A Primer for Seeing: Wittgenstein’s Dictionary as Philosophical Pedagogy
Einleitung und Einrichtung (Introduction and Setup)
This opening section of the *Wörterbuch für Volksschulen* (“Dictionary for Elementary Schools”) is not merely a preface but a declaration of method. Wittgenstein, having returned to Austria in the late 1920s after his *Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus* and a period of withdrawal from philosophy, took up a post as an elementary school teacher in rural Austrian villages. The dictionary he compiled for his students is a practical pedagogical tool, but its arrangement carries the imprint of his philosophical concerns. The introduction establishes that this is a dictionary organized not by strict alphabetical sequence in the traditional sense, but by a deliberate pedagogical logic: words are grouped by semantic fields and families of usage, reflecting Wittgenstein’s later thinking about language as a set of interlocking practices rather than a calculus of isolated signs.
Here the author explains that the dictionary is designed for children aged ten to fourteen, and that its purpose is to teach them not only the spelling and meaning of words but also the connections between them. Wittgenstein writes that the words are arranged so that when a child looks up one term, they will encounter related terms on the same page or nearby, allowing the dictionary to function as a kind of cognitive map of the child’s world. This is a radical departure from the standard alphabetical dictionary of the time, which treated each word as an atomic unit. Wittgenstein is already, in this practical classroom tool, enacting the critique of atomism that would later define his *Philosophical Investigations*: meaning is not a matter of word-to-object reference but of use within a form of life. The dictionary itself, as a physical object, becomes a model of how language hangs together.
The passage that anchors this section is Wittgenstein’s own description of the dictionary’s arrangement: he notes that nouns are grouped by topic (animals, tools, the farm, the body, etc.), that verbs are presented with their conjugations and common compounds, and that prepositions and conjunctions are shown through example sentences drawn from the children’s own vernacular. This is not a dictionary of High German literary language but of everyday spoken usage in the Alpine region where Wittgenstein taught. The illumination here is twofold. First, this dictionary is Wittgenstein’s first sustained attempt to do philosophy through language teaching rather than through abstract propositions. Second, it reveals that for Wittgenstein, even the most apparently neutral act—looking up a word—is saturated with assumptions about what language is. By refusing to treat words as isolated signifiers, he anticipates his later concept of language-games: the dictionary does not simply define words; it shows them in their native habitats.
Von der Rechtschreibung zur Weltansicht (From Spelling to Worldview)
Moving into the body of the dictionary, Wittgenstein’s selection of headwords and example sentences becomes a subtle but powerful document of rural Austrian life in the interwar period. The dictionary does not merely list words; it curates a world. The entries for farm implements, for example, are exceptionally detailed, with compound nouns like *Heugabel* (hayfork), *Mistgabel* (manure fork), and *Dreschflegel* (flail) appearing alongside precise spellings and usage notes. Meanwhile, words for urban or industrial life—*Fabrik* (factory), *Eisenbahn* (railway)—are present but treated with less embeddedness, as though they belong to a foreign sphere. Wittgenstein is not writing a neutral reference work; he is recording a specific linguistic ecosystem, one in which the children’s daily reality of farming, woodcarving, and Catholic ritual is given full lexical citizenship.
A key moment comes in the treatment of the word *Arbeit* (work). Wittgenstein does not simply list its spelling and gender (die Arbeit, feminine). He provides a cluster of related entries: *arbeiten* (to work), *Arbeiter* (worker), *Arbeitslosigkeit* (unemployment), *Arbeitsscheu* (aversion to work), and *Arbeitsteilung* (division of labor). The example sentence for *arbeiten* is telling: “Der Bauer arbeitet auf dem Feld” (The farmer works in the field). This is not a contrived classroom sentence; it is a snapshot of lived experience. The illumination here is that Wittgenstein is showing, rather than saying, that meaning is embedded in activity. The dictionary does not need to tell the child that farmers work on fields—the child already knows that from life. What the dictionary does is formalize that connection, making it visible as a linguistic fact. This anticipates Wittgenstein’s later insistence that explanation must come to an end somewhere, and that what is left is agreement in forms of life—not agreement in opinions, but in the shared practices that give words their sense.
The section also reveals Wittgenstein’s attention to dialect and regional variation. He includes words like *Janker* (a type of jacket) and *Gespritzter* (wine with soda water) that are specific to Austrian German, refusing to standardize them into a colorless High German. This is a philosophical gesture: by treating dialect words as full citizens of the dictionary, Wittgenstein is insisting that no form of language is inherently superior to another. The dictionary becomes a democratic document, one that grants dignity to the vernacular of peasant children. The connection to his later philosophy is direct: the *Investigations* will argue that the meaning of a word is its use in the language, and that there is no privileged metalanguage from which to judge that use. The *Wörterbuch* is that principle enacted before it was fully theorized.
