes’s views about the relation between the mind and the body.
Descartes argues that the mind – the seat of thoughts, desires and
experiences – is a different kind of substance from the body. The mind
is immaterial, existing independently of the body, but nonetheless
intimately joined to the body. By contrast, the body is a substance
that occupies space. In Descartes’s view a bodily action is intelligent
only if it is guided by the mind. The metaphor Descartes uses of the
mind directing the body is that of a captain piloting a ship.
Descartes’s view about the nature of the mind and the body
is known as Cartesian Dualism. Ryle thinks that the Cartesian is
committed to an implausible view of what makes a bodily action
intelligent. On Ryle’s interpretation, the Cartesian holds that an action
is intelligent only if it is preceded by a prior mental act which guides
the bodily act. On this view, Phil’s putt is intelligent only if he first
formulates a set of instructions to move the body in such and such a
manner and then executes those moves. Ryle dismissively refers to
this view as ‘the ghost in the machine’. He presents a famous regress
argument against such a view while attempting to tie a Cartesian
view to an intellectualist conception of practical knowledge. We
discuss Ryle’s arguments in the second part of this chapter.
In the first part we look at some of the ways that Plato and
Aristotle thought of knowledge and its relation to action. Julia Annas
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A brief history of knowledge -how 3
remarks, ‘It is a commonplace in study of ancient philosophy that
ancient accounts of knowledge and of virtue were influenced by
the notion of techne, translated “craft”, “skill” or “expertise”’.
1
She
argues that the ancient notion of skill or expertise does not map
perfectly onto contemporary discussions of knowledge-how, but
nonetheless Plato’s and Aristotle’s works contain important insights
that can be brought to bear on the contemporary debate. While
neither of us are historians of philosophy, we do think it important to
understand the history of a philosophical problem. It can be difficult
to escape a particular perspective on a contemporary problem, but
by studying the history of philosophy, we can see different attempts
to grapple with, and even conceive of, philosophical problems. The
student of the contemporary debate over knowledge-how does well
to acquaint herself with Plato’s and Aristotle’s views of the nature
of knowledge states and their connection with action. To this end,
we explore some of Plato’s and Aristotle’s views about knowledge
and skill.
1.1 Plato and Aristotle on knowledge-how
Ancient Greek has several different words for states of knowledge:
episteme, gnosis, noûs, phronesis, sophia and techne. In this
section we survey some of Plato’s and Aristotle’s views about states
of knowledge, in particular their views relating to episteme and
techne. Episteme is normally translated as knowledge, expertise or
understanding, while techne is translated as skill or expertise. Both
episteme and techne are closely connected to conceptual mastery,
to the mastery of a subject that an expert possesses. We must use
care, however, to avoid reading too much of our current views into
a translation of episteme and techne. David Roochnik, for instance,
maintains that in Plato’s Socratic dialogues the words episteme and
techne are used interchangeably to express a general conception of
expertise.
2

Our overall goal in this section is to examine some of the
arguments Plato and Aristotle present regarding the relationship
between knowledge and skilful action. These issues are interesting
even apart from their overall contribution to understanding the
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4A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
contemporary debate over intellectualism. We hope to show that
there are some crucial insights we can glean from Plato’s and
Aristotle’s conception of knowledge and action. This is not the place
for a thorough exegetical analysis of Plato’s and Aristotle’s use of
episteme and techne. Rather we focus on crucial arguments in their
texts – Plato’s use of the craft analogy in the early dialogues and
Aristotle’s discussion of the different cognitive virtues – to extract
arguments that bear on the relationship between knowledge-that
and knowledge-how.
1.1.1 Plato on knowledge and skill
There is a common structure to the Socratic dialogues.
3
Socrates
presents an interlocutor with a question about the nature of some
virtue. What is courage, moderation, piety, wisdom or justice? In
Plato’s dialogue Laches the subject is the nature of courage. Socrates
wants an account, a logos, of the nature of courage. The nature of
courage is not given by a list of courageous and cowardly acts.
Socrates assumes that one possesses the virtue only if one knows
the nature of the virtue. Consequently, a virtuous person must be
able to give an account of the virtues. Socrates then proceeds to
demolish various proposals about the nature of the virtue made by
his interlocutors. The result of these dialogues is puzzlement (aporia).
The participants have not adequately articulated the nature of the
virtue in question.
Why ought we go along with Socrates in granting that a necessary
condition for possessing a virtue is knowing its nature? What argument,
if any, does Plato give for this claim? Plato’s central argument is the
craft analogy. He reasons that possessing virtue requires knowledge
because virtuous acts are similar to products made through the
expertise of craftsmen. The analogy begins with the observation
that the individual crafts (e.g. horsemanship, architecture, carpentry)
are kinds of knowledge. Craftsmen possess a skill to bring about a
valuable product, and they can do this in a wide variety of contexts
and conditions. In this connection, their ability is robust; craftsmen are
not flummoxed by a change in conditions. Moreover, they can train
others in their area of expertise. Because they possess a teachable
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A brief history of knowledge -how 5
skill, the craftsmen must possess some account or principle (logos)
by which they reliably bring about a specific end.
The knowledge craftsmen possess is the only valuable knowledge
that Socrates uncovers in the city. Plato’s Apology tells the story of
Socrates upsetting the ‘wisdom’ of the elite. Socrates is puzzled by
the oracle’s proclamation that he is the wisest person in Athens.
Socrates knows that he isn’t wise and seeks to show that the
oracle must be wrong because there are other wise people in
the city. He interviews the culturally elite – the poets, the priests
and the politicians – and finds that they all lack knowledge. He, at
least, is wiser than the professional ‘knowledge’ workers because
he knows that he lacks knowledge. After being disappointed by the
one-percenters, Socrates turns his attention to the craftsmen. These
individuals produce valuable items for the city: well-bred horses, fine
houses, works of art and so on. Socrates is not disappointed in his
search for knowledge among the craftsmen. He finds that they indeed
possess ‘valuable knowledge’ (22d). And yet Socrates finds that the
knowledge they possess leads them to be overly confident in their
estimation of the highest good. In their pronouncements about the
highest good, neither the elite nor the craftsmen know.
The craftsmen’s knowledge provides the beginning of the craft
analogy. The expert carpenter and the expert metallurgist possess
a valuable and teachable craft, the ends of which are produced by
knowledge. So, Socrates reasons, similar skilful activities that achieve
some end also proceed from knowledge. The courageous man, for
instance, produces courageous acts out of many possible cowardly
and foolhardy actions. The ability to reliably bring about courageous
acts resembles the ability to reliably build a fine home. The just
person aptly chooses the appropriate action out of a sea of unfitting
acts. This ability manifests a competence that suggests that the acts
proceed from knowledge.
The craft analogy aims to show that virtue requires knowledge.
But what is the nature of this knowledge? Is the knowledge akin to
knowing the definition of a prime number, or is it similar to a natural
competence which is not explicitly guided by a definition? The key
question for Plato is the nature of the logos, which is the object of
knowledge. Is the logos a rational principle or a natural principle? That
is, is the logos a definition that one has in one’s mind that needs
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6A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
to be made explicit by dialectic, or is the logos a genetic principle
similar to DNA that organizes a complex biological structure? What is
lurking in the background for Plato is the question of whether virtue is
teachable. If it is teachable, then the knowledge the virtuous person
possesses is different from an innate ability; it is, as Plato conceives it,
knowledge that can be communicated. If it turns out that knowledge
of virtue cannot be communicated, then this is evidence that it’s a
very different kind of knowledge than knowledge that is normally
transferred by speech.
4

We can develop Plato’s views on the nature of knowledge of virtue
by looking at the Meno. This dialogue is focused on the nature of
virtue and what it is to know virtue. Plato wields the craft analogy
to conclude that knowledge of human virtue (Greek: arête) is
techne. Just as the craftsmen possess knowledge pertaining to their
craft which enables them to train others, so the morally excellent
person possesses some knowledge that would enable her to teach
others. The technai (the crafts) are teachable, skill-based instances
of knowledge. A person with techne is able to charge a student for
training, in part, because the expert possesses a logos he can impart
by teaching. Plato, of course, is not committed to the claim that each
craft can be summarized in a pithy remark; life is short and the art
is long. Nevertheless, Plato does seem committed to the claim that
this knowledge is transmittable by words. In the Meno, then, the
craft analogy implies that knowledge of moral excellence ought to
be transmittable by words. There ought to be teachers of virtue and
generations of virtuous students. But Socrates observes that unlike
craft knowledge, moral knowledge is not reliably transmitted from
teacher to pupil. The Meno ends with the conclusion that virtue may
not be knowledge but ‘a gift from the gods which is not accompanied
by understanding’ (100a). But Socrates holds out some hope that
there may be ‘another statesmen who can make another into a
statesman’. Plato then remarks that ‘such a man would … be the only
true reality compared, as it were, with shadows’ (100a). This suggests
that true virtue is based on knowledge that can be communicated but
that such virtue is incredibly rare.
Socrates seems to think that virtue requires knowledge. But it is
not to be modelled as craft knowledge. David Roochnick develops
an argument that moral knowledge is different from craft knowledge
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A brief history of knowledge -how 7
on the basis of the value neutrality of the crafts. Each craft – for
example, medicine – is value neutral. The medical expert knows
how to make a person sick or well. Medical expertise itself does not
indicate whether a person ought to be healed. While the crafts are
value neutral, the moral virtues are not value neutral. So, the moral
virtues are not technai. The value neutrality of the crafts implies a
gap between knowledge of a techne and its being put to good use.
5

A person skilled in carpentry is able to make good or bad homes.
The person with moral knowledge does not have a gap between
knowledge and application. To reliably choose wrongly is to manifest
that one lacks moral knowledge.
There is an aspect to this argument worth bringing out: only those
already possessing moral excellence would be persuaded to take up
study of it.
6
The fact that virtue is value-laden suggests that only the
good can be persuaded to study it. If this is the case, then human
excellence cannot be taught from the ground up. Only those already
possessing the virtue can receive instruction in it. This contrasts
sharply with the crafts. One need not have any aptitude for carpentry
to study carpentry and eventually become a carpenter. The skills a
carpenter requires are transferable. Yet the morally excellent individual
was not at one point beyond the reach of excellence. Excellence, as
it were, is either present or not. If it is not present, it is hopeless to
teach it, and if it is present, then it need not be completely taught.
This is one way of understanding the Meno Paradox. One can’t
acquire moral knowledge without already possessing some moral
knowledge.
If moral knowledge is not techne, how should we understand
it? What is this nontechnical knowledge? Roochnik suggests that
moral knowledge is distinct from the crafts in that the latter are
decomposable in parts that can be gradually learnt.
7
There is Carpentry
101 but not Moral Excellence 101. Roochnik hypothesizes that this
fits with the thesis of the unity of the virtues. Moral excellence is a
whole that cannot be acquired by the gradual accumulation of parts.
Knowledge of moral excellence requires a grasp of an entire structure
that may not be grasped piecemeal. This would explain why human
virtue cannot be taught.
So where does Plato’s argument concerning techne leave us?
First, we learn that conceiving of episteme and techne as two distinct
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8A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
kinds of knowledge, that is, propositional knowledge and practical
knowledge, is misleading. Both express a knowledge state, but it
is not the difference between purely theoretical knowledge and
purely practical knowledge.
8
Both episteme and techne are expert
knowledge, and, in the ideal case, they are based on a logos that is
teachable.
Second, Plato clearly supports the idea that crafts are knowledge
disciplines. Carpentry proceeds on the basis of a logos. This logos
can be transferred to those that lack it. Because the crafts have a
teachable logos, we may conclude that a person knows how to ply
a craft in virtue of grasping the nature of the craft. On this basis
the craftsman is able to offer explanations of his craft. This involves
knowing some facts about the nature of the craft but it also involves a
skilful ability to know what to do in appropriate circumstances. Via the
connection to logos, there is a limited intellectualism in Plato about
the crafts. Techne is distinct from a mere ability. It is an ability guided
by knowledge. A crucial question, though, is what is the nature of
this knowledge. In Section 2.3.1, we discuss a non-standard form of
intellectualism that is compatible with Plato’s views on the nature of
techne and also compatible with our anti-intellectualist position.
Yet, third, in the Socratic dialogues, we are presented with the
claim that not every activity that involves knowledge is modelled as
a standard craft. Moral excellence involves knowledge but it cannot
be built up from the ground floor. Moral excellence is a kind of
knowledge that cannot be decomposed; it has a unity. This feature of
moral knowledge – the unity of ethical knowledge – is significant. The
parallel with contemporary debates on knowledge-how suggests that
knowledge-how has a kind of unity to it. As we’ll see in a moment
with the second Rylean regress, knowledge-how isn’t decomposable
in parts where one can add knowledge of one fact and thereby
acquire knowledge-how.
1.1.2 Aristotle on knowledge and skill
Aristotle disagrees with Plato’s view that ethical knowledge is the
application of knowledge of a general ethical principle to a specific
case. Rather ethical knowledge is uniquely practical. Aristotle
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A brief history of knowledge -how 9
distinguishes between several different knowledge states in the
Nicomachean Ethics. In this work Aristotle provides a general
account of the nature of human virtue. As we’ve seen in Plato’s
early dialogues, the craft analogy provides the key insight to
understanding the nature of living well as a human being. As Plato
sees it the excellent person knows the logos pertaining to a well-
lived life. On Aristotle’s view, the cognitive states are just one of
several components to human excellence. Human excellence is a
multifaceted state involving the proper alignment of habits of the
body and mind together with external goods.
Aristotle’s explicit remarks on thinking-related virtue occur in Book
6 of the Nicomachean Ethics. He distinguishes between five cognitive
states: episteme, techne, phronesis, noûs and sophia. Earlier in
books 4 and 5 Aristotle identified virtues of character; these are the
virtues of those parts of a human that are responsive to reason but
not themselves part of the reasoning faculty. The virtues of character
are part of what makes a person good. In the same way the virtues
of the reasoning faculty are elements of a good person.
Aristotle has particular conceptions of each of these states. The
theoretical cognitive states are episteme, noûs and sophia. Episteme
is akin to understanding why some necessary truth holds; one has
episteme in virtue of being able to demonstrate the fact (see 1139b).
It is knowledge of theorems by way of being able to derive their truth
from the axioms. A geometer has episteme regarding the fact that
the interior angles of a triangle sum to 180 degrees in virtue of being
able to prove that this is so. The geometer not only knows that this
is true but also understands why it is so and can demonstrate this
understanding by doing the proofs.
Noûs is the cognitive state of grasping the first principles of a
field in such a way that one grasps the explanatory structure of the
entire field. One has noûs of the axioms when one knows both that
the axioms hold and that they are adequate for proving the theorems
of which one has episteme. Aristotle thinks that each science has a
structure of first principles and theorems. The biological sciences, for
instance, will have an explanatory structure such that a person may
be said to have episteme of the nature of a horse when he has  noûs
of the relevant first principles and can deduce the relevant theorems
from those principles.
9

