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ParticularIn metaphysics, particulars are, one might say, identified by what they are not: they are not abstract, not multiply instantiated[?]. (Though there is a potentially confusing piece of jargon that seems to contradict this: instances of properties are sometimes called abstract particulars[?].) Hence, Socrates is a particular (there's only one Socrates-the-teacher-of-Plato and one cannot make copies of him, e.g., by cloning him, without introducing new, distinct particulars). Redness, by contrast, isn't a particular, because (it is held by metaphysical realists[?]) it is abstract and multiply instantiated (my bicycle, this apple, and that girl's hair are all red).Particulars might (or might not) be all individuals. At any rate, they are certainly all concrete--again, with the possible exception of abstract particulars (tropes). The fact of the matter is that all such terms are used by philosophers with a rough-and-ready idea of how they work. If there is confusion or lack of agreement about the specifics, that is a reflection of the fact that philosophers have many competing metaphysical theories that inform more precise, but idiosyncratic, accounts of the meanings of these terms. Hence, for example, for convenience in formulating a solution to the problem of universals, 'particular' can be pressed into service in describing the particular instance of redness of a particular apple--even though redness (being abstract) is precisely the sort of thing that is not supposed to be particular. See philosophical jargon[?]. Todd,
have Sweet Home, an' then mother.html">mother'll sing Cupid an' the Bee for us."
Then followed a most charming surprise. William mastered his
frail, like the family daguerreotypes, but it was a tenor voice,
sung as touchingly and seriously as he sang it; he seemed to
the first line and began the next, the old mother joined him and
seemed to lend his voice to hers for the moment and carry on her
expression, and one could have listened forever, and have asked for
best that have lived from the ballad music of the war. Mrs. Todd
saw the tears in her eyes sometimes, when I could see beyond the
say good.html">good-by; it was the end of a great pleasure.
Mrs. Blackett, the dear old lady, opened the door.html">door of her
gone down to get the boat ready and to blow the horn for Johnny
lobstering.
I went to the door of the bedroom, and thought how pleasant it
unpainted paneling of its woodwork.
"Come right in, dear," she said. "I want you to set.html">set down in
the prettiest view in the house. I set there a good deal to rest
Blackett's heavy silver-bowed glasses; her thimble was on the
striped-cotton shirt that she was making for her son. Those. All is still licensed under the GNU FDL.
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