This essay is in three parts; each subsequent part shorter than the previous. In the first I discuss the Principle of Pragmatic Emotionalization, (Gilbert, 1997a) and the role of emotion in argumentation. The specific issue concerns the role of emotional messages in argument. This is used as a foundation for the second part where I will describe the role of expressive speech acts, or, as I will call them, emotional message acts, in everyday argumentation. Finally, I say a very few words regarding the question as to whether or not we are doing Argumentation Theory or Psychology in studying emotional argumentation.
To begin with, I must reiterate that the role of emotion is significant and can be crucial to both the comprehension of a position and the resolution or settlement of an argument. I have argued these points at length elsewhere, and rather then repeat myself in the limited time available, in this discussion I shall simply assume the following. Emotions invariably enter into argumentation (Gilbert, 1996). Emotional interaction can be observed and structured as informational cues (Gilbert, 1995, 1997).

(3) Arguments can have emotional data, warrants or claims (ibid.).

1. The Principle of Pragmatic Emotionalization
The Principle of Pragmatic Emotionalization [PPE] is a cornerstone in interpreting the role that emotion plays in argumentation.
The principle relies on a discord or inconsistency between the words being uttered and the message being communicated. Put another way, when emotion and logic are in agreement, there is no difficulty; we know how to deal with such situations. Emotion plays the role we expect it to, communicating information about our internal states, feelings, beliefs and desires. However, in other circumstances, our communicative tools tell us that there is something wrong, a discordance. In these interactions the principle plays an important role. The principle is as follows.

The Principle of Pragmatic Emotionalization:
Given that a communicator is presenting an emotional message that is inconsistent with the logical message, then the recipient may assume that
1. the logical message may not be reliable, and/or
2. the complete message may be compound, and/or
3. the goals of the communicator may have been misidentified, and/or
4. the communicator’s position may not have been fully exposed.

In short, the PPE gives us license to assume that an emotional factor that has not been made explicit is a significant component of the argument. In that case, one must turn to non-logical techniques relying upon the tools human communicators normally use when interacting. Emotion can enter an argument in two different ways. First, it can be open, straightforward and consistent with the discursive messages presented. I want to call this “open emotion.” Open emotion is present when it is itself the topic of discussion, or when it is consistent with the topic of discussion. Thus, if I am having an argument with my wife and the issue is one of emotional significance to both of us and, as a result, emotions begin to become evident, there is no surprise or confusion. Similarly, if, as part of my argument I am relating the trials suffered by refugees and my voice shows emotion, then there is no puzzlement as to why it is there. Indeed, one may well be surprised when someone ought be expressing emotion and is not. Open emotion is present all the time, most especially in non-academic or non-clinical arguments (Gilbert, 1995.)
Emotional messages convey information that is often vital to understanding an opposer’s position. Emotional messages tell us, for example, whether or not to believe someone’s statement. Someone, for example, apologizing in a flat toneless voice will, typically, not be thought sincere. Emotional messages also indicate an individual’s degree of commitment by demonstrating how strongly they feel about the position at issue. Certainly, one can be wrong. You might think that Trudy is upset about something when really she is upset, but not about what you think she is upset about. Similarly, Ralph might care very much about the topic of your disagreement, but not be someone who shows emotion. But while this might be thought to be a difficulty peculiar to emotional argumentation, in reality the same pitfalls lie in wait for discursive communication. We frequently interpret someone’s words wrongly, misunderstand their message, or mis-ascribe beliefs. The realm of logical language is as vague and imprecise as is the language of emotions.

A classical speech act contains four parts: the utterance act, the propositional act, the illocutionary act, and the perlocutionary act. In van Eemeren & Grootendorst (1984: 21) Speech Acts in Argumentative Discussions, illocutionary acts have, following Searle (1969), list four kinds of conditions for speech acts. These are
1. preparatory conditions;
2. propositional conditions;
3. sincerity conditions;
4. essential conditions. They are separately necessary and conjointly sufficient to delineate a communicative action.

If we think about emotional expression as a speech act then it can be quite confusing. After all, the whole idea of emotionality is that it is beyond or, if preferred, behind the words (if, indeed, there are words at all.) So, it is better not to think of emotional expressions as forming speech acts, but rather as involving message acts. The key difference between a speech act and a message act is that the latter de-emphasizes the verbal. Rather than putting the linguistic in the forefront as the primary carrier of information, the message act views communication as a package of information drawing on various forms of communication and as many modes as required. Indeed, being realistic about language and communication quickly leads one to the conclusion that words are merely a small part of the communication process. Yet, for some reason, words are glorified to the extent that other forms of communication are relegated to peripheral roles.
Van Eemeren & Grootendorst (1984:22) state: “… we believe we may … say that the understandability of illocutionary acts in colloquial speech depends strongly on pragmatic conventions. One indication is that implicit and indirect illocutionary acts are as a rule understood perfectly and the speaker can also assume in principle that they will be understood, so that it is plausible that other conventions besides strictly semantic ones will (also) play a role.” In other words, there’s no real argument but that a good deal of communication, even speech acts, takes place “implicitly” or “indirectly”, i.e., without words. So, words are not required for communication.
What then is the relationship between words and language? I have no difficulty at all in conceptualizing language as containing words as one communicative tool, but since we know that words alone are imprecise and underdetermine meanings, other clues are required. This is important: Nondiscursive communications are required in order to clarify discursive communication. Words alone tell us nothing, or, mislead us as to the intended message. (See Willard, 1989:91-111.) Out of context, in isolation, removed from innuendo, action, nuance, tone, insight, history, and interaction words require great precision to communicate clearly. The most carefully wrought legal decisions, the most precisely worded academic tracts are subject to misinterpretation, heated dispute as to meanings, involved analyses, and even, today, deconstruction. A position’s being put into words is hardly a guarantee that it will be clear and unambiguous. Meanings are not manifest.
Expressive speech acts are, at the very least, the handmaiden of meaning. When genuine, (a requirement for any speech act,) they can clarify, amplify, and precise the intended message. Is a particular sequence of words to be taken as a threat? Or a warning? Or a description? This may depend on the degree of anger evinced in an associated expressive speech act occurring concurrently with the illocutionary speech act. Alternatively, as in an argumentation, we might want to say that a given speech act can be viewed or re-interpreted through the various modes. This would mean that a proposition expressed by a speech act would itself not be understood linguistically, but be re-interpreted as a message with manifold aspects. Indeed, we pay lip service to the idea that propositions are not invisible sentences, but when the chips are down they are always treated that way.

The desire among rationalists, or, as I prefer, neo-logicists, to embrace precision and vainly seek the rules and procedures that will render arguments clear and unambiguous icons of reason is understandable. Virtually every Argumentation Theorist is in the field because she believes that the study of argumentation, its advancement and propagation will lead to a better, less violent world. Animals fight over territory, slay each other, and behave in brutish non-rational fashion, or so it is thought and so the entire history of Western philosophy leads one to believe. And the crucial difference between ourselves and The Animals is that we have language, or, more accurately in some instances, a finer and richer language. We think, speculate, form hypotheses, create theories, and otherwise use our mental talents for amusement and diversion. Animals do not do this. They do not have competing theories of the creation of the world, they do not argue interminably over the legitimacy of mind-body dualism, they do not even play Scrabble. So, if we are going to be “better” or “higher” than our animal cousins, we must rely on that talent we have that they do not: I.e., the ability to use a word processor (I know that anthropologically adept listeners will have tales of apes and chimps that can read and write. I would mention them myself, but I am concerned not to alarm our confreres).
You will say that I am being facetious, and you may be right, but only partly so. We know that animals have emotions, desires, and feelings. I can tell when my dog, Bojay, is happy, excited, aroused, angry, or content. As a result of being able to read his desires I can say that I have, at least once, had an argument with him. That is, we each wanted to do different things, and I, ultimately, yielded to his greater want. Neo-logicists do not want to allow that we can argue with animals. I do not pretend to understand why, but it seems to loom large in their thinking. It has something to do with the notion of ‘rational,’ a predicate that is intended as an honorific for styles of communication not available to the lower species. Emotions will not serve as a species differentiator: We can freely acknowledge that animals have feelings, i.e., we see animals interacting with each other on nature programmes, exhibiting anger, affection, amusement, and so on in ways that we recognize. They seem to communicate, to send messages, to conduct exchanges, in ways that are recognizable to us. Sometimes it is as if they are a parody of our own emotional interactions. When apes beat their chests, approach and flee and clash and combat, we can feel the underlying similarity to schoolyard posturing, the barroom brawl, corporate fencing, and, dare I say it, the odd academic symposium.

The neo-logicist finds this unacceptable not because he does not like animals or thinks they never show traits that are worthwhile, indeed I am sure many are vegetarians. Rather, it is because of the high standards he holds for humans. We must always have reasons, and the reasons we have must be articulated, defended, and laid out in such a way as to persuade any other human who is capable of entertaining and understanding the hypotheses and defenses put forward. We are not persuaded by sentiment, raw feeling, pre-dispositions, or other non-rational aspects of the human messaging system. We, the neo-logicist would have us believe, are never persuaded, but only convinced. We sift through data, examine warrants, and determine carefully how these are applied to the presented claims. We are disinterested, we are objective, we hear the arguments presented and weigh them carefully to se how they tell against the positions we hold.
All of this, of course, is nonsense.

2. Expressive Message Acts
The classical speech act has four key components. These are the utterance act, the propositional act, the illocutionary act, and the perlocutionary act (Eemeren, 1984:19). Mapping this onto the emotion story, we can discuss the message act, the information act, the illocutionary act, and the perlocutionary act. That is, given the considerations above, the first two categories must be broadened, while the latter two can retain their original terminology. Just to confuse things, and in the tradition of Austin, I will also use emotional message act to indicate the entire activity analogous to the speech act.
A message act, being analogous to an utterance act involves an expression of emotion that is identifiable to the recipient or observer. There are many emotions, and we are typically adept at identifying them. Sillince (1994), for example, identifies 40 ranging from anger to boredom. Certainly, emotional acuity varies widely within the population and is, as well, culturally relative (In most cultures, for example, women are more adept at identifying emotions than are men). But the message act in most situations can be recognized, and, importantly, its appropriateness can also be identified.
This is important because it means that the Principle of Pragmatic Emotionalization can come into play and signal situations where the normal situation is being skewed. To this extent, the PPE can be considered analogous to Grice’s Principle of Cooperation in the sense that when things seem incorrect, a different interpretation must be sought.

The emotional message act is the actual demonstration of emotional content itself. It communicates to the audience that a specific emotion is present in the actor. The emotional information act, on the other hand, is the communicative assertion that some causal relationship exists between the expression of emotion and the issue at hand. The information can be of several types. For example, it might be that the issue is emotionally charged for me, or that you are making me angry, or that I am frustrated, or that I am alarmed, or that you are in danger, and so on. On the linguistic side, the information act corresponds to the propositional act wherein a particular predication takes place. There is a predication taking place in the message act as well. A protagonist is communicating the information that there is a certain relationship between the presence of an emotion as exhibited in the message act and the interaction taking place. These predications take the general form:
S is experiencing emotion E as a result of I.
As with straightforward verbal communication, the context must be relied upon to fill in the blanks. This includes the kind of emotion and what it is a result of.

The next aspect is the illocutionary act, and that is the action that is performed in doing the communicative episode. That is, it is the force of the experience taken as a communicative event. In the classic example of promising, one “makes a promise” by uttering a variety of words under certain identifiable circumstances. Similarly, the expression of emotion under circumstances recognizable by most humans also performs a complex action beyond the mere presence of the emotion itself. These include the following.
S makes an accusation
S makes a threat
S makes an appeal
S gives a warning
S intimidates T
S cajoles T
S appeals to T
S threatens T
S blames T
S frightens T
S accuses T
S alienates T
S condescends to T
S bores T
S pacifies T

Each of these actions can occur linguistically or nondiscursively. More importantly, the emotional act can occur at the same time that a linguistic act is occurring. That is, S might be performing the speech act of making a proposal while at the same time performing the emotional message act of making a threat. Indeed, each also has its corresponding perlocutionary act, as in causing fright, alarm, tenderness, and so on. The intended perlocutionary effect of the emotional message act may well be much more important to the dynamics of a given argumentation then the actual linguistic facade. Such situations occur, for example, when someone is speaking kind words, but the emotional message act is much harder, perhaps even threatening.
In sum, the emotional message act carries a significant weight in argumentation, especially if we desire to understand the positions of the players, their goals, desires and needs. By dismissing expressive speech acts and not exploring them we miss a great part of actual argumentation, which, in turn, means it escapes our observation and regulation. Simply stating that emotion play no role in argumentation is not only wrong, but shortsighted. It is shortsighted not only because those who believe in the importance and efficacy of emotional expression are dismissed (Campbell, 1994), but because far too much of what happens in the very human process that is argumentation occurs on the emotional level.

3. Why Is This Argumentation Theory Rather Than Psychology?
The third aspect of this inquiry is to ask the question regularly asked of me, “Why is this Argumentation Theory rather than Psychology?” First, I have to express my puzzlement at the very asking of the question. Presumably, there is some demarcation between subjects that the discipline police feel is sufficiently clear so as to be able to patrol. But even leaving that issue aside, the question is still puzzling. It is puzzling because it seems obvious to me that Argumentation Theory must have to do with psychology. After all, argument involves emotions, attitudes and desires, and those are foursquare within the psychological arena. Perhaps, then, the real issue is that the questions are psychological rather than philosophical, and this may well be the case (provided, of course, that we give the discipline police their due). But the answer to that must be, I am an Argumentation Theorist as well as a philosopher, and an Argumentation Theorist must go where the argument goes.
The fear takes us back to the discussion in section (1) about the concerns of the neo-logicists, as well as other matters (for example pedagogical issues (Gilbert, 1995a.)) That is, if Argumentation Theory is going to be a careful and controlled discipline then it is infinitely easier for it to pay attention to the external, the quantifiable, and the public. As soon as we permit the fuzzy, the implicit, the hard to isolate and point at in our borders, then the kind of precision the neo-logicist wants goes by the board. The Holy Grail of the Informal Logician, the Pragma-Dialectician, is the sort of argument that follows careful rules, keeps everything on the table, open and public. It is the goal of “settlement” which, according to Pragma-Dialectics occurs when there is a critical discussion in which no one is attached to the outcome. Maybe there is such a thing; I have never found one.
So, my answer is that emotion plays a significant role in argumentation, regardless if one is using “settlement” or “resolution” as the ideal framework. As a result, obstacles to a successful conclusion of an argument can arise if rules for the proper and improper utilization of emotional argument are not clearly identified. It is quite possible that psychological insights are and will be required in order to properly dissect and analyze the forms of argument used in the emotional mode, and, to that extent, psychology is part of Argumentation Theory.
So, the final answer is that the study of the emotional mode in argumentation is Argumentation Theory because, once one accepts that emotions are an integral component of argument, their study deals directly with how one ought conduct oneself in an ideal argument.

REFERENCES
Austin, J.L. (1975). How to do things with words 2nd ed.,. J.O.Urmson & M. Sbisa, eds. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP.
Campbell, Sue. “Being Dismissed: The Politics of Emotional Expression.” Hypatia, 1994: 46-65.
Eemeren, Frans van, & Grootendorst, Rob. 1984. Speech Acts In Argumentative Discourse. Dordrecht, Holland: Foris.
Gilbert, Michael A. 1995. “The Delimitation of `Argument’“. Inquiry. 15:1:63-75.
Gilbert, Michael A. 1995a. “Arguments and Arguers”. Teaching Philosophy. 18: 2: 125-138.
Gilbert, Michael A. 1997. Coalescent Argumentation. New Jersey: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates.
Gilbert, Michael A. 1997a. “Prolegomenon to a Pragmatics of Emotion.” Proceedings of the Ontario Society for the Study of Argumentation. St. Catherine’s, ON: Brock University.
Searle, John. 1969. Speech Acts. Cambridge UP. Cambridge, England.
Sillince, John A. A. 1994. “There is more to Emotion than Goal Attainment. Genetic, Social and General Psychology Monographs. pp. 493-513.
Willard, C.A. 1989. A Theory Of Argumentation. Tuscaloosa: U. Alabama Press.

1. Introduction
In this paper we discuss the use of the Hamblin/Mackenzie Formal Dialectic (HMFD) for the classical/non-classical debate about the status of contradictions and of non-trival inconsistent theories. Some of the central issues have been addressed in (Mackenzie and Priest 1990), and we discuss their stance.
It will be argued that the Mackenzie-Priest stance poses difficulties for the classical viewpoint. These are difficulties which have to do with debating the questions. In a discussion of the difficulties about the debate, argument will be presented which is deeply pessimistic about the resolution of these debate difficulties. The question for us is, “How can the argument continue? Can such profound difference be amenable to rational or reasonable argument?”

We begin by setting out a HMFD system in a condensed form, with focus on the features which are salient to the question of the debate. The system contains certain restrictions which are classical in nature. These restrictions give HMFD an apparently strong bias against dialetheism.
We consider how the HMFD restrictions work in practice, and see if they need to be modified so as to better serve the debate about dialetheism without begging the question. In this context, we consider some comments of (John Woods 1997) about both the argument against disjunctive syllogism and the well known set theory paradox in the Russell-Frege correspondence.
The comments were made in response to a dialogue system presented in (Girle “Belief Sets and Commitment Stores” 1997).

