Understanding (n.) a ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠sentence is much more like understanding a tune than we think: not pointing to a reality outside it but getting hold of its content, and the content is in the sentence.

Understanding (n.) a ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠list of words shows a multitude of characteristic experiences — "Of course", a vague memory, a man who always said "gadget" — but not any one experience of understanding.

Understanding (n.) which ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠game you mean to play is proved to yourself by starting to move the pieces by its rules.

Understanding (n.) a ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠word like 'tree', examined in the moment, may turn up a homely feeling that belongs only to philosophizing about understanding.

Meaning (n.) need ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not differ, while the words are said, from saying them without meaning them, just as a friendly eye need not differ from the eye in an unfriendly face.

Meaning (n.) 'Bring ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠me a brick' as four words doesn't need the contrasting sentences present in the mind; it is enough that the contrasts exist in the system of language.

Meaning (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠belong to a colour pattern without there being a meaning one could ask after, so that What meaning is senseless in this case.

Meaning (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not the chair: told that 'chair' doesn't mean this chair, the man looks round the room for what the word really denotes, or even inside the chair.

Similarity (n.) depends ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠on the case: a bluish green is like a yellowish green in some uses and most unlike it in others.

Similarity (n.) as ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a feeling is hard to locate: the comparing is a complicated activity, and the feeling may have been only the word similar suggesting itself.

Similarity (n.) one ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠sees but cannot describe is itself the experience: 'I do see a certain likeness, only I can't describe it' is what characterizes it.

Similarity (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not explained by a common element; saying two strains 'have something in common' is only another way of saying they are similar.

Reading (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be done by a mere reading machine — a man pronouncing a page faultlessly while his attention is on something totally different.

Reading (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the readier name when a drugged man spells ABOVE from meaningless signs and keeps reading their permutations consistently.

Reading (n.) seems ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠wrapped in a particular atmosphere, but I notice it only when reading a line to see what reading is like, as a worker suddenly hears the town's hum and takes it for the common element of all his hours.

Reading (n.) seems ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to be a private conscious act — "only he knows whether he is reading" — yet exactly the same thing may happen in the beginner who 'pretends' to read as in the fluent reader who reads.

Feeling (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠pictured as an amorphous something in a place, the mind, whose expression is only an indirect way of transmitting it — hence the dream of a direct transmission that would obviate the external medium.

The Feeling (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠goes with 'and', 'if' or 'not', James's collecting and dismissing gestures, is caused by the word's use in a system; it does not give the word its meaning.

The Feeling (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠vowels resemble colours, if anything, is the halting tone and sly smile with which I ask you to arrange the vowels by darkness.

Feeling (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be communicated only if I know what I would count as the criterion of having succeeded.

A Rule (n.) is, ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠roughly, what is applied repeatedly, in an indefinite number of instances; the same string can be a mere description in one game and a rule in another.

A Rule (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠always be explained by a further rule, and yet a rule is not left half-explained just because no rule for its use was given.

A Rule (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠fade from an instrument consulted at each step, to an association, to a shadow that drops out of practice entirely, to something used only in training.

A Rule (n.) can ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be neither tool of training nor of play but a natural law describing a tribe's behaviour, a record in its natural history.

An Volition (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its prototype in the experience of muscular effort.

Volition (n.) seems ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to work on speech sounds directly, with no intermediary mechanism, which shows how loose our idea of this agent is.

Volition (n.) does ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not play on a keyboard of muscles, choosing which one to use next.

Volition (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠modelled on one full-fledged case — deliberating, deciding, heaving a weight — and we expect it in handing a man a lit match or moving the larynx while speaking.

Infinity (n.) may ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠come down, in an unbounded card game, to a stack of blank cards, a pencil, and 'and so on' at the end of the rulebook.

Infinity (n.) seems ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠too big to be held in the counters and the board, so we lodge it in our thoughts — though it is queer that those thoughts can then be written down in signs.

Infinity (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a word used as plainly as open is of a door; calling its meaning transcendent rests on a misunderstanding.

Ability (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠pictured as a state existing at the moment we speak, because "He can play chess" is in the present tense — a metaphor built into our grammar.

Ability (n.) expressed ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠by can turns a description of an action into a description of the instrument.

Ability (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not a hidden process that shows itself in symptoms, the way an inflamed nose shows itself in sneezing; what stands 'behind' saying the formula is only the circumstances in which it is said.

Attention (n.) paid ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠to a feeling is not an inward pointing: attending to it produces or modifies it, whereas observing a chair does not change the chair.

Attention (n.) that ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠two things almost match is less a feeling than a glance oscillating between them, words of doubt, a shake of the head — hardly any room left for a feeling of similarity.

Attention (n.) by ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠looking produces the impression, and one cannot look at the impression: Observe the colour means open your eyes to colour, not See the colour you see.