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10A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
Sophia is a combination of noûs and episteme of the finest
things. A person with sophia has a firm grasp on the first principles
and theorems – the explanatory structure – of the most excellent
things. Sophia is the pinnacle of human achievement. Aristotle
writes, ‘Wisdom (sophia) must be the most finished of the forms
of knowledge …. Wisdom must be comprehension combined with
knowledge – knowledge of the highest objects which has received
as it were its proper completion’ (1141a).
Aristotle distinguishes the theoretical cognitive states from the
practical states of techne and phronesis. In Posterior Analytics II.19,
Aristotle explains, ‘And from experience, or from the whole universal
that comes to rest in the soul, there comes a principle of skill and of
understanding – of skill if it deals with how things come about, of
understanding if it deals with what is the case’. Aristotle is saying that
repeated experience is necessary to grasp the universal, a general
principle that applies to many cases. A medical student, for instance,
needs experience to come to grasp the universal relating to health.
Once the medical student has sufficient experience, he begins to
acquire techne relating to health.
In this passage Aristotle also distinguishes techne, which is
considered with how things come to be, from noûs, which deals with
what is. On Aristotle’s view, techne is craft knowledge whose object
is the production of goods. In the medical case, this would be the
production of health in the body. Aristotle says, ‘Every skill (techne)
is to do with coming into being, and the exercise of the skill lies
in considering how something that is capable of either being or not
being, … may come into being’ (1140b). In his view, the productive
nature of skill marks it off from the nature of understanding that grasps
a fact. The medical expert’s knowledge of how to produce health in
the body is suitably different from the geometer’s knowledge that
all right triangles have diagonals equal to the sum of the squares of
their sides.
A curious feature of Aristotle’s view is that he restricts techne to
the production of things. Skilled action that is concerned with human
performance or human good is not techne. Aristotle refers to this
knowledge as phronesis, which is action regarding what is beneficial
for a person or state, concerning ethics and political science. Aristotle
says, ‘It is a true and practical state involving reason, concerned with
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A brief history of knowledge -how 11
what is good and bad for a human being’ (1140a). Phronesis does not
concern producing particular objects that may benefit a person such
as the construction of a good steam bath. Rather it concerns the
general acts that contribute to living well, and this may include acts
that involve acquiring such products.
Aristotle’s conception of techne and phronesis are knowledge
states directed to practical ends. If one possesses techne, then one
knows how to produce certain goods. If one possesses phronesis,
then one knows how to act well. Both involve instrumental reasoning,
but whereas techne is a matter of applying a certain means to the
end of production, phronesis is a matter of applying a certain means
to the good of a human. In Nicomachean Ethics VI 4 Aristotle offers a
teleological argument to distinguish techne from phronesis. Aristotle
reasons that because the goals to be achieved are different the
cognitive states involved in producing the good are different. It is
plausible that this teleological reasoning can be extended to demarcate
techne and phronesis, on the one hand, from episteme, noûs and
sophia on the other hand. The former have as ends the production
of things or actions; whereas the latter have as ends truths.
10
Thus
we may draw a teleological distinction between knowledge-that and
knowledge-how on the basis of a difference in ends. Propositional
knowledge is teleologically ordered to grasping facts. Knowledge-
how is teleologically ordered to action.
Another difference in Aristotle’s thoughts about knowledge states
concerned with action is that he denies that one acts with knowledge
in producing bad ends. Because it is not a good trait of a human being
to be thoroughly deceptive, one cannot act with phronesis to break
promises, treaties and contracts. This differs from the contemporary
notion of skilful action. A person can cheat skilfully. On Aristotle’s
view, however, the action that such a person performs is not in accord
with virtue and hence not done with a thinking-relating virtue. At best
the action involves a kind of cleverness which is a simulacrum of a
cognitive virtue. Aristotle thus conceives of phronesis as a kind of
knowledge that involves ethical normativity. The parallel with respect
to knowledge-how would be that certain kinds of intentional activities
only count as knowledge to the extent that they constitutively involve
a good. Thus someone who is a skilful liar does not know how to lie
because there is no such thing as knowing how to lie. Rather there
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12A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
is just the complex behaviour that has a wrong end. In this respect,
Aristotle’s view is different from contemporary views on the nature
of knowledge-how but it is worth pursuing further.
1.1.3 Taking stock
We can see in both Plato and Aristotle an awareness that knowledge-
involving states are not all the same. Plato’s craft analogy suggests
that moral knowledge is modelled as craft knowledge, but, through
Socratic dialectic, that suggestion is not vindicated. Aristotle
distinguishes states of knowledge on the basis of their goals. Some
knowledge states aims for truth; others aim for action. As we shall
see shortly, this difference in states of knowledge is explicitly argued
for by Gilbert Ryle.
1.2 Ryle’s anti-intellectualism
As we saw in the introduction, it can be very difficult to specify
the difference between intelligent and non-intelligent action. Recall
Phil Mickelson’s smart putt on the sloped green and Fil Nickelson’s
lucky putt on the same green. According to one line of thinking, the
difference between Phil’s act and Fil’s act is that Phil’s stroke is guided
by the mental act of considering certain regulative propositions
(e.g. where to line up the putter, how far to take it back, etc.).
11

Gilbert Ryle thought this view, which he unsympathetically calls the
‘Intellectualist Legend’, has got it all wrong as a philosophical theory
of intelligence. He attempts to bring out the core difficulty by several
regress arguments.
The target of Ryle’s regress arguments is something of a ‘monster’
to pin down.
12
In order to extract the main contours of Ryle’s anti-
intellectualist project, we’ll start by articulating more carefully the
position Ryle took himself to be challenging and how this position
connects to the matter of whether knowledge-how is just a kind of
knowledge-that. Once these issues are clarified, we’ll examine in some
detail Ryle’s most famous regress, which he advanced in Chapter 2 of
The Concept of Mind (1949). Finally, we will turn to a further regress
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A brief history of knowledge -how 13
argument offered in his short paper ‘Knowing How and Knowing That’
(1945). Our goal will be not only to present Ryle’s anti-intellectualist
arguments, but also to see if they actually hold water.
1.2.1 Ryle’s target
To put things into perspective, Ryle (1949) attacked the Intellectualist
Legend in the service of what he took to be a more important point
at the time – namely, to reject the Cartesian dualist’s account of
mental states and correspondingly to defend his own behaviourist
conception of such states.
13
Behaviourism was the view that
thoughts, desires and experiences – characteristic mental states –
are identical to dispositions to behave in certain ways. For example,
the mental state of being in pain is, according to the behaviourism,
a complex disposition involving accelerated heartbeats, flushed skin
tone, crying, etc. Ryle’s goal was to replace the Cartesian’s emphasis
on the internal nature of mental states with the behaviourist stress
on the relevance of behaviour to characterizing the nature of the
mental. As Jennifer Hornsby succinctly puts it, ‘The Cartesian thinks
that the mental is separate from the physical. Ryle wanted it to be
clear that the states of mind implicated in intelligent bodily action
are inseparable from the bodily action itself.’
14
This larger point won’t
much concern us here because hardly anyone is a behaviourist
these days.
As things stand, Ryle’s main argument against the Intellectualist
Legend has had a comparatively more enduring effect, and especially
so in mainstream epistemology. The effect is that – at least up until
Stanley and Williamson (2001) – mainstream epistemology has
operated under a by and large unchallenged presumption that there
is ‘a fundamental distinction’ between knowing that something is
the case and knowing how to do something.
15
Moreover, this way
of thinking became the orthodox line thanks to Ryle’s attacks of the
Intellectualist Legend around the middle of the twentieth century,
though this is a somewhat mysterious matter. As Yuri Cath comments:
Ryle clearly thought that [his primary argument against the
Intellectualist Legend] somehow also supported the conclusion
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14A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
that one cannot define knowing how in terms of knowing that.
But the irony is that … he never explicitly stated such an argument
himself.
16

It will be instructive for our purposes, then, to work out just how
the intellectualist’s line on knowledge-how can be understood as a
kind of ‘special case’ of the wider ‘Intellectualist Legend’ that Ryle
explicitly attacked in his primary argument. To do that, we’ll need to
make more precise what the Intellectualist Legend involves, as a
philosophical theory of intelligence.
The Intellectualist Legend is best thought of as breaking down
into two components – namely, into a claim about mind and a claim
about action, respectively.
17
The ‘mind’ claim is a claim about what
makes any state (e.g. the state of knowing how to do something or
the state of knowing some fact) count as a state of intelligence. The
thesis here is straightforward:
Intellectualist Legend (IL)
Mind
: A state is an intelligent state
just in case it is, or involves, an internal state of considering a
proposition.
18

One kind of state of intelligence is the state of knowing how to do
something. Even when Phil Mickelson is not actually hitting a drive,
for example, we will say that he knows how to hit a drive – and in
saying this about Phil, we are attributing to him a state of intelligence.
Notice, then, that a substitution of the state of ‘knowing how to do
something’ into (IL)
Mind
reveals a special case of (IL)
Mind
: S’s knowledge
how to do something is, or involves, an internal state of considering
a proposition (e.g. knowledge-that p). Accordingly, then, we have the
following thesis which is entailed by the mind component of Ryle’s
Intellectualist Legend, about the relationship between knowledge-
how and knowledge-that.
Knowledge-how
I.L.
: S’s knowledge how to do something is,
or involves, an internal state of considering a proposition.
19

Knowledge-how
I.L.
is stronger in its commitments than the version
of this thesis typically endorsed by contemporary philosophers
who claim to be intellectualists about know-how. We’ll return to this
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A brief history of knowledge -how 15
issue in due course. For now, though, it should suffice to see how,
by challenging (IL)
Mind
, Ryle is implicitly challenging a version of the
intellectualist thesis that knowing how to do something is a matter of
possessing propositional knowledge.
At any rate, the Intellectualist Legend Ryle set out to challenge
was a philosophical theory of intelligence not limited to a claim
about the nature of states of intelligence, but also a thesis about
when actions count as exercising states of intelligence. According
to Ryle’s intellectualist opponent, actions are intelligent only in virtue
of their connection to internal intelligence states (e.g. propositional
knowledge). The idea is that:
Intellectualist Legend (IL)
Action
: S exercises a state of
intelligence when φ-ing if and only if S’s φ-ing is steered or
guided by an internal state of considering a proposition.
20