2. Hamblin/Mackenzie Formal Dialectic (HMFD)
There are many formal dialogue systems. (We note in passing: Barth and Martens 1984, Hamblin 1970, Mackenzie 1979, 1984, Walton 1984, and Walton and Krabbe 1995.) Despite differences between the systems, they have several things in common.
There are four main elements in most dialogue-logics. First, there is interaction between dialogue participants – the minimal case being two participants. The interaction is represented in the obvious way as a sequence of locution events. The dialogue-logic also has syntactic stipulations concerning the types of locutions with which the logic will deal. The locutions include: statements, responses of various sorts, questions of various kinds, and withdrawals. Locutions are used by the participants in a dialogue to form a sequence of locution events. In setting out a dialogue we number locutions to indicate their order in the dialogue. These numbers are somewhat like the numberings of formulas in a proof.
The second element is a set of commitment stores, one for each participant in the sequence. Commitment stores are neither deductively closed nor necessarily logically consistent. The third element is a set of Commitment Store Rules. Each participant’s commitment store is added to and subtracted from according to what statements, questions, answers and withdrawals are used by participants in the dialogue, subject only to the rules. For example, there may be a rule that if a participant asserts that P, then P is added to everyone’s commitment store. If anyone disagrees, then they must explicitly deny P. Such a condition gives expression to the notion that we mostly believe what people say.A participant’s commitment store does not have to be logically consistent. Its logical consistency becomes an issue only if the other participants in the dialogue detect prima face logical inconsistency and demand that the inconsistency be resolved. We return to the question of prima face inconsistency later.
The fourth element is a set of Interaction Rules to stipulate the legal sequence of locution events. For example, a question of the form “Why do you believe that P ?” must be followed by the reasons, or premises, from which one is to draw the conclusion that P, or a denial that one believes that P. These rules immediately make the dialogue into a joint activity. Breach of the rules indicates a failure in the joint activity. A joint activity need not be a co-operative activity. It can be competitive. For example, it can be mutually counter-persuasive, where each participant is trying to persuade the other of a proposition contrary to their present belief.

We set out some of the rules for the dialogue-logic, DL3 (Girle 1997), which is based on the systems DL (Girle 1993), DL2 (Girle 1994), and BQD (Mackenzie 1979, 1984). For DL3 there are just twoparticipants, X and Y. In setting out rules below we will use S for the speaker and H for the hearer. There are nine sorts of locutions allowed: statements of three kinds, declarations, withdrawals, tf-questions, wh-questions, challenges, and resolution demands.

* The categorical statements are statements such as P, not P, P and Q, P or Q, If P then Q and statements of ignorance (I do not know whether or not P). The last is abbreviated to \(*i P.* The reactive statements are grounds (Because P), abbreviated toP.
* The logical statements are immediate consequence conditionals such as: If P and P implies Q, then Q.
* A term declaration is the utterance of some term, say t.
* The withdrawal of P is of the form I withdraw P, I do not accept P, not P, or I no longer know whether P. The first and second are abbreviated as \(mi P.
* The tf-questions are of the form Is it the case that P?, abbreviated to P ?.
* The wh-questions are of the form What (when, where, who, what, which) is an (the) F ?. The strict logical form is (Qx)Fx, where Q is the interrogative quantifier, and for each such formula there will be an associated statement (Ex)Fx. (Mackenzie 1987)
* A challenge is of the form Why is it supposed to be that P?, abbreviated to Why P?.
* The resolution demands are of the form Resolve P.
Each locution event is represented in the formal representation of a dialogue in an ordered triple of a number, an agent and the agent’s locution. The number is the number of an event in the dialogue sequence. For example, the statement P uttered at the nth step in the dialogue by X is represented as X, P. We also allow for justification sequences. They are four-tuples consisting of the antecedent of a conditional, the conditional, its consequent, and a challenge of the consequent. For example: If P then Q, Q, Why Q? We set out some of the rules of DL3, with comments on their significance and operation.

There are seven Commitment Store Rules. We set out three:
(C1) Statements : After an event S, P, where P is a statement, unless the preceding event was a challenge, P goes into the commitment stores of both participants.
(It is assumed that everyone agrees with statements unless and until they deny them or withdraw them. The inclusion of the full ordered pair is so that there is a record in the commitment store of thehistorical order of the locutions included.)
(C2) Defences : After the event S, P, when: Why Q? and Q are in the speaker’s commitment store, the justification sequence : If P then Q, Q, Why Q?, and P and If P then Q go into the commitment stores of both participants.
The challenge: Why Q? is removed from the commitment stores of both participants.
(If someone gives reasons for a statement Q, then the reason, its assumed conditional connection, and exactly what is justified go into the commitment stores of both participants. This allows us to keep track of why statements are in the commitment stores.)
(C4) Challenges : After the event S, Why P?, the challenge, Why P?, goes into the commitment stores of both participants.
If P is not in the hearer’s commitment store then: P goes into the hearer’s commitment store.
If P is in the speaker’s commitment store, it is removed.
If the P is present in the speaker’s commitment store as part of a justification sequence, the justification sequence is removed.
(Although it might seem strange to put P into the hearer’s commitment store, the hearer can withdraw it or deny it (see (v)(a) below and C3 above).
Also, if P is in the speaker’s commitment store it is withdrawn because, if the speaker has no problem about the statement, the challenge should not have been issued. It should be noted that this is not an altogether unproblematic explanation. The speaker might want to discern whther or not the hearer has reasons for asserting P other than the speaker’s.

Further details of other Commitment Store rules are set out in the table below.
There are eight Interaction Rules. We set out five in detail. The rest are summarised, in some sense, in the table below.
(i) Repstat : No statement may occur if it is in the commitment stores of both participants.
This rule prevents vain repetition and helps stop begging the question. From an everyday rhetorical perspective it is unrealistic, but in the ideal dialogue it is appropriate.
(ii) Imcon : A conditional whose consequent is an immediate consequence of its antecedent must not be withdrawn.
(iii) LogChall : An immediate consequence conditional must not be withdrawn.
(These rules, (ii) and (iii), prevent the withdrawal or challenge of logical principles. These are the focus of our attention later in this paper.)

(v) Chall : After S, Why P? the next event must be , H, Q, where Q is either
(a) a withdrawal or denial of P, or
(b) the resolution demand of an immediate consequence conditional whose consequent is P and whose antecedent is a conjunction of the statements to which the challenger is committed, or
(c) a statement of grounds acceptable to the challenger.

We require, at this point, a definition of what an acceptable statement of grounds is: A statement of grounds, Because P, is acceptable to participant S iff either P is not under challenge by S, or if P is under challenge by S then there is a set of statements to each of which S is committed and to none of which is S committed to challenge, and P is an immediate modus ponens consequence of the set. This definition is discussed at length in Mackenzie [1984]. (When the challenge is issued, the person challenged can either (a) deny any adherence to P, or (b) throw the challenge back to the challenger by pointing out that the challenger is committed to P, or (c) give a reason acceptable to the challenger).

S Locution at Step n S Store H Store H Response

 S Locution at Step n S Store H Store H Response

(vi) Resolve : The resolution demand in S, Resolve whether P can occur only if either
(a) P is a statement or conjunction of statements which is immediately inconsistent and to which its hearer is committed, or
(b) P is of the form If Q then R and Q is a conjunction of statements to all of which its hearer is committed, and R is an immediate
consequence of Q, and the previous event was either , H, I withdraw P or , H, Why R? (The rule above opens the way for keeping statements consistent).

We set out the key points in a Rule Operation Table. There are rows for each of the speaker’s, S, locutions. There are two commitment store columns for the resultant entries to the speaker’s, S, and hearer’s, H, commitment stores. We use plus and minus to indicate what is being added to or subtracted from the commitment stores of speaker and hearer. There is a column for any required next locution from the hearer.

There are three points to note.
First, commitment stores contain much more than just categorical statements. They contain relevant portions of the dialogue content. Questions and challenges are important parts of that content.
Second, a participant’s commitment store does not have to be logically consistent. Its logical consistency becomes an issue only
if the other participants in the dialogue detect prima face logical inconsistency and demand that the inconsistency be resolved.
Third, some of the allowed responses are more complex than can be fitted into the box in the table. Detail will be found in (Girle
1997).

The table shows constraints the logic imposes on a dialogue. They impose a discipline, but can allow utterly inconsequential debates (see Stewart-Zerba and Girle 1993).

3. The Disjunctive Syllogism Debate
There is a well known classical principle called ex falso quodlibet (Anything follows from a contradiction).
((P & – P) – Q)
There is also the classically valid argument form called Disjunctive Syllogism:
(P V Q)
– P
So: Q

A great deal of ink has been expended by non-classical logicians in arguing that Disjunctive Syllogism is not valid. The argument nearly always begins with the standard proof of ex falso quodlibet. It is argued that ex falso quodlibet is invalid, and that Disjunctive Syllogism is sufficient to enable the proof to go through. So, something is seriously wrong with Disjunctive Syllogism.

The standard proof is as follows:
** 1. (P & -P) Assumption
* 2. P 1, Simplification
* 3. (P V Q) 2, Addition
* 4. -P 1, Simplification
* 5. Q 3, 4, Disjunctive Syllogism

6. ((P & -P) – Q) 1 – 5, CP

Step 5 is supposedly the key.
Even though it is clear that Disjunctive Syllogism is not alone sufficient for ex falso quodlibet, and even though some might argue that Addition is more questionable, that is not the point of what is to be considered here. It does not matter which step we take to be the most vulnerable, any will do. If we agree that there is a “bad step” somewhere, we can look at each of them. And in each case we have a real problem on our hands.

John Woods has used the dialogue logic set out above to show that we can hardly begin to debate this situation.

The Rule is:
(vii) Resolution : After the event S, Resolve whether P the next event must be , H, Q, where Q is either
(a) the withdrawal of one of the conjuncts of P, or
(b) the withdrawal of one of the conjuncts of the antecedent of P, or
(c) a statement of the consequent of P.

(a) does not apply, because the statement at issue is a conditional. As for (b), R is not able to withdraw any of the conjuncts of the antecedent without, eventually, have to repudiate the whole proof. As for (c), R will be forced acknowledge that Q.

It might be asked, “Why does R not withdraw or deny the conditional: If (P V Q) and – P, then Q ?”

The reason is that the conditional is an immediate consequence conditional. And there are two crucial Rules concerning such conditionals:
(ii) Imcon : A conditional whose consequent is an immediate consequence of its antecedent must not be withdrawn.
(iii) LogChall : An immediate consequence conditional must not be withdrawn.

John Woods points out: We might think that the dispute now moves to the question of whether DS is a principle of logic. That is not an askable challenge until it is established that DS is not a rule of logic. Girle’s rules oblige us not to challenge DS unless it is invalid.
But its invalidity is precisely what [the participants] are deadlocked over. The present result easily generalizes. DL3 is unable to resolve any disagreement about any “logical principle”. What can be done? We turn to suggestions from (Priest and Mackenzie
1990).

4. Suggestions
Priest and Mackenzie point out that the Rules Imcon and LogChall give effect to a priori rules and principles. The immediate consequence conditionals to which they refer are conditionals which give effect to rules and principles which must be arrived at by some a priori method. If the method is classical, then we get Disjunctive Syllogism and ex falso quodlibet for free, no matter whether we want them or not. If the method is non-classical, then we don’t get them. If the debate is between classical and non-classical logicians, questions are begged.
Priest and Mackenzie suggest that to deal with questions such as the question of what counts as a valid principle we should shift to a posteriori Rules. In other words, we should note what principles are accepted by people, or used by people in argument. These should become our principles.
In an a posteriori investigation, the immediate conditionals are simply a set of statements priveledged in the dialogue; and as such, they need not be regarded as logically valid by logicians, and it is even possible that they need not all be in conditional form. Equally, from this point of view an immediate inconsistency is simply a set of statements whose acceptance renders one liable to a resolution demand without further ado.
There is an immediate objection to this suggestion. The classicalist may well disagree with the “empirical” approach. We are trying to settle what the a priori Rules are. To move to a posteriori Rules pre-empts the debate, or shifts us to a different debate. There is really no direct way through this sort of objection.
We might suggest negotiations of some sort. Can a subset of valid argument schemas be agreed to, and those used for immediate consequence conditionals? To such a suggestion it might be responded that we can hardly settle questions of truth and necessity by negotiation. Of course, it is not only the classical logician who can play this game.
The sub-set of valid arguments is hardly likely to include any argument schemas unacceptable to the non-classical logician. There is a sense in which that suggestion can be seen as a non-classical ploy.

5. True Contradictions
The problems with Disjunctive Syllogism fade into the background when we turn to one of the main doctrines of dialethicism. The claim is that some contradictions are true. They are, of course, also false. But the second value is no problem.
In particular, the traditional “paradoxes” of set theory are seen as the facts about set theory. The paradoxes are presented in (Priest 1995) as indelible signs that we have reached the limits of thought. True contradictions in set theory, philosophy, language, and many other areas of intellectual endeavour, show us that we are at the limits of thought, and of course, beyond the limits also.
John Woods presents the usual argument from set theory in terms of dialogue logic, and argues that the classical dialogue logic shows that the Russell set just does not exist.

We will not translate Woods’ inimitable account into the formalities of dialogue logic. That task is left to the reader. We simply reproduce Woods’ version of what he calls “Frege’s Sorrow”. Russell is S and Frege is H.
1. S: If R (the set of all non-self-membered sets) exists then R is a member of R and R is not a member of R.
2. H: Yes.
3. S: By the axioms we both accept, R exists.
4. H: Agreed.
5. S: So we’re in trouble.
6. H: You can say that again.
7. S: Since our resolution rules tell us to drop a conjunct if a statement in our committment store is an immediate contradiction, let’s drop “R is a member of R”.
8. H: But there is also a rule about honouring immediate consequences of what’s left, i.e., “R is not a memeber of R”. The trouble is that “R is not a member of R” immediately restores “R ia a member of R”; and we’re right back where we started.
9. S: Worse still, the rules drive us into and endless cycle of resolution and paradox rebirth.
10. H: Of course, there is no prospect under the rules of wriggling out of Excluded Middle, is there?
11. S: No; it’s a principle of logic.
12. H: But look, S. You’ve shown that if R exists then R is a member of R and R is not a memeber of R.
13. S: Unfortunately.
14. H: Now the consequent of that conditional is a logical falsehood, n’est ce pas.
15. S: Yes, and of course its negation is a logical truth.
16. H: Right, AND we can’t give up that logical truth and we can’t give up your fateful conditional.
17. S: Nor can we give up modus tollens, another principle of logic.
18. H: Which, together with the conditional and our logical truth produces as an immediate consequence the negation of its antecedent.
19. S: You mean, that R doesn’t exist, after all?
20. H: Yip.
21. S: So arithmetic isn’t toppling?
22. H: Yip

So ends the Woods dialogue. But, for the dialethicist, steps 10 and 11 are problematic, obviously. Priest would want to say that we should accept the consequences of our argument: R is a member of R and R is not a member of R.
Since the premises were true, both conjuncts of the feared conjunction are true also. If you believe that true premises and valid argument give true conclusions, then believe also that the contradiction is true.
But, for us the question becomes: How can we debate the status of excluded middle, and the truth of contradictions? We are, essentially, in the same situation as we were with Disjunctive Syllogism.

6. Conclusion
It looks as though the debate ceases, unless classical logicians are prepared to give way, and in that case the debate ceases anyway.

REFERENCES
A. R. Anderson & N. D. Belnap Jr, Entailment. The logic of relevance and necessity, Vol. I, Princeton University Press, 1975
Girle, R.A. 1993, “Dialogue and Entrenchment”, Proceedings of the Sixth Florida Artificial Intelligence Research Symposium,
Ft. Lauderdale, April 18-21, 185-189.
Girle, R.A. 1994, “Knowledge: Organised and Disorganised”, Proceedings of the Seventh Florida Artificial Intelligence Research Symposium, Pensacola Beach, May 5-7, 198-203.
Girle, R. A. 1997. “Belief Sets and Commitment Stores” OSSA Conference, Brock University.
Hamblin, C.L. 1970, Fallacies, London, Methuen.
Mackenzie, J.D. 1979, “Question-Begging in Non-Cumulative Systems”, Journal of Philosophical Logic (8), 117-133
Mackenzie, J.D. 1984, “Begging the Question in Dialogue”, Australasian Journal of Philosophy, 62(2), 174-181
Mackenzie, J.D. 1987, Private correspondence.
Mackenzie, J. and G. Priest, 1990. “Paraconsistent Dialogues: or how to start talking to Cretans”, Logique et Analyse, 131-132,
339-357.
Priest, G. 1995. Beyond the Limits of Thought, Cambridge University Press.
Stewart-Zerba, L. and R.A. Girle, 1993. “Rules and Strategies in Dialogue-Logic” Proceedings of the 8th Australian Joint Conference on Artificial Intelligence, Melbourne, Australia, November 16-19, 395-400.
Walton, D.N. 1984, Logical Dialogue-Games and Fallacies, Lanham, University Press of America.
Walton, D.N. and E.C.W.Krabbe, 1995, Commitment in Dialogue, Albany, State University of New York Press.
Woods, J. 1997. “Comments on Girle’s ‘Belief Sets and Commitment Stores’”, OSSA Conference, Brock University.

