asked. The fourth way will probably prove to be decisive; yet another way remains unavoidable, which we must first find and travel to get to the fourth, decisive one. This situation alone tells us that the for us decisive way of asking our question, "What is called thinking?," is still remote and seems almost strange to us. It becomes necessary, then, first to acquaint ourselves explicitly with the ambiguity of the question, not only to give attention to that ambiguity as such, but also in order that we may not take it too lightly, as a mere matter of linguistic expression.

The ambiguity of the question "What is called thinking?" lies in the ambiguity of the questioning verb "to call."

The frequent idiom "what we call" signifies: what we have just said is meant in substance in this or that way, is to be understood this way or that. Instead of "what we call," we also use the idiom "that is to say."

On a day of changeable weather, someone might leave a mountain lodge, alone, to climb a peak. He soon loses his way in the fog that has suddenly descended. He has no notion of what we call mountaineering. He does not know any of the things it calls for, all the things that must be taken into account and mastered.

A voice calls to us to have hope. It beckons us to hope, invites us, commends us, directs us to hope.

This town is called Freiburg. It is so named because that is what it has been called. This means: the town has been called to assume this name. Henceforth it is at the call of this name to which it has been commended. To call is not originally to name, but the other way around : naming is a kind of calling, in the original sense of demanding and commending. It is not that the call has its being in the name; rather every name is a kind of call. Every call implies an approach, and thus, of course, the possibility of giving a name. We might call a guest welcome. This does