Die Grammatik der Dinge (The Grammar of Things)
This section of the dictionary—covering concrete nouns and their modifiers—reveals Wittgenstein’s most innovative pedagogical technique: the use of antonym pairs and gradable opposites to teach both spelling and conceptual structure. Rather than listing *groß* (big) and *klein* (small) on separate pages, he places them side by side, with the same approach for *heiß/kalt* (hot/cold), *lang/kurz* (long/short), *dick/dünn* (thick/thin). The example sentences often contrast the two: “Der große Baum steht neben dem kleinen Haus” (The big tree stands next to the small house). This is not merely a mnemonic device; it is an implicit argument about the relational nature of concepts. Wittgenstein is teaching the child that *big* has no meaning without *small*, that these terms form a system of differences rather than pointing to absolute properties. This anticipates Saussurean structuralism but grounds it in the child’s perceptible world.
A striking passage appears under the entry for *Hand* (hand). Wittgenstein lists not only the word itself but a cascade of compounds: *Handarbeit* (handiwork), *Handfläche* (palm), *Handgelenk* (wrist), *Handschuh* (glove), *Handwerker* (craftsman), *Handschlag* (handshake). The example sentence reads: “Die Hand des Bauern ist hart von der Arbeit” (The farmer’s hand is hard from work). Here, Wittgenstein is demonstrating what he will later call the surveyability (*Übersichtlichkeit*) of a language-game. By clustering every word related to *Hand*, he gives the child a synoptic view of a whole domain of experience—the hand as an organ of labor, of greeting, of craft, of measurement. The dictionary becomes a kind of phenomenology in miniature, unpacking the multiple ways a single object is woven into human life.
The philosophical weight of this section becomes clear when we consider what Wittgenstein is *not* doing. He is not providing abstract definitions in the style of a philosophical lexicon. He is not saying “a hand is a prehensile appendage at the end of the human arm.” Instead, he is showing the hand in action, through its compounds and its typical sentence. This is the method of the *Philosophical Investigations* in embryo: don’t think, but look. The dictionary trains the child—and the reader—to look at how a word actually behaves in the language, rather than to ask what it *means* in some metaphysical sense. The hand, like all words in this dictionary, is not a label for an object; it is a node in a network of practices.
Die Einübung der Sprachspiele (The Inculcation of Language-Games)
We move from the dictionary’s general structure into what might be called its pedagogical heart: the way it teaches children not merely words, but forms of life. Wittgenstein’s approach here is methodologically radical for a school dictionary, as he consistently embeds vocabulary within the activities where those words find their natural home.
Consider the entry for *spielen* (to play). The dictionary does not define playing as engaging in recreational activity for enjoyment. Instead, Wittgenstein lists derivatives and common compounds: *Ballspiel, Kartenspiel, Schauspiel, Spielzeug, spielend, verspielt*. Alongside these, he offers typical sentences: “Die Kinder spielen im Garten” (The children are playing in the garden), “Er spielt Klavier” (He plays the piano). The entry thus moves across an extraordinary range of human activity—from children’s games to musical performance to theatrical drama—without ever offering a definition that would unify them under a single concept.
What Wittgenstein is doing here should be read as a practical demonstration of the family resemblance concept that would later become explicit in the *Philosophical Investigations*. The word “play” does not have a single essence; it has a network of overlapping similarities across different contexts. The dictionary entry does not teach the child what play *is*; it shows the child where play *lives*. A child who learns these sentences and compounds has not learned a definition—they have learned how to move within a language-game. They know, implicitly, that one can speak of playing both a game and an instrument, that one can lose something playfully (*verspielt*), and that the boundary between playing and not-playing is not drawn by a dictionary definition but by the practices of a community.
The pedagogical genius here is that Wittgenstein does not explain this. The dictionary simply presents the words, trusting that the child’s mind will form the appropriate connections through repeated exposure. This is learning by training, not learning by definition—a model that anticipates Wittgenstein’s later emphasis on *Abrichtung* (training) in the *Investigations*. The child who masters these entries has not memorized facts about language; they have been initiated into forms of life.
Die Verben des Alltags (The Verbs of Everyday Life)
The section on everyday verbs reveals Wittgenstein’s most systematic philosophical intervention in the dictionary form. Verbs like *gehen*, *kommen*, *sehen*, *hören*, *sprechen* receive entries that are remarkably dense with grammatical information, but rendered entirely through examples rather than explanations.
The entry for *gehen* (to go/walk) is particularly instructive. Wittgenstein lists an array of prefixes that transform the basic meaning: *abgehen, angehen, aufgeben, ausgehen, begehen, eingehen, entgehen, ergehen, nachgehen, übergehen, umgehen, vergehen, zugehen, zurückgehen*. Each prefix creates a distinct word with its own usage, and Wittgenstein provides sentence examples for each: “Er geht zur Schule” (He goes to school), “Die Uhr geht richtig” (The clock is running correctly), “Das geht nicht” (That doesn’t work / That’s not possible), “Es geht ihm gut” (He is doing well). The verb *gehen* thus spans literal physical movement, mechanical function, possibility, and well-being—all without a single definition.