1. American print media argumentation and the notion of fallacy
The paper has three closely related purposes to fulfill. The first main purpose is to identify American print media arguers’ communicative strategies; establish a cause-effect relationship between the illocutionary forces of argumentative discourses as illocutionary act complexes and their perlocutionary effects; and, as stated in the title of the paper, to present ways to define fallacies by looking at argumentation through communicative intentions of the authors of the discourses. The second purpose is to present a tool with which it would be possible to describe the means by which emotional appeal is created. The third purpose is to make a clear distinction between an illocutionary force of asserting/claiming and that of stating, and demonstrate the importance of this distinction in the study of argumentation.
In order to identify fallacies, we should first make it clear how we define the notion of fallacy in this paper. To do that, we have to define the type of dialogue we deal with in the American print media. D. Walton identifies ten specific types of dialogue according to the goals parties seek to achieve. A dialogue is defined as “an exchange of speech acts between two speech partners in turn-taking sequence aimed at a collective goal” (Walton 1992: 19). With the exception of the genre of interview, whose analysis will not be a focus of our study since the goal of an interview is seeking information, not arguing points of view, American print media do not contain direct dialogues but rather are sites of a deferred type of dialogue where the two parties’ reactions are presented in monologues separated from each other in time and space. However, this type of dialogue allows American print media authors to carry on an ongoing discussion of various issues. The real target audience of an American print media arguer is not an “official” antagonist in discussion, but the reader who is presumed to be a real antagonist in dispute, since to communicate news and opinion to the reader are the two main mass media functions. The real goal of both parties in most American print media dialogues is not to arrive at the truth of a matter, but to win a dispute. In other words we witness in the American print media a deferred persuasion dialogue. In terms of extent to which the American print media deferred dialogue resembles the critical discussion in the format of a direct dialogue, three types of American print media discussion can be identified.

The first type of American print media discussion, the most similar to critical discussion, occurs in the genre of letters to the editor whose authors react directly either to an editorial or to another letter to the editor. The dialogue is focused on one specific topic, and the parties of the dialogue advocate opposite positions on the issue. Obviously, both parties in the discussion are rather concerned to defeat the official active opponent but the main goal, however, of either party still remains to achieve persuasion of the passive reader. The second type of American print media discussion is manifest on the Pro/Con section of a newspaper or magazine. Again, the discussion focuses on one particular topic. The arguers do not react directly to an opposing discourse because neither party is familiar with the particular discourse their discourse will be juxtaposed with. While they are only asked to submit a text in support of a position in the argument they advocate, because of the specificity of the topic, they often show good knowledge of opposing arguments and rebut them. The third type of American print media discussion may be reconstructed on a larger scale across various American print media sources. Publications can be found in different American newspapers or magazines that focus on a number of related issues, including an issue common to both opposing parties, but one will find almost no rebuttals of specific arguments contained in the opposing discourse. Obviously, the last type of American print media discussion is the least similar to the critical discussion we deal with in real dialogue.

In this paper we shall consider two discourses contained in two articles published in the Health magazine’s Pro/Con section (September 1993). According to our classification this discussion belongs to the second type of American print media discussion. Both parties’ primary goals are to achieve persuasion of the reader. That is why we ought to use a rhetorical audience-oriented discourse analysis rather than a dialectical resolution-oriented one. Since, therefore, our interest will be centered on the factors affecting the cogency of argumentative discourse, we will use the traditional “rhetorical” notion of fallacy where a fallacy is an argument that “seems to be valid but is not so” (Hamblin 1970: 12).

In seeking persuasion, every arguer develops a communicative strategy of persuasion. The key element of a communicative strategy is to choose targets of appeal and prioritize them. While there is a wide variety of targets of appeal, it is possible to identify three major ones: people’s reason, emotions, and aesthetic feeling. An appeal to people’s reason is based on the rational strength of argumentation. Emotional appeal is based on arousing in the reader or hearer various emotions ranging from insecurity to fear, from sympathy to pity. Aesthetic appeal is based on people’s appreciation of linguistic and stylistic beauty of the message, its stylistic originality, rich language, sharp humor and wit.
Rational appeal is effective in changing beliefs and motives of the audience because it directly affects human reason where beliefs are formed. Emotional appeal is persuasively effective because it exploits or runs on concerns, worries, and desires of the people. Aesthetic appeal is persuasively effective because, if successful, it changes people’s attitudes to the message and through the message to its author. People will be more willing to accept the author’s arguments after they have experienced the arguer’s giftedness as a writer or speaker of the message.
Obviously, there is nothing intrinsically wrong with emotional or aesthetic appeals. In fact, we believe that maximum persuasive effect can be achieved if an arguer uses all three of the appeals, his rational appeal being reinforced with appeals to emotions and aesthetic feeling of the people. Problems can arise when an arguer uses emotional and aesthetic appeals to avoid arguing issues at hand (Rybacki & Rybacki 1995: 143). Emotional and aesthetic appeals are an important part of the process of persuasion but we believe that in argumentation emotion or aesthetic creativity should not supplant reason. Our investigation will be based on the presumption that, unless in times of crises when an emotionally appealing message with no strong arguments provided to support the claims finds a ready response in a frustrated and/or exalted audience and is constantly repeated, persuasion based primarily or solely on appeal to emotions has a short-lasting effect. It is especially true when people read an argumentative message in a newspaper or magazine in a quiet atmosphere of their living room. In this case the author of such a message has to be particularly careful as to the logical structure of the message and validity of the arguments.

Having said that, let us ask ourselves two questions: Why do authors of American print media argumentative messages commit fallacies in their argumentation committing which they could easily avoid? Why in particular do they commit deliberate fallacies? We believe we may answer the questions this way. The reason why authors of American print media argumentative messages commit so many especially deliberate fallacies lies in the fact that in order to maximize the persuasive effect of the messages, these arguers often tend to adopt a communicative strategy to rely primarily on emotional and aesthetic appeals, not rational appeal, in their persuasion of the audience. What happens then is that logical neatness and impeccability of argumentation of the discourse are sacrificed for emotionality of the message and its attractiveness to the reader. As a result such a discourse may contain an abundance of fallacies in reasoning that in fact are fallacies of appeal.

To demonstrate the point we are in need of a comprehensive analysis that could cover both logical and linguistic or communicative aspects of the discourse. We are in need of an analytic instrument that could not only help expose discourse argumentation structure, but also show us how the arguer’s communication technique weaves into his discourse to increase its persuasiveness and why it may fail to do so due to a fallacy.
No discourse analysis, especially with an emphasis on fallacies, can be successfully performed without prior identification of the role of the discourse interpreter. How is the interpreter different from an ordinary audience member? To what extent is the interpreter willing to reconstruct unexpressed premises the discourse contains? Answers to those questions will determine whether this or that argument, this or that illocutionary act can be considered fallacious or merely weak.

When looking at a discourse the interpreter reads the message, identifies the chains of arguments presented in the message (logico-semantic analysis), identifies communicative intentions expressed by the author (pragma-stylistic analysis) and demands reasonable fulfillment of commitments the author must take producing this or that illocutionary act. The interpreter of the discourse is thus a recipient of the message whose only difference from an ordinary newspaper or magazine reader is that the interpreter does not only rely on his common sense in understanding argumentation but is equipped with an apparatus of the logico-semantic and pragma-stylistic analysis, and who, thus, is able to assess the author’s communicative intentions, identify fallacies, and make educated hypotheses as to the persuasiveness of the message. For the same reason that the goal of our discourse analysis is to assess a discourse impact on an ordinary reader, our analysis will not include maximal reconstruction of unexpressed premises but rather one that is most likely to be done by the reader.

2. Logico-semantic and pragma-stylistic analysis of discourses
The authors of the articles to be analyzed discuss the United States Congress’s decision to maintain the prohibition for HIV-infected immigrants to enter the United States. The author of the first (left) discourse supports the decision and the author of the second (right) discourse strongly disagrees with it. It allows us to reconstruct the opposite main claims as C1 (Fig. 1) and C2 (Fig. 2), respectively. In the discourse argumentation structure schemes both claims are contoured with a dotted line as an indication that they are implied in the texts.

3. Logico-semantic analysis of the first discourse
The first discourse’s argumentation structure may be presented by the following argumentation scheme (Figure 1). From a logico-semantic point of view the discourse is well organized. There exists a strict distinction between different parts of the overall discourse argumentation manifested in the fact that the arguments the arguer uses in the first paragraph, with the exception of HIV is contagious, are not employed in the argumentation of the second paragraph and vice versa. It must also be noted that both the first and the second paragraphs begin with the most important arguments of their respective parts. These arguments are 1.2.1 and 1.1.4.1.1. The argumentation scheme shows that the arguments’ positions in the argumentation structure are different. Hence different are the functions the arguments are meant to fulfill. 1.2.1 is the strongest argument of the “third” row of arguments closest to the main explicitly expressed claim 1.2. This argument is the arguer’s second most important claim well supported by 1.2.1.1, 1.2.1.2, and 1.2.1.3. Its strength is in the fact that not only will the argument sound reasonable to the reader (appeal to reason) but it describes a life-threatening situation for the audience (emotional appeal to fear). The latter will be examined in the pragma-stylistic analysis of the discourse. 1.2.4.1.1, unlike 1.2.1, is situated at the very bottom of the vertical chain of arguments of the second paragraph. The importance of the argument is in the fact that it serves as a solid foundation for the second paragraph argumentation.

Figure 1

4. Pragma-stylistic analysis of the first discourse
Before starting a pragma-stylistic analysis of the discourse, let us clarify some of its conceptual and terminological aspects. In the pragmatic part of the analysis we will approach both discourses as written speeches. Hence such terms as speaker, hearer, illocutionary act, and illocutionary force are used in the paper interchangeably with the terms arguer or author of the discourse, reader, sentence. This approach, based on the framework of Searle and Vanderveken’s illocutionary logic, will allow us to achieve our major goal – to identify the authors’ communicative intentions. As has already been stated, the author’s communicative strategy is not restricted to rational appeal. He also tries to influence the readers through appealing to their emotions. The first sentence is of great interest for a pragmatic analysis for several reasons. First, the speaker performs a complex illocutionary act consisting of two elementary ones: an illocutionary act of informing:
Strictly as a health issue and warning:
(b) if more HIV-positive immigrants come into the country, more Americans will get the virus and die.

Second, the same pragmatic composition is repeated in the first sentence of the second paragraph. Third, as we have already mentioned the propositional content of the first sentence not only is the most important argument, but also carries the strongest emotional appeal in the discourse.

(a) is defined here as an illocutionary act of informing, because the speaker’s main intention is to let the reader understand the way he will approach the subject in this and subsequent sentences. It also permits him to deflect accusations that he is anti-gay, anti-foreign, anti-HIV-infected people.
(b) is a warning for the American readers about extremely unfavorable consequences awaiting them if the ban is lifted. An important question concerning the claim considered above is does the arguer legitimately use appeal to fear or is it an example of an ad baculum fallacy? We believe the answer is that arguer legitimately uses appeal to fear for the following reason. The arguer does not simply exploit the sense of self-preservation in the audience, he provides valid argumentation to support his proposition throughout the whole discourse. Following Walton (Walton 1992: 165), we consider this argument a valid argument from negative consequences.

The arguer keeps on tailoring his argumentation as explicit or implicit argumentation from consequences throughout the most part of the discourse. This proposition also contains an appeal to fear:
(c) With an influx of infected immigrants the virus could easily start moving in the heterosexual community, as it has in some other countries.

The speaker uses in this sentence the subjunctive mood that together with other characteristics of the illocutionary force indicates that we deal with conjecturing here. The speaker takes a lesser commitment to defend the proposition allowing room for an “emergency escape” by saying I am not warning you about or predicting anything, I am just offering a conjecture.

It must be noted that the pragmatic analysis of the sentence poses a question as to why the speaker abruptly decreases the illocutionary strength of his illocutionary acts thus bringing down the strength of the whole discourse as an illocutionary act complex. Compared to the previous illocutionary act of warning, that has one the strongest illocutionary forces, the arguer suddenly chooses to produce an illocutionary act that has one the weakest illocutionary forces. The lower degree of the illocutionary point of (c) may, of course, be explained by the author’s intention to express a lower degree of certainty he has about the probability that the influx of HIV-infected immigrants will occur to show his confidence in the wisdom of the American public who will not allow this to happen. However, the readers may just as well understand the illocutionary act as an indication that the author lacks evidence to predict this course of events. It is this ambiguity that makes this proposition, pragmatically, one of the weaker arguments in the discourse.

The second means the speaker uses to balance the weaker illocutionary force of the conjecture is the complex illocutionary act of stating HIV is not only contagious, we do not have a cure for it. We argue that in the class of assertive illocutionary forces we need to clearly distinguish an illocutionary force of stating, because to do so is important for the study of argumentation. Searle and Vanderveken (Searle & Vanderveken 1985: 183) believe that state, assert and claim name the same illocutionary force. The study of the role the illocutionary acts play in argumentation shows, however, that there are major differences between the illocutionary force of stating a fact, on the one hand, and the illocutionary force of claiming/asserting that something is a fact, on the other. In the case of stating a proposition, this proposition is presented as a fact that does not require additional argumentation to support the proposition, while in the case of asserting/claiming the same proposition is presented as an opinion of the speaker that it is a fact, which does require additional support for the proposition. As we will show in the following chart, stating has an illocutionary force distinctly different from that of asserting/claiming.

5. Comparative chart of illocutionary forces of asserting/claiming and stating
Asserting/ClaimingStatingMode of achievement of illocutionary pointRepresenting a state of affairs in the form of the speaker’s opinion that the state of affairs is a fact, which requires further proof of the truth of the propositionRepresenting a state of affairs in the form of a fact, which does not require further proof of the truth of the propositionPreparatory conditions
1. The speaker has evidence for the truth of the proposition;
2. It is not obvious to both the speaker and the hearer that the hearer knows the proposition;
3. The speaker anticipates that hearer will not agree with him about the truth of the proposition;
4. The speaker believes that he must defend the truth of the proposition

1. The speaker has evidence for the truth of the proposition;
2. It is not obvious to both the speaker and the hearer that the hearer knows the proposition;
3. The speaker anticipates that the hearer will agree with him about the truth of the proposition;
4. The speaker does not believe he must defend the truth of the proposition Degree of strength of the illocutionary pointThe degree of strength of illocutionary point is considered the medium one for assertive illocutionary forces because the speaker commits himself to defend the truth of the propositionThe degree of strength of illocutionary point is lower than the medium one for assertive illocutionary forces because the speaker does not commit himself to defend the truth of the propositionPropositional content conditionsAny propositionProposition identified as
1. documented data;
2. axiom;
3. well-known fact
4. generally accepted beliefSincerity conditionsThe speaker believes in the truth of the proposition The speaker believes in the truth of the propositionDegree of strength of the sincerity conditionsThe degree of strength of the sincerity conditions is considered the medium one for assertive illocutionary forcesThe degree of strength of the sincerity conditions is higher than the medium one for assertive illocutionary forces because speaker so strongly believes in the truth of the proposition that he does not believe he must defend it

Let us clarify the relation between what we find in the chart and argumentation.
As our analysis shows, the same argument can be presented by the speaker in various forms: in the form of predicting, conjecturing, asserting, claiming, warning, stating, etc. Probably in most cases arguments are presented either in the form of claiming/asserting that something is a fact or stating a fact. If the speaker presents a proposition by stating it, he presupposes that the hearer will not have objections to accept the fact as a fact. This is why, if the audience has reasonable doubts to believe that the proposition is a fact and demands further arguments to defend the truth of the proposition, the illocutionary act of stating must be considered unsuccessful, since as such the audience has not accepted it. For the audience it is an act of claiming/asserting that the proposition is a fact. To avoid such an outcome, the speaker can present the proposition as his personal opinion from the start, performing an illocutionary act of claiming/asserting. However, in this case the speaker must unconditionally commit himself to provide supporting arguments, anticipating doubt.

The distinction between these illocutionary forces is an important one in argumentation because very often an arguer presents his arguments as facts whose truth does not need further defense. By doing that the arguer commits a fallacy of evading the burden of proof (van Eemeren & Grootendorst 1992: 117). In terms of pragmatics, we may define the fallacy as intentional evasion because the speaker evades the responsibility to express the right communicative intention – the intention the illocutionary act with the kind of proposition should possess.

A good example of the fallacy would be the claim contained in the concluding paragraph of the discourse:
(d) Lifting the ban on HIV-infected immigrants is a promise that Bill Clinton made to garner votes from gay rights groups (1.1)
The proposition is presented as a statement of an indisputable fact, but the reader is very unlikely to accept the proposition as a fact.

The reader will most probably perceive the illocutionary act as a claim because the proposition does not belong to any of the four categories of propositions of stating. Consequently, the reader will demand of the speaker the fulfillment of the commitment to provide argumentative support for the proposition. This example is especially striking since (d) is put forward in the last paragraph of the discourse as one of the conclusions to the discourse argumentation.
As we see in Figure 1, the arguer evades fulfilling the commitment to prove the proposition. This makes the proposition more vulnerable to refutation and thus the perlocutionary effect of the illocutionary act and of the whole discourse -persuading the audience – is in jeopardy.

Many HIV-positive people coming into the country would burden the health care system, either with the cost of their own treatment or by spreading the disease to other people, who will wind up in public hospitals is a complex illocutionary act of conjecture. The illocutionary force indicating devices present in the sentence, namely the subjunctive mood, point to this conclusion. Again the speaker seems to avoid using a stronger illocutionary act maybe suggesting that he believes the described course of events will not occur due to the wisdom of the people, who will make the right decision on the matter.