Notice that (IL)
Action
is the component of the Intellectualist Legend that
submits a direct answer to the question of what makes Phil’s action
of hitting a drive intelligently performed. This property is lacked by an
amateur who happens to go through the very same motions.
Now, just as we saw knowledge-how
I.L.
can be understood as a
special case of (IL)
Mind
, similarly, a special case of (IL)
Action
will be:
Exercising know-how
I.L.
: S exercises S’s knowledge how to
φ if and only if S’s φ-ing is steered or guided by an internal
state of considering a proposition.
As Ryle sees it, the Intellectualist Legend runs into insurmountable
problems, and this is a point he argues for through a series of ‘regress
arguments’. We will now consider two such regresses, beginning
with the most famous one.
1.2.2 First regress
Ryle’s primary regress argument from The Concept of Mind highlights
a purported commitment of the Intellectualist Legend and insists that
this commitment leads to absurdity. The key idea Ryle attempts to
exploit, in motivating the regress is this: if the Intellectualist Legend
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16A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
were a correct philosophical theory of intelligence – that is, if (IL)
Mind
and (IL)
Action
are true – then intelligent action must always involve two
things, a doing and a contemplation of a way to do that precedes or
accompanies the doing.
21
Ryle refers to this commitment as a ‘dual
operation of considering and executing’.
22
But this idea, taken to its
natural conclusion, is a disaster. Ryle explains,
The crucial objection to the intellectualist legend is this. The
consideration of a proposition is itself an operation the execution of
which can be more or less intelligent, less or more stupid. But if, for
any operation to be intelligently executed, a prior theoretical operation
had first to be performed and performed intelligently, it would be a
logical impossibility for anyone ever to break into the cycle.
23
Most anyone can sense a regress lurking here. What has been a
matter of some dispute is just how to formulate it. For instance, Yuri
Cath observes, ‘Despite its fame, Ryle’s regress objection has proven
to be the most elusive of existing objections to intellectualism. For
one thing, there is little agreement over not only the status but also
the very structure of the best version of a regress argument against
intellectualism.’
24
One especially clear way to do so owes to Jason Stanley in his
important book Know How (2011). Stanley captures the thrust of the
regress argument in two premises:
25

Premise 1: The intellectualist view entails that for any operation to
be intelligently executed, there must be a prior consideration of a
proposition.
Premise 2: The consideration of propositions is itself an operation
the execution of which can be more or less intelligent, more or
less stupid.
Premises (1) and (2) jointly entail that for any intelligent action, there
must be an infinite number of prior actions. The regress is vicious.
Stanley remarks:
So, acting intelligently requires a prior action of considering a
proposition, and considering a proposition intelligently requires
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A brief history of knowledge -how 17
a prior action of considering a proposition. Presumably, if any
of these prior actions is performed stupidly, then the original
action will not be performed intelligently. But then acting
intelligently requires the performance of an infinite number of
prior actions.
26

In short then, as Ryle sees it, the Intellectualist Legend is committed
to the position that we can do something – namely, entertain an
infinite number of propositions – which (given our cognitive and
temporal limitations) we can’t do. So the Intellectualist Legend is
false. What to make of this argument? Unsurprisingly, the devil is in
the details. Let’s tackle these two premises of the regress argument
one at a time.
Problems with premise (1)
Ryle thinks Premise (1) is true by virtue of the nature of the
intellectualist view. A few paragraphs before presenting his regress,
Ryle claims that the view that ‘action exhibits intelligence’ is usually
expressed in ways that make clear reference to the ‘observance of
rules, or the application of criteria’ with respect to which the agent
must ‘first go through the internal process of avowing to himself. He
must preach to himself before he can practice.’
27
Ryle also suggests
that (1) may be true because it explains why intelligent action is guided
by a relevant principle rather than many other irrelevant principles. For
example, why, in tying one’s shoelaces, does one not recall some
cooking recipe?
28
Ryle may be suggesting that there is a prior act of
selecting the relevant principle to act on.
But setting aside the matter of how Ryle actually argues for (1),
let’s consider whether the intellectualist view is really committed to
the ‘prior consideration of a proposition’ as a necessary ingredient
of intelligent action?
29
One reason to think it is not would be as
follows: if Premise (1) is true, then the intellectualist position is, as
Stanley (2011a) puts it, ‘an absurd datum of phenomenology’. But if
intellectualism is false, it is not false because it is an absurd datum of
phenomenology. Put differently: there must be a reasonable way to
state the view, which would be different from what we encounter in
(1). So, Premise (1) is false.
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18A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
And indeed, that Premise (1) reduces intellectualism to an absurdity
is precisely why Stanley (2011a) and Weatherson (2017) think we
should reject Premise (1). The idea is that: for many propositions φ,
we all too often seem to employ our knowledge that φ without ever
contemplating φ. Consider Carl Ginet’s quotidian doorknob example.
I exercise (or manifest) my knowledge that one can get the door
open by turning the knob and pushing it (as well as my knowledge
that there is a door there) by performing that operation quite
automatically as I leave the room; and I may do this, of course,
without formulating (in my mind or out loud) that proposition or
any other relevant proposition.
30

Ginet’s point obviously generalizes. If we exercise propositional
knowledge in this case more or less automatically, without
considering any propositions, then surely we do it all the time. But
then, pace Premise (1), intelligent execution of an action obviously
doesn’t involve the consideration of any proposition.
31
And if that’s
right, then Ryle’s Intellectualist Legend is effectively a strawman. And
if so, then what will be of philosophical interest is not whether Ryle’s
implausible version of intellectualism is regress-bait, but whether a
more charitable version is subject to a regress argument.
Can The Concept of Mind regress be saved?
The prospects for defending Premise (1) turn importantly on how
one unpacks the phrase ‘considering a proposition’. If ‘considering
a proposition φ’ is supposed to involve consciously entertaining
φ, then it looks like Premise (1) is wildly implausible as a datum of
phenomenology.
32

The natural inclination will be to weaken the first premise to
characterize the intellectualist position in a way that does not
require much to count as ‘considering a proposition’, which is what
Ginet’s doorknob example shows is manifestly wrong with the initial
premise. But, as we’ll see, attempts to weaken the first premise to
avoid Ginet’s example render the second premise implausible. What
must be circumvented then, by any proponent of Ryle’s regress, is
the following kind of double-edged sword:
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A brief history of knowledge -how 19
Stanley recognizes this problem. He considers the following attempt
to weaken Premise 1 so as to avoid Ginet-style counterexamples. In
particular, he considers interpreting ‘considering a proposition’ not
as ‘positively avowing a proposition’ but, more weakly, as having
‘relevant representations triggered’. Thus, we get:
Premise (1)
Weak−1
: The intellectualist view entails that for any
operation to be intelligently executed, there must be a prior
consideration of a proposition in so far as a relevant representation
is triggered.
By making the analogous substitution in Premise (2), Stanley says
we get:
Premise (2)
Weak−1
: The triggering of representations is itself an
operation the execution of which can be more or less intelligent,
less or more stupid.
33

But, the double-edged sword worry threatens; while Premise (1)
Weak−1

looks more plausible than the original Premise (1), Premise (2)
Weak−1

looks much worse than the original Premise (2). Indeed, Premise
(2)
Weak−1
looks no more plausible than the claim that one can more or
less intelligently be the recipient of inputs. Thus, Ryle’s regress does
not gain any traction by switching out ‘positively avowing’ with the
weaker ‘triggering’ interpretation of considering a proposition.
Let’s consider now another attempt, drawing inspiration from
Ginet’s point that intelligent action can be automatic. It’s tempting
to think that Premise (1) could be rendered compatible with Ginet’s
observation so long as ‘consideration of the proposition’ is understood
as not needing to be intentional. Here’s a try:
Premise (1)
Weak−2
: The intellectualist view entails that for any
operation to be intelligently executed, there must be a prior
Premise 1 (Strong) Premise 1 (Weak)
Advantage Premise 2 is plausiblePremise 1 is plausible
DisadvantagePremise 1 is not plausiblePremise 2 is not plausible
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20A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
consideration of a proposition, where the consideration needn’t
be intentional.
34

As Noë notes, though, if Ryle were to frame the first premise this
way, then ‘all would be lost’ for the purposes of generating the
regress. After all, making the relevant substitutions in Premise (2),
we get:
Premise (2)
Weak−2
: The unintentional consideration of a proposition
is itself an operation the execution of which can be more or less
intelligent, less or more stupid.
35

Again, it looks like insofar as Premise (1) is construed weakly enough
to dodge Ginet-style counterexamples, the corresponding Premise
(2) will feature an engagement with a proposition that hardly strikes
us as of the sort that could be intelligent or stupid.
There is a twist on this regress, considered by Stanley and
Williamson (2001), and framed specifically in terms of knowing-how
and knowing-that.
Premise (1)
S&W
If one F s, then one employs knowledge-how to F.
Premise (2)
S&W
If one employs knowledge-that p, one contemplates
the proposition that p.
It follows from these two premises that if knowledge-how to F
employs knowledge-that p, then one contemplates the proposition
that p. This would commit the intellectualist to an absurd claim. Ryle
didn’t specifically explicitly argue this way, but suppose he did. Would
this be an effective regress against the position that knowledge-how
is a kind of knowledge-that? Stanley and Williamson (2001) think not.
This is because Premise (1)
S&W
is true only if we let F range over only
intentional actions. After all, it doesn’t follow from Hannah’s digesting
food that she knows how to digest food. But then, with the scope
of F restricted to intentional actions, the regress doesn’t get off the
ground given that knowing-that need not be accompanied by the
contemplation of a proposition.
36

At this point, the prospects are not very promising for finding a
compelling argument against the view that knowledge-how is a kind
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A brief history of knowledge -how 21
of knowledge-that, by way of tweaking Ryle’s own regress in the
Concept of Mind aimed at the Intellectualist Legend.
1.2.3 Second regress
Ryle’s first regress argument does not succeed. He provides a
different regress argument in a later paper. In the following we
examine the prospects for this regress argument.
The argument
In his paper ‘Knowing How and Knowing That’, Ryle (1945, 6–8)
resurrects a regress presented originally in Lewis Carroll’s famous
paper ’What the Tortoise Said to Achilles’ (1895).
A pupil fails to follow an argument. He understands the premisses
and he understands the conclusion. But he fails to see that the
conclusion follows from the premises. The teacher thinks him
rather dull but tries to help. So he tells him that there is an ulterior
proposition which he has not considered, namely, that if these
premisses are true, the conclusion is true. The pupil understands
this and dutifully recites it alongside the premisses, and still fails
to see that the conclusion follows from the premisses even when
accompanied by the assertion that these premisses entail this
conclusion. So a second hypothetical proposition is added to his
store; namely, that the conclusion is true if the premisses are true
as well as the first hypothetical proposition that if the premisses
are true the conclusion is true. And still the pupil fails to see. And
so on for ever. He accepts rules in theory but this does not force
him to apply them in practice. He considers reasons, but he fails
to reason.
It’s a matter of some dispute precisely what this example should be
taken to show.
37
Ryle himself thought it showed that knowledge-
how is not a kind of propositional knowledge. The structure of the
argument is as follows:
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22A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
1 If knowing-how is a kind of knowing-that, then S knows how
to φ if for some finite set of propositions P, S knows that p
for each p such that p ∈ P.
2 There is no finite set of propositions P such that knowing that
p for each p: p ∈ P entails that one knows how to infer p from
rule R. (From the Carroll example)
3 Therefore, it is not the case that S knows how to φ if for
some finite set of propositions P, S knows that p for each
p such that p ∈ P.
4 Therefore, knowing-how is not a kind of knowing-that.
Premise (1) is restricted to finite sets because no intellectualist thinks
know-how requires knowing an infinite number of propositions. That
said, the premise doing the heavy lifting here is Premise (2). And the
argument for this premise gains its support by a regress argument.
To see this we can just assume, for reductio, the negation of the
premise.
¬(2): There is a finite set of propositions P such that knowing that
p for each p: p ∈ P entails that one knows how to perform an
inference.
Now, if [¬(2)] is true, then so is the following:
One More Fact: There is a proper subset of P (call it P