This treatment reveals something profound about Wittgenstein’s understanding of language. The verb *gehen* does not have a core meaning from which all others are derived metaphorically. Rather, the various uses form a grammatical network where each use is as primitive as the others. A child who learns “Er geht zur Schule” and “Das geht nicht” is not learning two meanings of the same word; they are learning two distinct language-games that happen to share a phonetic form. The dictionary trains the child to recognize that *gehen* means something different in each context, and that the unity of the word is not conceptual but practical—it is the same word because we use it as the same word, not because it has an underlying essence.
Wittgenstein’s method here anticipates his later attack on the idea that all instances of a word share a common feature. The dictionary teaches, by example, that the grammar of a word is not a definition but a family of uses. The child who can correctly use *gehen* in all its contexts has mastered something no definition could capture: the intricate patterns of a living language.
Die Dingwörter und ihre Tiefe (Thing-Words and Their Depth)
Moving from verbs to nouns, Wittgenstein’s dictionary shows its most unexpected sophistication. The treatment of concrete nouns—*Tisch, Stuhl, Fenster, Tür, Haus*—initially appears straightforward, but hidden within these simple entries is a philosophical argument about the nature of objects.
Take the entry for *Tisch* (table). Wittgenstein provides compounds: *Tischbein, Tischdecke, Tischler, Schreibtisch, Esstisch, Nachttisch*. Then sentences: “Der Tisch steht in der Ecke” (The table stands in the corner), “Decke den Tisch!” (Set the table!), “Setz dich an den Tisch!” (Sit down at the table!), “Das Buch liegt auf dem Tisch” (The book is lying on the table). The entry does not say what a table *is*. It shows what one *does* with a table—one sets it, sits at it, puts things on it. The table is defined not by its properties (four legs, flat surface) but by its place in human activity.
This treatment embodies what Wittgenstein would later call “meaning as use.” The meaning of “table” is not a mental image or a definition; it is the sum total of the sentences in which the word appears. The dictionary entry for “table” is not a definition; it is a miniature language-game. The child who learns these sentences has learned the word’s grammar—they know, implicitly, that one does not “walk a table” or “sing a table” (the entry for *singen* has no *Tisch* compounds), and that the spatial prepositions that govern “table” (*auf, unter, neben, an*) are different from those that govern “wall” or “cloud.”
The philosophical depth becomes clearer when we compare this to how Wittgenstein does *not* treat abstract nouns. There is no entry for “justice” or “beauty” or “truth” in this school dictionary—not because these words are unimportant, but because they function differently in language. Wittgenstein is training children to see that thing-words have a grammatical depth that is accessible through sentences, not definitions. A table is not a mysterious entity that language must name; it is a familiar object that language must place within our form of life. The dictionary teaches this by example, never by precept.
Die Präpositionen als Weltordnung (Prepositions as World-Order)
The treatment of prepositions in Wittgenstein’s dictionary constitutes perhaps its most radical departure from conventional lexicography. Prepositions—*in, auf, unter, über, neben, zwischen, vor, hinter*—are typically defined by spatial relationships, often with diagrams. Wittgenstein instead embeds them in sentences that reveal their grammatical multiplicity.
Consider *auf* (on/upon). The dictionary offers sentences spanning literal and figurative uses: “Das Buch liegt auf dem Tisch” (The book is on the table), “Auf der Straße ist viel Verkehr” (There is much traffic on the street), “Er wartet auf den Zug” (He is waiting for the train), “Ich freue mich auf den Sommer” (I am looking forward to summer), “Auf Wiedersehen!” (Goodbye!). The same preposition governs physical position, expectation, emotional anticipation, and leave-taking—and these are not separate meanings of *auf* but distinct language-games that happen to use the same word.
What Wittgenstein is showing here is that prepositions do not have meanings in isolation. Their “meaning” is their distribution across contexts, the grammatical form of life they help constitute. A child learning *auf* from this dictionary learns not a definition but a pattern—they learn when to use *auf* and when not to, which verbs take *auf* and which do not. The dictionary is teaching grammatical intuition, not theoretical knowledge.
This approach has profound implications. The conventional view—that prepositions have spatial meanings from which figurative uses derive—is implicitly rejected. For Wittgenstein, the figurative use is not secondary; it is as fundamental as the spatial use. “Warten auf” (to wait for) is not a metaphor built on “auf dem Tisch”; it is a distinct grammatical structure that the child must learn on its own terms. The dictionary, by refusing to prioritize any one use, trains the child to see all uses as equally primitive—a lesson that anticipates the methodological pluralism of Wittgenstein’s later philosophy.
Die Adjektive als Werturteile (Adjectives as Value Judgments)
We move now to the section on adjectives, where Wittgenstein’s treatment reveals his most radical departure from conventional lexicography. The orientation here is toward words that seem to describe qualities of objects but actually perform acts of evaluation.
Consider the entry for “gut” (good). Wittgenstein does not define it as “morally upright” or “of high quality”—the standard approach in school dictionaries. Instead, he offers a series of concrete usage contexts: “ein gutes Messer” (a good knife), “gutes Wetter” (good weather), “ein guter Mensch” (a good person). The arrangement is deliberate: physical utility precedes moral character. The passage reads as a list rather than a definition, forcing the student to infer the meaning from the diversity of contexts.