The arguer does not always express his ideas as assertive acts. In some instances he performs directive illocutionary acts. There is a series of three directives in the second paragraph:
Of course, we shouldn’t paint with a real broad brush (suggesting)
We want to be compassionate (requesting)
(g) But we do not want to allow in people with expensive medical conditions and have the taxpayers picking up the tab (urging)

The intention of the speaker is to request that the American people be compassionate but urge them not to allow in people with expensive medical conditions, and have the taxpayers pay for their treatment.
The degree of strength of illocutionary point increases toward (g), because urging expresses a stronger desire of the speaker to get the hearer to do the described action.

6. Logico-semantic analysis of the second discourse
Like in Fig. 1, we see in Fig. 2 a well-organized argumentation. Grounds and their claims almost always follow each other in the text. If we compare the argumentative structure with the actual text we shall see that the

Figure 2

whole argumentation can be broken down to three blocs. The concluding paragraph contains the main explicitly stated claim of the discourse (1.1). The first and the second paragraphs contain arguments in the left part of the scheme; and the third paragraph contains arguments in the right part of the scheme. The second discourse has basically the same argumentative structure as that of the first discourse. It begins with one of the discourse strongest claims and ends with conclusions. The main explicit claim the author makes in the discourse is This prohibition is really a mask for a hatred of foreigners a hatred of people of color, and a hatred of people who have HIV. We believe making this claim the arguer commits a non sequitur fallacy. The arguer has neither mentioned anywhere else in the discourse the hatred of those people nor ever talked about the Americans mistreating foreigners or people of different racial background.

We have identified the fallacy, but we have not identified the motives of the arguer to commit this fallacy. The non sequitur fallacy is a fallacy of reasoning, but does the nature of the fallacy concern only the reasoning process? Does the reasoning process explain to us why the author chose to make this fallacious argument? We believe the nature of the fallacy lies beyond only reasoning process – it is to be searched for in the speaker’s communicative strategy. Having declared that, let us now turn to pragma-stylistic analysis of the discourse.

7. Pragma-stylistic analysis of the second discourse
The author of the second discourse also seeks to combine rational, emotional and aesthetic appeals in her message. But instead of arousing fear or self-pity in the reader, which was done in the first discourse, the arguer tries to arouse pity for HIV-infected immigrants. Just as in the first discourse, already in the first illocutionary act of claiming (which serves best the purposes of an effective persuasive message as a strong opening point) the reader experiences a maximum impact of the combined rational and emotional appeal, the reader’s feeling of pity being the primary target. The arguer continues to seek the goal to appeal strongly to peoples’ pity through appeal to social justice throughout the discourse. The question, therefore, one faces analyzing this discourse is whether the arguer commits any ad misericordiam fallacies in her discourse. We believe the answer is yes and we shall further provide arguments for the assertion.

The second and third sentence form an illocutionary act complex of informing. Once the reader is informed about the situation, the speaker performs a strong direct illocutionary act of claiming

(h) It’s crazy

Moreover, (h) contains an even stronger indirect illocutionary act with a different illocutionary point. It is an expressive act of protesting. The illocutionary point of expressives consists in expressing the speaker’s attitude to a state of affairs (Vanderveken 1990: 105). The main intention of the speaker is to show to the reader that she strongly disapproves of the opponents’ views. As is shown in Fig. 2, the propositional content of the sentence becomes an essential part of several valid arguments. This statement, therefore, makes an important contribution both to the discourse rational and emotional appeals. (h) is the arguer’s major successful step in pursuing the communicative strategy to combine rational, emotional and aesthetic appeals.

Let us now turn to two illocutionary acts performed in the second paragraph that are of importance for our study. As indicated in Fig. 2, the speaker does not provide any argumentative support for propositions:

(i) The law already requires that immigrants show they are not going to become a public charge
(j) In fact, people with HIV can lead long, productive lives in which they can be taxpayers and contribute to this society

Therefore, the reader will certainly understand that the speaker considers the propositions to be statements of facts. The reader will understand the speaker’s communicative intention. So the illocutionary acts will achieve their illocutionary point as illocutionary acts of stating but will the reader accept the illocutionary acts as such? Will the illocutionary acts have their perlocutionary effect?

The propositional content of (i) contains an unclear proposition. The recipient of the message is unlikely to accept the illocutionary act as a statement of a fact because its proposition can hardly be considered a well-known fact or a generally accepted belief. So the answer to the question whether this illocutionary act will have its perlocutionary effect of persuasion should probably be no. As a result, the whole discourse as an illocutionary act complex will have a lesser chance to achieve its perlocutionary effect. In (j) the speaker uses an illocutionary force-indicating device of stating – the parenthetic phrase In fact. The speaker uses this phrase to let the reader know that she does not even anticipate any doubt as to the truth of the proposition. The casual In fact creates an impression that the proposition is added to the previous one almost in passing, just because it is important to mention but one does not need to discuss it. The reader will understand that the speaker wants him to believe the proposition is a fact, but, again, will the illocutionary act have its perlocutionary effect of persuasion of the reader that the proposition is a fact? The answer has to be yes because the reader will most probably accept the illocutionary act as stating a generally accepted belief.

The third paragraph contains one of the strongest ad misericordiam appeals of the discourse. The speaker performs three illocutionary acts with an illocutionary force of accusing If they are found to be HIV-positive during legalization procedures, they are deported- despite the fact that they may well have been infected here; And we don’t tell them how to avoid infecting others once they go home; and We don’t even necessarily tell them that they have the virus. Accusing is a very strong illocutionary act and the speaker must anticipate stronger objections at least from the accused. Therefore it is imperative that the speaker prove the truth of her accusations. Unfortunately, the arguer does not meet her responsibility, because the accusations remain unsupported.

The high level of emotional appeal is reinforced with an aesthetic appeal. By repeating the structure we don’t tell them author makes use of repetition, an effective stylistic device often used by media arguers to emphasize a point or to clarify a complex argument (Stonecipher 1979: 118). The introduction of the amplifying word even to the structure in the last sentence of the paragraph also contributes to the aesthetic and emotional appeals.

The speaker continues to increase her emotional and aesthetic appeals in the last paragraph of the discourse. The sentence This prohibition is really a mask for a hatred of foreigners a hatred of people of color, and a hatred of people who have HIV is marked with the use of the same stylistic device repetition, aimed to make the conclusion aesthetically appealing to the reader. Emotional appeal to pity is evident in the choice of the word hatred being repeated. The illocutionary force characteristics the sentence meets allows us to say that an illocutionary act of condemning is performed. The speaker strives to condemn the ban as inhumane and cruel. Since the degree of strength of the illocutionary point of condemning is even higher than that of accusing the speaker has to take even more commitment to prove her point, than when accusing. As the logico-semantic analysis of the discourse has shown, the author of the discourse does not fulfill the preparatory condition of condemning, the commitment is not met. That is why we can conclude that the emotional and aesthetic appeals are misused as they supplant reason. We believe that the arguer commits an ad misericordiam fallacy here because by accusing the ban advocates of this cruelty and injustice toward the immigrants and condemning them of hatred of all sorts of people without adequate argumentation supporting the condemnations the arguer asks the reader to accept C2 because the immigrants deserve pity.

8. Conclusions
Concerning the first purpose of the paper, let us advance the following conclusions. We have analyzed two American print media argumentative discourses whose authors are engaged in the American print media discussion conducted in the format of a deferred persuasion dialogue. Both parties pursue a rhetorical goal of winning the argument and persuading the reading audience that their position is the right one. The discourses are characterized by two different communicative strategies of persuasion. The author of the first discourse chooses to rely primarily on rational appeal in his message, reinforcing it with an emotional appeal. The first discourse has an illocutionary force of arguing, because in achieving the perlocutionary effect of persuasion the speaker expresses his intention to argue the issues at hand producing logically coherent argumentation. The fact that the claims containing ad baculum appeal have valid arguments supporting them allows us to conclude that the arguer does not use the appeal fallaciously. The author of the second discourse, on the contrary, seems to rely primarily on emotional appeal in her message, sacrificing appeal to people’s reason. The arguer focuses on the wrong and inhumane character of the ban, seeking to arouse in the reader a feeling of pity for the victims of the ban but fails to methodically and carefully argue her points thus committing an ad misericordiam fallacy. The arguer reinforces her emotional appeal with aesthetic appeal. By using various stylistic devices she creates an attractive image of the message. The second discourse has an illocutionary force of condemning. Condemning is a more powerful illocutionary act than arguing because it presupposes that the arguer does not merely argue against something because it is not in the best interests of the hearers, but that he argues against something because it is morally or ethically bad or wrong. If successful, condemning should be more persuasively effective than arguing because it appeals to what Perelman and Olbrechts-Tyteca call the universal audience (Perelman & Olbrechts-Tyteca 1971: 30) because the proposition of condemning seeks to appeal to people’s universal sense of right and wrong. However, the stronger the illocutionary act is the more commitment the speaker has to take to achieve the illocutionary point of the act. The second arguer fails to fulfill her illocutionary responsibility. Consequently, we believe the second discourse as a speech act complex is less likely to achieve its perlocutionary effect of persuasion than the first one.
Concerning the second purpose of the paper we may advance this conclusion. Illocutionary logic can be used as a tool that allows us to show which illocutionary acts are best suited for appealing to people’s emotions. Our analysis indicates that, pragmatically, emotional appeals to fear and pity are created by illocutionary acts with high degrees of strength of the illocutionary point, e.g. by warning, accusing, condemning, protesting, and urging.
Concerning the third purpose of the paper it must be noted that it is necessary to distinguish the illocutionary force of asserting/claiming on the one hand from that of stating on the other. The distinction between these illocutionary forces is an important one in argumentation because very often an arguer presents his arguments as facts whose truth does not need further defense. By doing that the arguer commits a fallacy of evading the burden of proof or, pragmatically, a fallacy of intentional evasion, because he evades the responsibility to express the intention to defend the truth of the proposition.

REFERENCES
Eemeren, F. H. van & Grootendorst R. (1992). Argumentation, Communication, and Fallacies. A Pragma-Dialectical Perspective. Hillsdale: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates.
Hamblin, C. L. (1970). Fallacies. London: Methuen & Co Ltd. Perelman Ch. & Olbrechts-Tyteca L. (1971). The New Rhetoric: A Treatise on Argumentation. Paris: Notre Dame.
Rybacki, K. C. & Rybacki, D. J. (1995). Advocacy and Opposition: An Introduction to Argumentation. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall.
Searle, J. R. & Vanderveken, D. (1985). Foundations of Illocutionary Logic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Stonecipher, H.W. (1979). Editorial and Persuasive Writing: Opinion Functions of the News Media. New York: Hastings House.
Vanderveken, D. (1990). Meaning of Speech Acts. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Walton D.N. (1992). The Place of Emotion in Argument. University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press.

Our day has witnessed the establishment of new disciplines running from women’s, to ethnic, to multi-cultural studies, to name but a few representative of this academic current. From antiquity to the end of the 19th century the aspect of Argumentation Theory which was understood as rhetoric was an officially recognised discipline. It was recognised as one of the traditional seven Liberal Arts. How did rhetoric achieve this status? What is there to be learned from the rationales that raised it to this status which is relevant to coming to grips with the status, inclusive of their justifications, their need for models, their self-understandings, of the new disciplines of our day? Can a recovery of the grounds for the establishment of the traditional liberal arts shed light on these and associated questions? To answer, however tentatively, these questions is the aim of this paper.
The seven liberal arts, the quadrivium and trivium, have had an extraordinary run. For two millennia in one form or another they provide the backdrop or the foreground of higher education. But of these seven there is only one which has a source text whose name is coextensive with the art. Aristotle’s Rhetoric and the trivial art of Rhetoric share this common trait. Moreover through all of the vicissitudes of the history of rhetoric from antiquity through the Christian ages, dark and middle, through the renaissance, and into the modern age, Aristotle’s text in sometimes hidden and other times manifest ways has been a source and authority for the discipline of rhetoric.
In order to appreciate what Aristotle accomplished for rhetoric with his Rhetoric it is necessary to orient ourselves along an appropriate chronological parameter. Looked at retrospectively from the perspective of 1998 or of 1298, in the decades of William of Moerbke’s translation of this work into Latin, it’s a done thing. But looked at prospectively, with the assumption that there is nothing in the text which suggests Aristotle anticipated future developments one can search for the conditions which transformed a sometime misprised techne into a Liberal Art. With that said, allow me to focus on a few selected ways of coming to grips with these issues.

As is well known Aristotle identifies the enthymeme as the core of what rhetoric as a techne must address. But Aristotle’s discussion of enthymemes adumbrates a foundational role for them in another sense which will turn out to be thematic to the character of Liberal Arts qua arts. What I want to suggest to you today is that this sub-textual element of the Rhetoric is a locus classicus for identifying how this work became instrumental in founding a discipline which survived for more than two aeons. The discussion in Book II of enthymemes implicitly defines an empirical domain for rhetoric which involves politics in a complex manner. Book II presents a generalised case for enthymemes whose open ended character allows for further developments, starting in antiquity with the stoic insistence on formalising the discipline of rhetoric as a study of defective syllogisms with missing premises and concluding with modern arguments that enthymemes are divergent syllogisms, that is non-defective, because of their character as probabilistic (Burnyeat). Both views however are grounded in Aristotle’s description of enthymemes as proofs based on premises, thereby resembling syllogisms per se. But enthymemes differ by the fact that their premises are neither apodeictic nor strictly dialectical. For example they can depend on generalisations which are exemplary in character. But examples in the context of rhetoric, whether fabulous or factual, Aesopian or historical, are inseparable from doxa, that is they are rooted in doxa, in the Greek, they are in, if you will forgive the oxymoron, endoxa.

One of the most revealing cases of such an example with respect to the role that Aristotle’s discussion of enthymemes plays in founding rhetoric as a liberal art is the reference to a Socratic maxim at 1393b 4-8, a star instance of a parable: “Parabole is illustrated by the sayings of Socrates. For instance, if one were to say that magistrates should not be chosen by lot; for this would be the same as choosing representative athletes not those competent to contend but those on whom the lot falls, or as choosing any of the sailors as the man who should take the helm, as if it were right that the choice should be decided by lot and not by a man’s knowledge.”
Assuming that most traditional interpretation of enthymemes, that they are syllogisms based on premises which differ from the premises of apodeictic or dialectical syllogisms so much so that as 2.25 makes clear even examples or paradigms such as Socrates’ parable can serve as the ground of a premise of an enthymeme, puts us in a position to ask why the Socratic example is only a case of a potential premise to a rhetorical argument, or, even, why it is only at the best a paradigm argument. In what way does it fail as the basis of a knockdown proof? We can begin by reflecting that it is clear that one does not choose a pilot by lot, as little in our day as in Aristotle’s, since our life depends of this choice. Given the undeniable plausibility of this piece of reasoning, it is incumbent on us to try to understand why it is merely rhetorical, that is: Why is it a parable, a congener of or the basis for the premise of an enthymeme, and not the core of a more certain syllogism? One reason may be that there is a Socratic argument alluded to by this maxim, fully developed in places as diverse as Xenophon’s Oeconomicus and Plato’s Gorgias. Implicit in this text is the Socratic identification of the rule of the wise over themselves with the rule of the phronimos over the polis. In short it is an allusion to what Socrates famously claimed, that wisdom is title to rule. But as a cursory reading of Book 1 of the Politics indicates, Aristotle’s argument that the city is not only natural, but, is also hierarchically complex, entails the denial that political rule is homogeneous with the rule of the wise over themselves, that is, it denies that the public and the private can be so collapsed. What this suggests is that Aristotle’s use of the example drawn from Socrates points to and at the same time points away from a higher order, philosophic, level of truth; in a word this use of the Socratic example puts us in touch with the truth of a common place certainty we feel in our bones by thinking how we came to Amsterdam and that it has a higher order truth behind it, a truth which is consistent with endoxa, even entailed by it. Although it is not, by any stretch of the imagination, simply accessible to it. As for the self-evidence of the allusion to the Socratic thesis consider the disputed lines at 1398b20 where Alcidamas’ version uncertainly bears witness to the same issue.

This use of the Socratic example by Aristotle has three interesting consequences.
(1) In general, it shows that Aristotle presents his descriptions of rhetorical devices in a manner which preserves the autonomy of rhetoric as a techne, whereby its roots are emphatically implicit, but are also likewise by-passed in a manner which is consistent with the development of a transmittable discipline, that is, as something teachable, and so, self-contained from theoretical difficulties. (Allow me to illustrate this point with an analogy. Rhetoric, if it were to have turned out to be an art, as it did turn out, in some measure because of Aristotle’s efforts, would have had to stand, as it does, to theory as venery does to ornithology. Thus what we see is that one of the modes by which rhetoric becomes a Liberal Art is that it is at once open to and insulated from theoria).
But also (2), in particular, the initial theme of the work, that rhetoric is a counterpart to dialectic, is illustrated and hence implicitly adumbrated by this example, because this initial theme has a dialectical counterpoint in Aristotle’s thesis, developed at the end of the Nichomachean Ethics, that sophistry mistakenly identified politics with rhetoric. This example points to this nexus of issues because it functions to isolate rhetoric from the pull of politics which has always had a potential to swamp rhetoric’s autonomy. It insulates the argument from political theoretical consequences, and, hence, sheds light on how Aristotle reoriented rhetoric away from politics and toward dialectics. In other words, if is true that from the perspective of the Ethics, that politics needs to be protected from rhetoric, it is equally true that from the perspective of the requirements of founding rhetoric as an autonomous discipline that it needed to be protected from politics.
(3) In addition the air that enthymemes breath, the endoxa of everyday discourse is doubly illuminated
in this context.

