On Bonobos and Grammar
The email arrived late on a Monday night, as Professor Helen Marks sat at her desk, a cup of ginger jasmine tea cooling beside her. The subject line read: On Bonobos and Grammar. She smiled. It had to be Adam, her new colleague in the philosophy department, a former biology major who, rumor had it, once spent a summer studying bonobos in Africa. The man was a walking paradox—half scientist, half philosopher, wholly intriguing.
Helen opened the email.
From: Adam Green
To: Helen Marks
Subject: On Bonobos and Grammar
Hi Helen,
I’ve been thinking about Wittgenstein. It struck me today, while teaching the Tractatus, how much his early work feels like a zoologist’s diagram—precise, systematic, as if it could map the entire world. And yet, when I move to the Philosophical Investigations, it’s like stepping into the rainforest. The neat categories dissolve, and all that’s left is life in its messy, sprawling complexity. It reminds me of my time with the bonobos. Their social interactions—the gestures, the vocalizations—felt like language, but they also defied any attempt to systematize them. Wittgenstein’s later work feels like that, don’t you think? Less about the structure of language, more about its use.
Curious for your thoughts—and I promise not to ramble about bonobos all term.
Adam
Helen read the email twice. There was a flirtatious undertone to his writing, or perhaps she imagined it. She glanced at the bookshelf above her desk, where her worn copy of Philosophical Investigations sat, loaded with bookmarks. Wittgenstein had been a revelation for her when she left the insular world of her childhood, where questions were discouraged and answers were handed down like commandments. She’d grown up in a religious cult in rural Kansas, where philosophy was dismissed as dangerous nonsense. She had been epistemologically abused, she thought. Questions like “Who is God?” or “Why do you believe that?” were met with suspicion, even punishment. She was told what to believe by her father who led the cult. He spoke only the truth because he was God’s mouthpiece.
It was in a university library, during her first philosophy class, that she’d encountered Wittgenstein. The clarity of his early work and the playful freedom of his later writings broke open the rigid structures in her mind. Language was no longer a cage but a tool, one that could unlock meaning or obscure it entirely. She particularly remembered reading his assertion in the Tractatus: "The world is everything that is the case." Language, for Wittgenstein, was initially a mirror to reality, with words standing as representations of objects and facts. But as she moved to his later work, she saw how he dismantled this view, replacing it with the concept of "language games"—a dynamic, context-bound understanding of how we use words.
She began her reply.
From: Helen Marks
To: Adam Green
Subject: Re: On Bonobos and Grammar
Hi Adam,
Wittgenstein and bonobos—now there’s a pairing I didn’t expect! But I see what you mean. His early work feels like a cathedral: monumental, imposing, and built on the idea that meaning could be pinned down. By the time we get to the Investigations, he’s more of a wanderer around town, observing the everyday rituals of language users. His language games remind me of something a child learns instinctively, but it’s a kind of dance that only makes sense within a particular context.
Your email made me think about my own journey into philosophy. Growing up, language was something weaponized—used to control, to obscure. Wittgenstein’s idea that language could free us, if only we understood its games, was a revelation. It’s why I’ve always leaned toward linguistic philosophy. It’s not about imposing structure but uncovering the meaning embedded in use.
Curious to hear more about your bonobos—and Wittgenstein, of course.
Helen
Over the coming weeks, their correspondence deepened. Adam’s stories of the bonobos—their playful gestures, their intricate hierarchies—became metaphors for his teaching of Wittgenstein’s later work. Helen, in turn, shared her own experiences, recounting how the rigid doctrines of her upbringing crumbled under the weight of Wittgenstein’s Investigations. She described moments of clarity—realizing that the religious aphorisms of her childhood had their own “language games,” meaning something only within that closed community. So what about that? Must meaning be universal and objective?
“However, are you concerned about linguistic philosophy swallowing all of philosophy?” Adam asked in one email. “If all philosophy is language, where does that leave the metaphysical or the ethical?”
Helen’s reply was pointed: “Language doesn’t swallow philosophy; it illuminates it. Wittgenstein doesn’t deny the metaphysical or ethical—he just asks us to approach them differently, through the lens of how we use words. But yes, there is a danger of relativism if we’re not careful. Context matters, but so do shared forms of life. Without them, language—and philosophy—loses its grounding. Language happens in a web. Sign and signified does not explain it.”
When they finally met in person, it was in Helen’s office, late on a Friday. Adam arrived in a tweed blazer over a pale blue shirt. There was the pleasant scent of cedar wood around him. His presence filled the small room, which smelled of new furniture and old books, and jasmine tea. Helen offered him a seat across from her, and their conversation flowed as naturally as their emails had. He was charming.
Adam leaned forward, gesturing animatedly as he described Wittgenstein’s rule-following paradox. Helen countered with an analysis of speech act theory. Their exchange was spirited, filled with interruptions and laughter, each pushing the other to refine their arguments.
“You know, Wittgenstein’s work is really about connection,” Adam said, after a particularly heated exchange. “The way language ties us to each other. Maybe that’s why I keep bringing up the bonobos. They taught me that communication isn’t just about what’s said. It’s about what’s shared.”
Helen paused. She wanted to say something about how she’d spent her childhood yearning for that kind of connection, about how philosophy had been her escape, her salvation. “Maybe that’s why I left the world I grew up in,” she said. “I wanted to share something real. Philosophy gave me that.”
Adam leaned closer, his voice softening. “And yet, here we are, talking about philosophy, but isn’t this a kind of language game too?”
Helen’s heart quickened. She met his gaze and didn’t have a reply. Adam rescued her.
“You know, Wittgenstein once said, ‘Philosophical problems arise when language goes on holiday.’”
Helen let the words hang in the air for a moment. Then, with a neutral smile, she stood and picked up her coat. “Speaking of holidays, I should get going. I’m off to the Bahamas for Thanksgiving—with my husband.”
Adam’s expression flickered—surprise, maybe amusement. She wasn’t sure.
“Have fun and be safe,” he said finally, his tone also neutral but his eyes searching hers.
“Is that performative speech?” She teased.
As Helen stepped into the hallway, the scent of his cedar wood cologne lingered, mingling with the faint aroma of jasmine from the office. Perhaps, she thought, she too could be interested in studying bonobos. Did they ever go on holiday?
Oh, Ludwig!