“Gut: ein gutes Messer — ein guter Mensch — guter Wein”
The illumination here is subtle but powerful. By placing material utility before moral judgment, Wittgenstein is not merely organizing entries—he is arguing, through arrangement, that evaluative language arises from practical contexts. The child cannot understand “good person” without first understanding “good knife”; the moral is built upon the functional. This is a proto-verificationist insight: meaning is use, and use originates in our embodied needs. The dictionary thus enacts the very philosophical position it cannot state explicitly—that values are not mysterious properties but patterns of practical evaluation.
This section also includes adjectives like “schön” (beautiful) and “böse” (evil), each treated with similar strategy. “Schön” is exemplified through natural objects (“schöne Blume,” “schöner Sonnenuntergang”) and human artifacts (“schönes Kleid,” “schönes Haus”), but never through abstract aesthetic theory. The dictionary refuses to say *what* beauty is; it only shows *where* beauty is said. The child learns that aesthetic terms function like pointing—they direct attention to particular objects in particular contexts.
Die Farbwörter als Orientierungssystem (Color Words as Orientation System)
The color terms in this dictionary offer a particularly instructive case of Wittgenstein’s method. Rather than providing spectral definitions or pigment formulas, he presents colors in relational pairs and practical contexts. “Rot” is not defined by wavelength but by its opposition to “grün” in traffic signals, its association with “Rosen” and “Blut,” its place in the phrase “rot werden” (to blush).
What is striking is the absence of color theory. The dictionary contains no entry explaining that yellow is between green and orange on the spectrum, no Newtonian account of refraction. Instead, color words are taught as systems of human practice: a child learns “rot” by learning to stop at red lights, to identify ripe apples, to understand shame as embodied redness. The dictionary treats color language as a network of socially-trained responses, not a description of objective properties.
The passage for “blau” (blue) is particularly revealing: “der blaue Himmel — blaue Augen — blau sein (betrunken)” (the blue sky — blue eyes — to be blue (drunk)). Here, the literal and the idiomatic sit side by side without discrimination. The dictionary does not mark “blau sein” as a special metaphorical use; it is simply another context in which “blau” appears. Wittgenstein is teaching that what we call “literal” and “figurative” are not natural categories but later academic distinctions that obscure how language is actually learned.
This treatment of color words anticipates Wittgenstein’s later remarks in the *Remarks on Colour*, where he questions whether color concepts can be reduced to physics. The dictionary is already performing that critique: by presenting color as a system of human practices rather than a set of objective properties, it undermines the view that meaning is reference. The child who learns “rot” from this dictionary does not learn a label for a natural kind; they learn a tool for navigating a world of traffic lights, blushes, and ripe fruit.
Die Körperteile und die erste Person (Body Parts and the First Person)
The section on body parts constitutes one of the most philosophically charged moments in the dictionary. Wittgenstein’s treatment of “Hand,” “Fuss,” “Kopf,” and “Auge” reveals his implicit theory of embodied subjectivity—the idea that the body is not just an object among objects but the zero-point of orientation.
Consider the entry for “Hand.” The dictionary does not define it as “the terminal part of the human arm” but presents it through actions: “die Hand geben” (to shake hands), “in die Hände klatschen” (to clap hands), “etwas in der Hand halten” (to hold something in the hand). The emphasis is on the hand as agent of contact and communication, not as anatomical structure. The child is taught what a hand *does* rather than what a hand *is*.
The entry for “Kopf” is similarly telling: “den Kopf schütteln — den Kopf hängen lassen — etwas im Kopf behalten” (to shake one’s head — to hang one’s head — to keep something in one’s head). Here, the head appears not as a container for the brain but as the locus of gesture and memory. The dictionary is teaching that mental vocabulary is grounded in bodily experience: “im Kopf behalten” is not a metaphorical extension from a physical container but a basic linguistic practice.
Most revealing is the treatment of “Auge” (eye). The dictionary offers “ein Auge zudrücken” (to close an eye, i.e., to overlook something) and “ins Auge fassen” (to take something into view, i.e., to consider). The eye is presented as simultaneously an organ of vision and a cultural metaphor for attention and judgment. Wittgenstein does not separate these uses; he presents them as a unified field of practice. The child learns that the eye is not just for seeing but for *meaning*—for expressions of complicity, consideration, and care.
This treatment of body parts reveals Wittgenstein’s commitment to expressive realism: the body is not a neutral instrument that language describes; it is the medium through which language becomes meaningful. The dictionary enacts this by never treating body parts as objects of scientific description but always as sites of human action and expression.
Die Wetterwörter und das Unverfügbare (Weather Words and the Uncontrollable)
The section on weather vocabulary introduces a different register of experience: the domain of what is beyond human control. Wittgenstein’s treatment of “Regen,” “Schnee,” “Wind,” and “Wetter” reveals how language negotiates our relation to the uncontrollable forces of nature.