Dialectical reasoning is potentially present whenever the starting point is doxa. Although dialectic is related to the theoretical it is distinguished from the apodeictic per se and it is a counterpart of the rhetorical. This is the framework for understanding the status of endoxa as it is used in the Rhetoric. The classification of the many meanings of endoxa in Aristotle is well developed in our day. The literature on this matter has displayed many of the denotations of endoxa. These include possible meanings ranging from true and false beliefs of a popular sort, to surface beliefs as distinguished from deep or implicit beliefs, to analogous distinctions of regulative as opposed to substantive beliefs (Klein; Roche). What I want to suggest to you today about the meaning of this word will be illustrated by way of another example drawn from the Rhetoric. It is one which, by my lights, is consistent with the main lines of interpretation known to me about the possible senses of endoxa, but which has the advantage of suggesting another lesson about the foundations of the Liberal Arts as they are open to inspection in this work.
At 3.10, in the context of the discussion of ta aot«ia, which Freese translates as “smart,” but which I would prefer to translate as “urbanity,” Aristotle observes that “easy learning is naturally pleasant to all” (1410b15) from which it follows that “styles and enthymemes that are quickly absorbed are urbane…. this is why superficial enthymemes, those that are obvious to all and need no mental effort, are [effective]… [because]… knowledge of a sort results … [from them]” (1410b20). Moreover as the context makes clear this same criterion, ease of and hence pleasure at learning, decides that metaphor, the direct communication of an imputation, say, ‘a is b,’ is rhetorically superior to simile, which only imputes by means of a term of comparison, for example, ‘a is as, or is like b.’ Let us consider, however briefly, Aristotle on the love of learning as it manifests itself within the whole range of human nature.

“Human beings by nature desire to know.” The Metaphysics begins with this famous universal proposition rivalled perhaps in the breath of its reach and superficial plausibility by the opening of the Nichomachean Ethics and by that of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. But while the cognitive bases of these claims are wrapped in the mystery of autobiographica, the evidence for them is elsewhere and accessible. The evidence for the universality of Aristotle’s judgement at the beginning of the Metaphysics is found in our insatiable curiosity about biographical trivia whether it be of Jane Austen or our next door neighbour. When some strange sight occurs, it interests us qua mere sight sans concern for our interests or well being. When a good public speaker addresses an audience about matters of the first importance, ease of understanding, and hence pleasure at this understanding, governs the choice of illustrations, as Churchill’s war time speeches illustrate. But at the level of the Metaphysics our need to know is gratified, if it is at all, quite differently. For those caught up by them, the arguments that lead to an open-minded consideration for the need of a Prime Mover will be the source of pleasures concomitant with the actuality of knowing. As a result, this version of the desire to know is to be found at the peak of a demographic pyramid, one whose base is fragmented by phenomena which with Aristotle’s aid we can impute to different political regimes, but which Aristotle’s contemporaries, or ourselves, can look at through categories drawn from Herodotus or cultural studies and sociology. Be that as it may, ‘curiosity,’ ‘the desire to know,’ ‘philosophy,’ the whole range of human experiences connected with these phenomenae provide the background for endoxa characterised by political or sociological breath and demographic bases and peaks.
Now just as virtue in the Rhetoric is looked at from the perspective of the expedient or useful, and considerations of its intrinsic worth are to be found in the Ethics, so analogously knowledge, in the Rhetoric, is inseparable from pleasure and its connection to the parameters of the persuasive. This suggests that endoxa, whether about ‘virtue,’ or ‘knowledge,’ or, as in the Socratic example we are considering today, ‘choice of experts,’ have two fundamental vectors. The first is horizontal, or sociological and political, the second is vertical, or related to the first in a way that is captured by a distinction made famous by Plato, that is, the distinction between opinion and knowledge. This will allow for another lesson about the structure of this work that turns out to characterise the Liberal Arts. Before doing so, I will turn to one last illustration of my topic.

The contrast between the treatment of happiness in the Nichomachean Ethics and in the Rhetoric reveals another instructive feature of endoxa relevant to this paper. In the discussion of happiness at Rhetoric 1.5, happiness is taken up as an item in the realm of opinion insofar as it can be circumscribed through a compendium or list of ungraded, unrank-ordered list of variables. This list includes wealth, health, children, a good wife, and so forth. In contrast, in Book I of the Ethics, happiness is also introduced as a common place of the world of opinion but there it appears in another guise. Initially, Wealth is contrasted with Pleasure and both, individually, are contrasted with Honor as possible claimants to the content of a happy life, all of which serves as part of the argument for Virtue as its true locus. Here happiness is taken up through a series of synecdoches, and is thus characterised by a context which is potentially dialectical, which, allows for an examination of competitive claims. Both these approaches are endoxic but with a difference. Returning to the Rhetoric, one can perform a simple, obvious thought experiment to test the endoxic character of the items on the list of happiness’ variables. If we entertain the possibility of replacing one of the Aristotelian variables with its opposite, say health with sickness, we would not expect people, that is we would not expect an interlocutor imagined for the purpose of weighing our sense of endoxa in this context, to agree that illness is part of a happy life. Likewise, imagine someone with no friends, poor, no children, prematurely old, ugly, weak, unathletic: this is no one’s notion of a happy life.
A contrast emerges. The Rhetoric presents us, for the most part, with the face of endoxa which comes unsorted. It is corrigible and openly open-ended in its corrigibility. It is at once easy and pleasant to survey our opinions about such things as happiness. And so the text invites a consideration of what it is that one knows about the matter in question. It thereby invites a consideration of what one knows about the world.(How would we or Aristotle, for instance, decide whether, say, ‘good fortune’ is an item on Happiness’ agenda?) This endoxic open-endedness is implicitly a training in one of the conditions of thoughtfulness, being open-minded. In contrast the Ethics, presents another face of endoxa. It is the aspect of endoxa which is essentially the ground of dialectics, the comparison of competing claims and so their sorting out by means of philosophical arguments. The way of doing so can’t be easily portrayed in a sentence. The former approach is practical in the realm associated with rhetoric namely action. It is artful, not because it is productive, the Ethics criterion of the artful, but rather because it is non-theoretical and because it is an organon for instauring a mathemata, that is, it is a tool for founding something which literally easily learnable.

What have we learned from this brief survey of Aristotle’s text about the foundations of Rhetoric which is also fundamental to the Liberal Arts and which may aid us to evaluate and strengthen emergent disciplines? The Liberal Arts share traits in common. In all their incarnations they all teach technai, whether it be what is learned through mastering a sequence of Euclidean theorems or an analogous sweep of rhetorical figures. In addition each of these arts is at once autonomous and each is conceptually vectored in two directions. Each has within its notional syllabus a capacity to direct the teacher and student back to its roots. In this sense each is literally radical, arming its pupils with one of the sources and aims of philosophy: the affective and conceptual incentive to seek the foundations of things. As for the other vector, each points, albeit implicitly, towards an end or telos. This first comes to sight in the potential meanings of the terms of art, say, enthyme, or topic, which raise the student’s view to the consideration of higher order meanings. Consonant with this each has within its purview the capacity to generate questions about the ends of life, a capacity granted to each by their primary capacity to induce, through moments of study, self-forgetting work and learning, the unreflective experience of activity intrinsic in character, an experience which on reflection can raise to consciousness the capacity to rank order matters in ways too complex to enumerate. Finally, and most importantly, the Liberal Arts are modest. They insinuate the tools of rationality, critical reasoning as it is called in our day, through the means of autonomous disciplines, that is disciplines whose scope is determined by modes of study appropriate to a subject matter, and which thus by pass, but leave accessible, their theoretical roots.

REFERENCES
Burnyeat, M.F. (1996). Enthymeme: Aristotle on the Rationality of Rhetoric. In: Amelie Oksenberg Rorty (ed.). Aristotle’s Rhetoric. (pp. 88-115), Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press.
Klein, Sherwin (1988). An Analysis and Defense of Aristotle’s Method in Nichomachean Ethics I and X. Ancient Philosophy 8: 1, pp.63-72 (Spring 1988).
Roche, Timothy (1988). On the Alleged Metaphysical Foundation of Aristotle’s Ethics. Ancient Philosophy 8: 1, pp.49-62 (Spring 1988).

Human communication is an unfinished social and cultural project undertaken anew by each generation. Yet the constellation of controversy on both large and small scales may be discovered when competing understandings of communication come at odds within and across fora. Whatever the particular or local stakes of a controversy, the understandings which ground arguments advancing a particular cause or point of view put at risk by opening up to interest and inspection the modes of communication and styles of thinking which are imbricated in the discussion. This essay examines four root metaphors which ground versions of communication in certain values: mechanism, formism, contextualism, and organicism.
Critical inquiry into controversy takes upon itself the responsibility of engagement, that is of reading what the debate has to say about reason and communication as social practices. Reading a controversy requires a descriptive phase where the world is explicated in its coherence and incoherence, agreements and disagreements, shared assumptions and contested differences by advocates. The reading is an examination of how disagreement and communication rendered possible by the discourses.
One approach taken in recent studies of argument has been to develop the notion of “argument communities, “with overlapping, multiple contextualization of communication conventions, genres and rules. This notion appears to offer a situated view of argument practices compatible with the controversial. But however helpful such work can be in disclosing diversity and combating hidden analytical prejudices, it does not go far enough to assess what is at stake in the communicative engagement. What does the text put at risk?
Critical intervention into controversies is necessary because categories among reason and communication are themselves put at risk through practice. Root metaphors can open the arc of controversy by offering grounds for the critique of practice inconsistent with the metaphor. Controversies exhibit opposition as a kind of drawing from or occupation of root metaphors. Indeed, the purification of root metaphors, or reduction of argument to a single ground, can itself become an object of controversy. Root metaphors as places for a dynamic of controversy account for institutional arguments insofar as a root metaphor offers a line of argument that can integrate the practices of an institution while leaving open ever greater spaces for opposition. The drawing from alternative groundings gives to controversy its unstable alliances of motives and its combination of “fruitful ambiguity” where people support the same thing but for different reasons. Finally, communication itself is grounded in world hypotheses that employ root metaphors as ways of making acts of discourse for self and others.
The emphasis in this essay upon the relationship between root metaphors and communicative practice differentiates our approach sharply from previous appropriations of Pepper’s categories within schemes of interpretation that make the metaphors incommensurable, and thus incapable of intellectual intercourse. White, in particular reduces Pepper’s root metaphors from cultural resources to particular forms or notions of historical consciousness that are assumed by, and characterize, the philosophical thinking of particular historians (13). They become tools to classify historiographic specimens
according to their qualities as cognitively responsible discourses. What is at stake for the study of argument practices in the dispute between Pepper’s and White’s appropriations of root metaphors is the very flexibility of those practices as conceived by the positioning of the metaphors within their theories. White’s reduction of the metaphors to mere perspectives of individual historians assumed without further argument makes the metaphors incommensurable in practice. It assumes that the root metaphor explanations in historical narratives can be communicated with no risks of failure. The contextualizing discussions in Pepper’s book about the root metaphors opens space for an alternative interpretation of them as sites of production whose ability to shape practice are always in jeopardy because of the interplay of dependence and autonomy in particular institutional disputes.

Root metaphor method explained
To put the method in its most simple form, the root metaphor assumes a connection between a way of talking about the world, a basic metaphor (or master analogy) and cognitive structures which assist human beings in making informed choices about prudent conduct. Such root metaphors not only inform ordinary discourse but also impart vitality to more refined systems of thought or world hypotheses. How are the most common, half-formed, utterances connected with the most refined, highly structured, enlightened discourses? Moreover, how does one account for what should be said in theory but actually gets said in practice? To explain the answers the method must be explicated in a bit more detail.
In evaluating any particular communication, we may take an extreme attitude, saying that it has no meaning at all, on the one hand, or saying that its meaning is perfectly comprehended, on the other. In the former case, we take the attitude of the skeptic, doubting the meaningfulness of the message. In the extreme case, a skeptic might say communication is not possible. All communication is unreliable, garbled, fickle, untruthful, and so on. But this universal negative assertion against all communication would have to have been communicated, at least to the skeptic herself who wishes to believe nothing. So the skeptic holds all communication in suspension, each message equally good, valid, meaningful, and sensical. Unable to choose what to attend to or how to differentially respond, the skeptic is left to babbling or silence.
The dogmatist maintains that all communication can be understood according to principles which he (and the privileged followers) have special access. Any communication which fits these principles can be understood with certainty. Any part of a communication which does not fit the principles is mere noise. Any elements of a communication which do not conform with the dogmatically asserted elements is an accident or distortion of some kind. Taken to its extreme form, communication is an
epiphenomenon needed only because people have yet to comprehend the truth of the dogmatist’s principles.

Whereas the position of the skeptic defeats itself on its face, the position of the dogmatist is unacceptable, too, but for a different reason. To establish his point, the dogmatist must present a communication process that is self-evident, universally accepted, and unchangeable. Yet until humanity exhausts its future no guarantee can be offered that systems will stay the same. Even logic seems not universal because its basic law of identity is not self-evident to everyone. Moreover, science seems to be a communication system which selects its data in a special structure that does not exhaust the powers of human discovery.
Communication occurs on a middle ground. Skeptical doubt is important because to communicate we have to test the assertions of others and have our own commitment tested as well. Moreover, it may be the case that some kinds of communication are more suited to the situation than others, or that the one employed is distorted. So doubt is necessary – up to but not including absolute doubt. So, too, is the use of authority. Without mutual recognition of authority it would not be possible to build communication systems which comprise specialized fields like law, literature, and science or social customs like manners, life rituals, and oratorical traditions.
Communication constitutes a sense of complex agreements that permit mutual participation and recognition. Without this authority, language itself would be completely chaotic, rather than enticingly opaque. Utter reliance on authority, of course, vitiates communication by privileging a closed system, one not open to mortals (except, of course, the dogmatist).

The middle ground of communication is comprised of the relationships between ordinary discourse grounded in common sense and refined discourse grounded in specialized fields or forms of life. Common sense is comprised of the ordinary materials and processes of discussion: facts, rules, and values which reflect life experience and folk wisdoms. Communication channels grounded in common sense are developed in personal conversation and in dealing with people as part of a social structure. Like common sense, the channels appear to be solid. I can understand them, and they me. Any problem can be repaired within the communication structure: “I didn’t hear you. Let me talk louder. You lied to me. I won’t do it again. You promised. No I said I might. Well, it sounded like a promise to me.” The principles of repair help the communication system along rather than create a hopeless mess, just as common sense feels it can work itself out of any situation. Ordinary communication channels, too, have a tendency to hold alternatives as either extensions or distortions of the norm. So, for example, television is not viewed as different in kind than people talking. What “intellectuals” say is either reducible to common sense or is just plain silly. Finally, ordinary communication channels are in theory open to anyone but in practice closed to those who vitiate the norms. Like common sense, ordinary communication may be given over to parochialism, provincialism, and restricted interpretation. But what is returned is a certain sense of security or certainty in use. Or is it?

It is well known that however reliable common sense may appear to be at a point in time, that on reflective thought it is not complete. Common sense seems limited, because it leads to inconsistencies, ambiguities, doubts, and disparities. Just so, ordinary communication channels do not provide sufficient scope or depth for activities that need to be completed through specialization. Sometimes such communication refinements can take the form of manners, permitting such sophisticated speech acts as veiled threats or concealed dislikes. At other times, such specialized activity is subjected to a particular field – its terminology, rule, formats, forums, and tradition. Such specialization can, though it need not, incapacitate an individual from common sense communication. However, the field may make communication more precise, coherent, reliable, complex, as it standardizes the forms and channels of discourse.
As much as a field might try to perfect communication, such a complete rendering is not possible as long as a wide variety of communication values are possible and conflict with one another. Rhetorical analysis studies the way communication values trade off against one another to form specialized communities of discourse, to change them, or to use values to redirect personal and public activity. Well known tradeoffs include saying what is ethical versus that which is effective, flattering an audience versus saying the unpleasant truth, intending to accomplish an end versus adapting to a situation, paying attention to what is openly professed versus privately held, creating inflexible and enduring channels of communication versus creating a domain for change and legitimate expansion or contraction of meanings, equating the real with those parts of messages that can be propositionalized versus assuming the real if just beyond categorical statement, imparting credibility to the standard product of a communication process versus seeking the unique, achieving breadth of coverage in ideas versus architecting depth of commitment, requiring communicators to be authentic versus permitting them to be playful, assuming the sounded to be the message versus paying attention to the unspoken. All communication is constructed out of problems such as these, and the more elaborate a system the more finely balanced will be the tradeoffs. Rhetorical analysis uncovers choices intrinsic to a single discourse or discourse system. Discourse may either be a discussion of the theory of communication or the theory implied by any communication. An implied theory is discovered by asking the question: What does communication look like in order for this particular communication to be comprehended or acted upon (or what is excluded or why)?
Just as the individual refines her understanding of communication, so too society provides fields to refine communication systems pertaining to human forms of life. But refined systems are not bounded by common sense. Their definition of terms, rules, forums, and formats may be shaped so as to guarantee certain communication values important to specialized functioning. Fields may be stable or unstable, as communication values are altered to redefine the field. Competition between fields may be subjected to common sense and common channels absent any other common ground. And practitioners may engage in hypostatizations, granting to field grounded activity a common-sense like aspect.
What may be embedded in the communication situation is a tension between the alternative grounding of communication practices. On the one side of the ledger, we need common understanding of activity to assure that we can communicate with anyone should the need arise, and as long as we resist perfect segregation by class, age, interest, and belief structure some general rules, language, and habits of communication will be needed. On the other, the very commonality of communication, with its intuited, flexible, changing structures and its habitual uses, seems to afford opportunities for and stand over against specialization, with its promises of precision, reliability, depth, and connection with the traditions surrounding the practices of a form of life. Given temporal, social, and intellectual demands on discourse, one should not expect a perfect, harmonious balance among competing grounds. Given the fertility of human communication systems, it should be expected that the construction, assembly, valuation, and change of grounds for communication ceaselessly take place.