) such that
by knowing all the propositions in P  

plus one further proposition,
one knows how to perform an inference.
But here’s where trouble lurks. Let P 

be the set of propositions that
includes:
●●The argument’s two premises
●●The argument’s conclusion
●●Further premises about the implication of the conclusion by
the premises.
38

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A brief history of knowledge -how 23
Ryle takes Carroll’s case of the pupil and teacher to show that what
we’ve called One More Fact is false because there won’t ever be a
P
  ∗
such that knowing all the propositions in P

plus some ‘further
proposition’ entails that one knows how to perform an inference.
After all, for any further proposition p that could be added to P  

, it is
possible that the pupil still cannot perform the inference. But, since
One More Fact is false, so is ¬(2); accordingly, Ryle has (through the
Carroll case) defended premise (2) of the argument that knowing-
how is not a kind of knowing-that.
Lines of resistance
Intellectualists do not think this argument is any more successful than
the first regress. Let’s consider now some strategies for resisting the
conclusion.
Strategy 1: Here’s an idea that sounds sensible. Call it Krasia:
39

Krasia: If one knows that an inference rule φ is true, then one is
disposed to infer in accordance with φ when the time comes.
Krasia is initially plausible. After all, if you often fail to infer in accordance
with some inference rule, we’d hesitate to attribute to you knowledge
of that rule. But if Krasia is true, then a critic of Ryle is in a position to
turn the argument around. The argument could run: (i) If one knows that
an inference rule φ is true, then one is disposed to infer in accordance
with φ; (ii) The pupil is not disposed to infer in accordance with φ;
(iii) The pupil does not know that φ is true. Ryle’s critic, who insists
that knowledge-how entails knowledge-that, can then argue that
what Carroll’s story shows is precisely what the intellectualist would
predict: that knowing-how to perform an inference requires something
the pupil lacks, propositional knowledge of the inference rule. It is his
lack of knowledge that prevents him from performing the inference.
40

Strategy 2: Notice that regardless of whether an intellectualist
accepts Krasia, the intellectualist might deny a stronger version of
the principle, which (for convenience sake) we can call Krasia
+
.
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24A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
Krasia
+
: If one knows that an inference rule φ is true, then it is not
possible that one fail to infer in accordance with φ when the time
comes.
Now, perhaps all the case of the pupil and student forces the
intellectualist to admit is that Krasia
+
is false, where Krasia
+
says
that one will never fail to apply a known inference rule when the
time comes. Stanley thinks that not just intellectualists, but anyone,
should reject Krasia
+
. He explains:
If one has some knowledge, whether propositional or non-
propositional, how can there not be a possibility of failing to apply
it when the time comes?
41

The rationale for rejecting Krasia
+
is just that it is always possible
to fail to apply one’s knowledge in practice, no matter how we
construe that knowledge. But with reference to this rationale, know-
how construed in terms of ability (or otherwise, for that matter) will
be in the same boat as know-how articulated in terms of relations
to propositions – and then it looks like Ryle’s appeal to the Carroll
example marshals no support for any other view of knowledge-how
over intellectualism.
1.3 Ryle’s legacy
We’ve now seen the key contours of Ryle’s anti-intellectualist project.
What conclusions can be drawn? One overarching conclusion seems
to be that Ryle’s arguments come up short. The main problem with
Ryle’s first regress is that it seems to go through only if we characterize
the Intellectualist Legend as committed to a thesis that is manifestly
implausible. Indeed this is so even if, as Bengson and Moffett (2011a,
22) note, we sometimes recite our regulative propositions out loud
(e.g. ‘righty-tighty, lefty-loosy’). As Stanley remarks:
The reasonable intellectualist about intelligent action will hold that
an action is intelligent in virtue of being guided by propositional
knowledge, but deny that this entails that intelligent action
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A brief history of knowledge -how 25
requires a prior act of self-avowing the propositional knowledge
that guides one’s action.
42

But, as we saw in Section 1.2.2, once the ‘avowing’ element of the
view is dropped, then the second premise of the regress argument
can be easily rejected. And, thus, the regress thwarted. In effect, then,
Ryle’s primary regress argument doesn’t give us reason to deny the
more reasonably articulated intellectualist thesis about knowledge-
how. Likewise, our reconstruction of Ryle’s use of the Lewis Carroll
case in Section 1.2.3 does not turn out to compellingly support a case
against the intellectualist’s thesis about knowledge-how. This is, we
saw, because there are some straightforward, reasonably plausible,
moves one can make to resist the conclusion – only two of which
we’ve actually considered here.
43

Ryle’s own legacy in epistemology is not limited to the negative
component of his anti-intellectualism; epistemologists have, by
and large, proceeded as though there is a fundamental distinction
between knowing-how and knowing-that, which was precisely the
claim Ryle makes in his positive proposal. Following Bengson and
Moffett (2011a) we can think of Ryle’s proposal as admitting of both a
mind and an action component; the key idea for Ryle is that – in order
to get around the regresses that he took to be the fatal undoing of
his intellectualist opponent – know-how and activities that exercise
it should be explained in terms of abilities and dispositions, rather
than in terms of knowledge of propositions. Here is more or less the
proposal Ryle commits himself to:
Anti-intellectualism
know-how
: A state is a state of knowing
how to φ if that state essentially involves a certain ability or
disposition to φ, rather than propositional attitudes.
Anti-intellectualism
Exercising–know-how
: S exercises her
knowledge how to φ if S’s φ-ing actualizes her ability or
disposition to φ.
44

If, as Ryle thought, knowledge-how is something one has just when
one has a certain ability (rather than when one knows that p for
some relevant p), then notice that the ‘consideration of regulatory
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26A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
propositions’ that he thought generated the regress for his opponent
does not even enter the picture. Moreover, if know-how is construed
as an ability or disposition, we seem to have a straightforward
explanation for what’s going on in the Carroll case. Regardless of
which propositions the student knows, what prevents him from
inferring in accordance with modus ponens is that he doesn’t know
how to do this – that is, he lacks the ability to do so. Now, as Stanley
has noted, Ryle can’t so obviously circumvent the regresses he
adduced against the intellectualist simply by viewing know-how as
an ability. But this point won’t concern us. The point stands that
Ryle’s arguments against the intellectualist don’t in themselves
provide any compelling reason to prefer his own position to (say) a
reasonable intellectualist view. We’ll have to look elsewhere, beyond
the regresses, for such arguments.
1.4 Further reading
●●Annas, J. (2011). Practical expertise. In Bengson, J. and Moffett,
M. A., editors, Knowing How: Essays on Knowledge, Mind, and
Action, pages 101–12. Oxford: Oxford University Press
●●Bengson, J. and Moffett, M. (2011a). Two conceptions of mind
and action: Knowing how and the philosophical theory of
intelligence. In Bengson, J. and Moffett, M., editors, Knowing
How: Essays on Knowledge, Mind, and Action, pages 3–55.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
●●Fantl, J. (2016). Knowledge how. In Zalta, E. N., editor, The
Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Metaphysics Research
Lab, Stanford University, Spring 2016 edition.
●●Ryle, G. (1949). The Concept of Mind. University of Chicago
Press (Chapter 2).
●●Ryle, G. (1945). Knowing how and knowing that: The
presidential address. In Proceedings of the Aristotelian
Society, volume 46, pages 1–16.
●●Stanley, J. (2011a). Know how. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
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A brief history of knowledge -how 27
1.5 Study questions
1 What is Plato’s craft analogy meant to show?
2 How does Aristotle distinguish between techne and
phronesis, on the one hand, and episteme, on the other hand?
3 Explain the view that Ryle challenged under the description of
the ‘Intellectualist Legend’.
4 According to Ryle, ‘The consideration of a proposition is itself
an operation the execution of which can be more or less
intelligent, less or more stupid.’ Is this observation relevant
to the first regress argument Ryle advanced against the
Intellectualist Legend? Explain.
5 How does Stanley respond to Ryle’s first regress argument?
6 What is Ryle’s second regress argument? Is it sound? If so,
why; if not, why not?
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2
The case for intellectualism
2.1 Introduction
O
ne lesson from Chapter 1 was that the regresses Ryle famously
tried to pin on his intellectualist opponent had bite only if
intellectualism is characterized so that it’s committed to an ‘absurd
datum of phenomenology’. The absurd datum of phenomenology,
recall, was that an agent knows how to do something only if she
actively contemplates some proposition. This thesis, we saw, should
be rejected outright. What matters for all parties to the debate is that
there is a more reasonable way to state the intellectualist position:
Intellectualism: S knows how to φ in virtue of S’s having some
propositional attitudes vis-à-vis φ-ing.
1
Intellectualism, thus articulated, is not ‘regress-bait’ – and this is
good news for the prospects of intellectualism. But a thesis needs
more to recommend it than the credential that it ‘avoids regresses’.
So, then, why be an intellectualist?
This will be the guiding question of this chapter, and in what
follows we’ll be exploring the question in an organized way. But
before doing so, some quick preliminary points are in order. Firstly,
since one notable strategy of argument for intellectualism takes the
shape of demonstrating anti-intellectualism to be an unacceptable
alternative, it’s important to get clear what the rival thesis is actually
saying. Pared down to the very core: the key idea separating the
positions is whether certain propositional attitudes are sufficient
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30A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
for knowledge-how. It is the denial of the intellectualist’s claim that
certain propositional attitudes are sufficient for knowledge-how that
makes one strictly an anti-intellectualist.
2
Though, in merely denying
this claim, one hasn’t yet offered any alternative. Thus – and this is
important – anti-intellectualists have almost categorically maintained
(beyond just the denial of the intellectualist’s thesis about propositional
attitudes) a further positive thesis that knowledge-how is grounded
in the possession of abilities or dispositions. Consider Bengson and
Moffett’s remark that ‘one of Ryle’s most important contributions was
to uncover a general, theoretically significant fault line in the theory
of knowledge, mind and action, to which [the terms “intellectualism”
and “anti-intellectualism”] rightly apply’.
3
The core contention of
the intellectualist side of this line is that states of intelligence and
exercises thereof are grounded in propositional attitudes. The core
contention of the anti-intellectualist side, by contrast, is that ‘states of
Intelligence and exercises thereof are grounded in powers, abilities,
or dispositions to behave, not in propositional attitudes’.
4
Thus anti-
intellectualism, understood as a positive thesis about what it is in
virtue of which a given agent S knows how to φ, says:
Anti-Intellectualism: S knows how to φ in virtue of S’s having
some ability to φ.
Thus, intellectualism and anti-intellectualism each imply the following
claims about necessary and sufficient conditions for knowledge-how.
Intellectualism–sufficiency: If S has some propositional attitudes
vis-à-vis φ-ing, then S knows how to φ.
Intellectualism–necessity: If S knows how to φ, then S has some
propositional attitudes vis-à-vis φ-ing.
Anti-Intellectualism–sufficiency: If S has the ability to φ, then S
knows how to φ.
Anti-Intellectualism–necessity: If S knows how to φ, then S has
the ability to φ.
Keeping these differences in mind, there are admittedly several
ways one might attempt to organize the philosophical case for
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The case for intellectualism31
intellectualism. One natural thought would be to do so along the
most well-worn division line for evaluating the intellectualist thesis in
the literature – arguments from cognitive science on the one hand,
and linguistic arguments on the other.
5
However, dividing the case
for intellectualism into these two categories of argument would be
misleading. For one thing, cognitive science-based evaluations of
the intellectualist thesis, drawing from a claimed difference between
declarative and procedural knowledge (i.e. knowledge-that can be
easily articulated and knowledge exercised in tasks which cannot be
easily articulated), are almost entirely anti-intellectualist in spirit.
6
As
Glick remarks:
The case from cognitive science, in essence, is that empirical data
shows that know how can be possessed and exercised even when
there is reason to doubt that propositional knowledge is present.
7

While arguments from cognitive science play an important role in
evaluations of the intellectualist position, such considerations do not
play a substantial role in accounting for its motivation. Moreover, the
linguistic/cognitive science divide fails to capture a range of important
arguments for intellectualism that take the dialectical shape of
arguments against anti-intellectualism. We thus propose to divide the
case for intellectualism into the categories of linguistic strategies and
broadly non-linguistic strategies.
2.2 Linguistic arguments for
intellectualism
Intellectualism, as we just saw, is the thesis that one knows how to φ
in virtue of having some propositional attitudes about φ-ing. Plausibly,
propositional attitudes less than knowledge (e.g. mere unjustified
belief) will not suffice, and so the intellectualist view is that knowledge-
how is a species of propositional knowledge. Propositional knowledge
is knowledge of some fact, and it is also indicated as ‘knowledge-
that’ where the that-clause is some sentence expressing a true
proposition. For instance, ‘John knows that 3
3
= 27’ indicates that
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32A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
John has propositional knowledge of the fact that 3 cubed is 27. So,
knowledge-that is knowledge of a true proposition. An intellectualist
about know-how claims that knowledge-how is knowledge of a true
proposition. On an intellectualist account, one knows how to perform
some action if and only if one knows that this is a way to perform
the action. In the following we examine arguments for intellectualism
that stem from semantic accounts of embedded questions.
8