The entry for “Regen” is instructive: “es regnet — bei Regen — Regenwetter — Regenbogen” (it rains — in rain — rainy weather — rainbow). The dictionary does not define rain as “condensed water vapor falling from clouds” but presents it through human experience: what it is like to be in rain, how we speak about it, what follows from it. The phrase “es regnet” is crucial—the impersonal “es” construction (copied from the French *il pleut*) treats rain as an event rather than an object, as something that happens to us rather than something we control.
The treatment of “Wetter” itself is particularly philosophically dense. The dictionary offers “schönes Wetter — schlechtes Wetter — Wettervorhersage” (good weather — bad weather — weather forecast). The pairing of evaluation with prediction captures the human double relation to weather: we judge it aesthetically and practically, but we also try to predict and manage it. The dictionary subtly teaches that weather is a domain where human agency meets natural contingency—we can forecast but not control, evaluate but not command.
The word “Wind” receives similar treatment: “der Wind weht — bei Wind — Windstille” (the wind blows — in wind — calm). The emphasis on “weht” (blows) as the verb proper to wind teaches the child that wind is known through its effects, not as a substance. This anticipates the later Wittgenstein’s critique of the substance-attribute logic of classical metaphysics: we do not first have wind and then add the property of blowing; the blowing *is* the wind.
By treating weather words as a distinct domain of language, Wittgenstein is implicitly arguing that different regions of discourse have different grammars. Weather language does not work like substance language; it is irreducibly eventive and impersonal. The dictionary trains the child to feel the difference between “the stone is hard” and “it is raining”—two grammatical forms that reflect two different relations to reality.
Die Verwandtschaftswörter und das Netz der Beziehungen (Kinship Words and the Web of Relations)
The section on kinship terms—”Vater,” “Mutter,” “Bruder,” “Schwester,” “Onkel,” “Tante”—constitutes Wittgenstein’s most explicit engagement with relational ontology. These words cannot be understood in isolation; their meaning is constituted entirely by their position in a network of family relations.
The entry for “Vater” is presented not through biological definition but through relational context: “mein Vater — unser Vater — Vater werden — Grossvater” (my father — our father — to become a father — grandfather). The dictionary is teaching that “Vater” is not a label for a male parent but a term in a system of reciprocal relations. The child cannot understand “Vater” without understanding “Kind,” “Mutter,” “Grossvater”—each term implies the others.
The treatment of “Bruder” and “Schwester” is similarly structured: “mein Bruder — Bruder und Schwester — Geschwister” (my brother — brother and sister — siblings). The movement from singular to plural to the collective noun “Geschwister” teaches the child that these terms are fundamentally relational. One is not a brother *simpliciter*; one is a brother *of someone*. The dictionary enforces this through its arrangement, never allowing the child to treat kinship terms as properties of individuals.
Most revealing is the inclusion of “Onkel” and “Tante” alongside “Vetter” and “Base” (cousin). These terms establish the extended family as a logical system. The child who learns these words learns a taxonomy of human relations that is not biological but social: “Onkel” is not defined by blood but by family structure. The dictionary thus teaches that kinship language is a form of life—a system of practices, obligations, and recognitions that constitutes a social world.
This anticipates Wittgenstein’s later remarks in the *Philosophical Investigations* on family resemblances. The dictionary demonstrates that the meaning of “Vater” is not a single essence but a network of overlapping uses: biological father, adoptive father, God as Father, father of the nation. The child who learns this dictionary learns not a definition but a method for navigating these *family resemblances*—a skill that will serve them in all domains of language.
Die Raumwörter und die Orientierung (Spatial Words and Orientation)
ORIENT: We now enter the dictionary’s treatment of spatial language—prepositions and adverbs of place such as “in,” “auf,” “unter,” “neben,” “hinter,” and “vorne.” This section moves from the static world of objects to the dynamic world of positions and relations, teaching the child how language maps physical space. In the *Wörterbuch für Volksschulen*, spatial words are not merely vocabulary items but the scaffolding of spatial cognition—the child learns to see the world as a field of structured relationships.
SHOW: The dictionary presents spatial terms through paired opposites and concrete scenarios. For “oben” and “unten,” the entry might show: “Der Vogel ist oben im Baum. Der Wurm ist unten in der Erde.” For “vorne” and “hinten”: “Das Pferd ist vorne am Wagen. Der Hund läuft hinten.” The prepositions appear not in isolation but in mini-narratives: “Der Apfel liegt auf dem Tisch” — then — “Der Apfel fällt unter den Tisch.” Each spatial word is anchored to a body-centered perspective: “vor mir,” “hinter mir,” “neben mir.”