While the root metaphor system acknowledges a plurality of communication systems, it does not fall into the trap of vicious relativism that reduces each practice to the perspective of a person who thinks about communication but can find no grounds supporting participation in a reciprocal, social process. Rather, the root metaphor system suggests basic ways of seeing, feeling about, forming, or processing the world which provide connectives that vitalize communication systems, and suggests a method for appraising the merits of each system emerging from a root metaphor in terms of what it offers and neglects, what it permits us to speak about and where it mandates a margin for silence.
A root metaphor is a shaping analogy. Communication emerges not from brute instrumentality, with a bare depiction of need and object, but from comparison – a grasp of likeness among things, events, and acts imparting general notions of priority, ways to draw attention, and forms of rudimentary communication. Two root metaphors which invite attention but do not create completed means of communicative resolution are animism and mysticism.
Animism emerges from the feeling that there is something more to each particular than meets the eye; the world is alive with possibility as each place is a habitation for the spirit. The problem with animism is that it cannot go beyond the particular to suggest a way of cognitively assimilating the principles informing the dispersion of the animate. One moves from life to life, helped by magic but haunted by demons.
Mysticism emerges from the feeling that there is a unity to all particulars, or rather that all is really a manifestation of one. Seeing one, particularity of principle and conduct is submerged in the hidden but revealed all-embracing, cosmologically unbounded spirit. The problem with mysticism is that it cannot suggest cognitive modes for differentiating among particulars, such as the accuracy of knowledge in the specific case. Seeing the world as self-contained unified whole lends a certain amount of security in
belief even as it makes for a brittle system, unable to respond to the problems raised by other root metaphors.
Cultural resources make available four root metaphors, each of which has informed and continues to inform certain discourse communities and communication practices. Pepper suggests (with a neatness that is somewhat suspicious, and perhaps belied by his later efforts at another metaphor, selectivism) that the four adequate root metaphors are so in number because each represents an defensible tradeoff between scope and precision, analysis and synthesis. Whether these are all of the root metaphors or whether these combine according to yet another principle of construction are questions which need not detain us at this point. Rather let us examine each in turn and suggest relevant implications for communication and reason in argument.

Mechanism.
Pepper identifies mechanism with theories of materialism. The mechanistic root metaphor stems from the intuition that the world and all its activities operate like a machine. In such a world, what is really real is that which is present to the senses and responds to law-like regularity deduced from a reading of the forces of nature. Mechanism suggests that the only reliable means of knowledge is that which can be derived from observation and experimentation and exhorts the knower to strive mightily to suspend belief in favor of strict observation, reporting, and hypothesis.
Note that the assumption of the metaphor is that language is not an essential constituent of human culture, or to be precise, language is merely a representation that stands for reality and often between precise, reliable, unbiased, and demonstrable data and danda. Language prejudices people and reflects a slipshod way of thinking about the world that can only be ended if a more refined symbol system is developed to handle concepts which predict the necessary methods of controlling material conditions. Note, too, that the use of language may constitute the controlling conditions of society. Hence the mechanist would place a high evaluation on how language influences reality rather than what is said or its asserted content.

When mechanistic outlooks shape perspectives on and performances of argument, they can become controversial. Criticisms have been lodged against Whately’s view that “The finding of suitable arguments to prove a given point, and the skilful  arrangement of them, may be considered as the immediate and proper province of Rhetoric, and of that alone (39).” The shotgun marriage of Aristotle’s Rhetoric and nineteenth century views of faculty psychology produced a notion of how arguments are machined into speeches.
Training regimes for written and oral argument production in American classrooms during the early twentieth century were spawned from this notion. The speaker uses arguments which are found in available materials which work according to the laws of persuasion on the mental conditions of the audience. Rhetorical analysis assists the reconstruction of these means of production, from invention, to arrangement, to stylizing, memorization, and delivery. What is the effect? Note that the communication values assumed in this model suggest that all good communication is intentional, influences multitudes, is a product of training in technique, is historically well received, and so on.

Controversies ensue when certain kinds of argumentative performances seem to be systematically undervalued in social institutions influenced by mechanistic conceptions of practice. As Palczewski notes, “feminists contend that argument as a process has been steeped in adversarial assumptions and gendered expectations” (164). Her survey reveals a hostility to mechanism when its emphasis upon influence and persuasion comes at the expense of other values, such as authenticity and coherence. The mechanistic model has difficulty making room for “ineffective forms of support,” such as the sharing of personal experience, that might be good nevertheless in the sense of exhibiting an essential insight into the human condition (162). Moreover, the model cannot account precisely for the effects of an argument because other elements influence the receptivity, attention, and long-term allegiances of an audience. Palczewski reviews feminist work that interrogates standards of objectivity and credibility as grounded in “metaphors based on masculine experience” that are inappropriate for audiences that may bring different experiences, beliefs, values, and reasoning styles to a site of argument (165-66). These critiques seem to proceed from root metaphors, as we shall discover, more characteristic of immanent formism or organicism, and stimulate further controversy among feminist scholars.

Formism.
Pepper identifies formism with theories of discourse that recognize pattern or similarity as the grounds for acting in and understanding the world. Whereas materialism and mechanism emphasize the fact and controlling law as the really real of the world, formism begins with pattern as the really real and views the particular as accidental or incidental to the grand scheme. Whereas mechanism is integrative insofar as it draws all facts together in a theory of causal relationship between law and phenomena, formism is dispersive insofar as it finds in any particular and unlimited number of forms which it may stand as the exemplar of.
Formism is a particularly productive view of communication, for each encounter is suggestive of principles which help shape another. To this world language is always underdetermined, that is, any person is free to see in communication an invitation to participate in a form as yet undefined by the world. In contrast, mechanism is overdetermined, because any communication has one and only one appropriate set of functions which can be known to a limited degree through precise reconstruction. Mechanism permits us to fashion a communication system that is a durable, reliable, certified workaday tool. Formism permits us to engage in a communication of depth, unity, beauty, and elegance. Standardization, control (in the sense of easy reproduction), causal intent – all are values of a mechanistic system and bete noirés to a formal communication system.
Formism gives rise to a dual view of communication. Immanent formism suggests that patterns emerge from the similarity of argument structures. Rather than account for the particulars of given transactions like a mechanist might to gain data supporting the laws, the formist might look at the similarities characteristic of many arguments across time. Toulmin’s theories of argument (1958; 1979) and argument fields (1972) participate in immanent formism. Toulmin examines specimens and processes of argument across a wide range of specialized communities, including law, science, art, politics, and business, as well as in everyday interaction.
He discovers that arguments in these spheres have enough of a family resemblance to form a model of argument structure that has field invariant elements: claims, grounds, warrants, backings, qualifiers, rebuttals, and reservations. Further, these elements provide support in ordinary forms of life for alternatives to strict standards of logical proof on issues engaged by practical reason.

Controversies arise when the application of the immanent forms to argument pedagogy appears to mask the materiality of power and knowledge in communicative relations. Proceeding from an position that draws upon mechanistic conceptions of influence for its possibility, Schroeder’s critique looks to influence behind argument:
A person who can argue coherently and cogently commands a considerable amount of authority in our culture, and such a person is considered to be educated, to have power, and to be capable of taking his or her requisite place in society. The fact that these powerful implications may not be as obvious makes the skills of effective persuasion, and their relationship to knowledge and power, more important (95).

For a number of reasons, Toulmin’s description of argument forms is said to be ill-equipped to deal with the material realities of practice. First, his field-invariant elements of argument are imprecise in ways that suggest that their selection constitutes an insidious exercise of subjectivity. For example, Toulmin identifies backing as a necessary element, but assumes, rather than considering, social legitimation of the backing (see also Goodnight 1993). This threatens to drag the entire model into a relativistic morass. Toulmin also ignores the rhetorical elements of the argumentative situation, the affective and stylistic considerations. These exclusions are the key to opening up the “wider context in which the actual negotiations of power transpire (Schroeder 103). Second, Toulmin’s model has trouble accounting for the exploitation of its elements in actual argumentative practice over time. In Toulmin’s model, changing the argument field (relevant sources of warrants and backing) changes the data available to support the claim. Rather than reconsidering their arguments in light of new data, students of Toulmin are encouraged to change their ascribed field and ignore evidence that might disconfirm their arguments. Schroeder claims that the experience of composition teachers with the essays of prejudiced students confirms this practice (101-102). Third, his description hypostasizes certain elements as communicatively significant categories. These categories carry no communicative weight. They provide no basis for evaluation of the arguments presented. The consensus of logicians is that Toulmin’s categories add nothing to what the concepts and forms of formal logic already accomplish. They believe that Toulmin has ignored work that logicians have done in the area of warrants and backing and they dismiss his narrow view of the scope of arguments to which formal logic can speak. Toulmin’s text gives us new words for validity that are vague, obscure and confusing (Schroeder 100). These are problems of precisionthat Pepper believes are endemic to world hypotheses grounded in immanent formism.
Transcendent formism represents the other face of formal analysis. Studying argument fields in search of immanent structures is an avenue to investigate the habits of practitioners. The search for norms of superior argument finds patterns transcending mere notions of practice in hidden but puissant development of form. Whether “good reasons” are grounded in some grand entelechial pattern of human re-cognition and linguistic enactment or in half-forgotten origins of self and society, these recurrent designs make manifest human life and meaningful human communication. While the “source” of a conflict may not intend mythic enactment, still the plot plays out in ways grasped by those whose eyes are fixed on the more enduring qualities of discourse.

Brockriede’s perspective of arguers as lovers, as well as Fisher’s logic of good reasons (1978) and his narrative paradigm of argument (1984, 1987), mingle with the root metaphor of transcendent formism. Brockriede grounds communicative norms in an essential association of attitudes, intents, and consequences with three quintessentially human acts: rape, seduction, and love. He argues, for example, that rape entails an attitude of seeing a human being as an object or inferior, an intent to manipulate or violate the other, and a consequence of harm (2-3). Fisher grounds his communicative norms in a definition of human essence stressing valued values: “Humans as rhetorical beings are as much valuing as they are reasoning animals” (1987, 105). Good reasons are good because they are inextricably bound to a value, to a conception of the good. Fisher’s position frees argument from specific structures or situations of influence; argument can be found in nondiscursive modes of communication such as drama or film. The connection to value generates standards of argument evaluation such as fact, relevance, consistency, coherence, and transcendent issue (1987, 110).
Unsurprisingly, controversy ensues when essences are suspected of hiding critical biases and exclusions. Like its immanent counterpart this transcendent version of form suffers from restrictions of precision. Transcendent views of human communication seem the products of subjective pronouncement, a fitting of the facts together to retell the same stories rather than an attention to the unique qualities of communication. Just as mechanistic theories have difficulty in accounting for nonstandardized products, except as accident or breakdown, so formistic theories have difficulty in accounting for the precise version of enactment and the unique, unrepeatable events that comprise a particular communication.
Blythin reviews Brockriede’s definitions and observes that terms such as manipulation, charm, or tricks are ambiguous in ordinary usage, and that differentiating love from rape or seduction according to intent is very difficult because there are no clear descriptive verbs for love (179). Rowland analyzes three argumentative works within Fisher’s narrative paradigm and notes numerous difficulties in attempting to apply standards of narrative fidelity and probability to the unique characteristics of these texts (49-51). Transcendent values cannot admit of more precision than the form permits.

Contextualism.
Whereas mechanism examines any situation to determine the particular manifestation of prior laws, contextualism emphasizes the determining qualities of context in defining any given situation. Whereas formism examines the controlling element of pattern in universalizing human experience or at least generalizing the nature of artisanship from artifacts of a culture, contextualism emphasizes the human tendency to enact a form and negate it simultaneously, to solve one problem and create another, to affirm a meaning with one breath and take it away with another. The worlds of mechanism and formism are secured by appeal to prior laws or forms. Contextualism finds communication self-constituting because it continually confronts people with the necessity of addressing audiences created in and through symbolic activity.
Theories of communication grounded in contextualism are more or less subversive. Subversion is rendered possible because the first principle of this paradigm is that communication itself is a process of emphasis and deemphasis, of selection and deflection, of positioning oneself to uphold order and shifting support in case the need arises. There is nothing beyond the process of communication that stands as a court of appeal. So one may either affirm the symbolic order, playing out the roles that are requested with appropriate dignity, or find less reverent expressions of incongruities that somehow are more comportable to the context at hand.
Farrell’s theories of social knowledge (1976, 1978, 1993) and his iscussion of rhetorical constituents of argumentative form (1977) illustrate the operation of a contextual root metaphor. Rhetorical argument presupposes a context in which audiences share knowledge of “conceptions of symbolic relationships among problems, persons, interests, and actions,” implying preferable ways of choosing among possible actions. This consensus is attributed to audiences through the decision to participate in argumentation. But this knowledge only actualizes itself “through the decision and action of an audience” (1976, 4), and depends upon intersubjective relationships among arguers and audiences.
This situationally-grounded knowledge opens the concept of validity beyond correspondence between words and things or verified predictions that previous audiences would choose to believe an argument. Social knowledge must be developed within particular sites of choice and avoidance. According to Farrell, nonetheless, rhetorical validity has certain qualities to be located in “the complicity of an audience in argumentative development, the probable relationship between rhetorical argument and judgment, and the normative force of knowledge presumed and created by rhetorical argument” (1977, 142). The arguer may need to generate the materials that make such a consciousness possible for a particular audience (1977, 145).

Contextualism finds its limits at the margins. Controversy arises at the point where contextualist views of communication attempt to articulate differences that separate contexts. It may be the case that scientific research will discover that alleged differences in communicative practices are illusionary and misguided. Carleton criticizes Farrell for constructing differences between social and technical knowledge when, by Carleton’s lights, rhetoric is central in all processes of coming-to-know (317). Nor can we be sure that Farrell’s effort to preserve the possibility of judgment in rhetorical art can survive advances in the technological capabilities of mass mediated message reproduction. It may be the case that materialist systems of communication produce messages that destroy contextual interpretation, empty content, and keep social groups attentive through prepackaged diversions. The individualized mode of variable response is precisely what is compelled. The modern communication industry has long abandoned standards of common sense, morality, and reasonableness in producing its stimuli. What makes this indictment important is that such powerful, systemic cooption of the production of communication strikes where the model is weakest, the selection and evaluation of material. In the contextual world, no discourse is really more important than another. All go into the hopper of communication. Without the power to discriminate between authentic, truthful, or valid communication practices and their opposites, contextualism reduces itself to just another perspective by its own principles. What it gains in breadth, in showing the communicative aspects of human activity, it seems to lose in µdepth or durability as a position of critique.

Organicism.
Organicism is like contextualism in that it posits no reality outside that which is unfolding in human activity. Unlike contextualism, it does not emphasize knowledge, indeterminate change, attenuated incongruities, or subversive interpretation of discourse. Rather, it seeks integration of all communication practices into a single congruent totality. Whereas contextualism multiplies conflicting motives and satisfactions, organicism seeks to realize in the motion of the dynamic a moment of  convergence where contradictions are unified into a realized whole. In contextualism, society and individuals alter communication patterns much like a ship tacks, going this way and then that, upholding social order, then inveighing against it when the occasion arises. In organicism, communication is more like the recognition of an epiphemic moment where the tendency of what appeared to be contradictory processes or messages converge into a unity which illuminates the horizon of human meaning.
Organicism shares some fundamental assumptions with transcendent formism. Both disparage “common sense” and elevate the “hidden unities” which characterize the communication system or artifact. Both see a unity between discourse and a principle of expression, of shaping discourse into patterns. However, whereas formism permits interpretation of the world and its particular exchanges in a variety of ways, organicism demands apperception of a single, unified, purposeful whole. Of course, such a demand for authentic discourse is antithetical to contextualism. Contextualism democratizes the groundings of discourse by not privileging any basic element (who, what, when, where, or why), organicism seeks to disclose the controlling element in all communication.
Johnstone’s vision of argument as a defining feature of the human condition illustrates how the organicist metaphor organizes appearances and makes distinctions. Argument creates the self, which distinguishes argument from nonargument: “Immediate experience makes no claims and raises no questions. It is only when action and belief become subject to argument that an opacity is introduced into experience – the opacity which is the self. There is no self for immediate experience. There is a self only when there is risk” (6).
Nonargumentative forms of control, including the use of rhetoric, do not treat the other as a person; this distinguishes rhetoric from argumentation (6,7). Philosophical argumentation is an archetype for argument practice, as it deals with issues of knowledge and morality, recognizes the existence of counterarguments and the necessity of taking the risk of responding to them (8,9). Finally, all valid philosophical arguments are necessarily ad hominem, or based upon an incompatibility (tautology, obscurity, ambiguity, or inconsistency) of a statement with the intentions or motives of the person who issues it, and therefore can be distinguished for purposes of assessing truth value from the requirements of formally valid propositions (see Pieretti, 134-38).
Organistic theories of human communication are most compatible with phenomenology. In the movement of experience from the ordinary lifeworld to that of refined theoretical explanation to reflective cognition of the relation of practice and theory, the unity of discourse is discovered. This unity is disclosed even when the barriers between such worlds suggest irreconcilable, incommensurable, and permanently secured distinctions.
But the unity is purchased at the expense of excluding behaviors that do not fit within the necessary qualities of the self, and opposition to these restrictions of scope inherent within organistic description fuels controversy. Brutian complains that Johnstone excludes important considerations, such as factual support and the law of noncontradiction, from argumentative validity because he is too eager to separate philosophy from science and politics. This encourages irresponsible communicative practices in these other spheres of activity (84-87). Perelman disagrees with the limitation of philosophical refutation to ad hominem approaches and the exclusion of rhetoric. “We believe in the possibility of external criticism, with reference to generally admitted theses, which are explicitly or implicitly in opposition to those of the philosopher (136).”
Perelman prefers a theory of argumentation that relies upon a transcendental formistic notion of universal audience and finds a place for argument that increases adherence to certain theses. In particular, his approach allows for argumentation in all phases of scientific endeavor outside of measurement and simple observation (137).