2.2.1 The development of formal semantics
As we saw in the first chapter, the modern debate over the nature
of knowledge-how goes back to Gilbert Ryle. A more recent
development to this debate appeals to the relatively recent field of
formal semantics. This field develops as an extension of the logical
study of language. Gottlob Frege and Bertrand Russell introduced and
developed a formal language to analyse the logical significance of
language. For example, Russell’s treatment of the nature of definite
descriptions used logic to analyse puzzles relating to ordinary
sentences such as ‘The present king of France is bald.’ This sentence
has a meaning, but, because there is no present king of France,
it fails to refer to any existing person. The grammatical subject of
the sentence is empty; it is as if words are being used without any
cognitive significance. This conflicts, though, with the fact that we do
understand the sentence. The puzzle was to understand the meaning
of a sentence that appeared to refer to an individual that doesn’t exist.
Reference is a real relation that requires existing relata and so the
apparent meaning of such sentences poses a philosophical puzzle.
Bertrand Russell’s theory of definite description uses the tools of
modern logic to dissolve this puzzle. On his view, the sentence ‘the
present king of France is bald’ has a more elaborate logical structure.
Its logical structure is revealed by the following:
(∃x)(x is the king of France & (∀y)(if y is the king of France, then
x = y) & x is bald).
This is read as follows. There exists an x such that x is the king of
France, and for all y if y is the king of France, then x is identical to
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The case for intellectualism33
y and x is bald. Thus, on Russell’s analysis, this sentence implies
that there is a king of France, there is only one king of France, and
he is bald. Thus, given Russell’s analysis the sentence does not
require reference to a non-existent individual. The logical structure
of the sentence does not require any singular terms. Rather the
sentence’s structure is revealed by quantification over propositional
functions (e.g. ‘x is the king of France’). On this analysis, the
sentence is meaningful but false since it implies that there is a king
of France.
The general approach of using the resources of formal logic to
analyse the structure of ordinary sentences has a wide appeal. In
the 1950s Richard Montague, a student of Alfred Tarski at Berkeley,
extended the model-theoretical approach to an analysis of natural
language. It was widely held by logicians of the day that natural
languages were too rich to be usefully analysed by model-theoretical
semantics. Montague showed otherwise, developing a formal
semantics known as ‘Montague grammar’.
9

2.2.2 Stanley’s master argument
Jason Stanley’s linguistic argument for intellectualism grows
directly out of this tradition.
10
He uses formal semantics to develop
a sophisticated analysis of sentences involving ‘know-how’. Stanley
argues that an account of knowledge-how must fit in a general
account of the semantics of embedded questions. An embedded
question is a clause that begins with a question word: ‘who’, ‘what’,
‘when’, ‘why’ and ‘how’. The sentence ‘John knows how to ride a
bike’ contains an embedded question ‘how to ride a bike’. Similarly,
the sentence like ‘John knows where to ride a bike’ contains the
embedded question ‘where to ride a bike’. Thus, Stanley reasons,
an account of knowledge-how needs to grow out of a more general
account of knowledge-wh, which itself will grow out of a general
theory of the semantics of embedded questions. He aims to show
thus that a good semantic theory for knowledge-wh and embedded
questions supports the view that one knows how to φ in virtue of
having some propositional attitudes about φ-ing. Let us turn now to a
more detailed presentation of his arguments.
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34A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
Stanley’s main thesis is that ‘knowing how to do something is the
same as knowing a fact’.
11
A fact is a true proposition. It is something
that can be believed and asserted. On his view a subject, S, knows
how to φ if and only if S knows that, for some way w, w is a way to
φ. We can formulate Stanley’s main argument thus:
Stanley’s master argument
1 Sentences that ascribe knowledge-how contain embedded
questions.
2 If a sentence ascribing knowledge-how to a subject S is
true, then S knows an answer to the embedded question
contained in the ascription of knowledge-how.
3 If S knows an answer to the embedded question contained in
the ascription of knowledge-how, then S knows that p, where
p is a correct answer to the embedded question.
Thus,
4 If a sentence ascribing knowledge-how to a subject S is true,
then S knows that p, where p is a correct answer to the
embedded question.
Defence of 1
The first premise situates a treatment of the semantics of knowledge-
how within a general semantics for embedded questions. Stanley
provides the following list of sentences with knowledge verbs that all
contain embedded questions.
1 (a) John knows whether Mary came to the party.
(b) John knows why Obama won.
(c) Hannah knows what Obama will do in office.
(d) Hannah knows who Obama is.
(e) Hannah knows what she is pointing to.
(f) Hannah knows how Obama will govern.
(g) Hannah knows why to vote for Obama.
(h) Hannah knows how to vote.
12
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The case for intellectualism35
Each of these constructions contain an embedded question. In (a) the
embedded question is ‘whether Mary came to the party’; in (b) it is
‘why Obama won’; in (c) it is ‘what Obama will do in office’; and so
on. Knowledge-how is not special in this respect. It too contains an
embedded question. Notice that both (f) and (h) contained embedded
questions: (f) ‘How Obama will govern’ and (1h) ‘how to vote’. The
difference between (f) and (h) is that the former contains a finite
clause, a clause marked for tense, and the later contains an infinitival
clause, one not marked for tense. This difference, while significant,
does not affect whether constructions involving ‘knowledge-how’
contain embedded questions.
13
Defence of 2
Premise 2 relates (i) sentences that ascribe know-how to (ii)
knowing the answer to the embedded question ‘how to φ?’ The
primary defence for 2 comes from reflection on all the other cases
of knowledge-wh, that is, cases (a)–(g). Consider (a): John knows
whether Mary came to the party. If John knows whether Mary came
to the party, then John knows the answer to the question ‘did Mary
come to the party?’ Similarly, with (b), if John knows why Obama
won, then John knows the answer to the question ‘why did Obama
win?’ Similar considerations hold for other cases of knowledge-wh.
Moreover, the occurrence of the finite clause with ‘know-how’ in (f)
fits the pattern of the other cases. If Hannah knows how Obama
will govern, then Hannah knows the answer to the question ‘how
will Obama govern?’ Thus, reflection on (a)–(g) supports the claim
that if a sentence ascribing knowledge-wh to a subject S is true,
then S knows an answer to the embedded question continued in the
ascription of knowledge-how.
A principle of simplicity supports the thought that this pattern
continues to all cases of knowledge-how. Unless there are significant
reasons to think that knowledge-how differs significantly from other
kinds of know-wh, one should infer that properties of know-wh are
also properties of know-how. In Chapter 5 we return to this issue
when we discuss the difference between knowledge-how with a
finite clause such as ‘knows how Obama will govern’ and knowledge-
how with an infinitival clause such as ‘knows how to vote’. For now,
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36A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
though, we will rest the intellectualist’s case on the parallel between
(a)–(g) and (h).
Defence of 3: Karttunen’s semantics
Premise (3) states that ‘If S knows an answer to the embedded
question contained in the ascription of knowledge-how then S knows
that p, where p is a correct answer to the embedded question.’
This premise connects knowing the answer to a question with
propositional knowledge. The defence of this premise requires some
working knowledge of the semantics of embedded questions. To
grasp the motivation for premise (3) one needs to understand why the
best semantic accounts of knowledge-wh imply that intellectualism
is true. The complete argument for premise (3) would involve more
space that we can allot. We refer the reader to Jason Stanley superb
book Know How.
14
In place of a complete argument for premise
(3), we shall develop Lauri Karttunen’s (1977) early semantic theory
of embedded questions and observe how it naturally extends to
provide an intellectualist account of knowledge-how. This will involve
smoothing out some rough edges but the overall picture we offer is
not far from Stanley’s presentation.
Karttunen’s account of embedded questions begins with the
idea that questions have semantic objects.
15
A semantic object can
be thought of as a meaning. Declarative sentences have semantic
objects – that is, propositions. Consider the sentence ‘John knows
that snow is white.’ This sentence relates John via a knowledge
relation to the proposition 〈snow is white〉. Similarly, questions
have semantic objects. The sentence ‘John knows whether it rained
last night’ relates John via a knowledge relation to the question
‘whether it rained last night’. Since we have a semantic object for
propositional knowledge, we should also have a semantic object for
questions.
Karttunen’s specific account of questions develops in response
to perceived inadequacies with C. L. Hamblin’s (1973) early account.
Hamblin argued that the semantic content of a question is its set of
possible answers. For a yes/no question about p, its content is the
set {p or ¬p}. For example, the content of ‘Is it raining?’ is {it is raining
or it is not raining}. For an open-ended question like ‘who came to the
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The case for intellectualism37
party?’ its content is the set of propositions of the form: x came to
the party, where ‘x’ ranges over individuals.
This set can be more concisely expressed using lambda notation.
This notation is widespread in linguistics because of its use as a
λ-determiner. A determiner like ‘every’, ‘most’ and ‘some’ binds a
variable that would otherwise be free. For example, the universal
quantifier, ∀, binds the variable x in the sentence ‘(∀x) x runs’ to
express the sentence that ‘everyone runs’. Using lambda notation
we can express this as the set of all people who run λx, x runs.
That expression is equivalent to the more familiar set theoretical
notation: {x: x runs}. To express the content of the question ‘is it
raining?’ we write:
Is it raining? = λp (p = the proposition that it is raining or p = the
proposition that it is not raining)
This is read as be read the set of propositions, p, such that p=it is
raining or p=it is not raining.
We can express the content of the question ‘who came?’ thusly:
λp(∃x(p = the proposition that x came)). This reads: the set of
propositions, p, such that there exists an x such that sentences of the
form ‘x came’ are either true or false. So the question ‘Who came?’
has as its content the set of possible answers to that question.
We are interested in the implications of this account for
knowledge-wh. The sentence ‘Tim knows whether John walks’
involves a knowledge relation Tim stands in to the question ‘whether
John walks’. On Karttunen’s semantics this involves knowledge
relation to set {John walks or John does not walk}. More specifically,
we can say that the property expressed by ‘knows whether John
walks’ is the following.
[knows whether John walks] = λx(knows(x,λp (p & (p=the
proposition that John walks) or (p=the proposition that John
doesn’t walk)))).
16

In this case the question embedding verb ‘knows whether’ is a
function from individuals to a composite function from propositions
to truth values. This implies that Tom knows whether John walks if
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38A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
and only if if John walks, then Tom knows that and if John doesn’t
walk, then Tom knows that.
Stanley observes that Karttunen’s semantic account of embedded
questions can be generalized to apply to ‘know why’ and ‘know-
how’. Karttunen’s account of ‘know who’ requires quantification over
persons. Stanley claims that an account of ‘why’ questions will involve
quantification over reasons, and an account of ‘how’ questions will
involve quantification over ways of doing things.
17
Stanley provides
the following two examples.
[How does Bill swim] = λp ∃w (p & p = the proposition that Bill
swims in way w).
[Why does Bill swim] = λp ∃r (p & p = the proposition that Bill
swims for reason r).
18

We can see a clear basis for intellectualism in Karttunen’s account.
John knows how Bill swims if and only if John stands in the knowledge
relation to λp ∃w (p & p= the proposition that Bill swims in way w).
19