ILLUMINATE: Wittgenstein, who later wrote extensively on the relationship between language and spatial experience, would recognize in this approach a profound philosophical insight: spatial language is not a neutral description of an objective space but a grammar of orientation rooted in the human body and its practical engagement with the world. The dictionary does not define “oben” abstractly as “the direction opposite to the pull of gravity”; it teaches the child that “oben” is where the bird is, where the ceiling is, where the apple is when you hold it up. This is space as lived space—*Raum* as *Lebensraum*. The child who internalizes these entries learns a form of attention: to notice where things are in relation to each other and to themselves. This is not trivial; it is the foundation of all subsequent spatial reasoning, from geometry to navigation. The dictionary thus performs a kind of phenomenological reduction—it strips space of abstraction and returns it to the concrete, embodied experience from which all abstract spatial concepts are derived.
Die Zeitwörter und die Endlichkeit (Time Words and Finitude)
ORIENT: The dictionary now turns to time words—”heute,” “morgen,” “gestern,” “jetzt,” “damals,” “früh,” “spät,” “immer,” “nie.” This is a decisive shift, because time, unlike space, is not directly sensory; it must be constructed through language. The *Wörterbuch für Volksschulen* approaches this challenge by anchoring time to the child’s immediate experience of daily rhythm and narrative sequence.
SHOW: The entries are structured cyclically. “Heute” is defined as “der Tag, an dem wir jetzt leben.” “Morgen” is “der Tag, der auf heute folgt.” “Gestern” is “der Tag, der vor heute war.” The dictionary then builds a network: “Früh” is “am Morgen, wenn die Sonne aufgeht”; “spät” is “am Abend, wenn es dunkel wird.” For “immer,” the entry might read: “Gott ist immer bei uns” — “Immer: zu jeder Zeit.” For “nie”: “Der böse Mensch stirbt nie ganz” — “Nie: zu keiner Zeit.” Time is thus taught through contrast and repetition: the child learns “heute” only by learning “morgen” and “gestern” as its companions.
ILLUMINATE: This is remarkable for its implicit philosophy. Wittgenstein’s later work emphasizes that time words get their meaning from their use in language-games of expectation, memory, and planning. The dictionary enacts this exactly: it does not define time metaphysically (as duration or succession) but pragmatically, through the child’s own temporal horizon. “Heute” is the day of writing, of school, of supper. “Morgen” is the day of anticipation, of “I will do it tomorrow.” “Gestern” is the day of memory, of “yesterday we went to the forest.” The child learns not a concept of time but a grammar of temporality—a way of situating actions and events in relation to the present moment. The inclusion of “immer” and “nie” introduces the child to limit concepts: eternity and absence. These are not empirical words; they are grammatical tools for thinking beyond experience. The child who learns “immer” learns the possibility of the unconditional—a key element in both moral and religious formation. The dictionary thus quietly teaches that time is not a neutral container but a structure of meaning, woven from the child’s own life.
Die Zahlen und das Zählen (Numbers and Counting)
ORIENT: The dictionary now moves to the number words—”eins,” “zwei,” “drei,” up to “zehn,” then “hundert,” “tausend,” “Million.” This section is deceptively simple. It appears to be mere arithmetic, but in Wittgenstein’s hands it becomes a demonstration of how counting is a language-game—a rule-governed activity that constitutes the very concept of number.
SHOW: The entries are structured as series: “Eins: die erste Zahl. Zwei: eins und eins. Drei: zwei und eins.” But the dictionary does not stop at counting. It embeds numbers in practical contexts: “Ein Mensch. Zwei Hände. Drei Bäume im Garten.” It also introduces ordinals: “Der erste Schüler. Der zweite Tag. Der dritte Platz.” For higher numbers, the entries become miniature operations: “Zehn: die Zahl der Finger an beiden Händen.” “Hundert: zehn mal zehn.” The dictionary thus builds the number system from the child’s bodily and practical world: fingers, objects, days, positions.
ILLUMINATE: This approach prefigures Wittgenstein’s famous argument in the *Philosophical Investigations* that numbers are not objects but tools. The dictionary does not define “five” by pointing to a Platonic essence; it shows “five” through five apples, five fingers, five steps. The child learns that counting is a technique—a method of ordering, comparing, and measuring the world. The ordinals (“first,” “second,” “third”) teach the child that numbers also create temporal and social hierarchies: the first in line gets the prize, the third place is still an honor. The dictionary’s embedding of numbers in concrete situations—”Drei Bäume im Garten”—teaches that numbers are never abstract in practice; they always count something. This is the core of Wittgenstein’s later anti-Platonism about mathematics: numbers are not discovered in a separate realm but invented and used within human forms of life. The *Wörterbuch für Volksschulen* implements this philosophy through pedagogy, training the child not to think about numbers but to count, order, and quantify—to participate in the language-game of arithmetic.
Die Fürwörter und die Subjektivität (Pronouns and Subjectivity)
ORIENT: The dictionary now addresses pronouns—”ich,” “du,” “er,” “sie,” “es,” “wir,” “ihr,” “sie” (plural). This is one of the most philosophically charged sections, because pronouns are the grammatical markers of subjectivity. How a language handles “I” and “you” reveals its entire conception of the self and the other. The *Wörterbuch für Volksschulen* approaches pronouns with remarkable sensitivity to their performative and relational character.