Conclusion
Root metaphors provide orientations that help us see unity and difference in our thinking about argument. Although Pepper talks about the metaphors in terms of tradeoffs among epistemological links between theory and practice, the metaphors also point more broadly to the very practices and repair of communication in which our arguments are invented and interpreted. That these models have some power is testified to their use in otherwise quasi-autonomous and specialized fields of reasoning. That the models cross disciplinary boundaries and specialized fields is rendered evident from parallel development and interfield borrowing. No matter how powerful the metaphor, however, it should be noted contra White that the metaphors offer less a form of consciousness than a place for argument. This paper has found within the purview of each metaphor a field of controversy, and it is with the study of these fields that we learn the limits and capacities of our own makings of communication.

REFERENCES
Blythin, E. (1979). “Arguers as Lovers”: A Critical Perspective. Philosophy and Rhetoric 12, pp. 176-86.
Brockriede, W. (1972). Arguers as Lovers. Philosophy and Rhetoric 5, pp. 1-11.
Brutian, G. A. (1979). On Philosophical Argumentation. Philosophy and Rhetoric 12, pp. 77-90.
Carleton, W. (1978). What is Rhetorical Knowledge? A Response to Farrell – and More. Quarterly Journal of Speech 64, pp.
313-28.
Farrell, T. B. (1976). Knowledge, Consensus and Rhetorical Theory. Quarterly Journal of Speech 62, pp. 1-14.
Farrell, T. B. (1977). Validity and Rationality: The Rhetorical Constituents of Argumentative Form. Journal of the American Forensic Association 13, pp. 142-49.
Farrell, T. B. (1978). Social Knowledge II. Quarterly Journal of Speech 64, pp. 329-34.
Farrell, T. B. (1993). Norms of Rhetorical Culture. New Haven: Yale University Press.
Fisher, W. (1978). Toward a Logic of Good Reasons. Quarterly Journal of Speech 64, pp. 376-384.
Fisher, W. (1984). Narration as Human Communication Paradigm: The Case of Public Moral Argument. Communication Monographs 51, pp. 1-22.
Fisher, W. R. (1987). Human Communication as Narrative: Toward a Philosophy of Reason, Value, and Action. Columbia:
University of South Carolina Press.
Goodnight, G. T. (1993). Legitimation Inferences: An Additional Component for the Toulmin Model. Informal Logic 15, 1, pp.
41-52.
Johnstone, H. W., Jr. (1965). Some Reflections on Argumentation. In: M. Natanson and H. W. Johnstone, Jr. (Eds.), Philosophy,
Rhetoric and Argumentation (pp. 1-9, Ch. 1), University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press.
Palczewski, C. (1996). Special Issue: Argumentation and Feminisms. Argumentation and Advocacy 32, pp. 164-69.
Pepper, S. C. (1942). World Hypotheses: A Study in Evidence. Berkeley: University of California Press.
Perelman, C. (1965). Reply to Henry W. Johnstone, Jr. In: M. Natanson and H. W. Johnstone, Jr. (Eds.), Philosophy, Rhetoric
and Argumentation, (pp. 135-37, Ch. 8), University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press.
Pieretti, A. (1994). Argumentative Reason in Johnstone. Philosophy and Rhetoric 27, pp. 121-42.
Schroeder, C. (1997). Knowledge and Power, Logic and Rhetoric, and Other Reflections in the Toulminian Mirror: A Critical Consideration of Stephen Toulmin’s Contributions to Composition. JAC: Journal of Advanced Composition 17, 1, pp. 95-107.
Toulmin, S. C. (1958). The Uses of Argument. London: Cambridge University Press.
Toulmin, S. C. (1972). Human Understanding: The Collective Use and Evolution of Concepts. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Toulmin, S. C., R. Rieke, & A. Janik (1979). An Introduction to Reasoning. New York: Macmillan.
Whately, R. (1963 [1846]). Elements of Rhetoric: Comprising an Analysis of the Laws of Moral Evidence and of Persuasion, with Rules for Argumentative Composition and Elocution D. Ehninger (Ed.). Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press.
White, H. (1973). Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.

1. Introduction
Three lines of inquiry have converged on a single conception of the function, end or aim of argumentation: that argumentation is the rational method for resolving differences of opinion. This conception has of course received its clearest expression in the works of our conference hosts, the Amsterdam school of pragma-dialectics. “Inspired by Karl Popper’s critical rationalism” for scientific inquiry (van Eemeren, Grootendorst, Henkemans et al. 1996 (“FAT”): 274), the pragma-dialecticians have grounded their project in an ideal model of argumentation, the critical discussion. Critical discussions serve to resolve disagreements in a way that is “recognized by both parties as correct, justified, and rational” (van Eemeren, Grootendorst, Jackson & Jacobs 1993 (“RAD”): 25). A standpoint is advanced; criticisms are raised against it and responses developed; when the opponent is convinced to accept or the proponent convinced to withdraw the standpoint, the process concludes. In the pragma-dialectical view, argumentation is to be evaluated according to its contribution to the critical discussion, that is, its contribution to resolving the disagreement. Rules of argumentative engagement are justified because they secure this goal and particular argumentative moves excluded as fallacies because they hinder it (van Eemeren & Grootendorst 1992 (“ACF”): 104).
The same conception has emerged within the tradition of scholarship associated with the teaching and practice of collegiate debate in the United States, and especially in the work of Douglas Ehninger. Ehninger starts from the Deweyian notion that we best solve social problems through group discussion and argues that this ideal encompasses also the more adversarial procedure of debate. Debate too is a critical – that is, reflective, reason-actualizing – and cooperative method for settling differences (Ehninger 1958: 27). “The function of debate,” Ehninger affirms, “is to enable men to make collective choices and decisions critically when inferential questions become subjects for dispute” (Ehninger & Brockriede 1963: 15). This is a normative, not an empirical, claim. If debate does not always resolve disagreements, it is a result of human failings, not of a weakness in the method; participants in a debate must discipline themselves to meet its strictures, not use it as an instrument to achieve victory (Ibid.: 17-9).
A third line of inquiry has been pursued by political theorists swayed by Habermas (cf. Habermas 1996, Cohen, 1989, Manin 1987). Seeking to establish the legitimacy of democratic political institutions, some theorists have shifted from looking for principles to which all rational citizens must consent to looking for procedures through which such a universal and rational consensus can be attained. These, they agree, are procedures of speech, and in particular, the procedures of deliberation. Though other speech acts are involved in deliberation – for example, speech securing the free flow of information throughout society – it is clear that one of the central activities of deliberation is arguing. The deliberation theorists thus implicitly adopt a conception of argumentation in which argumentation ideally performs the function of rationally and therefore legitimately resolving differences of opinion.

One reason these three inquiries have converged toward what I will call the standard view of argumentation is that the standard view is correct. Argumentation can indeed rationally resolve differences of opinion. But we should notice that it is equally correct to say that argumentation does all sorts of other things as well. The U.S. debate tradition, for example, has followed Aristotle (Rhetoric, 1.1 1354b) in claiming that argumentation: contributes to “the revelation of truth and the establishment of justice” (Laycock & Scales 1904: 1); “induc[es] people to believe as we do” (Laycock & Spofford 1906: 6); “demonstrate[s] the superior talent of one debater over another” (Shaw 1922: 3-4); “teaches one to think for himself, . . . . encourages thorough thinking, . . . . [and] produces broad-mindedness and toleration” (Shurter 1917: 2). Not only that, argumentation can help us to succeed on the job (O’Neill & McBurney 1932: 2).
To pick out disagreement resolution as the function is to say that argumentation not only can but must do this; that if it does not, it is either bad argumentation or no argumentation at all. This stronger claim would seem to need a defense. Some argumentation is aimed to rationally resolve differences of opinion, but need all? In this paper I attempt to challenge the standard view by laying out an instance of argumentation – the 1991 U.S. Congressional debate on the Persian Gulf War – that is both conspicuously good and conspicuously not aimed at resolving disagreement. I suggest, therefore, that there are legitimate goals for argumentation beyond seeking resolution. What might these goals be? In the final pages, I sketch the view of argumentation that seems to emerge from the Gulf War debate itself, and propose a conception of argumentation as showing.

Let me close this introduction with a brief defense of my method of offering “empirical” proof of a “normative” claim. The standard view is properly that argumentation ought to resolve disagreements rationally; this is a statement of an ideal – of a norm, not of the normal. No collection of instances, we might think, should be able to move this norm, even as the frequency of lying is no argument against the principle that lying is wrong. This objection, however, misconceives the relationship between the norms and the practice of argumentation. Argumentation, like any practice – and not like lying – is in part constituted by a more or less articulated sense of the good or goods achievable through that practice (cf. MacIntyre 1984: 187-90, Walzer 1983:
6-10, Taylor 1985a & 1985b). Ordinary arguers, in other words, are of necessity constantly engaged in evaluating their own and others’ argumentation. The role of the argumentation theorist is to render the goods aimed at more fully articulate; to catalog and analyze available strategies and techniques; to educate practitioners; and to critique and revise (or “engineer”) the practice to ensure it more reliably achieves the good (cf. Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 1.1-2, 1094a-b; RAD: 178-83). The practice itself is thus the unavoidable starting point for any inquiry. The evidence of the practice – both the way it is carried out and the self-understanding of the participants – must be presumed to be correct: that is, it must be taken as correct until it is shown to be in error. As the pragma-dialecticians have said:

Empirical research can provide an important basis for evaluating the validity of normative models of argumentation. . . . Problem-solving validity depends on the adequacy of the model as a description of effective practice – its ability to discriminate good argumentation from poor. . . . [T]o the extent that actual argumentative practice departs from the standards [of the normative model] but results in intuitively acceptable procedures, we should be skeptical of the model’s problem-solving validity. Conventional validity depends on the fit between the model and accepted notions of reasonableness, rationality, and so on. To the extent that actual discussants can be shown to reject the standards of the model or to accept other stands, we should be skeptical of the model’s conventional validity (RAD: 23).
An instance of good argumentation without resolution, as evidenced by both the argumentation and the understanding of the arguers, should therefore at least require the proponents of the standard view to come forward and defend it.

2. Good argumentation without resolution
After Iraqi troops overran Kuwait in August, 1990, the international community swiftly deployed forces to block further advance into Saudi Arabia and imposed economic sanctions to prod Iraq to withdraw. By November, with his re-election secured, U.S. President George Bush began moving toward a more aggressive policy. Bush sent more U.S. troops to the Persian Gulf and obtained from the United Nations approval for the use of “all necessary” – that is, military – means if diplomatic efforts did not succeed by January 15, 1991.
When its session opened on January 3, 1991, the new Congress thus found itself faced with a two week deadline. After some preliminary maneuvering, matching resolutions were introduced into the Senate and House of Representatives, one supporting the President’s plan, one calling for continued reliance on economic sanctions. A vote was scheduled for around midday on Saturday, January 12. What else did Congress need to do?

2.1 Argumentation
In the first week of the session, the Senators and Representatives – whom I will call promiscuously the Members – spent quite a bit of time talking about the talk they needed to undertake prior to deciding on the resolutions. Throughout, they referred to the task they faced as “debate.” This term, sanctioned by both the U.S. Constitution and Senate and House Rules, outstrips all others by several orders of magnitude.
It seems not untoward to identify such debate as what has been called a “species” of the “genus” argumentation (FAT: 52, 193). Certainly the U.S. tradition has assumed this since its birth in George Pierce Baker’s 1895 debate textbook, The Principles of Argumentation. The pragma-dialecticians apparently agree; their ordinary language definitions of “argumentation” list “debate” as a synonym (van Eemeren & Grootendorst 1984 (“SAAD”): 29-30). Debate therefore seems one recognizable procedure for engaging in the process of argumentation, coordinate with the mediation examined in Reconstructing Argumentative Discourse or the philosophical dialogue modelled in Aristotle’s Topics.
The evidence of Congress’ talk itself supports this conclusion; the Gulf War debate is manifestly “reconstructible” as argumentation without distortion (cf. ACF: 36, RAD: 88-9). Members debated the resolutions beginning Thursday, January 10th, through a marathon session on the 11th – with the House meeting from 9 a.m. to 4:08 a.m. the next day, and the Senate from 9:30 a.m. to 2:39 a.m. – and in a final period before a series of votes on the afternoon of Saturday, the 12th. In this debate, each of the stages of argumentation predicted by the pragma-dialectical model is clearly articulated (cf. e.g. FAT: 281-2).
The resolutions themselves were designed to accomplish the “confrontation stage,” ensuring that there was an “adequate range of specific policy options to be debated” (U.S. Congress 1991: H142). In addition, many of the Members began their speeches by identifying the points on which all allegedly agreed – primarily, that Iraq must be driven from Kuwait – and then by isolating the points at issue, in a further instantiation of the “confrontation stage.”

The “opening stage” was also achieved at the beginning of the debate, when, after some behind-the-scenes maneuvering, the leadership presented what they explained was an “agreement on a procedure which would permit us to debate this issue in a full and open manner that combines both the opportunity for all Senators to fully express themselves on the subject” (S98, H87). This initial agreement had to be renegotiated later, since the traditional method of distributing debate time between the parties did not accommodate a third position: Democrats supporting the Republican President’s plan; but after a few missteps, this too was accomplished (H142, H212).
The “argumentation stage” itself occupied most of the three days of debate. Throughout, Members frequently referred to at least some aspect of their talk as “arguing” or “argument.” Most prominently, Members took argument to be what others were doing. They would say, for example, that “some have argued,” or that “the other side is arguing” (H162, H246, H377, S124, S287, S296, S388, H133); or more strongly that they “do not agree with the arguments,” or even “reject categorically the argument” (H273, S231). But occasionally a Member would use a performative formula such as “I argue” to label his or her own speech act (S259, S287). And they were right to do so. Much of what they said has a perfectly recognizable argumentative form, as in the following typical “unit” of discourse:
At most, 5,000 Kuwaitis have died since the August 2 invasion of that country. A war to liberate Kuwait would certainly kill many more Americans than this number. And it certainly would involve many more Kuwaiti deaths than have occurred so far. Let us not destroy Kuwait or thousands of young American lives in a premature effort to save Kuwait (S62)
Here the first statement is advanced in an attempt to justify the next two, which in turn are advanced in an attempt to justify the last (cf. SAAD: 43). Thus at the core of the debate we find, as the Members themselves found, argument.
Finally, a “concluding stage” was arranged in advance in which both Chambers made their decision roughly simultaneously through a series of votes.
In these three days Members engaged in debate, following the predicted stages of argumentation and deploying numerous arguments. It seems safe to conclude, therefore, that what they were doing was indeed argumentation. But how should this argumentation be evaluated?

2.2 Good argumentation
The Members approached their debate with care. One by one as they stood to speak they averred that this was the most important, most significant, most difficult, solemn, grave, profound, serious, momentous, sober, somber, consequential, tough, historic, thought-provoking and heavy issue, debate, decision and vote they would ever encounter in their careers. The venerable Senator Byrd termed it “the most important vote” of the 12,823 he had cast in 39 years of Congressional service (S357). Senator Wellstone, delivering his maiden speech, concurred: this was “the most momentous decision that any political leader would ever have to make” (S107).
By quantitative measures, the debate lived up to the significance of the occasion. 93 of the 99 Senators present, 268 of the 433 Representatives participated; the more than 30 hours of speeches set a modern record for the House. The qualitative conclusion must be the same. Consider first the assessments of the participants in the debate. Only two Members in three long days of debate offered significant criticisms of other arguers or their arguing (H214, H261, H364). Otherwise, the Members were unanimous in their self-congratulation. The debate had been thoughtful, powerful, eloquent, serious, solemn and mature, with little rancor or party spirit but great civility (H154, H227, H329, H374, H394, S237, S305, S391, S392). It demonstrated that “reasonable men can differ . . . and do it reasonably” (H154). It continued the high tradition of Congressional debate and was a fine example of democracy in action (H223, H278, H406, S391). Participating in it, the Members felt proud (H174, H313, H361, H379, H399, H443, H466, S259, S287). As one commented: “These have been proud days for this House. The debate has been high caliber, it has been formative, dignified, and made us in my opinion healthier as a nation and as a body” (H362).
Those looking on agreed. In the days following the final vote, newspapers around the country (23 in my collection) editorialized on the high quality of the debate, commenting as the Members themselves had on its seriousness, thoughtfulness, thoroughness, honesty, eloquence, depth of feeling, civility and lack of partisanship. In a widely syndicated column, David Broder wrote:
One thing on which everyone could agree in the tense hours leading up to the deadline for war in the Persian Gulf was that Congress – that familiar whipping boy – had dealt with the issue of authorizing the use of force in a manner befitting the gravity of the subject. The weekend debate was civil and somber. Senators and representatives dealt respectfully with each others’ arguments and showed compassion for the anguish even their opponents felt. . . . From freshmen casting their first votes to the most senior members, there was – for all the anguish over the consequences – a real sense of pride that their Congress had met the responsibility the Constitution laid at its door (Broder 1991).
E.J. Dionne expressed the same sentiment in another national column, seconding Kathleen Hall Jamieson’s assessment that the debate was “’extraordinary’” (Dionne 1991). “Americans got the most comprehensive and balanced discussion of all the issues that we could have at the most timely moment,” concurred veteran Congress-watcher Norman Ornstein (Ornstein 1991).
I will refrain from extending this list to pick up the endorsements of more local commentators. Although there were negative voices, especially among those who deeply disagreed with the outcome (Bennet 1991, Ireland 1991, The Progressive 1991), the consensus among the participants and onlookers was that the congressional debate on the Gulf War was a good one. Whatever argumentation is supposed to do, Congress did that conspicuously well. Was that to resolve a disagreement?