Why did we say ‘stand in the knowledge relation to λp ∃w (p & p =
the proposition that Bill swims in way w)’ rather than knows that φ,
where φ is the correct answer of the form ‘Bill swims in way w?’ The
reason is that on Karttunen’s account knowledge-wh and knowledge-
that belong to different semantic categories. Knowledge-wh relates a
knower to a set of possible answers whereas knowledge-that relates
a knower to a proposition. As Stanley observes this posed a problem
with Karttunen’s account because his account didn’t validate the
following inference: (a) Bill knows whether John walks; (b) John walks;
so, (c) Bill knows that John walks.
20
Karttunen met this problem by a
meaning postulate relating knowledge-wh to knowledge-that.
21
We
shall ignore this complication and assume that Karttunen’s account
predicts that if John knows how Bill swims, then John knows that Bill
swims in way w, for some way of swimming.
The last remaining part of an argument for intellectualism is to apply
Karttunen’s account to an infinitival use of ‘know-how’. Karttunen’s
semantics for ‘how to φ’ predicts the following:
[how does one ride a bike] = λp ∃w (p & p = the proposition that
one rides a bike in way w).
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The case for intellectualism39
Thus, we would expect that John knows how to ride a bike just
in case John stands in the knowledge relation to λp ∃w (p & p =
the proposition that John rides a bike in way w). This does involve
some self-knowledge on John’s part since John is the subject of the
knowledge. We ignore this detail. Karttunen’s account suggests that
John knows how to ride a bike in and only if John knows that w is a
way to ride a bike.
There are a few more steps to get from Karttunen’s semantics
to the specific account that Stanley offers, but one can clearly see
the basis in formal semantics. Thus, Stanley gives us the following
intellectualist account.
(INT) A subject S knows how to φ if and only if there is some
contextually relevant way w such that S stands in the knowledge-
that relation to the proposition that w is a way for S to φ,
and S entertains this proposition under a practical mode of
presentation.
22

What’s new here is the idea that S entertains this proposition
under a practical mode of presentation. But, like Karttunen’s
account, the core idea is that the semantics for know-how require
that S stand in a knowledge relation to some proposition that w is
a way to φ.
2.3 The non-linguistic case for
intellectualism
In this section, we’ll evaluate the broadly non-linguistic case for
intellectualism in two parts, negative and positive. What we’re calling
the ‘negative case’ for intellectualism emerges from alleged defects in
the anti-intellectualist thesis, which we’ll outline and evaluate in Sec.
2.3.1. In Sec. 2.3.2, we evaluate briefly three positive (non-linguistic)
strands of argument in favour of the intellectualist’s position: (i)
Snowdon’s ‘substantive knowledge’ argument; Stanley’s argument
from cognitive science; and (iii) Bengson and Moffett’s argument for
non-propositional intellectualism.
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40A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
2.3.1 The negative case
Bengson and Moffett maintain that one good reason to be an
intellectualist is that ability possession is neither necessary nor
sufficient for knowledge-how.
23
Their argument strategy is by
counterexamples to both the necessity and sufficiency claims. If their
combined argument is right, then the thesis that one knows how to φ
in virtue of possessing the ability to φ is off the table, leaving (ceteris
paribus) intellectualism looking like the viable alternative. We’ll now
engage with this negative case for intellectualism in some detail.
Against the anti-intellectualist’s necessity
condition
Let’s look first at the necessity leg of the anti-intellectualist’s position,
according to which ability possession is necessary for know-how:
Anti-intellectualism – Necessity (AI-N): S knows how to φ only
if S has the ability to φ.
Notice that something like AI-N is surely what Ryle himself had in mind
when he diagnosed the Lewis Carroll case of the pupil and student (see
Section 1.2.3). Recall that Ryle insisted that the student failed to know
how to draw the inference, despite all the propositional knowledge Ryle
granted that the student possessed about the premises and conclusion.
Moreover, the explanation Ryle advanced for why the pupil lacked know
how was that the student lacked the ability to draw the inference. Present
in Ryle’s thinking is that ability possession is a necessary condition
for know-how. And indeed, to the extent that anti-intellectualists are
committed to the core insight that when one knows how to φ it will be
in virtue of one’s possessing the relevant φ-abilities, an endorsement of
some version of AI-N looks unavoidable for the intellectualist.
That said, Bengson and Moffett offer the following counterexample
to AI-N:
24

ski instructor. Pat has been a ski instructor for twenty years,
teaching people how to do complex ski stunts. He is in high
Critical Introduction to Knowledge How.indb 40 12/15/2017 8:19:40 AM

The case for intellectualism41
demand as an instructor, since he is considered to be the best at
what he does. Although an accomplished skier, he has never been
able to do the stunts himself. Nonetheless, over the years he has
taught many people how to do them well. In fact, a number of
his students have won medals in international competitions and
competed in the Olympic games.
25

Bengson and Moffett’s diagnosis is that, in ski instructor, Pat (i) knows
how to do the stunts, despite (ii) lacking the ability to do them. If this
diagnosis is correct, then AI-N is false.
A natural reply to their diagnosis of the case, on behalf of the anti-
intellectualist, proceeds as follows:
1 ski instructor is a case where one merely knows how one φs
while lacking the ability to φ.
2 A genuine counterexample to (AI-N) must be one where the
agent both (a) lacks the ability to φ and (b) knows how to φ.
3 Knowing how one φs does not entail knowing how to φ.
4 Thus, ski instructor is not a counterexample to (AI-N).
Call this the one-φs-reply. Is the one-φs-reply a viable strategy
on behalf of the anti-intellectualist? Bengson and Moffett are not
convinced. In an attempt to counter this move, they offer a kind of
counterreply via comparison. Their strategy grants that knowing how
one φs does not entail knowing how to φ. However, they insist that,
despite the intuition relied on in the anticipated one-φs-reply to ski
instructor, Pat actually does know how to do the stunts after all, and
so doesn’t merely know how one does them.
In support of this claim, they invite us to compare Pat with Albert,
a scientist who doesn’t ski, but who knows how one does the stunts
by knowing what muscles contract in what ways. The suggested line
of thinking here is that we should draw three key conclusions from
the comparison of Pat’s situation with Albert’s situation.
●●Both Pat and Albert know how one does the stunts.
●●Neither is able to do the stunts (by stipulation).
●●Only Pat, but not Albert, knows how to do the stunts.
Critical Introduction to Knowledge How.indb 41 12/15/2017 8:19:40 AM

42A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION TO kNOWLEDGE2hOW
Granted, this is not a counterintuitive way to think about the
situation. But, to the extent this diagnosis looks viable, it is
presumably because – by way of comparison – Pat seems ‘more
engaged’ with the activity in question than Albert, given that Pat
is a skier himself and Albert merely reads books, despite the fact
that neither can do the stunts in question. A rationale for Bengson
and Moffett’s diagnosis thus relies on a kind of pairing insight –
namely, one which pairs Pat (more engaged) with knowing-how to
do something and Albert (less engaged) with knowing how one
does something.
An objection to relying on such a pairing insight, as a rationale
for dismissing the one-φs-reply is that we can just as easily run an
argument by comparison that appeals to an equally intuitive alternative
pairing insight, to reach a very different conclusion concerning Pat,
one that is compatible with the one-φs-reply. To appreciate this point,
consider the case of Kamil:
kamil. Kamil is able to do all of the jumps Pat teaches with ease (and
knows the relevant physiology). Given Pat’s inability to actually do
the jumps Kamil can do, it seems just as natural to say that Kamil
knows how to do the jumps but Pat merely knows how one does
the jumps. That is, it is just as natural to say this as it is to say in
Bengson and Moffett’s counter-reply that Pat (the coach) knows
how to do the jumps but Albert (the scientist) merely knows how
one does the jumps.
When Pat is compared with Kamil (who can actually do the stunts)
rather than with Albert (who does not even ski), the following pairing
insight seems intuitive:
Table 2.1:  Pairing Insight
Knowing how to φ
Knowing how one φs
Pat (who is a skier)
Albert (who is not a skier)
Engaged
Detached
Engaged
Detached
Pat
Albert
Knowing how to φ
Knowing how one φs
Critical Introduction to Knowledge How.indb 42 12/15/2017 8:19:40 AM

The case for intellectualism43
The alternative pairing insight seems every bit as intuitive as
Bengson and Moffett’s pairing insight. But if that is the case,
then their counterreply by comparison to the one-φs-reply is not
successful. It does not provide a good reason for thinking that the
one-φs-reply is off the table, as a way for the anti-intellectualist to
defend AI-N against the ski instructor counterexample. Thus, we have
no good reason to regard ski instructor as a decisive counterexample
to (AI-N).
Against the anti-intellectualist’s sufficiency
condition
Anti-intellectualists maintain that having the ability to φ is not just
necessary for knowing how to φ, but also sufficient for doing so,
though this point needs a quick adjustment.
26
It is obviously false
that someone – say, Jack – knows how to build a campfire with flint
and steel were he to possess an unreliable ability to do so; say, he
succeeds 1 out of an average of 50 attempts. In such a case, Jack
doesn’t know how to build a fire, even though he gets it right rarely
by happenstance.
Accordingly, following Bengson and Moffett, we can restrict the
anti-intellectualist’s claim about the sufficiency of ability for know-
how as follows, so that reliability is part of the formula:
Anti-intellectualism – sufficiency (AI-S): If S is reliably able to φ,
then S knows how to φ.
Again, the core anti-intellectualist claim that one knows how to φ in
virtue of possessing the relevant abilities rather than propositional
Table 2.2:  Alternative Pairing Insight
Knowing how to φ
Knowing how one φs
Kamil (who can do the jumps)
Pat (who cannot do the jumps)
Engaged
Detached
Engaged
Detached
Kamil
Pat
Knowing how to φ
Knowing how one φs
Critical Introduction to Knowledge How.indb 43 12/15/2017 8:19:40 AM

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Cabinet Council, member of the Council of Ministers for the Defense
of the Reich, and Field Marshal. The Defendant KEITEL used the
foregoing positions, his personal influence, and his intimate
connection with the Führer in such a manner that: He promoted the
military preparations for war set forth in Count One of the
Indictment; he participated in the political planning and preparation
of the Nazi conspirators for Wars of Aggression and Wars in Violation
of International Treaties, Agreements, and Assurances set forth in
Counts One and Two of the Indictment; he executed and assumed
responsibility for the execution of the plans of the Nazi conspirators
for Wars of Aggression and Wars in Violation of International
Treaties, Agreements, and Assurances set forth in Counts One and
Two of the Indictment; he authorized, directed, and participated in
the War Crimes set forth in Count Three of the Indictment and the
Crimes against Humanity set forth in Count Four of the Indictment,
including particularly the War Crimes and Crimes against Humanity
involved in the ill-treatment of prisoners of war and of the civilian
population of occupied territories.
 
JODL:
The Defendant JODL between 1932 and 1945 was: Lt. Colonel,
Army Operations Department of the Wehrmacht, Colonel, Chief of
OKW Operations Department, Major-General, Chief of Staff OKW and
Colonel-General. The Defendant JODL used the foregoing positions,
his personal influence, and his close connection with the Führer in
such a manner that: He promoted the accession to power of the
Nazi conspirators and the consolidation of their control over
Germany set forth in Count One of the Indictment; he promoted the
preparations for war set forth in Count One of the Indictment; he
participated in the military planning and preparation of the Nazi
conspirators for Wars of Aggression and Wars in Violation of
International Treaties, Agreements, and Assurances set forth in
Counts One and Two of the Indictment; and he authorized, directed,
and participated in the War Crimes set forth in Count Three of the
Indictment and the Crimes against Humanity set forth in Count Four

of the Indictment, including a wide variety of crimes against persons
and property.
 
RAEDER:
The Defendant RAEDER between 1928 and 1945 was:
Commander-in-Chief of the German Navy, Generaladmiral,
Grossadmiral, Admiralinspekteur of the German Navy, and a member
of the Secret Cabinet Council. The Defendant RAEDER used the
foregoing positions and his personal influence in such a manner
that: He promoted the preparations for war set forth in Count One of
the Indictment; he participated in the political planning and
preparation of the Nazi conspirators for Wars of Aggression and
Wars in Violation of International Treaties, Agreements, and
Assurances set forth in Counts One and Two of the Indictment; he
executed, and assumed responsibility for the execution of the plans
of the Nazi conspirators for Wars of Aggression and Wars in Violation
of International Treaties, Agreements, and Assurances set forth in
Counts One and Two of the Indictment; and he authorized, directed,
and participated in the war crimes set forth in Count Three of the
Indictment, including particularly war crimes arising out of sea
warfare.
 
DÖNITZ:
The Defendant DÖNITZ between 1932 and 1945 was:
Commanding Officer of the Weddigen U-boat flotilla, Commander-in-
Chief of the U-boat arm, Vice-Admiral, Admiral, Grossadmiral and
Commander-in-Chief of the German Navy, Advisor to Hitler, and
Successor to Hitler as head of the German Government. The
Defendant DÖNITZ used the foregoing positions, his personal
influence, and his intimate connection with the Führer in such a
manner that: He promoted the preparations for war set forth in
Count One of the Indictment; he participated in the military planning
and preparation of the Nazi conspirators for Wars of Aggression and
Wars in Violation of International Treaties, Agreements, and
Assurances set forth in Counts One and Two of the Indictment; and
he authorized, directed, and participated in the War Crimes set forth

in Count Three of the Indictment, including particularly the crimes
against persons and property on the High Seas.
 