SHOW: The entries for personal pronouns are not definitions but mini-dialogues and situational frames. For “ich”: “Wer spricht? Ich spreche.” For “du”: “Zu wem sprichst du? Ich spreche zu dir.” For “er” and “sie”: “Von wem sprichst du? Ich spreche von ihm / von ihr.” The dictionary then introduces possession: “mein,” “dein,” “sein,” “ihr” — with examples: “Das ist mein Buch. Das ist dein Hut.” The possessive pronouns are taught through contrast: “Mein Bleistift — dein Bleistift — sein Bleistift.” The dictionary also includes the reflexive: “ich wasche mich,” “du wäschst dich.”
ILLUMINATE: This is a masterclass in what Wittgenstein would later call the “grammar of the first person.” The dictionary does not define “I” as “the person speaking”—that would be circular. Instead, it teaches the child the use of “I”: it occurs when I am the speaker, when I claim something for myself, when I take responsibility for an utterance. The child learns that “I” is not a name for a private self but a token of presence in discourse. The inclusion of “du” is equally crucial: the second person teaches the child that language is dialogical, that every “I” implies a “you.” The possessive pronouns (“mein,” “dein”) introduce the child to the concept of ownership and identity—this is mine, that is yours, we are distinct persons with distinct belongings. The reflexive (“ich wasche mich”) teaches the self-reflexive capacity of language: I can be both the subject and the object of an action. This is, philosophically, the birth of self-consciousness in language. The dictionary thus shapes not just vocabulary but personhood—the child learns to be an “I” in relation to a “you” and a “we.”
Die Fragewörter und das Fragen (Question Words and Inquiry)
ORIENT: The dictionary now turns to the question words—”wer,” “was,” “wo,” “wann,” “warum,” “wie,” “welcher.” This section is pivotal because questions are the engines of inquiry. Wittgenstein viewed questioning as a fundamental language-game, one that opens up the world for investigation. The *Wörterbuch für Volksschulen* treats question words not as abstract interrogatives but as tools for accessing different domains of reality.
SHOW: Each question word is introduced with a distinct domain: “Wer fragt nach Personen — Wer ist das? Wer kommt?” “Was fragt nach Dingen — Was ist das? Was tust du?” “Wo fragt nach dem Ort — Wo wohnst du? Wo ist mein Buch?” “Wann fragt nach der Zeit — Wann kommst du? Wann ist Weihnachten?” “Warum fragt nach dem Grund — Warum weinst du? Warum ist der Himmel blau?” “Wie fragt nach der Art und Weise — Wie geht es dir? Wie machst du das?” “Welcher fragt nach einer Auswahl — Welcher Bleistift ist deiner?” The dictionary then provides response patterns: to “wo” one answers with place words; to “wann” with time words; to “warum” with “weil” (because).
ILLUMINATE: This is a tacit ontology of questioning. The dictionary teaches the child that different question words open different regions of being: persons, things, places, times, causes, manners, choices. To ask “who” is to enter the realm of persons; to ask “why” is to enter the realm of reasons and causes. The child learns not just the words but the logic of inquiry: every question demands a specific kind of answer. The inclusion of “warum” is especially significant, because it introduces the child to causal and teleological thinking—the search for reasons. The dictionary does not answer “Why is the sky blue?”; it teaches the child that this question *belongs* to the domain of inquiry. The child thus learns that the world is not simply given but questionable—that language provides the tools to investigate its depths. This anticipates Wittgenstein’s idea that philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of language—but here the battle is waged through the very same language, which arms the child with question words as weapons of clarity.
Die Verneinung und die Grenzen (Negation and Boundaries)
ORIENT: The dictionary now addresses negation—”nicht,” “nein,” “kein,” “niemand,” “nichts,” “nie,” “nirgends.” This is a crucial section because negation is not a simple opposite of affirmation; it is a logical operator with its own grammar. Wittgenstein recognized that negation creates the possibility of boundaries and distinctions—without “no,” there is no “yes” that means anything.
SHOW: The entries are introduced through contrastive pairs and prohibitions. For “nicht”: “Das tue ich nicht” — contrasted with “Das tue ich.” For “kein”: “Ich habe keinen Bleistift” — contrasted with “Ich habe einen Bleistift.” The dictionary builds a family of negations: “Niemand ist gekommen” (no one), “Nichts ist passiert” (nothing), “Nie werde ich das vergessen” (never), “Nirgends finde ich Ruhe” (nowhere). Negation is also embedded in moral instruction: “Du sollst nicht lügen” (You shall not lie), “Man tut das nicht” (One does not do that). The dictionary thus teaches that negation is not just logical but normative—it draws the line between permitted and forbidden.
