Peirce spent most of his career trying to figure out what it means to say we ''know'' anything in a world governed by chance, and to square modern science and philosophy with his belief in God. And his tempestuous life made James's look like the law of gravity. Peirce got into trouble with drugs, money, women and work. Expected to give a paper before the Metaphysical Club one night, he was said to have shown up late, then held forth on how minutes got into the habit of coming one after another. If the remedy works, the bet becomes right.
Truth happens to an idea.
An idea has no greater metaphysical stature than, say, a fork. When your fork proves inadequate to the task of eating soup, it makes little sense to argue about whether there is something inherent in the nature of forks or something inherent in the nature of soup that accounts for the failure. But when the lives animate the ideas, everything works. When James was dying in 1910, he asked his brother Henry, who had come from England to be with him, to stay on for six weeks after his death, since he was going to try to send a message from the great unknown. Henry obediently remained, but if there was a fraternal communication from beyond the grave, he never got it.