FRITZSCHE:
The Defendant FRITZSCHE between 1933 and 1945 was: A
member of the Nazi Party, editor-in-chief of the official German news
agency, “Deutsche Nachrichten Büro”, head of the Wireless News
Service and of the Home Press Division of the Reich Ministry of
Propaganda, Ministerialdirektor of the Reich Ministry of Propaganda,
head of the Radio Division of the Propaganda Department of the
Nazi Party, and Plenipotentiary for the Political Organization of the
Greater German Radio. The Defendant FRITZSCHE used the
foregoing positions and his personal influence to disseminate and
exploit the principal doctrines of the Nazi conspirators set forth in
Count One of the Indictment, and to advocate, encourage and incite
the commission of the War Crimes set forth in Count Three of the
Indictment and the Crimes against Humanity set forth in Count Four
of the Indictment including, particularly, anti-Jewish measures and
the ruthless exploitation of occupied territories.

APPENDIX B
Statement of Criminality of Groups and Organizations
The statements hereinafter set forth, following the name of each
group or organization named in the Indictment as one which should
be declared criminal, constitute matters upon which the prosecution
will rely inter alia as establishing the criminality of the group or
organization:
DIE REICHSREGIERUNG (REICH CABINET)
“Die Reichsregierung (Reich Cabinet)” referred to in the
Indictment consists of persons who were:
(i)Members of the ordinary cabinet after 30 January 1933, the
date on which Hitler became Chancellor of the German
Republic. The term “ordinary cabinet” as used herein means
the Reich Ministers, i. e., heads of departments of the central
Government; Reich Ministers without portfolio; State Ministers
acting as Reich Ministers; and other officials entitled to take
part in meetings of this cabinet.
(ii)Members of der Ministerrat für die Reichsverteidigung (Council
of Ministers for the Defense of the Reich).
(iii)Members of der Geheimer Kabinettsrat (Secret Cabinet
Council).
Under the Führer, these persons functioning in the foregoing
capacities and in association as a group, possessed and exercised
legislative, executive, administrative, and political powers and
functions of a very high order in the system of German Government.
Accordingly, they are charged with responsibility for the policies
adopted and put into effect by the Government including those
which comprehended and involved the commission of the crimes
referred to in Counts One, Two, Three, and Four of the Indictment.

DAS KORPS DER POLITISCHEN LEITER DER
NATIONALSOZIALISTISCHEN
DEUTSCHEN ARBEITERPARTEI
(LEADERSHIP CORPS OF THE NAZI PARTY)
“Das Korps der Politischen Leiter der Nationalsozialistischen
Deutschen Arbeiterpartei (Leadership Corps of the Nazi Party)”
referred to in the Indictment consists of persons who were at any
time, according to common Nazi terminology, “Politischen Leiter”
(Political Leaders) of any grade or rank.
The Politischen Leiter comprised the leaders of the various
functional offices of the Party (for example, the Reichsleitung, or
Party Reich Directorate, and the Gauleitung, or Party Gau
Directorate), as well as the territorial leaders of the Party (for
example, the Gauleiter).
The Politischen Leiter were a distinctive and elite group within
the Nazi Party proper and as such were vested with special
prerogatives. They were organized according to the Leadership
Principle and were charged with planning, developing and imposing
upon their followers the policies of the Nazi Party. Thus the territorial
leaders among them were called Hoheitsträger, or bearers of
sovereignty, and were entitled to call upon and utilize the various
Party formations when necessary for the execution of Party policies.
Reference is hereby made to the allegations in Count One of the
Indictment showing that the Nazi Party was the central core of the
common plan or conspiracy therein set forth. The Politischen Leiter,
as a major power within the Nazi Party proper, and functioning in the
capacities above described and in association as a group, joined in
the common plan or conspiracy, and accordingly share responsibility
for the crimes set forth in Counts One, Two, Three, and Four of the
Indictment.
The prosecution expressly reserves the right to request, at any
time before sentence is pronounced, that Politische Leiter of
subordinate grades or ranks or of other types or classes, to be
specified by the Prosecution, be excepted from further proceedings

in this Case No. 1, but without prejudice to other proceedings or
actions against them.
DIE SCHUTZSTAFFELN DER NATIONALSOZIALISTISCHEN
DEUTSCHEN ARBEITERPARTEI (COMMONLY KNOWN AS
THE SS) INCLUDING DER SICHERHEITSDIENST (COMMONLY
KNOWN AS THE SD)
“Die Schutzstaffeln der Nationalsozialistischen Deutschen
Arbeiterpartei (commonly known as the SS) including Der
Sicherheitsdienst (commonly known as the SD)” referred to in the
Indictment consists of the entire corps of the SS and all offices,
departments, services, agencies, branches, formations,
organizations, and groups of which it was at any time comprised or
which were at any time integrated in it, including but not limited to,
the Allgemeine SS, the Waffen SS, the SS Totenkopf Verbände, SS
Polizei Regimente, and the Sicherheitsdienst des Reichsführers-SS
(commonly known as the SD).
The SS, originally established by Hitler in 1925 as an elite section
of the SA to furnish a protective guard for the Führer and Nazi Party
leaders, became an independent formation of the Nazi Party in 1934
under the leadership of the Reichsführer-SS, Heinrich Himmler. It
was composed of voluntary members, selected in accordance with
Nazi biological, racial, and political theories, completely indoctrinated
in Nazi ideology and pledged to uncompromising obedience to the
Führer. After the accession of the Nazi conspirators to power, it
developed many departments, agencies, formations, and branches
and extended its influence and control over numerous fields of
Governmental and Party activity. Through Heinrich Himmler, as
Reichsführer-SS and Chief of the German Police, agencies and units
of the SS and of the Reich were joined in operation to form a unified
repressive police force. The Sicherheitsdienst des Reichsführers-SS
(commonly known as the SD), a department of the SS, was
developed into a vast espionage and counter-intelligence system
which operated in conjunction with the Gestapo and criminal police

in detecting, suppressing and eliminating tendencies, groups and
individuals deemed hostile or potentially hostile to the Nazi Party, its
leaders, principles and objectives, and eventually was combined with
the Gestapo and criminal police in a single security police
department, the Reich Main Security Office.
Other branches of the SS developed into an armed force and
served in the wars of aggression referred to in Counts One and Two
of the Indictment. Through other departments and branches the SS
controlled the administration of concentration camps and the
execution of Nazi racial, biological, and resettlement policies.
Through its numerous functions and activities it served as the
instrument for insuring the domination of Nazi ideology and
protecting and extending the Nazi regime over Germany and
occupied territories. It thus participated in and is responsible for the
crimes referred to in Counts One, Two, Three, and Four of the
Indictment.
DIE GEHEIME STAATSPOLIZEI (SECRET STATE POLICE,
COMMONLY KNOWN AS THE GESTAPO)
“Die Geheime Staatspolizei (Secret State Police, commonly known
as the Gestapo)” referred to in the Indictment consists of the
headquarters, departments, offices, branches, and all the forces and
personnel of the Geheime Staatspolizei organized or existing at any
time after 30 January 1933, including the Geheime Staatspolizei of
Prussia and equivalent secret or political police forces of the Reich
and the components thereof.
The Gestapo was created by the Nazi conspirators immediately
after their accession to power, first in Prussia by the Defendant
GÖRING and shortly thereafter in all other states in the Reich. These
separate secret and political police forces were developed into a
centralized, uniform organization operating through a central
headquarters and through a network of regional offices in Germany
and in occupied territories. Its officials and operatives were selected
on the basis of unconditional acceptance of Nazi ideology, were
largely drawn from members of the SS, and were trained in SS and

SD schools. It acted to suppress and eliminate tendencies, groups,
and individuals deemed hostile or potentially hostile to the Nazi
Party, its leaders, principles, and objectives, and to repress
resistance and potential resistance to German control in occupied
territories. In performing these functions it operated free from legal
control, taking any measures it deemed necessary for the
accomplishment of its missions.
Through its purposes, activities, and the means it used, it
participated in and is responsible for the commission of the crimes
set forth in Counts One, Two, Three, and Four of the Indictment.
DIE STURMABTEILUNGEN DER NATIONALSOZIALISTISCHEN
DEUTSCHEN ARBEITERPARTEI
(COMMONLY KNOWN AS THE SA)
“Die Sturmabteilungen der Nationalsozialistischen Deutschen
Arbeiterpartei (commonly known as the SA)” referred to in the
Indictment was a formation of the Nazi Party under the immediate
jurisdiction of the Führer, organized on military lines, whose
membership was composed of volunteers serving as political soldiers
of the Party. It was one of the earliest formations of the Nazi Party
and the original guardian of the National Socialist movement.
Founded in 1921 as a voluntary militant formation, it was developed
by the Nazi conspirators before their accession to power into a vast
private army and utilized for the purpose of creating disorder, and
terrorizing and eliminating political opponents. It continued to serve
as an instrument for the physical, ideological, and military training of
Party members and as a reserve for the German Armed Forces. After
the launching of the wars of aggression, referred to in Counts One
and Two of the Indictment, the SA not only operated as an
organization for military training but provided auxiliary police and
security forces in occupied territories, guarded prisoner-of-war
camps and concentration camps and supervised and controlled
persons forced to labor in Germany and occupied territories.
Through its purposes and activities and the means it used, it
participated in and is responsible for the commission of the crimes

set forth in Counts One, Two, Three, and Four of the Indictment.
GENERAL STAFF AND HIGH COMMAND OF THE GERMAN
ARMED FORCES
The “General Staff and High Command of the German Armed
Forces” referred to in the Indictment consist of those individuals who
between February 1938 and May 1945 were the highest
commanders of the Wehrmacht, the Army, the Navy, and the Air
Forces. The individuals comprising this group are the persons who
held the following appointments:
Oberbefehlshaber der Kriegsmarine (Commander in Chief of the
Navy);
Chef (and, formerly, Chef des Stabes) der Seekriegsleitung (Chief
of Naval War Staff);
Oberbefehlshaber des Heeres (Commander in Chief of the Army);
Chef des Generalstabes des Heeres (Chief of the General Staff of
the Army);
Oberbefehlshaber der Luftwaffe (Commander in Chief of the Air
Force);
Chef des Generalstabes der Luftwaffe (Chief of the General Staff
of the Air Force);
Chef des Oberkommandos der Wehrmacht (Chief of the High
Command of the Armed Forces);
Chef des Führungsstabes des Oberkommandos der Wehrmacht
(Chief of the Operations Staff of the High Command of the
Armed Forces);
Stellvertretender Chef des Führungsstabes des Oberkommandos
der Wehrmacht (Deputy Chief of the Operations Staff of the
High Command of the Armed Forces);
Commanders-in-Chief in the field, with the status of
Oberbefehlshaber, of the Wehrmacht, Navy, Army, Air Force.
Functioning in such capacities and in association as a group at a
highest level in the German Armed Forces Organization, these

persons had a major responsibility for the planning, preparation,
initiation, and waging of illegal wars as set forth in Counts One and
Two of the Indictment and for the War Crimes and Crimes against
Humanity involved in the execution of the common plan or
conspiracy set forth in Counts Three and Four of the Indictment.