2.3 Without resolution
In planning for the debate, the Members indeed looked forward to resolving the issue of whether to use force in the Persian Gulf; “the time for decision is now,” they tell themselves (S40). How was this resolution to be achieved? Through voting.
It is not that the Members lacked other ways of reaching a collective decision. On procedural matters, for example, they operate as if it were necessary or proper to achieve consensus (cf. H86-7, S98). But not for the substantive question itself; there, a vote is required. The issues, as one Member insisted, “need not only to be debated but resolved, voted upon” (H41). The Senate, says its majority leader, should “debate [the resolutions] thoroughly and then vote” (S99; cf. H41, H86, S64, S99, S139, S164).
A vote, however, while it settles the dispute does not resolve the disagreement (cf. RAD: 34 n. 2). Although they may now be equally committed to the decision taken, the outvoted minority need not and probably does not accept the decision as right. Since the Members understood that their debate would close not with consensus but with a vote, they could not have been expecting their argumentation to resolve their differences of opinion.
This objection to the standard model is of some generality, for deliberative assemblies since those of ancient Greece have characteristically taken decisions by voting. The theorist holding the standard model might respond by portraying voting as a sort of necessary, if not entirely happy, adaptation of argumentation to the environment of policy decision-making. In this view, an assembly would try to get as far toward agreement as possible through argumentation, and then submit to a vote in order to resolve the issue in a timely fashion. One’s vote, after all, is supposed to be based on one’s standpoint; voting because of pecuniary interest, party affiliation and so on is supposed to be an abuse. So debate may contribute directly to informing the standpoints accepted by members of the assembly, and thus indirectly to the resolution of the issue accomplished by the vote.

This slightly revised model does not, however, match the Member’s own conception of the function of their debate.[i] In their very frequent explicit descriptions of the process they had used in making their decisions, Members recited the factors which informed their votes. The Congressional debate stood as only one among these influences, and not the most prominent. In rough order of salience, the Members claimed to have made up their minds by talking with constituents (H214, H307, H332, S116, S245, S288, S327, S331, S334, S377); visiting the troops or the region (H214, H313, H341, H408, S245, S285, S331, S377); listening to debate, now and over the last few months (H214, H305, H307, H408, S42, S334, S385); attending to testimony at Congressional hearings (H341, H408, S124, S333, S334, S377); praying (H332, H339, S146, S376); talking or listening to the President and his aides (H214, H307, S331); reading, especially accounts in the media (H366, H371, S334); discussing the matter with staff (H366, S116), or with fellow Members (S245, S331), or with experts ( S123, S245), or with friends and families (H366). But all these sources served at best to educate or inform; the real locus of decision was not without but within. The Members relied, they said, on their internal organs: heart (H118, H148, H222, H331, H341, H421, H474, H476, S146, S334, S376), gut (H341, S108). They searched their souls (H 214, H339, S122, S146, S168). Their decision was an exercise of judgment (H118, H331, H341, H332, H347, H371, S137, S150, S167, S275, S285, S309, S327, S334) or – to stress its independence from partisan considerations – an exercise of conscience (H142, H144, H148, H149, H217, H255, H270, H331, H341, H364, H449, H475, S42, S138, S168, S169, S245, S308, S313, S332, S334, S392).[ii] Judgment in turn was conditioned by “history, philosophy, and cultural ties, . . . religious and patriotic convictions” (S137), and by experience, especially experience in prior wars (H217, H249, H345, S245, S275, S285, S327, S334). What we have here is a conception in which the dispute is resolved through voting and vote is decided by each voter, autonomously. This is a decision-making process the pragma-dialectician would call “internalized” and “unsocialized” – “a process whereby a single individual privately draws a conclusion” (RAD, 12; cf. FAT 276-7) – a process at least partially decoupling dispute resolution from the “externalized” and “socialized” practice of argumentation. To put it simply, in the Members’ own view the argumentation of the debate did not extensively contribute to the commitments on which they based their votes.

The evidence of the debate itself confirms that the Members’ self-understanding was substantially accurate. The debate could have done little to inform the participants’ standpoints because these standpoints were manifestly formed before the debate began. Members – even those speaking early in the debate – were able to announce the votes they would make; none declared themselves undecided, and none altered their decision between speaking and voting. The Members were also sufficiently aware of each others’ views to foresee the eventual outcome. As early as January 4th, there were prophecies “that almost to a certainty the President will be granted . . . authority” to make war (S48; cf. H154, H199, H230, H269, H474, S144, S237, S248, S266, S328, S334, S336, S360). By the start of the second day of debate a leading opponent of the President’s plan admitted “I expect I will not be on the prevailing side” (S191). Commentators agreed; the result, they thought, had been a foregone conclusion” (Bennet 1991; cf. Isaacs 1991, Ireland 1991). The debate seems to have changed no minds.
The dispute in this case was resolved by voting; the votes were determined largely apart from and in advance of the argumentation. What we have in the Gulf War debate is thus an instance of argumentation which was good although it could not have had the function of resolving disagreement and was not understood by the participants to do so. The standard view of argumentation – the view that the function of argumentation is to resolve differences of opinion – cannot account for this. But if this good argumentation was not necessarily aimed at resolving disagreement, what was it for?

3. The function of argumentation in the Gulf War debate
The Members understood why they were debating: they were debating because it was their responsibility to debate. Some cited the U.S. Constitution as the source of this duty, although others admitted that under the Constitution debate was more accurately a privilege or right than a responsibility (H131, H331). Instead, many Members held themselves responsible for the debate because they would be held responsible for their votes. “We have a personal responsibility,” one explained. “We are decisionmakers in the most powerful country in the world. We have a personal responsibility in this particular conflict, for each death and each casualty” (H255; cf. H166, H181, H204, H243, H250, S332.). Because of this responsibility, each Member would have to account for his or her vote to those whom that vote would affect. In a common topos, the Members pictured to themselves what this would be like; for example:
My colleagues, I am haunted by one thought about what will happen if we vote to endorse immediate war today. I am haunted by the calls I will receive – calls that you will receive – from bereaved grief stricken parents asking us to explain just why their son or their daughter died in the sands of the Arabian desert (H354).
But even as the Members would be responsible in the future to give an account of why they had taken the decisions they did, they were, they recognized, also responsible now – at least in the face of apparent doubts and objections.
This was for them the function of the debate: it allowed Members to fulfill their responsibility to account for their decision by making their private decision-making process accessible to others – or in the eloquent phrase they sometimes used, by speaking their minds (H128, H302). The goal was not to induce others to accept the same conclusion; indeed, one Member explicitly disavowed any effort “to convince.” Instead, he was only “trying to explain how [he] came to [his] own decision” in the “privacy” of his “heart” (S389; cf. H441, S259, S309, S332, S334, S373). Debate was thus essentially a fulfillment of “a responsibility to express” – that is, make evident – one’s “convictions,” one’s views, one’s opinions or even oneself (S183; cf. H118, H190, H200, S98, S99). Or in another common way of speaking, in debate one satisfied one’s responsibility not only to take a stand, but to stand up where one could be seen and counted. For example:
Every Senator should stand up and say clearly where he or she stands, and then we must vote so that we be accountable to the American people, together with the President, for what happens in the Persian Gulf (S105; cf. H154).

I do not think that any Senator believes we have been elected, and are being paid, just to make speeches. We are here to do a job; when necessary, to stand up and be counted; to take responsibility (S64; cf. H39, H40, H124).[iii]

Members speak in order to render their reasoning noticeable; argumentation in this conception seems primarily a matter of showing. This should not be surprising, since it is essentially the conception of argumentation embedded in our ordinary way of speaking. In concluding an argument, we might not unusually say “I have shown…”; the felicitous reply would be, “I see.” And the Latin and Greek logical terminologies have the same drift: both demonstrare and apodeixis refer to the act of showing. If we want to hypothesize a general function for argumentation, therefore, it might be to show something.
To show what? – for now, adopting the pragma-dialectical terminology, perhaps to show that a standpoint is acceptable. A standpoint, we might say, is acceptable if a person can accept it without facing criticism for having done so hastily, without sufficient evidence, through bias, from emotion and so on; i.e., to put the matter more generally, that a person can accept it without facing criticism for having by that acted irrationally. Although one ought not accept contradictory standpoints, it is possible to find them both acceptable; indeed, in our ordinary deliberations we often find ourselves in this situation. Argumentation as showing acceptability allows the arguer to ensure that a standpoint not only is acceptable, but even seems so; to render a standpoint conspicuously acceptable; to put the acceptability of a standpoint in such a condition that it can be noticed by her fellows. Or as Ralph Johnson has put it, argumentation is “manifest rationality” (Johnson 1996, Johnson 1995).[iv]

But what use could such manifest rationality be? It seems clear, for one thing, that manifest rationality may indeed be used to resolve differences of opinion, in that showing that a standpoint is acceptable can be a step towards getting it accepted. But it is equally clear that there are other uses. For example: as Fred Kauffeld has argued, undertaking a responsibility to make the acceptability of a standpoint conspicuous is an important constituent of a general strategy to get others not to accept, but just to tentatively consider accepting that standpoint (Kauffeld, forthcoming). Or again, as in the Gulf War debate, argumentation can be used to satisfy a responsibility to make clear where one stands. Or again, argumentation can be used to show that some standpoint is not acceptable, thus showing up the person who held it. Or again, argumentation can be used to address someone as a rational being, thus conspicuously showing respect. Or again, argumentation can be used to show a difficult position to be acceptable, thus showing off one’s argumentative abilities. Argumentation can even become an art in the modern sense – a matter of producing an object conspicuously fine; as it has in the hands of some U.S. collegiate debaters.
This multiplicity of uses also should not be particularly surprising, since we already knew that argumentation can be used to do all these things. It is a common and frustrating experience which gives argument a bad name: to be defeated by the clever arguer though one knows one is right. The clever argumentation may be good argumentation, argumentation which succeeds in showing the acceptability of a standpoint – that is, after all, what makes the experience so frustrating. So we should not modify the theory of argumentation to rid ourselves of sophistry. Instead, as Aristotle suggested, using argument in this way is a moral choice, criticizable not as bad argument but as an abuse on ethical principles of greater generality (Rhetoric, 1.1, 1355b.).

4. Conclusion
Well, perhaps such uses of argumentation should be criticized as abuses on ethical principles of greater generality. But I would like to close with rhetorician’s plea. An incorrect understanding of argumentation may hinder us from “engineering” a more effective practice; equally, it may hinder us from appreciating the goods the unreconstructed practice already reliably achieves. Kenneth Burke, American rogue intellectual, once said that the proper venue of rhetoric is the “Human Barnyard,” a cacophonous and crowded, an unruly and fecund place (Burke 1962: 442). Argumentation in such a setting might turn out likewise a bit unruly and fecund. It would be like the story I once heard of the decorous farmer. Each evening he’d come back to the farmhouse kitchen and first thing wash his hands, for it was improper to take the dirt of his work in doors. Each morning as he left the house, though, he would stoop and scrub his hands in soil. In the barnyard, dirt is appropriate.

NOTES
i. I omit a more general objection to the revised view: that it errs in taking time constraints as a sort of imposition essentially external to the practice of argument, instead of one of the internal regulative ideals of that practice. I would argue that argumentation is valuable not in spite of, but because of the ordinary circumstances of practical decision-making, including the circumstance of timeliness; but I leave that for another place.
ii. Onlookers (Sperling 1991) and later investigators (Burgin 1994) agree with the Member’s own assessment that their decisions were primarily shaped by their personal views, conscience or “ideology.”
iii. The occasionally noted opposite of standing up and being counted was hiding or running for political “cover”; see H115, H124, H143, H144.
iv. See also the most recent definition of “argument” offered by Govier (1997: 2): “a set of claims that a person puts forward in an attempt to show that some further claim is rationally acceptable.”

REFERENCES
Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics.
Aristotle, Rhetoric.
Bennet, J. (1991). The Senate’s Lame Doves. The Washington Monthly March, 43-6.
Broder, D.S. (1991). Bravo, Congress. Washington Post 15 January, A21.
Burgin, E. (1994). Shaping Members’ Decision Making: Congressional Voting on the Persian Gulf War. Political Behavior 16, 319-338.
Burke, K. (1962). A Grammar of Motives. Berkeley: University of California Press.
Cohen, J. (1989). Deliberation and Democratic Legitimacy. In: A. Hamlin & P. Pettit (Eds.), The Good Polity: Normative Analysis of the State (pp. 17-34), Oxford: Basil Blackwell.
Dionne, E.J. Jr. (1991). Foolishness Falls Victim to War Debate as Eloquence Escalates. Washington Post 12 January, A8.
Eemeren, F.H. van & R. Grootendorst (1984). Speech Acts in Argumentative Discussions: A Theoretical Model for the Analysis of Discussions Directed towards Solving Conflicts of Opinion. Dordrecht: Foris Publications.
Eemeren, F.H. van & R. Grootendorst (1992). Argumentation, Communication, and Fallacies: A Pragma-Dialectical Perspective. Hillsdale: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates.
Eemeren, F.H. van, R. Grootendorst, S. Jackson & S. Jacobs (1993). Reconstructing Argumentative Discourse. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press.
Eemeren, F.H. van, R. Grootendorst, F. Snoeck Henkemans et al. (1996). Fundamentals of Argumentation Theory: A Handbook of Historical Backgrounds and Contemporary Developments. Mahwah: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates.
Ehninger, D. (1958). Debating as Critical Deliberation. Southern Speech Journal 24, 22-30.
Ehninger, D. & W. Brockriede (1963). Decision by Debate. New York: Dodd, Mead & Co.
Govier, T. (1997). A Practical Study of Argument. Belmont: Wadsworth Publishing Co.
Habermas, J. (1996). Deliberative Politics: A Procedural Concept of Democracy. In: W. Rehg (Trans.), Between Facts and Norms: Contributions to a Discourse Theory of Law and Democracy (pp. 287-328), Cambridge: MIT Press.
Ireland, D. (1991). Pee-Wee’s Congress. Village Voice 22 January, 8.
Isaacs, J. Divided Debate in a Foregone Conclusion. Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists March, 3-5.
Johnson, R. (1995). Informal Logic and Pragma-dialectics: Some Differences. In: F.H. van Eemeren, R. Grootendorst, J.A. Blair & C.A. Willard (Eds.), Perspectives and Approaches: Proceedings of the Third ISSA Conference on Argumentation (vol. I, pp. 237-245), Sic Sat: Amsterdam.
Johnson, R. (1996). “Argumentation: A Pragmatic Perspective.” In: The Rise of Informal Logic: Essays on Argumentation, Critical Thinking, Reasoning and Politics (103-114), Vale Press: Newport News.
Kauffeld, F. (forthcoming). Presumptions and the Distribution of Argumentative Burdens in Acts of Proposing and Accusing. Argumentation.
Laycock, C. & R.L. Scales (1904). Argumentation and Debate. New York: The Macmillan Company.
Laycock, C. & A.K. Spofford (1906). Manual of Argumentation for High Schools and Academies. New York: Macmillan.
MacIntyre, A. (1984). After Virtue: A Study in Moral Theory, 2nd ed. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame.
Manin, B. (1987). On Legitimacy and Political Deliberation. Political Theory 15, 338-368.
O’Neill, J.M. & J.H. McBurney (1932). The Working Principles of Argumentation. New York: Macmillan.
Ornstein, N.J. (1991). A Moving Debate Raises Hill Stature. Roll Call 17 January.
The Progressive (1991). Vestigial Congress. February, 7-8.
Shaw, W.C. (1922). The Art of Debate. Boston: Allyn and Bacon.
Sperling, G. (1991). Conscience or Politics. Christian Science Monitor 22 January, 18.
Shurter, E. Du Bois (1917). How to Debate. New York: Harper.
Taylor, C. (1985a). The Concept of a Person. In Human Agency and Language: Philosophical Papers I (pp. 97-115), Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Taylor, C. (1985b). Self-interpreting Animals. In Human Agency and Language: Philosophical Papers I (pp. 45-76), Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
U.S. Congress (1991). Congressional Record, 102nd Congress, 1st Session, Nos. 2-8 (January 4-12).
Walzer, M. (1983). Spheres of Justice: A Defense of Pluralism and Equality. New York: Basic Books.