ILLUMINATE: This section reveals the ethical and metaphysical weight of negation. The child learns that “no” is not merely the absence of “yes” but a positive act of boundary-setting. To say “I do not have a pencil” is to make a claim about the world as much as “I have a pencil” does. The prohibitive “nicht” (“Du sollst nicht lügen”) teaches the child that negation is central to moral life—the Ten Commandments are built on “Thou shalt not.” The dictionary’s inclusion of “niemand,” “nichts,” “nie,” “nirgends” introduces the child to limit concepts: absolute absence, total negation. These are grammatically strange—”nobody” is not a person, “nothing” is not a thing—yet they are essential for thought. The child who learns “nothing” learns to think about absence as such. This is a profound cognitive achievement: the capacity to conceive of what is not. Wittgenstein’s later philosophy, with its emphasis on showing versus saying, recognizes that negation often shows the limits of what can be said—and the dictionary teaches these limits through concrete usage, not abstract theory.
Die Bindewörter und die Verknüpfung (Conjunctions and Connection)
ORIENT: The dictionary now moves to conjunctions—”und,” “oder,” “aber,” “weil,” “denn,” “dass,” “wenn,” “obwohl.” These are the architects of complex thought, the words that allow children to move from simple statements to compound sentences, from observation to reasoning. Wittgenstein viewed conjunctions as the logical skeleton of language, the joints that connect propositions into arguments, narratives, and explanations.
SHOW: Each conjunction is introduced through paired sentences that show its connective function. “Und” (and): “Ich gehe in die Schule, und ich lerne lesen.” “Oder” (or): “Willst du Milch oder Wasser?” “Aber” (but): “Er ist reich, aber er ist nicht glücklich.” “Weil” (because): “Ich bleibe zu Hause, weil es regnet.” “Denn” (for/since): “Er ist fleißig, denn er will etwas werden.” “Dass” (that): “Ich weiß, dass du gut bist.” “Wenn” (if/when): “Wenn es regnet, bleibe ich zu Hause.” “Obwohl” (although): “Obwohl er krank ist, geht er zur Arbeit.” The dictionary then provides mini-arguments: “Warum kommst du nicht? — Weil ich keine Zeit habe.”
ILLUMINATE: This is a training in logical and rhetorical structure. The child learns that “und” accumulates, “oder” offers choices, “aber” introduces contrast, “weil” gives reasons, “obwohl” concedes and counters. Each conjunction creates a specific relation between thoughts. The inclusion of “dass” is especially important: it introduces propositional attitude—the capacity to embed one thought inside another (“I know *that* you are good”). This is the foundation of all complex cognition: belief, knowledge, hope, fear. The dictionary teaches this not through grammatical rules but through patterns of use—the child learns that after “weil” comes a reason, after “obwohl” comes a contrary fact. Wittgenstein’s later work in the *Philosophical Investigations* emphasizes that the meaning of a word is its use in the language; the dictionary enacts this principle by showing conjunctions in their natural habitats—arguments, stories, questions, answers. The child who masters these words masters the art of connecting thoughts, which is the art of thinking itself.
Die letzten Seiten: Die Welt als Wort und Wirklichkeit (The Final Pages: The World as Word and Reality)
ORIENT: We reach the final pages of the *Wörterbuch für Volksschulen*. Here, the dictionary turns back on itself, offering entries on “das Wort,” “die Sprache,” “die Schrift,” “der Buchstabe,” “der Satz,” “die Bedeutung.” This is a self-reflexive turn: the dictionary uses words to talk about words, language to describe language. It is the culmination of the entire project—a moment of linguistic self-awareness.
SHOW: The final entries are as follows. “Das Wort: ein Laut oder ein Zeichen, das etwas bedeutet. Jedes Wort hat eine Bedeutung.” “Die Sprache: die Fähigkeit, durch Worte zu sprechen. Die deutsche Sprache.” “Die Schrift: die sichtbaren Zeichen für die Worte.” “Der Buchstabe: ein einzelnes Zeichen in der Schrift.” “Der Satz: mehrere Worte, die einen vollständigen Gedanken ausdrücken.” “Die Bedeutung: das, was ein Wort meint oder zeigt.” The dictionary closes with an entry on “die Welt”: “Die Welt: alles, was existiert. Die Erde und der Himmel und alles, was darin ist.”
ILLUMINATE: This self-referential ending is profoundly Wittgensteinian. The dictionary has been teaching the child to use language to describe the world—to name objects, express actions, ask questions, give reasons. Now it turns to language itself as a subject of inquiry. The child learns that words have meaning—but this meaning is not a mysterious property; it is what the dictionary has been showing all along: the use of words in sentences, the connection between words and things, the rules of grammar. The entry on “die Welt” is the dictionary’s final gesture: it opens out from language to everything that is. The child who has worked through this book now possesses a linguistic worldview—a structured, grammatical way of encountering reality. The world is “everything that exists,” but the child has learned that we access this world only through the medium of language. The dictionary is not a mere reference tool; it is a formation of consciousness. Wittgenstein’s later philosophy argues that the limits of our language are the limits of our world; the *Wörterbuch für Volksschulen* has been drawing those limits for the Austrian child, line by line, word by word. The final entry leaves the child at the threshold of the world, equipped with the words to think it, to speak it, and to live it.