APPENDIX C
Charges and Particulars of Violations of International Treaties,
Agreements, and Assurances Caused by the Defendants in the
Course of Planning, Preparing, and Initiating the Wars
I
CHARGE: Violation of the Convention for the Pacific Settlement of
International Disputes, signed at The Hague, 29 July 1899.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany did, by force and arms, on the
dates specified in Column 1, invade the territory of the Sovereigns
specified in Column 2, respectively, without first having attempted to
settle its disputes with said Sovereigns by pacific means.
Column 1 Column 2
6April 1941 Kingdom of Greece
6April 1941 Kingdom of Yugoslavia
II
CHARGE: Violation of the Convention for the Pacific Settlement of
International Disputes, signed at The Hague, 18 October 1907.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany did, on or about the dates
specified in Column 1, by force of arms invade the territory of the
Sovereigns specified in Column 2, respectively, without having first
attempted to settle its dispute with said Sovereigns by pacific
means.
Column 1 Column 2
1September 1939Republic of Poland
9April 1940 Kingdom of Norway
9April 1940 Kingdom of Denmark
10May 1940 Grand Duchy of Luxembourg
10May 1940 Kingdom of Belgium
10May 1940 Kingdom of the Netherlands

22June 1941 Union of Soviet Socialist
Republics
III
CHARGE: Violation of Hague Convention III Relative to the
Opening of Hostilities, Signed 18 October 1907.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany did, on or about the dates
specified in Column 1, commence hostilities against the Countries
specified in Column 2, respectively, without previous warning in the
form of a reasoned declaration of war or an ultimatum with
conditional declaration of war.
Column 1 Column 2
1September 1939Republic of Poland
9April 1940 Kingdom of Norway
9April 1940 Kingdom of Denmark
10May 1940 Kingdom of Belgium
10May 1940 Kingdom of the Netherlands
10May 1940 Grand Duchy of Luxembourg
22June 1941 Union of Soviet Socialist
Republics
IV
CHARGE: Violation of Hague Convention V Respecting the Rights
and Duties of Neutral Powers and Persons in Case of War on Land,
signed 18 October 1907.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany did, on or about the dates
specified in Column 1, by force and arms of its military forces, cross
into, invade, and occupy the territories of the Sovereigns specified in
Column 2, respectively, then and thereby violating the neutrality of
said Sovereigns.
Column 1 Column 2
9April 1940 Kingdom of Norway
9April 1940 Kingdom of Denmark
10May 1940 Grand Duchy of Luxembourg

10May 1940 Kingdom of Belgium
10May 1940 Kingdom of the Netherlands
22June 1941 Union of Soviet Socialist
Republics
V
CHARGE: Violation of the Treaty of Peace between the Allied and
Associated Powers and Germany, signed at Versailles, 28 June 1919,
known as the Versailles Treaty.
PARTICULARS: (1) In that Germany did, on and after 7 March
1936, maintain and assemble armed forces and maintain and
construct military fortifications in the demilitarized zone of the
Rhineland in violation of the provisions of Articles 42 to 44 of the
Treaty of Versailles.
(2) In that Germany did, on or about 13 March 1938, annex
Austria into the German Reich in violation of the provisions of Article
80 of the Treaty of Versailles.
(3) In that Germany did, on or about 22 March 1939, incorporate
the district of Memel into the German Reich in violation of the
provisions of Article 99 of the Treaty of Versailles.
(4) In that Germany did, on or about 1 September 1939,
incorporate the Free City of Danzig into the German Reich in
violation of the provisions of Article 100 of the Treaty of Versailles.
(5) In that Germany did, on or about 16 March 1939, incorporate
the Provinces of Bohemia and Moravia, formerly part of
Czechoslovakia, into the German Reich in violation of the provisions
of Article 81 of the Treaty of Versailles.
(6) In that Germany did, at various times in March 1935 and
thereafter, repudiate various parts of Part V, Military, Naval, and Air
Clauses of the Treaty of Versailles, by creating an air force, by use of
compulsory military service, by increasing the size of the army
beyond treaty limits, and by increasing the size of the navy beyond
treaty limits.
VI

CHARGE: Violation of the Treaty between the United States and
Germany Restoring Friendly Relations, signed at Berlin, 25 August
1921.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany did, at various times in March
1935 and thereafter, repudiate various parts of Part V, Military, Naval,
and Air Clauses of the Treaty between the United States and
Germany Restoring Friendly Relations by creating an air force, by
use of compulsory military service, by increasing the size of the army
beyond treaty limits, and by increasing the size of the navy beyond
treaty limits.
VII
CHARGE: Violation of the Treaty of Mutual Guarantee between
Germany, Belgium, France, Great Britain, and Italy, done at Locarno,
16 October 1925.
PARTICULARS: (1) In that Germany did, on or about 7 March
1936, unlawfully send armed forces into the Rhineland demilitarized
zone of Germany, in violation of Article 1 of the Treaty of Mutual
Guarantee.
(2) In that Germany did, in or about March 1936, and thereafter,
unlawfully maintain armed forces in the Rhineland demilitarized zone
of Germany, in violation of Article 1 of the Treaty of Mutual
Guarantee.
(3) In that Germany did, on or about 7 March 1936, and
thereafter, unlawfully construct and maintain fortifications in the
Rhineland demilitarized zone of Germany, in violation of Article 1 of
the Treaty of Mutual Guarantee.
(4) In that Germany did, on or about 10 May 1940, unlawfully
attack and invade Belgium, in violation of Article 2 of the Treaty of
Mutual Guarantee.
(5) In that Germany did, on or about 10 May 1940, unlawfully
attack and invade Belgium, without first having attempted to settle
its dispute with Belgium by peaceful means, in violation of Article 3
of the Treaty of Mutual Guarantee.

VIII
CHARGE: Violation of the Arbitration Treaty between Germany
and Czechoslovakia, done at Locarno, 16 October 1925.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany did, on or about 15 March 1939,
unlawfully by duress and threats of military might force
Czechoslovakia to deliver the destiny of Czechoslovakia and its
inhabitants into the hands of the Führer and Reichschancellor of
Germany without having attempted to settle its dispute with
Czechoslovakia by peaceful means.
IX
CHARGE: Violation of the Arbitration Convention between
Germany and Belgium, done at Locarno, 16 October 1925.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany did, on or about 10 May 1940,
unlawfully attack and invade Belgium without first having attempted
to settle its dispute with Belgium by peaceful means.
X
CHARGE: Violation of the Arbitration Treaty between Germany
and Poland, done at Locarno, 16 October 1925.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany did, on or about 1 September
1939, unlawfully attack and invade Poland without first having
attempted to settle its dispute with Poland by peaceful means.
XI
CHARGE: Violation of Convention of Arbitration and Conciliation
entered into between Germany and the Netherlands on 20 May
1926.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany, without warning, and
notwithstanding its solemn covenant to settle by peaceful means all
disputes of any nature whatever which might arise between it and
the Netherlands which were not capable of settlement by diplomacy
and which had not been referred by mutual agreement to the

Permanent Court of International Justice, did, on or about 10 May
1940, with a military force, attack, invade, and occupy the
Netherlands, thereby violating its neutrality and territorial integrity
and destroying its sovereign independence.
XII
CHARGE: Violation of Convention of Arbitration and Conciliation
entered into between Germany and Denmark on 2 June 1926.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany, without warning, and
notwithstanding its solemn covenant to settle by peaceful means all
disputes of any nature whatever which might arise between it and
Denmark which were not capable of settlement by diplomacy and
which had not been referred by mutual agreement to the Permanent
Court of International Justice, did, on or about 9 April 1940, with a
military force, attack, invade, and occupy Denmark, thereby violating
its neutrality and territorial integrity and destroying its sovereign
independence.
XIII
CHARGE: Violation of Treaty between Germany and other Powers
providing for Renunciation of War as an Instrument of National
Policy, signed at Paris 27 August 1928, known as the Kellogg-Briand
Pact.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany did, on or about the dates
specified in Column 1, with a military force, attack the Sovereigns
specified in Column 2, respectively, and resort to war against such
Sovereigns, in violation of its solemn declaration condemning
recourse to war for the solution of international controversies, its
solemn renunciation of war as an instrument of national policy in its
relations with such Sovereigns, and its solemn covenant that
settlement or solution of all disputes or conflicts of whatever nature
or origin arising between it and such Sovereigns should never be
sought except by pacific means.
Column 1 Column 2

1September 1939Republic of Poland
9April 1940 Kingdom of Norway
9April 1940 Kingdom of Denmark
10May 1940 Kingdom of Belgium
10May 1940 Grand Duchy of Luxembourg
10May 1940 Kingdom of the Netherlands
6April 1941 Kingdom of Greece
6April 1941 Kingdom of Yugoslavia
22June 1941 Union of Soviet Socialist
Republics
11December 1941 United States of America
XIV
CHARGE: Violation of Treaty of Arbitration and Conciliation
entered into between Germany and Luxembourg on 11 September
1929.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany, without warning, and
notwithstanding its solemn covenant to settle by peaceful means all
disputes which might arise between it and Luxembourg which were
not capable of settlement by diplomacy, did, on or about 10 May
1940, with a military force, attack, invade, and occupy Luxembourg,
thereby violating its neutrality and territorial integrity and destroying
its sovereign independence.
XV
CHARGE: Violation of the Declaration of Non-Aggression entered
into between Germany and Poland on 26 January 1934.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany proceeding to the application of
force for the purpose of reaching a decision did, on or about 1
September 1939, at various places along the German-Polish frontier
employ military forces to attack, invade, and commit other acts of
aggression against Poland.
XVI

CHARGE: Violation of German Assurance given on 21 May 1935
that the Inviolability and Integrity of the Federal State of Austria
Would Be Recognized.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany did, on or about 11 March 1938,
at various points and places along the German-Austria frontier, with
a military force and in violation of its solemn declaration and
assurance, invade and annex to Germany the territory of the Federal
State of Austria.
XVII
CHARGE: Violation of Austro-German Agreement of 11 July 1936.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany during the period from 12
February 1938 to 13 March 1938 did by duress and various
aggressive acts, including the use of military force, cause the Federal
State of Austria to yield up its sovereignty to the German State in
violation of Germany’s agreement to recognize the full sovereignty of
the Federal State of Austria.
XVIII
CHARGE: Violation of German Assurances given on 30 January
1937, 28 April 1939, 26 August 1939, and 6 October 1939 To
Respect the Neutrality and Territorial Inviolability of the Netherlands.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany, without warning, and without
recourse to peaceful means of settling any considered differences
did, on or about 10 May 1940, with a military force and in violation
of its solemn assurances, invade, occupy, and attempt to subjugate
the sovereign territory of the Netherlands.
XIX
CHARGE: Violation of German Assurances given on 30 January
1937, 13 October 1937, 28 April 1939, 26 August 1939, and 6
October 1939 To Respect the Neutrality and Territorial Integrity and
Inviolability of Belgium.

PARTICULARS: In that Germany, without warning, did on or
about 10 May 1940, with a military force and in violation of its
solemn assurances and declarations, attack, invade, and occupy the
sovereign territory of Belgium.
XX
CHARGE: Violation of Assurances given on 11 March 1938 and 26
September 1938 to Czechoslovakia.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany, on or about 15 March 1939 did,
by establishing a Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia under duress
and by the threat of force, violate the assurance given on 11 March
1938 to respect the territorial integrity of the Czechoslovak Republic
and the assurance given on 26 September 1938 that, if the so-called
Sudeten territories were ceded to Germany, no further German
territorial claims on Czechoslovakia would be made.
XXI
CHARGE: Violation of the Munich Agreement and Annexes of 29
September 1938.
PARTICULARS: (1) In that Germany on or about 15 March 1939,
did by duress and the threat of military intervention force the
Republic of Czechoslovakia to deliver the destiny of the Czech people
and country into the hands of the Führer of the German Reich.
(2) In that Germany refused and failed to join in an international
guarantee of the new boundaries of the Czechoslovakia state as
provided for in Annex No. 1 to the Munich Agreement.
XXII
CHARGE: Violation of the Solemn Assurances of Germany given
on 3 September 1939, 28 April 1939, and 6 October 1939 Not To
Violate the Independence or Sovereignty of the Kingdom of Norway.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany, without warning did, on or
about 9 April 1940, with its military and naval forces attack, invade,

and commit other acts of aggression against the Kingdom of
Norway.
XXIII
CHARGE: Violation of German Assurances given on 28 April 1939
and 26 August 1939 To Respect the Neutrality and Territorial
Inviolability of Luxembourg.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany, without warning, and without
recourse to peaceful means of settling any considered differences,
did, on or about 10 May 1940, with a military force and in violation
of the solemn assurances, invade, occupy, and absorb into Germany
the sovereign territory of Luxembourg.
XXIV
CHARGE: Violation of the Treaty of Non-Aggression between
Germany and Denmark, signed at Berlin, 31 May 1939.
PARTICULARS: In that Germany without prior warning, did, on or
about 9 April 1940, with its military forces, attack, invade, and
commit other acts of aggression against the Kingdom of Denmark.
XXV
CHARGE: Violation of Treaty of Non-Aggression entered into
between Germany and U.S.S.R. on 23 August 1939.
PARTICULARS: (1) In that Germany did, on or about 22 June
1941, employ military forces to attack and commit acts of aggression
against the U.S.S.R.
(2) In that Germany without warning or recourse to a friendly
exchange of views or arbitration did, on or about 22 June 1941,
employ military forces to attack and commit acts of aggression
against the U.S.S.R.
XXVI
CHARGE: Violation of German Assurance given on 6 October
1939 To Respect the Neutrality and Territorial Integrity of Yugoslavia.

PARTICULARS: In that Germany without prior warning did, on or
about 6 April 1941, with its military forces attack, invade, and
commit other acts of aggression against the Kingdom of Yugoslavia.

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